Flight of the Godkin Griffin, page 25
“Go ahead, Angharad,” Silfie says, fighting not to let the edge of her smile take over the rest of her mouth. “Be a vessel.”
I sigh and say to the man, “I know a better way to fertilize your fields if you’ll allow me.”
“Never would I turn down the aid of a winged spirit,” he says, grinning.
Now I’m suspicious. “Do you really believe or are you just trying to get me to help you?”
“I know who you are in this life, Governor,” he says. “But yes, though I find your indecision funny, I do believe. Will you bless me? I require no further aid, though I would welcome it.”
“Then we’ll start with you,” I say and look up at the darkening sky. “Come to our camp next to the mayor’s residence tomorrow morning. I’ll detail some people to help you then. Agreed?”
“Yes, spirit,” he says, bowing again into the mud. His head is down and I think to look-and-hear him…and he is an incredible low voice and a sparkle of tender sparks off a radiating molten center. I’m still blinking away after-glow when he’s long gone.
“Angharad?” Silfie asks with a touch of worry.
“Nothing,” I say, wiping my watering eye. “Let’s get back…we have a lot to do tomorrow.”
I am more than ready to put my head on a pillow for the night when we ride back into camp. So of course there’s something waiting for me to handle.
“Mistress?” the soldier says, thrusting an arm out at me. “He came back.”
I eye the corvid messenger, who looks surly. “So he did.” I hold out my arm and the brown and gold raven walks sideways onto it, then turns his head away from me as if he finds the distant horizon of far more interest than me. “Thank you, soldier.”
He salutes and leaves me with the messenger.
“I didn’t even know he’d left,” Silfie says, following me into my tent.
“I thought he’d gone for an adventure of his own,” I say, sitting on my camp chair. “But I see he’s actually flown home.” With one hand I extricate the petite message tube attached behind one of his legs. He looks happy to be rid of it.
“Here,” I say to Silfie. “Read it to me.”
“And what will you be doing?” she says, amused.
“I will be petting the bird,” I say with great dignity, and proceed to do so. This inspires the messenger to look at me again—or maybe he’s just happy to be rid of the tube—but a few moments later he returns the favor and preens my cheek. He barely has to lean over to do so…I’d forgotten just how big he is. And heavy.
“It’s from the Godson,” Silfie says. “It’s sealed.” I hear the crisp snckt of her breaking the wax and the rustle of the parchment. “To our esteemed Provincial Governors. A reminder. Each season you are required to send us five maidens of unimpeachable quality and exotic lineage to attend us in the palace. Newly tamed provinces are expected to produce this levy as soon as five maidens can be found. Do not delay.” She stops. “That’s it. It’s signed with his mark after that.” She sounds stunned…and well she should. I look at her.
“Did he just ask me for hostages?”
“I don’t think he wants hostages,” she says with an acid voice. “He wants a harem. Only women? Gods all around us! This is…is….”
“Ridiculous,” I say, and the messenger croaks what seems to be an agreement.
“You’re not going to send him the women, I assume,” Silfie says.
“Of course not,” I reply. “There just aren’t that many exotic women around, you see.”
We share a toothy smile. I might be Godkindred and faithful to my kingdom, but I will have no part in the uprooting and sending of random people to kneel at the feet of a foreign king.
The following morning Mara finds me before I can find her…which means I’m in the middle of assigning groups to handle different problems in town. After being shown into my tent she stands in a corner, watching me talk through the issues with the captains. Soldiers come in. Soldiers leave to find shovels or picks or buckets. This isn’t what we signed up for, but as one soldier mentions to another in passing, “A body could get used to not killing for a living.”
They’re good at what they do, and so am I. And we take pride in the defense of our country. But I am in complete agreement with that man’s sentiment. Perhaps I could become used to this business of governance.
When the last of my captains has left with his assignments for the day, I stretch and say, “Would you like tea?”
“No,” she says. Then, a little more reluctantly, “Thanks.”
“You won’t mind if I do,” I say.
“No,” she says.
So I pour myself a cup and enjoy it. Once I’m done with Mara, I’ll have my orders for the day: either to find a new mayor or to join one of the work details. Since I’m the Mistress Commander I’ll take the liberty of choosing one of the less thankless tasks.
Mara watches me drink. I let her.
She speaks first. “When I walked here this morning, I was going to say “no” to you.”
“And now you’re not sure,” I say.
She flexes her fingers, as if she wants to ball them into fists. “You…you’re helping.”
“What did you expect?” I asked, lifting a brow. The white one. “Was I supposed to ride in, use up some of your precious resources, have a triumphal parade—attendance mandatory—and then move on?”
“Yes,” she says. “That’s about as much as Chordwain ever did.”
Ah, my predecessor. Making friends and taming enemies, I see.
“Well, I’m not Chordwain,” I say. “I’ve been a Mistress Commander in the Godson’s army for seventeen years, and what is put in my care I care-take to the best of my ability.”
“Fine words,” she says. “I don’t trust fine words.”
“Then trust my acts,” I say. “Be mayor for me in Black Vines. We will make a difference.”
“You may be doing this now for show. When I turn my back, you may not act the same way.”
I grin. “Then be mayor for me in Black Vines and guard your citizens against my treachery.”
She eyes me. Then to my great surprise she bleats a laugh, a tender tiny sound for such a numb and angry woman.
“Fine,” she says. “Pour me some of your tea and let us discuss Black Vines.”
I do, and we do, and it is very fine.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
“Winged spirit,” the farmer says, standing beside my tent.
“Ah. I thought you’d forgotten,” I said, stripping off my gloves. A long morning of weeding the streets proved significantly relaxing, but now my back ached.
“Of course not,” the farmer says, grinning. “I thought I would give you time to rest first.”
I laugh. “Did you think that I would sleep until lunch?”
“You would be deserving,” he says, bowing.
Thinking of Mara, I say, “I’m glad you think so.” Then I focus again on the present. “If you’ll wait a moment I’ll arrange your delivery.”
“And the blessing?” he asks.
I’d been thinking about this all morning, stooped over the streets plucking weeds from between cobblestones and bricks. “You’ll see.”
So the farmer leads me to his farm and behind me come five soldiers with wheelbarrows. Waste is an interesting thing. You can smell it and think of waste and then it stinks; but you can smell it and think of fertile fields, and then it merely smells complex. Promising. So though I’m sure my men aren’t happy with the duty, the fact that I’m willing to shovel with them mitigates their distaste.
My mad farmer has a steading on the northeastern side of town, a modest place in relatively good repair with a red roof and brown walls. There’s a single milk cow wandering in the yard, and then a field—a larger one than I would have thought a single man could handle. Then a young man walks out of the farmhouse.
“My son,” the farmer says. “His mother would have been proud.”
I take up the shovel. “Shall we?”
The farmer grins. “As you say, Winged Spirit, so we do.”
So the eight of us go to work and by afternoon’s end those fields are soft and dark, and what smelled ill in the wheelbarrow smells rich on the soil. I thank the men and send them back, then turn to the farmer and his son.
“Blessing now?” he asks. He really is insistent. If he didn’t have such a glint of amusement in his eye, I’d feel harried.
I spread my wings and shake them, and this elicits a gasp from them both—so they are the true believers they say they are. I fluff and preen until I find a feather ready to molt and pluck it out. Another gasp. Holding this feather aloft, I travel through the house and all around the farm, brushing things with it and murmuring, “Powers bless this.” Or that. The chair. The fireplace. The field. The tools. The cow. Finally, both man and son. Then I hand the feather to the farmer. “Keep this as a reminder of your duty to the greater powers.”
He no longer looks amused, my young-with-grayed-hair farmer…but awestruck. “Yes, Winged Spirit. Always.”
I nod, well-pleased, and turn to go.
“One last thing,” he says…not meekly, but definitely subdued.
I turn. “Yes?”
“Go in the house a moment, Tam,” the farmer says. Obediently, the boy retreats. Once he’s out of earshot the man turns to me. “I love my son dearly. He is all that’s left of my wife and that makes him twice the loved. But he’s young and he needs to see the world. Will you let him enlist?”
“Does he want to go?” I ask.
“Let’s find out,” the farmer says. He calls the boy back and I have a good look-and-listen to him. Unsurprisingly he shines as his father does; perhaps even a little brighter, with the occasional spark flying off in eerie silence to land on the ground. And the sound of him is strong and deep. While I’m not sure what these things mean, I trust them already. How can you be displeased with someone shiny and harmonious?
“Tam,” the farmer’s saying, “the governor here would be pleased if you’d join her men.”
The boy’s eyes light up in a completely different way. He bows to me, not a courtly bow with flourish but a rough gesture, arms awkwardly splayed. “I’d be honored to serve,” he says to me. “If you’ll have me, ma’am.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve given the enlistment speech or drawn up the appropriate contract. I’m not even sure we have any contracts with us. “I’ll want you to come to the camp in an hour,” I say. “I have paperwork to prepare.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Go pack,” I say.
As he leaves, I turn to the farmer. “Are you certain about this? He’ll be away a while and you’ll have all this to take care of on your own.”
The man shrugs. “He needs to grow, Great Spirit. If I keep him here, what more will he learn? If I raised him well he’ll send a few coins to his old father to hire help on the farm. And if he’s not, then that is the reward I’ll have earned.”
“Hopefully your new mayor will help improve things.”
“One can hope,” he says, then grins at me. “But I put more faith in you, Spirit. If enough good inhabits the vessel of the governor, then that goodness will spread to all the mayors…and from the mayors to the people. Like clean water, running down a hill.”
“One can hope,” I repeat, and pat his shoulder. “I’ll try to keep an eye on your boy.”
“Thank you, Spirit. And for the manure, too.”
I draw up the paperwork when I get back, give Tam Vinter the Speech and then there’s more work to do. We’re leaving Black Vines tomorrow and I want as much of the town cleaned, fertilized and uplifted as possible. I pitch in because it makes me feel normal and quite frankly nothing’s been doing that lately. With my hair wrapped in an untidy knot and bits of it flopping over my strange eye, I get fewer stares than usual.
I don’t get back to camp before midnight. I expected everyone to be bedded down by then save the watch. And of course, because my life simply isn’t normal at all despite my wishes, Ragna and Silfie are both awake.
In the middle of my tent.
In a bath tub large enough for a draft horse.
Together.
I don’t have enough mind left for jealousy, because all available thought has been eaten by the sheer beauty and fluff and bubbles and the smell of sandalwood and orange blossoms.
“You stink,” Silfie says, throwing a bar of wet soap at me. “Get in here.”
I catch the soap, nearly drop it, stare.
“I think she’s broken,” Ragna says. “Perhaps we should pull her in.”
“What are you doing—”
“Getting clean,” Silfie says. “And you should too.”
But her…Ragna…thoughts…flying apart…soap…
“Angharad,” Silfie says, amused. A wet curl is stuck to her forehead, pointing up in a lather-white spike. “Get in.”
What can I do? I shed everything and join them. The water stings as I slip down the side and I realize suddenly just how much I ache. “Where did you find this monstrosity?”
“Mara sent it over,” Silfie says. “It used to be the mayor’s. Look over the other side.”
Obediently I do and find plumes of smoke rising from a compartment with a latched grill attached to the side. “Is that a fire in there?”
“To keep the water warm,” Silfie says. “Ragna had the idea of setting incense cones on top of it.”
“Not a monstrosity, then,” I say, studying the strange plumbing beneath the tub by curling my neck. “A contraption.”
“I want to keep it,” Silfie says with a laugh. “Do you think Mara would let us buy it off her?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I say and flop belly-down in the water, sinking to my cheeks. This doesn’t take any contortion, and on either side of me I can feel the warm pressure of water and bodies. I thought I was tired, and I am, but it’s splendid to imagine taking advantage of the possibilities. Only imagine, though. I would never force Ragna.
“You,” I say instead, “are both saints.”
“I’m not feeling very saintly,” Silfie says.
I glance at her; she’s on her hands and knees, with means only her head and part of her rump is out of the water. Her curly tail is draped over the edge of the tub. She’s licking her teeth with that too-innocent expression.
“Neither am I,” Ragna says casually. I look at her, and she is leaning against one of the walls. She’s so fluffy that I usually can’t see her body…but wet to the core her heavier body and thicker muscles make an entrancing contrast to lithe Silfie.
But I start laughing because now they look at each other, surprised.
“I was here first,” Silfie says.
“You have all the fun,” Ragna says. “I want to share.”
Silfie sits with a splish. She looks at me. “I thought—“
“I did too,” I say. “Od Ragna, I never want to push.”
“Your not pushing has made you interesting,” Ragna says. “No one who has wanted me has failed to press. Even in the capital. I had little protection there.”
“You were in the capital?” Silfie asks.
“As a translator-clerk,” Ragna says. She has this habit of never looking away from your face when she says the most difficult things. “I was a barbarian of no rank. It was easier to give in than to hope someone above me would protect me.”
“No one has ever protected you,” I say softly.
Ragna’s ears flip back and now she looks uncomfortable. “Until you,” she says.
“I hate men,” Silfie says with a touch of a growl.
“They can be cruel,” Ragna says.
I sink deeper into the water. “Well, I like them. But I like you as well.” I try not to sigh. It’s hard to remain “interested” when discussing such sordid things. “I don’t like anyone, male or female, who takes advantage of others.”
Silfie is ignoring me now. She and Ragna have each other’s full attention.
“What happened to you?” Ragna asks.
“My husband was abusive,” Silfie says. “I had to kill him before he killed me and my son with his beatings.”
“My father and brothers were the same,” Ragna says.
“That’s why you irritated me,” Silfie says. “We were too alike. We were shaped by the same things.”
“Yes,” Ragna says. And I can’t believe it but the two of them are almost nose-to-nose now.
“I’m sorry,” Silfie says. “I should have known that anyone who could love Angharad is worthwhile. You love her, don’t you?”
“Do you have to ask?” Ragna says, and licks the base of Silfie’s pointed ear.
So there is ear-licking. That can’t be a bad thing. Even if Ragna had been hesitant, Silfie is irresistible and I’m patient…but Ragna is not hesitant. We dry off afterwards and that takes longer than expected too.
I leave them on my cot. They’re not intertwined sinuously and beautifully, but flopped with the ill grace (but charm) of the utterly exhausted. They look very cute together.
But you notice that I left.
It’s only a couple of hours until dawn when I walk out, sniff the air, feel the breeze plucking at my growing forelock and the fringes of my gray ear. I am dressed in a blouse and breeches, no boots or badge; after a while, you gain the trick of looking your position in any state of undress. There’s a kind of dignity you absolutely require once you reach a certain rank in the military…you require it, because inevitably someone is going to tumble you from your steed or slap you in irons, and you still need to look imposing or your people will lose heart and your enemies will do what they do to people they disrespect. If you can still look the Mistress Commander tied up, bloody and missing your pants, you’ll come out better than if stripping your clothes strips your dignity as well.
So I think nothing of my state. Because I think nothing of it, neither does Donal when he runs into me.
“Evening, Mistr—by the thirteen stars of the first sky! You look tired, ma’am!”
