“Nothing’s wrong, Your Majesty.” Al-Marai kept his hand on his weapon as he strode up the side of the map. “Nothing that we can’t fix.”
In a flash, the general reached out for the board, shifting pieces to move the Morenian army closer to the capital, closer to Sin Hazar himself. Still dissatisfied with the map’s display, Al-Marai shook his head and reached into the gutters at the side of the painted board. He extracted three more crimson pieces, markers for the upstart Halaravilli’s army. Al-Marai settled them on the board beside the other pieces, shook his head, and moved the entire mass of crimson markers still farther north, so that they were within two days’ march of Sin Hazar.
“Surely you jest.” Sin Hazar kept his dry cynicism with an effort.
“There’s no jest here. I’ve just received our most recent scouts’ reports.”
“But there’s no way that southern dog can have that many men! It’s wintertime! He would need to muster his entire kingdom!”
“Perhaps we were misinformed about the number of his standing forces.” Al-Marai flicked a glance toward Felicianda’s bastard.
Sin Hazar followed his brother’s gaze and restrained a shrug of irritation. “Bashanorandi.” The name was clearly a command, but it still took the boy a moment to step up to the map. What had the creature expected when he insisted on joining his uncles in the stone chamber? That he could sulk in the corner like a child denied sweets?
“Your Majesty?” Bashanorandi bowed as he stepped up to the table, but he avoided meeting Sin Hazar’s eyes.
Ah, Felicianda had much to answer for.… Had she truly expected to set this child on her southern throne? If so, perhaps she had remained more dedicated to her homeland Amanthia, to her family, than Sin Hazar had ever expected. He could have overrun Bashanorandi’s kingdom with the effort it took to swat a fly.
“You’ve heard your uncle. There are more troops approaching from the south than we expected. You told us that we would find no more than a hundred men on horse, and merely ten companies of foot soldiers.”
“Th – that’s what I thought, Your Majesty.” Bashanorandi darted a tongue over his chapped lips. A nasty habit, that. It made him look like a lizard, an appearance that was not disputed by his eyes’ furtive dart toward the map board. The new swan’s wing tattooed on the boy’s cheek twitched nervously.
“And what was your base for those estimates, Bashanorandi?”
“There were exercises set for us by our tutors, back in Morenia.” The boy closed his eyes and caught his tongue between his teeth, sighing deeply as if he were trying to remember a complex calculation. “They said that in the first years of Shanoranvilli’s rule, he marched north to Amanthia. He raised troops along the way. One hundred men on horse, he had, and he gathered ten companies –”
“At the beginning of his reign!” Sin Hazar exploded, smashing his fist down onto the table in fury. The army markers jumped, and three units of footsoldiers collapsed on their sides. “How long did Shanoranvilli sit his throne, boy?”
“F – for sixty years.”
“And what Amanthian borders changed during that time?” Bashanorandi stared at him as if he spoke the language of the Thousand Gods. “Didn’t he become the lord of the Eastern March?”
“But, Your Majesty, I did not know how to calculate other figures!”
“Didn’t he become lord of the Eastern March?” Sin Hazar repeated, ignoring the pitiful protest.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Bashanorandi hunched his shoulders unhappily.
“And didn’t he annex the Southern Reach?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And didn’t he become overlord of the Pepper Isles?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. But there aren’t many people there, not more than a few hundred.”
“Not more than a few hundred!” Sin Hazar bellowed, and his fists closed in his nephew’s royal blue tunic. He felt the boy’s heart pound beneath his hands as he drew the whelp close, near enough for Bashanorandi’s nervous breath to brush across his own lips. He squeezed the boy and hissed, “Not more than a few hundred! But how many more people declared their loyalty to your father, when he could provide them with a safe route to the spices?” He shook the boy hard enough that he could hear teeth chatter together. “How many more of your merchants swore fealty in the southern part of your father’s realm? How many more soldiers bear the Morenian lion on their shields?”
“I – I don’t know! P – Please, Your Majesty, you’re hurting me!”
Sin Hazar swore and twisted the boy’s tunic tighter between his hands, gathering up the silk folds until the cloth sawed into the vulnerable flesh at the front of the boy’s throat. The soft skin was bared like a lover’s, and Sin Hazar saw fear in the boy’s pleading eyes, blue eyes so like Felicianda’s.
What a miserable excuse for a prince!
Felicianda would never have tolerated such abuse from Sin Hazar! Even if she had made the same stupid mistakes, even if she had failed to take into consideration the most basic elements of statesmanship, she would have fought against her elder brother’s punishment. Anger would have flashed from her blue eyes, pure rage. And then she would have twisted in his grip, even if the movement cut off her breath even more. She would have fought like a coney in a snare, and she would have stomped on his toes.…
But Felicianda was gone. Dead. Executed as a traitor. All for trying to place this waste of a boy on her southern throne.
“Your Majesty.” Sin Hazar barely heard the words, scarcely registered the murmur. Nevertheless, Al-Marai took a step forward, distracting Sin Hazar from his fury. The king did not bother to look at his brother as he brought himself back to the stone chamber, to the map that was riddled with false markers.
Instead, he twisted his hands a fraction tighter, sawed the fabric just a little deeper into his nephew’s soft throat. And then he released Bashanorandi.
The boy collapsed to his knees, retching. He leaned forward to support most of his weights on his hands, gasping for air as if he were a fish pulled from the ocean depths. Sin Hazar reined in the temptation to dig a booted toe into the boy’s side. Better to ignore the brat. Better to leave him out of the affairs of men.
Instead, Sin Hazar turned back to the board, reaching out with a steady hand to pick up the footsoldier markers that had been toppled. “Very well, then.” He might have been discussing nothing more perturbing than an overcooked goose at the dinner table. “Tell me, Al-Marai. How long will it take for these southern troops to arrive on our doorstep? And what must we do to crush them?”
Al-Marai did not waste time glancing at his gasping nephew. Lion that he was, he’d never had a great love for Felicianda. Sin Hazar knew that she’d grasped a swan’s right to command when she was only a little girl. Many times, Sin Hazar had watched Felicianda order around their older brother with a vicious cruelty, making a swan’s demands of Al-Marai that Sin Hazar himself had never dared. Sin Hazar had always remembered the power behind his lion-brother’s sword arm. Sin Hazar had been no fool.
And now, Sin Hazar watched Al-Marai discard Felicianda’s whelp, rubbing his soldierly hand across his lion tattoo, as if the general were reminding himself of his true purpose in the Amanthian court. “Here,” Al-Marai said, pointing to one of the new markers. “They’ve already cleared the Swancastle.”
“And what about the toys that Davin said he’d leave behind?”
“Oh, he left them, Your Majesty. They did their work. We estimate that Halaravilli lost ten of his nobles, and at least three score footsoldiers.”
“Seventy men?” Sin Hazar frowned. “That’s all? Davin said they’d be destroyed entirely.”
“Seventy men, but we’ve made them afraid. They’re sending out scouts now, studying everything on and off the road.”
“S – Seventy Morenians murdered?” Sin Hazar had not noticed that Bashanorandi had risen to his feet, had come back to the map. He did note, though, that the boy kept his distance. The pup was frightened of
his royal uncle; he clearly had no intention of standing close enough to be seized again, even if he had dared to voice a foolish, sentimental thought.
Sin Hazar ignored the child’s incredulity and shot his next question at Al-Marai. “And how many men did we lose in Davin’s maneuver?”
“None, Your Majesty. Only a sun, the smith who launched the trap.” Al-Marai nodded at the map. “It was an excellent ploy. The southerners were stung by an insect they’d never seen before, and now they’re wary of anything with wings.”
“Anything with wings.…” Sin Hazar heard the undercurrent of disagreement in Al-Marai’s tone. “You still think I’m wrong to send the flying machine to the Liantines, don’t you?”
“Not wrong, Your Majesty.”
“But it’s a choice you would not have made.”
“I would have kept the machine here, to defend your city walls.”
“But Davin can make me another. He’s already working on it. Besides, the Liantines have offered enough gold for the contraption that we can procure another ten Yrathis.”
“So you’ve said.”
Sin Hazar glanced at Bashanorandi; he was annoyed at being challenged in front of the boy, however obliquely. “Al-Marai, we’ve been over this a dozen times. The Liantines will pay.”
“They’ve honored their obligations so far, Your Majesty. But the Liantines do not control Yrath. We may not be able to procure the mercenaries, even with Liantine gold.”
“But who is offering more money than we?”
“So you’ve argued before, Your Majesty.”
“Al-Marai, you certainly can’t be afraid that that upstart rebel of a southern king is going to outspend us? You can’t think that he’s going to buy the Yrathis out from under us?” Sin Hazar forced himself to laugh in ridicule of the concept. From everything they’d heard, from Bashanorandi and more reliable spies, Halaravilli could not afford to smelt weapons for his men. How was he going to purchase the finest soldiers that money could buy?
“Nay, Your Majesty. We’ve seen nothing to indicate that he can afford the Yrathis.”
“Then what is it, Al-Marai? What are you not telling me?”
The lion took a deep breath and then flicked his glance toward Bashanorandi. He seemed to be asking Sin Hazar a question, begging permission to speak plainly in front of the southern brat. Sin Hazar waved an exasperated hand, but Al-Marai still swallowed hard before he managed to meet his liege’s eyes. “Your Majesty, we can’t guarantee that the southerners will be stopped before they reach the city. They make decisions as if they’re mad! They torched the Swancastle, and the countryside is afraid.”
“The Swancastle was an undefended pile of stones! Our own boys undermined the walls!”
“Aye, but the sound of a stone wall falling does not carry. Smoke can be seen for leagues.”
“What are you telling me? Do you think that I’m in danger?” Sin Hazar’s voice broke on the last word, from incredulity or rage, even he could not have said.
“I don’t think that you’re in serious danger. I don’t think that your life is on the line. Nevertheless.…”
“Nevertheless, what? What are you trying to say, Al-Marai?”
“I think that you should take out the Golden Dragon. I think that you should command this war from the sea.”
Sin Hazar gaped at his brother. Go out to sea? Admit to fear?
Al-Marai was the first lion in the history of Amanthia to conceive of setting up an alternative command post during war. They’d talked about it often enough – the Golden Dragon had become Al-Marai’s pet project over the years. The general had always championed the notion of a palace that could be maneuvered about the open seas, providing secrecy and safety.… Sin Hazar could use pigeons to send messages to a half dozen land-bound outposts. He could launch smaller crafts from the deck of the Golden Dragon; he could issue orders to his crack troops, all from a safe distance.
And all Sin Hazar needed to do was admit that he was afraid. “The Golden Dragon.…” he said, sampling the taste of the ship’s name, sampling the flavor of retreat.
“Aye, Your Majesty. It would permit us to test my theories. You could try it now, before you need to. Cement your command for the future. For you know that next year, we’ll be turning our attention away from the south. Once you have Morenia under control, you’ll be looking toward Liantine in earnest. Knowing our capabilities on the open sea will be important there.”
“But who would stay behind to command my forces on land?”
“I would, Your Majesty.”
Sin Hazar gazed at his brother, warmed by the automatic reply. He flicked a glance toward Bashanorandi, to see if the brat was absorbing the lesson. The boy’s eyes were locked on Sin Hazar, his hand raised to his throat, massaging the angry red line where his tunic had cut across his windpipe. There was a message behind that cornflower gaze, an expectation that Sin Hazar would accept Al-Marai’s offer. Would accept the escape.
Al-Marai persisted. “War is fraught with danger, Sire. I’ll stay behind. We’ll work well together.”
War is fraught with danger. And what sort of king would Sin Hazar be if he ran from that danger? One glance at the sniveling Bashanorandi answered that rhetorical question. “I’m sorry, Al-Marai. I will not flee a battle, even to test your Golden Dragon.”
“But Your Majesty –”
“It would look like cowardice to my people, no matter how much you and I might know that it is not.”
“My lord –”
“I’ll brook no dispute on this.”
“But, brother –”
“Aye,” Sin Hazar cut him off, before Al-Marai could make some demand that could not be denied, some last-ditch plea backed by blood. “Brother. We have battles to fight. Kingdoms to protect. A war to win. I will not let you harvest all the glory, here on land, while I am pampered and bored on the Golden Dragon.” Sin Hazar smiled as he reached out for Al-Marai, clasping his brother’s strong hand across the map as Bashanorandi looked on with transparent jealousy. Sin Hazar chose his words to cut as deeply as he could. “Let’s study how we’ll defeat these southern bastards.”
Rani gathered the cloak closer about her shoulders, leaning her head back so that the soft cloth brushed against the nape of her neck.
“Are you ready, Rai?”
“Aye,” Rani muttered, opening her eyes to look at Mair. “Are you certain you shouldn’t lead this?”
“I don’t have Crestman’s ear. In the end, he’s what matters.”
“Aye. And you’re sure they won’t believe us if we just tell them the truth? They won’t recognize the danger and fight to turn the ship around?”
“Would you? If you’d been dragged into the Little Army, or you thought you loved a boy who had been? Would you believe a pair of southern traitors who don’t even talk like proper suns?” Mair leaned forward and grasped Rani’s wrist. “If you don’t have the stomach to follow through, you’re better off not even beginning.”
“I know that,” Rani said. Of course she’d be better off not beginning. She’d be better off not on this tossing, rocking boat. She’d be better off not in Amanthia at all. She’s be better off if she’d stuck with her promises, if she’d worked on rebuilding the glasswrights’ guild, and ignored all the pomp and intrigue of living as a noble in Hal’s court. She’d be better off if she’d never taken her falcon out, if she’d never tried to fly Kalindramina on that autumn afternoon that seemed like a lifetime ago.
But she had flown her falcon, and she’d been carried off to the north. And now, if she did not act quickly, she was going to be sold into slavery in Liantine, slavery or worse. Rani sighed. “I’m ready. Call them over, and I’ll do my part.”
“All right then. May Cot watch over us.”
“Cot?” Rani almost managed a grin. “I don’t know that the god of soldiers has anything to say about this mission. More like Quon.”
“Not all the girls are harlots.”
“Not all of th
em, no. But enough for our plan to work. Or so we can hope.” Rani grimaced and pulled herself to her feet.
At least the ship had stopped tossing so violently. Crestman had even called the Little Army up onto the deck for an afternoon of military maneuvers, announcing that he wasn’t about to have his company arrive in Liantine out of shape and lax in miliary discipline. From down in the hold, the girls could easily make out the drumbeat of the boys’ feet on the wooden deck, the crash and tumble of the soldiers going through their exercises. They’d already been at it for a long time; Rani dared not delay any more.
Mair lit one of the precious rushlights from the torch on the wall and began to walk among the girls. “Are you all right there?” she asked of one of the youngest. “Come with me. You, there. Let’s gather over here. We need to talk, girls. We need to make our own preparations to help the boys. We need to help the Little Army.”
More of the girls gathered about than Rani had expected. At first, she’d been afraid that Mair would only be able to attract the very youngest, the ones who were too small for even the most desperate of the boys to bother with. Some of the older girls, though, left off their whispering and giggling, coming to join the ragged circle around Rani.
As the girls pressed around, one of the oldest – Suditha, Rani remembered – settled between Rani and Mair. Rani started to shift position, to maneuver closer to her Touched ally, but she caught Mair’s shake of her head and returned to her seat on the floor of the hold. Suditha sank beside her, her owl tattoo close enough that Rani could have traced the lines with her finger.
The Amanthian girl was oblivious to Rani’s interest, though; she was occupied only in raking her fingers through her long, fiery locks. The action was sufficient to remind Rani that Suditha had taken up with one of Crestman’s lieutenants. The girl was one of the first who had warmed to her role in the boys’ camp, and she had embraced her position – and her soldier – eagerly. As Rani waited for the other girls to settle into a close circle, Suditha reached out and touched her tight-woven cloak, the cloak that Crestman had settled around Rani’s shoulders when she had stood on deck. “That’s a nice garment there.”
Glasswrights' Progress Page 28