Three Coins for Confession (12 page)

Rhuddry split a blood orange with care. Her fingers were long,
her complexion pale in the manner of Holc and the mountain folk of Aerach and
Brandishear. “I have heard from Milyan, though his volume makes his conclusions
a challenge to follow. Moreover, he has little to say on events in the field,
given his presence three leagues away from the field. Ranking Guard Umeni has
also made his report…”

“And Umeni was also not there, lord. I was. I caught Sergeant
Thelaur as she fell. As noted.”

He stepped forward, nodded again as he set his written report
down before the captain. She glanced at it but made no effort to scan it.

“Umeni wants your head, soldier. And all I’ve been able to think
of since yesterday dusk is whether my life would become simpler if I handed it
to him.”

“I have no doubt that it would, lord. But to make it easier on
all of us, and to spare you the embarrassment of later admonishing Umeni for
his incompetence, this was a targeted raid. Seek the report of Guard Second
Rank Makaysa.”

“I have. It was less earnest in its conclusions than you seem to
be.”

“I urge you only to look to it for support of my conclusions.
First squad was targeted with a ride-by ambush, designed to draw second squad…”

“Is there anything else?”

Chriani did his reluctant best to square his shoulders. As he
did, he realized that when he slipped his spare jacket on to avoid the new
stains on the first, he had forgotten how long it had been since the spare had
been cleaned. He saw Rhuddry grimace as she looked from him to her food.

“I request furlough to Rheran, effective immediately.”

A slice of orange slowed halfway to the captain’s mouth, but it
found its way in the end. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Am I to assume
this is proof against Umeni finally taking the revenge you deserve? Or are
there other factors at play in this asinine request?”

“Any ranger who suffers injury in the course of field duty that
requires the magic of the healers may request detached duty,” Chriani said
simply. “According to the regulations of the prince’s guard, as I recall them.”

“Chriani, wiping your ass in the field is the only use you’ll
ever have for any copy of the regulations of the prince’s guard.”

“Perhaps that’s where I read the regulation in question, lord.
Magus Milyan can confirm my injuries, and the healing administered by…”

“Spare me, please.” Rhuddry spread honey to bread with a knife
far too sharp for that task. The muscles on her arms stood out as she watched
Chriani, as if she might be thinking of other uses for the blade. “Your
escapade with Milyan last night has already been brought to my attention, even
as he insists I appoint you squad leader. Something about leading a force of
war-mages into the deep wood.”

“Magus Milyan can use Makaysa or any of her squad to lead him to
the trail he needs to find.”

“Thank you for that, master Chriani. Your tactical advice means
the world to me. Milyan also recommends I have you subjected to divination,
with your will or against it, to determine why exactly the Ilvani would make
what he describes as a significant investment in arcane resources to locate and
claim you on the battlefield.”

Chriani made no reaction, but the fingers of his left hand
squeezed shut to still a moment of trembling.

“My own opinion,” Rhuddry continued, “is that I trust Milyan’s
divination slightly less than I trust my horse to sing. And that the Ilvani’s
urge to target you with any weapon can be easily explained by them having met
you.”

A bell sounded in the distance, calling the morning mess. An
unfamiliar ache was twisting through Chriani’s newly healed shoulder as a
result of his standing at attention. The magic of healing did that sometimes,
he had found. As if even while it knit torn tissue, it drew from some greater
reserve of strength to leave a weakness in its wake.

Rhuddry popped a slice of beef into her mouth, thoughtful.
“Master Chriani, it occurs to me that since you joined my company, you spend
half your time attempting to prove you can take on responsibility you haven’t
earned. And the other half of your time acting as though any responsibility is
too much for you.”

Chriani said nothing. Simply waited, understanding the importance
of that.

Rhuddry took a long drink from her wine mug before setting it
down. “Furlough denied,” she said with a thin smile. But before Chriani could
react, she spoke again. “Instead, I’m placing you on courier detail to the
Bastion. You’ll start by taking the report Milyan is to have prepared this
morning. His thoughts on the Valnirata’s magic will keep Chanist’s mages
entertained through the High Winter, no doubt.”

Chriani nodded. “Thank you, lord.”

“Thank me by leaving your adjutant here. She’s worth at least
three of you.”

“And two more for her horse,” Chriani said. Before the captain
could question his response, he added, “Forgive my humor, lord. Kathlan will
accompany me, but we will return as quickly…”

Rhuddry interrupted him with laughter, in a way that set Chriani
on edge. “You have absolutely no idea why I would deny you furlough but send
you to Rheran just the same. Do you, soldier?”

“Because you enjoy every captain’s love of doing the things
others ask of you, but in a way that makes it seem like you ordered it, lord?”

Chriani enjoyed the moment it took for Rhuddry’s surprise to
shift to anger. Only a moment.

“Because on courier detail, you’ll spend the rest of your
assignment with the rangers on the trade roads and out of my sight.” Rhuddry
drained her mug. “I don’t want you back in my camp or my command, master
Chriani. You are dismissed.”

He stood there silent, just long enough to make her
uncomfortable — partly for the sake of doing so, and partly because
the anger that rose in his heart, in his throat made him very aware of how
important it was that he not speak.

Making a captain uncomfortable was one small thing he could do,
Chriani realized. One small thing he had done, and which had just gotten him
exiled from the rangers as a result. He felt the blood hot at the back of his
neck as he turned from her, his hand trembling again as he walked away.

When he made a stop at the war-mages’ pavilion, he found Derrach
working, even as Milyan was apparently off seeking an audience with Makaysa.
The overstuffed satchel that contained the magus’s reports for the Bastion was
waiting, though, as were the orders to deliver them. A glowing rune set into
the satchel’s clasp guaranteed that Chriani had no thought of opening it. He
had the acolyte wrap the case in oilcloth before he would even touch it.

“You owe me healing,” he said evenly as he checked the wrappings,
making the moonsign because it seemed warranted for once.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the acolyte
said.

“What I’m talking about is I counted what you left in my purse
last night.”

“I can’t…” Derrach said.

“I’m being reassigned. Sent back to the Bastion.” Chriani felt
nothing in saying it, knowing that word of his effective demotion would be
spread across all corners of the camp by day’s end. “It’d be a shame if word of
your private sales got out some short time after I was too far away to be
connected to them.”

Derrach’s expression was dark as she fished once more in the
voluminous pockets of her robes. She pulled out the same jar Chriani had seen
the previous night. Black glass sealed in wax and paper, reset now with a wire
ring, tightly wound.

“No draughts,” she said, “but this will do you. Heal your wounds,
proof against poison. One fingerful. Probably two doses left after last night,
but I can tell Milyan I used it all on you. Take it and go.”

Chriani nodded thanks as he slipped the salve to an inside pocket
of his jacket. He took the satchel, held it more carefully. “What’s in here,
anyway? What’s Milyan sending to the Bastion for?”

“How would I know?” Derrach asked indignantly. She tossed her
head to sweep her black hair back as she turned away. Then she turned back a
moment later to see Chriani still waiting. He had scooped a handful of Ilvani
blood gold from his purse, tossed one to her.

Derrach sighed in ill-concealed spite, though she caught the
coin. “He’s sending for more resources. Reporting what he’s learned from the
weapons taken from the Ilvani. Screaming about how you and the others failed to
return those coins you saw.”

“And what are they?”

“He has no idea, even after a night awake with his oldest
histories. Hence his interest in being the one to find out.”

“What else?”

“That’s all, and a fair sight more than you have any business
knowing.”

Chriani tossed a second coin to Derrach. She scowled. “Military
intelligence, or so Milyan deems it. He claims that his divinations can read
the origins of the Valnirata weapons, and not just those taken on your raid. He
calls them dweomercraft of the north. Says the Ilvani of Calalerean are using
magic of Crithnalerean. New alliances, or so he reads it.”

The politics of the Ilvani was complex and unclear, and a thing
Chriani had always been happy to know as little about as possible. Calalerean
was the northwest corner of the Greatwood that bordered Brandishear, and one of
the provinces of the Valnirata lands. Crithnalerean was the Ilvani exile lands,
north of the Greatwood and marking the expanse of the Clearwater
Way — the path Chriani had taken a year and a half before. The exile
lands bordered Calalerean and Laneldenar adjacent to it, along the frontier of
Aerach to the east. That part of the Valnirata that bordered the Duchy of
Teillai, where Lauresa had been delivered to her new life.

“Anything in Milyan’s notes about me and divination?”

Derrach snatched a third coin from the air without looking. Her
expression showed what Chriani took to be a thankfully honest puzzlement. “Not
that I saw. Are you taking a sudden and unexpected interest in your future,
soldier?”

Chriani smiled as he turned to go, was almost through the tent’s
door flap with the wrapped satchel before he turned back again.

“The drawing,” he said, remembering. “In the book Milyan looked
at. Crows against dead trees. What was that?”

Derrach was at the table, her long hair framing her face as she
hunched over a carefully arrayed selection of scrolls. Her eyes narrowed as if
she was suddenly wary of Chriani’s powers of observation. “Field notes,” she
said. “From one of the Imperial surveys. Assessments made of old magic of the
Ilvani.”

“You speak the old Ilvani? The tongues the Valnirata use?”

“Of course.” Derrach’s tone gave the impression that she might
have been hurt by Chriani’s lack of insight.

He tossed a fourth coin to the table, watched it roll off and to
the floor. With a flick of her fingers, Derrach had shifted it somehow to her
hand. She smiled as Chriani made the moonsign.

“Lóech arnala irch niir. Lóech niir.” He spoke the words from
memory, tried to shape the accent properly.

“
Three coins for the truth of revelation,
” Derrach said. “
Reveal
your truth.
Or perhaps
Three coins for the truth of confession
would
be better. It’s from an old word,
lóecharinna
. A revelation of personal
faith.” Her eyes narrowed again. “How do you know this?”

“The Ilvani we pursued into the Greatwood were saying it,”
Chriani said. Not entirely a lie. “Tell Milyan I remembered it. Figure out what
it means yourself and impress him. Help take his mind off you stealing from his
stores.”

Chriani nodded a farewell in response to Derrach’s dark look. But
he was thoughtful as he walked away.

When he found Kathlan at the stables, she had packed food for a
good day or two. No need to sit mess, which suited Chriani fine. If she
wondered at his silence as they made their way out of the camp, she didn’t ask
about it. If she had any guess as to why he chose the quickest trail, wanting
to minimize the number of people who would see them go, she didn’t voice it.

They headed south and around the perimeter, circling the camp at
a distance before returning to the track that would take them to the
well-guarded ford on the Locanwater, then to Alaniver and the trade road north.
Two couriers passed them along that west-leading track at a fast canter. The
morning patrols were heading out as well, but bending off to the east, toward
the distant forest.

Once they had slipped beyond the camp, it didn’t take long to
lose all sight of it within the rolling swells of scrub grass. The only sign of
its four thousand soldiers was the faint traces of smoke from the kitchens and
the captain’s pavilion. Rhuddry was probably still finishing her breakfast,
Chriani thought.

The day was bright around them, with blue sky and scudding cloud
blowing east. The morning sun held the dark stain of the forest wall along the
eastern horizon behind them. That shadow didn’t fully fade against the pale
hills until they had made the road, the sun just past its height. Through a
spread of tilled fields and pasture, they pushed east and north alongside wains
and farm traffic.

Only then did Kathlan speak. “You’ll tell me what this is about
when you can.” Not a question.

“Of course,” Chriani said. He saw her nod like that was enough.

The road from Alaniver to Rheran was a week of riding with good
weather and long days, but even with the need to deliver Milyan’s satchel in a
timely fashion, Chriani found himself in no particular hurry. In Kathlan,
Chriani could feel the same excitement she had exhibited on their initial journey
south to the ranger camp, the same sense of wonder as when they had ridden the
patrol roads around Rheran when her leg was first healed. To one who’d spent a
lifetime dreaming of riding, every day on horseback carried a sense of
contentment that Chriani knew was beyond him. He drew on Kathlan’s contentment,
though, especially as the journey wore on and all he felt by the end of most
days was sore.