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‘Refugee camps?’ Kel repeated.
‘When villages are destroyed and there are too many people for single lords to take in, someone must care for them. That’s particularly true here, where people scrabble to feed their own.’ He gestured towards their surroundings: thick woods and stony ridges, the unforgiving north. ‘We need camps for the refugees. We also need field hospitals for the wounded now that we’re faced with all-out war.’
For a moment Kel said nothing, thinking of the grim picture he’d just painted. Could she bear the sight of hundreds who’d been cast from their homes? ‘How do you stand it, your grace?’ she asked quietly.
‘By doing the best I can,’ Baird replied, as quiet as Kel. ‘By remembering my wife, my daughters, and the sons I have left. I can’t afford to brood. Too many people need me.’ He sighed. ‘I worry about Neal,’ he confessed. ‘He tries to hide it, but he’s sensitive.’
Kel nodded. Baird was right.
‘If you are placed together, will you watch him?’ asked Baird suddenly. ‘He respects you, despite the difference in your ages. You’re sensible and level-headed. He listens to you.’
Kel stared at the duke, then nodded again. ‘I will look out for him if I can,’ she replied honestly.
They reached Fief Tirrsmont at twilight and spent the night behind the castle’s grey stone walls. The lord of Tirrsmont pleaded scant room inside the buildings of his inner bailey. He also pleaded scant food, though he feasted Duke Baird and two of the senior knights, along with his own family, on suckling pig, saffron rice, and other delicacies.
Camped in the outer bailey, the army was jammed in among thin, ragged survivors of last year’s fighting who were housed there. Kel looked into the commoners’ haunted eyes and felt rage burn her heart. Most of the newcomers’ rations of porridge and bacon went to the refugees. They accepted the food in silence and fled.
‘How can they treat their own people so shabbily?’ Kel asked Neal. ‘The lord and his family look well fed.’
‘You worry too much about commoners,’ remarked Quinden of Marti’s Hill, who shared the first-years’ fire. ‘They always look as pathetic as they can so we’ll feed them. I’ve never met a commoner who doesn’t beg while they hide what they’ve stolen from you.’
‘You’re an obnoxious canker-blossom,’ Neal snapped. ‘Go and ooze somewhere else.’
‘On your way, Quinden,’ added Merric. ‘Before we help you along.’
Quinden spat into their fire to further express his opinion, then wandered off.
‘I pity the folk of Marti’s Hill when he inherits,’ murmured Kel.
In the morning they rode on to Fort Giantkiller. This was country that Kel knew, though the trees were bare and the ground clothed in snow and ice. They were entering the patrol area she had covered the year before with Third Company. This was hard land, with little farming soil. Any wealth came from the fur trade, silver mines, logging, and fishing. They might have trouble feeding themselves if supply trains didn’t arrive. On the bright side, the enemy would have even more trouble staying fed, with the mighty Vassa River at their backs to cut off supplies from Scanra.
Some daylight remained when they reached Fort Giantkiller. Kel saw many changes. The fort had been turned from a quickly built home for a company of over one hundred into a fortress with two encircling walls. An abatis had been installed on the outer wall: a number of logs sharpened on the forward end, planted in the side of the ditch. They made a thorny barrier that horses would baulk at trying to jump. Watchtowers now stood at each corner of the inner wall. The Tortallan flag snapped in the wind. Below it flapped the commanding officer’s banner, a rearing black dog with a black sword in its paws on a white field bordered in gold: the arms of Fief Cavall. Below it were the flags of the army brigade charged with the defence of the district.
Inside, Kel saw even more changes. Third Company’s tents were gone, replaced by two-storey log buildings. Giantkiller now housed at least five hundred men, their horses, and supplies. Lord Wyldon had taken command of the district when Kel and Lord Raoul had ridden south for her Ordeal. He must have rushed to get all his troops decently housed before winter put a stop to most outdoor work.
‘Kel, Kel!’ someone cried. A stocky young man barrelled into her, flinging strong arms around her to give her a crushing squeeze.
‘Mithros save us, I’d forgotten the Brat,’ Quinden muttered behind Kel.
Kel looked down an inch into a familiar round face and laughed. Owen of Jesslaw’s grey eyes blazed with delight; a grin revealed wide-spaced front teeth. His cap of brown curls tumbled over his forehead. As Wyldon’s squire, he wore his master’s badge. ‘We knew you couldn’t hold the border alone, so we came to lend a hand,’ she said as he released her. Owen’s wild courage was a byword among the pages and squires; he would throw himself into a fight even when he was outnumbered.
‘Neal, you came!’ Owen cried as he crouched to scratch the gleeful Jump’s lone ear. Sparrows swirled around his head as he did so, cheeping their own welcome. ‘Merric, Seaver, Esmond, you’re here!’ He looked up, saw Duke Baird, and straightened abruptly. ‘My lord duke, welcome to Fort Giantkiller,’ he said with a graceful bow. ‘Forgive my inattention. If I may take your mount, your grace?’
‘Mithros save us, the Stump broke him to bridle,’ Neal said, his voice dry as he dismounted. ‘I thought it was impossible.’
‘Do not let me catch that nickname on your lips as long as you are under the man’s command,’ Duke Baird told Neal sternly as he gave his reins to Owen. ‘You owe him the appearance of respect, not to mention proper obedience.’
Neal met his father’s gaze, scowled, then bowed silently. Owen whistled softly; Kel, too, was astounded. She had thought nothing could make Neal back down so quickly.
‘’Scuse me, lady.’ Kel turned. There stood Tobe with Hoshi’s reins. ‘I’ll take ’im now.’
Kel gave Peachblossom’s reins to Tobe. ‘Check his hooves, please?’ she asked.
‘Yes, lady,’ the boy said. He headed towards the stables, gelding and mare in tow.
‘Who was that?’ The shocked whisper came from Owen. Kel glanced at him: her friend stared gape-jawed at Tobe. ‘Did you see that? He just – Peachblossom! He just took Peachblossom, and Peachblossom went!’
Kel smiled. ‘That’s Tobe,’ she explained. ‘He is good with horses.’
Duke Baird cleared his throat. ‘Did my lord Wyldon say what was to be done with us?’ he enquired tactfully. A proper squire would have bustled the duke away at the first opportunity. Kel was relieved that Lord Wyldon hadn’t changed Owen completely.
‘Your grace, forgive me,’ Owen said with a deep bow. ‘My lord is out riding patrol yet, but I am to show you where you will sleep and ask if you will dine with him later. To the knights who accompany you’ – he bowed to the group that stood behind the duke and Kel – ‘he sends greetings. Lukin will show you to your quarters’ – he beckoned a soldier forward – ‘and lead you to supper when you choose. My lord asks you to remain in the officers’ mess hall after supper. He will send for you to talk of your assignments.’
Lukin bowed and beckoned; other soldiers swarmed forward to take charge of the newcomers. Kel, Jump, and the sparrows followed them as Owen guided Duke Baird to headquarters.
Over supper with the officers in their mess hall, the newly arrived knights got some idea of what they would face when the fighting began. So interesting was the talk that Kel didn’t realize immediately that Owen came from time to time to lead knights from the mess hall. When he gathered up three at once, she realized he was taking them to Wyldon for orders.
Kel watched as Owen led the knights away. The men’s backs were straight under their tunics, their air businesslike as they left. Were any afraid? she wondered. Did they have unsettled dreams of war, as she did? Were any hoping for a post in a fortified place with orders that kept them from battle? Some would get part of the district to guard, with squads of soldiers to command and a small fort to build. Others would go to Wyldon’s new fortress between Giantkiller and Steadfast, to the town of Riversedge, or to the castles, to be placed under a senior commander. Some would remain here.
Owen came for Quinden, Seaver, and Esmond, then for Neal and Merric. Suddenly Kel realized that she was the last newly arrived knight to be called. A fist clenched in her belly. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it at all.
Wyldon of Cavall had not wanted a girl page. He thought females had no place in battle, Alanna the Lioness and lady knights of the past notwithstanding. He had wanted to send Kel home, then shocked everyone, including himself, when he’d allowed her to stay after a year’s probation. Once he’d decided she would remain, he’d taught her as thoroughly as he taught the boys. But he had also said, often, that girls didn’t belong in combat, even if they did have good combat skills. Doubt entered Kel’s heart. What if he planned to keep her safe with him?
She hadn’t become a knight to be safe.
Owen came for her at last. She followed him across the torchlit yard between mess hall and headquarters, her feet crunching the ice that rimmed the ruts in the ground. Surely if Wyldon planned to give Kel a safe assignment, Owen would know and warn her. Owen was a terrible liar, even when he lied by omission. Instead, he bubbled over with plans. Before he entered Wyldon’s office and announced her, he’d predicted that they’d send the Scanrans back to their longhouses in a trice. He left, closing the door behind him.
Inside Wyldon’s office, Kel studied her old training master. The crow’s-feet around Wyldon’s hard, dark eyes had deepened, as had the lines at the corners of his firm, well-carved mouth. The scar that ran from the corner of his right eye into his short cropped hair was puffy, which meant it probably ached in the night’s raw damp. If it hurt, then certainly the arm that had also been savaged by a killer winged horse called a hurrok would be in pain, too.
Silver gleamed in the hair at Wyldon’s temples. His bald pate shone in the light of a globe spelled by mages to cast steady light. Wyldon’s skin was chapped, like everyone else’s, by northern weather. His cream wool shirt was neat and plain, as was the brown quilted tunic he wore. Kel knew his breeches and boots would also be made for warmth and comfort, not elegance.
‘Have a seat, lady knight,’ he said. ‘Wine? Or cider?’
Kel sat in the chair before his desk. Despite her fear of what was coming, she was deeply pleased that this man she respected used her new title. ‘Cider, please, my lord.’ Recently she had found that wine or liquor gave her ferocious, nauseous headaches. She was happy to give up spirits; she hadn’t liked the loose, careless feelings they gave her.
Wyldon poured cups for both of them, then raised his in a toast. ‘To your shield.’
Kel smiled. ‘To my fine instructors,’ she replied. They both sipped. The cider, touched with spices, was very good.
Wyldon leaned back in his chair. ‘I won’t dance about,’ he said. ‘I’m giving you the hardest assignment of any knight in this district. I think you will hate it, and perhaps me.’
Kel’s skin tingled. So the news was bad. She set her cup on his desk and straightened. ‘My lord?’
‘General Vanget has asked me to build and staff a refugee camp in addition to the new fort. As soon as it’s ready, we’ll take about three hundred refugees, all ages, from Tirrsmont, Anak’s Eyrie, Riversedge, Goatstrack village, and outlying districts. About two hundred more will arrive once fighting begins. Maybe seven hundred in all by summer’s end.’ He reached for a map of the countryside before him and tapped it with a blunt forefinger. ‘The only ground I can get for it is an open piece of elk-dung valley between Fiefs Tirrsmont and Anak’s Eyrie, on the Greenwoods River. There’s the river for water, and flat ground for planting if no one expects to grow more than enough to survive. There’s fortified high ground now, and troops to defend it. My new fort, Mastiff, will be here, on the other side of these hills. We’ll patrol as much as we can, to keep Scanrans from getting very far, but there’s just too much empty ground and too much forest to plug all our gaps.’
Kel nodded. From her experience the year before, she knew how easy it was for the enemy to slip by Tortall’s defenders.
‘I tried to get land farther south,’ Wyldon continued. ‘The nobles there say they pity the refugees and send old clothes, tools, perhaps some grain, but they don’t want all those extra mouths on their lands, hunting their game.’
So her worst fears were true. He didn’t want her in combat. Instead, she was relegated to the protection of refugees. It wasn’t right. She had more real fighting experience than any first-year knight, even Neal. If she had to wait to pursue the mysterious Blayce and his guard dog, Stenmun, she wanted to spend that time fighting.
She swallowed hard to fight off the urge to cry, then cleared her throat. A knight didn’t complain. A knight did her duty even when the duty was unpleasant. Even when everyone would say Wyldon had so little confidence in her that he was tucking her away behind the front lines.
‘Who’s to command this place, sir?’ she asked, forcing her voice to remain even, her features smooth and calm.
Wyldon raised his brows. ‘You are.’
For a moment her ears felt very strange. That feeling promptly spread to the rest of her. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but – I could have sworn that you said I will be in command.’
‘I did.’ Wyldon’s eyes were direct. ‘It’s work, Mindelan. Half of the men I can spare to build and guard the camp are convicts. They agreed to fight if we took them from the quarries and mines. They must be watched and further trained. All have mage marks to expose them as convicts if they run, so you shouldn’t worry about desertions, unless they’re fool enough to go to Scanra. The other half of the men I could find’ – he shrugged – ‘I did my best.’
Kel looked at her hands as thoughts tumbled wildly in her head. She voiced the first thought that came to mind. ‘I expected to serve under an experienced warrior. In combat.’
‘You are more useful with the refugees. You will have advisors. Duke Baird will reside with you temporarily, to help in matters both medical and social,’ Wyldon said drily.
Panic rose in her chest. ‘Sir, I’m only eighteen; I don’t know anything about refugee camps! Everyone says it, first-year knights are so green, we’re better off ploughed and planted with something useful!’
‘You are not a typical first-year,’ Wyldon replied firmly. ‘The Knight Commander of the King’s Own trained you in matters like supply, the building and defence of a fort, and how to command. You helped him recruit new personnel for the Own, and he says your work in supply and logistics is superior.’
The words fell out before Kel could stop them: ‘He also trained me for battle.’ About to apologize, she closed her lips tightly. She had meant it.
Wyldon rubbed his bad arm, staring into the distance for a long moment before he said, ‘If this were last summer’s war, I wouldn’t expect much danger. Raids don’t get far without help. But this isn’t last summer’s war. The border will vanish. King Maggur wants to keep the ground he takes. There is no safe zone within a hundred miles of the border. You’ll see combat. I guarantee that.’
Kel met Wyldon’s eyes with hers. ‘Sir, you’ll have forts and patrols close to the Vassa – between me and the enemy. I still feel like you’re trying to keep me safe. That’s not why I became a knight.’
Wyldon sighed, levered himself out of his chair, and went to the door. ‘Come with me.’
Outside, Wyldon led the way to a large building near the rear wall. Its windows, covered with hides to keep out the weather, leaked bits of light. Wyldon found the door and entered, Kel on his heels.
The large building was filled with sound: conversation, babies’ and children’s crying, the clatter of wood. Rows of three-tiered bunk beds lined the walls. There were lofts overhead on either side, with railings to keep anyone from falling to the ground floor. Rope strung across the open space between them held drying laundry. Bags of winter fruits, garlic, bundles of dried herbs, and vegetables also hung from the rails. The air was filled with the scent of rarely washed human, burned food, cooking fat, and animal urine. Cats and dogs hid in the shadows, lay on the beds, or played with anyone who would bother. At the far end of the barracks a giant hearth provided warmth and cooking fire.
Silence fell as the door closed behind Kel and Wyldon. Those people closest to them went quiet, staring at the district commander and his tall companion. Face after face turned, half hidden by shadow, fitfully lit by lamps or hearth fire. Children and adults appeared between gaps in the loft railings to see why the room below had gone still.
‘If you’ve come to share supper, my lord, we’ve none to spare,’ announced a woman by the fire. ‘We ate it all and could have eaten more.’
She walked forward. There had been more of her once, from the way her stained red wool dress hung on her stocky body. Her eyes were brown and heavy-lidded, the eyes of someone who had seen hard times. Age had scored deep lines around her nose and mouth. Her nose was broad and fleshy at the tip, her lower lip fuller than the upper, giving her a look of dissatisfaction. A kerchief of black wool kept reddish brown hair from her face; a black wool shawl hung from her elbows.
She stopped before Wyldon and Kel. ‘Giving this pup a look at the unfortunate?’ she asked, her husky voice scornful. ‘Something for the lad to write home about?’
It seemed the woman thought she was a boy. Kel looked down at her bosom. She wore a quilted tunic, which hid her small breasts, and it had been so long since a knight had worn the double ring on her badge that most wouldn’t know it signified a lady knight.
‘Good evening, Mistress Fanche,’ Wyldon said courteously. ‘This is one of the knights who has come to defend the border, Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan. Lady Keladry, Fanche Weir.’
His voice was loud enough that everyone nearby heard. For a moment there was no sound. Then a whispered rattle of talk broke out, spreading to fill the room. Kel heard ‘lady knight’ repeated over and over.
Kel bowed to Fanche, glancing at the woman’s left ring finger. Fanche wore a ring of black braid: she was a widow.
‘Fanche’s husband Gothar was the Goatstrack miller,’ Wyldon explained.
‘“Was” bakes no bread,’ Fanche said. ‘I’m single enough now, and I’ve work to do.’ She returned to the hearth to stir whatever simmered in the biggest pot.
‘The Scanrans hit Goatstrack last October – burned the mill, killed the miller and their daughters,’ explained Wyldon softly. ‘Thirty-seven dead in the entire village. Fanche mustered those who remained and got them here, fighting Scanrans the whole distance. She saved fifty-eight lives.’
‘She’s a handful, that one,’ commented the man who now stood by Wyldon’s elbow. He was shorter than Kel, unshaven, with ears that stuck out and an impish glint in his blue eyes. He was going bald in an unfortunate way, losing strands of brown hair in clumps, giving his crown the look of a field gone to weeds. He was weathered, the sun having put deep crow’s-feet by his eyes and two long creases down either cheek. Like Fanche – like all the refugees – he wore clothes that would have fit someone with more meat on his bones. He stood casually, hands dug into his pockets. ‘Gods, I love a tough woman,’ he admitted.
‘You have your work cut out with her,’ Wyldon said with a chuckle.
‘Oh, well, I like work,’ the man replied.
Kel, startled, looked from him to Wyldon. Her training master always stood on dignity; Neal’s epithet, the Stump, was justified. Never had she heard Wyldon laugh or joke. Never had she seen him smile for amusement’s sake, as he did now.
He’s happy, she realized, stunned. Training us – that was his duty. But he didn’t like it. He’s comfortable here, in the dirt and the cold, with people to defend.
‘Keladry of Mindelan, Saefas Ploughman,’ Wyldon said. ‘He’s a trapper.’
The man bowed. ‘Not from Goatstrack, so I’ve had little time to wear her down,’ he said with a grin. ‘The way Squire Owen tells it, milady, you’re ten feet tall and eat ogres.’
Kel smiled. She could see that Owen would like this man. ‘I shrank in my last hot bath,’ she replied. ‘I’m very disheartened by it.’
People came over to be introduced. So did others as word spread that the realm’s second female knight was present. They spoke to Wyldon, asking for news as they eyed Kel. All bore the signs of hard times: clothes that were too loose, ragged, and stained; skin that had once covered more flesh. Their eyes were haunted by family and friends who were dead, crippled, enslaved, or missing.
At last Wyldon bade the refugees good-night and led Kel back to headquarters. Inside, he knelt to poke up the fire. ‘I hear you have a new servant.’
‘Yessir,’ Kel replied. She watched the play of firelight over Wyldon’s features. ‘You took me there because you wanted me to feel badly for them, enough that I would take the command. But all you have to do is order me.’
‘Sometimes it’s better to have understanding than obedience,’ Wyldon informed her. He got to his feet with a grimace. ‘I know this is not what you wanted. No matter what I say, you and others will think this is a dungheap assignment.’
He sat in a chair and motioned for Kel to sit opposite him. She did so gratefully. The long day’s ride and the time standing with the refugees had made her ache.
‘The truth is, you are the only one I can trust to do this job properly,’ Wyldon explained. ‘You care enough about commoners to do the task well. I did consider Queenscove, but he is much too fair. He shares his sarcasm and his inability to abide fools with all, regardless of rank. If they didn’t kill him within two weeks, I’d have to see if he was drugging their water.’ He winced as he flexed the hand on his bad arm. ‘Anyone else will order them about, create more resentment, and turn the place into a shambles – or pursue his own amusements and leave them to get into trouble.’
Kel rubbed her face. He was right. She’d heard her peers’ opinions of commoners, had been accused of caring too much about them. Not so long ago, she had learned that the maximum punishment given to a noble who’d arranged the kidnapping of another noble’s servant was a fine, to compensate for the loss of the servant’s work. That law was being changed, but there were others like it. A noble owed a duty to those who served him, but such duty was not glorious. Fairness and consideration were unnecessary; the affairs and pride of commoners were unimportant. The noble who worried too much about them was somehow weak. Kel knew her world. Her respect for common blood was a rarity. Her father’s grandparents were merchants. Every branch of their family save his was still merchants to the bone. Perhaps it was also because her parents, as diplomats, were so used to seeing other points of view, foreign or Tortallan, that they had passed their attitudes on to their children.
She also knew Wyldon was right about Neal.
‘Well?’ her former training master enquired. ‘Will you do this, Keladry of Mindelan?’
Blayce! she thought, suddenly panicked. The Nothing Man! If I’m pinned to a camp, how will I find him? How will I stop him?
She remembered those thin faces in the barracks, child and adult alike. She remembered Tirrsmont, crammed with people. Looking at Wyldon, she saw trust in his face, the face of a man she respected as much as she did her father and Lord Raoul.
Kel sighed. ‘I’ll do it, my lord.’
Her first task was to choose supplies. Wyldon cautioned her not to get greedy. The next morning he sent Owen with her to write down her choices. When they reached the storehouse, Kel stopped to look at her unusually quiet friend. Owen wouldn’t meet her eyes.
She put her hand under his chin, startled to feel the scrape of newly shaved whiskers, and made him look at her. ‘You didn’t know,’ she said.
Owen grimaced. Words tumbled from his mouth: ‘Kel, I swear I didn’t! He told me this morning. He – he apologized, for keeping something important from me,’ he said, ’specially when I have to learn about making camps like this, but he said you’d see it on my face, and he wanted to talk to you first. Kel, if I knew, I’d’ve argued him out of it. Well, I’d’ve tried to,’ he amended as Kel took her hand away from his chin. ‘He’s hard to argue with. But I would’ve tried! I’m so sorry!’
