Sheepfarmer's Dauther

“Nay—we’ve to get back to Vonja and act our part.”

“Tir’s gut!” exclaimed someone else. “That’s a dangerous game—what if you’re caught?”

“We won’t be,” said Jori. “We’ve daggers and the wit to use them. And by Holy Falk and Gird, we’ll meet you all in a tavern not too long from now.”

“I wish,” Cal interrupted. “I wish I had something for you—after all this.”

“You gave us your silence,” said the first voice. “That was gift enough, considering. Don’t worry, Captain— Jori and me are weasels for cunning.” Cal heard the horses moving away. He felt the surface he lay on tip sharply, and the muffled thuds of other bodies settling onto boards. Of course, he thought: river, a boat. He closed his eyes as the boat moved out onto the river. It fetched up on the far back with a bump that jounced him into pain again. He was lifted from the boat to the bank, and given another swallow of numbwine and as much water as he could drink. Then he was carried, on a blanket slung between poles, for a long distance: or long it seemed, when every footfall waked another twinge in his battered body.

For the most part he kept his eyes closed, but once when he opened them he noticed the sky above was paling. It must be nearly dawn. The soldiers carrying him were no longer dark blurs against the sky; he could see the shape of their helmets, and the faces beneath. The light grew. He could not distinguish color yet; their tunics were dark, and could have been any dark color. But the helmet shape—the cut—he thought it must be—One of them looked at him.

“Nearly there, Captain. You’re safe now.”

“You’re—”

“The Duke’s men, sir. We’re nearly back to camp. Sorry it’s taken so long.”

Cal felt a ridiculous desire to laugh. He was hardly likely to complain about how far they’d had to carry him. “My father?” he asked. “Does he know?”

The man shook his head. “Don’t know, Captain. The Duke will have told him, I’d think, or maybe he’s waiting until you come in.” Cal let his eyes sag shut. He had no idea how long he’d been in the enemy camp, and he didn’t really care to know. Not yet. Enough to know he was out, and safe. As safe in Phelan’s camp as in his own. He heard the challenge of sentries, and his escort’s reply. A voice he knew, one of the Duke’s captains, he thought, said: “Duke’s tent.” He thought he should open his eyes again, but it was too much trouble.

At last all motion ceased. He lay on something soft, and smelled the pungent reek of surgeons’ gear. Feet stirred on the floor nearby; something rustled. He struggled to open his eyes. Sunlight bled through the tent walls. The Duke stood by the bed he lay in, staring at the floor. Cal swallowed and tried to speak. The Duke glanced at his face with the first sound.

“Cal. You’re safe now. Your father will be here soon. My surgeons are ready—”

“My lord—I—thank you.”

The Duke made an impatient gesture. “None needed. I’m glad you’re no worse.”

“It was Siniava’s camp, wasn’t it?” The Duke nodded, and sat abruptly on a stool beside the bed. Cal rolled his head sideways, and felt his hand lifted and held. A surgeon moved to the bed. Cal swallowed. “Sir—my lord —”

“Yes, Cal?”

“Please—don’t stay. Go—wait for my father.”

“What? Cal, I’ve seen wounds before; I won’t faint.”

Cal shook his head. “Please—don’t stay—”

“Cal—what is it?” He could not answer. The Duke met his eyes in a long silent look, and suddenly he saw the sense of what he could not say looking back at him. He saw tears fill the Duke’s eyes, saw them blinked back, saw the rage he had seen last fall return. When the Duke spoke, his voice held nothing of that, nothing but calm. “As you wish, Cal. If you want me, I’ll be in the front room.” He sighed, and released Cal’s hand; sighed again, and stood.

“My lord—”

“Yes?”

“If I could bear anyone—it would be you—”

The Duke nodded and withdrew. The surgeons unwrapped the cloak around him and set to work. Numbwine masked the physical pain for the next hour, but not the mental. Now that he was safe, now that he might have thought all was well—he told himself he should be glad of the children he already had, the campaigns he had already fought, the rank he had already won. But what he had lost intruded. How could he command a company, once it was known? He knew too well the ways of rumor to doubt that it would be known, and known widely.

He was still thinking this, gloomily, when his father arrived, bursting past the Duke with hardly a word and into the bedchamber. He saw at once that his father knew. The dark eyes were snapping, the beard bristling in all directions. Cal stared back at him.

“Well,” said his father gruffly. “Thank the gods they took the only thing you don’t need to be a commander—or my heir.” Cal wondered if he’d heard rightly; he knew his face must show his shock. A grim smile parted his father’s beard. “Hadn’t thought of it that way, had you? Arms and legs, Cal: brains, eyes, ears—oh, and a strong voice—that’s what you need. That you’ve got. Ask Aesil M’dierra if she ever needed balls to run a company—ask with a mile’s head start, and the fastest horse in my stable—you might make it home.” He sat down on the stool by the bed. “And thank the gods we didn’t give in to young Ali about coming this year. That would have been a real mess.” His face softened. “How much numbwine have you had?”

“Enough, sir.” Cal still felt faintly affronted.

“Good. Cal, I’m not ignoring your loss. I know—I do know—what it means. But I know what it doesn’t mean. You’ve got heirs of the body—more than our friend Kieri has. You’ve got everything else I need. I’m not going to lose a son, Cal, because you lost a few lumps of flesh—even those lumps.”

“I—I thought you would mind—”

“Mind! Of course I mind; I’ll serve you that bastard’s balls on toast, if you don’t get ’em first. But you’re a Halveric. My son. My commander and heir. You still have everything else, and it’s enough.”

“Yes, sir.” Cal felt better. A little better. “He—he said, sir, that he had agents north of the mountains. He said five sons might not be enough.”

Aliam Halveric snorted. “You must have been dazed, Cal, to worry about that. Didn’t you think I’d take precautions? And better, told your mother about it.” He chuckled, and Cal relaxed enough to smile. “I’d like to see anyone sneak past your mother—your wife, now, she’s a handful too, but Estil—” Cal thought of his tall mother, still hunting at her age with a bow many men could not bend. “Now. Did the surgeons say how long you’d be down?”

“No—not yet.”

“Hmmph. I need you up, and you need to be up. Did they try a potion?”

“No—I don’t think so. But—”

“Then I’ll ask. Cal, think of his face when he hears you’re back in command again. He’ll get no joy of his doings then! I’ll be back.” He rose.

“Sir?”

“What?”

“How did you—who told you?” His father grimaced.

“Oh, that. Well, that scum sent them. With the badge off your cloak, incidentally. Good gold, that. It’s as well he did, Cal: he has nothing to do magicks with, except some blood, and you’ve spilled blood all over the south. Now rest, and I’ll see what the surgeons say.” His father left; Cal found himself smiling.

From the front room came a murmur of voices. The surgeons would have no chance, Cal realized. Soon enough they came trooping back in, along with his father, a Captain of Falk, and the Duke’s mage.

“I don’t care,” his father was saying, “which of you does what, or in what order—but I want him up this day.”

“But, my lord—”

“Impossible. If he—”

“I can’t be expected to—”

“Silence!” That roar was the Duke, just inside the chamber. “Aliam, my surgeons are at your command. My mage has some constraints I don’t understand—but, Master Vetrifuge, I expect you’ll do what you can. I do suggest, Aliam, that as he got no sleep last night, you might let him rest today.”