by Tim Stretton
Casualties had been heavy on both sides. Virtually all of Tardolio’s cavalry had been killed, and his infantry had fared little better. Thaume’s casualties had been highest among Darrien’s pikemen – although Darrien himself sustained nothing worse than a gashed neck – and Sir Artingaume’s infantry. Sir Artingaume himself had fallen in the press of battle. It was a victory achieved at high price, but Thaume had achieved his goal: Tardolio’s army had been destroyed utterly. It would be many years before Mettingloom had the capacity or the desire to mount a full-scale assault upon Croad.
11
Arren sat by the campfire wincing as Fleuraume stitched the wound above his eye. ‘If I stitch it now, it will not scar later,’ he said. ‘I am sure you want to look your best for the young ladies.’
Arren tried to grin but the effort was too much for him. He had expected battle to be glorious, especially when it ended in victory. He had not had time for fear, and by any standards he knew he had acquitted himself well, so why did he feel such a pervasive gloom? His friends had all survived the battle, and not only was his father safe, but a hero too.
The death of Sir Artingaume was a shock, of course. He had fought in the forefront of the battle with his men, heartening them throughout. With his gruff manner and impatience with both ceremony and fools he had commanded respect and affection, but Arren knew his own disenchantment went deeper than bereavement alone.
‘Serjeant, do you remember when you saved Oricien?’ he asked. ‘Ouch!’
‘Sorry,’ said Fleuraume unapologetically. ‘Hold still one moment. Which occasion do you refer to?’
‘At the end, when he tripped and his helmet came off.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘Guigot could have saved him, but he didn’t. He just stood and watched.’
With his head held still for the stitching, he could not see Fleuraume’s face. Eventually Fleuraume said: ‘It can be hard to tell on the battlefield. Sometimes a man’s attention is elsewhere.’
‘You told us to look after each other.’
Fleuraume stood back from Arren’s face to examine the stitches. ‘You should be careful what you say, Arren. Guigot will be an important man: do not traduce him unless you can prove it.’
‘You saw what happened. So did Oricien.’
‘Oricien was lying on his front. He saw nothing. Me, I just saw that one of my men needed succour.’
You won’t do anything about it?’
‘What happens on the battlefield stays there. If you want me to tell Lord Thaume that Guigot tried to get Oricien killed, I won’t do it. There are other interpretations of what happened.’
‘Such as?’
‘When you’ve been in the battles I’ve been in, you realize things are often not as they seem.’
Arren thanked Fleuraume for his attentions and wandered back over to the main camp. Guigot was explaining to anyone who would listen the range of strokes he had employed and his estimate of the number of foes he had killed. Oricien was sitting with a half-smile away to the side of the squadron. Arren went and sat beside him.
You did well today, Oricien.’
‘I survived, and I did not run away,’ he said. ‘But good Sir Artingaume is dead, a man who gave brave and honest service to my father.’
‘Croad is safe,’ said Arren. ‘Tardolio will think twice before coming back.’
Oricien gave a strained laugh. ‘By the time they return, I myself may be Lord of Croad. You fought well today; I hope one day you will succeed your father as Captain of the Guard.’
‘The walls of Croad are strong,’ said Arren. ‘If Duke Panarre had sent troops and supplies instead of fine words, we need never have left the city. When you are Lord of Croad, it is more important to have powerful friends than good troops.’
Oricien looked at him. ‘That is an unorthodox view.’
‘I do not claim to have originated it. I heard it first from Master Pinch, but it is good sense.’
Oricien pursed his lips. ‘It is of a piece with Pinch’s charlatanry. Why do magic when you can perform a sleight? Why fight when someone else can do it for you? Why summon a powerful dimon when you can use a pitiful dimonetto?’
A soft voice from behind them said: ‘An interesting perspective, young Oricien.’
‘Master Pinch!’
Pinch sat down beside them with an inscrutable smile.
‘Your father has secured a great victory today, Oricien. Indeed, more comprehensive than he might have expected. But look around you at the corpses on the field. Look over there – they are breaking up their pikes. Do you know why?’
‘No, Master Pinch.’
‘There is no wood on the steppes. They are turning their pikes into firewood for Sir Artingaume’s funeral pyre.’
Oricien looked at the ground.
‘I would not criticize Lord Thaume in any way. He has proven himself an excellent battlefield commander, and he inspires great loyalty in his subjects and his troops.’
‘But?’ asked Arren.
‘He will wonder as he lies in his tent tonight whether he might have spent time in the past showing greater friendship to Duke Panarre. King Arren and Emmen are far away. Thaume is an intelligent man. He will not make the same mistake twice.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Oricien.
‘If I were your sister, I would be turning my attention immediately to the customs of the court of Duke Panarre at Glount. She is yet young for marriage, but not for betrothal.’
‘Siedra cannot go to Glount! She is but a girl.’
‘She is fifteen years old, and has already flowered, if the rumours are to be believed. I can assure you that your father will already have scrutinized the Register of Nobility.’
Oricien was pensive. ‘Things are changing. Sir Artingaume dead, me a warrior, Siedra betrothed. I do not know what is to come.’
Master Pinch looked at Oricien, not unkindly. ‘Human affairs are fragile, mutable. You have become a man today, Oricien. Not because you killed others on the battlefield: that was merely the press of circumstance. You are a man because you realize that things do not stay the same. To the child’s mind, the world is unchanging. It is a sobering moment to learn that certainty is an illusion.’
Pinch got up and walked over to where the soldiers were building Sir Artingaume’s funeral pyre. Oricien stayed staring into the fire and did not notice when Arren rose and went to look for his father.
7
Mettingloom
1
One morning Beauceron received an invitation from Cosetta to join him for lunch at her apartments, as if she were the great lady of the city and he the impecunious hostage. He admired her spirit, and sent an immediate acceptance.
He looked out of his window onto the aquavia to assess the weather. There was a brave winter sunshine, enough to light the city, if not to bring warmth. Icicles hung from the eaves of the houses across the aquavia and sparkled in the sunlight. Soon it would be spring, he thought with a frown: once King Tardolio reascended the throne, six months would be wasted until Fanrolio once again held power.
He put the thought to the back of his mind and selected an outfit appropriate to lunch at a respectable salon. His breeches were umber, fitted at the calf, his shirt a jaunty cerulean. His dark blue cloak was fringed with battlecat fur. The only elements of his outfit which did not bespeak the man about town were his supple and well-worn winter boots and the dull handle of his rapier. He remembered one young buck who had commissioned a rapier with a jewelled hilt and a blade chased with gold. It had been made by a jeweller rather than a swordsmith, and had snapped clean in two during the first pass. Beauceron, who had happened to be his opponent, had merely sliced the waistband of the young man’s trousers, glad that it had not been a duel to the death: it would not have helped his reputation to have been forced to kill an unarmed man. Beauceron was sure that the dandy would never again confuse decoration and utility.
It was not a long walk to Cosetta’s apartments,
and Beauceron enjoyed the clear crisp conditions as he stepped along the paths and bridges leading him to his destination. He was immediately ushered into Cosetta’s reception chamber.
‘Lady Cosetta! You look as beautiful as ever.’
Cosetta inclined her head. ‘We have an adage in Sey: “Silver tongue, iron heart.” I am sure it is inapplicable here.’
‘You are a tyrant, my lady, to array yourself in such finery and then disdain the compliments you must inevitably attract.’
Her dress of deep burgundy trimmed with rich orange was of the finest velvet, and revealed a wide expanse of skin around her collarbone. This was not intended – at least not primarily – to titillate: rather, a dress which exposed flesh in the winter was advertising that its wearer was affluent enough to be able to afford the warmth of a dimonetto. Prince Brissio was a generous patron – or an infatuated one.
‘A woman is allowed such inconsistency,’ said Cosetta, her cheeks dimpling. ‘Laria, some tea please,’ she called, and a young maid appeared.
Your establishment has expanded,’ said Beauceron. ‘Not just a dimonetto, but a maid.’
‘It is so difficult to entertain without someone like Laria to help me,’ she said. ‘And Brissio recognizes that a woman brought up in Sey has little tolerance for this cold. A dimonetto is a necessity.’
Beauceron walked over to the hearth where the dimonetto sat, tangible heat issuing through the wrought vents.
‘I have always been tempted to take the apparatus apart,’ said Beauceron, ‘to see if there really is a dimonetto within. It would be an expensive experiment to buy my own, and I have never dared make the attempt at the Occonero.’
‘So you propose to dismantle my dimonetto?’ said Cosetta. ‘Quite aside from how I should explain matters to Prince Brissio, I value the warmth. Your curiosity must wait for another day. Besides, if there is not a dimonetto inside, from where does the heat arrive?’
Beauceron nodded at the justice of the observation. ‘I am at a loss for any more compelling explanation. They say that the dimonettoes are unwilling to come forth from the Unseen Dimensions.’
‘Naturally,’ said Cosetta with a hint of sharpness. ‘Which of us likes captivity?’
Beauceron contented himself with a half-smile.
Cosetta continued. ‘My wonder has always been reserved for the thaumaturges who summon the dimonettoes. To have such power, and to use it for such a trivial purpose.’
‘My understanding is that the difficulty of summoning dimons increases proportionately to their size. The thaumaturge who can call forth a dimonetto suitable for furnishing domestic heat commands no great power; he may enjoy the acclaim that comes from mastering such a glamorous skill.’
‘I had no idea you were so learned in thaumaturgy, Beauceron. I am coming to think you are not the rude brigand of Isola’s invective. Next time Fanrolio decrees a summoning, perhaps we shall attend together.’
Beauceron sipped at the tea Laria had brought. ‘In my position I find it helpful to cultivate an air of mystery. If you wish to consider me a great scholar – perhaps even a clandestine thaumaturge – in secret, it does me no harm for you to do so.’
‘Your lieutenant is called Monetto. I take it that the name is assumed,’ said Cosetta as she sipped her own tea.
Beauceron laughed. ‘Of course. There is no great wit to it – it is simply the result of his red hair: it’s short for “dimon-etto”. He did not choose the name; it was bestowed upon him.’
‘By you?’
‘No, indeed. He once served another captain. “Brigands”, as you characterize them, are fluid in their allegiances.’
‘I take it that all men, when they come north from the Emmenrule or Garganet or Gammerling, take a new name.’
‘It is not obligatory, but it is customary. Most such folk are driven north unwillingly, and have reason to begin anew. Some have more sinister reasons for concealing their identities.’
Cosetta set her cup down. ‘What of the name Beauceron?’
‘It is not the name I came north with. In the old language of Mettingloom it means literally “Dog of the North”.’
‘I wonder at your real identity. When you wish, you display a certain refinement.’
‘If I use a name I was not born with, there is a reason,’ said Beauceron. ‘Naturally I do not intend to hark back to the past now.’
‘Your obsession with Croad is not the attitude of a man who thinks only of the future.’
‘We all have our dreams, Lady Cosetta. It would be impertinent of me to grub yours out in conversation, and I am sure you would show no less respect for mine.’
At this point Laria stepped into the room. ‘Madam, Sir Goccio is here and wishes to know if you are in residence.’
‘Of course, Laria, send him up!’
Cosetta turned to Beauceron with a smile. ‘I am popular today. Have you met Sir Goccio?’
‘I am acquainted with him by reputation,’ said Beauceron. ‘We could scarcely expect to be intimates, since he is a liegeman of King Tardolio.’
‘Fah! All the while I maintain my own salon I will have no truck with such folderol.’
‘I wonder how Prince Brissio would view your stance.’
‘I have never asked his opinion on the matter, and I do not intend to do so now.’
Into the room stepped a tall, slender man attired all in black. He bowed low to Cosetta, and more modestly to Beauceron. ‘Lady Cosetta! I am delighted to find you at home.’
Cosetta inclined her head. ‘You are always welcome, Sir Goccio. I am fortunate to entertain two such noble paladins in my apartments. Laria, more tea, on the instant! Please allow me to present the famed captain, Beauceron.’
Sir Goccio came forward and shook hands. ‘I am honoured to meet you, sir. And indeed there are matters I would discuss with you. Your daring exploits are well-known, even in Tardolio’s court. And of course, every gentlemen of Mettingloom is in your debt for bringing the lovely Lady Cosetta to the city.’
Silver tongue, iron heart, thought Beauceron, although Cosetta forbore from making the remark this time.
‘Your own prowess is well-known, Sir Goccio. Did you not take service for a season with King Ingomer?’
‘You are too kind, sir. In truth, I found myself embarrassed by creditors, and found it expedient to spend a while in Gammerling. I was favourably impressed with both realm and King.’
‘Yes, King Ingomer is held to be more subtle and flexible than his father, not that this would prove difficult. I trust your difficulties are now over.’
Sir Goccio dismissed them with a wave of his hand. ‘They were trivial in nature. I had managed to secure some valuables from the Emmenrule, and they became ensnared in the maze of the Pellagiers’ bureaucracy. As a result I found myself short of ready cash. I thought it best to leave the scene for a period.’
Beauceron nodded. ‘The Pellagiers can be obstructive if one does not know how to deal with them. I am fortunate in that my use to Under-Chamberlain Davanzato induces him to speed matters along.’
‘Ah, Davanzato. Tardolio’s Chamberlain Urbizzo is perhaps less flexible.’
‘Sir Goccio, Beauceron, I did not invite you here to discuss the Pellagiers,’ said Cosetta, her reproof tempered by a twinkling of the eyes.
Beauceron bowed. ‘My apologies, Lady Cosetta. We forget that plunder is not an endlessly fascinating subject.’
‘Sir Goccio, you will of course stay to lunch?’ said Cosetta.
‘I should be delighted. I would stay if only to enjoy the warmth of your dimonetto and your person.’
Beauceron found such compliments over-studied, but Sir Goccio was a knight of some renown, and no doubt understood the form of such things better than he.
‘Shall we repair to the front parlour?’ said Cosetta. ‘The view over the aquavia across to the Occonero is unsurpassed.’
As they rose, Laria entered again. ‘My lady, Prince Brissio is downstairs and requests your company.�
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Cosetta made a moue. ‘Oh, this is bothersome! I can hardly deny him admittance to my apartments in the circumstances, but no doubt he will be vexed to find I have company.’
‘Do not worry on that account,’ said Beauceron. ‘I am eager to learn the business Sir Goccio has with me. We will leave at once.’
‘Regrettably Beauceron is right,’ said Sir Goccio. ‘This visit has been all too short, but I console myself that I will see you at the Midwinter Ball, if not before.’
Beauceron heard a heavy clumping on the stairs.
‘Cosetta? Do you keep me waiting! I have had a most vexing morning going over treasury records with my father! I have no desire to learn book-keeping!’
The door crashed open, and in stepped Prince Brissio, resplendent in a red cape trimmed with cloth-of-gold, a brilliant white shirt and deep maroon breeches and boots.
‘Oh! I had not realized you were entertaining!’ said Brissio with a choleric cast to his face. He flung himself down on the couch. ‘I had hoped for some light diversion.’
‘We are just leaving, my lord,’ said Beauceron with a bow. ‘I was merely making a brief social call.’
Brissio glowered. ‘And who is your friend?’He peered at Sir Goccio’s cloak. ‘Is that a sunflower sigil I see?’
‘Sir Goccio, at your service,’ accompanied by a bow.
‘Goccio . . . Goccio . . . a knight of King Tardolio.’
‘Just so, sir. I was delighted to receive an invitation from Lady Cosetta.’
Brissio turned his gaze to Cosetta. ‘You invited a knight of Tardolio to wait upon you?’
‘Indeed I did. In Sey it is considered good manners to invite new acquaintance to one’s home, bringing honour to both.’
‘You are not in Sey now, my lady.’
‘I am well aware of that, sir. No doubt Beauceron can explain the circumstances by which this came about.’
Brissio’s heavy brows almost met as he frowned. ‘I meant that in Sey one does not have two separate courts. It is a breach of etiquette and a grave embarrassment for the heir to the Winter Throne to be invited to a salon with a knight of the Summer Court.’