Kellanved's Reach

A short time later there came a knock from the rear and the stablemaster emerged accompanied by a slim woman, her long dark hair slightly dishevelled, who was adjusting a long quilted wrap about herself. She bowed to Ranel. ‘You called, m’lord?’

‘Yes. I’ve been thinking about that offer you made – the roan mare. I must say I am most interested now.’

The woman bowed again. ‘Excellent. M’lord is wise to consider the offer.’ Her gaze shifted edgewise to the stablemaster next to her, and Ranel started as if realizing something. He dug at a pocket to pull out a few coins, which he extended to the stabler.

‘Here you are, my man – for your trouble.’

The stablemaster touched his brow, bowing. ‘Many thanks, m’lord.’ He withdrew, bowing again as he did so.

‘The offer—’ Ranel began, but stopped speaking as the woman raised a hand for silence, her gaze fixed on the rear where the stabler had disappeared. A door shut there and she lowered the hand.

‘The offer remains as stated,’ she said.

Ranel waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes. I just want assurances.’

The woman had yet to withdraw her hard gaze from the rear. ‘There are no assurances in our business,’ she said, adding, ‘Horse trading, of course.’

Ranel laughed, a touch nervously. ‘Of course, yes. Horse trading.’

‘You are leaving for Jurda?’ the woman asked.

Ranel sighed his frustration. ‘Yes. All forces. On the morrow.’

She nodded. ‘We will finalize the deal there, then.’

The nobleman eyed her, frowning. ‘How will I—’

‘We will be in touch,’ the woman said.

‘Ah. Of course. Yes. Until then.’

The horse-dealer bowed once more, backing away. ‘Until then. May you profit greatly from this wise choice.’

Ranel waved her off. ‘Yes, yes.’ He returned to tapping his thighs nervously, and once the woman had disappeared he ran to the side door, yanked it open and fled.

The stable remained quiet for a time until straw came filtering down from the loft above and a youth straightened to brush the husks from his shoulders and hair. After a large yawn, he descended rather recklessly from the loft, using slim handholds, and plopped down to the dirt. Here, hands on hips, he regarded the closed double stable doors. Turning his back to them, he straightened, took a deep breath, then quickly knelt to pull a blade from a boot, and in that same swift motion threw it over his shoulder at the doors.

The slim throwing dagger struck home in the wood with a solid blow; the youth turned and nodded his satisfaction. He crossed to pull it free, muttering, ‘Well, that’s something, anyway.’ He pushed the blade home in his boot, then peeped out of the side door and slid out into the darkness of the Gris bailey.

In a slow circuitous walk, the lad avoided posted torches and lanterns to approach a train of wagons being loaded with supplies and materiel. Here he studied them, one after another, until coming to one bearing great bags and straw baskets of arrows and crossbow bolts.

A sly smile crept up his lips and he reached in to take one particular crossbow bolt which he then tucked into his shirt. Stooping, he slipped away towards the main keep.

Taking servants’ halls and entries the lad made his way higher and higher. With each floor the passageways became more narrow, the traffic less, until guards he met at barred doors waved him onwards.

The last door, guarded by two youths quite similar to him, opened to allow him entry to a lit bedchamber. Here, Malle of Gris sat in her bed, reading. Peering up, she waved the youth to her. He clambered up on to the piled furs and blankets at the foot of the bed.

‘Well?’ Malle asked.

He nodded. ‘It will be at Jurda.’

She tapped the book in the palm of her hand, her gaze becoming distant. ‘Yes. It would have to be, wouldn’t it?’ Her gaze sharpened, turned upon the youth. ‘You will follow. Finish things there.’

He nodded, and then a mischievous grin twitched his lips.

She eyed him sidelong. ‘What is it?’

From his shirt he withdrew the crossbow quarrel, extended it to her. She took it and ran her fingers through its fletching – the blue and yellow of Nita – and a similar smile crept across her lips. Handing back the quarrel, she ruffled the youth’s hair. ‘You were always my favourite, Possom.’

Grinning contentedly, the youth snuggled down amid the heaped blankets and closed his eyes while Malle returned to her book.

*   *   *

Recruitment and training was now Nedurian’s preoccupation. Cadre mages had to be assigned and integrated into squads. The marine army style of engagement had to be differentiated from the traditional ship’s crew free-for-all fighting they all knew. Dassem was at the fore of this, transforming Mock’s Hold from a pirate admiral’s personal manor into a military training facility, and Nedurian was grateful; things got done when the Dal Hon swordsman spoke, and everything proceeded so much more smoothly than if he were out there trying to convince everyone himself.