Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  Containing his impatience, Kaidas waited until, at long last, his wife’s demands had all been met and she sank into deep sleep. Then he picked up his clothing, splashed through the bath long enough to rid himself of her scent, dressed, and penned a note to his wife before his valet had managed to rouse the stable hands and get eleven animals saddled.

  Kaidas hesitated, studying the note.

  Carola:

  I realize you were right, and the Chwahir must be making a feint toward Alarcansa while riding on the capital. As we have no magical communication cases, I ride to warn the queen.

  No mention of Lasva. He knew he ought to add some diplomatic sentiment, but he resisted. If he was wrong, it would never be enough. If he was right, the accolades of the court would diffuse his true motivation. Carola’s pride in the accrued glory to Alarcansa might even overcome her jealousy.

  But more important, he could not bring himself to gainsay what mattered most: the love that must stay locked inside his heart, and the guardianship of what remained of his honor. He would never paint another lover’s cup, and he would write nothing that was not true.

  He signed his name and left the note on her bedside table. Soon he was riding west, breathing clean air through a misting rain.

  He and his small band traded off, the two riders in front lighting the way with bespelled torches that burned somehow in spite of the rain. When it was Kaidas’s turn to ride at the front, his partner was his favorite man, a burly smith named Neas.

  They rode side by side, the smell of singed honey from the torches, the hiss of rain hitting fire not unpleasant, though Kaidas discovered that holding something aloft was irksome. There were enough glowglobes in the houses they passed to shed faint light on the road that wound down to run alongside the river. The darkness was not absolute but made up of shades of blue, broken by distant pinpoints of golden window lights.

  Kaidas did not realize he was smiling until Neas, who’d been giving him increasingly puzzled glances, said doubtfully, “Pardon me, your grace, but have you ever seen war?”

  Kaidas’s smile faded. “Yes,” he said, as his horse snorted and shook water from its mane. “That is, I was present at a skirmish.”

  “What happened, if I may ask?”

  “Ask away. Though there is little to tell. A few years ago I rode with some of my border cousins. Nothing much happened—mostly the Khanerenth border riders and us playing hide’n’find. But once, some brigands tried raiding across the border. We found ‘em, defeated ‘em. I say we, but I mostly followed, sweating so much my sword was slipping out of my fingers.”

  Twin gleams from the torchlight reflected in Neas’s eyes. “Go on, if you’ve a mind.”

  Kaidas’s expression resumed the grimness Neas had thought habitual until this sodden ride. “What can I say? The actual fighting was appalling to witness. I wasn’t the only one on our side constantly muttering the Waste Spell lest I lose everything I’d eaten for a week as people hacked one another to bloody splatters.”

  Neas said, “Ah-yedi! So it is.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  The big man bunched his shoulders in an embarrassed shrug. “Nothing. Only wondered.”

  You wondered because I must look as happy as I am, Kaidas thought. He was not angry with Neas. How could he be? But it forced him to acknowledge that though he was riding steadily toward the prospect of having to hack up unknown Chwahir, or be hacked up, he was happy.

  He was, for the first time in weeks, free.

  Riding west away from Alarcansa was like leaving prison. There was no wifely gaze watching him every moment, no sweet, precise courtly voice catching him up by asking what he was thinking. He had not, until this moment, permitted himself to consider how she watched his every breath, every move, every bite and sup; how her neat, small hands rifled through every belonging of his, no matter how inconsequential; how she calmly made herself mistress of the contents of every one of the few letters he’d had occasion to pen, as if she had the right; and how—he discovered through the single personal servant he’d brought with him (all the rest were hired by her)—every letter sent him was seen first by her.

  She would watch his thoughts if she could.

  He had chosen this life and must abide by his decision. He could preserve a semblance of honor only by never speaking these thoughts aloud.

  The truth was this: freedom was sweet, and even sweeter was the possibility that he would see Lasva, that he might even, somehow, get her alone long enough to say the things he had locked inside himself since the morning of the heir’s birth and his father’s visit. Just once. To speak the truth. Once. And the memory would have to last a lifetime. He would never come to court again.

  FOUR

  Of Empty Hands

  “B

  ooks?” It was midnight, and Torsu, having been sent to the queen’s rooms to bolster the sewing teams assembled to stitch together all those battle tunics, was about to leave when she encountered that silly rabbit Nereith coming from the princess’s rooms, her arms laden with books.

  “Books?” she said again, for they’d finally been permitted to speak. Not that she was grateful—it was long overdue, and Nereith should have been silenced longer, as it was all her fault. Torsu couldn’t resist: “I didn’t know you could read.”

  Rain tapped against the windows, and lightning briefly flared. Nereith jumped. “It’s that new book, the one about Elgar the Fox—not for me.”

  Torsu did not care about books, old or new. “You mean she’s back?”

  Nereith’s mouth rounded. She was not supposed to tell anybody, but surely that didn’t mean other dressers, did it? Just people outside the princess’s staff, didn’t it?

  She leaned toward Torsu and whispered, “She got here by magic. The queen’s making her stay hidden. I’m not sure why.”

  Torsu gave the younger girl a derisive smirk. “It probably has to do with this war talk flying every which way.”

  “War. But what would that have to do with—” Nereith’s eyes looked wild. “I’d better go.”

  Don’t you listen to anything? Torsu thought, and as the girl flitted away, Torsu walked on, laughing to herself.

  Ivandred was amazed at how long it took to convene Colendi nobles for a simple strategy session.

  First a city of great silken tents had to be erected, each in some predetermined reference to the others that necessitated many takings-down and pacings-off. After that, an elaborate supper was served by the light of a hundred paper lanterns, followed by a long, polite debate about precedence at the war negotiation in the morning—who would stand where, and who would have to wait outside the tent.

  Then they retired to recoup themselves for morning. Ivandred took his people off for practice, returning early, battle-ready, when the servants slowly began to stir.

  As the dukes and barons and their followers slowly rose and clamored about calling for rapiers and shields and some for armor, their servants crowded around with folding chairs, towels for muddy boots, and refreshments, despite the plan for an elaborate breakfast as soon as the strategy session was deemed finished. While the sun hid behind building clouds, more servants ran back and forth with messages for Davaud and Duke Thias, sent from the city half a day’s ride away, until at last the Colendi were gathered.

  Davaud and the duke had agreed that Ivandred, as the one with highest rank as well as being the new ally, had the position directly before the royal map. This map was duly unrolled by the herald who had carried it like a couched lance, bound by ribbons in the royal colors, golden seals dangling and swinging at every step.

  Ivandred assessed the enormous map as the dozen men and women of various ages around him covertly scanned their own territories, evaluating how the royal heralds had drawn them. Ivandred took in the elaborate drawings of what appeared to be ducal and lordly emblems, tiny etchings of palaces and old castles—almost down to the level of gardens—but not one hint of where forges lay, or ore mines, or military establi
shments. There appeared to be no military roads at all.

  Ivandred laid a finger on the easternmost of the three golden-labeled passes. “You say it is here, they come?”

  “Yes,” Davaud said. “This pass, above Alarcansa. We should be meeting the new duke on the road within a day or two, if we ride faster, and take carriages at night—”

  “What is here of strategic importance?”

  Strategic importance?

  Ivandred saw the uncertainty in the well-mannered faces around him, and said, “Your royal castles—holdings? Mines and forges? What would the queen lose that the Chwahir king could take here?”

  “Nothing but vineyards, really.” Davaud made a vague, apologetic gesture, to beg pardon for the trespass against good taste in implying a duchy had nothing of importance. “The pass is closest to Alarcansa land, but it’s very rocky up there. The principal ducal castles are all south.”

  “There was no threat? No demand?”

  “Such communications have been absent.”

  “If he wants the kingdom, your royal city lies here directly below the middle pass.”

  “But that pass has the most wards protecting it. Only one Chwahir is permitted through at a time,” Davaud said. “And never warriors. As for our royal city, it has transfer wards all over it, extending out a full day’s ride in all directions. No one can transfer except to the proper Destinations warded by our mages. Anyone who tries a transfer anywhere else will be re-transferred directly to the mages.”

  Ivandred waved that information away. “How long have the Chwahir been seen in these mountains?”

  “About three weeks since the first notice was taken.”

  “Doing nothing? Then they wish to be seen, to draw your forces.”

  “Of course.”

  Everyone made signs or cultured murmurs of assent. It made perfect sense. If you were to have a battle, a place was appointed, the forces lined up, everything according to expected rules.

  “No,” Ivandred said.

  They reacted to the baldly spoken word, some frowning, others stepping back.

  “You do not comprehend,” he continued. “This is not an attack. That makes no sense. It is a—a—” Ivandred lifted his hand, miming a feint before a strike.

  “A trick?” Davaud asked, feeling impending disaster. He tried to recollect all that military reading. “A ruse? A diversion?”

  “Diversion, yes,” Ivandred said. “But to draw our attention from what?”

  “A ruse.” “A ruse?” The word whispered back through the crowd.

  Ivandred looked around. These people were not stupid, they were inexperienced. How to educate them quickly?

  “Suppose it was possible to slip warriors, the number doesn’t matter now, through one of these other passes. Over a period of time previous. What would they want to take first? Assuming they are not mad enough to try to take the royal city without a full army.”

  Duke Thias immediately thought of his own home and the mines in his hills, but Davaud cast back several years to Jurac Sonscarna’s visit. His second cousin was the ambassador, so he knew that Jurac was still angry that Hatahra had not stopped her courtiers from high-handed treatment of a hated Chwahir, nor had she entertained his proposal for marriage between him and Lasva. Ever since then, the Chwahir ambassadorial staff had endured various diplomatic insults. The only Colendi who had treated Jurac with respect, even kindness, was…

  “Lasva,” he whispered. Then he shook his head. “Ah-ye, even a Chwahir wouldn’t do that,” he said aloud, thinking of Lasva safe in her rooms, no one knowing she was there.

  “Take the princess?” Thias said, cutting one of his own barons off mid-word. “Jurac would. Remember how he followed her around like a hound after a tidbit? And didn’t the young ones laugh!”

  “But she’s somewhere on the road,” the Countess of Isqua pointed out. “How could all these fellows in the mountains get past us to the royal road? They cannot! I believe we must spread out, guarding the road.”

  “By magic, of course.”

  “Who can do that kind of magic transfer?”

  “Dark magic!”

  “Norsunder!”

  Few listened as they waited for the speaker of higher rank to pause so they could slide their own observation in.

  “Obviously,” a countess stated, “the Chwahir have allied with Norsunder.”

  “Norsunder certainly would covet the Chwahirs’ ready-made army, and our land.”

  Low-voiced, Davaud said, “We’ve had Lasva safe in the palace for days. Or what we thought was safe.”

  Ivandred’s eyes narrowed. Matthias Altan voicelessly repeated the words, We thought. If Jurac had people swarming around at either end of the kingdom, drawing the Colendi galloping madly eastward and westward away from Alsais, there wouldn’t have to be any mysterious magic. Jurac was perfidious enough alone; if, say, he slipped men over the middle pass one by one, while waiting for the princess to arrive home—

  It was Thias, and not Davaud, who lifted his head and without so much as a gesture of pardon, roared, “Ride back! At once! We have to search the city!”

  Ivandred said, “Wait—” But his voice was lost.

  He didn’t bother with a second attempt. Instead, he remained at the map, measuring with his eye. Assume the Chwahir king had indeed come over with abduction in mind. He couldn’t have arrived in the city with a force without being unnoticed. That meant he had to be hiding within a short ride to the north, waiting on a signal.

  Ivandred looked around. The nobles were running about the camp, leaving their servants holding fine silver trays filled with uneaten dainties, and two herald-scribes busily scribbling down everything they’d heard.

  Ivandred ran out, whistling to his trumpeter. He was in the midst of issuing his orders when Davaud arrived, panting.

  Ivandred said briefly, “Ride north. Intercept.”

  Davaud fought for breath. Elsewhere in the camp, Thias was ordering everyone about. The servants obeyed, then paused as their own counts, countesses, barons and baronesses called out conflicting orders according to their own ideas, for they did not like their own servants given commands by Thias Altan. It would set a dangerous precedent at court.

  Servants stood in disorder, faces turning from side to side as the courtiers assumed manners of elaborate politeness and vied for primacy, some still convinced that they should proceed to Alarcansa, and others that they should guard the road.

  In contrast, Ivandred said three or four things in his home language, and the Marloven tents snapped to, the horses’ shoes were checked, weapons stashed, bows slung.

  “I’m riding with you,” Davaud said.

  “We will ride fast,” Ivandred warned. “And we have only our own remounts.”

  “I can borrow a mount from someone who has fast horses,” Davaud said, thinking regretfully of his hips. But he could see Hatahra’s face. Whatever the cost, he had to be there. And so he would be.

  He left behind his servants, baggage, and that stupid shield he wouldn’t have known how to use. They rode out, unnoticed by Thias—who was arguing with the Duke of Gaszin, the Countess of Isqua, and several barons about which way was most efficient to surround the royal palace—and unnoticed by the servants, cooks, and stable hands buzzing about like bees over their half-cooked breakfast in the shambles of their camp.

  By morning, Torsu had worked herself into resentful anger. Why was a rabbity hum like Nereith trusted in the princess’s secret presence, and not someone who actually had brains—and art?

  They don’t need my art if Princess Lasthavais is hiding, of course, Torsu reasoned. But she knew when she’d been south-gated, and it rankled.

  When she happened to see Kivic at breakfast, and he happened to look her way, it was instinct to whisper, “She’s back—and I didn’t even know it. What’s more, that bird-wit Nereith did. Can you imagine?”

  Kivic grimaced sympathetically, his eyes wide and smiling with promise. “Come along, tell
me all about it.”

  “I can’t. I have to get to the queen’s rooms. It’s lace day.”

  “Too bad. You’d get a laugh out of the chirps I’m hearing from the stable hands. Here, I’ll come with you. Wait till you hear about the near fight between Altan and Sentis’s hummers.”

  “Fight? What about?” she asked as Kivic fell in step beside her.

  “Oh, they’re all in an uproar. Seems half the court is stringing out along the roads, all hoping to watch the play—er, I mean the war.” He grinned. “Here, let’s take the longer route, through the old gardens. Then you can cut back and not be seen.”

  Torsu agreed. She certainly did not want to be seen, and so she paced beside him as he retailed gossip in a joking voice. He led the way behind the new ducal wing to the old juniper garden, as yet untouched, as it hid all the unsightly construction that was only carried on when court was absent.

  When he was done, he asked casually, “Where would Nereith be now?”

  “Asleep, of course, since she had night duty.”

  “Perfect.” He halted under the shadows of a great, spreading juniper. His hands slid up Torsu’s shoulders to her neck, and he smiled down into her face. “And here’s a lovely thought to hold to: she’ll never bother you again.”

  Torsu looked up in surprise as his hands stroked her throat, his thumbs brushing over the pulse above her collarbones. She opened her mouth to ask why, but no sound came out. With faint regret, and a real sense of gratitude for the pleasure she’d given him, he made her death both clean and quick, then laid her gently down, rolling her body under the deep green branches far enough that the scent of broken needles and resin made him sneeze.

  Then he loped back to his room to report. Jurac would have to move now.

  Getting the princess out could not be done by magic, as the entire palace was warded against transfer.

  Kivic had already ascertained that Lasthavais drank caffeo, and he knew whom, from the kitchens, to relay false messages to and whom to commandeer. Things were agreeably chaotic already as servants ran to and fro packing traveling baskets for courtiers who had taken a sudden notion to ride east.