The House of the Stag

by Kage Baker

  “What?” said Pulkas, struggling to his feet.

  “I’m going to enlist. It’s my duty.”

  “You what?” said Mr. Carbon. “Who’s going to be the Dark Lord, then?”

  “What about him?” Gard tossed the breastplate at Pulkas.

  “Me!” Pulkas sobered up immediately.

  “Why not?” said Mr. Carbon. “You’ve always said you’d be good at it.”

  “But—but—” Pulkas turned the breastplate in his hands. “But, don’t you see? He’s the greatest Dark Lord the city’s ever seen. How am I supposed to follow an act like that? You’re setting me up for failure, you bastard!” He threw the breastplate at Gard and burst into tears.

  “You know, some people are never happy,” said Mr. Carbon, pursing his lips. “Good-bye and good luck, Wolkin.”

  “Thank you,” said Gard, and walked out into the night.

  He found a way through a drainage channel that cut under the city wall, and went down to the shallow muddy river that crawled away on the plain below. There he cast about until he found a good deposit of clay and clawed it out with his hands in great lumps. Gard worked steadily, taking no shortcuts, so it was nearly dawn when he finished. He was grateful; the flare of white light as he completed the spell was less obvious, against the brightening sky.

  First one and then the other figure sat up, slowly, gleaming with wetness under the dawn, and the mire of the riverbank squelched as they got to their feet. They opened silver eyes. “Oh, we’d hoped you’d think of this,” said Grattur.

  “Now you can bind us to your service,” said Engrattur, gleeful.

  “I won’t bind you at all,” said Gard. “We’re brothers. You ought to be free.”

  “That won’t work,” said Grattur.

  “If we’re not bound, we’re fair game for her ladyship,” said Engrattur.

  “She knows our names, see.”

  “She can pull us back to her service anytime.”

  “Unless someone else has snapped us up first.”

  “Which would be you.”

  “All right,” said Gard. “Grattur and Engrattur, thou art bound to my service. Thou shalt perform all that I require of thee.”

  “We shall!” they chorused, grinning.

  “And now we’re going to go see if we can hire ourselves out as soldiers.”

  He threw them his spare garments and coached them in putting them on. Then they walked away together as the sun rose, toward the armed camp out on the plain.

  “What’s your business here?” the watchman demanded.

  “I’m here to offer my services to Duke Parrackas Chrysantine,” said Gard. “These men are my servants.”

  “And what are you?”

  “Aden Bullion, of Patrayka,” said Gard in a quiet voice, as nearly like Duke Silverpoint’s as he could manage.

  The watchman shivered, as all the class-consciousness in his nerve endings jumped, and he was much more deferential when he said, “Please wait here, sir.”

  “This doesn’t seem very safe,” said Grattur, when the man had gone.

  “All these red men with weapons,” said Engrattur a little plaintively.

  “This is the safest place we could be,” said Gard. “If her ladyship sends anyone else after us, we’ll be surrounded by comrades with weapons.”

  “Oh, that’s clever!”

  “What are those things on their banners?”

  Gard glanced up. “I think they’re fish.”

  The watchman returned with a harried-looking man in a tunic bearing the fish emblem. “I am the duke’s steward. You wish to speak to Parrackas Chrysantine?”

  “Oh, by no means, sir,” said Gard. “I wish merely to enlist, with my servants.”

  The man frowned, listening to him. “Aden Bullion, you said your name was?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “And you are?”

  “A plain man wishing to serve as a common soldier.”

  “Yes, very likely; a plain man, with that Silverhaven accent, and traveling with servants? Sir, you’re welcome here, whoever you are, but you should be aware we have all the generals we need. Unless you’re interested in an arms master position,” the steward added as an afterthought.

  “I am,” said Gard.

  “You can always—really?” The steward looked at him closely.

  “My tutor studied under Prince Firebow,” said Gard.

  ‘Really,” said the steward, his face brightening steadily. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Aden Bullion.”

  “Of course it is,” said the steward conspiratorially. “Please come with me, sir. I believe his lordship would like to speak with you.”

  He led them into the camp, past the rows of plain field tents and into the zone of the pavilions. They were bowed into a particularly fancy one—it had a carpeted floor and folding chairs, as well as a sort of sideboard bearing wine and food—and asked to wait.

  As soon as they were alone, Gard upended his bag of books and rummaged through, looking for his volumes on history and tactics.

  “There’s food in here,” said Grattur.

  “There’s wine,” said Engrattur.

  “Help yourselves,” said Gard distractedly, thumbing through one volume. The brothers ate and drank eagerly while he read enough to discover that Silverhaven was the port formerly ruled by the Silverpoint family. It had been claimed by Duke Chrysantine since that line’s extinction. Silverhaven was also the site of a famous academy for the arts of war.

  Gard grinned and stuffed the books back in his bag. He was sitting calmly, sipping from a cup of fairly good wine, when the steward looked into the pavilion.

  “The duke will see you now,” said the steward.

  “He is too kind,” said Gard. He followed the steward out. Grattur, stuffing a last roll in his mouth, grabbed up the bag of books and together with Engrattur followed him.

  They were shown into the grand pavilion at the center of the camp. Gard looked around him in wonder. The walls were blue silk, embroidered in gold with little fishes; there was fine furniture, at least what he could see of it for the books and masses of paper strewn about. A thick-necked man in fine clothes sat at a table, poring over a map. He looked up as Gard entered. Gard bowed, putting into it all the rigid formality of Duke Silverpoint.

  “Now, who do you claim to be?” said Duke Chrysantine.

  “Aden Bullion, sir. I was given to understand you had an opening for an arms master.”

  “I do. Bullion, is it? I don’t know any Bullions.”

  “I am the last of my family, sir.”

  “That’s likely enough,” said Chrysantine, giving him a keen look. “And you claim to have been at school in Silverhaven, do you?”

  “No, sir, I never made any such claim. My father was a poor man in Patrayka. What I said was that my tutor studied under Prince Firebow.”

  “If your father was poor, how’d he get you such a tutor?”

  “Good birth and good fortune do not always travel together, sir.”

  “That’s true,” said Chrysantine, continuing to study Gard. “Certainly it was true for the Silverpoints. Did you ever hear of them?”

  Gard looked him in the eye. “I understand the last of that family died some years ago, in a blood feud. I imagine that if there were any bastards of that line still living, they would scarcely wish to make their existence known to anyone.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” said Chrysantine, sounding pleased. “I’m putting together a campaign against Skalkin Salting, you know. He wants Deliantiba. Deliantiba is mine.” The duke paused, smiled at Gard. “His father was hunted down by the last Silverpoint. Killed too, it’s been assumed; neither of their bodies were ever found. That was a long time ago, but I don’t imagine he’s forgotten.”

  “I daresay not. None of my affair, of course.”

  “Of course. I can’t pay you much. Booty’s contingent on victory, as usual. I have a platoon’s worth of untrained me
n to offer you; most of them don’t know one end of a pike from the other. Shopkeepers’ sons and half-breed trash. And one monster. Train them, and you’ll be their officer.”

  “I am equal to the challenge, I hope,” said Gard, making a mental note never to sleep without either Grattur or Engrattur on guard at his door.

  “Very good. Filecutter! Requisition a tent and gear for Mr., er, Bullion. And servants. What are you boys, twins?”

  “Yes. They’re mutes,” said Gard quickly. “Their name is Grating.”

  “Mute identical twins,” said Chrysantine, amused. “Damn, that must be useful at times. Not sure how exactly, though. Can they fight?”

  “Like demons,” said Gard, and Grattur and Engrattur grinned.

  “This is your lot,” said Filecutter, the steward.

  Gard looked out on the row of ill-assorted tents. They had been pitched at the edge of camp, and ragged-looking men wandered between them or crouched beside cooking fires. “They have no banner.”

  “That’s because they aren’t soldiers yet,” said Filecutter. “Aren’t anything to speak of. Lumps of earth. I don’t envy you your work, but the better units got assigned early. Best of luck!” He leaned forward and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Enlistees! Stand to attention! We’ve got you an arms master.” Then he turned and walked away, as the men formed a line.

  Gard walked down the slope toward them. Several of them were tradesmen’s apprentices who had volunteered in patriotic fervor and clearly regretted it now. Some, he could see, were old mercenaries, a little the worse for wear: one or two were missing a hand, though their prosthetic claws looked efficient, and one was missing an eye. Nor was this all….

  “Little brother,” hissed Grattur. “Some of them are demons.”

  Yes; some two or three of them were projecting spells over themselves to conceal their true appearances, even as Gard was doing. Several more were undisguised half-breeds, shaped like Children of the Sun but with thundercloud skin, or striped markings, or strange eyes, or crests of hair. One stood upright like a man but had the head of a wolf, somewhat gray in the muzzle.

  As Gard came to the line, one of the apprentices stepped forward.

  “Sir, please, you must help us! We volunteered to serve out of loyalty to the duke, and this is just too insulting!”

  “What is insulting?”

  The apprentice stared at Gard as though he were mad. “That we’re expected to serve with—with those!” The apprentice flung out his arm at the half-breeds. “I mean, look at the werewolf, for gods’ sake!”

  Gard looked. The werewolf looked back at him, through slitted yellow eyes.

  “Do you know how to fight?” Gard asked the apprentice.

  “No.”

  “I think the werewolf knows how to fight.”

  “Look, we want you to see that we’re put into a proper regiment!”

  “That’s not my job. My job is to train you to fight. You won’t belong in any regiment until you’re a soldier. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the apprentice, drooping.

  “Good,” said Gard, and walked slowly down the line. Those in disguise themselves had seen through his own disguise and watched him with guarded amusement. He studied them, in turn.

  “Right,” he said. “All veterans with axes, raise your hands.”

  Five hands went up.

  “Good. Go cut some poles at the thicket over there. I want five practice dummies set up. Who’s been a soldier the longest?”

  “That would be me, sir,” said one of the demons, stepping forward. His disguise masked eyes like red coals; tusks jutted from his jaw, though the glamour made it seem like a particularly bad underbite.

  “How many years have you served?”

  “Twenty, sir,” said the demon with a wink.

  “Then I think you know where to find paint in a military camp. Go requisition some for us. Red, green, and yellow. And requisition ten practice blades, while you’re at it.”

  “Sir!” The demon saluted and hastened to obey.

  Gard had come full circle. Now he stood, intoning the postures of attack or defense, while some awkward boy lunged with a wooden practice blade. It was just as monotonous and dispiriting from the master’s point of view as from the student’s. Even the werewolf was slow and awkward, no lithe killer.

  Nonetheless, Gard made progress with them. Redeye, the old veteran, was an expert at scrounging broken and discarded gear and somehow found enough to equip the whole platoon with mended stuff. Gard made him his sergeant. One afternoon as they stood watching the apprentices and half-breeds at pike drill, Gard felt the faint questioning tug at his consciousness.

  He settled himself firmly on his feet and went out of himself a little. A slow-flaring red light was at the edge of his vision, like a fireworks show. It was Redeye.

  … Do you know how to talk to us?

  I do.

  Where’d you come from? You’re young, to have such control over yourself.

  I was a lost child.

  You found your way home quickly, then. Not like some of these poor lads. They’ve had it hard. Wandered around for years, never knowing where they fit in.

  I too. But you are no half-breed.

  No. I was slave to an old mage. Me, and Arkholoth there, and Stedrakh. The mage died at last, and we still had these nice bodies he gave us to wear, so we ran free and enjoyed them. At least, they were fun until they got so cut up.

  How is it you can disguise yourselves?

  He had little amulets we could carry with us when he sent us to do his marketing. They make us look like Children of the Sun. Hard to get the shopkeepers to wait on you otherwise, isn’t it? We took them with us when we left his house for good.

  Amulets. Gard was astounded at the simplicity of it, and the brilliance; an external spell that did not require a constant exertion of will to run. For the first time it occurred to him that he did not, perhaps, know all that might be known about sorcery. Perhaps the mages under the mountain had not been so very learned after all.

  What about the werewolf?

  Poor old Thrang? His master bodied him like that. Wanted something fearful-looking to guard his treasure. Then the master died and left him to his children, and they didn’t want him. The duke heard they had a werewolf and offered to buy him. A werewolf in your army, you know—ooooh, how frightening. But it turned out what the old master collected was porcelain, you see.

  Is that why Thrang carries around that painted cup?

  It’s all he has left. He curated his master’s collection for fifty years, and then the sons took it all away from him and sold it, except for the cup. Sometimes he goes out to the edge of camp at night and howls over it.

  I wondered why he didn’t seem to know how to kill.

  Ah! Just you knock over that cup sometime. You’ll see he’s still got teeth.

  They had no banner, but they had a name: the Disgraces. Men from all the other parts of camp, even the women of the artillery division, would come and stare, and laugh, when Gard marched his platoon along the edge of the river. Their laughter fell silent, though, when he would set the Disgraces to mock combat with spear or sword and buckler.

  One afternoon Gard looked up from a pike drill to see that Duke Chrysantine himself had come to the edge of the bluff to watch. His son Pentire stood beside him, chuckling, but the duke looked thoughtful. He nodded as Gard approached.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Bullion,” said Pentire. “Your Disgraces very nearly look like men.”

  “Some of them are men,” said the duke. “Look there, that one’s pureblooded. So are those two. What are they doing in with this lot of cripples and mongrels?”

  “I believe they were put in my platoon because they didn’t know one end of a pike from another,” said Gard, “sir.”

  “Well, they damn well seem to know now,” said the duke. “Look at that! That was a Firebow’s Counter. Pure Silverhaven style. Gods below, Bullion, you know you
r business too. Those boys don’t belong here. They ought to be in one of the regular platoons.”

  “I have implied to them, sir, that they might be transferred out if they made an honest effort to learn,” said Gard. “I hope you’ll excuse the liberty.”

  “Oh, quite all right; good motivation. Call them up here!” said the duke.

  “Wrenching! Smith! Gearlock! Fall out!” shouted Gard, and waved them up the hill. They came, streaming sweat, and formed a line before the duke.

  “His lordship is pleased with your progress, gentlemen,” said Gard.

  “I think you lads have earned places in Sunrise Company,” said the duke.

  “Thank you, sir!” they chorused, saluting.

  “But that’s my platoon,” said Pentire, looking at his father.

  “You’ll thank me,” said the duke. “These men could teach your elite guard a trick or two, I think. Go pack your kit, you three. You’re the archduke’s men now.”

  “Sir!” Another sharp salute, beaming, and they were gone to their tents so fast a dust cloud followed them.

  “You’ve earned the right to better society yourself,” said the duke to Gard. “You’re wasted on those boys down there.”

  “With respect, sir, I’m enjoying the challenge,” said Gard. “I believe I’m making progress with your werewolf, in particular.”

  “You think so? Moth-eaten old thing, isn’t he? I was sadly disappointed in him. If you can give him a bit of, you know, horrific presence or something, I’d be much obliged.”

  “I shall do my best, sir.”

  They were sitting around their fire that night, Redeye and Arkholoth and Stedrakh, when Gard emerged from his tent and approached them. “Good evening, Sergeant. Gentlemen,” he said, and settled into a comfortable crouch.

  “Good evening, sir,” said Redeye. “Just our lot now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Just us.”

  They considered Gard warily. He looked back at them, seeing through the illusions that made them seem a trio of grizzled Children of the Sun. Arkholoth had had green-faceted eyes, until a bit of shrapnel had put one out; Stedrakh was a red-scaled thing with one shapely right hand and one set of iron claws bound to the stump of his left arm.