Chapter 4 – The Many Works of Tresingale #6
“Only a few places he said not to let you visit,” Sir Davi replied with a shrug. “Seems to me that means everywhere else is fine.”
“So I could go to the wall? And the north gate? And talk to the woodsmen? Or maybe the barracks, all of His Grace’s soldiers are there, but oh, he did say he didn’t want me to hear them swearing…
” Ophele trailed off with rising excitement rather than disappointment.
She had never imagined that having guards might afford her more freedom.
“They’d be pleased to help, my lady,” Sir Davi assured her. “Though probably best to ask His Grace all the same.”
“It would only take a few minutes each,” she said, mostly to herself as she looked down at the notes from her most recent interview. “Even if it were just a moment, when they stopped for a drink…how many men are at the barracks? ”
“About four hundred this time of day, lady. My lady,” Sir Davi corrected at Sir Leonin’s basilisk stare.
She could cut her list of questions down.
All the men had begun telling her the same thing over and over again anyway; packs of ghouls, solitary wolf demons, clever, cowardly stranglers.
She didn’t think that pattern would change greatly no matter how many men she interviewed.
Now she wanted dates, places, numbers. Five minutes per man?
How many questions could she ask in five minutes?
Gazing into the middle distance, Ophele pondered the problem. It wasn’t just the matter of asking questions; it would take quite a bit of research afterward to turn their vague answers into something useful, but…oh, if she could do it!
In her excitement, she found herself standing in front of Sir Edemir before she had a chance to think better of it.
“Sir Edemir, would it be possible to have maps of the valley made?” she asked. “Ones that I could write on? With labels of all the major battles and towns and forts, and natural formations? And the mines. And the caves.” The ideas popped into her head as she spoke them. “Eight copies?”
“Eight.” Until now, Sir Edemir had given her whatever she wanted, but this time he paused. “That’s at least two days’ work, my lady. Is this the work you’re doing for Rem?”
“Yes. I don’t think I could fit it all on one map, it wouldn’t make sense,” she said hesitantly. “I need a map for each spring and fall for the last four years. But the scholars will like it, I think.”
“Even if we have to send it to them by post,” he replied, a wry smile creasing his broad face. “Very well. I’ll lend you Devranot this once. Rem will have to tell me what work he wants delayed before I give you more.”
She nodded. She wouldn’t dream of asking for Remin’s work to be delayed for hers. “Oh, but…the almanacs?” she remembered, hoping this did not constitute another favor. “For the last four years.”
“I already sent for those,” he said, looking amused. “Anything else, you’ll have to wheedle it out of Rem yourself.”
“I will, thank you!” She was barely paying attention to the last part and almost bumped into Sir Davi in her hurry to get back to her desk. She had work to do .
She was still at it when Remin returned to the cottage that sunset. Relocation had barely put a dent in her concentration; Ophele didn’t even hear him open the door.
“Wife?” he said, and almost made her heart burst from her mouth and plop into her teacup.
“Oh! Remin,” she said, turning to accept his kiss. He was still sweaty from training, and she squawked and squirmed away as he tried to embrace her. “No, you’re all sweaty! I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in; I was working.”
“So I see,” he said, noting the many ink-blotted papers scattered across the small table. “Is all of this about the devils?”
“Yes. It’s a treatise.” It sounded ridiculous to her own ears; what did she know about a treatise?
“Like The Will Immanent. Mr. Aubriolot defined the divine in the first treatise almost like he was talking about an animal, what it looks like and its behavior and so on. Though maybe that’s not nice to say,” she added, wondering what exactly constituted blasphemy. “Would you like tea?”
“Yes,” he said, sitting down to remove his armor as she bustled over to the hearth. “Davi said you want to go out and interview more men.”
“Yes, I do. Even if it’s just for a couple minutes each.
It would be better if they didn’t have to come all the way to the storehouse, wouldn’t it?
” Setting the kettle over the fire, she came to help him with his armor.
He could manage it himself, but he had to use his teeth to undo the straps of his vambraces.
“If you have guards with you, then I meant for you to go wherever you like…” His black brows drew together, a silent but. “I don’t like the idea of you walking that much, though. Especially outside the walls. And we don’t have horses to spare yet…”
“I don’t know how to ride,” she reminded him, crestfallen.
“Yet,” he repeated, pulling off his breastplate and setting it on its stand.
“There’s going to come a time when I can’t let you go anywhere without guards,” he said, looking at her with an apology in his eyes.
“And maybe one day you’ll only be able to go out in a carriage, even if I’m with you.
Especially if I’m with you. It won’t be safe. I’m sorry for that.”
“That’s not your fault,” she said, touched by the apology and wondering why he thought he had to give one. It was her father’s fault for trying to kill him .
“But I’ll teach you to ride. There will be more horses once the harvest is in, and then you can go wherever you like, at least for a little while. Though I’ll miss having you ride with me,” he admitted, and was surprised when she promptly slid into his lap.
“We still have to think of a name for your horse,” she told him. “Even after I learn to ride, I still want to ride with you sometimes, just like we do now.”
“I’ll buy you a horse of your own.” His arms wrapped around her and his lips brushed her forehead. “What about an Anglose? Have you heard of them?”
She shook her head.
“They’re a lady’s hunting horse, I saw them in Segoile. Gentle as kittens, with feathers on their feet. And they’re light as a cloud. Their gait,” he explained. “I’ve never seen a horse so soft-footed. What color do you want?”
“Black,” she said instantly. He smiled, the corners of his black eyes crinkling.
“All right. And in the meantime, if you want to go talk to my men…” She could almost see him wrestling with himself. “I know it won’t hurt you to walk,” he admitted reluctantly. “But if you get hot, or tired, stop. If you feel sick, tell Davi and Leonin. Promise me.”
“I will.”
“You almost died,” he said seriously, looking her in the eyes. “I was in the Brede with you for six hours, wife, wondering if you would ever wake up again. And once you have sun sickness, it’s more likely you’ll get it again. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will,” she repeated, softer. None of what he felt showed in his stern face, but she had learned to see it in his eyes, the depths of things he never let himself say. She hadn’t thought about what that day had been like for him. “I really will.”
“All right.” He sighed and looked again at her papers. “You never do anything halfway.”
“I want to protect your men from scholars,” she told him, trying to make him smile. “And…I want to try to talk to as many as possible. Sir Davi said there are over five hundred at the barracks, and I was doing some sums…”
* * *
With a clang that rattled the pebbles on the ground of the practice yard, Juste smashed his shield into Tounot’s helmeted face.
“You think he’s holding a grudge?” Miche wondered, watching beside Remin at a safe distance.
Even with a padded helm, a blow like that would have been like standing inside a rack of temple chimes.
Tounot shook his head and shifted back, chopping his elbow into the back of Juste’s armored neck and driving the other man to his knees.
The two men were hashing out their differences.
Remin watched with interest, the match enlivened by Miche’s colorful commentary.
More often than not, it was best to let men hammer things out with steel, and he wasn’t terribly worried that either would go too far.
He, Juste, and Tounot had known each other since ten year-old Juste had been saddled with minding four year-old Remin, and Tounot had come to foster at Tressin every summer since he was five.
“Ten silvers on Tounot,” murmured Miche.
“You have never once paid up,” Remin noted as Juste pivoted and slammed his sword into Tounot’s back with a smash like a thunderclap.
The two were roughly even with a sword; Tounot put more power behind his blows, but Juste’s precision was almost without peer.
“Though I’d put my money on Juste today. He’s angry.”
“Tounot crossed the line.”
And Tounot knew it, too. By the end, he was mostly going through the motions of the fight, already halfway to an apology.
The fight ended with a strike aimed at the notch between Tounot’s neck and shoulder, and it would have killed him if Juste hadn’t turned his blade.
The crack as the flat of his blade snapped down made both Remin and Miche wince together. That was going to leave a mark.
“Do you yield?” Juste asked, his voice muffled by his helmet.
“I yield.” Tounot pulled his helmet off, his thick brown curls dark with sweat. “Your victory. That fucking stung, Juste.”
Though there was a council room very nearly completed, by unspoken agreement the four men found their way to the roof of the barracks afterward, where they often went to observe the training in the yard below.
It was especially pleasant in the evening, with the wind whipping and the sun sinking in ruddy glory to the west .
Usually, Remin would already be ahorse this time of day, heading home in the hopes of bedding his wife at least once before supper. Miche was not about to let that pass without comment.