Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Alen frowned. ‘Do you think she heard us?’ he asked after she’d hurried back to the kitchen.

‘Of course she did.’ Hoyt, mimicking Milla, tipped his goblet to catch the last of his beer.

‘What do we do?’

‘We do nothing,’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

Later, in Alen’s room, Hoyt sat on the edge of Milia’s bed, watching as the girl twirled a finger at her stuffed dog. Bits of old straw spilled from seams in its neck, hips and stomach, making the animal look like a bag of hay that had been run over by a logger’s cart. Despite its fractures and dislocations, the toy jumped and danced, flipping over, sitting up, and occasionally extinguishing and relighting the candles on the room’s small table.

Hoyt said, ‘That’s quite a dog you have there, Pepperweed.’

Milla, showing off, made the stuffed animal execute a full flip with a twist. ‘I taught him all these tricks.’

‘I can see that, but you know, Pepperweed, you can’t have him doing those tricks outside this room.’

‘I know,’ Milla sighed. ‘But if I had a real puppy-’

Hoyt picked her up and tossed her backwards into the pillows; Milla shrieked, and her dog leaped all the way to the ceiling. ‘If you had a real puppy, you could teach him great tricks. I’m sure he would be the talk of the marketplace: Milla and her Wonderdog…’ Hoyt paused.

‘Resta!’ she giggled.

‘Milla and Resta the Wonderdog!’ Hoyt bowed in mock deference. ‘People would come from the corners of the known lands to watch as Resta did… what?’

‘Wrote his name.’

‘Wrote his name!’ Hoyt laughed.

‘And sang funny songs.’

‘And sang funny songs!’

‘But didn’t chase cats or bite or growl or anything mean like that.’

‘Of course not,’ Hoyt said, tucking Milla into her blankets and blowing out her bedside candle. ‘Maybe when we get to Falkan, we’ll go looking for Resta together.’

‘Mama says dogs cost too much.’

‘Well, you let Hoyt worry about that.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘You know, I like pepperweed with gansel eggs and baked potatoes.’

‘Good night, Hoyt.’

‘Good night, Pepperweed.’

Alen joined them, said good night, and brushed two fingers gently over the girl’s hairline. Milla’s eyes fluttered a moment; she sighed through her nose and fell asleep.

‘You going out tonight?’ Alen asked.

‘Just to the waterfront. I need to ask a few questions, do a bit of eavesdropping, find out about whatever’s heading south next.’

‘More bark?’

‘I hope so, but I don’t honestly care. We’ll hit whatever they’re shipping.’

Alen pulled a leather pouch from his tunic. ‘You need bribes?’

‘No. After my last visit to the southern highway, I’m a wealthy man.’

‘All right, but be discreet.’

‘Naturally.’ Hoyt checked his sleeve for the surgical scalpel he carried. It was tarnished now and had a few deep scratches along the blade, scars from their brief tenure in the Welstar Palace prison. Hoyt’s fingertips had healed but his nails would be Twinmoons growing back.

‘How do you want to hit them?’ Whilst he knew he was expected to bring Larion magic to bear against Prince Malagon’s wagon-trains, Alen wasn’t actually sure what a terrorist raid looked like.

‘I think fire is best,’ Hoyt said. ‘It creates confusion, disables wagons, terrifies the horses or oxen, and, if we’re lucky-’

‘Incinerates the enchanted bark,’ Alen said.

‘It doesn’t do onions, flour or greenroot a lot of good either.’ Hoyt was in his element. This was a measure of vengeance for Churn. ‘Can you conjure up a pretty resilient flame?’

‘I’m sure I can figure something that’ll impress them.’

‘It mustn’t be totally impervious to their efforts; I don’t want them to realise they’re up against Larion sorcery.’

‘Right. They’ll triple the guard if they think we have magic.’

‘Or use the river as their only supply line.’ Hoyt tucked Milla’s stuffed dog into bed beside her. ‘We can’t attack one of those barges, not by ourselves.’

‘So, fire then.’

‘Fire.’

‘Good luck tonight.’

‘I’ll update you over breakfast.’ Hoyt left, quietly moving down the back stairs.

Alen sat on the edge of his own bed, watching Milla’s tiny chest rise and fall. She clutched the stuffed dog, silent now, protectively under one arm, giving the animal some much needed rest before its morning caelisthenics.

This is why I’m here, Alen reminded himself. Beset by the lassitude of so many Twinmoons hiding in Middle Fork, he hoped the feelings of hopelessness would rub off before Fantus arrived. It had been easy to marshal his enthusiasm for an assault on Welstar Palace: rage was an ardent motivator, and suicide had an endpoint, a built-in expiration. He hadn’t had to keep up his anger for very long.

This was different. Caring for a child prodigy was not what he expected to be doing a Twinmoon after leaving Middle Fork. Were he and Fantus to succeed, Milla would be one of the most powerful sorcerers in a new generation of Larion Senators. It would rest with him to see her safely home, and then through her training.

And what about you, Fantus? Alen thought. Are you well rested? Ready to be burdened with these responsibilities again? And why are you bringing the key and the table to Malakasia? Do you not know how dangerous that is?

Alen wanted a drink, perhaps a whole bucket of drinks.

‘Not tonight,’ he muttered to the window. He watched for some sign of Hoyt in the shadows but knew he wouldn’t find anything. ‘Not tonight, and perhaps not for a long time.’

He sat back on his mattress and watched Milla sleep. ‘I do have hope, though,’ he whispered to the sleeping girl. ‘I suppose that counts for something. Although sometimes I fear that all I have is hope.’

Alen waved the tapers dark and fell into his pillows. Drifting off, he thought, Nothing but hope.

‘So what’s the name of this river, anyway?’ Steven asked anyone who might know. Unlike the others, he couldn’t rest. Knowing Hannah was alive, safe and waiting for him in Pellia had Steven pacing the deck like a nervous prom date. The old wooden barge, as big as a floating parking lot, crawled towards Orindale, not covering much more than a few knots an hour. But even if it had been racing, it couldn’t move fast enough for Steven.

Gilmour sat with his back braced against the starboard gunwale; he was still tired from his attempt to contact Kantu and his longdistance conversation with the child prodigy Milla. He wondered where Kantu had discovered her – Welstar Palace, perhaps. He opened his eyes long enough to tell Steven, ‘This is the Medera River, at least north of the foothills and west of Wellham Ridge. Up in Meyers’ Vale and beyond, I’m not sure it has a name.’

‘Medera,’ Kellin said. ‘Wasn’t she Prince Draven’s mother?’ Brand Krug had ridden north for Traver’s Notch; Kellin elected to remain behind, ostensibly to offer what meagre protection she could to the sorcerers.

‘Grandmother,’ Gilmour corrected, opening his eyes now. ‘Medera was Remond and Ravena’s youngest, their only daughter. Markon and Glasson were her older brothers.’

‘Our Markon, the one from Riverend?’ Steven asked.

‘No, Markon I, his grandfather, Remond’s oldest son. He lived at Riverend Palace, ruling Eldarn when King Remond died. Glasson and Medera lived in Orindale when they were old enough to take up the reins of leadership, but it didn’t last.’

‘What happened?’ Steven asked.

Garec said, ‘I know this one. They had a war, a bloody mess. It started in the Eastlands but then spilled over into Praga and Malakasia. Right?’