“What? Eh? Ah. Liath.”
“No need to rise. I’m just going out to walk.”
Hathui groaned, pressing the heel of a hand to her forehead. “You’ve the head for it. Mine aches.”
“As it will, if you drink so much,” said Liath with a laugh.
Hathui burped. “Ai, truly, it was a good feast.”
“Well deserved,” said Liath, sidling on, wanting solitude. “Princess Theophanu will rule Saony wisely and well.”
Which was true, and scarcely needed to be said. Still, Theophanu was a puzzle to her. She respected Theophanu but felt no warmth and no camaraderie. Theophanu was nothing like Waltharia. She smiled a little, thinking of the margrave. Maybe a friend. Certainly an ally.
She was careful not to wake the other stewards and servants, rafts of them, it always appeared to her, floating on their pallets that, when the day properly began, would be stored out of the way together with the bedding. Yet half of them were already waking, stretching, rising. Nodding at her with murmured respectful greetings. She could never interpret their expressions in any way that satisfied her that she understood what they were thinking. She had not half the skill that Sanglant did. It always seemed to her that he could judge mood and tone to a nicety. She reached the outer door to find a pair of drowsy whippets huddled at the feet of a snoring servant. They sensed her coming and, whining, ears flat, slunk out of her way. She let herself out and hurried through the barracks room, lined with sleeping soldiers bivouacked along both walls. This room opened onto a landing, crowded with dozing men. Even on the stairs folk slept but so uncomfortably that she wondered they could sleep at all. So many retainers were crammed into Osterburg’s ducal palace that it was only outdoors one could smell anything but the stink of unwashed bodies. When she emerged into the central courtyard of the square palace tower, she found folk stretched out on the raised and covered walkways that linked the old two-storied tower to the newer one-story wing. They huddled under eaves and under wagons, anywhere they might keep dry or off the ground. Her feet crushed the skin of ice that made the ground glitter. She slipped out through the inner gateway. Guards stared at her and backed up a step. Belatedly, they dipped their heads and said anxiously, “my lady.”
In the outer courtyard, surrounded by the hilltop palisade, servants gathered by the well to draw up water and gossip about last night’s feasting. Smoke steamed out of the kitchen. A score of soldiers were marching out of the main gate, heading down into town, but they did not call or speak or sing. Only the tramp of their feet gave them away. She found one of the narrow stairs set into the wall alongside the oldest tower, a stone donjon built a hundred years before by Saony’s first duke. Here, by tradition, the duke lived when she wasn’t traveling her domain. Theophanu’s soldiers stood on guard, but they let her pass. She walked out along the palisade walk to one of the corner brace-ways. Mounting a ladder, she got up to a sentry post, planks built out over the wall.
Someone was here before her, a slight figure leaning on the rail and staring east toward distant hills and endless forest.
“Lady Theucinda.”
The girl had not even heard her coming. She yelped, jerked, and flushed, turning to see her, but recovered quickly. “My lady Liathano. Did you come looking for me?”
“No. I came to admire the view.”
The view was remarkable. The town opened like a skirt around the palace hill. The river flowed in a broad bend, fading into the hazy distance south and north. Farmers were already moving beyond the town wall, pushing carts filled with night soil and herding livestock out to field and pasture. The bell rang at the modest cathedral, which had been built in the new part of town about thirty years ago in the days of the younger Arnulf.
Theucinda seemed inclined to remain silent, so Liath leaned on the railing and watched as the day unveiled. The clouds seemed lighter today, but the sun did not break through. It was still ungodly cold although last night they had celebrated the Feast of St. Sormas, which marked the thirteenth day of the month of Avril, about six weeks after the spring equinox. In Heart’s Rest, folk usually planted at the end of the month of Yanu or, in a particularly cold year, at the very beginning of Avril. Osterburg lay many days’ journey south of Heart’s Rest. Seen at this distance, the wide forest remained bare. Only the evergreens showed signs of life.
“Liath?”
She turned. A redheaded man stepped off the ladder, staring at her in surprise. He wore a Lion’s tabard, much mended, and the insignia of a captain.
“Captain Thiadbold!” She grinned, delighted to see him. “How come you here?”
