Free Cordimancy by Daniel Hardman Page B

be consumed with caring for an ailing father-in-law while her husband spent his days attending to clan business or fighting battles on the border. Three months from now, she might be morning sick. Besides, for all she knew, Toril would be as controlling of her travels as Father had been of Mam’s. She wasn’t in a position to make plans right now.
    “When could you visit?” Tupa asked, a note of hope creeping into her voice.
    “The truth is, I’m not sure,” Malena admitted. “How about I contact you by Voice in a few weeks, and we can talk about what would be practical?”
    Tupa’s expression slumped.
    Malena kissed the top of her sister’s head. “I know that’s not much of a promise. But it’s the best I can do right now. I promise we’ll talk.”
    “Soon?” Tupa asked.

 
    7
    war council ~ Toril
    When Toril reached the Royal Guard’s headquarters in Bakar, he saw that he was interrupting. He’d ridden hard and arrived at the appointed time, despite his encounter at the pass. He felt his face flush. Why had they started without him?
    A dozen men crowded around the table, with the shimsal presiding as Gorumim’s stand-in at the head. She wore the traditional robes, and her head was shaved in accordance with her unique function.
    Shimsals were particularly gifted Voices, capable of non-stop proxying rather than just periodic messages. Sometimes they could even relay visual impressions in addition to what they heard. They worked in pairs—one at either end of a connection—and usually the pairs were twins, for maximum congruence.
    All Voices knew enough secrets to be dangerous, though they took stringent vows of discretion. But as representatives of the most wealthy and powerful, shimsals got extra respect; they relayed attitude to their clients, not just words.
    “Where is Hasha?” the shimsal demanded, speaking in a low parody of the words Gorumim was no doubt uttering far away. “A lieutenant has no standing here.”
    “I am Toril ur Hasha, chief of Kelun Clan, my Lord,” Toril responded, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact. He held out the staff he was carrying so it could be seen clearly.
    The shimsal’s face blanked as she concentrated on relaying what she saw, but the men around the table stirred in surprise. “He had no right to appoint you!” one exclaimed.
    “I was not appointed,” Toril said. “I took the staff by challenge.”
    A long pause followed as this news sank in.
    “Hasha was clan chief when I reached him last night,” the shimsal snapped, rejoining the conversation. “What nonsense is this about succession? Have you killed your own father, boy?”
    Toril gritted his teeth. He was no “boy,” and internal clan business required no justification to outsiders. But Malena and his father had both urged restraint...
     
    “ The hakufu won’t go home like the treaty requires. They say there’s no food, after the disastrous weather in their homeland. They’re planning to spend the winter rains here,” one man said. “They’ve built tent villages on the outskirts of some of our towns, and it’s making my people nervous. Women don’t want to travel the road if they’re going to be surrounded by yolk suckers. Even some of the merchants are reluctant to approach with their caravans.”
    That claim seemed a little far-fetched to Toril. “We have not seen much difference,” he observed.
    “You wouldn’t. The half lives are more interested in lowland crops and game than timber and copper mines. They feed off our bounty while they work in our fields. You have less that’s edible.”
    A ripple of snide laughter ran around the table. Toril knew that the speaker was a poor manager of his farmland, burdened with debt and chronically irresponsible—but he settled for a mild blink instead of the comeback that leapt to his tongue.
    The shimsal cleared her throat. “Enough talk.” she said. “I have kept the peace at the border since your great grandfathers were babes.