InsaneJournal

the yard (vera, eithne, sleeping tiger)
Cobbled stone clicked beneath his feet as he moved. The streets were not as narrow as they could have been, he supposed, but Montfort Tavern seemed smaller than it ever had. One of those iron fire pits had been moved from the watch towers to the street below. There were several civilians huddled around it. Their palms were open and extended, facing the flame, and a single Rider kept a watchful eye on them. "Spring" was a phrase that meant nothing at times, especially this early in the year, and the cold could still make every joint in a man's body ache with memories of sweltering heat. That was likely to start fights among men who thought they were going to die. Eragos had broken up four such fights himself, and he'd been here for only three baleful stares of the sun. His hood sat high on his head, and he stared at nothing and everything while he moved.

If these times were normal, he would have listened to Montfort's son sing a song about the sexual perversion of Sadon and tried to prevent any of the older Riders from breaking the young man's head. The fool had never even met Sadon, only heard tales of the man from his father. Eragos had caught a glimpse of the old and infirm Sadon, who'd joined Mearann and Agrippa for some sort of procession of Captains, but that had been long ago. Sadon's stories were racing into legend by that time. Hell, half of Mearann's wilder tales had been considered outrageous lies. Eragos had only realized the difference by watching Vargis carefully. The old Rider would nod soberly when Mearann remembered something incorrectly, and his face would freeze when Mearann accurately recalled an indiscretion. No one remembered why Sadon and Montfort had hated each other, though there were a thousand stories. In any case, breaking the head of Montfort's son was something of a cherished pastime. Like besting Cistal at horseshoes, if you could manage it. A story to laugh about later.

Nobody was laughing, now.

Montfort's son was outside the tavern. His half-lidded eyes were not drunk - not any longer - and he was lord now, of a cook fire much smaller than the iron pit. Ladling stew into the wooden bowls of hungry men and women did not suit him. Eragos did not know what Montfort had said, but the young man ladled from sunup to sundown and sometimes later. For his part Montfort's tavern had become a hub of food distribution and warmth. Men fought over the fire. Yet no one troubled the bread and stew and dried corn that Montfort distributed from his tavern. The old Rider had been and would continue to be a drunk. He still made eyes at women a quarter of his age, but he'd shot a man dead in his tavern for wresting a nub of bread from another. No one doubted him when he said he'd do it again. The Rider outside of the tavern nodded in passing to Eragos. Eragos returned the nod. Another young fool wearing that blue scarf, looped twice over his belt and hanging at his hip, as though it were appropriate or reasonable.

"You might want to know," the fellow tugged at his scarf; he seemed not to know that he was doing so. "I saw Teacher Hasna and hers tearing off for the yard."

"A meeting?" Eragos folded his arms against his chest when he came to a stop.

"I would guess," and now the Rider glanced in the direction she'd gone. "The way she was shrieking at those recruits I'd think she was a hawk and them the field mice."

"Well, she's Teacher for some reason or another," Eragos answered with a laugh.

"Chilling, that sound," the young man did not laugh. "Nearly froze my testicles off. Uh, I mean-"

"Carry on," Eragos started out walking.

The street grew wider as you approached the stairs. Looming above it was the first great wall, a partition built firmly in the guts of the Castel, and meant to separate the more secure upper levels from the readily accessible first tier. It was rare to find the gate of the first tier closed or the towers fully manned, as they were now. It was less rare to find a single White Rider standing post by the gate of the second tier. In this case it was open - but only because so many were taking their rest in the barracks before returning to their posts. Opposite the White Rider - whose name was Aimal, if he remembered her - was a man in black. Armor covered strategic sections of his body. Despite the youth of his face, his eyes were hard as a stone hammer, and they seemed to watch everything and nothing at the same time. Currently he was throwing dice with a boy of about twelve, laughing every time the boy beat his roll. In the offing were dates, a basket of them from all appearances, and as the boy toddled off with his arms full Sleeping Tiger hurled the last into his mouth.

Stories were already spreading about the fellow from the east who had a strange face and a strange accent. Sleeping Tiger seemed to spend all of his time finding assassins and agents that had gained entrance to the Castel as supplicants and refugees from the violence in the city. In three days' time he'd caught four, all of whom had resisted. He was a famously bad gambler when he played children for fruit, but somewhat more adept when he played men for money. Since the first night he'd done a tremendous amount of the former and a very small amount of the latter. He'd turned down three offers of membership in the White Riders, one for each day they'd been here, and no one save Eragos knew why. He thought Sleeping Tiger would have been perfectly pleased with a life here. He would not put off the uniform of his people until the traitors walked their last mile. It was a difficult thing to explain, that rage, when it gave no sign of its presence outside of battle. Eragos tried not to hold it against him, but remembered all the same that Sleeping Tiger had gone off on his own when it suited him.

How trustworthy could he be, in defense of the Castel, when he held himself apart so expertly?

Those questions would be hanging in the back of everyone's mind, for the duration of this madness. Yet they were all of them wondering if they were walking their own last mile. If there were any chance they could all of them escape the hangman's noose, they would take it, and once they reached the woods they would ask about loyalty and fealty. It wasn't important before then. Sleeping Tiger fell into step with Eragos as though he'd been waiting for the older man the entire time. They did not say anything. As before, the fact that both of them were alive was enough of a pleasantry to get them through the first part of the day. Hasna must have gone this way - the crowd was still watching after the direction in which she'd disappeared. Passing through the gate and into the second tier gave a remarkably different tenor to the situation. There were more civilians here, many more than outside of Montfort's, and most of them were bedraggled. The fortress held, but there were too many normal citizens and not enough baths.

Cots were at a premium. Cots that could ruin your spine and give you a lifetime of aches.

Those sloping white walls towered over them as they moved. It was difficult to miss the yard, which was also the place where most of the strategic discussions were taking place in recent days. Agrippa and the Teachers held court here. The audience was, in the main, White Riders. There was little participation from those Riders, unless they were giving information on strength and position of enemies or reporting anecdotal encounters. Despite the seeming ad hoc nature of the proceedings, Agrippa still managed to run a tight ship, and this meeting seemed to be no different. Eragos knew many of the Teachers who had assembled in the yard. There was Vargis with his half-mask and his uniform. There was Hasna, herding a group of walkers into the crowd at large. Doret was there, towering over the rest, the original big man who'd been strangled by three separate men in one night and lived to tell the tale. No one doubted it, with that livid red scar around his neck, though it was just as likely he'd survived a hanging.

The Teacher had never said. Just laughed when someone asked.

Eragos was more interested in the pair who stood before Captain Agrippa. There they were, as large as life. Eithne and the Lady Vera. So they'd argued, and then followed right after? None of them had expected to find Simanel in this condition. His first sensation, as he jostled through the crowd, was one of relief. They were alive. They were well. And if his heart recalled the boiling of his blood at being called the most cavalier of commanders, his heart also recalled... a great many other things. He thought, second, of a conversation he'd had with Vargis. The old man had been both hushed and hurried as he related the content of his discussion with Captain Agrippa. It was probably a mistake to allow Eithne to return. Who knew, at this moment, if she would answer for what she'd done. But any Riders who managed to come through Simanel and reach the Castel were called before the Captain for report. Eragos had endured that righteous gaze upon his return.

Eithne had done precisely what Vargis had described. He could only curse the man's indiscretion in confessing that to Agrippa. It was the proper thing, but as time passed and blood flowed through his fingers, Eragos found he was less and less concerned with the proper thing. It was not right. Yet he was living by a code that had long since expired. No one honored the old ways. No. He was thinking it only because there was still a great chasm in his chest where Eithne was concerned. He fell into it whenever he caught a glimpse of her. He felt lost as he plummeted down, confused, grasping for anything that might save him. And he finally struck the ground only when she was gone again. It should not have been so, but it was, and there was nothing for it. He'd betrayed his code once. He could not do so again. Which meant he would stand by while judgment was passed on her. If the fire in Agrippa's eyes was any indication, it would be both swift and merciless.