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Hunting Page 3


  With her father dead, and her mother remarried and living in the Folding Valley, only Kiri posed any real risk. Childhood neighbour and friend, she had known Ash's former self best, and was the only person who Ash had given any hint that she lived. Once, Ash would have been completely certain Kiri would not betray her, but it had been years.

  Surely Genevieve was worth the risk?

  By the time Thornaster returned Ash had herself in hand, and was weighing different plans of action. The Visel looked at her sharply as he came in, and seemed to nod to himself.

  "Very well. Your duties here are to keep my rooms clean, to ensure that there is always water available for my use, to receive callers, lay out my gear, assist me in dressing, and do anything that looks like it needs doing, all of which should be performed without calling attention to yourself or disturbing me in any way. Is that clear?"

  Ash supposed that by remaining in the room she had made some sort of implicit agreement to act as this man's servant. She hadn't even thought of his departure as a test, but there had been nothing to stop her leaving.

  "Who helped you get dressed up till now?"

  "No one," the man replied, his expression flickering. Ash realised that, whatever his motives had started as, part of the reason the Visel was doing this was because he found Ash entertaining.

  "Then why do you need me to help you do it now?"

  "I don't, boy. But it is part of the duties of first seruilis when there is not a servant specifically employed for wardrobe, so you will do so."

  "First seruilis?"

  "In a group of seruilisi, the oldest or best-skilled is usually first seruilis, unless another is promoted over him. That, however, is an extreme punishment."

  "Oh. Are you going on a recruiting drive then? I don't think you'll fit many more seruilisi in here."

  "You'll do for now. I wouldn't want to impress people too greatly with the number of my retainers."

  Ash couldn't restrain an amused twitch of her lips, but allowed the comment to pass. "You said my duties here. What are my duties elsewhere? Do I get to look after that horse?"

  "Perhaps. If I judge you able and if he accepts you. Arth is very particular in his choice of attendants." His eyes, a dark brown-black, narrowed. "I trust you aren't quite fool enough to try to ride him. You haven't the strength to control him and I would take any damage to him out of your hide."

  Ash, who had a great deal of confidence in her ability to ride anything vaguely resembling a horse, experienced an instant desire to prove him wrong, but she had to admit that she had never attempted an animal as sheerly powerful as Thornaster's black. Not that that was any reason not to try. She would consider the question again if an opportunity presented itself.

  From Thornaster's expression, she'd allowed the progress of her thoughts to show too clearly on her face, but he refrained from comment. "I'll detail any other specific duties at another time," he said. "You will attend the Mern with your fellow seruilisi. As a rule, your afternoons will be spent with them, though you will not join them at swordplay. I have already given instructions on that point. Master Humboldt is expecting you in the Mern in a ten-measure. He will outfit you in my colours." He pulled a key from his pocket, and handed it to Ash. "This is a spare. Don't lose it."

  She glanced at it. "What are your colours?"

  "Pembury is dark grey and blue. When you wear those colours you represent Pembury and you will do nothing to bring shame upon it. Any transgressions of conduct you make beyond this room will merit disciplinary action by the Master of the Mern."

  "And if I don't...polish your boots and stuff like that here?"

  "Then I will make you wish that you had."

  "I'll bet. Were you ever a seruilis?"

  "Yes."

  "What was it like?"

  He looked thoughtful, obviously choosing how to answer.

  "That bad?"

  "Not really. I had a little trouble with my fellows, who thought me overproud. I earned myself friends and enemies in the usual fashion. It did not help that I was insufferably sure that my way was correct."

  Ash looked for exactly the right reply to this, and decided he didn't need to be told how little he'd changed. "Remind me never to become a seruilis for real," she said. "Where's the Mern?"

  "It's not far from the stables. Ask your way." He let her head for the door. "And Ash?" She looked back. "You are a seruilis for real. Don't mistake that."

  He thought he was rescuing her. Giving the orphaned boy she seemed to be the colours and the protection of his House. A fatally flawed plan, if so.

  "There are some," she said, trying to catch the exact tone of his voice, light, with an undernote of seriousness, "who might consider it an honour to serve you in that capacity."

  She bowed low, a courtesy suitable for someone of far higher rank than a Visel. A bow to a Rhoi. Then, seeing that open amusement was the only reaction, she shrugged, and left.

  Chapter Four

  Ash lied habitually, but was not nearly so blithe-tongued as she had been working to appear. Out of Thornaster's sight she fought weary hurt. How had she managed to play games with words on the day Genevieve had died? The same morning? Was it a betrayal to be able to keep the anger and loss inside?

  She couldn't let that matter. There was business to attend to before she could revisit grief, and she would restrain her sorrow for the sake of stopping further deaths. And the hunt would help her not think of the horror that would be Genevieve's funeral.

  Finding the stone halls and yards of the Mern with time to spare, Ash considered her approach to her fellow seruilisi. She needed to ensure they didn't interfere with her investigations, but accepted her enough for palace gossip to come her way.

  It would not be the first time she had inserted herself into a group. The most interesting people in Genevieve's neighbourhood had been a year or two younger than Ash, children of shop keeps and crafters. They had thought her a child of nine and regarded her as too young for their games. Instead of tagging along behind she'd led the way onto the roofs, her climbing gaining her acceptance, until she'd become one of those who shaped what was now The Huntsmen.

  This new group of peers, drilling with slim wooden swords in a sand-strewn, sun-baked practice yard, were a more complicated proposition. The wider spread of ages created some issues, but the vagaries of rank would be the major difficulty. Theoretically she had nearly as much or little as this mixed bunch of boys and near-adults, who lived in the uncertain state of the children of Luinsel: only the first choice to stand before Luin rather than guaranteed heir. Even the Rhoi's younger brother and only near relative, the Veirhoi, could not become Rhoi unless Luin accepted him.

  But rejection was not common. The Mern taught both matters of command, and of care for the land, ensuring the Kinsel were well versed in proper stewardship before they risked losing their land to Luin's judgment.

  Ash crossed the sand toward a heavily muscled man who stood in the shade of one of the pale grey walls. Aware of many glances, she stopped a short distance from the man who could only be the Master of the Mern, waited a moment, and then began her new role as Thornaster's seruilis. Polite, she had decided. Respectful and obliging. Not without resource, but clearly marked by recent loss. They would not accept an impertinent imp.

  "Your pardon for any intrusion, Ser. My name is Ash Lenthard. Visel Thornaster told me to report to you."

  The Master's head turned slowly, and faded eyes studied Ash minutely, the man's face impassive beneath thick grey brows. "So," he said, a short exhalation of air two steps up from a grunt. Then he turned on his heel, walked away. "Follow," drifted back to her.

  Obediently Ash followed, leaving the bright sun and clatter of wood on wood for a tangle of dim corridors leading to a room where a creamy-skinned woman directed a dozen underlings among bolts of every kind of cloth imaginable. Clothing cut, assembled or repaired: all very neat and orderly and efficient. Master Humboldt spoke to the woman in his brief, ponderous way
, and she looked Ash over. Almost immediately Ash was provided with dark grey trousers and two shirts that, after a brief retreat behind a curtain hanging across a corner, proved to fit remarkably well. A search provided a second outfit of the same shade, but of a sturdier fabric.

  Then the woman gestured forward a blonde-haired girl, who measured Ash across the shoulders and around the chest. After the measurements were done, she cut sections of heavy cloth, dark blue and grey, and pieced them together around Ash, fastening the forming tabard with pins. This was handed off to be sewn, while a second was cut.

  Fascinated by the speed with which everything was being accomplished, Ash watched until Master Humboldt returned and began to circle her, studying the fit of her clothing, nudging one scuffed boot with a tip of his own. He was a man of considerable presence, breadth making up for a certain lack of height.

  "Polish up," he mused, presumably to himself. "And another." Then he bent, fingered the side of her left boot, where the soft leather crossed and was over-laced. "Knife fighter?"

  Ash was startled by his comprehension of the distortion, a gaping caused over time by a currently absent knife. "Yes, Ser," she said, a fraction late.

  "Throwing or close quarters?"

  "Throwing, Ser."

  "You'll not carry them without permission. Other weapons?"

  "Very basic staff work, Ser."

  "Hit me," he ordered, holding his arms wide in invitation.

  Ash blinked, then curled her hand into a fist and put her shoulder into a blow to his stomach, her arm jolting with the force of the impact. But the Master had set his feet and did not even rock with the blow.

  "Do you dance?" he asked, face still wholly impassive.

  Ash was beginning to find his measure now. He was watching her carefully, taking stock of her character through her reactions. She wondered how many new seruilisi he brought here to test. Judging from the unperturbed interest of the still-working seamstresses, more than one. "No, Ser," she replied, still respectful, a little more cautious. A dangerous man, this Master of the Mern. Between the Investigator, Thornaster and now Master Humboldt, she had had her fill of over-perceptive people that day. She did know many of the dance forms, but she had learned them from the female point of view.

  "Swim?"

  "No, Ser."

  "Ride?"

  "Yes, Ser."

  "Cook?"

  "Yes, Ser."

  "Are you diseased?"

  She didn't quite manage to maintain her rapid rate of reply, but the hesitation was only minor. "Not that I know of, Ser." That was a question one would ask a soldier, not one of the Mern, in training to lead. Is that what he considered her? A foot soldier thrust among his betters?

  "Can you count?"

  "Yes, Ser."

  "Read? Write?"

  "Yes, Ser."

  "In Khanteck and the Old Tongue both?"

  "Yes, Ser. Firuven, also, Ser, just a little."

  He grunted. "Wait for the tabard. Then report to the first seruilis." He turned and walked out of the room without another word. Ash watched him leave, thoughtful. Had she passed, then?

  The tabard was not a complex garment, but it required a lot of hemming, and two girls worked on it together while Ash watched their flying fingers. A few cautious questions showed her they were well aware of her link to the household of the latest murdered herbalist, and were inclined to treat her with wary sympathy. They thought the murders meant someone was going to poison the Rhoi.

  Gossip. Ash had been sifting city rumours for weeks. Time to see if the palace had anything new.

  Chapter Five

  Freshly turned out in Thornaster's colours, Ash found the Mern's training ground deserted, but lucked upon a boy leaving as she arrived. He wore a dark blue shirt and black trousers, the uniform of Mern attendees who served no Luinsel as seruilis. When asked where to find the first seruilis he looked her over with considerable curiosity and behind his brief response Ash caught the wistful regret of one who knew he was going to miss out on a juicy scene. The new seruilis was obviously expected to be the source of some entertainment.

  The boy's directions led to a room of raised voices. Ash paused out of sight of the open doorway and, keeping an eye on the corridor, listened.

  "...out and out insult. We can't possibly allow a guttersnipe among us! Thornaster has run mad!" The voice was forceful, self-assured and genuinely angry.

  "And the Master as well, it seems, since he has given his leave," pointed out another voice.

  "Do you think he makes a deliberate comment?" asked a third voice, soft and serious. "That those among the Kinsel of Montmoth do not meet the Aremish standards of service to Luin?"

  First Voice snorted. "More likely he chooses one who is unable to see how base-born the man is himself."

  Ash smiled faintly. The divide between an ordinary person and a Landhold was simply ownership of land, but the Luinsel, Landholders accepted by Luin as guardians, were able to draw on Luin's strength in a limited fashion, to purify water or encourage growth. While the laws of Luin were very clear – anyone could be put forward to be judged worthy stewards of the land – it was still common for Kinsel to consider themselves born of superior stock, spiritually linked to Luin's self. Genevieve said – had said – that Montmoth was particularly bad in this respect. Among other things.

  First Voice continued to hold forth: "I, for one, will not stand for it. He cannot foist this creature on us. Intentionally or not, it will be the worst parody imaginable, a gape-toothed yokel aping his betters. He'll tarnish us with his very presence."

  A new voice broke in, laughing. "Can you see him at table?" The voice dropped into an unlikely accent, more South Valleys than city. "'Lumme! Nain't yer gointa eat t'rest o' thet there 'am 'ock? Luin firgive ye f'r bein' sich a wastral! 'Ere, lit me finish it orf f'r ye.'"

  Laughter, ranging from giggles to deeper chuckles, gave Ash a chance to estimate the number of people in the room: perhaps seven or eight. This was not all the seruilisi then.

  "Laugh as much as you want," First Voice said. "Wait till the laughter's directed at you, when he makes the entire Mern the butt of the city's jokes."

  "Are you proposing a plan of action, Marriston, or just blowing hot air?" Second Voice asked.

  "Mind your tongue, Vendarri!" the one called Marriston said, brusquely. "But yes, I am."

  There was an expectant pause.

  "It's quite simple, really," Marriston said. "A campaign, if you will, designed to teach the little ragamuffin how truly out of place he is. He won't last the week."

  "You'll do no harm to a fellow seruilis, Marriston," said a new voice, its quiet authority making clear who held rank of first seruilis. From the sudden hush the words brought, the speaker must have entered the room through a second door.

  "I'm not talking harm," Marriston replied, the faintest hint of deference in his voice confirming Ash's conclusion. "Just making things unpleasant for the scut, nothing that would even leave a bruise he didn't deserve. And it's not, you must admit, as if he could ever be a true seruilis."

  "You'll treat him as any newcomer," the first seruilis said firmly. "If he errs, correct him and he will learn. More, you will remember that he is alone in an unfamiliar place, with no family to support him."

  Ash debated changing her approach, seeing whether a little humour would break the tension, but decided against a parody of this gutter seruilis they feared. Arranging her face to be clear of anything resembling arrogance, she stepped into the doorway.

  Five out of nine boys were facing her. One, facing away from the door, hadn't yet registered their changes of expression.

  "Correct him? When he like as not cannot even read? His failings will reflect on all of us. How shall we correct him when he trips flat on his face serving at table?"

  "I'll do my best not to, Ser," Ash said, and could not resist adding self-deprecatingly: "Not even if there's ham hocks."

  That brought a titter of laughter, and a startled gl
are from the speaker. Ignoring his reaction, Ash walked calmly across the room to place herself before the one she marked as first seruilis. He had been one of the older boys instructing at swordplay and was one of two who wore the Rhoi's shield embroidered in gold on the breast of his otherwise stark black clothing. More than good-looking, with dark, faintly waving auburn hair and vivid hazel eyes, he was oddly familiar, though Ash could not place the resemblance.

  "Ser," Ash began, hitting the exact note of unassuming obedience she'd hoped for, "my name is Ash Lenthard. Master Humboldt ordered me to report to you." Her voice held the faintest hint of a Khanteck accent, but otherwise fit well with their own.

  The young man nodded, showing no flicker of surprise at her changed accent, then indicated a boy sitting at his left. "Vendarri."

  Vendarri, with a spark of laughter in his eyes, nodded. He was wearing sky blue and silver, and was darkly handsome.

  "Vicardie."

  Freckles, large nose, pale blue eyes and shaggy blond hair. Tall as a stork and gawky in his green on green uniform. He grinned at her.

  "Kittahar."

  A narrow-chested boy, perhaps eighteen, whose features would forever be condemned with a description of 'average', wearing red and mid-blue, glancing at Ash and then anxiously at his neighbour.

  "Marriston."

  White-blond, handsome features marred by a smouldering glare. Ash judged him to be a eighteen or nineteen, and recognised his colours, rich blue and dark purple, as being those of Decsel Enderhay, a most respected man. The name Marriston was also the family name of the Setsel of Strathaden.

  "Lirindar."

  A boy with warm brown skin, his hard expression and position by Marriston's side proclaiming his loyalty. Yellow and red did not quite suit him.