He stared at her for a count of five before saying, 'You came all the way out here to deliver that?'
She laughed; a sound like a fox barking. 'No, of course not. I'm on my way from Calva to the sheep-fair at White Cross. But they told me at the Unswerving Loyalty that the Vadani court was on a progress, or going camping or something. I guessed you'd be with them, so here I am.'
Potpourri. Dried flowers and leaves and bits of lavender and stuff. As he dug in his pocket for money for a tip, he could hardly believe what he was hearing. Surely, when the world came to an end, and the Vadani were facing certain death, things like that simply ceased to exist. It wasn't possible for the world to contain war and potpourri at the same time.
'Thanks,' he heard himself say. 'She'll be really pleased.'
'No trouble,' she chirruped back. 'Do you think they'll be able to spare me some hay and a bucket of oats for my horse? I've probably got enough to get me as far as the Modesty and Prudence, but better safe than sorry.'
'Try the ostlers,' he was saying, when the significance of what she'd told him hit him like a hammer. 'Excuse me,' he muttered, and broke into a run. She called out something, but he didn't catch what she was saying.
There are times when it's better to run frantically, headless-chicken fashion, than to arrive. When finally he found Valens' carriage-he felt like he'd run five miles, up and down the middle of the convoy-he pulled up and froze, realizing as he panted like a thirsty dog that he was in no fit state to tell anybody about anything, not if he expected to be taken seriously. He dragged air into his burning lungs and tried to find a form of words. Then he balled his left fist and rapped it against the carriage door.
No answer. His mind blanked. Clearly, the carriage was empty; in which case, Valens wasn't here; consequently, he could be anywhere. Orsea felt his chest tighten again, this time with panic rather than fatigue. His discovery was obviously so important that it couldn't wait, but searching the entire convoy…Just in case, he knocked again, much harder. This time, the door opened.
'Who are you?'
He recognized her, of course; the only female Cure Hardy he'd ever seen. 'I'm Orsea,' he said, realizing as he said it how inadequate his reply was. 'I need to see Valens, urgently. Do you know where…?'
'No.' She was looking at him as though she'd just noticed him on the sole of a brand-new shoe. 'What do you want?'
'It's very important,' Orsea said. She made him feel about nine years old; but while he was standing there babbling, the Mezentines could be moving into position, ready to attack. 'Can you give me any idea where he's likely to be? The whole convoy's in danger.'
She frowned. 'Have you told the duty officer?'
Pop, like a bubble bursting. 'No,' Orsea admitted. 'No, that's a good idea. I'll do that.'
She closed the carriage door; not actually in his face, but close enough for him to feel the breeze on his cheek. Something told him he hadn't made a good impression. The least of his problems.
Even Orsea knew how to find the duty officer; dead center of the convoy, look for a tented wagon with plenty of staff officers coming and going. Mercifully, one of them was an Eremian, who escorted him, in the manner of a respectful child put in charge of an elderly, senile relative, up the foldaway steps into the wagon.
Orsea had nearly finished telling his story when he realized that the duty officer, a small, neat, bald Vadani, didn't believe him. It was the lack of expression on his face; not bewilderment or shock, but a face kept deliberately blank to conceal what he was thinking. 'I see,' he said, when Orsea had finished. 'I'll make sure the Duke gets your message.'
'Will you?'
'Of course.' Orsea could see him getting tense, afraid there'd be a scene, that he'd be forced into being rude to the known idiot who technically ranked equal with Valens himself. 'As soon as I see him.'
'When's that likely to be?'
'Soon.' Pause. The officer was trying to hold out behind his blank face, like a city under siege. 'I expect he'll send for me at some point today, and when he does-'
'Don't you think you should send someone to find him?'
Orsea couldn't help being reminded of a fight he'd seen once, in the streets of Civitas Eremiae. A huge, broad-shouldered man was being trailed by a tiny, elderly drunk, who kept trying to hit him with a stick. Over and over again the big man swatted the stick away, like a fly, but eventually the drunk slipped a blow past his guard and hit him in the middle of the forehead. A lucky strike; the big man staggered, and while he was off guard, the drunk hit him again, three or four times on the side of the head. Realizing that he could be killed if he didn't do something, the big man tried to grab the stick, and got slashed across the knuckles and then beaten hard just above the ear. He swung his arm wildly but with force; the back of his hand hit the drunk in the mouth, dislocating his jaw and slamming him against a wall; he slid down and lay in a heap. With that picture in his mind's eye, Orsea looked down at the duty officer, sitting very upright in his straight-backed chair. If I goad this man again, he thought, he's going to have to strike back; but I've got no choice.
'I'm not sure that'd be appropriate,' the duty officer said. 'But I assure you, as soon as I see him-'
'Haven't you been listening to me?' Orsea could hear the shrill, petulant anger in his own voice; it revolted him. 'As soon as you see him could be too late. If the innkeeper at Sharra knows we're here and there's a Mezentine patrol stationed there-'
'Assuming,' the duty officer interrupted quietly, 'that what this woman told you is true.'
I must try and make him understand. 'She found me, didn't she?' he said. 'She heard we were here from someone; she told me it was the innkeeper who told her. I can't imagine why she'd want to lie about it. Think about it, can't you? There's this merchant with a delivery for my wife. Here, look.' He thrust the little cloth sack at the officer's face, like a fencer testing the distance. 'Now, if she wasn't told where I was likely to be, how do you think she found me? Just wandering around at random on the off chance she'd run into me?'
The officer leaned back a little, putting space between himself and the smell of the bag. 'You may like to bear in mind that we're on a road,' he said, voice flat and featureless. 'People travel up and down roads, on their way to wherever they happen to be going. It seems more likely to me that she fortuitously came across this column while following the road than that she heard about us at Sharra and made her way here across country, in a ladies' chaise, just to deliver a bag of dried flowers.'
Orsea pulled in a deep breath. 'I don't agree,' he said. 'And I'm asking you to send someone to find Valens, right now. Are you going to do it?'
The officer's eyes were sad as well as hostile. 'I'm afraid I can't,' he said.
'Fine.' Orsea swung round, traversing like a siege engine on its carriage, to face the Eremian officer who'd led him there. 'All right,' he said, 'you do it.'
The Eremian was only a young man, embarrassed and ashamed. 'I'm sorry,' he began to say.
'You heard what I just told him?'
The Eremian nodded wretchedly.
'Good. I'm telling you to find Duke Valens and pass the message on.'
Such a reproachful look in the young man's eyes. 'Actually, I'm supposed to be taking a note to-'
'Never mind about that.' Orsea couldn't help thinking about the drunk with the stick. 'It can wait. Do you understand what I want you to do?'
The young man was looking past him, at the duty officer. Orsea couldn't see what he saw, but the young man nodded slightly. 'Of course,' he said. 'Straightaway.' He left quickly, grateful to get away, leaving Orsea and the duty officer facing each other, like the big man and the little drunk. I won, Orsea thought, I got my way. Shouldn't that make me the big man, not the other way round?
The carpenters weren't happy. Valens found that hard to take, since he was merely telling them to do what they'd told him was the only way. But apparently there wasn't enough good seasoned timber to do the job; they could use green wood, but-
'I know,' Valens snapped. 'You told me.'
Dignified silence. They were good at dignified silence. 'Do the best you can,' he growled at them, and left with what little remained of his temper.
Heading back to his coach, he met a sad-looking ensign; an Eremian, he noticed from his insignia. He looked weary and ground down, as though he'd been given an important job he didn't know how to do.
'I've got a message for you,' the sad ensign said. 'From Duke Orsea.'
