your own-' He brandished his baton. '-to whack people with.'
The comment elicited a few chuckles, an elbow to the ribs, a snort of laughter.
'Most of you will go home disappointed. You can help us with our chores, you can share sex with any one of us, remind us that your uncle knows our aunt or your clan made a deal with one of ours years ago. You can share apprenticeship stories — I rode my year as a messenger for Ilu, by the way — but none of that will matter. The eagles choose. We don't. How they make their choice we've never known. Even with as many eagles as we have here now looking for new reeves, I can't even say that one of you waiting here will be marked and chosen by an eagle. You may all end up walking home. You may ask to stay on as assistant to one of our fawkners, who take on the difficult job of caring for the eagles and the lofts. You may hire on as one of the stewards and hirelings who do the day-to-day work of running the hall. Even if you do become a reeve, you'll discover that the training process is arduous and dangerous.'
Restless murmurs began to rise. He raised a hand to quiet them. 'Is there a question?'
An older man rose respectfully. 'Marshal, thanks for hearing me. How long have you been a reeve?'
'Twenty-two years.'
'And how long a marshal?'
'Twelve days.' That got laugh.
A younger voice called from the crowd. 'Is it true that eagles sometimes kill their reeves?'
'It's very rare, but it happens. If you don't like that answer, then leave now.' He waited, but no one moved, nor did he expect any person to walk out while everyone else watched. 'Hall eagles aren't as territorial as eagles in the wild. Perhaps the gods bred it out of them. But they are territorial, and they will tangle, and the routines of patrol and hall rest and mating cycles are carefully calibrated so the halls can function smoothly. Eagles are our partners, not our servants. Their needs come first. There's one other thing you may not fully understand. Once chosen, you cannot change your mind. You are a reeve for life. You can't leave. And if your eagle dies, you will die with them.'
'Do you regret it?' called the older woman suddenly. 'Do you regret being chosen as a reeve by your eagle?'
Joss grinned. 'Never.'
He put his bone whistle to his lips and blew a note no human ear could hear. From elsewhere in the compound, dogs barked. Scar appeared, huge body seeming monstrous as he flew in low over the walls. Folk shrieked in alarm. The big eagle braked with talons forward and wings wide, and whumped down onto one of the big perches. Most flinched, or jumped back. A few, to their credit, did not. Scar dipped his head and turned it upside down to stare at the assembly, making many laugh nervously. Joss walked in under the cruel beak, within reach of the killing talons.
'You'll need the courage to stand here, knowing your eagle can kill you. You'll need the courage to imp her feathers, cope her beak and talons, and a hundred more things besides. You'll need patience to build the trust that jesses the bond between you.'
Scar opened his wings like great sails. He flirted. He squawked with that funny chirp the big eagles had, so at odds with their size and magnificent beauty.
'We're bringing a training master down from Clan Hall, by the name of Arda. The senior fawkners are Askar, Verena, and Geddi. Now, Steward Govard will assign work duties and sleeping billets to those of you who wish to try your luck.'
He stepped from under Scar's shade, and whistled. The eagle thrust and with a hammer of vast wings beat aloft, caught the wisp of a current, rode it to a better thermal, and shot up into the sky. (iovard took his place, and Joss retreated to the marshal's cote.
Askar had left for the city, but others filed in with a thousand tasks left undone that needed his sanction. The morning wore on and on. He downed another two cups of rice wine, poured a third, but set it aside untouched.
Siras stuck his head in. 'Marshal? The bell rang for meal. Will you want to eat in the hall or have me bring you a tray here?'
'Gods!' He stared longingly at the third cup of wine. 'Can someone clear out these writing things? Who is meant to straighten this chamber?'
Siras shrugged, looking embarrassed. 'I'm assigned to you for the moment, Marshal.'
'Surely you should be patrolling, Siras. Don't you have a young eagle?'
'Fortune is his name. He vanished just after you and the out-landers drove out Yordenas and his crew. The fawkners told me Fortune's overdue for nesting, so they think he's flown to Heaven's Ridge.' He wore the optimistic vigor of youth easily, but when he thought of his eagle, the line of his mouth cut downward and his gaze tightened. 'Wouldn't I know if he was dead?'
'The fawkners here know their business,' said Joss. 'Heaven's Ridge it is, and so you're assigned to me for the interim, I take it. No doubt you'd rather be patrolling.'
The lad grinned winningly. 'They do say it's the best way to learn. That is, to follow around a more experienced reeve.' His gaze drifted to the full cup, and flashed away, and Joss wondered if someone had told him to monitor the new marshal's drinking. It was the kind of thing the commander out of Clan Hall would happily command; she had a gift for sticking the salted knife into an already open wound.
He sighed. 'I'll go to the hall and eat with everyone else. That's the custom.'
At first the senior reeves who were left hesitated to join him at the marshal's table, but he waved them over with a pleasant smile to cover his irritation. In his short tenure as marshal, Yordenas had corrupted the traditions of the reeve hall even down to so small but significant a habit as the marshal taking his meals with the reeves so he could gauge the temper of the hall through hearing the complaints, troubles, gossip, and good tidings that circulated around the tables where everyone ate.
'What's our strength today?' he asked when the senior reeves had settled onto the benches around him with their gruel, salted fish, and soft goat cheese.
Medard was a young man — by Joss's estimation, that meant anyone under thirty — with a mean streak a mey wide. 'Get rid of Toban. That hells-rotted vermin walked hand in hand with Yordenas and the worst of his bootlickers, and now he whimpers that he'd no choice but to cozy up to them in order to spy for the sake of the rest of us, those of us who suffered. Or the ones like Dovit and Teren who just disappeared.'
'I didn't see you leading the resistance,' said Darga, an older woman with a blade of iron in her gaze. 'You went running Yordenas's errands up in the Barrens every chance he gave you.'
'To stay alive! I tell you, that cursed Horas wanted nothing more than to murder me, with the blessing of his sniveling comrades. He would have done it, too, if I hadn't kept myself away from the hall. I ran no errands for Yordenas!' He was flushed with indignation. 'You just ask in some of those villages up in the Barrens, who was it who presided over their assizes when no one else would step in? That was me!'
'Here, now,' said Joss. 'What's past is past. As it says in the tale, 'no use trying to build with a charred log'. Toban will be given a chance to do the duty assigned him. If he scants it or neglects it, then we'll censure him what the dereliction has earned. We have lost too many reeves as it is, some dead and others flown off.'
'Where does a rogue reeve and his eagle make their perch?' Darga asked. 'Who will take them in?'
'I don't know,' said Joss. 'That's why we need Toban under supervision, doing such tasks as he can be trusted with and thereby freeing up other reeves for patrol. We're dealing with a desperate situation in the north. We have to find out what is happening, who these people are who are attacking throughout the Hundred. We have to maintain constant communication with Clan Hall, and the other halls if we can. We must be prepared for anything.'
A girl with the slave mark tattooed at her left eye ran into the hall, sweating and out of breath. Every person there hesitated, with spoon half raised to mouth or cup to lip, sentences cut off, laughter
choked down. They were like dogs and children who have been kicked once too often: expecting the worst.
She grabbed hold of her braid as for courage, and quick-stepped up to the head table. 'Marshal.' The squeak of her tiny voice made Medard snort and folk at nearby tables titter.
Joss rose to survey the hall until every voice was stilled and no one moved. The girl wasn't much more than ten or twelve, a fawkner's assistant's slave by the look of her clothing, someone to sweep the floors and fetch and carry.
'Go on,' he said, trying out a kindly smile. 'Do you have a message for me?'
