Red Gold Bridge

by Sarath, Patrice

  Life had grown complicated, to be sure.

  “Good,” he said. “And the other? Did he agree to an alliance?”

  She gathered her shawl, her hair flying in the rising wind. “Well. He is stubborn. And he cast in his lot against Trieve in last year’s war and sees no reason why he can’t do so again. But he wants to marry, and I told him if he sets against Trieve again, I would make sure every eligible maid of marrying age knew exactly how windy he gets after dinner, not to mention certain other . . . secrets I have on him.”

  Crae laughed despite himself. “You are an elder sister, indeed.”

  She laughed, too. “Oh, we fought so hard when we were young. I love him dear, but he sets my back up all the time.”

  Mine, too, but Crae didn’t say that out loud. They stood companionably for a time, enjoying the rising breeze and the lights from a distant village, a few houses in a fold in the hills far below. He was startled when she spoke.

  “There is nothing wrong in the way you treat me,” she said abruptly. It took Crae a minute, and then he remembered Favor’s temper at dinner.

  “I know,” he said with equanimity, though Favor’s accusation had stung, as it had been meant to.

  She laughed a little reluctantly. Again she shook her head.

  “Crae, you are the most unlordlike, upstart captain—” She broke off. When she spoke next, her words came jerkily. “I must apologize to you. Your elevation by the Council was not a summoning as I said. It means the same thing, but there is a difference, as you discovered. We are not often summoned nowadays, but the high god appears to be silent on the matter, so the Council does as it wills.”

  He couldn’t find words for a moment. Finally he said, “Is anyone ever truly summoned anymore?”

  “It’s not something to talk about,” she said. “But—I think not, or at least, it is not given the final word. Lady Wessen had to fight for her right to be lord of Wessen. I was young, but I remember my mother being quite shocked that she would go against the Council and insist on taking up her House.” She put a hand on his arm. “You must not talk of this to anyone or accuse anyone,” she said, and he could hear the fierceness in her voice. “Sometimes the high god chooses—differently, that’s all. So the Council makes its decision.”

  Elevated by the Council and summoned by the high god. It should have cemented his position as Lord of Trieve. Instead, it had only undermined it. If the high god summoned whom-ever he wanted, then it meant that anyone could be a lord.

  The Council wouldn’t like that.

  Crae and Jessamy turned to each other, perhaps each waiting for the other with the answer, when the door to the great house came open, and the kitchen boy came bounding out, his skinny boyish frame like a sketch in the darkness.

  “Lord Crae, Lady Jessamy,” he cried, and there were tears and terror in his voice. “Lord Favor has killed the crow.”

  On the outside of Crae’s attention he could hear Favor blustering. He knelt by the dead man’s body. Blood pooled out from under him where he lay. It puddled outside the storeroom door, and the straw bedding was thick and rank with it. A crossbow bolt jutted through his torn shirt into his heart. First Favor must have shot the crow from the safety of the doorway as he lay helpless and chained, and then, when it was safe, cut his throat. Favor stood back now, his long knife bloody. Breyan stood next to him as he babbled. Crae caught words here and there—“duty” and “creature” and “filthy” among them—but he mostly concentrated on the crow.

  He was just a dead man now, no longer a fearsome enemy, and his secrets and those of his brotherhood died with him. He was younger in death, but so dreadfully ravaged. His leg had never healed, and Crae could smell that rot had set in. He wondered if he should tell Favor that he had done the man a favor indeed, by giving him a quick death, and wasn’t that a fine joke.

  Crae put one hand over the man’s eyes and closed them. He stood, and Favor’s babbling died off. Within him, the summoning quivered, and he could feel it in the beating of his heart. He felt something else, too, as if another god spoke to him. The crow god, he thought. The crows had no lords, but they followed their god.

  And now the man was dead under the sacred guesting, and he could see a dreadful unfolding in his mind’s eye. The crow god would tell them his man was dead, the guesting broken, and the crows would come to avenge him.

  One part of him—the part that was still Captain Crae—thought, And so it begins. The part that was Lord Crae spoke out loud.

  “Captain Breyan,” he said. The man looked at his lord, then stepped forward.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “We must ready all the men. Though Trieve’s are yet untrained, I ask you to prepare them for battle. The outer villages must also be warned. Alarin.” The farmer stepped forward, on fire with eagerness. “Who is our best rider?”

  “Myself, Lord Crae.”

  “Then take the best horse and warn the villages.” The man turned and ran for the stables.

  “Now, wait,” Favor began, even as his captain bowed. Crae turned to his brother.

  “You see,” he said, with a soft voice over steel. “You broke guesting—”

  “He was a crow, and you are a fool! What possessed you to give him guesting? That was more of a blasphemy than any of my doing!”

  “And they will come.”

  “It meant nothing to him! He was an animal!” He was almost screaming.

  Crae shook his head. How could the man not know? Surely the high god was quivering inside him, too, along with the rising fury of the crow god? He could almost see the gathering of crows in the darkness, coming together as one ragged army.

  He turned and found Jessamy. She had one hand to her mouth, and her kerchief, forgotten, lay around her shoulders. Her light brown hair gleamed in the torchlight, and tears shone on her cheeks.

  “You won’t be able to talk us out of this one,” he said softly, and she gave a dry laugh.

  “How much time do we have?” she said.

  “A few hours. I think they will attack before sunrise. We’ll need to lure them up the terraces to bring them within crossbow range.”

  She didn’t ask how he knew, so he didn’t have to tell her he could sense them gathering at the foot of the terraces. They were a few miles away at most.

  The trick would be to bring them within range but keep them from storming the house. He would have to rely on Breyan for that. At least Favor had brought him a good captain. He would thank his brother later.

  “All,” he ordered, raising his voice. “Prepare. Men of Trieve, follow Captain Breyan.”

  They jumped to obey, although he could tell there were some who were as confused as Lord Favor.

  As everyone left, Favor turned to Crae. This time the bluster had fled, leaving behind only bewilderment.

  “He’s a crow,” he said again.

  This time Jessamy answered. She sighed. “He was under guesting, Jori. It binds all of us equally.”

  Crae thought he could kiss his wife. He just nodded at her, and she gave him a quick nod back. Then she surprised him. She knelt next to the crow and placed her hand over his eyes, whispering the words of farewell.

  “The body must be washed and laid out in a plain robe,” she said. “My householders and I will do him that courtesy.”

  “Thank you,” Crae said, and this time, he knew she heard what he meant. Trieve thanks you for your service. A shadow passed over her face, and he hated himself for having to salt those wounds. But she called for her people to help her, and the moment moved on.

  He shouldered past Favor, when the man made a noise that could have been a strangled question.

  “Ask your captain,” Crae said, too disgusted to be courteous to the man. “Do what he tells you to do.”

  Seven

  The last light of the evening was fading as Marthen surveyed his camp. Gary had set it up just off the woods along one of the reservoirs that dotted the area. Marthen had put the word out—no campfires�
��and they had obeyed him. The makeshift war camp had a few tents, a neat row of bedrolls, and what little gear the men had was all carefully stowed. He had Gary order a latrine detail, and the man had been surprised, but Marthen thought he saw wary respect in his expression.

  A wind blew, rattling the leaves in the high branches above him. Some of the stickiness blew away, and he smelled rain.

  Gary came up to him now, his plain features hidden in the twilight. “More guys are showing up,” he told Marthen. “I don’t know where we’re going to put them all.” He hesitated. “These tents and shit—it’s all going to show up if they send out helicopters or planes. We need to cut brush and drape it over the tents.”

  Marthen wasn’t used to thinking in terms of spies from above. He still wasn’t used to the airplanes that cut across the blue sky, leaving long, thin clouds in their wake. If he wasn’t careful, the sight of the flying machines would captivate him until he lost track of where he was. He could see now what Kate Mossland had been telling him about warplanes. If I had those in Aeritan, he thought, no one would have been able to stop me.

  Now he looked at Gary. The skinny drunk had grown to be a competent aide-de-camp. He would soon be as quiet and resourceful as Grayne, who had the knack for disappearing until Marthen needed him. He allowed approval to leak into his voice.

  “Good. See to it,” he ordered. Gary nodded in pleasure.

  “Yeah, I learned that when I was growing pot in Tennessee . . .” His voice faded as Marthen turned away. Gary had presented him with a bigger problem, though. Where were they going to put all these men?

  The men had showed up just that night, after Marthen and his first little cadre had ambushed the pleasure seekers at the lake. When they heard the sirens approaching the lake, and Gary told him what that meant, Marthen ordered them to scatter. Gary had set the rendezvous place in these woods, and only Gary went with him to the house. They cut through the woods on foot till they came to a quiet street filled with towering houses, all alike with grand windows and ornate doors. Gary led him to the garage and showed him how to break in; Gary showed him the little box that had a silent red light blinking on it. Right now, Gary said, it’s calling the police. Marthen waited, feeling the same rising tension, the same sense of overwhelming grandeur he did when he led the charge into battle. He let it fill him, holding back on his impatience the way he had held in his warhorse, knowing that when he gave it release, it would be all the stronger. Let them come, he thought. Instead, Gary looked underneath the little box, found the word to say, and spoke into the device that was called a phone.

  Gary was invaluable. He said nothing when they moved through the house, and he nodded when Marthen said, “No touching, no thievery.” Room after room spread out before him, all filled with furniture, paintings, things. Marthen didn’t know what he was looking for till he opened a door upstairs and found it.

  Her chamber. She had paintings of the small brown horse that she had been captured with last year. There were ribbons, toys, books, a window on her desk that was dark, another window like it on the other side of the room. It was a child’s room. Here she was still a child. In Aeritan she was a woman grown. His desire mixed with disgust at himself.

  Gary was getting restless, constantly checking the window at the end of the hall. “Come on, man,” Gary had urged. “Take something or not; we got to get out of here.”

  Her bed was messy, the blankets and bedclothes trailing onto the floor, as if she had spent a restless night. Clothes spilled out of a sturdy chest of drawers. The room had her aroma to it, and as Marthen breathed it in, his head began to pound. It had not done that for months. He tried to keep himself steady.

  “Jesus Christ, man!”

  Marthen grimaced. With the last of his control he set the saddle on the back of the chair and followed Gary downstairs. They escaped out the back door, just as the rising call of sirens sounded in the distance.

  And now, this. He had started with about ten men. He had about fifty now. It was a sorry collection of men compared to the thousands he had commanded in Aeritan when he served the Council. They were all from among the bridge dwellers, some old, some only looking that way because of the hard life they led. Gary said that they were mostly alcoholics—“like me,” he said, with only the merest chagrin—“and a few drug gies, but you won’t get many of those,” he told Marthen, as if to reassure him, “because they need a steady income and tend to work alone. Which is just as well, because the meth heads—well, you don’t want them around.

  “So we’re mostly just harmless crazy. A lot of these guys, they were tossed out of mental hospitals. Jails don’t want ’em.”

  Crazy or not, they found his camp and settled in without a word. When he made Gary ask about this one or that, they mumbled something about how they heard there was a shantytown, and they were tired of the highway.

  “Excuse me!”

  Marthen turned to look at a newcomer, pushing his way through the underbrush toward the camp. This man was neither crow nor bridge dweller; that was immediately clear. His clothes were good, and his face was clean-shaven, his hands clean. He struggled through the underbrush into the clearing, one hand half up as if to proclaim himself unarmed, the other gingerly pushing aside thorny bushes. Marthen flicked a hand, and Gary immediately stepped forward, a long staff held across his body. The newcomer flinched and stopped. He scanned the group. Even in the twilight Marthen could tell this man was middle-aged, his hair thinning, his body paunchy and unfit. His eyes lit on Marthen. The man gave a big smile and reached out his hand. Marthen’s distrust deepened, and he made no move to take it.

  “I’d like to talk to the man in charge,” he said. “Name’s Garson.” Marthen waited, arms folded across his chest. He was in no hurry. The man dropped his hand.

  “Mike Garson,” the man added. “You’re from there. Aeritan, right? You might have heard of me. I worked with Mark Ballard and a fellow named Lord Tharp to set him up with a few goodies.” He nodded at Marthen’s belt where he stowed the gun. “Looks like you got one of them right there.”

  Marthen kept his expression calm, though his heart started pounding. This was how Tharp had gotten his weapons. This man, this bluff, hearty man, who smiled too easily and offered his hand without a care, this man had set into motion one of the most devastating wars in Aeritan.

  Marthen needed this man.

  “What do you want?” Gary said. He glanced back at Marthen as if to check in, and Marthen shoved down the irritation. Reassurance indeed. The man was like a dog.

  Garson looked from Gary to Marthen. “I have a proposition,” he said. “For your boss. See, I think we can help each other.”

  “So let’s get this straight,” Garson said. He and Marthen sat together, Marthen on his tree stump and Garson on a lumpy boulder covered with moss and leaves. “You came from Aeritan after that girl, the one who disappeared along with Lynn Romano.” His pleasant face got hard when he said her name, then smoothed out. The other woman, Marthen thought. Yes, he had seen her at the battle in Gordath Wood last year. She had taken Kate Mossland and young Terrick away. She was full-grown. Hardly old, but in this world it was hard to tell.

  “Not just for her,” Marthen said. He had learned from Gary’s attitude and now from this man’s that Kate Mossland was off-limits in ways that would—could—hurt him. She was young, and she was wealthy. Both of those things he knew. Had she been an Aeritan woman of good blood, and he had gone after her as a robber bridegroom, his life would be forfeit. Who knew that in this world it was much the same thing, except that it was not her wealth that protected her but her youth?

  “Right,” Garson said. He looked and sounded as if he were fighting distaste. He looked Marthen over. “You planning on taking her back to Aeritan?”

  “That depends,” Marthen said, his voice dry. “Do you intend to provide me with means?”

  Garson laughed. “I could. I could. And you want to go back to Aeritan and set yourself up as a warlord. C
ould be—that’s what Mark said was going on, the few times he came back. It’d be easier there than here. I don’t know if you’ve guessed, but we’ve got pretty strict laws against mercenary generals over here.” He slapped at a few mosquitoes that landed on his broad forehead.

  “But I’m not just going to give you guns. I need a few things done first, and a few promises. I arm you, and you are working for me, for one thing. And for God’s sake, don’t touch the kid till she’s legal, okay?”

  Marthen didn’t bother telling the man he had no interest in serving him. He said only, “What do you need done first?”

  “Yeah. Well, you know that woman who the kid came back with?” Once again, Garson’s face twisted in disgust. “She owns Hunter’s Chase Stables now. She inherited it from the other lady, the one who came from your side and who went back. That lady stole what was mine. Stole it right out from under my nose. She must have been watching and waiting, waiting for Mark to come back through with my first payment, because he left it there for me, and I never saw a dime, because she got to it first. Well, she’s out of my hands. But Lynn Romano is still there, and she’s got the money. I know she has.” He looked straight at Marthen. “You and your boys take care of Lynn Romano for me, and I’ll get you your guns.”

  Marthen was silent for a moment, considering. Under his steady regard the man shifted uneasily, rubbing his hands along his plain trousers. When he was ready, he said, “I will receive the guns first, before I act on your commission.”

  Garson laughed. “Smart man. I’d do the same myself. But only a few, just to whet your appetite. You’ll get the rest when Miss Romano is no longer a problem.”

  Marthen watched him go off and went back to regarding his growing camp. He didn’t need an army to take Kate Mossland. He needed an army because he was a general, and he was meant for conquest. With the girl at his side, nothing could stop him. This time he was starting with crows, but that was because he knew what crows could do. They fought with mauls, but their best weapon was fear.