The Queen of Raiders Page 2

  A tailor was pinning a quilted, deep brown gambeson around Thalen when Tristo burst into the shabby sitting room grinning from ear to ear. “One of me mates has shown up!” The boy’s infectious delight pulled the other three survivors to the long kitchen table, where his ravenous friend now sat catching up on missed meals.

  Thalen managed to turn his gasp into a cough: Tristo’s “mate” turned out to be a woman of about thirty summers. She wore men’s clothes, including a leather weskit, and wore her hair cut above her ears. She was in the midst of scarfing down cubes of venison on the point of a wicked-looking dagger with a thick hand grasp. She nodded but kept chewing.

  Codek said to Tristo, “Lad, I am happy you’re reunited with a mate from happier times. That’ll be important to all of us. We’re pleased to meet your friend. But we can’t take any women on this expedition. She wouldn’t be strong enough. No offense, ma’am.”

  Tristo chortled. The woman swallowed her mouthful and wiped her lips on the back of her hand. She stood up; Thalen could see her muscled shoulders and thighs. She walked over to Wareth, who was younger and taller than Codek, holding out a rough hand.

  Wareth smiled his broad smile, which lit up his whole friendly face, and held out his hand too. “Ma’am, pleased to make—” In a blink she threw Wareth down to the ground on his back, though she took care not to jostle his splinted arm. Her dagger glittered at his throat.

  “My pleasure, horse soldier,” she rasped. “Name’s Ooma.” She threw the knife in the air so that it twirled end over end, and then she snatched it out of the air by its handle. She held her hand out to Wareth to pull him up. As he regained his feet, she pivoted to face Codek; before he could react her dagger had snagged a patch of his bushy sideburn.

  Tristo, grinning, said, “Ooma’s awful clever with her knives.”

  “What about swords or bows?” asked Wareth.

  “Haven’t had much use for them in the back alleys of Yosta,” she said. “Now, my knives…” She advanced toward Thalen.

  Thalen held his hands in front of himself. “Peace, Ooma. You have proved your point. I am such a poor fighter that besting me would be no sport.”

  “What good are you to the expedition then?” she asked. “I recognize the military man’s experience and straight talk, and this tall fella’s got the bowlegs of cavalry. Why should we take you?”

  “Good question, Ooma. I ask myself that five times a day.”

  “And what do you answer yourself?” she asked in her raspy voice, not rudely, but not backing down.

  “I thought up this plan, and I am going to make it succeed.”

  Codek put in sternly, “Thalen is our commander.”

  “Huh!” she answered, reserving judgment, and sat back to her meat and bread.

  Tristo said to his new comrades, “Ooma led our gang here. She kept us all alive. Taught us all everything we know. Ooma, how many Oros did you gut in the Rout?”

  “Didn’t gut a one, lad. Had to go for arteries in the leg or neck ’cause of that rat-fuckin’ armor. Bloody work.”

  With more respect in his tone, Codek persisted. “Still, having a woman around could bring all kinds of trouble.”

  Ooma grinned. “I don’t lie with men, old fella. Men around me usually catch on. And if they stay mule-stupid, my dagger teaches a lesson.”

  So Ooma joined the group. And despite Codek’s reservations, she was not going to be the only woman after all. They chose a husband and wife, Moorvale and Maribel, as their cooks after asking them to prepare a midmeal out of restricted supplies for the partially assembled troop.

  “The grub is great,” said Codek through a mouthful of food. “But ma’am, I wonder if you’re strong enough for the rigors of this venture.”

  “Call me ‘Cookie,’” she said. “Let me show you something.” Much to their horror this middle-aged woman put her foot on the bench on the side of the kitchen table and started to pull up her skirt. “Hey, handsome,” she said to Adair, “squeeze them muscles in my legs.”

  “Rock solid, Madam Cookie,” Adair pronounced.

  “I’d like to see you lot work on your feet from morning to dusk and cart bags of flour and buckets of water.” She grew angrier as she spoke. “Strong enough! I’ll show you strong enough! Wait till you see my muscles!” And she started to unlace her tapestry bodice.

  “No, no,” said Thalen hastily. “We’ll take your word for it.”

  But Cookie’s dander kept rising. “Strong enough! Why’re you pups doubting me? He’s the one”—she pointed to her husband—“who complains he needs to sit! He’s the one you should be misgiving!”

  “Calm down, will ya,” said Moorvale. “True, I have my aches and pains. Sometimes in the middle of the day I sit for a spell and work on my sideline trade—a trade I wager might interest you.” He crossed to the side of the kitchen, where he had parked a large, lumpy burlap bag before they started to cook. He brought it to Kambey.

  The instant Kambey grabbed the covered-up contents he said, “A crossbow. Quarrels.”

  “Let’s see,” said Codek.

  Kambey drew out the items and passed them around. Slown whistled over the workmanship as Kran sampled the pull of the bow.

  “An atilliator!” said Thalen. “Were we really so idiotic as to think to set off without one! Moorvale, I want to talk to you about the repeating crossbows from the Rout. I’ve been wondering if we enlarged the feed slot—”

  “I won’t go without my wife,” Moorvale interrupted. “Not only does she bake a mean biscuit, but she’s a crack shot.”

  “And I won’t go without my lardwit of a husband,” said Cookie. “Gonna take death’s dirty breath to part us.”

  Codek, stubborn, looked at Thalen. Thalen grinned and held up his hands in mock helplessness.

  “Well then,” said Cookie. “Now that’s settled, who’s for more biscuits and gravy?”

  Many people raised up their plates.

  Gathering sufficient healthy horses trained for fighting became Thalen’s biggest concern. In this, the group was aided by the Oros’ brutality. The stable master of one of Fígat’s cavalry stations, a man named Gentain, had had daughters of eleven and twelve summers. When Oros molested his girls and then slashed their throats, Gentain vowed they would not lay their hands on the last thing left to him of value—the horses still in his stable. In the dregs of night he snuck up behind each Oro guard and strangled him with his daughter’s shawl. His twelve well-trained coursers became the backbone of their string.

  On the fifth morning, the original survivors chose four more cavalrymen (friends from a Jígat regiment), an archer, and a man who—though slow-witted—wielded a six-foot quarterstaff of red oak with fluid strength.

  Rumor reached them that the Oros had moved en masse into Jutterdam. The Three Coins innkeep told his female servants to pack up and flee.

  On the afternoon of their sixth day Wareth interrupted Thalen’s intense study of maps with a little whistle. “Here’s a gentleman says he knows you from before.”

  Quinith, Thalen’s close friend from the Scoláiríum, entered the sitting room. Soiled bandages festooned his head, and his cream silk coat hung stiff with mud and sweat.

  “Quinith!” Thalen embraced his friend. “What happened to you? Sit, sit. Drink a glass of wine.”

  “Here’s to freedom.” Quinith raised the glass, then drank it down without stopping to breathe. “Ah, Thalen! I’m so glad to see you. I was so afraid I’d miss you, I rode like a madman.”

  “Have another drink. Do you know anything about the Oros’ movements?”

  “No, I skirted towns and came overland.

  “As to what happened…” Quinith set down his glass. “Well, from the Scoláiríum, I traveled to my family’s manse. I helped my mother and my young sisters hide with a woodsman’s family and then returned to guard the estate with my father. A small squad of Oros showed up after two weeks. We would have stood by if they’d just pillaged food or horses, but they bludge
oned our butler and my father intervened, which meant I had to jump in too. In the scuffle the Oros went down, but my father did as well.”

  “I’m sorry, Quinith,” said Thalen. “And that’s when you took that blow on your head? Were you knocked cold? We have a healer—let’s get Cerf to look at it and change the bandage.”

  Quinith waved away Thalen’s concern for his health. “Everyone has lost kin, and in truth, I did not harbor much love for my sire,” he said with somewhat elaborate casualness. “I came as soon as whispers reached me where you were.”

  Thalen felt torn. “Quinith, you are a feast for my eyes, yet we can’t take you with us. We have as many fighters as we can engage. Food and supplies keep me awake at night.”

  “You mistake me, Thalen. I know I am not fit to join your band. Aye, at the Scoláiríum I taught you basic fencing, but I’m hardly a warrior. After my little engagement I puked and shook for days. Obviously, I am not cut out to be a fighter; I belong at the Scoláiríum singing about real heroes. But I came to offer the talents I do have—you know I’m a terrific manager. Tell me how I can help.”

  So, over the sounds of Kambey drilling the recruits in the inn’s cobbled courtyard, Thalen and Quinith conferred all afternoon about sneaking into Melladrin, setting up a long supply chain, and communicating from the field to suppliers. Quinith advised creating a quartermaster base in the Green Isles out of the reach of the Oros; Thalen begged Quinith to find a way to smuggle Hake to that base to make use of Sutterdam Pottery’s contacts (and to get his injured brother out of the occupied city).

  As the shadows lengthened, Thalen inquired, “What tidings of Gustie?”

  Quinith looked away at the mention of his lover from the Scoláiríum. “Ill rumors, but naught confirmed.” He changed the subject by asking, “What do you call your group?”

  “I hadn’t given it a thought.”

  “You need to have a name.”

  Thalen mused aloud, “Well, let’s think about that. We’re not ‘soldiers,’ really; but I don’t plan to plunder, like highwaymen. ‘Trespassers’? ‘Invaders’?”

  “Hmmm. ‘Raiders,’” said Quinith definitively.

  “Fine. But why?”

  “Two syllables always works better in songs,” said Quinith.

  Thalen shook his head, bemused that even under these circumstances Quinith fell back on his expertise.

  Quinith continued, “Do you have a good sword for this venture?”

  “Good steel is wasted on me.”

  Quinith drew his own weapon out of a leather scabbard embellished with gold and silver: the rapier had gold-and-silver filigree on the pommel and intricate handguard, and the blade glistened. He offered it to Thalen with formal grace, the handle resting across his waist-high hands.

  “If you will take my grandfather’s sword, then I will feel part of the vengeance.”

  Thalen tried to refuse, but Quinith wouldn’t listen.

  He spoke over Thalen’s protestations. “And I have another weapon I insist you accept. Follow me.” Quinith led Thalen out to the street. There, next to his mud-splashed palfrey, lay an even dirtier wolfhound, with amber eyes and a lolling tongue.

  “This hound belonged to my father. When we fought the Oros, he chalked up more kills than either of us. He’s invaluable.”

  “No, Quinith, thank you, but no. I don’t want to take a dog.” Thalen was peeved. “If he’s that vicious, how can I control him?”

  Quinith would not accept his refusal. He claimed that if Thalen became the one who fed the dog, the wolfhound would transfer its loyalty to him. When Sergeant Codek joined the argument he—traitorously—agreed with Quinith. “Them wolfhounds are worth gold in a scrap; we’d be muckwits not to take him.”

  Thalen stared at the wiry gray dog with annoyance and tried to marshal another argument.

  Quinith said, “The dog answers to ‘Maki’; the sword, my grandfather named—”

  But at that moment two Yostamen came galloping down the street, their horses foaming and trembling.

  “A company of Oros approaches!” one shouted.

  “Where are they?” Thalen shouted back.

  “On the Coast Road traveling north from Jutterdam. When we first spotted ’em, they was maybe two days away; but it’s taken us relays at least half a day to get here.”

  Thalen took a breath, raised the glistening rapier in the air to capture everyone’s attention, and began issuing orders.

  Some hours before dawn, the wolfhound, Maki, trotted alongside Thalen’s Raiders as they hastily loaded their ship. Thalen had twenty-six horses and twenty-two men.

  We’ve got two scouts, Adair and Wareth; three dedicated archers, Slown, Cookie, and Yislan; two pros at hand-to-hand, Weddle and Ooma. Swordsmen aplenty. Kambey and Kran may be the strongest, but Britmank and Jothile are the swiftest.

  Divide the troop another way—I’ve got two cooks, a healer, a horse master, a cobbler, an atilliator, a swordsmith, a weapons master, and a sergeant. And a brace of quartermasters.

  What I don’t have is a wisp of a plan of getting these Raiders into Oromondo to let loose the kind of havoc we need to raise.

  The Oros are just about to set upon Yosta to ransack, murder, and rape. It feels wrong to flee … unless this wild gamble is the only way of saving my country.

  Tally: 4 Original Survivors + 18 Recruits = 22 Raiders

  2

  Slagos, The Green Isles

  Gardener was dividing ferns in a shaded bed in the rear of his plot when he sensed the Nargis heir arrive. Laboriously, he pushed himself off the ground, leaving his tools half-buried in the dirt. He stood still a long moment, checking that he had not made a mistake, observing her disembark with his inner vision.

  He washed his hands in a nearby bucket of rainwater and then strode to the bed of blue orchids, hearing the bees buzzing around the open blooms. With practiced motions he harvested a large armful of blooms with long stems; these he strung together to make a lei. He walked to the Spirit’s statue in the courtyard and hung the offering around its neck. Then he said a prayer of thanksgiving. He had hoped this might come to pass, but Mìngyùn’s threads swirled without order during these troubled times.

  When he finished his prayer he returned to his work, concentrating on tidying the garden and the courtyard. Sometime soon she would visit, and he wanted to show the grounds off to their fullest advantage.

  * * *

  A woman in a green-and-pink caftan tied at the middle with a broad white waist sash whistled as she polished tables.

  “A good morn to you, darlin’,” she said to Wren.

  “And to you. I’ve hardly eaten for weeks. What do you recommend?”

  The round-faced, big-chested woman wore her wavy brown hair untidily piled on top of her head. She paused to regard Wren with measuring eyes.

  “First voyage, eh? You do look peaked. Perch yourself hereabouts and I’ll set you to rights in a tick.” She called words Wren couldn’t distinguish to figures working behind her in the kitchen area.

  Wren sat at the long, wooden counter in the low-ceilinged, whitewashed room. The woman poured her a mug of a cocoa-cinnamon-chili tisane and gave her a basket of bread made from grains Wren had never tasted before; as the server moved about, her loose sleeves showed that she had a green vine tattooed around her wrist. Wren drank thirstily and enjoyed the sun slanting in through the windows, warming her kinked shoulders and making the morning dust motes shimmer.

  She had been ill throughout her voyage to Slagos from Gulltown: her throat and head pained her, she developed a cough, and her stomach heaved. Her roommates in the women’s stateroom made themselves a nuisance with their chatter and whining. She caught one of the children pawing through her belongings and prying about her hair tonic. Or perhaps her fellow passengers got on her nerves because she felt so sickly? But worst of all her troubles aboard the ship, she discovered that when she went out on deck to breathe clean air and get away from her roommates, the sailors peppered
her with rude comments. When she sought out the shipmaster to complain, he pinched her bottom and laughed at her.

  The brazen idiot! When I’m queen I’ll—I’ll do something unpleasant to him.

  Wren keenly felt the loss of all the safety and care she had taken for granted in Wyndton, rustic as that village might be. There, under Stahlia and Wilim’s protection, she had been sheltered from want, rudeness, strangers, or loneliness. On the Island Flyer, abruptly thrust into a rougher environment alone, she felt baffled, then frightened, then furious.

  Disembarking in Slagos came as a welcome relief. As soon as her feet hit solid soil her empty stomach growled, but she walked through the island city awhile, looking at the whitewashed buildings of clay brick, each festooned with flower boxes that, though it was winter, overflowed from every window in this moderate climate. Pale yellow butterflies flew in singles, doubles, or swarms.

  Then she chose a tavern, the Blue Parrot, several streets away from the wharf. It had a cage outside filled with parrots (though none were blue). They squawked loudly upon seeing her; Wren heard, “Majesty, Majesty, Majesty.” And two friendly terriers darted out from a shadowed passageway to wag their tails and get acquainted.

  The tavernkeep broke in on her thoughts as she poured Wren more hot, spicy liquid. “Getting you some eggs first, and then soup, little darlin’.”

  Wren had felt so low that this stranger taking care of her soothed her as much as the food.

  “What’s your name?” Wren said.

  The woman stopped her work and leaned on her arms across the counter. “I’m Zillie.”

  “Is this your place?”

  “Aye. I bought it from the previous owner eight years ago. Islanders don’t like to boast, but I serve up the best meals in Slagos. Darlin’, you aren’t traveling on your lonesome, are you?”

  “Aye.” Wren couldn’t help but reach out to this kindly stranger. “May I ask you a question?”

  “How can I help you?”