“As I am no chirurgeon, I cannot say,” Allystaire replied. “He was married only once, and whether the difficulty in conception was a fault of his or his lady wife’s I cannot say. There were rumblings, once, that he should put aside Ismalde once she passed the age, but he would have none of that. Gilrayan’s mother was a camp follower.”
Gideon tutted lightly, his disapproval clear.
“War is a grim and dreary business and those who fight will do anything to distract themselves from the likelihood of their death. I am not proud of it, not defending it exactly, but a camp commander who tries to drive them off, outlaw them, or punish a soldier for visiting them is signing his own death warrant.”
“It surprises me to hear you admit this to me,” Gideon said. “Then, I suppose you can’t lie about it.”
“I would not anyway. It is just one more hard fact of the war.”
“It is, I would venture to guess, a rather harder fact for those who follow the camps.”
“Aye,” Allystaire said, “I am sure that it is.”
“When we raise an army and march from here,” the boy’s voice trailed off, “will followers come in our wake?”
“Almost certainly,” Allystaire said.
“Then we must make it a point to reach out to them, minister to them,” Gideon said.
“Do you mean preach to them?”
“No,” Gideon said. “You are right that it is likely unavoidable, and probably a healthier outlet for the soldiers, in some ways, than doing without. Yet it is almost certainly awful for the followers. We must not forget that we will be fighting in their defense as well.”
“That is remarkably insightful, Gideon,” Allystaire said. “In the coming days, I want you to draw up a list of rules you would suggest for their treatment, and we will see if we cannot make it a policy.”
The boy nodded, then switched topics quickly and decisively. “Where will we even get the troops? There are not more than a few hundred men here in the pass, and we cannot know that all of them will join.”
“Hamadrian has promised his Thornriders, and Landen whatever men she can spare. Add to that whatever Oyrwyn men are near.”
“There is still no guarantee that Gilrayan will sign any peace. From what you’ve told me, we need to make him see how it is to his advantage to do so.”
“I thought not dropping a mountain on his head was a strong argument.”
“It was enough to get him to come to the table,” Gideon said, “but an argument made using only force is no argument at all. It is merely a threat.”
“I am not above threatening Gilrayan Oyrwyn if I must.”
“Yet we will need Oyrwyn men, yes?”
“Aye,” Allystaire agreed, nodding slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “It seems as though we will.”
“Then again I say we must convince him that it is to his own benefit to agree,” Gideon said.
“How do we do that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the boy said, “but I suspect that Torvul might. Why not let him represent us?”
“Dwarfs are not the most respected of folk,” Allystaire said, “lone dwarfs even less so. Yet he is probably better suited to it than I am.”
“Why is Torvul apart from a caravan?”
“I do not know, and he has never offered to say.” The last couple of words were cut short by a jaw-cracking yawn. “We will have a long day,” Allystaire said, when he recovered, “and we both ought to rest.”
Gideon carefully lifted the lute and slid it into its case, closed it, and began fastening it almost reverently. Carefully, he slid it under his cot and stretched out, hooking his feet at the ankles.
Allystaire picked up his hammer and then carefully lowered himself to the other cot, listening to it creak as it took his weight. He leaned his weapon against the cot, laying back and testing the reach of his right arm to it.
“Do you always sleep at the ready?” Gideon asked.
“Usually.”
“Are you worried someone in the camp may try to attack us, then?”
“I think they might,” Allystaire said, “but I am not worried.”
“Why not?”
The paladin closed his eyes and stretched his thoughts. He found Idgen Marte standing by the edges of their dying cookfire. He knew he could not have seen her there, if he’d walked outside the tent to look, but he could feel her all the same.
“Because anyone who tries to sneak into our camp is in more danger than they are likely to understand.”
* * *
She tried to remain still. Not because she needed to. No one could see her, folded into the shadows cast by the embers of the fire behind her. She tried to remain still because remaining still was what one did when waiting on the ambush one intended to ambush in turn.
So, she was certain, Allystaire would’ve said to remain still.
But stillness was never in Idgen Marte. She had too much energy, too many things to do, too many things to think on.
There was Andus Carek in one of the tents to think about. He’d insisted on coming in order to “document the moment,” he’d said.
Focus, she told herself. Then, frowning hard, she narrowed her thoughts and sought out Torvul who, she knew, was dozing lightly atop his wagon, crossbow in his lap.
You so sure somebody’ll make a play?
Reasonably, he answered drowsily. If not to kill Allystaire, to get a look at Gideon. They saw the Will of the Mother, but they’ve not seen him, and it’s a curious lot over there.
You know I could just go threaten them in their sleep. They’d sign that damn document Allystaire wants a great deal faster if they thought their lives depended on it.
He doesn’t want to broker peace with the sword, and he’s right not to want it.
Idgen Marte frowned, though the dwarf could not see it. That doesn’t tell me whether or not you agree with him.
I have a more expansive view o’the matter. He’s right not to want it, I mean that. Peace’d be as much use as a knife made of unalloyed gold if all that were behind it were threats. And yet.
Threats may be all a man like Unseldt Harlach understands.
I don’t think he’s likely to send knives in the night anyway, Torvul replied.
They lapsed into silence. Idgen Marte paced around the edges of the fire, toying with the hilt of her sword.
Doesn’t seem his style, she admitted. But what do we know of his advisors?
Almost nothing, the dwarf admitted. We ought to have had a sit down with Allystaire t’learn as much about these folk as we could.
Hold. Someone comes. When the hard moments came, Idgen Marte found stillness easy, and she settled into it entirely. In the right shadow, she would’ve practically vanished from sight even without benefit of the Goddess’s Gifts.
Clinging to the darkness, well beyond the circle of light, where Idgen Marte could not have seen but for her Gift, two men were slowly working their way through the trees. They wore leather, soft-soled boots and had long knives, their blades blacked with ash, held in their hands, lying along their forearms.
They stopped beyond the tent farthest from the fire, the empty one she had insisted upon placing there.
Not amateurs in their craft she thought, as one soundlessly slipped his knife up the slits in order to part any knots holding the flaps closed, while the second remained on watch, just their thinking.
Before Torvul could even respond, she had flashed to the side of the one lurking outside the tent, kicked his knee out, and smacked the pommel of her sword into his neck. The first blow staggered him; the second cut off the scream that was gathering in his throat. He went gasping to the ground, stunned, no more threat.
There was still the sound of him falling to the ground, which brought his partner rushing back out of the tent.
> Drawn like a fool, she thought to herself, as she flashed to the inside of the tent—shadows cast on its interior by the stars and moon shining through the drawn flap—and pressed the point of her sword to the back of his neck.
“The knife, or your head,” she rasped. “One of them is hitting the ground in the next moment. Choose.”
He lifted his arms to his sides and opened his hand. The knife fell to the ground with a muffled thump.
“Now,” she said, “tell me who sent you, and what you were out to do.”
The man didn’t say a word. She let pressure build on the tip of her sword, felt it just break the skin.
He leaned forward, away from the sword, and said, “I cannot. I’ll…” He stopped talking, swallowed so hard she could hear it, as if he were choking something down.
“What? You’ll die? I’m the one with the sword at your neck, you’ll do well t’note,” she muttered. Then again, that choking-swallowing sound, and then Torvul’s thought like a warning bell as he suddenly bolted towards her.
The assassin in Grenthorpe! Do you not remember what the priest of Braech did to him? He’s goin’ t’die!
ALLYSTAIRE! She screamed for the paladin with her mind, and felt as he awoke all at once. It was something about him she had marveled at since the beginning, and it had nothing to do with the Goddess’s gifts. One moment, he was deeply, restfully asleep. The next, he was completely awake, aware, and—in this case—boiling out of the tent carrying his hammer.
He did not move fast, by her standards—by her standards, nobody moved fast—but there was always a total singleness of purpose to him. No movement was ever wasted, no foot was put wrong, even if it took him a while to get them moving in the first place. Once he was moving, she knew, as she had known since she saw him in a shantytown tavern a lifetime ago, only a fool would stand in his way.
Idgen Marte would never cease being astonished at how completely he had given himself to his new life. How there was no doubt, no thought for himself, no hesitation at hurling himself into danger. She had called for him, and here he was, nearly naked, weapon in hand, ready to take on an army if need be.
He’s choking, Allystaire! Like the assassin who shot you, choking on seawater.
Allystaire ran to the would-be assassin’s side, his feet churning in the grass and mud of the campsite. He put his hand to the man’s shoulder, who was now hunched over, his retching and gagging sounds now unmistakable.
Torvul had joined them, crossbow dangling across his body from a hook high on his right shoulder.
Almost instantly, Allystaire took his hand away from the dying assassin, as if stung. “I cannot heal him,” he said aloud. “It is not a wound, not a disease. It is magic, and I cannot fight it.” He stood up, his eyes wide in shock. “I cannot save him. Torvul?”
“Not poison,” the dwarf said, even as he knelt by the man, putting his hands to his throat. “I don’t know what I can do.”
There was a rush of wind, a faint run of notes in her ears, and Gideon was suddenly standing in front of the dying man, extending one hand, a deep golden glow beginning in his palm.
“I can,” the boy said. “Step away from him.”
Almost at once the sounds of choking stopped, and the glow spread out from Gideon’s palm to envelop the man completely. His body went rigid and he came to his feet, and a hard blue light began to seep from him into the soft nimbus that surrounded him.
“Sherdan,” Gideon said, “I know that is your name. You entered into a contract with the Sea Dragon. I do not know what your payment was to be, but I do know that the Master of Accords has proven a shrewder negotiator than you. I need you to reject the terms of it in order to save you. I need you, Sherdan, to give up all hope of the payment you longed for.”
The boy tilted his bald head to one side, as if listening for an answer, and shook his head.
“I can keep the magic that is killing you at bay indefinitely, if I wish.” He paused. “But I don’t. I need an answer very soon, and I think I have shown enough forbearance given that you came here to kill me.”
Gideon sighed; there was no sign of exertion in his extended arm. The cloud of gold that flowed around the man from his arm did not waver or dim.
“Of course I can keep you safe. The representative of the Sea Dragon who put you up to this is no threat to me, or to those who surround me. Now, Sherdan, you must consent to give up what you were promised. Or you must prepare your soul to meet Braech. Make your choice.”
It seemed to Idgen Marte as if the man nodded. Gideon’s hand tightened to a fist, and for the first time, there was a sign of strain.
Not for long, though. The blue drops that had seeped out of Sherdan coalesced into a small, hard, dark blue ball in the air between him and Gideon. Inexorably, it was drawn to the Will’s palm, and when it met Gideon’s skin, seemed to sink into him, vanishing. Slowly, Sherdan was lowered back to his feet, and the golden glow that had surrounded him winked out of existence and the would-be assassin fell to the ground in a heap.
Whatever rest he found there was short-lived. Allystaire’s hand seized the back of his jerkin and lifted him to his feet.
“We are going to have a long talk, Sherdan.” He held the man on his feet with his left arm, almost absentmindedly, as he turned to Idgen Marte, and nodded to the unmoving shape on the ground.
“Did you kill that one?”
She shook her head. “Just put him out. He’ll come around.”
“Well, then Gideon may have to go through all this again when he wakes.”
“Only if we ask him questions,” Gideon said. “I think. Simply being captured shouldn’t violate the terms of his bargain.”
“I do not want to guess when a man’s life is at stake. Even if he is not much of a man.” Allystaire turned, dragging the deflated Sherdan behind him like a sack of flour. “We might as well rouse our camp,” he said. “Sentries and men after a piss or a night’s pleasant company will have seen the lights and be coming to investigate.”
“Right,” Torvul said. “I’ll go fetch some shackles for the prisoners.” He turned to Idgen Marte. “You can rouse folk the fastest.”
She nodded and turned away. Her first stop was her own tent, where Andus Carek lay sleeping upon a pile of blankets. Idgen Marte knelt next to him, waking him by placing her hand upon his bare chest.
“Awake,” she said, wincing as she heard her rasping voice saw at the sounds of their shared native tongue, when it should have been nearly sung. She switched to the Barony tongue; it was ugly enough on its own that she didn’t hate the sound of her own voice speaking it.
“You’re going to want to see what comes,” she murmured, then turned and made for the tent shared by Norbert, Harrys, and Tibult.
* * *
Allystaire took a deep breath.
Despite that, his hand still closed into a fist, and he heard his knuckles crack.
No time for putting on armor, he reminded himself, even as he looked longingly at it on the stand, gleaming softly in the dim light of lantern Torvul had sparked to life when he came to shackle the prisoner.
When Allystaire thought of the man again, knife in hand, skin darkened, attempting to creep into the tents, targeting Gideon, he wanted, quite simply, to rush outside and kill someone.
He felt a twinge in his right hand as he recalled smashing the head of a reaver captain against a wall with his fists, one blow after another, until there was almost nothing left of it.
Allystaire wanted a wall, and his iron-banded gloves, and Sherdan’s head between them. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, went back to looking for his shirt and trousers.
Gideon slipped in the back of the tent, took a long look at Allystaire. “I was in no danger,” the boy said quietly.
“Not the point,” Allystaire replied, and he was surprised at the extent to which
his anger seeped into his voice. He pulled his dark blue tunic over his head, finding it difficult to unclench his fists.
“Does it occur to you that if you now go and attack the Oyrwyn camp, the Congress could disintegrate, and perhaps that is all that the Sea Dragon’s priest was attempting to do?”
“I am not going to attack the Oyrwyn camp,” Allystaire said. “I am going to expel Braech’s priest, though. It will be up to him whether he leaves under his own power or I drag his body away. Even so, I doubt he acted of his own accord.”
“Why not?”
“Sherdan is an Oyrwyn man. He told me as much as I dragged him here,” Allystaire said. He tugged his belt around his waist and cinched it closed, reached for the hammer that he’d set on his cot. “A scout. He was detailed to the priest—Winsar Ethrik, he said, and I am not sure which of those is a title.”
“The first is,” Gideon replied. “Winsars report to Marynths, who serve Choirons. The titles come from Islandman language roots.”
“Now is not the time for a linguistics lesson, Gideon,” Allystaire replied.
“Gilrayan Oyrwyn didn’t bring a priest of Braech with him to the congress, did he? He was attended by two men, neither of whom wore Braech’s vestments.”
“Aye,” Allystaire agreed. “Neither did.”
“Then why are you—”
Allystaire slipped his hammer through the loop on his belt and strode out of the tent, taking the lantern as he went. “It would take too long to explain. Just follow.”
* * *
Outside their tent, the rest of the Mother’s encampment was moving into action. Idgen Marte had rousted the three men of the Order and Andus Carek, with the former coming armed and the latter bearing a writing case under one arm. Torvul had his lantern out and between the powerful illumination of the dwarf’s handiwork and Allystaire’s more mundane lamp, they had enough light to see by.
“We had assassins in the camp,” Allystaire explained, immediately pressing on over the sudden questions from Harrys, Norbert, and Tibult. “They have been subdued, but we are off to subdue their masters. No one bares a blade or nocks an arrow unless I do, or at the need of saving your life or someone else’s. Understood?”
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