The Blade That Cut the Mouse's Tail [Medieval fantasy, political intrigue]

Chapter 59: The Familiar and the Strange


The Empress drummed her fingers against the arm of her chair.

"It is not good news, I'm afraid, Your Majesty," began the man with the narrow shoulders and quick, sharp eyes, the man Mouse knew only as Eivind. "We have seen movements to the north, beyond Ralist and Chelcy's lands, that indicate that a blockade may indeed be in preparation."

"A boom," said Lord Rambert.

"A cheval, most likely," answered Eivind.

The Empress narrowed her eyes.

"Who mans the river there?" she asked. "Who holds those lands?"

"Lord Athelmar," said Eivind.

"So, what you're telling me," said the Empress, "is that Ralist is not acting alone. He has allies, accomplices."

Eivind inclined his head.

"It would appear so, Your Majesty."

A few moments of silence passed away.

"Any word from The Bluff?" the Empress asked.

Eivind cast a hesitant glance at Lord Rambert.

"A small party moving through the Vale, Your Majesty," he said. "Magnus does not expect any trouble."

The Empress nodded

"And that was this morning?"

"Three hours ago."

The Empress continued to drum her fingers on the arm of her chair.

"Has no one met with Ralist outright?" she asked.

"No," said Eivind. "Not yet." He sat forward, lacing his fingers and pressing his thumbs together. "Your Majesty, we have lost two men to so-called bandits thus far and another to a huntsman's arrow." He shook his head. "It is not good."

"Indeed," the Empress murmured. She turned her attention to Lord Rambert. "You have already begun the muster?"

"I have, Your Majesty," the High Marshal replied.

"Good," said the Empress before the man could make any further reply. She turned back to Eivind. "I want a hunstman's arrow to find Lord Athelmar. I do not want it to kill him, but I want it to come close enough that he begins to rethink the decisions he has made, the friendships he has formed."

Eivind inclined his head.

"If that does not work, I want an arrow to find his heir, and that, I do want to kill him." She rose from her chair, the others following suit. "One ship," she said. "One ship is stopped on a blockade, one ship fails to pass the Yar, and so help me god, I will turn that man into something that even the crows are afraid to touch."

Mouse trudged her way across the muddy path that ran along the wall, skirting the edge of the camp where men were laying timbertrack and errant squires were talking around the fires, following the path until the smell of woodsmoke joined with those familiar aromas of burnt sugar and cinnamon, chestnuts and barley wafting through the air.

It was the first day of the joust, and though yet the commencailles, it came as no sort of surprise to find a crowd already gathered around the tiltyard. A group of mummers was playing, and Mouse stopped, standing on her toes and craning her neck to catch a glimpse over the heads of the men and women pressed in around the fence. They were doing the story of the Fool Knight, she saw, a man who rode on a patchwork horse stuffed with straw and jousted not with a lance, but with a flower. It was a children's tale but had been made bawdy for the entertainment of grown-up people, with the part of the Fool Knight played by a man wearing nothing more than a single laurel on his head sending roars of laughter throughout the crowd.

Hawkers roamed about peddling dreg cakes and fired chestnuts, while children darted between their legs, hoping to snatch something out of their baskets, but catching no more than dirty looks and the occasional smack on the back of the head.

Mouse pressed on through the crowd, avoiding, when she could, anyone who looked as though they may arrest her journey, and stopping to exchange a few pleasant words only when decorum demanded. At last, she made her way through the stands and up to the covered arches where the other ladies sat chittering and sipping cups of honey wine.

The predictably present included Mathilde and Katla, Sahsa and Dariah, and beyond the camarilla, the wives and daughters of noble estates and a few set to inherit in foreign courts. The Empress herself, however, was not in attendance, having stolen away to be alone with "her thoughts," by which term she no doubt referred to some handsome young knight from the Westerlands. Her absence meant that the charge of awarding extra lances and crowning the winners fell to the others, most notably, Mathilde, elevated in status by her recent engagement.

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"Remember," Katla was chiding, eager to make herself in some way important, "you cannot play favorites."

Mathilde delicately removed the cup from her lips.

"Prince Carl does not even joust," she protested, looking about to ensure that she was being adequately noticed.

"Yes, but you cannot reward his bannermen just because they are his bannermen. Is that not right, Mouse?"

Mouse made no reply. She wanted no part in such idle conversation. Besides, her mind was elsewise occupied, given to the ruminations of the meeting which had interrupted her morning as well as those of the box which she had received some hours before.

She slipped a hand unconsciously into the folds of her skirts. The dagger was heavy in her pocket, made heavier by the inscription upon its blade. Sinister drepana. It is the left hand that kills.

Her eyes roamed the crowd, flitting across the faces of the familiar and the strange, searching for something, for someone. Was the person who had left her the dagger here? she wondered. Were they watching her, just as Johannes was, waiting for the right moment to grab her arm and twist?

"If the men of Umbrec ride best," Mathilde was saying, "then they should be rewarded best."

"And if they ride worst," returned Katla, "then they should get nothing at all."

Mouse thought of the mallow she had found stuck to her foot the evening before, and a strange feeling began to stir within her, the recognition of some hidden thought that had not yet unfolded itself, a question she could not answer, a thread she could not unravel.

Her thoughts went unbidden to the field of mallows that had greeted her on her last morning at Pothes Mar, squishing softly beneath her feet, to the flower in the outstretched hand of the page girl, to the purple bruise on the nobleman's cheek. She shivered and looked about uneasily. She had that same dreadful feeling, the ache in her bones the day before she woke with a chill.

Just then, a Cherith bird flitted down and landed on the rail in front of her, cocking its head to the side and hopping closer. What is it? Mouse wanted to ask. What is it you wish to tell me? The bird watched her with small black eyes, before leaving just as suddenly as it had come.

"Do tell me I have not missed anything worthwhile."

Mouse looked up to see the red-haired Chatti girl shrugging the cloak from her shoulders and brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"Hardly," Mouse said with a smile, returning to the present, "unless, of course, you consider watching a man ride around naked with a flower between his teeth worthwhile."

The Val laughed and raised her eyebrows, situating herself on a cushion next to her friend.

"Indeed, I think I should have liked to see that," she said.

"Well," said Mouse, with a glance over her shoulder at an aging knight already red-faced and swaying from drink, "keep feeding old Beatty honey wine, and I'm certain you will."

The Val laughed again.

By now, the mummers had left and the marshals had taken the field, the herald coming in to announce the first pair of contending knights. Sir Delamere Wissel of East Marsh rode onto the yard on a flea-bitten gelding with a crisp white mane and matching white caparison. His shield, a white field, bore a triquetra of legs, and his helm was impressively crested. He paraded his colors, stopping in front of the court, and was soon after joined by Sir Erik of Kettlebrook. Sir Erik rode a grullo dun decked in green caparison and bearing the hare rampant of Vogelfeur.

The two men took their ends of the list and raised their lances, Sir Erik's bearing the four-point coronel of the eastern province, and Sir Delamere's bearing the more traditional three-point.

"I've just come from my council," the Val said in a low voice, leaning in toward Mouse as the men readied themselves to ride. "We were discussing the recent tribulations of the Western Isles."

The crowd fell to a momentary hush, before the herald cried out, sending the two horses thundering down the list. One, two, three, Mouse counted. There was a crack as Sir Delamere's lance splintered against the hare rampant of Vogelfeur. It never ceased to amaze her how quickly it went, how fast the horses managed to race down the yard before colliding, in a manner of speaking.

"Tribulations?" she said, suddenly turning to the Val as though she had not heard the word the first time.

The Val nodded.

"You see, now that they are ready to rejoin the rest of us in the civilized world, they find themselves in the difficult position of securing trade partners. It seems there are none undeterred by their current economic standing."

The knights brought the horses round, now facing one another from the opposite ends of the list, with Sir Delamere riding from the north and Sir Erik from the south. The crowd awaited the herald's cry, and once again, the moment his voice rang out, the horses went down the list, kicking up dust as their hooves tore at the earth. One, two, three, Mouse counted. But this time, naught but a glancing blow was landed, coronels scraping ineffectively against armored trunks.

"In short, everyone's afraid they will not be able to make good on their debts," the Val said. "What they need is someone willing to take a chance on them, someone willing to invest in restabilizing their economy." She glanced at Mouse, who nodded her understanding.

"Salt and silver might do," she said.

The Val smiled.

"Salt and silver might do."

The knights had come around for the third and final pass. The points were in Sir Delamere's favor, but any man could yet win.

"Pray," said Mouse, "where did you learn of this, if you do not find it impertinent of me to ask?"

The Val shook her head.

"Not at all," she said. "It was Alfric who told me."

The herald cried, and the knights dug their spurs into their horses. The whole earth seemed to shake with their footfall as they raced down the list. One, two, three. The three points of Sir Delamere's lance landed squarely on Sir Erik's right shoulder, away from his shield, sending the man sideways off his horse. However, on the way down, the knight's arm caught in the reins, jerking his horse sideways so that it reared and went crashing through the rail.

Mouse felt the nudge of an elbow.

"Do you know that man?" the Val asked, seeming not to notice how white her friend had gone. "There, the one in the red," she nodded. "He has been watching you practically this entire time."

Mouse followed the Val's gaze to a young man in the stands below. He had a lean, youthful face and brown hair that fell in waves, and had Mouse not been so busy recovering from the shock of learning that Val Hector had been talking with Lord Alfric, she might have remarked how handsome he was. The young man's eyes flicked away the moment Mouse's gaze found him.

"I have never seen him before in all of my life."

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