As she leaves the farmhouse, the family wishes her a speedy recovery and a safe trip. The daughter watches her go from the doorway with wide eyes, waving enthusiastically from the shoulder. Leah smiles and raises a hand to return the wave, the pain meds making the resultant twinge in her ribs tolerable.
In the darkening evening, she struggles to remember the way back. The city is lit with lamps, but not so many that it makes itself visible from such a distance. She keeps her eyes peeled, making sure that she’s not about to ride off the road.
Only because she is paying such careful attention does she end up spotting the subtle movement in the orchards to her right. She pulls on the reins lightly for Beeswax to slow down, and watches carefully, wondering if the farmer’s daughter has come out to ask more questions. She sees nothing, but the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. She pulls harder to bring the horse to a stop, and she listens carefully, eyes riveted to the orchard.
A group of figures – tall, adults and not children – weave between the trees, following the road at a distance. Their footsteps make barely any noise through the short grass of the orchard. They come out to cross the nearby bridge over the creek, but melt back into the trees not long after. Leah gives a silent signal for Beeswax to advance, and trails them at a distance. They do not seem to know she is there, or that she has seen them.
Her spear is back in the estate, and all she has are the dagger at her hip and the shield hanging from a strap on the saddle, clunking annoyingly against her knee. Ribs aching, she leans forward and picks the shield up, strapping it to her arm. Steering with her knees and by shifting her weight, she coaxes Beeswax over to the side of the road, pacing the edge of the trees, hoof beats muffled by the grass. The horse picks up on her intent and goes where she is directed, head low, making no noise.
Something glints in the crook of a tree’s branches, and Leah can just make out the shine of moonlight on the brass studs of brigandine. She draws the dagger, holding it by the point, checking the weight to see if it is balanced enough to be thrown – How would I know? What am I doing? I should be running to warn the keep, not trying to fight an unknown number of infiltrators. Where’d the others go, anyway? Fuck shit fuck, where’d the others go?
She pulls Beeswax to a stop and lifts the shield a little higher, high-strung but focused, legs tense. The horse gives a confused snort at her rider’s mixed-message posture; the glint of metal brigandine disappears as the wearer withdraws, alerted by the noise. Leah’s hand flicks to the side and she raises the dagger to throw it.
An attack comes from the side, and Beeswax kicks out in surprise. Leah keeps her seat, but is muddled by the willow and barely manages to hold on to the dagger, turning to see the foe.
Two assailants on foot harry her, armed with swords. From the orchard a third steps out, whirling a sling. A stone hits her square in the side of her neck and she winces and coughs, losing track of her enemy long enough for one to close dangerously with her. She shifts her grip on the dagger and fends off his attack, even successfully landing a stab on his upper arm, but losing her grip on the dagger in the process; it falls to the road somewhere, clattering on the dirt. The other one she slams with her shield, knocking him back and making him trip on a rut in the road. Beeswax kicks his head when he’s down, then turns to rush the one with the sling; he is at his fellow’s side, applying pressure to the wound and calling out “mercy!” with a strange accent.
Leah hesitates and reins Beeswax in. The sling-wielder pulls his comrade up and away. She watches them, and they watch her, warily. The road is dark, and she can pick out no features, not even the colour of their outfits, which seem to blend into the dirt of the road.
The man tries to get his comrade to walk, but the other soldier has already bled out and lost consciousness; he slips out of the man’s grasp and falls like a pile of laundry, unmoving on the road. The one behind Leah is motionless, a puddle around his head, glinting in the moonlight.
Leah is weak at the sight of blood, but holds on to her imposing stance. Please get scared and run away, please get scared and run away, please get scared and run away…please be dark enough that you can’t see my face to know that’s what I’m thinking. She straightens her spine a bit, ignoring the muffled complaint from her ribs, and shifts her grip on her shield.
The sling-wielder visibly weighs his options, then yells something unintelligible at Leah before turning and fleeing back into the woods. She watches him go until she can’t hear him anymore, then allows herself to relax slightly, the danger apparently having passed. Hey! Made it! Mostly thanks to the horse, but I’ll take any win I can get at this point.
She becomes aware of the sound of horns, and hooves running towards her. She turns to face the oncoming force, and sees the city guard, with the rest of the five, about a minute down the road, riding hard. In the little time she has before their arrival, she dismounts unsteadily to find her dagger, squinting through the darkness. Oh God I’m a cartoon stereotype. Velma, I’m so sorry for all the times I laughed…this shit is hard.
Rolling over the limp body of the one Beeswax took out, she finally finds the blood-covered dagger, intact and unharmed. Letting the corpse flop back down to its back, she notices a scroll case rattling against its belt. She retrieves it, and – on an impulse – hides it in the bulk of her bandages.
When the force arrives, they see her, bandaged from previous injury, standing over the bodies of two of Seffon’s foot soldiers. “Assassins,” the head of the guard says confidently, looting each one for identifying items.
Meredith looks to be bursting with pride, as does Iris, though the latter also looks concerned. Vivitha rushes over to help Leah mount up again, giving her quiet words of encouragement and praise.
“You really should learn to pick your battles, though,” she says, somewhat censoriously. “Two against one?”
“I didn’t pick this one, it picked me,” Leah complains, and Vivitha snickers.
On return to the castle, Leah is treated like a hero. The horns had been sounded shortly before Leah left the farmer’s house, but the man who sounded them had been knocked unconscious after the blowing began. Some in the guard had wondered if it might have been a false-alarm, and didn’t want to ride out.
“The delay nearly endangered the whole city; a small group like that could have infiltrated as far at the main island, or maybe more,” Meredith says, explaining it to a half-aware Leah who is still reeling from the combination of adrenaline rush and painkiller.
During the debriefing that evening, the Valerids pay special attention to her. Leah’s fast action and intuitive sense that something bad was going to happen in that region of the city, so far from where Seffon’s forces are usually seen, are heralded as the marks of a great warrior and defender of the people. Leah nods, a little more settled now that some time has passed, but still very uncertain, her mind clouded by pain.
“We’d wanted to tell you something else, as well, and I think today’s incident corroborates it,” Meredith says, once the praise has stopped. “Wellen has finally helped Leah remember some of her old life. Her memories are returning – and clearly, so are her abilities.”
The Lady beams and reaches out to take Leah’s hands in her own, congratulating her. The Lord calls for a bottle from their private stores of wine.
“You’ve deserved it a half-dozen times before now, but this is exceptional,” the Lord says, with uncommon warmth. Meredith seems dizzy, to be so commended, and Leah bites back a giggle. “Our future daughter-in-law’s protector is not even at full strength, and is beating two-to-one odds against assassins. You five are a solid investment.”
The servant arrives and pours everyone a glass. They raise the glasses in silence, clink them with their neighbours, and drink. Leah is privately relieved that Valerin culture does not apparently include the giving of speeches with toasts – she’s not sure how much more praise she can accept before it becomes saccharine.
Setting down her glass, the Lady takes Leah’s hand again. “We are unspeakably glad to have you back from Seffon’s keep, and that you are recovering. The situation has been so delicate, and Jeno is so much more grounded with you around. I hope you know we appreciate the calming effect you have on her.”
Leah blushes hotly, and gives a deep nod. “I try my best,” she manages to say, without stammering.
“You are no longer on contract with us, but I feel it is our prerogative to give you some form of recognition, for what you have done for us.” She looks to the Lord, as though for confirmation, and he waves a hand.
“Naturally, of course.”
“The Leifeld pin,” the Lady says. Leah nods appreciatively, drawing a blank. Meredith and Vivitha are the only ones who seem to recognise it; the latter raises an eyebrow appreciatively, and the former’s eyes almost bug out from her head. “We’ll have it ready in a few days.”
The meeting wraps up, and everyone finishes their glasses. Afterwards, toddling back to her rooms on a mix of painkiller, fine wine, and exhaustion, Leah catches up to Meredith.
“I’d appreciate any explanation of what just happened,” she says. Talking hurts, but the pain seems removed, distant – blocked behind a wall of chemicals, she supposes.
“The Liefeld pin is one of the honours awarded to a warrior of Volst or its provinces,” Meredith says. “It’s a recognition of services rendered, exceptional devotion to one’s duty. It’s a silver pin with a loop of red and blue ribbon, just about this big,” Meredith makes a triangle with her fingers, about an inch to a side, “But it is very rarely given to those from outside of Volst.”
Leah thinks that there is a certain pride, or greed, in Meredith’s voice as she says it.
By the time she reaches her rooms, Jeno is asleep in her own bed. Leah goes into her own half of the suite, lights a candle, and carefully pulls the scroll case out of her bandages, trying not to poke herself with the decorative metal top and failing multiple times.
She sits at the desk and considers it; leather on the outside, with metal studs attaching a strap to one side. She opens it carefully, looking for any sign of a trap, but the cap comes off with only a quiet pop of air pressure. Within is a short missive, signed with a familiar name and mark, and written in an odd dialect. The words mean nothing to her, but the more she looks at them the more certain she is the basis is English.
There must be some rules for this language, how it has changed. Like that thingy, the great vowel shift – like British people dropping their ‘R’s and ‘H’s all over the place – like Americans who can’t pronounce the second vowel sound in ‘about’ – like French words starting with ‘É’ becoming Spanish words that start with ‘ES,’ or English words beginning with ‘S.’ Languages don’t just change willy-nilly. At least I think they don’t.
She pulls up a scrap piece of paper, and a block of dry ink. Wetting the block with a bit of the clear alcohol marked for the purpose, she dips her pen in and starts making notes.
It takes an hour for her to decipher the short letter:
“Th Lõ of th’Enterlan, Nor’n Jun bi yõ noeng, reques’s an audyens ue th governmen of Valren. Uy reques saf pasaz thru yõ lans fõ an envoy, as bi th lau of ol tims, bi th lau of yõ nason, an bi th laus of morl fo. Uy bẽ yu neus of betrayl an uã, ʁus sors by a muceual enemy teu aữ nasons.”
“The Lord of the Enterlan, Northern Jun by your knowing, requests an audience with the government of Valerin. We request safe passage through your lands for an envoy, as by the law of old times, by the law of your nation, and by the laws of moral ??. We bear you news of betrayal and war, ??? source be a mutual enemy to ??(our?) nations.”
The signature at the bottom is in a well-cultured hand, though still looping and jagged and hard to read. Peering at it carefully in the darkness, and comparing it with the text of the missive, she decides that the signature is “Lord Seffon.” I suppose he wouldn’t refer to himself as a pretender-lord. It would be pretty BDE if he did, though.
She leans back in the chair and rubs her eyes, looking at her notes. Her final conclusion is that the scroll is a very politely worded yet urgent missive, intended for the Valerids. Seffon, apparent evil magician, has been sending in diplomatic parties to warn of a war. Well-armed diplomatic parties. Of course, the whole thing reeks of a trap, but why haven’t I been informed of this aspect? Have the others? She hides the scroll in its case, then hides the case in the pad box.
And this? Her hand lingers over the translated copy. I’ll remember the essential bits. Besides, now that I’ve done the work, it feels pretty straight-forward to translate.
She holds the scrap of paper with the translated copy over the candle flame, letting it burn away until only a corner is left, then drops the corner in the pad box as well and blows out the candle.
*
In the morning, still being floated through the estate by hero worship, she accompanies Jeno to the baths. They soak together in one of the tubs, Jeno nearly in Leah’s lap, though no-one is around to see.
“Are you sure this is safe?” Leah asks, holding on to Jeno’s hips and eyeing the door nervously.
Jeno leans forward over Leah to grab a bar of soap, ‘accidentally’ pressing her chest against Leah’s while doing so. “Perfectly,” she says with a smile, sitting back straight. “I’m the future Lady Valerid; who would dare interrupt me in my private rituals? Even if the enemy appears at the gates they won’t interrupt us; I have my knight-paramour to protect me.” Jeno tilts Leah’s head up for a kiss, which Leah returns warmly, eyes closed.
The kiss deepens, and Jeno slides herself over to be straddling Leah’s lap, still holding Leah’s face. The bar of soap drops into the water, forgotten, as Leah pulls Jeno closer, both arms wrapped around the young woman’s waist.
Leah winces abruptly and lets go, her ribs burning. “Oh god,” she gasps out. “I can’t.” She shakes her head in frustration, running her hands down Jeno’s thighs. “My side…I couldn’t do it. It still hurts too much.”
Jeno nods, leans in for a last quick kiss, then ducks under the water to retrieve the soap. On her way up, she catches Leah by surprise by spreading her legs and licking a slow, straight line up her slit. The hot water and the pressure are enough to make Leah regret her refusal, but her ribs still throb pointedly, calling her back to reason.
Leah and Jeno bathe and get out of the pool to dry off, eventually dressing and heading back to the ground level of the keep. Leah accompanies her as far as the dining hall, then bows formally, with a quick wink on the way up. She takes her own breakfast to go, joining her team at training.
While watching training, Leah eats the rye bread roll plain, musing on her experiences and discoveries of the night before. She waits for Meredith to take a break, then asks the questions she’d decided on the night before.
“About the injury,” she begins, gesturing to the bandage around her ribs.
“It’s not fatal,” Meredith teases. “You’ll get better.”
Leah makes a face. “I was going to ask how I handle payment.”
“Ah.” Meredith nods. “Well, the physician is a city official; he’s paid by taxes, you don’t pay him.” Leah smothers the urge to make a triumphant comment about Medicare and continues to listen. “The farming family…do you have their name?”
Leah narrows her eyes, running through her memories. “Shess…”
“Shesop?”
“Yeah! How’d you know?”
Meredith gives her an odd look. “It’s a common enough last name, not hard to guess. Anyway, I’ll pass it on to Lord Valerid; he and the Duke can argue amongst themselves whose responsibility it is to repay them for their gesture, you don’t need to worry about that.”
Leah snickers. “What do I even need a coin purse for if everything’s paid for?”
Meredith snort-laughs. “Clearly you don’t remember our earlier freelance work. This is a cushier job than we usually get.”
“Well then, you’re welcome for being the reason we have it?” Leah laughs it off. “Even though it’s turning into quite the campaign…and I’m not really up to standard…and we keep goofing off in earshot of our employers…”
Meredith purses her lips. “Yes, I’d appreciate it if that could stop. They don’t deserve the criticisms you make sometimes.” Leah raises an eyebrow, and Meredith shrugs dismissively. “Also, we make our living on our reputation; best not to insult the people paying our wages.”
“Certainly not if healthcare is included,” Leah says with a smirk. “Even if the food is a little bland.”
“Don’t start on that again,” Meredith sighs. “Stop insulting the food I grew up on.”
Leah raises her hands in appeasement. “I’ve picked enough unfair fights this week, I won’t pick another.” Meredith snickers, and Leah decides to push her luck and ask her other question. “Speaking of unfair fights, did we ever find out what was in the scroll the guards found, that time we fought off the big group of invaders? What were they here for?” She asks it with carefully affected casualness, as though the question had just occurred to her.
Meredith stretches her shoulder and reflects. “Lord Valerid said it was a demand for surrender, according to his translator.”
“Oh? Who was the translator?” Leah asks, and Meredith shrugs. “When did he tell you this?”
“One of our meetings.”
“The debriefings?” How did I forget that? Or did I miss one?
“Not the group, just me. We discuss things in the mornings, sometimes – strategy and payment and such. I like to keep in contact with our employers, during a job, and it’s quite rare to get to do so daily. A refreshing change.”
Leah bites her lip, and Meredith notices. “Okay, so I know I just promised to stop teasing, but…God, you go to even more debriefings? Extra ones? Voluntarily?”
Meredith clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. “Iris has had a bad influence on you,” she grumbles, but with a friendly smile to soften it. She pats Leah on the back, carefully avoiding the injured ribs, then goes back to training.
Leah watches a little while longer, then leaves to go rest in her rooms. Even walking up the stairs taxes her strength, and she collapses into bed gratefully.
Wellen arrives at the estate early that afternoon, apparently at the invitation of the Lady.
“I congratulate you on your victory,” he says with a cheeky grin, his dark skin wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Although I hear it was beforehand that you obtained your injury?” He instructs her to lift her shirt, and she does so, just enough for him to see the bruise forming on her side but no more. Wellen observes, with professional distance, and Leah relaxes somewhat. He putters about a bit, muttering some criticism about the physician’s job at healing her ribs, assembling ingredients.
“Right. I advise bed-rest firstly, and more coca-leaf drink to aid things along.”
“More what-what drink?” Leah asks sharply.
“Coca leaf. The energiser I gave you a few days ago, to try and speed your recovery.”
Uhh, speed is right, what the fuck? Coca leaf? You motherfucker, did you feed me cocaine-aspirin tea? How am I not dead? She lets her shock show, but Wellen is too distracted to notice. “Um, actually, I found that the straight willow tea worked just as well – even better, actually.”
He gives her an assortment of poultices to spread on the wound to help it heal, and accepts her testimony about the tea. “I’ll be back tomorrow, just to keep an eye on your recovery. For now, rest. As I understand it, your teammate Miss Djalaa has been assigned to take your place, guarding Lady Auzzo.”
“Miss who?”
“The darkish one, with short hair. Welleslassi features.”
“Kain?”
“That’s it, yes. Now rest.” Wellen gives her a friendly nod goodbye, then leaves her alone in the bright room.
I wonder how Jeno will take to that, Leah thinks, caught between wry and worried.
Leah follows Wellen’s advice, and rests – mostly because there is nothing else to do, bedridden and alone. Jeno passes by briefly on her way to supper, but with Kain watching at the door, the girl behaves only as is proper; Leah tries to remember the manners she was taught, for talking with nobility, but her head is blurry and she merely nods and gives a simple “Thank you” to Jeno’s well-wishes. Jeno leaves with the tiniest smile, and Kain stays another moment at the door to wish Leah a speedy recovery.
While the two are away, Kimry brings Leah up her supper. Leah’s head is still foggy from the tea, and worsened by the stuffy air, but she tries to focus.
Kimry seems to understand Leah’s fog-headedness, and simply sits on the bed, talking at length about the crazy events of the crazy southern lands, while Leah eats the stew she brought up.
“And one of the stable-girls was down this aft,” Kimry is saying, idly braiding and un-braiding Leah’s shoulder-length hair, “Saying that some of the families with cousins in Jun province were getting nervous about the conflict; the last war divided their lands and split up whole families, and they’re afraid it’s going to happen again.”
“I sometimes hear it called ‘contested,’” Leah muses, while trying to cut a dough ball in half with a spoon. “Do you know why?”
Kimry shrugs it off. “Southern nonsense, political manoeuvring. The war didn’t end right, according to Valerin – that’s what the stable girl seemed to think, at least.”
Leah suddenly remembers another young girl on staff, and she is surprised by a sudden maternal instinct kicking in. “There’s a young girl on staff, named Hay-something. I think she might be new, or new-ish?”
“That’s right. Haybree: she’s a newer indentured servant, from Bair. Poor kid hasn’t carved herself a place in the lower-floors hierarchy yet – too timid.”
“Could you…uh, keep an eye out – ”
“Already have been,” Kimry says, nodding solemnly with a shadowed look on her face. “I look out for all the little ones. I remember being them.” She leaves shortly after, before anyone notices her long absence.
On her return, Jeno dismisses Kain for the evening and joins Leah on her bed – though keeping a respectful distance, considering Leah’s heavily bandaged side.
“It’s not too much of a change, having Kain guard you?” Leah asks.
Jeno shrugs a bit, grinning cheekily. “She’s not you, and that’s already a considerable change.” Her grin then drops away. “To be honest I don’t entirely trust her. She seems too guarded, and she treats me like I’m made of glass. I will try to get along with her, if possible – for your sake.”
“I want you to,” Leah says, taking her hand briefly. “Kain’s a good soul, and if she’s too delicate around you it’s because she cares.”
Jeno giggles a bit at that. “You know her better than I do, I suppose.”
Not really, but if it’ll get you to go away and let me sleep, then sure. “I know that she’ll look out for you until I’m better.”
They kiss goodnight, and Leah lays back in the dark to sleep away the pain. She remembers the moon entries in the diary, and checks the sky for a moon; bright and glowing, almost full.
