Chapter Twenty-Six
The Farmstead in the Black Hills
“That’s the new scribe?” Wethe asked Jerrold from her pony cart. She pointed with her chin, drawing Jerrold’s attention to the two figures just as they disappeared behind the manor.
He’d met Wethe on the road a mile or so back, both headed toward the manor. Jerrold had had half a mind to gallop ahead, but he’d slowed his horse to a walk. Wethe’s tongue and opinions were both sharp, and she rarely concealed her thoughts.
“Aye,” Jerrold shifted in his saddle, uneasy at the sight. “That’s him and his daughter.”
“Phish,” Wethe snorted. “Never seen a scribe walk with that kind of arrogance before,” she said, clucking at her pony to keep pace. “Mind, I’ve not seen that kind of arrogance in the Lord High Baron or his Lady. Not so far.”
“So far,” Jerrold muttered. The kids were in the courtyard, doing drills, Cirda among them. Captain Roth raised a hand to acknowledge their arrival.
“What’s got your spleen twisted?” Wethe demanded. “They’re nice enough. You see daggers in every smile.” He couldn’t see her face, but he knew that tone. “Need a woman, you do. Your ma agrees with me.”
Lord of Light preserve him, he’d learned not to argue or even acknowledge that topic. Especially with a woman old and cranky enough to be his mother.
Or with his actual mother, for that matter.
Thankfully, no response was required. Wethe kept talking as they entered the yard.
“The Baroness is more interested in the health of her twins than any grandiose ideas,” Wethe announced.
“And more interested in finding that old herb bed than impressing us.” She looked up at Jerrold as she stopped her cart. “Worth noting.”
“So noted,” Jerrold swung down from his saddle as Cirda ran over to take the animals. Cirda gave his father a grin as he took the reins.
Jerrold reached to ruffle his hair and the boy ducked away with a laugh. So like his Ma, long dead in her childbed. She’d been so young; too young.
How the stars had gleamed in her eyes…
“You keep working that leg, you’ll have cramps all night.” Wethe shouted at someone as she eased her bulk from the cart, grabbing two satchels from the back. “I’m going into the kitchen, when you are done with your foolishness.”
Frowning, Jerrold looked over to see Orval wrestling with Yfin, of all things, Roth standing and watching as they each tried to throw the other to the ground. They both had sticks…no, wooden daggers…in their hands. Orval was wearing a scarf, of all things.
What in the name of the Light? Cirda had told him that the Lord High Baron was taking lessons, but it was another thing to see it.
Orval spotted Jerrold. “Jerrold,” he called in greeting, and that was just enough. Yfin got his foot between the man’s legs and threw him to the ground.
The kid helped break Orval’s fall, Jerrold gave the kid that much. But from Orval’s wide eyes, it was clear he wasn’t expecting it. Still, he tucked his chin into his chest and threw out his arms to ease the brunt as he thudded to earth.
Jerrold winced.
Yfin straightened up, breathing hard, as Roth walked over and stood towering above Orval.
“Where was your attention?” Roth asked the prone man.
“Not where it was supposed to be,” Orval wheezed.
“Which allowed?” Roth asked.
“Death to find a way,” Orval groaned. “I know, I know.” He rolled onto his side.
“I’ll give you credit for keeping hold of your weapon,” Roth said with a bit of a grin as he stepped back. “All right, then. Your lesson is over for the day.” He whipped his head around to the watching youngsters. “But not for you lot. Shields up!” Which was met with groans.
Jerrold expected Roth to aid the Lord High Baron to his feet. But neither Yfin or Roth made a move in that direction. Instead, they stepped back, giving him room.
Orval managed it, using the knee of the good leg, then levering himself up in one smooth, clearly practiced move. He was breathing hard, covered in dirt, and sweating, but he was on his feet.
Roth gave him a hard nod, glanced at Jerrold, then gestured to Yfin. “Back to work,” he said.
Orval limped over to Jerrold, brushing the dust off as best he could. “Sorry, but if I don’t get my lesson in, the kids can skip theirs, and I wasn’t going to let that happen.” More groans rose behind him, but Orval just grinned. “Come, let me show you those maps.” He limped toward the kitchen.
The wooden door opened on a bustling scene. Wethe had one babe and the other woman, Rosalind, had the other. Amari greeted her husband with a damp cloth, her eyes crinkled with worry. “I thought you might want to wipe your face,” she said. “Wethe is going to show us where those herb beds might be.”
“I’ll be checking you over first,” Wethe said to Amari, as the little one the healer was holding, the boy, pulled her hair from its bun.
“I want to be there.” Orval wiped at his face.
“Phish,” Wethe said. “No fussy men adding to my work. If there’s something you need to know, Lord, we will tell you. Don’t hover. Scoot.” She actually made a shooing gesture.
“Wait,” Jerrold spoke up. “Before you go, Lady, I’ve a request from Lanning the carpenter. He’s wondering if you’d be willing teach his youngest daughter fancy stitching, in trade for labor.”
“Another pair of hands would be welcome,” Amari looked to Rosalind, who nodded.
“A carpenter?” Rosalind asked. “Could he make a loom?”
“Not sure,” Jerrold admitted.
“Well, regardless, I’d enjoy teaching, if the girl has an honest interest,” Rosalind said.
“I’ll pass the word then, and you can work out the details with them direct.” Jerrold said.
“Dayva’s a good girl,” Wethe said. “And she’s cared for her younger siblings.” She pulled her hair from the child’s grasp. “Now, into a proper bedroom and not the kitchen, thank you.” She leveled her gaze at Orval. “Off you go,” she commanded.
“This way,” Orval said to Jerrold, leading the way to a small pantry and closing the door behind them.
“This is your office?” Jerrold asked as Orval gestured him to a bench.
“It’s close in case Amari needs me,” Orval said.
“Look at these,” he said, pulling a couple of rolls of old parchment from one of the shelves and unrolling one to reveal a colored map, and not just of the Black Hills.
All the old baronies were drawn there, landmarks clearly indicated in old, crabbed handwriting.
Jerrold sat on the bench, letting his fingers brush the edge of the map. “This is calfskin,” he said.
“Vellum,” Orval sat next to him. “The art is almost lost, although it’s still used for religious texts. Or at least, it was, before the conflicts. Is it accurate?”
“I can only really speak to the Hills,” Jerrold said. “But it looks right. All the major trade roads, and the smaller villages. Here’s Waerington, at the center, where the roads meet.”
“Here’s another,” Orval unrolled a smaller map, just as colorful. “This is just the Black Hills, with rivers and streams and other landmarks. The quarries are marked,” Orval leaned over, folding his arms on the table.
“They are, but they are bigger now,” Jerrold circled them with his finger, not touching the map. “The river has shifted as well, causing some boundary headaches.”
Orval’s hand twitched to the side but he pulled it back. “There is more territory here than I realized.” He looked up at Jerrold. “How long does it take to get a message to Edenrich?”
“In the old days, with good roads and relays, it was quick, five days, if the weather held. Now?” Jerrold leaned back. “Call it a dozen days, maybe more.”
Orval nodded. “And for transporting marble?”
“There’s a difference between a road for travel and a road for hauling marble.
” Jerrold said. “Marble is not a forgiving stone, it doesn’t take to rough handling like granite does.
” Orval’s hand twitched again as Jerrold continued.
“Until we know more of the road conditions, it will be hard to say. No one’s been down that way since the last of the battles. ”
“And that was before the Blood went to war,” Orval mused, sounding oddly unemotional as he spoke.
Jerrold eyed the man, who was staring at the map intently.
“The Epic of Xyson talks about roads and their importance in the troop movements. Did you know that the sizes and borders of the baronies were decided so that a Lord High Baron could get troops to Edenrich or another barony within two weeks if needed for defense?”
“Truly?” Jerrold asked. He leaned forward. “So that is why the border of Athelbryght and Swift’s Port are equal distant from ours?”
“Road care was considered a critical part of the duties of the office.” Orval nodded and his hand twitched again, in what Jerrold realized was an aborted writing gesture. “There is much I can learn from this,” Orval said. “Are the names of the towns and villages correct? And their relative sizes?”
“Aye, for the most part,” Jerrold leaned over and went through the settlements one by one, answering the questions that Orval asked with a patience he didn’t know he had. The man was clearly interested, and not just in roads. Crops, farmers, relative populations.
“So the towns by the border took the brunt of the fighting?” Orval asked.
“Some people moved back once the fighting stopped and are trying to get reestablished.” Jerrold said gruffly. “Some were wiped out entirely.”
Orval’s hand twitched again, but this time he pulled it back with a snort, then leaned back, stretching his back.
“I want to take notes, but I dare not. Paper is too scarce. Once I got started, I’d use all of our parchment and ink writing about my Aunt and Uncle’s history here.
” He shook his head as if at his own folly.
“I need to save that for messages to Edenrich.” He grimaced.
“We’ve one pigeon left. A cat followed us from the Keep and ate the others. ”
Jerrold huffed. “Cats.”