by David Drake
Admiral Zettkin in the stern of the flagship looked carved from granite; Lord Waldron on the Lady of Sunrise, a broad-beamed sailing ship that transported his staff and three days' rations for the whole army, flicked his bare sword in small, furious arcs at his right side. Everybody in the fleet was terrified at the idea of Carus—of Garric, as they thought—making the initial landing on Laut with only a company of Blood Eagles. It was a comment on the force of Carus' personality—and on the raging fury he'd frequently blazed with in the days since he began to wear Garric's flesh—that none of the strong-minded men of his army had seriously tried to prevent him from doing this.
The bireme slid up the beach, first grating and then grinding slowly to a halt with twenty feet of her bow on dry land. The little vessel didn't have a ram, so her curving stem had acted like a sled runner under the rowers' final efforts.
The bireme tilted to its starboard, inland side. The men, bodyguards acting as oarsmen only for this last short runup, were leaping to the sand even before the hull thumped down. The first man off, splendid in a silver breastplate and a gold diadem instead of the helmet every officer had begged he wear, was King Carus.
A line of Blood Eagles, still juggling the shields on their left arms, formed in front of him and trotted toward the straggle of fishermen's huts that were the only buildings visible. A woman stood in the doorway of one, holding a pot in one hand and covering her mouth with the other. She threw down the pot and ran inland screaming.
The cornicene at Carus' side put his horn to his lips and blew a lowing call. A score of triremes, already stern on to the beach, began backing in. They were moving faster than their hulls could accept without straining when they hit the sand, but the immediate threat was the real Confederate army, not a hypothetical fleet that might sally to attack the royal force.
Tenoctris came out of her little enclosure under the fighting tower, holding the bamboo splint she'd been using as a wand. She walked to the rail and deliberately tossed it into the sea. “Are things going well, Sharina?” she asked.
Horns and trumpets blared as nearly a hundred vessels jockeyed for position. Officers on The King of the Isles screamed at crewmen and one another. The flagship needed to turn seaward or she'd run aground on the western jaw of the broad bay, and there was more confusion than Sharina would've expected about just how she should avoid that in the shoal of other vessels. Admiral Zettkin jumped onto the stern rail to bellow at the captain of the trireme within stone's throw to port; a white-faced aide clung to the admiral's belt with one hand and a bollard for the mast stays with the other.
“All right, I guess,” Sharina said. She found herself smiling. “The Confederacy of the West seems to be conspicuous by its absence, but right now it looks like half the royal fleet is in danger of sinking the other half unless we're lucky.”
She paused to watch the shore fill with armed men climbing out of the triremes, forming under the harsh commands of noncoms, and then advancing in pike-fanged blocks to the perimeter Carus and his company of Blood Eagles were marking out. The troops aboard the following ships would throw up earthworks behind the armed line, building both a base camp and a refuge for the emptied vessels. For now the fleet's defense lay in the spearheads and swordblades.
Which would be sufficient, even if the Confederates managed to mount an attack. The ancient king leading the Isles was a hasty man capable of ignoring everything but his own will—as witness his actions just now—but the time Sharina had spent with Carus had convinced her that the world would never know his equal as a warrior. When he determined the forces for the first wave that might have to fight its way ashore, his analysis was as certain as Ilna's choice of yarn for a fabric.
“I guess it's always as confused as this in a war,” Sharina said quietly. “When I read about battles, I couldn't understand how armies could blunder about, slaughtering each other almost by accident it sometimes seemed. But I see now.”
There was no sign the enemy headquartered three miles away in Donelle was even aware of the royal invasion. They'd learn soon, but in an hour the camp's fortifications would be complete—
And within four hours, according to the king's plan, the royal army would advance to begin the siege of Donelle. The only thing that could change Carus' timetable would be for the Confederate army to march out of the city to face him in the field.
Sharina shivered at the thought.
“Is something wrong?” Tenoctris said.
“I was thinking that the war might be over before nightfall if the enemy commander's a fool,” Sharina said. “But—have you ever seen a pig butchered, Tenoctris?”
The wizard shook her head minutely. “My education was in books, dear,” she said.
“I'm just thinking about twenty thousand pigs being slaughtered at the same time, is all,” Sharina said. “All the blood, and the mud; and the way the pigs squeal...”
Tenoctris put her hand on arm Sharina's arm.
Twenty more troop-carrying warships backed toward shore farther to the east. The first squadron, lighter by the weight of a hundred men apiece, struggled to get under weigh and clear the beach for later comers. They'd wait offshore until the earthworks were up and there was leisure to fit the ships of the fleet as tightly together as they'd been in the Arsenal.
The King of the Isles slowed noticeably. Oarsmen to port had reversed stroke so that the bow swung seaward under the thrust of the starboard oars. The trireme on the port side was pulling forward at full power, giving the flagship sea room. The oars of the smaller ship slanted back along her hull in perfect synchrony before lifting to surge forward; they spilled chains of diamond-glittering droplets into the foam alongside.
“Was your work successful?” Sharina asked, giving a slight emphasis to the possessive. She nodded toward the tower's curtained base where the wizard had been.
“I learned that none of our missing friends are in Donelle,” Tenoctris said. She offered a minuscule smile, more sad than not. “Though I think Ilna may have been there recently. If I've read the indications correctly. I'm not”—the smile broadened—“a very powerful wizard, as you know.”
Sharina moved to the opposite rail so that she could continue to watch the beach. The ships of the squadron that had landed the initial troops were crawling seaward again, all but one trireme whose officers stood knee deep in the water to examine the keel and planking; the captain apparently thought she'd strained her hull when she grounded. More ships were backing shoreward, maneuvering with difficulty to avoid the stranded vessel.
Sharina hugged Tenoctris. “I've met powerful wizards,” she said. “They're all dead, thank the Lady. And thanks to you, the kingdom still stands.”
King Carus balanced at the peak of a tripod made by lashing small trees together. From there he could survey both the shore behind him and the hostile countryside beyond the ditched wall his troops were already digging. An aide ran from Carus toward the damaged vessel. The king watched with his hands on his hips, his look of fury visible even at this distance.
“I hope the captain has sense enough to get off the beach before Carus decides to come back personally,” Sharina said.
“Yes,” said Tenoctris. “They'll do better to take their chance on sinking than what will happen if they disobey the king.”
Sharina had been smiling; her face went suddenly grim. “Carus might kill the captain, mightn't he?” she said quietly. “Cut his head off, the way he did the Intercessor's.”
Tenoctris nodded. She didn't speak.
The aide and the captain exchanged shouts. The officers began to return to the trireme's deck by climbing oar-looms. The danger was past—this time.
“Tenoctris, he can't behave that way and keep the kingdom together,” Sharina said, desperation in her voice. “He knows that, but when he's angry he lashes out at whoever's responsible.”
“It's always the real cause, though,” the wizard said. “Carus doesn't kick his servant because he doesn't like something the Earl of
Sandrakkan has done.”
“In the long run it doesn't matter,” Sharina said. “It's worse! Oh, I know justice is a wonderful thing, but he'd be better off to kick a servant than to knock down a nobleman because he was slow obeying an order. He'd be better off, and the kingdom would be better off.”
“He isn't sleeping because of the dreams,” Tenoctris said, looking at the king who'd now resumed his survey of the landscape beyond the rising wall. “I suppose he was always hasty, but even a saint who gets no sleep...”
More ships shuttled toward the beach. A pair of triremes fouled one another, their oars interlocking as the men on deck screamed curses. It would be sorted out, though. For all the seeming chaos, the process continued toward its planned conclusion as inexorably as a storm sweeping onto the land.
“Maybe his way will work,” Sharina said softly. “Perhaps Carus will end the dreams and the rebellion with his sword edge. He did that many times in the past, after all.”
“Yes,” said Tenoctris. “I think I'll...”
Her voice trailed off. She walked toward her shelter to resume practicing her art. The old wizard looked so worn already that Sharina almost called her back.
Almost. Because Sharina knew—as Tenoctris did—that the last place haste and reliance on his sword had brought Carus was the bottom of the sea. Without Tenoctris' wizardry to at least warn of such threats, a similar result would occur this time.
And slight though Sharina knew Tenoctris' powers were compared to those of their enemies, it was in those powers rather than the king's flashing sword that the kingdom's best hope lay.
Chapter Seventeen
Cashel set one end of his staff down, not banging it but letting the ferrule rap loudly enough to call attention to him and Tilphosa. The floor was of puncheons, logs halved and set edge to edge instead of being fully squared. The design saved labor and drained better than proper carpentry; in this wet land, the latter virtue might be important. There were rushes on the floor, but they should've been replaced weeks ago.
“We'd like food and a room,” Cashel said, as the eyes of the handful of men in the common room turned toward them. There was a small fire on the hearth and a billet of lightwood stuck up on a firedog for the only illumination.
“Food and a bed, you can have,” said the woman behind the bar to the left. Cashel hadn't noticed her in the dimness as he entered. “If you can pay for it. Three Reeds for a bed for the two of you. A Reed apiece for porridge, and another Reed if you want it soaked in fish broth.”
“How much for a separate room, mistress?” Tilphosa said, her tone that of one demanding rather than begging. Her chin lifted slightly.
The landlady was a largish woman who took care of her looks even though she must be forty years old. She reminded Cashel of Sharina's mother, Lora; though Lora was small and pretended to be "a lady," while this woman was of a much earthier disposition. Instead of an ordinary tunic she wore a sleeved doublet with vertical stripes and the neckline scooped deeply onto her ample bosom.
“I don't have a separate room for anybody but myself, missy,” she said, eyeing Tilphosa with disdain. “If you've got a problem with that, you can go back out in the street.”
“He looks like a good prospect, Leemay,” said one of the men sitting in the fireplace nook with a masar of beer. “Maybe you could find him private room, hey?”
Leemay lifted the gate in the bar and came out into the common room. She wore baggy linen trousers, gathered above the ankles; her feet and those of the men in the room were bare.
“You've got money?” she asked Cashel, no longer hostile. She walked to the hearth where an iron pot hung on a spider.
“Yes,” Tilphosa said. She touched Cashel's wrist to silence him. “We've got silver, I mean, and I suppose copper pieces too. It's not stamped with reeds or whatever, though.”
Leemay paused, then bent to swing the kettle out to where she could dip from it. She straightened and took one of the wooden bowls hanging from the mantel by riveted leather straps.
“You've got silver?” she said, speaking again to Cashel. “You don't look it, if you don't mind my saying.”
“We've been shipwrecked,” Cashel said. He moved his staff so that it stood vertically before him; the butt rapped the puncheons again, this time a little harder.
Leemay dipped porridge into the bowl, set it on the mantel, and took down a second. “You needn't worry about being robbed here,” she said as she filled it also. “And if you didn't have money, well, I've been known to help a likely young man who's down on his luck.”
“With the broth,” Tilphosa said sharply. “And as I told you, we have money.”
The two men at the end of the bar were laughing and nudging one another. Cashel looked at them, just curious. They calmed down immediately, but they still giggled into the cups they quickly lifted to their mouths.
Leemay set the second bowl on the mantel, thrust horn spoons into both, and reached past the seated local to take a pewter cruet from the warming niche in the hearth. She poured a thin fluid into the first bowl and a more generous portion onto the second. After replacing the cruet, she held the first out to Tilphosa, and said, “Come get it, girl—or are you crippled?”
Cashel reached for the bowl. Leemay shifted so that her soft hip bumped him away. Her eyes held Tilphosa's. Tilphosa sniffed and took the bowl.
When the landlady took the second bowl from the mantel, Cashel reached out again. Leemay touched his extended hand with her free one, and said, "Come over to the bar and eat. You'll want ale, won't you?”
She walked across the room, leading Cashel. He shook his hand loose.
“Yes, we'll want ale,” Tilphosa said, raising her voice more than the quiet of the inn required. The men at the bar were chuckling among themselves again.
Leemay walked to the other side of the bar but didn't bother to lower the gate again. She set the porridge down and started to draw beer from a tun under the counter.
“Hey, Leemay?” called one of the men warming at the hearth. “You going to do your tricks tonight?”
“I might,” said the woman. She eyed Cashel speculatively and smiled. “I just might.”
She set full masars in front of Cashel and Tilphosa, then paused and deliberately spilled a little of Cashel's ale on the bar between them. “Eh?” he said.
“I'll show you,” Leemay said, still smiling. “Later.”
To have an excuse for looking away, Cashel lifted his mug and drank quickly. The beer was all right, though it had an oily aftertaste that'd take some getting used to. He was thirsty, though—thirstier than he was hungry, he found—and he drained it quickly.
Tilphosa opened her sash and took a crescent-shaped silver piece from the purse she carried in its folds. “For our food and lodging,” she said crisply. “You'll need to weigh it, I suppose?”
Leemay reached down between her breasts. Grinning, she brought out a wash-leather purse which she opened one-handed.
“ 'Atta girl, Leemay!” cried one of the local men.
She set a thin silver coin stamped with a ship's prow on the bar beside Tilphosa's Crescent. She balanced one in either hand, then slipped both into her purse.
“I guess it'll run about the same as a Boat,” she said to Cashel. “That's fourteen Reeds to a Boat.”
From a cash box under the bar she produced darkened copper coins and put them on the bar where Cashel's left hand had been resting, one for each finger. “There's your change,” she said.
She took his masar and refilled it without being asked. “This is on the house,” she said. She nodded toward the pool of beer on the smooth, dark wood. “For what I shorted you.”
“Just make sure you don't short her tonight, boy!” called the man in the chimney corner.
“Shut up, Halve!” Leemay said, forcefully though without real anger. She nodded toward Cashel's porridge, and went on, “Eat up, boy. You look peaked.”
“Aye, and Leemay wouldn't want that,” someone sai
d. Cashel grimaced and took a spoonful of the porridge.
It was a thick mixture of pease and a grain which Cashel hadn't eaten before. The broth was pungent, but it merely added to the bowl's flavors instead of overriding them.
He scooped and chewed steadily, keeping his eyes on his food. Leemay drew beer for others and dished up porridge for the man in the chimney corner, but she kept coming back to the bar across from Cashel.
“Show him, Leemay,” said one of the men at the bar. “She's a wizard, boy, and I do mean that.”
Tilphosa had been dipping with the corner of her broad spoon instead of taking full gulps as Cashel did, so she'd made only a start on her porridge while he was finishing. Now she leaned back to look at the speaker.
“Oh, don't worry, girlie,” he said. “What's a slice off a cut loaf, hey?”
“Here, I'll work with this,” Leemay said. Before Cashel could respond, she'd reached up and plucked out a single long hair from where he parted it in the center. She set it on the bar and pinched out one of her own, then twisted the two together. The landlady's hair was black, thick and straight as a spearshaft; Cashel's brunet strand looked thin and light beside it.
“What's your name, lad?” she asked. She set the porridge bowl to the side and began tracing a design about the twined hairs, painting the wood with lines of spilled beer.
“We don't have to tell you our names!” Tilphosa said, clutching her crystal amulet in her left hand.
“My name's Cashel or-Kenset,” he said. The landlady'd been free with her own name, and, besides, he didn't care what she knew or didn't about him. “Ah, Mistress Lee-may, I know it's early for you, but we've had a hard few days and we'd like to get some sleep. Is there a place my friend and I could bed down now?”
“I may decide to close up early tonight,” Leemay said, concentrating on the symbols she'd just drawn. “Wait a bit and we'll see.”
She reached under the bar and brought up what Cashel first thought was a stalk of grass, then a splinter of cow-horn ... and then decided he didn't know. It was no longer than his outstretched hand, slender and grayish green.