“What are you doing?” Emily asked. Her body was still stiff and worn. “You said...”
“It’s cockcrow,” Cat said. “Get up.”
Emily didn’t believe him. No, she didn’t want to believe him. She had barely closed her eyes when he’d woken her, hadn’t she? But she could hear the cocks crowing in the distance, calling the farmers from their beds. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and forced herself to stand, despite the growing pain. Her entire body was just too stiff.
“Fuck,” she muttered, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Her body hurt, her teeth felt unclean and her clothes were sweaty and gross. “If this is a joke...”
Cat shot her an amused look. “It’s not,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Then go fetch me some water,” Emily ordered. Cat wouldn’t like her bossing him around, but she was too tired to care. “I need to splash something on my face.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Cat said, evenly. He walked out of the room, returning – five minutes later – with a large bowl of cold water and a jar of salve. “This should be of some help.”
Emily nodded, washed herself as best as she could and slathered salve over her body. It did something to dull the ache, although she had to work hard to walk down the stairs without losing her balance and tumbling to the bottom. Better to have Cat hold her arm than take a pratfall in front of Hansel and his brother. The bastard was sitting in the mess, eating another bowl of constant stew. Emily felt a surge of naked hatred. He didn’t even have the grace to look worn out by the ride!
He’s probably been riding all his life, Emily thought, sourly. He’d have been put on his first horse almost as soon as he was old enough to walk.
She ate a bowl of stew herself, despite rebellious rumblings from her stomach, then followed Cat out of the mess and down to the courtyard. Sergeant Rotherham had taken Sergeant Hobbs’s horse, his face unreadable as he mounted up. Emily met his eyes, just for a moment, then looked away. She didn’t have time to worry about hurt feelings.
“Let’s go,” Cat said. “Be on your guard.”
Emily clambered onto her horse, then followed Cat out of the gate and over the bridge. There was nothing to mark the border between Swanhaven and Winter Flower, nothing to suggest that they’d crossed from one barony into another. The river made a convenient barrier, she supposed. There were places where peasants living along the border paid taxes to aristocrats on both sides. It was worse along the national borders. There, a peasant who chose the wrong side – or had the huge ill-luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – might be beheaded on the spot. No wonder so few people chose to live along the borders.
Viscount Hansel took the lead as they galloped down the King’s Road. Emily looked from side to side, but there were really no visible differences between Swanhaven and Winter Flower. The villages were deserted, crops moldering in the fields; the towns were being readied for war, although Winter Flower’s townspeople didn’t look to have any real weapons or defenses. Emily wasn’t surprised. Alicia’s father had been a right bastard to anyone unfortunate enough to be underneath him. He wouldn’t want his peasants to be able to defend themselves. And Alicia – and Lord Burrows – would have seen no reason to change the law.
A peasant with a sword must die, Emily thought, morosely. What will happen to these poor bastards if the wrong people win the war?
She shuddered. She knew the answer all too well. King Randor – or the Noblest – would slash-and-burn, slaughtering peasants and burning their hovels to make it clear that the king was the sole authority in his land. The towns, particularly the ones that had profited from the New Learning, would be burnt to the ground too. It would be futile, in the long run – the New Learning had spread too far to stop – but it wouldn’t matter to the peasants, townspeople and craftsmen who were caught by the king’s forces. They’d be slaughtered on the spot.
“We’ll be detouring around Allrianne,” Viscount Hansel called back. “The town hasn’t been paying its taxes.”
I like them already, Emily thought, as the troop moved onto a different – smaller – road. Her horse slowed as it started to pick its way through mud. No doubt the money would have been wasted if it had been sent to you.
Cat slowed his horse until he was riding next to her. “Keep an eye out for assassins,” he muttered. “We’re probably not the only targets here.”
Emily nodded, tersely. Lord Burrows was still in command of the barony’s defenses, if the last message from Alicia was to be believed. He’d have excellent reason to want to get rid of Viscount Hansel and his brother, all the more so as neither of them had an adult heir. Randor would probably step in before Lord Burrows could claim their wardship for himself, but it would still give Lord Burrows – and the king – a chance to organize the region to suit themselves.
Except it won’t, she thought, wryly. The people living here will have something to say about it.
She kept her eyes open as Viscount Hansel directed them towards a fancy inn, but saw nothing of particular interest. The real surprise was that Hansel had taken them to an inn in the first place, rather than a manor belonging to a friend. Emily had no way to know if it was proof that Hansel was strikingly unpopular, to the point where even his fellow aristocrats didn’t want his company, or a grim testament to the steadily collapsing social order. The manor houses in the countryside, away from immediate help, were steadily being wiped out...
“Charming fellow,” Cat muttered, as they watched Hansel insisting – loudly – on the best beds for himself and his guests. “You want to bet that we’ll wind up saving him from the mob?”
“No bet,” Emily said. The servants were on their best behavior, but even she could tell they were hiding their resentment behind bland facades. “We probably will have to save him.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t bother,” Cat added. His hand touched the sword at his belt. “He’s a liability.”
Emily gave him a sharp look, then took a handful of broadsheets – so bland she knew they’d been censored before being sent to be printed – and scanned them quickly. They would be lies, she was sure, but it was important – sometimes – to know what lies people wanted you to believe. King Randor had won a series of victories right across the kingdom, including a smashing attack from the north into Cockatrice. She rolled her eyes at the writer’s assumption that everyone was as ignorant as himself. An attack from the north, into Cockatrice, would have come out of the sea.
“Nothing useful,” she said, as a clearly-nervous maid led them to their bedrooms. She made a mental note to leave a tip, carefully hidden so the maid’s superiors wouldn’t see it. “Just lies, lies and more lies.”
“Well,” Cat said. “No change there, then.”
Emily nodded. “No,” she agreed. “No change at all.”
Interlude One
“THEY RAN,” ROUTIER EXULTED. “THEY RAN like the cowards they are!”
Sir Roger bit down a number of sarcastic remarks as the defenders of Castle Blackstone emerged from the keep to pay homage to their king and, in turn, be rewarded and honored for their valiant defense. The Noblest had had nothing to gain by making a stand against superior forces, not with the castle at their back. Instead, they’d fired a handful of shots and withdrawn in reasonably good order. Sir Roger would have been impressed if he hadn’t known the king was pissed. The horsemen he’d dispatched to seal the bridges, and prevent the enemy from escaping, had failed.
“They decided they couldn’t stop us here,” Sir Roger said, as calmly as he could. It was true. His forces would have paid a price, if they’d had to fight a pitched battle, but the numbers had been on their side. “So they left.”
“Cowards.” Routier sneered. “What have we to fear?”
Sir Roger said nothing. Routier was nothing more than a common mercenary, a sellsword who sold his loyalty to the highest bidder. His free company – and the other mercenary bands the king had placed under his command – was responsible for more a
trocities than every other military force in the Allied Lands put together. It felt, at times, as if the mercenaries were trying to give the necromancers a run for their money. King Randor hadn’t cared, when Sir Roger had raised the issue. He’d seemed distracted by an infinitely greater thought.
Sir Roger did his best to ignore the wretched man as he watched the king give the defenders the kiss of friendship. The defenders would be honored for their service in holding the castle for the king, even though they’d been on the verge of surrender. Sir Roger had feared the king would explode with rage when they’d heard the news, but he’d been surprisingly understanding. The rules of war stated that a besieged garrison could surrender and walk away, with full honors of war, if it wasn’t relieved within a set period. Castle Blackstone had come far too close to the point where it had to surrender or risk the defenders being slaughtered when the walls finally fell.
But the king was sure we could get here in time, Sir Roger thought. And he was right.
A herald hurried over to him and knelt on the muddy ground. “Sir Roger, Lord Routier, His Majesty commands your presence.”
“We shall attend upon His Majesty at once,” Routier said.
Sir Roger felt his lips twitch as they walked towards the castle. Routier claimed to be a lord, a nobleman who’d been unseated from his rightful inheritance by his brother, but the story had more holes in it than a lump of moldy cheese. It was certainly possible there was noble blood in him, and his accent suggested he’d been born on the other side of the Allied Lands, yet his whole demeanour suggested he was trying a little too hard. A veneer of aristocratic sophistication hiding a violent nature more suited to the lower orders than any nobleman... Sir Roger had a private bet with himself that Routier had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. An illegitimate child might be provided for, but the poor bastard – literally – could never inherit. It might explain the chip on the dark man’s shoulder.
King Randor’s servants had wasted no time taking over the castle, he noted as they strode over the drawbridge and into the giant building. The stench struck him at once – piss and shit and too many sweaty bodies in too close together – but he ignored it. He’d been in worse places. Besides, now that the enemy had been driven away from the castle, the defenders would have time to clean up the mess and repair the defenses. Who knew when the castle might be attacked again?
A pair of Royal Guardsmen searched them both before allowing them into the king’s audience chamber. The stone office had belonged to the garrison commander, but Sir Roger doubted he’d raised any objection to the king taking it for himself. It was really nothing more than a stone box, a far cry from the luxurious environment of Alexis. Sir Roger’s lips quirked in cold amusement. The people who thought soldiering was nothing more than fancy uniforms and riding around on horseback would be in for a shock if they saw the castle. It made him wonder how many of the fair-weather warriors who’d signed up for a little excitement would stay enthusiastic when the realities of war began to bite. War was not honor and glory, but hell unleashed.
“Your Majesty,” he said, kneeling.
King Randor looked like a hulking beast as he sat at the map table, his meaty hands twitching as if he wanted to rip someone’s head from his shoulders. Sir Roger felt a flicker of fear. He’d seen war – he’d seen a necromancer – and yet, his king had the power to scare him. The king’s growing instability worried him more than he cared to admit. Randor had simply been through too much in the last few years for anyone to handle.
At least he sacked Nightingale, Sir Roger thought. The little bottom-feeder hadn’t been seen or heard from for weeks. No doubt the king had got tired of his ass-kissing and banished him from the kingdom. Perhaps his new advisor will be more competent.
“A great victory,” King Randor said. He looked up, but Sir Roger had the odd sense the king wasn’t seeing either of them. His face seemed to have aged a decade overnight. “We have opened the road to Harkness.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said.
“And my men have more than earned their pay,” Routier put in. “We covered for you...”
“You let my men do all the hard fighting,” Sir Roger snapped. “Your troops...”
“Will be employed on a slash-and-burn,” King Randor said. He drew a line on the map, around Castle Harkness. “You will take your men deeper into Harkness and carry out a full slash-and-burn. Every village, every town, everything within twenty kilometers of Harkness itself is to be destroyed. The population is to be forced to flee.”
Sir Roger felt his mouth drop open in shock. “Your Majesty...”
“Let them flee to the castle,” King Randor snarled. The parchment map crumpled under his fingers. “Let the bitch feed them.”
“Your Majesty,” Sir Roger started. “That will... that will kill thousands of your subjects who...”
“Who have betrayed me,” the king said. “Have they risen up in my name? They must be punished!”
“Your orders will be carried out, Your Majesty,” Routier assured him, before Sir Roger could think of a response. “The population will indeed be punished.”
Sir Roger felt revolted. The population needed to be punished? He knew exactly what was going to happen. The villages, towns and farms would be destroyed; men and boys would be killed, women and girls would be raped... the entire region would be devastated. Anyone who survived the slash-and-burn would probably starve when winter hit. The mercenaries would take everything.
But he looked into his king’s face and knew there was no point in arguing.
“You will prepare the troops for an immediate advance,” Randor added. “We will not let them have a chance to recover.”
They’ve already had all the time they need, Sir Roger thought. The Royal Army was advancing into enemy territory, after all. They’ll be ready for us.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “It will be done.”
And he wished, as he hurried back to his men, that he didn’t feel so dirty.
Chapter Eleven
EAGLE’S REST HAD A NASTY EDGE in the air as the small convoy passed through the gates.
On the surface, it was just like any other city on the Nameless World. A handful of wide roads, hundreds of alleyways and shops and tottering apartment blocks that looked as if one gust of wind would be enough to blow them down. The New Learning hadn’t made so much of an impression here, she noted; the streets were covered in a thin layer of human and animal waste that stank so badly she wanted to gag. Rats, some of them large enough to pass for cats, darted across the road, showing no fear of the horses or their hooves. It was a typical medieval town.
And yet, she could feel the edge in the air. It was like Farrakhan, on the front lines of a war, but sharper. There were no cheers as the lord of the city returned to his manor, no whoops and catcalls from an enthusiastic crowd. The threat of violence hung in the air, promising that – one day – the people of the city would rise up and take what was theirs. The air of sullen submission was an illusion. It wouldn’t be long before all hell broke loose. Viscount Hansel rode down the centre of the road without a care for the people in his way, forcing them to run in all directions to avoid his horse’s hooves. Emily couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t be long before his people rebelled and killed him. And she and her friends would be caught in the middle.
We don’t need him that much, she thought, as her horse kicked its way through mud. Do we?
Cat pulled his horse up beside her. “Mercenaries,” he said, quietly. “Look.”
Emily followed his gaze. A cluster of armed men stood on a corner, their hands on their swords and their eyes constantly sweeping the streets for threats. They wore leathers, rather than armor; they wore no livery, save for an armband in Hansel’s colors. The local population gave them a wide berth, as if they feared they’d be snatched off the streets if they went too close. Emily feared they might be right. Mercenaries had a bad reputation for killing people first and asking que
stions later. And – as they cantered up the road – she saw mercenaries everywhere.
“The king was hiring every mercenary he could find,” Cat said, pitching his voice so low that even Emily could barely hear him. “I dread to imagine how much Hansel is paying every day to keep so many mercenaries under his colors.”
Emily nodded. Sergeant Miles had told her that mercenaries were fundamentally disloyal. It was rare for a mercenary – or an entire company of mercenaries – to desert, but they only stayed under their master’s flag as long as they were paid. A late payment could mean the mercenaries walking off the job, sometimes simply crossing the lines to the other side. And they were rarely willing to put their lives in mortal peril. Hansel had to be paying out thousands of crowns a day, just to keep his mercenaries under his command. She couldn’t help wondering just how long he could keep paying them.
And they might be all that’s keeping him in power, she thought numbly. When they go, he goes too.
She cursed under her breath, savagely. The local population had every reason to be furious with their lord. Mercenaries had no interest in keeping people sweet, not when they had no true loyalty to their master. Emily would bet good money that there had already been a string of incidents, from looting to rapes, that would swell the tide of hatred within the city. Hansel probably wouldn’t bother to make concessions, let alone hang any of his men for abusing the citizens. It was a sickening thought. He’d sooner keep the mercenaries sweet than his own people.
The city didn’t look any better as they cantered up towards the manor house. It wasn’t a real castle, although the mercenaries – and Hansel’s private guard – had done some work to fortify it over the last few months. Emily felt her lips twitch, humorlessly, as she contemplated what Sergeant Miles would say to any of his students who did such a poor job. They’d set up trenches and defensive lines, but they hadn’t knocked down any of the nearby houses to create a firebreak. Emily could see a dozen ways to overwhelm the defenders and take the manor without magic or firearms. She was surprised that Hansel couldn’t see them too.
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