Miche would have sworn he’d been gone two years rather than two months.
Seated atop a placid bay horse named Brambles, he and Remin kept pace with one of the carriages he had stolen from Aldeburke, an open-topped buggy that Adelan Cruce was managing capably. Miche could tell at a glance that Remin would’ve been happier seated inside, ideally with his body between Ophele and Azelma, as if the old lady might at any moment go for her throat.
Ophele looked decidedly better, dressed in a rich blue brocade with jewels on the bodice and fur on the sleeves, a style that he didn’t recognize. Far more important than splendid clothing or the elegant coif of her hair, she lookedhappy,and quite a bit rounder in the cheek and chin than she’d been when he left.
Remin, however, was a bit worse, to Miche’s experienced eye. Hollow in the eyes and very, very worried, though that only showed in the sharp cut of his jaw, clenched taut with tension.
After weeks in the saddle, Miche would have liked nothing so much as a bath and a stationary chair, but as the wagon trundled up the hillside from the harbor, he drew Brambles alongside Ophele.
“You’ve been busy in town, I see,” he said, nodding in the direction of the market, which had been a large stone rectangle when he left.
“Oh, would you like to see?” Ophele lit up, looking between him and Azelma. “Unless you’re too tired…”
“Not a bit, Your Highness. Why, it’s quite built up, isn’t it?” asked the old lady, craning her neck to look over the carriage horses toward town, where smoke was rising from many chimneys.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Miche drawled, before Remin could refuse.
“So many people have come since you’ve been away, the public house is open now and Master Tiffen arrived last week, he’s the tailor, he made this dress, Azelma, isn’t it lovely? And that’s Master Peltier ahead, he’s the potter, he has his sash from the Court of Artisans. Good morning, Master Peltier!” Ophele called, hailing this stoop-shouldered gentleman, whose donkey was hauling a wagonload of white Brede clay.
“Morning, my lady! Your Grace,” he called back, doffing his cap. He had an impressive set of eyebrows.
She was shouting. She waschatting.Miche exchanged a startled glance with Azelma and sat back on Brambles, wondering if the world could contain any further wonders.
There were many, even in so short a time. After seven years of war camps, it was bizarre to see so many women about, but the market square was full of them, fetching water from thehuge fountain, going in and out of their houses as they did their morning chores. And there were actualchildrentoo, a half dozen racing around and shrieking as they pelted each other with slush. The sun was melting the patchy remains of snow.
“…and we’ve a baker now, too, which is good or the Tregues would be run off their feet, feeding everyone,” Ophele went on, pointing out one of the many signs that identified each establishment. The folk of Tresingale were skipping the village stage of development altogether; the main street might have been lifted straight out of Segoile, with Noreveni glass covering the display windows of Guian’s General Goods and what must be the cobbler’s shop.
“How fine it all looks,” marveled Azelma. “I am glad of it, you know all we heard about the Andelin was about those terrible devil creatures. But I see His Grace has matters well in hand.”
“Everyone worked hard this year,” Remin said stiffly.
“He’s not exaggerating, Mistress Bessin,” Miche said, smiling. “Had me digging ditches all summer, I still dream of my shovel. How are the walls coming along, my lord?”
“Done,” Remin said, brightening a little, and they caught a glimpse of them as they reached the east road, a line of white to the east, looming nearer as they headed toward the North Gate.
“The people from Meinhem are mostly there,” Ophele explained. “Oh, and that’s Amalie and her brother! Amalie! Don’t you look well! They’re from Nandre,” she added with an eloquent flick of her eyes to Miche. Azelma would not understand what this meant, but Miche had been there during the planning to rescue what remained of Remin’s villagers.
“Only the girl and her brother survived,” Remin said, low. “Rollon took a dozen men to fetch them back. All dead, as far as we know. Huber went to Selgin and Isigne, but no sign of him yet.”
“That’s a long road,” Miche replied, with a lift of his eyebrows and a mental note to come back to this subject later.
It was like that all the way to the manor, a mixture of joy and a sprinkling of sorrow as Ophele talked of everything that had happened while he was away and showed Azelma her new home. With the work on the walls completed, all those laborers had turned to other work, but there was one faithful beast who would labor no more.
“You named it Eugene Street?” Miche barked out a laugh, and had to restrain himself for reaching for Ophele’s hand. There were tears in her eyes for her little donkey. “Well, I’m sorry it’s a memorial, my lady, but I approve. A far nobler name than Harnost Highway, I say.”
“It’s for all the beasts that helped build Tresingale,” Ophele explained, with a look at Remin that made even his grim face soften.
The manor was yet another marvel, looming on the hilltop and visible through the bare trees at a long distance. Though Miche had lingered long enough to see most of the walls rise, it was still amazing to draw up in a flagged courtyard, with those beastly wolf demon statues snarling from their pedestals on either side of the steps. The windows on the first floor were open to let in the chilly air, and Miche craned his neck to see the slate tiles going down on the roof, four stories above.
“You know when to turn up,” Remin said, with his first hint of humor. “We just moved your things up to the manor last week. It’ll be some weeks before the west wing’s done, but Juste already ordered things for your chambers. I expect Sousten will be hunting you down as soon as he hears you’re back.”
“Good. I haven’t had a chair with a cushion in ten years,” Miche replied, though even as he dismounted, his eyes drifted automatically to the women visible in the doors of the house: two maids in dark, tidy dresses, and a third woman that couldonly be Lady Mionet Verr, elegantly upright with very straight, slender shoulders.
As if she sensed eyes upon her, she glanced back at him, and he could almostseethe prickles. Miche turned away, laughing. Nowthatwas a properly thorny Rose. But tempting as it was to tease, he didn’t mean to make trouble for Rem and Ophele in their home, when it was so hard to get help in the first place. Miche handed Brambles off to a boy in footman’s kit and strode forward as Juste appeared around the corner, taking off his spectacles and sliding them into a pocket.
“Juste,” he said, clasping the other man’s hand tightly. “Everyone’s still alive, I hope? No sign of Edemir in town, and I expected him to turn up early and loud.”
“Edemir is on his way to the capital,” Juste replied, with a faint smile and a meaningful glance.
