The camp was larger than she’d realized, she noted, as they walked past a row of battered-looking tents, each one large enough to hold a hundred soldiers. Men were sleeping on the ground or marching to and fro, shouting and chanting as they prepared for war. Some were throwing spears, stabbing with swords or shooting arrows at targets. Others seemed to be playing dice or arm-wrestling. And one man was standing in front of a tent, wearing nothing below the waist. Emily looked away, hastily. What was he doing there?
“Punishment duty,” Sergeant Miles explained, when she asked. “He’ll have offended his superior in some manner.”
The tents grew better as they made their way further into the camp. Some had flags fluttering above them, others seemed to be made of finer materials or protected by magic. Dozens of brightly clothed young men were riding their horses around, giving them much-needed exercise. Emily couldn’t help noticing that they looked better than the common soldiers, their uniforms flashier and their faces unscarred. Their weapons flashed in the sun. A couple of them gave her odd looks, as if they weren’t quite sure who she was. She didn’t really blame them. None of the portraits of her looked remotely realistic.
Which is par for the course, she thought. There isn’t an accurate portrait of anyone in the Nameless World.
“Most of the horsemen are minor nobility,” Sergeant Miles commented. The hint of bitterness in his voice surprised her. He nodded towards a particularly foppish young man, who was balancing upside down on his horse’s back. “It’s very rare for a commoner to be able to afford a horse, let alone the upkeep. Even when they do, they can’t really afford to join a cavalry regiment. Each of those young fools is expected to buy everything from their uniforms to enough drink to drown the entire regiment.”
“They look flashy,” Emily said. It struck her as terrifyingly inefficient. “Aren’t they useful?”
“If they follow orders, cavalry can be very useful,” Sergeant Miles said. “Put a strong commander in charge, one they’ll obey, and they can be decisive. But far too many of them will not obey orders, if they consider their commander to be their social inferior. Battles have been lost because some young idiot decided to do his own thing in the midst of combat.”
Emily glanced at him, then back at the horsemen. “The army doesn’t buy horses for its men?”
“Of course not,” Sergeant Miles said. His voice darkened. “Commoners are not natural horsemen, didn’t you know?”
Emily nodded, slowly. Peasants — in Zangaria, at least — were not allowed to own horses, even if they did have the money. Even merchants and innkeepers, who were allowed to own horses, had to register them with the local sheriff. Their horses could be requisitioned — or confiscated — at will and they knew it. Only the aristocracy were allowed to maintain their own stables. It was just another line drawn to keep the lower classes in their place.
“The cavalry also gets better food than the infantry,” Sergeant Miles said. “They’re all expected to chip in, just to pay for the mess. They might invite you to eat with them, if you’re lucky. Make sure you starve yourself beforehand.”
Emily glanced at him. “Should I go?”
“If you want,” Sergeant Miles said. “They’ll flirt outrageously, but they’ll behave themselves. As long as you’re careful.”
“How reassuring,” Emily said, dryly.
Sergeant Miles laughed. “Remember what I said,” he warned her. He’d told her so much before departure that Emily had had real trouble keeping it all straight. “As long as you’re here, pretend you are a man and be one of the boys.”
Emily kept her face expressionless as they reached a second set of wooden walls. The riding clothes and tunic she wore didn’t hide her figure, certainly not enough for her to pass for a man. And her hair didn’t help either. Aristocrats might wear their hair long, but she’d never seen a man with hair that reached down to the small of his back. The messenger led them through the gate, nodding to the guards. They didn’t seem inclined to stop him.
But there was another set of wards. She could feel them probing her as they walked towards the command tent. Someone was being careful, very careful. The tents were protected against all forms of magical spying, as well as long-distance attacks. She nodded in approval. Necromancers weren’t supposed to have the skill to spy on their enemies, but it wouldn’t be wise to take that for granted. Besides, there were plenty of people in the Allied Lands who would probably want to spy on the army too.
A tall man wearing black stood outside the largest tent, next to a younger man in apprentice robes. Emily couldn’t help thinking that there was something forbidding about the man’s granite-like face, as if he was utterly unmoved by the world around him. And then he broke into a smile that transformed his features. His teeth practically flashed under the sun.
“Miles, you old horse-thief,” he said, grinning. “How have you been?”
He clasped hands with the sergeant. “It has been a very long time,” he added. “I’ve been meaning to make it to Whitehall, but ...”
“You wouldn’t want to blow up the school,” Sergeant Miles finished. He waved a hand at Emily. “Emily, this is Master Storm. Combat sorcerer, blade-master, and all-around sneaky bastard. Storm, I believe Emily needs no introduction. ”
Storm beamed. “I thank you,” he said. “I have heard of her.”
He looked Emily up and down. “Master Grey clearly underestimated you.”
“Yes, sir,” Emily said.
She couldn’t help noticing that the messenger looked horrified. If Storm could talk to Sergeant Miles as an equal ... it boded ill for his future. Clearly, Sergeant Miles was more important than his rank suggested. But then, a sorcerer — even one of humble origins — was effectively a nobleman. She suppressed her amusement with an effort. There were more important things to worry about.
Sergeant Miles was still talking to Storm. “They got you on guard duty now?”
“Someone keeps poking at the wards,” Storm told him. “They’re very good too, whoever they are. The wards need to be constantly monitored to keep the bastards out.”
He waved a hand at his apprentice. “Lady Emily, please allow me to introduce my apprentice,” he added. “He’s been with me two years.”
“We’ve met,” the apprentice said. “Emily, it’s good to see you again.”
Emily stared at him. It took her several moments to place the face. “Cat?”
“It’s been a while,” Cat said. He’d been in fifth year when she’d entered Whitehall. They’d shared Martial Magic classes. “You’ve changed.”
“I hope so,” Emily said. She hadn’t had much in common with him, although he’d always treated her well. “I was surprised you didn’t attend the wedding.”
“I couldn’t get time off,” Cat said. “Master Storm’s been keeping me busy.”
He paused. “How are the lovebirds settling down?”
“They’re doing well,” Emily said. Jade and Alassa had been almost sickeningly sweet, the last time she’d seen them. “I believe they’re going to be touring the Allied Lands soon.”
Master Storm cleared his throat. “You two can catch up later,” he said, practically. “Right now, I believe the general wants to see his daughter-in-law.”
Emily felt her cheeks redden. The messenger looked as though he wanted to redo the last twenty minutes. She looked down at the ground, trying to compose herself. She and Caleb weren’t married, not yet. General Pollack wasn’t her father-in-law until the wedding ceremony was over.
Cat looked interested. “Marrying the general’s son? I think ...”
“That will do,” Storm said. He looked at Sergeant Miles. “After you have spoken to General Pollack, please join me and the other combat sorcerers for a chat. We have to plan our tactics for when the army moves south.”
Miles frowned. “You’re not building a defensive line here?”
“The king’s forces will see to that,” Storm said. The wards flickered around him
, just for a second. “We’re moving forward, it seems. General Pollack will fill you in.”
He smiled. “And we also have better wine than the rest of the camp.”
“Wine,” Sergeant Miles repeated. He sounded displeased. “How do you plan to fight on wine?”
“We also laid in several barrels of beer,” Storm added. “And someone will be brewing alcohol in the camp soon enough.”
Cat winked at Emily. “Try not to drink it,” he said. “You’ll go blind.”
“Good advice,” Sergeant Miles said. He looked at the messenger, who was practically hopping backwards and forwards. “Do you need to take a piss?”
The messenger reddened. “My Lord, General Pollack requested your immediate presence,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.”
And every wasted second is one you might have to pay for, Emily added, silently. She didn’t think General Pollack would waste time shooting the messenger — she didn’t even know if he had a gun — but she didn’t know him well enough to be sure. The general might take any further delays out on you.
“They’re free to enter,” Storm said. “I’ve already keyed them into the wards.”
“They might be imposters,” Cat pointed out. “The wards here aren’t precise enough to be sure.”
“Posing as someone I know very well would be extremely impressive,” Storm pointed out, sarcastically. “Why, how could anyone pose as Smiles around me?”
He grinned. “But feel free to demand further proof.”
Cat looked embarrassed. “Emily ... prove you’re you.”
Emily closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to think. Was he serious? Or was he just trying to impress his master? They hadn’t known each other that well. She didn’t think she’d ever been alone with him, let alone shared secrets no one else would know. Hell, on the face of it, they might not even have known each other. There’d been four years between them at school.
“You and your team played the dirtiest game imaginable against Alassa and hers,” she remembered, finally. “And afterwards she kicked you in the groin.”
Cat winced. Master Storm laughed.
Emily concealed her amusement with an effort. “Is that good enough for you?”
“Yes,” Cat said. “She’s tough, isn’t she?”
Master Storm cleared his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“I would like to invite you to join the other apprentices after your master dismisses you,” Cat said. He gave Sergeant Miles a sidelong look. “If that’s all right with you.”
“Just remember she’s my apprentice,” Sergeant Miles growled. “No funny business.”
He nodded to Storm, then looked at the messenger. “Take us to the general.”
The messenger led them forward, pulling open the flap. “General,” he said, loudly. “I beg leave to announce Sergeant Miles, Knight of the Allied Lands and Tutor of Whitehall, and Lady Emily, Baroness Cockatrice, Necromancer’s Bane.”
“Welcome,” a familiar voice said. “Please, come inside.”
Emily glanced at Sergeant Miles, then followed him into the tent.
Chapter Eight
“EMILY, WELCOME,” GENERAL POLLACK SAID. HE gave her a smile. “Come on in.”
The tent was larger than Emily had expected, roomy enough to hold two large wooden tables that looked as though they could easily be broken down. They were covered in maps and paperwork, a dozen folding chairs and something that looked like a portable drinks cabinet, perched in the corner. General Pollack stood behind one of the tables, flanked by two men; three more sat beside the other table, their eyes following her as she walked into the tent. General Pollack walked around his table and bowed to her, smiling as Emily curtseyed in return.
He’d changed, Emily noted, as he pulled out a seat for her. His body looked more muscular, his face more florid now he’d shaved off his moustache. He’d trimmed his hair close to the scalp too, giving him an intimidating appearance. He wore a white uniform, covered in gold braid, that glittered under the lanterns. Emily couldn’t help thinking that it would also make him a target, if someone spotted him at a distance. The Nameless World had no sniper rifles — not yet — but it did have archers who could fire bolts over incredible distances. She hoped that General Pollack would be careful.
“It is good to see you again,” General Pollack said, as she sat. “And Miles! I’ve heard good things about you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sergeant Miles said. His voice was very dry. “Being her master has been an interesting experience.”
“But it’s just a temporary arrangement,” General Pollack pointed out. “One devised to smooth her path.”
Emily couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable. They were talking about her as though she wasn’t there. And General Pollack hadn’t offered Sergeant Miles a chair. Was that a subtle insult based on his low birth? Or was she the one being insulted? General Pollack wouldn’t insult her in front of his staff, would he? Unless he was trying to make it clear that she was under his authority ...
“But a real one, until we part,” Sergeant Miles said. There was no give in his voice. Low birth or not, he was a combat sorcerer. “She is my responsibility.”
General Pollack nodded. “You are both welcome here,” he said. “Let me introduce you to my staff.”
He waved a hand towards a tall man wearing a fancy uniform. “Lord Fulbright, Master of Horse,” he said. Emily glanced at Fulbright and felt a flicker of automatic disdain. He seemed to be looking down his nose at her. “I believe you may have met.”
“I was at the wedding,” Lord Fulbright said. He didn’t need to say which wedding. His accent was surprisingly strong, suggesting he hadn’t spent much time out of his own country. “I don’t believe we were formally introduced.”
“I don’t believe so,” Emily said. She’d been introduced to so many people that she’d forgotten most of them within minutes. “But it is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
General Pollack beamed. “And this is Lord Alcott, Master of Foot,” he said. “He’s been on the border for years.”
Lord Alcott didn’t seem pleased, Emily noted. He was a short man, his hair cut close to his scalp, wearing a leather outfit that had to be charmed to keep out the heat. She wondered, as she nodded to him, if he’d been exiled from his homeland for some reason. Very few high-ranking aristocrats would willingly spend years patrolling the borders, even though it had to be done. He’d probably been on the wrong side of a political struggle and gone into exile, rather than face the headsman.
“Charmed,” he grunted.
“Lord Oswald, Master of Arrows,” General Pollack said. He nodded to a man who looked constantly on the verge of turning to fat. “You will be working closely with him.”
“You are welcome,” Lord Oswald said. He looked like someone who had just run an uphill race, his face unpleasantly sweaty. “There is still room for archers in the ranks.”
“And finally, we have Sir Roger of the Greenwood,” General Pollack said. “He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”
Emily winced, inwardly, as Sir Roger came forward. He was a strikingly handsome man, a few years older than she was, with ginger hair and a neatly-trimmed goatee that made him look like a dandy. His tunic looked as though it had been designed for ease of movement, rather than protection. He carried a crude flintlock pistol and two daggers on his belt, along with the traditional sword. And yet, there was something about his appearance that was almost too perfect, too good to be true. She reached out with her senses, but felt nothing. Sir Roger probably just spent more time on his appearance than most of the men she knew.
He would have cut a swath through court, Emily thought, as she rose. And as long as he was loyal, Randor wouldn’t care.
“Baroness Cockatrice,” Sir Roger said. He knelt to her. “May I say what a great honor it is to set eyes upon you?”
Emily fought down a blush. She hated it when people knelt to her. Alassa accepted it as her due
, but Emily had always found it embarrassing. There was something about the total submission it implied that she hated. A man like Sir Roger shouldn’t be kneeling to her. And yet, it was protocol ...
“I left Cockatrice,” she managed, finally. “I am no longer the Baroness.”
“My Lady,” Sir Roger said. “You will always be Baroness Cockatrice.”
Emily kept her face expressionless, somehow. She’d tried to walk away from the barony, but Alassa had patched together a compromise that — technically — left Emily in exile, while Imaiqah held her lands in trust. She didn’t want to go back, not when King Randor had tried to use her, but she couldn’t escape either. The only consolation was that her exile would probably last for years.
“Sir Roger is in command of the musketeers,” General Pollack said.
“My men and I are ready to fight and die in your defense,” Sir Roger assured her. “And to show the orcs what we can do.”
“Die, perhaps,” Lord Oswald sneered. “Your men couldn’t hit a castle wall!”
“But the sheer volume of fire we put out means that each bullet will hit something,” Sir Roger countered. He sounded amused, rather than angry. Emily rather suspected it was an old argument between the two. “And we are getting more and more accurate weapons.”
“My archers still have you beat,” Lord Oswald said.
Emily glanced at General Pollack, who appeared to be concealing a smile. The archers would have spent years honing their skills, everything from putting hundreds of arrows in the air within minutes to sniping at enemy commanders. Skilled archers took years to train. But guns ... it only took a few minutes to show a musketeer how to load, aim and fire his musket, then put him on the front lines. Lord Oswald’s men would be superseded as the years went on and guns became better and better. Emily couldn’t recall when archers had left the battlefield, but they hadn’t been able to stand up to gunmen.
11- The Sergeant's Apprentice Page 8