Lora of Two Worlds

Lora had spent years in investment; the habit of mind had sunk into her bones.

Though she still meant to find some way back to the modern world, House Odenheim was her kin a thousand years back. To make a coin for the house, then, was, in her own reckoning, to do right by her forebears, and bring luster to the family name.

Coming out of her mother’s room, Lora sent Margaret at once to see whether Carl was home yet, she wanted a survey chart of the Lohenheim jurisdiction.

A survey chart was a thing hard to come by for most, but in the house of the Commander of the Lohenheim City Defense, there would be no shortage of them.

With a chart in hand, all would be well. She recalled the gold deposits near Lohenheim, at Lohne Reach, Highgrove, Tiger Gully, several of them. Pinpoint them first; then read up the mining laws of the day.

The Aurelian Empire had stood for hundreds of years; many a law of late differed from that of the high kings’ day. If a gold mine lay in some Marcher Duke’s territory, the matter would be hard indeed.

Lora, deep in these plans, was walking back to her tower chamber when a voice hailed her from the side:

”Ah, ah, ah !”

She had been too intent on her moneymaking; she put her foot straight into a small pit at the roadside.

A pit-trap, in our own house?

Lora sat on the ground, grimacing and rubbing her ankle, and looked up to see a panic-stricken face. He put out a hand to help her up, thought better of it, and held out the handle of his hoe instead.

”Norton? You’re digging holes here?”

The pit wasn’t deep. Lora took the hoe-handle, stepped up, and was out.

Norton nodded nervously and pointed to the ground a little way off. Lora saw several potted rose saplings; he was transplanting the potted roses into the open soil. The patch before them already had several such pits dug.

”You’re planting flowers?”

He nodded happily, went over, picked up a pot, and showed it to her. Only then did Lora see, the rose was small, but it had already set two tight buds.

She had seen her brothers speak with Norton, they always spoke and signed at once. She would have liked to say something, but didn’t know how to sign, so she gave him a thumbs-up:

”You’re a wonder, you can plant flowers too.”

Norton beamed all the wider, set the pot down, and pointed at her ankle. Lora waved it off, and tried again:

”Thank you for last night, you saved my life. I’d like to see the weapon you used.”

Norton didn’t understand her gestures; his face was puzzled.

Lora quickly did a pantomime, tongue lolling, eyes rolling back, falling dead, then pointed at him, did a ”pick it up and put it in your pouch” gesture.

This time he understood, but he patted himself down, spread his hands: not on him. Lora was a little disappointed.

Last night in bed she had thought, Father had made Coltrain out to be such a marvel, and she had seen with her own eyes that Norton had killed the assassin with some weapon Coltrain had made. If she could use that weapon too, she would be safe enough day to day, surely?

”Then, when you’ve done with the flowers, bring it and let me see.”

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Norton didn’t hesitate; he gave a slow, simple-minded grin, and nodded hard.

It was then Lora noticed, the boyish smile on his face drew the eye so much that you forgot how much more solidly built he was than the common boy of fifteen or sixteen. Beneath the simplicity ran something untamed. Were it not that he was mute, he might have stepped out of a troubadour’s song.

Back at the tower chamber, Margaret soon returned, but with no survey chart: Carl hadn’t come home yet.

”I left word with the serving lad in his court, it’ll be along later, sure enough.”

”Margaret, just now, on my way back, I ran into Norton. Has he been raised in this house since he was small?”

Lora, with nothing to do, had taken up a quill and was practicing her formal hand on the table.

”Steward Coltrain picked him up on the march. The Count had been away near a year; you were some months old before you first saw your father. Norton was a little past a year old then, just walking, not talking. Everyone thought him slow to speak; only later did they learn he couldn’t hear a sound, that he was deaf.”

”So that’s fourteen years ago.”

”Yes, the rebel lord Vautrin held Caerlorn Castle, and the Count rode with the King’s general Aldric to take it. They say Caerlorn was a slaughter, Vautrin’s whole house was beheaded. Steward Coltrain took a wound in the leg; lucky for him he could still walk with a limp, but he couldn’t serve in the field any longer.”

Caerlorn, Vautrin, Lora’s heart gave a little leap: could this be the famous Hannibal-style night assault on Caerlorn Castle she had read of in her old textbooks?

She hadn’t known her father had ridden in that campaign.

”Norton came to the house about the same age as Lord Carl. The Countess had him taken in and nursed with Lord Carl. When they found he was deaf and mute, Steward Coltrain would have him back to his own keeping, and the Countess let it be.”

”A mute boy, raised at a my lord’s side, at best he grows up a servant. With Steward Coltrain he can at least learn a trade to live by. So Steward Coltrain had some foresight, after all,” Lora said, with genuine admiration.

Coltrain, to pluck one small life out of a slaughter, when his own was hardly safe, that was no common man.

”My lady, my lady! Norton has crossed Steward Webb, and he’s getting the whip!” Hilda came running in, breathless, a wicker basket in her hand.

”What’s happened? Slowly,” said Margaret, taking the basket from her.

Hilda, one hand pressed to her side, gasped: ”I passed them just now, Steward Webb was railing at Norton for shirking, said he cuts work and runs all over, and he was making for our court, I think...”

Lora was on her feet at once. ”I told him to come. I’d like to see whether obeying one’s master is against the King’s law, or against the household rule.”

”And, Steward Webb was crossing the garden, and he came upon a white rose that had wilted...” Hilda ran after her.

Lora stared. ”A white rose? With so many flowers opening and fading every day, a single wilted bloom, what of it?”

”That’s Steward Webb hunting for faults, said that coming upon a faded white rose was ill luck, and Norton had done it on purpose to hex him...”

”What blind superstition is this?”

A scolding voice came from ahead; they had no time to talk, but quickened their steps toward it.

”Stop!”

Lora came round the flower-beds to the lane along the dividing wall, and at once saw a sight she hadn’t looked for:

Norton, his face black with anger, had kicked Steward Webb and his toady boy to the ground, and had his right arm raised, leveled at Steward Webb. Steward Webb was as white as a sheet, as if he had seen a ghost; at the cry of ”Stop!”, like the tolling of a chapel bell to him, his courage came back:

”You dead mute, you’ve gone mad! Striking your betters in public! You, you, you, take that weapon off him this minute!”

Norton, seeing Lora approach, didn’t know how to explain; he shut his mouth and only glared at Steward Webb as the man scrambled to his feet.

Steward Webb, seeing that it was only the young lady, put on a pained face, leaned on his back, and pointed at Norton, complaining to Lora:

”My lady, look at this blockhead here. I did no more than scold him a little, and he kicks us down and would have murdered me!”

While Norton was off his guard, Steward Webb caught up the boy’s sleeve and pulled it back. On the boy’s arm, plain to see, was a copper tube.

Steward Webb gave a sly grin:

”A hundred times I’ve told you, outside the night rounds, you don’t wear such a weapon in the house by day. Caught in the act this time, what have you to say?”

Norton shot a glance at Lora, dropped his head, his eyes gone dull. He couldn’t sign what had passed; and no one would speak for him.

”My lady, no need to trouble yourself, I’ll see to it. Only, when the Count and the Countess ask, I pray you give me a word of witness. Abel, take his weapon off him and bring it along! Let’s see your limping foster-father save you now.”

Steward Webb made nothing of Lora, only, she was a young mistress, and with her word he could pin Norton hand and foot.

”Ah, ah!”

Norton wouldn’t have the hand-bow torn from him; he hugged his arm and fought back.

Lora walked over, snatched the whip from Abel’s belt, lifted Norton’s sleeve again, and asked, coldly:

”What’s this? Steward Webb?”

Only then did Steward Webb see, two bleeding weals on the boy’s arm, where the whip had laid on. He was sick with regret:

He should never have lifted that sleeve just now!