Otto rolled his eyes. “Come in here.” He lifted the flap of his larger, floored tent and mock-bowed; Dewar returned the bow with grace and without seriousness, and they went in. Otto uncorked a half-empty bottle of wine. “You know what I meant.”
“I know what you meant, and the answer I gave is as meaningful as any. I’ve said it before: I do not sell myself. I wish to see you win this war.”
“Why is that?”
Dewar shrugged, smiling slowly, and lifted his cup. “Victory, Your Highness.”
“Victory.”
They sipped. Dewar made a face. “ ’Tis better mulled.”
Otto banged his cup down. “I don’t know what to do with you, Dewar. You ambled in a little too nonchalantly, you hung around all summer and helped chase Ocher out of Lys, you’re tagging along on my personal war, and all you want is bed and board? Come off it. Sooner or later there’s going to be a price to pay.” He examined his companion as if something in his face or clothing would change and tell him what that price would be.
“I hope not,” Dewar replied. “However, if you do not trust me, I will leave. And I will not be joining Prince Gaston, either. I have plenty of other affairs to look into.”
“You’re a hell of a sorcerer,” said Otto. “Why hasn’t anyone heard of you?”
Dewar shrugged, cleaned the fingernails of one hand with the other’s. “I am modest.”
Otto made a rude noise.
“Come, come, Otto. Why this, now? Because it comes close to an acid test?”
“You’re too good to be true! Speaking of cheap romances and threadbare fairy tales—sorcerers, hotshot sorcerers who can rearrange a mountainside with a couple of words and a thump of the staff, do not just waltz in out of nowhere and offer to help out rebellious would-be Kings—”
“Certainly they do. The stories get started somehow, Otto.” Dewar grinned, then laughed. “What has gotten into you? I would never have thought of it that way. Did you train as a skald sometime?”
Otto sighed. “Put yourself in my shoes, Dewar.”
“I do,” Dewar said. “I think: I am a military man of no small ability fighting a hugely superior force. I think: I need all the help I can get. A man volunteers his services. He serves well. Do I refuse?”
“Put that way, no. But you’ve stripped out a lot of little details. Like, I don’t actually know anything about you.”
“All I know about you is what you have told me,” Dewar said, “and more importantly, what I have seen. If I did not think you were worth the trouble, I’d be on my way months since.”
They stared at one another, eye to eye, a mutual challenge.
Otto broke the silence. “All right. Let one thing be clear between us, though: If you turn coat on me, if you’re playing a double game, if you betray me in any way—I’ll never rest until I have your skin on my wall.”
Dewar smiled and shrugged. “Fine.”
Otto stared at him a moment longer. “Fine. Have another drink.”
“No, thank you. I have work to do, but be assured I shall be done when the venison is.”
12
A MAN HAD RIDDEN TO LYS with a letter, and now he rode back to Ottaviano’s camp in the dry, hard ice-wind. Snow had not fallen in Ascolet in nearly a month, not since the Fireduke had led his soldiers there. This unusual drought was attributed by Otto’s army to the force of the Well, but they did not take it as an ill omen for their defeat, because it worked as much to their advantage as to Gaston’s. The messenger was a shepherd, native to the area, and knew the cliff-walks and hidden paths well, and the Marshal’s men that prowled everywhere around Ottaviano had not seen him, nor even scented him.
His sturdy mountain horse was weighted with a chest and two heavy bags. He gave the pass-words to Ottaviano’s patrols, when he chose to meet them near the camp, and he went, as he’d been instructed, straight to the uncrowned King of Ascolet’s tent and there delivered himself, with a grunt, of the burdens and, with a salute, of a letter.
Ottaviano opened the letter first. A weighty lump of wax made a clumsy wrinkled blob at the bottom; scratching with his pocket-knife showed metal—a coin? No, it was a ring. He read.
Right well beloved husband, I recommend me to you, and knowing your urgency I shall dispatch this letter and your man Hedel as soon as he may be rested and freshly horsed. I send to you again the pledge-ring I gave to you on our wedding-day, which you sent to me by your man that I might know his message to be truly from you. I do sadly charge you to find some better way for us to know our letters, for this is no meet way to use a token of my love. Your letter brought me great joy as I had not had since tidings of the Prince Marshal’s coming to Ascolet reached me. My joy is greater still that I may help you speedily to conclude your business, and that you may bring it twice as swiftly to the best end, Hedel carries with him in gold double the sum of money you asked of me. Let there be no word of loans and interests between us. Though you have need of men I can provide you only the coin to hire them, for a rider from the Marshal has borne to me a message, saying that in the Emperor’s name he will have me raise men for him, and I dare not serve him falsely. That some did volunteer to go with you I can conceal, yet I mislike that any of Lys should enter this war, and I shall delay as I can, for I would no more see Lys blood spilled than yours. I pray that you will make haste to victory and that we shall soon sit at table and dine together. It must happen for the truth of the Well is in your cause. I have no leisure to write half a quarter as much as I desire and I pray that you will wear my ring, while yours is fast upon the hand of your wife Luneté Countess of Lys.
Ottaviano read but halfway through this letter, then threw it down and hastily opened the two metal-bound leather sacks and the coffer Hedel had brought him.
Golden royals lay there, sleek and cold to touch, some new that bore the Emperor’s head, some old with the hawk-nosed glare of King Panurgus, three glinting piles of money, enough to hire the whole of Golias’s company. Ottaviano, grinning, began laughing softly to himself, and he plucked a coin from each bag and one from the coffer and tossed them in the air, one after the other, pinging them with his thumbnail and dropping them back in their piles.
After several minutes of quiet glee, he recalled there had been something about the Marshal in Luneté’s letter, and he took it up again and finished reading it. She had taken the ring-sending entirely in the wrong way, which irked him, but by the Fire she had come through with money and information and the intangible but important aid of time. If she could keep Prince Gaston waiting for the levy from Lys just long enough for Ottaviano to send for and plan with Golias, then she was worth a dozen rings, a different gem on each, one for every finger and two for her ears.
Ottaviano closed up the bags and the coffer again. He’d have the paymaster count the money while he drafted his second letter to Golias. And the Fireduke would get a singeing he wouldn’t forget.
The uncrowned King of Ascolet fairly jigged from his cold tent out into the camp to find Dewar to tell him the news, stuffing the letter inside his jacket.
Prince Gaston, the Fireduke, stood with his hands outstretched. Beneath them leapt flames. When the wind died down, they came almost so high as to lick his palms, but never quite managed it, and the Prince Marshal never flinched back from them. He was staring into them, thinking hard, and his captains were doing similar things, some crouched, some with their backs to the fire, some rubbing hands over it, some scooping cups of mulled wine from a blackened pot that squatted at the edge of the coals. The Prince Marshal was not fidgeting. When the wind blew, he stood and let it go around him; when it stopped, his cloak fell back to his heels unregarded.
His captains around him respected the Marshal’s mood and did not address him directly. They talked among themselves, businesslike and low, reviewing parts of the day’s battle and praising or blaming the actors. There was little to blame. The Marshal’s forces were superb.
But Prince Gaston had met a nasty shock today
on the battlefield, and he was considering what he could do to prevent it happening again. The Fireduke did not like surprises. He especially disliked them when they happened in war. Although he accepted his own fallibility and had years ago come to terms with the fundamental imperfection of all human endeavor, the day’s discovery was a thoroughly unpleasant thing to have found out with no warning, no prefigurement in any of his intelligence.
The flames shaped all with moving light, flowing shadows; and ceaseless wind pushed the flames to and fro. The golden-glowing Prince crossed his arms.
This surprise could cause Landuc to lose the war. His opponent, eight days ago revealed to be Sebastiano’s son Ottaviano, styled King of Ascolet, was not badly placed now. He had more local support than before; he was handling the areas he controlled very generously and they had no sense, to see how it would change if he won and took Ascolet from Empire, losing wool-buyers and grain-sellers. He was young and rash, but he showed a canny mind. Gaston wondered what Otto had paid for the sorcery that had cost Gaston blood today: a hundred lives. Surely it had not come cheaply. What paid and how? It might be a weakness.
Flanked like a greenhorn. Gaston’s fists clenched. He would not be fooled again. If Ottaviano’s men could move under cover of illusions, invisible to the Marshal’s scouts—then Gaston’s scouts must work harder. Sorcery could be countered with vigilance; this he had learned against Prospero years before.
If this so-called King of Ascolet was indeed, as Ocher claimed, the man who had wed the young Countess of Lys, Lys might rise to support him; the Lys levy under Gaston’s command fought reluctantly now, for some of their own had already volunteered to fight for Ascolet—nominally, treason, but difficult to prosecute when they had done so before the levy. Lys and Ascolet shared a border—but that was irrelevant at the moment. Lys was not in league with Ascolet. Whether Ascolet was in league with Prospero or not remained to be seen.
Ottaviano’s sorcerer added another unpleasant dimension to the war. Gaston would have to tell the Emperor they needed a sorcerer. If the Crown wanted Ascolet’s uprising put down and Prospero conquered too, the Crown would have to meet Ascolet’s forces evenly. It was too easy to waste too many lives thus.
The Emperor would not like it. He, or Pallgrave, would insist that the Empire could not afford it, that the Fireduke must continue without a sorcerer. However, another loss such as that day’s at Erispas would require half an army again of him. The Empire could not afford that either, with Prospero pushing Herne eastward.
The Fireduke flexed his bare hands slowly in a shower of sparks; some landed on the backs, to lie burning there, unburning, not even scorching a hair. He shook them off.
He ought to be in the West, not here. Prospero was the greater threat. Avril should see that. It was a misallocation of forces. The Empire should make an agreement here and let the Fireduke drive the rebellious Duke of Winds back from the shore to the ocean again. The Emperor could recognize the boy as Baron. Prince Gaston suspected he’d take that. Political rhetoric aside, it was more than he had now and he would not have to fight so hard for it. Youth was impatient. Ottaviano might leap at the chance.
A nephew here, a brother there. The Prince did not like fighting blood-kin.
The Fireduke nodded to himself, spun on his heel with a nod to the circle of men and a quiet good-night, and went to his tent.
There he opened a locked iron box on the table. From it he took things that clinked and chinked softly against one another, things that gleamed in the lamplight. He poured oil in a long, flat bronze dish from the chest, sat down, drew the lamp a little nearer, and took a light from its wick.
Moments later he faced his brother Avril’s image in a sheet of flame.
“Your Majesty.”
“Good evening, Gaston. Or is it?”
Prince Gaston shook his head.
“What now?” the Emperor asked, sharply, not hiding his annoyance.
“Our nephew hath worked a trick which I must applaud for its cleverness, Avril, as must you. By all evidence he hath hired Golias.”
“Golias!”
“Yes.”
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed and he breathed slowly, hard. Gaston sat as calmly as he had before.
“You’ve beaten him before,” the Emperor said finally.
The Marshal nodded. “If ’twere but Golias, my plans would not be perturbed. However, together he and Ottaviano, as I judge by the fight Ottaviano hath fought afore this, are more able than either is alone. And ’tis not Golias alone who aids Ottaviano. I took heavy losses today at Erispas. As I pursued Ottaviano, Golias swept in from a wood my scouts had reported empty and did great damage. Truly I was baited—Ottaviano’s forces turned and engaged me as Golias hit, a perfect trap. Golias had lain low there, concealed by sorcerous working.”
“Sorcery!” snapped the Emperor. “You’re certain it’s Golias?”
“I am certain. I took two of his wounded and put them to question. It is Golias. Ottaviano hath a sorcerer as his ally, but they know little of him save that he worked the spell of concealment on them. Golias is using the same banner as before, also.”
The Emperor said a hissing word. Gaston ignored it.
“I must have more men to continue against both; Golias hath a large force and fresh, and I, though I have done well thus far, have been here a while now in severe weather. I fear they will cut my supply lines—although, were I Ottaviano, I’d have sent Golias to do that at once rather than throw him directly at me. ’Tis a flamboyant gesture, a young man’s tactic.”
“Cripple you, then jump.”
“Aye.”
“We cannot send you more men now. Herne needs them against Prospero. He advances rapidly.”
Gaston held Avril’s eyes through the flame. “Then do I recommend that you make an accommodation with Ottaviano and send me to face Prospero with Herne.”
“No.”
“An you make the place a barony again, give it to the boy, he might accept it and be satisfied, and I’ll take him to the West ’gainst Prospero.”
“Landuc does not yield,” the Emperor said through gritted teeth.
Prince Gaston said mildly, “Landuc yields naught. Landuc takes his fealty. He becomes a vassal.”
“And we still have that jackal Golias around. Maybe we’ll say conditionally yes, Gaston—we’ll make peace with Ottaviano for Golias’s head.”
“To whom would you extend this offer?”
“We’re joking.”
The Fireduke said nothing.
“Or maybe not,” murmured the Emperor, and sat back, biting his lower lip. His eyelids sank. “Hm. Hm. Then what do we have. Dead Golias, live Baron of Ascolet, a bunch of loose mercenaries you can pick up …” He began to smile. “Ah, Marshal. You are not quite subtle enough. A dead man cannot be made to live, but a live one can be killed. We will grant Ottaviano, son of a bastard, the Barony of Ascolet. We will pardon Golias. We shall set thereto a condition: that they shall both with their armies, including those of Lys which are due to us from the imprudent Countess of Lys, oppose Prospero under your command.”
Gaston said nothing again.
“We are now not joking,” the Emperor said drily.
“I misdoubt how steadfast Golias’s hirelings would be ’gainst such opponents as Herne faces.”
“Surely the bait can be made very attractive. Every man has his price.”
Prince Gaston did not speak, but he shook his head slightly.
“Except you, we all know.”
The Fireduke was thinking about it. “ ’Twould be in them to turn on us and demand more at first opportunity,” he said at last. “However, if thus is your will, ’twill be done so.”
The Emperor scowled. “We hear little enthusiasm, though we have solved your problem for you, Marshal.”
Slowly, Gaston shook his head. “It will serve—perhaps. ’Tis Golias I mistrust. The boy’s young. He’d come to heel with a dram of coaxing, meseems—soft words, small fa
vors … pity he’s married.”
“We have no daughter, appearances to the contrary, but we see what you’re getting at. Make him Baron, recognize his connection to Landuc, treat him like one of the family. Hell, he is one of the family if he’s Sebastiano’s son. Glencora can tickle him round. She knew his mother Cecilie and Sithe of Lys—she was one of Anemone’s women—and she could use that as an in with what’s-her-name. Lys. The only question is when we’d find the time for such folderol. It would be best to get him over there sooner, rather than later.”
Avril never changed, thought Gaston. “Well, I will put the proposal to him.”
“Let us consider this yet two days more before you do,” the Emperor decided.
“Very well. Yet your consideration will cost the Empire blood. Let your thoughts hold that also.” Prince Gaston inclined his head slightly. The Emperor still had not addressed his second concern. “And the sorcerer?”
“Well, we’d be pleased to throw him at Prospero too. Whichever one got blasted, we’d be ahead. Have you seen him?”
“Nay. Nor have I had success finding out who he is. He must be one of Ottaviano’s captains, or feigning so; but they are many and they hail from different quarters, thus none knows much about the rest. My spies have given me scant ground on which to found a surmise, and the prisoners know little of use.”
“The idea of a sorcerer getting into such a war is disturbing,” the Emperor muttered. “They’re all supposed to be under oath to the Well, the Crown. They’re not supposed to be able to oppose it.”
Gaston waited.
The Emperor shook his head. “We cannot afford a sorcerer. If you wish to hire one, the Empire will sanction the contract but will not be a party to it.”
“I see,” Prince Gaston said.
“An Emperor cannot make the kind of bargain one of them would want to strike. We cannot engage in that kind of commerce.”
“As you will, then. I do not have time to seek one out and negotiate, nor could I delegate such an important task. I will wait for your word on the other business.”
A Sorcerer and a Gentleman Page 15