Janel’s breath caught. For a moment, Brother Qown thought she might hit Tamin, but she clenched her fists instead. “I’m not running from justice. I’m running from a bastard who thought he could buy Tolamer Canton and bribe its people—my people—to Censure me if I refused to keep his bed. Sir Oreth didn’t even wait for my grandfather’s body to cool before he showed up with his troops, his ultimatums, and his eviction notice,” Janel corrected. “I didn’t let witches, Yoran spies, and demons have free rein to send the souls of my people straight to Hell.”
“I didn’t know I was doing that!” Tamin screamed.
“That only proves you’re too young and too naïve to keep others from manipulating you into doing it for them.”
His laughter was a choked-off sob. “Too young? Janel, I’m a year older than you.”
“And yet so much younger in all the ways that matter.”
Tamin scrambled to his feet, ignoring the blankets and the backpack and the cloth-wrapped food. “So you’ll do nothing, then? You’re a count!”
“I’m not your count!” Janel shouted.
All talking stopped. Everyone who had been preparing for departure paused as she raised her voice.
“Be thankful,” she continued in a softer tone, “because I’d order your execution for what you’ve done here. I’d hold the sword myself. Do you understand me, Tamin? I watched you order a man’s death, whom you just admitted you knew was innocent. You killed your own steward for a crime you committed. You laughed while a demon you’d empowered slaughtered a knight and her squire, turning the field of honor into a mockery. You burned innocent people at the stake for the crime of witchcraft. You would have killed more, and all for this Relos Var’s approval and a prophecy he probably invented. Don’t ask me to interfere, Tamin. You would not like how I’d rule in your case.”
Brother Qown realized he hadn’t heard the count refer to Tamin as Baron since her fight with Dedreugh.
Silence lingered, a few tense, quiet moments. Then Gan the Miller’s Daughter—or rather Ganar Venos, Warden Dokmar’s daughter—came forward leading an old horse. She smiled at Tamin, although it looked like an effort. “I’ve saddled you a horse. They tell me her name is Orchid. She doesn’t see very well at night, so you’ll want to get some distance from the town before sundown.”
“Gan—” Tamin’s expression was stricken.
“Don’t,” Gan said. “Don’t you dare. You need to leave, Tam, now.” Gan regarded the man she’d once planned to wed. “I wouldn’t stop Kalazan from taking your head. I’d cheer him on while he struck the blow.”
Tamin swallowed. Then he picked up the offerings, shoved them into the backpack, and mounted the horse.
He rode south. The survivors watched him go in silence. And then, once he’d turned past the last pergola’s flag-covered patio, every eye turned back to Count Janel.
She paused, wary, and then shook her head in denial. “Oh no. Not I. I’m already the Count of Tolamer. I cannot also be the Baron of Barsine.”
“Well, who, then?” Dango said. “Not me. I ain’t doing it.”
Brother Qown frowned. “You can’t just—” He turned to Dorna. “Are they going to just … pick … the next Baron? Like that’s something you can just choose? Doesn’t whoever Tamin owed fealty to…” He bit his lip. “Won’t the count he owes fealty to object to commoners just deciding Baron Tamin isn’t in charge anymore?”
Dorna stared at him.
“That’s not how it works, colt. I don’t know how you lot do things in Kaziwatsis—”
“I’m from Eamithon.”
“Whatever. In Jorat, a stallion who can’t protect their herd sure as hell don’t get to lead it. What you protect is what you rule here.”
“Stallions don’t actually lead horse herds, though. Mares do.” That detail had been bothering him to distraction ever since he’d first arrived.
She rolled her eyes. “Stop talking real horses when we’re talking politics. In Jorat, the human herds are led by stallions. Always stallions. Anyway, if an old stallion gets kicked out because he can’t do his job, who decides who replaces him? Some other herd’s leader who won’t ever be around? No, foal. It’s the herd itself what chooses its leader.” She cocked her head. “’S why I didn’t put a gift in the pile. He ain’t my leader. I didn’t give him any thudajé.”
The heresy of the notion made Brother Qown feel dizzy.7 And Dorna had presented it so matter-of-factly. Of course, the people would decide on their ruler. Of course, the herd would choose. How could it be any other way? And if a leader did a poor job, the herd simply … asked them to leave … didn’t even ask. Tamin had just understood he should go.
Gan put her hand on Kalazan’s arm. “It should be you.”
“Me? But I—” He stopped himself and turned to Ninavis. “No, it should be you. You recognized the danger before anyone else. You led the fight against him.”
Ninavis shook her head. “Oh no, kid. I don’t know the first thing about ruling a banner, and I don’t want to know. I’m a thief, not a lord. It’s all yours. I wish you Taja’s own luck.”
He swallowed, looked around at the crowd. “If everyone agrees, then of course I’ll take the responsibility.”
The crowd murmured in assent, this coming loudest from Ninavis and her crew.
“Good,” Janel said, “you’re a fine choice. But for now—” She tilted her head, making the gesture seem almost apologetic. “You’ll need your eight best riders and all the horses we have left so you’ll all be able to change mounts when they tire.”
“All the horses?” Dorna asked. “Not my Pocket Biter too? What about Cloud?”
Janel’s expression turned rueful. “There are none to spare, Dorna. So yes, they’ll need our horses as well. The eight will ride for the gates to pass the word—or catch the army and warn them. The rest of us will travel to Ninavis’s stronghold.”
“The rest of us? You’re coming with me?” Ninavis sounded surprised.
“Of course. I almost allowed you to come to harm before. It won’t happen again.”
Ninavis frowned. “So Arasgon is coming with us too? But your horse—” She stopped to clear her throat. “I mean to say, the firebloods are the fastest runners here.”
“He also makes his own decisions.”
Arasgon tossed his head and said something. So did the other fireblood, Talaras. Brother Qown didn’t understand their language, but their manner suggested they didn’t agree about their next course of action.
“I’d ride,” Sir Baramon said, “but I’m out of practice.”
“And a lot out of shape,” Dorna said.
The knight ignored her. “But Talaras can run without me. He’s done it before.”
Janel considered the matter. She turned to the fireblood. “Is that your wish?”
Talaras tossed his head and stamped a foot, and it seemed obvious that it was.