Lora of Two Worlds

Lora was finally kicked out of the study. What had happened to House Odenheim in history, the records didn't say. But the constant military mutinies, marcher lords deposed and killed by their own guards, those she knew. Her mother had written a paper on the collapse of moral order in the late Empire. Conclusion: sons killing fathers, ministers killing kings, it all started with the marcher lords. Her brothers were still in the study, planning the "escort." Lora walked to the rear courtyard, deep in thought. The sibling swans saw her coming and flapped their wings, ready to flee. After two steps, seeing she wasn't chasing, they stopped, vaguely disappointed. "Let me think... 831... what did the Yorvik marcher duke do that year? The chart Mom made... Damn it, you gave me a Rose Needle, why not a memory drive?" She thumped her own head in frustration. To her surprise, the Rose Needle on her finger acted on its own, pricked her scalp twice. And her mother's "Chart of Marcher Dukes Who Came to Bad Ends" flashed into her mind, vivid as a painting. This... this works too? The Needle had hit the crown point and the cluster of points at the crown points, the two classic memory-enhancement points. If she'd known this earlier, she'd have pricked herself silly and gotten into a top university. Lora found the Yorvik column. The current duke had ousted his predecessor this year. He had two years left before someone killed him. The eerie part: the duke had another rebellion this year... What did that mean? He'd already won, why rebel again? How was she supposed to warn her brothers? "My lady... why are you sitting here?" Norton had come to find her, she'd been gone a while. Lora blinked. She was sitting on a stone bench under a tree. No memory of sitting down. "Nothing, just enjoying the view. Hey, Norton, where are you going with that bundle?" Norton smiled, a boyish flush on his face, working hard to say smoothly: "Norton... came to say goodbye... going to the barracks today." "Oh! Right, Gareth mentioned it. You're starting early to get used to it. Camp is tough, but once you've got real skills, you'll be worth more than a house servant. If anyone laughs at you, don't flinch. The one who laughs last wins." Lora's inner mother hen took over. "Mm!" Norton nodded hard. From his bundle, he pulled out a new hand-bow: "Guardian... modified it for you... spring trigger... changed. I'll show you." He and Coltrain had spent an afternoon reworking it, an extra spring plate inside, so after firing, the bolt reloaded faster. He'd also changed the button from a press-stud to a toggle, so it wouldn't fire by accident. "You push this down " Norton reached to demonstrate, but Lora's finger was already on the trigger. His hand landed on top of hers. Awkward. Lora snorted: "Got it. When one finger can't push it, I'll use two." "I... made extra bolts... on your desk... well... goodbye." Norton grinned, bright as morning sun. He'd reached the gallery when Lora called after him: "Go get 'em, Norton!" He waved without turning back. His nose stung. "Norton's going to camp? Why did the young lady tell him to 'add oil'?" "Maybe at camp he's to fill the oil lamps. More oil, brighter light." "That's not right. If you want it brighter, you change the wick." "Ask the young lady yourself." Two maids, waiting outside the Countess's court, whispered and giggled. The young lady always brought them unexpected joy. Some unexpected things were less joyful. Like Green, one wall away. He'd followed Leon to the garden party, allowed only one attendant, Leon's "disability" justified the extra. The garden stewards had even hinted: he was a chamberlain's man. A word from the master and he could go in anyway. But Leon insisted on proper procedure. Green had to find the chief steward and get permission. By the time he reached the football pitch, the match was over. The young lords had moved to the quoits field to watch the ladies. Green searched the crowd, no sign of his lord. He ran into Gareth, who told him Leon had found it dull and gone home. Surprising. Unpleasant. Green muttered about his lord all the way back. Meanwhile, his lord was thinking about him. Roland had come and gone. He'd told Leon what Lora heard upstairs, and about the sudden order to send Alvin to Yorvik. "I've told my father our plan. He agreed. Alvin leads. I'm his deputy. We'll watch the rebel lord. If he moves, we strike first." Roland had presented the plan to the Count, more guards, one more son going along. The Count couldn't object. "Not just you. We go." "We? That's a joke, the escort party doesn't include a man in a wheelchair..." Roland was stunned. Leon going along was no laughing matter. "If I'm just Lord Leon, no one's son of note, there's no need for a wheelchair. That mustache you wore at the Crown Granary, lend it to me." Leon was serious. This was his chance to make contact with provincial lords along the canal route. And his plan for the Yorvik rebel went beyond merely saving Alvin. His method, he couldn't tell anyone yet. He had to go himself. Roland stopped smiling: "But, what about Green? He's Voss's man. He won't let you leave Lohenheim without reporting. And you can't leave without the King's permission. If the King finds out..." "Right. Green is the biggest problem. The other guards can stay at the baronial residence, Armand can cover for a while. Claude Sheffield leaves the same day we do, he goes his own way, inconspicuous." Leon stood and paced the room. He stopped in front of Roland: "To pull the wool over his eyes, we've to force him into the boat." With the envoy escort mission to Yorvik, even the execution of the Venn household men, set for the day after the Cold Hearth fast, went unwatched by House Odenheim. The scaffold was ringed three-deep with spectators. The Venn master and servants, thirty-odd souls, knelt on the platform. Theodore Venn was a Yorvik man who'd lived in Lohenheim a dozen years, half a local. That he'd set fire to the city was why the crowd had come to pelt him and his sons with rotten cabbage. "Hey, you in front, you're done with the cabbage? Move along, there're people behind waiting to throw dog dung!" "You're looking down on us sheep-dung throwers?" The crowd jostled, trading places. No one in front wanted to be hit by stray manure. A woman in a hooded cloak, plainly dressed, fought her way to the front, only to be pushed back by the surge. Something that was definitely dung smeared her cloak. Standing at the edge of the crowd, exhausted, she didn't try again. She stood there a long time. Before noon, she left, silent.

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