Rick studied Yanulf’s expressionless face. “If she’s being mistreated—” He shuddered. Yanulf would remember what Tylara had suffered from Sarakos as well as Rick did. Better.
“It is not that. My lord, she rode out through the lines of her archers, and alone charged the enemy cavalry.”
“That doesn’t make sense—”
“She is the leader of a clan of Tamaerthon. Could she believe she has lost the favor of God?”
Rick glanced at his watch and reined in. “Time to walk,” he said.
“My lord—”
“Give me a minute.” He dismounted carefully and walked ahead.
Lost the favor of God. Yeah, and her husband, too. And all her husband’s friends. And—
Damnation, she tried to talk to me. Why didn’t I give her the chance?
“Who brought the news?”
“The boy Culin. When Apelles saw the Lady Tylara captured, he sent his servant to me, and followed his lady into the camp of the enemy.”
“Good man. I owe him. I suppose he’s getting messages out through the priests of Yatar in Strymon’s army?”
“Of course. Those who serve Yatar know that the Time approaches, and who their true friends are.”
Rick glanced at the front of Yanulf’s robe, where a pectoral cross lay over the circled thunderbolt of Yatar. “How do you feel about the unified faith?”
“Some accept, some do not. Those who accept help as best they can.”
“Strymon permits the new faith in his camp?”
“A quarter and more of his soldiers have accepted it. How could he not?”
“Oh. Thanks. I didn’t know you’d made that many converts.” He walked on a few paces, then turned. “If the priests can get messages out, I can get one in.”
Yanulf nodded. “It can be done.”
“Thank you.” And what in hell will I say to her? He laughed bitterly. “Come home, all is forgiven.” Now how the hell do I say that in a message that half the priesthood’s going to read?
“What will you do?” Yanulf asked.
“Get the hell up there and see how many of Ganton’s people will help me get her out.”
“Calm. I know you wish to act, but think first. Prince Strymon has a reputation for honor, and surely will not demand excessive ransom. If you attempt a rescue, she may be killed. I am no soldier, but most battles hastily begun are easily lost.”
Rick was silent for a long moment. “All right. I’ll get the stuff I came here for and go back to Dravan. By then we’ll know more. If that—If you can send messages into Strymon’s camp, send him this one. If he harms her in any way, by spring a year from now there won’t be a living thing left in his kingdom.”
“I will send the message, but I doubt it will be believed.”
“Tell him anyway.”
* * *
Gwen and Siobhan acknowledged the sentry’s salute and turned down the hall toward Octavia’s chambers. Voices reached them before Gwen was close enough to knock at the door of the royal apartment. If Octavia ever finds herself at the head of a legion, she’ll have no trouble making herself heard. That’s for sure. She motioned Siobhan behind her and stepped close to the door.
“—abandon Edron, which has never fallen save by starvation or treachery? We have provisions for at least two winters. If you know of traitors among us, tell me now lest I suspect you of being one of them!”
Octavia’s command was answered by an incoherent chorus of protestations. She must have half the ladies of the court in there. This sounds interesting. Gwen glanced back down the hall. The sentry was out of sight. She waited, one hand poised to knock.
“. . . much of Morrone’s host escaped Piro’s Hill and will soon fight again. The Wanax will take the field against Strymon with the knights Morrone couldn’t muster. Tamaerthan pikemen will join him. Tamaerthan pikes and archers alone once defeated a Roman legion! And then there are the star weapons— God knows how many guns we can field against Strymon. It is the host of Ta-Meltemos that should be thinking of fleeing to safety! Not us.”
“But, Your Majesty—you cannot—”
“Your son, Prince Adrian—” This round of protestations was slightly more coherent.
“No. I am the daughter and the granddaughter of soldiers, who held their posts where God and Caesar sent them. Can I do less? What honor does it bring them or your Wanax if I teach my son to flee at the first sign of danger?
“I cannot. I will not. Enough of this nonsense. I will hear no more.” Octavia’s tone held all the finality of the headsman’s axe.
“That’s our cue.” Gwen took Siobhan’s hand and led her down the hall away from the sentry. They turned the corner and flattened themselves against the wall as ladies-in-waiting bustled out of Octavia’s apartment. Not this way, ladies. You’re already annoyed that Octavia booted a couple of you out of your rooms for me when we evacuated the University. You don’t need to know that I’ve heard the queen dressing you down like raw recruits.
Gwen waited until the ladies had left the corridor, then motioned to Siobhan to follow her back down the hall. She knocked at Octavia’s door and a maid admitted them. Octavia was sitting on a window bench, pretending to knit. Gwen had taught her Earthstyle knitting, and the queen was quite good at it—when her hands weren’t shaking.
Octavia turned a pale face to Gwen as the Earthwoman entered. “I expected you earlier. Did you hear those mewling biddies? Do they think they can find any place that’s safer than Edron? Strymon will never get this far. Ganton will see to that.”
Octavia’s smile was strained. Gwen realized that the girl was as scared as any of her ladies. She’s just hiding it better. Goes with being Queen, I guess. Gwen smiled. “Forgive me. I don’t doubt the Wanax will make short shrift of Strymon.”
“I’m glad to hear you believe that. But . . . I’m frightened. We will surely win, but at what price? We’ve already lost four thousand good men slain or taken, and Lady Tylara and Lord Morrone are prisoners.”
What price indeed. If I had the answer to that question, I’d be Yatar or some other Higher Authority. As it is—“I’m scared too Octavia. But we’ll just have to do the best we can. One thing, you might admit to your ladies that you’re worried about your husband. Most of them are probably scared for their men too.”
“Thank you, Gwen. Will you—will you give me advice and counsel? Yanulf returns today. When he rides north with the host, you’ll be the only one I can talk to.”
“Of course.” Gwen realized she was thinking of the power that position would give her. What’s worse is that I don’t despise myself for it. Is this what they mean when they talk about doing well by doing good?
A faint knock sent Octavia’s maid to the door. “The Lord Chancellor of the University, Lord Warner, craves audience with the Wanaxxae Octavia and the Lady Gwen.”
“Come.”
Octavia and Gwen sat side by side to receive Larry Warner’s graceful bow. He’s becoming quite the courtier. I wonder how many ladies he’s courted into bed?
“Your Majesty. My report on the University’s contribution to our coming victory. With your permission?”
Octavia laughed. “Lord Rick has made it very clear that the University is no part of either Drantos or Rome. You need make no report to me.”
“Well, Majesty—” Warner was obviously amused. “That’s true, but I am supposed to report to Gwen, and besides, I’ve brought some troops to add to the defenses of Edron.”
“Ah. Proceed, then.” Octavia smiled. “You may speak to Gwen or to me, as is most appropriate.” Then she laughed.
“Yes, ma’am,” Warner drawled. “All the essential records and equipment from the University are safe in Edron now. The Romans withdrew most of their University cohort to support the defense of the south, but since most of the threat is from the south, that’s not as bad as it sounds. Still, it left us with not much more than Rustengans and other craftsmen too old or too young to go to war, and some random T
amaerthans from the major clans.”
“All the clans?” Gwen asked.
“Most of them.”
Gwen nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Then any clansmen who attack the University will be at blood feud with their own relatives.”
“Right. Anyway, the Roman tribune wanted to take the whole cohort, but Lucius convinced him he’d better leave some of them with us. So he and his centurions rolled dice to see who’d get to leave. I think he used his own dice, because he got to go himself.”
“Larry, what’s the bottom line?” Gwen asked in English.
“Yes, ma’am. Well, the University is defended by the Tamaerthan clansmen, the worst half of the Roman cohort, the city militia, and God Almighty. I’ve brought a token century of Romans, a company of Tamaerthan archers, all the University craftsmen who think they’re militia and volunteered to travel, and the First Balloon Squadron, commanded by Your Servant Warrant Officer Warner.”
“Balloon? Larry—”
“Well, I admit it’d do more good out west, but it’d take forever to get it there.”
“The Wanax wishes each to fight whatever enemy is closest,” Octavia said. “I think you will soon find many of them close enough.”
“Yeah—Yes, Majesty. I’m afraid you’re right.”
“That’s good strategy. It’s even better politics,” Gwen said. “Fighting the enemy where he is has got to be better than just defending your own land. Drantos has no national army. Rome sends troops where they’re needed.”
“Maybe the ironhats will learn and maybe they won’t,” Warner said. “Anyway, we’re here, and I no sooner got here than we were ordered to join Ganton’s army. We move out tonight. What am I getting into?”
“I don’t know how many troops the enemy has,” Gwen said. “But I can tell you what the Wanax’s forces are.” She looked to Octavia and got a tiny nod of approval. “With your people—and I expect he can use your aeronauts—he ought to have nearly ten thousand, plus the field guns, and seven mercs with rifles. Eight, counting you.”
“No Romans,” Warner said.
“Caesar will send aid,” Octavia said.
“Majesty,” Warner said gently, “I am certain that Marselius Caesar would like to send aid. I also know that even a single cohort is valuable to him at this moment. The turmoil in the south grows worse each ten-day, and as the weather improves and the Demon grows closer, Rome will need even more legions to hold the southern borders.”
“They disbanded two legions after the last southern campaign,” Gwen said.
“Sure,” Warner said. “And they’ll probably call them up again, but it sure won’t be until they’ve got crops planted. Otherwise, what’ll they eat this fall?”
And it takes time to assemble militiamen, Gwen thought.
“Whatever the Romans can do, they won’t be sending any legions tonight,” Warner said. “And that’s when we march. Your Majesty, my lady. This is farewell, until we come back with Prince Strymon’s head.”
“God be with you,” said Octavia.
Gwen fumbled for words. “Come back safe” didn’t sound right, but what—? “Good hunting,” she said grinning.
Warner embraced her and kissed her on the forehead, in a less brotherly fashion than usual. Gwen felt Octavia’s eyes on her and blushed. She was still blushing when the door closed behind Warner.
“Lady Gwen,” said Octavia, carefully looking at her knitting.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Is Lord Warner your—lover? He has a reputation—”
“Almost as bad as Lord Morrone’s?”
“I wasn’t going to insult him, but . . .”
That came close to confirming the rumor that Morrone was jealous of Octavia’s being both wife and confidante of his friend Ganton. It also suggested that Octavia’s watching her father be the Don Juan of Rome had given her a distaste for unchastity in others.
If I want to be Octavia’s friend and confidante, does this mean I have to keep my pants on except when Les visits?
Probably. And now the sixty-four silver question: Can I do it?
Maybe. If Rick’s not interested. Meanwhile, I can tell Octavia the truth. . . .
“Lord Warner is not my lover and never has been. If Caradoc had not offered first, I might have married Lord Warner, as we have much—much in common. But I have been faithful to Lord Les, and pray only that Yatar, Christ, and all the Holy Archangels bring him safely back to me at the end of his travels.”
That last part, at least, was the truth and nothing else.
* * *
“Please be seated, my lords. Wine?”
Murphy and Bheroman Traskon sat down at the big table in Rick’s conference room at Castle Dravan. Rick noted that Murphy sat down as quickly as Traskon. The first time he’d addressed a group of nobles that included Murphy, Ben had glanced behind him to see who was being spoken to. Now Murphy wore the title as easily as his Tran clothing.
Rick sat at the head of the table. The noon sun lighted the white plastered walls covered with maps drawn in charcoal. Murphy kept glancing at them.
“They’re current as far as I know,” Rick said. “After lunch you can help update them.”
“Main thing is we haven’t found any new threats.”
“Good.”
“On the other hand, everybody agrees on the twelve thousand we know about.” Murphy pointed to the arrow indicating a detachment of Strymon’s army marching toward Dravan.
“We can hold those.” Rick kept his voice even, and turned to Traskon. “My Lord Bheroman.”
“My Lord Captain General,” Traskon said. “My knights and I await your orders. I have assembled the ban and arriere-ban to hold our lands, and my knights are ready to ride. Tell us how we may avenge the dishonor to our Lady Eqetassa.”
“Thank you. I expected no less.” Rick swallowed hard, as he always did when he thought of Tylara in Strymon’s hands. Tylara might have been Traskon’s stepmother, if Sarakos hadn’t thrown his father off Castle Dravan’s battlements. And I’d never have met her. Would that be better? No. But—Traskon wants something. What?
Murphy cleared his throat. “My Lord Captain General, it has come to my ears that you plan to arm the villagers, that they may defend themselves as they did against the Westmen.”
“Yeah, Sergeant?”
“Captain, they say you’re going to give them guns—nothing big, maybe, but guns!”
“So have I heard also,” said Traskon. “When the Westmen came, Hilon the blacksmith of Clavton, a town in my lands, proposed that the town buy guns to defend itself. I asked then, and I ask now, how can we be sure that villages and towns so armed will defend themselves only against our common enemies, and not their lawful lords? How shall a bheroman do his duty, if his towns can refuse theirs? It also seemed to me—and forgive me, my lord, if this grieves you—but the Lady Eqetassa seemed willing to hear me.”
Damn right. Tylara isn’t about to arm towns against the nobility. And now what? Rick laughed aloud.
“My lord?” Ben Murphy asked.
“Nothing. Your pardon.” And one thing’s for damn sure, Ben Murphy’s gone native. The great-grandson of a man hanged for shooting a landlord’s rent collector is trying to keep people from shooting his rent collectors! Rick spoke quickly in English. “Found out being boss man isn’t all that easy, right, Sergeant?”
“Sir!”
And now for my stuffiest shirt. “My lords, I will never arm rebels. Moreover, our guns are too few for me to allocate them to the villages. That is true also for our firepowder.”
“Thank you, my Lord Captain General,” said Traskon. “And—may I say that our thoughts are with you, in your grief for the Lady Eqetassa?”
“Thank you.” Rick forced a smile. “It could be worse. She’s alive, so we should see her again once the ransom’s paid. She’ll probably throw a pot at me for spending so much.”
The two noblemen laughed dutifully and bowed themselves out. Rick sat moti
onless until the door closed. Then he got up and poured himself a cup of the wine the others had refused.
I didn’t talk to her for a year, and now she’s a prisoner. That has to be a nightmare all by itself.
It was hard to think like the Tamaerthan nobility, but couldn’t she think that was punishment enough? He had no way of knowing. She thinks every bad thing that’s happened in the last year is her fault. Everything from crop failures in the south to Morrone’s defeat.
The only good thing about the situation was Apelles. I’m glad he went with her. He’s no psychiatrist, but he’s smart, and she listens to priests. If anybody but me can talk her out of the crazy notion that she’s got the world on her shoulders, it’ll be him.
And meanwhile he had eight thousand men to command and twelve thousand enemies to face, and despite his assurances to Murphy and Traskon he was pretty sure the enemy’s strength was growing. He went to the map and stared at it. It had cost good men to fill in the information there, but now he knew that Strymon held all the roads north into the Five Kingdoms, and could bring down reinforcements as needed.
The only thing to slow them down would be the remnants of Morrone’s force, and the sheer logistics of marching an army in the spring when there wasn’t much grass and granaries would be empty. A quart of wheat a day for each man. A bushel for each horse. It all added up to a lot of transport, and the transport horses had to eat, too.
If that damned Ajacias had kept all the grain supplies in his goddam castle, Strymon wouldn’t have—
If wishes were horses, beggars could ride.
“Jamiy!”
His orderly opened the door.
“Officers’ Call in one hour.”
* * *
The Death Wind Bringer hung low on the horizon, bloated until it looked more than ever like the evil eye. Around it the stars were coming out, as Mad Bear walked out of the Silver Wolves’ camp toward the vigil hill.
He walked slowly, according to custom, but his thoughts ran on ahead of his feet. The sacrifice was ready at the hilltop.
It had never before occurred to him that he should defy the gods. Yet now he thought he would aid the Stone House Chiefs no matter how the sacrifice went. The thought was frightening.
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