“It’s good to see you, Rahl. You’re looking fit.”
“Physically, yes, ser.” Rahl was feeling worried because he really hadn’t practiced enough on some of the skills that Taryl had worked him hard to develop.
“Not working hard enough on the more obscure order-skills?”
“Probably not.”
Taryl only nodded, and that made Rahl feel more guilty than if the overcommander had chastised him, even mildly.
“There’s a good bistro around the corner, two corners actually,” Taryl went on. “The food here is less than outstanding, and that’s overstating it.” He turned and walked toward the double doors of the main entrance to the foyer.
Rahl had to take three quick steps to catch up.
Once they were outside, Taryl walked to the west end of the square—the southwest corner—and turned south.
Rahl studied the streets and the alleyways, looking back toward the square as well. He could only see the patrolling troopers and a few handfuls of troopers and officers on the boulevard. “There’s no one out here.”
“The submarshal imposed a night-time curfew,” Taryl said.
“There aren’t that many rebels here.”
“Outside of a few malcontents, there aren’t any from Dawhut. We interrogated the two you disabled. They were part of a squad that came from Sastak.”
“But he imposed a curfew?”
“He did.” Taryl turned westward at the next corner, then gestured toward a lit doorway ahead. “Here we are.”
The bistro’s front door had an etched-glass window, showing a well-endowed bull standing on his hind legs and holding a covered tray on a raised front hoof. The woodwork was varnished heavily enough that it shimmered in the light cast by the two lamps flanking the entrance.
Rahl opened the door for the overcommander.
“Thank you.”
Inside, the walls and the tables were of the same varnished dark golden oak, and the hangings flanking the front window were of a pale blue. The only other patrons, not surprisingly, given the curfew, were two commanders seated at the side table just back from the window. They glanced toward the mage-guards, then quickly ignored Rahl and Taryl.
Rahl suppressed a smile and continued to study the bistro. For all that it was no larger than Eneld’s cantina in Swarthheld, Rahl could see and sense that the cooking would likely be far better than what Seorya had served him when he’d been a clerk at the Nylan Merchant Association.
“Sers?” asked a trim, graying woman in a pale blue tunic. An old reddish slash scar ran from below her left ear to a point just short of the corner of her mouth.
“A quiet corner,” Taryl suggested.
“This way.” She smiled professionally, leading them to the far corner and a circular table that could have seated four easily. “They’re all quiet, but this one is quieter.”
“Thank you.”
The woman nodded. “What would you like to drink?”
“A good dark ale,” Taryl said.
“An amber lager.”
“I’ll get those, then tell you the fare for the evening.”
From her bearing, and from what he could sense, Rahl had the feeling she might well be the proprietress.
“How did you find this place?” asked Rahl after a moment.
“I asked some of the staff at the River Inn.”
The proprietress returned with two large crystal mugs. “Here you are, sers.”
“Thank you.”
“Tonight, we’re a little limited. We have a cream burhka—it’s richer and only mildly spicy—and we have some lamb cutlets—they’re almost mutton cutlets, but they are tender, and they’re served with piastoni and mint sauce. There’s also a rich fowl pie with jaspard mushrooms and onions.” She smiled again, the expression concealing nervousness.
“I’ll have the fowl pie,” replied Taryl.
“So will I,” replied Rahl. The cream burhka might indeed be good, as might the cutlets, but he’d had more than enough burhka and mutton, especially mutton, since dried mutton strips were part of the field rations.
“Good choice.”
Neither man spoke until she had left.
Rahl took a sip of the lager. If not the best he’d ever tasted, it was close, and he had to wonder what it might cost.
“I take it that you’ve found no rebels and no traps near Dawhut,” said Taryl, taking a small swallow of his ale. “This is rather good, surprisingly so for a backcountry city bistro.”
“The lager’s good, too.”
“Rebels?” prompted Taryl.
“Not a one. I did see some barges at the piers as I rode in. They were all empty.”
“We’ll be able to use those to move supplies,” Taryl said. “That will save some of the horses and speed things up.”
“Only downstream. There aren’t any tugs. Golyat must have kept them in Nubyat to help defend the port.”
“I’m certain he has. He may even have mounted cannon on them.”
“That’s another reason for a land attack?”
“Another reason?”
Rahl offered an embarrassed smile. “I forgot to mention something else. When I was talking to the holder’s consort at the stead where we’re quartered, she told me that one of her neighbors whose family runs the barges was in Nubyat at the end of spring or early summer. The neighbor said that they were building walls all around the harbor.”
“We’d thought something of the sort, but if Golyat had already begun to build walls then, he had to have planned the construction far earlier. I’ll pass that on to Jubyl and the Emperor. Anything else you forgot to mention.”
“No, ser, except that it does seem we’re taking a long time to travel across the part of Merowey that doesn’t have many rebels.”
The proprietress appeared with two white-china platters rimmed in blue, setting one before each man. “Here you go, sers.”
Taryl took another swallow of his dark ale. “The submarshal and marshal believe in deliberation, very great deliberation, in fact.”
“There’s a difference between deliberation and stupidity, ser, begging your pardon. The other day, Drakeyt pointed out that with all of us jammed up in the square and on the boulevard, we were as vulnerable as grounded geese. We were fortunate that there were only a few men crazy enough to attack.”
“And that you were prepared to act, something I’ve already noted in my reports.” Taryl cleared his throat and went on. “Even that caused a score of injuries, because some of the horses were spooked. We lost at least four mounts, and another half score are likely to be lamed for eightdays, if not permanently.”
“Why did the submarshal think we all could even get into the square? We weren’t allowed to scout the city proper. What purpose did putting all those troopers in the square serve, especially in a city that’s loyal?”
“I’m sure that Submarshal Dettyr will have answers for those questions when the marshal or the Overmarshal requests an explanation.”
Rahl noted Taryl’s certainty that the questions would be asked, as well as the implication that Dettyr’s responses would be inadequate.
“Now…tell me your impressions of the road as far as you’ve scouted.”
Rahl also understood that Taryl had said what he would say about Dettyr.
XLVIII
When the submarshal’s forces left Dawhut on sixday, by that midmorning Third Company was already some thirty kays farther southwest along on the road from Dawhut to Nubyat after having spent two days on the road already.
Ever since the night of his dinner with Taryl, for which the overcommander had paid, Rahl had attempted to get back to practicing the order-skills he had used but seldom on the scouting missions, particularly his attempts at using a mirror to scree places away from him. He’d paid Khasia four coppers for an old framed mirror, little more than a span square, and wrapped it in fleece and rags and stowed it on top in his saddlebags.
His efforts with the glass had resul
ted in some images, but mostly of places where he had already been—although from the scenes displayed mistily in the glass what he saw were events that were taking place as he watched—three servants straightening up the Triad’s quarters in the Palace and the Empress walking through the empty receiving room. She looked worried and sad for the few moments that Rahl could hold the image. He had no success in calling up an image of Deybri, although his head felt as if it were splitting when he finished.
He had had more success with strengthening shields, and in using order to move small objects. His efforts in shifting the balance and position of order within those small objects were limited at best. That was an area where he needed more practice. It was just that it was all so tiring after a full day of riding and using order-skills to seek out possible traps and rebel ambushes—even when he found none.
Rahl was riding forward with the scouts. The road was lumpy, but not badly rutted, if nothing to compare to the highways near Swartheld or Cigoerne—or the great highway of Recluce. He was glad that the clouds and blustery weather of the past days had been replaced by clear and sunny skies. That had resulted in clearer and colder nights, and frost by morning, but Rahl preferred frost to damp and rain. Some of the others didn’t, he could tell by the murmured complaints he could overhear.
The boglands had given way to country with more hills and trees as well as with more steads and fields—except for the stretch before Third Company, which was rockier and more desolate, with trees more widely spaced on the hillsides. The road had begun to rise gradually toward a tree-lined gap between two hills more than a kay ahead. The stream on the right of the road had cut its path downward so that while the roadbed followed the slope up, with each cubit that Rahl rode, the gully looked as though it would get comparatively deeper. The hill on the right looked to have a low bluff rising almost from the side of the road.
“Scouts! Halt!” Rahl projected his voice with a slight touch of order.
“Yes, ser.”
Even the scouts a half kay ahead reined up.
Rahl looked more closely at the hill on the right. The bluff was cut from red sandstone, with some small pines clinging to the sheer stone. He couldn’t tell exactly, but the bluff was no more than perhaps fifteen cubits high and flat on top, overlooking the road. Something didn’t feel right, and the last time he’d ignored that feeling…that had been the flood.
He dismounted, then handed the gelding’s reins to Shanyr, the other outrider, and carefully opened his saddlebags and took out the small framed glass. He could certainly try to see what was on the hill ahead. If it didn’t work, then he’d have to get closer, perhaps scouting through the trees on the far side of the stream.
He looked down at the glass, concentrating on chaos and on the hillside ahead.
The glass, which had been reflecting his face and the green-blue sky overhead, began to show a swirling white mist, then figures—men sitting on boulders beside trees. Resting against the trees were horn bows. The men looked to be wearing jackets of various colors, but khaki trousers. A thin piercing line of agony ran from the mirror to Rahl’s skull—that was the way it felt—and it grew stronger with every moment. His eyes watered so much that he could not make out the details in the glass, and he released the image, rubbing his temples with his free hand.
Slowly, he straightened, then rewrapped the glass and replaced it in the saddlebags.
“Ser?”
“Archers ahead, on the hillside.” Rahl took the reins back and swung up into the saddle. “Hold here. I need to ride back and talk to Captain Drakeyt.”
“Yes, ser.”
Rahl’s headache had only subsided slightly by the time he neared first squad and Drakeyt. He glanced back over his shoulder, then nodded. The bluff was not in sight, and that meant that the archers most likely hadn’t spotted the main body of the company. He turned back to the captain.
“What is it?”
“We’ve got a bunch of rebel archers up ahead. They’re somewhere on the hill up there, probably in the trees just behind the flat area back of that low bluff on the other side of the stream. I couldn’t sense how many, but I don’t think there are more than a score.”
Drakeyt glanced from Rahl to the bluff, then nodded. “Up there, the ravine’s too wide and deep for us to cross. What do you have in mind?”
“I’d like to try to take them, at least capture a few, without too many casualties. Once they see the company is holding position, if we don’t move after a while, they’ll back off. I’d suggest that I take fourth squad and fifth squad. We’ll backtrack just down there where we can cross the stream. Then we’ll move through the trees—the undergrowth isn’t very heavy here—and circle the hill, then move up from the southwest. If first squad crosses the stream with us, but just follows the slope above the stream, if any of the archers try to flee, they’ll be moving toward the squad.”
“Second and third squads are to take their time moving toward the bluff on the road, I take it?” asked Drakeyt.
“After taking a break in plain sight of the archers, but well out of range of any that might have tried to sneak closer.”
“That might work.”
Rahl shrugged. “I’m ready for any better ideas.”
Drakeyt laughed. “We could circle the hill and avoid them altogether, but somehow, I don’t think the submarshal or the overcommander would be especially happy about that.”
“No. We’re supposed to find and remove all problems without casualties and without causing additional delays.”
“And without any inconvenience to the most honorable submarshal,” murmured Drakeyt in a voice low enough not to carry to the troopers reined up behind the two officers. “Your plan is as good as any, except that I’d suggest half of second squad accompany first squad. That will still leave a large-enough-looking force on the road, but give more coverage for any rebels who might flee.”
“That’s better,” agreed Rahl.
After a short break, Rahl led his squads back down the road a good quarter kay to where the horses could easily descend the slope to the stream and then climb the other side.
Drakeyt followed with his squad and a half, while Quelsyn held the road with the remaining forces and the few pack animals. Rahl could sense the combination of doubt and puzzlement within the senior squad leader. While he did not know the actual reasons for Quelsyn’s feelings, he was getting the idea that the senior squad leader was one of those men who had trouble accepting anything he could not see, touch, or experience. Since Quelsyn had no order-senses, the trooper had no understanding of why what Rahl did usually worked.
Rahl had ridden at the head of his squads through the low pine trees and up a slope that steepened gradually for almost a kay before his headache subsided into a dull ache. He did not begin to sense the archers with his direct order-senses until they were on the back side of the hill, less than half a kay from the bluff.
“Quiet riding. Pass it back,” he ordered.
From what he could sense, the archers did not react or discover his squads during the entire time that they circled the back of the hill and turned back uphill.
Rahl reined up, lifting his arm to let the troopers know. “Squad leaders forward,” he added quietly. “Pass it back.”
Within a few moments, both squad leaders reined up beside Rahl.
He glanced from Fedeor to Fysett, then spoke. “There are less than a score of archers, but they all have horn bows at hand. They’re watching the road, and, if we’re quiet, we can probably get within a quarter kay without their noticing, maybe closer. The way we’re approaching will allow us to ride about five across, roughly abreast. If possible, I’d like a few prisoners, but not at the cost of troopers.”
Rahl’s last words brought a nod from Fysett.
“We’ll quiet ride uphill from here. I’d judge we’ll get another hundred, maybe two hundred cubits before they notice. When they do, I’ll signal, and we’ll charge—as we can.”
“Mor
e like a slow canter,” suggested Fedeor.
“The best we can do,” said Rahl.
They nodded.
Rahl waited for them to pass the word in low whispers, then started the gelding uphill once more.
They were within a hundred cubits of the nearest archer, when Rahl sensed movement among the archers. He dropped his arm and urged the gelding forward, although the pace was little faster than a quick trot, given the need to avoid the scrubby and wide-spaced pine trees. He and the other five troopers riding slightly before him were almost at the south edge of the narrow clear space above the bluff before the warning cries went up.
“Imperials! Imperials!”
Rahl had his truncheon out, but the troopers were more experienced than he was in the semimelee, and their heavy sabres were far more effective than the horn bows of the rebel archers. Within moments, the rebels were either dead or wounded or disarmed, but several had gotten off shafts—Rahl had felt them strike one or two of his troopers, but he had not sensed death.
He reined up and tried to order-sense any archers who might have fled to the north, but he could not sense anyone in the trees away from the small clearing at the edge of the red-sandstone bluff. He turned the gelding back toward the trees from where the archers had tried to defend themselves.
“We got ’em all. Don’t think any of them escaped, ser,” announced Fedeor, reining up short of Rahl.
“How about our men?”
“Two took shafts. Looks like they’ll be all right.”
“I’ll need to look at them in a bit.”
“Yes, ser.”
Rahl looked over what remained of the rebel archers. Six lay where they had been cut down. Two were wounded, and from the fading order and chaos, one was dying. Two others stood silently, as their hands were bound. All wore the khaki shirts and trousers and maroon vests of the rebels, but each man’s outer jacket was different. Each also bore the hint of chaos.
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