The Red Knight ttsc-1

by Miles Cameron

  There was an answering roar from all around them, and Peter was staggered to discover that there were dozens – perhaps hundreds – of painted warriors around him.

  He grabbed at Ota Qwan. ‘What – what was that?’ he asked.

  Ota Qwan gave him a wry smile. ‘That was what men call an adversarius,’ he said. ‘A warden of the Wild.’ He eyed Peter for a moment. ‘A daemon, little man. Still want to be one of us?’

  Peter took a breath but it was hard. His throat was closed again.

  Ota Qwan put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Tonight we’ll be in a regular camp. Maybe we can talk. You must have questions. I know a little.’ He shrugged. ‘I love living with the Sossag. I am one. I would never go back, not even to be a belted earl.’ The black painted man shrugged. ‘But it ain’t for everyone. And the Sossag are Free People. If you don’t want to continue with them, well, just walk away. The Wild might kill you, but the Sossag won’t.’

  ‘Free People?’ Peter asked. He’d heard it said before.

  ‘You have a lot to learn.’ Ota Qwan smacked his shoulder. ‘Move now. Talk later.’

  Dormling – Hector Lachlan

  Hector Lachlan walked into the courtyard of the great inn at Dormling like a prince coming into his kingdom, and men came out to stare, even applaud. The Keeper came in person, and shook his hand.

  ‘How many head?’ he asked.

  Lachlan grinned. ‘Two thousand, six hundred and eleven,’ he said. ‘Mind you, master, that includes the goats, and I’m not so very fond of goats.’

  The Keeper of Dormling – a title as noble and powerful as any in the south, for all it belonged to a big bald man in an apron – clapped Lachlan on the back. ‘We’ve expected you a ten-day. Your cousin’s here to join you. He says it’s bad to the south.’ He added, ‘We were afraid you might be broke, or dead.’

  Lachlan accepted the cup of wine that the Keeper’s own daughter pressed into his hand. He raised it to her. ‘I drink to you, lass,’ he said.

  She blushed.

  Hector turned back to the Keeper. ‘The Hills are empty,’ he said, ‘which trouble in the south explains. How far south? Is it the king?’

  The Keeper shook his head.

  ‘Your cousin told me that Albinkirk was afire,’ he said. ‘But come in and sit, and bring your men. The pens are ready, even for twenty-six hundred and eleven beasts. And I’m eager to buy – if I serve you a steak tonight, Hector Lachlan, you’ll have to sell me the cow first. I’m that short.’

  The staff of the Dormling Inn descended on the drovers like an avenging army, carrying trays of leather tankards of strong ale and mountains of soft bread and sharp cheese. By the time the youngest, dustiest drover far in the rear had been served his welcome cup and his bread, their lord was clean of the mud of the trail, sitting in a room as fine as most lord’s halls, looking at a new tapestry from the East and smiling at the back of a local woman – a grown woman with a mind of her own, as he’d just discovered. He rubbed his bicep where she’d pinched him hard as a land crab and laughed.

  ‘Cawnor tried to levy a toll on me,’ he went on.

  The Keeper and the rest of the audience shook their heads.

  The drover shrugged. ‘So we opened the road. I doubt there’s enough of his men left alive to hold their fort, should someone decide to take it from them now.’ Drovers never sought to hold land. Drovers drove.

  His cousin Ranald pushed through the crowd.

  ‘You’re taller!’ Hector said, and crushed him in an embrace. Then he sank back into his chair and took a long draught of ale. ‘Albinkirk afire? That’s ill news. What of the fair?’

  Ranald shook his head. ‘I was moving fast. I kept moving. I was already on the east side when I reached Fifth Bridge, so I stayed there and rode cross country.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t see a thing.’

  The Keeper shrugged. ‘If I’d thought you’d be here today, I’d have held the two bloody peddlers,’ he said. ‘They claimed they’d been part of a merchant convoy headed west from Theva. Lost all their goods and slaves.’

  Hector nodded. ‘Like enough.’ This was the time of year for the great convoys.

  ‘A pair of Moreans. Said it was an ambush. Whole convoy destroyed.’ The Keeper shrugged. ‘My sons say there was a good sized Theva convoy a ten-day back as well, on the south road, so they didn’t pass by here.’ He shrugged again. ‘I have no faith in Moreans, but they had no reason to lie either.’

  ‘Ambushed by what?’ Hector asked.

  ‘They couldn’t agree,’ the landlord said.

  ‘They said the Wild,’ said a bold young farmer, a frequent customer, and a suitor for one of the Keeper’s daughters. ‘Or, leastways, the younger one said the Wild.’

  The Keeper shrugged again. ‘That’s true. Some of them said it was the Wild.’

  Hector nodded slowly. ‘I certainly didn’t see an animal bigger than a dog the whole trip here,’ he said. He shook his head in weary disgust. ‘The Wild is set against Albinkirk? Where’s the king? His people eat my cattle too.’

  The Keeper sighed. ‘I don’t know, and that’s a fact,’ he said. ‘I’ve put two of my sons and a dozen men on fast horses out to get ye news. We’ll see what they have. Folk have spied Outwallers in the woods. Sassogs. I think that if they were really there, they’d have been seen and et alive – but then I’m a suspicious bastard.’

  Hector took a deep breath. ‘So it’s war then.’

  The Keeper looked away. ‘I hope not.’

  Hector took another pull of ale. ‘Hope in one hand and shit in the other and see which one smells most. How long until you hear from your fast horsemen?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ the Keeper said.

  ‘Assuming the Outwallers don’t eat them.’ Hector kicked his sword out in front of him to make room for his legs and sat back, tipping his chair against the wall. ‘By the five wounds of Christ, Keeper. This will be an adventure to remember then – taking the drove into an army of the Wild. Not even my da did the like.’

  ‘Waste of courage and arrows, though, if the fair ain’t happening,’ the Keeper said. ‘Lissen Carak may be so many burned cots and splintered stones when you get there.’

  Hector thumped his chair back down. ‘Truth in what you say,’ he said. ‘And no use pondering it until I know more.’ He looked around at the dozen men in the room. ‘But I have a real harper and a dozen other players in my tail – and unless Dormling’s fallen on hard times, I wager a golden noble to a copper cat we can have us some fine music and dancing to rival the fairies tonight. So enough talk of war. Let’s have wine and music.’

  In the far doorway, the tall serving woman tapped her foot and nodded approvingly.

  The Keeper’s youngest daughter clapped her hands. ‘Now that’s why you’re the Prince of Drovers,’ she said approvingly. ‘To Hector, Prince of the Green Hills!’

  Hector Lachlan frowned. ‘The Green Hills have no lord but the Wyrm of Erch,’ he said. ‘The dragon will have no rival, and can hear all that’s said by men, so let’s not be naming me to the lordship of any hills – eh, Keeper?’

  The Keeper took a long pull of his own ale and put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and said ‘Honey, you know never to speak so. The Wyrm is no friend of man – but he’s no foe to us, as long as we stay clear of him and keep the sheepfolds where he commands. Eh?’

  She burst into tears and fled the room with every eye on her, and then the moment passed and the woman in the doorway clapped her hands. ‘Bother the Wyrm!’ she said boldly. ‘I want the harper!’

  Harndon Palace – Desiderata

  Desiderata lay back on the daybed in her solar, wearing only a long shift of sheer linen and silk hose with red leather garters. Her nurse clucked disapprovingly at her mistress’s deshabille and began the herculean task of gathering up her shoes.

  Desiderata had a scroll, a day book, and a lead pencil encased in silver with her, and she was writing furiously. ‘Why don’t they build all the cart whe
els to the same size?’ she asked.

  Diota made a face. ‘Because wheelwrights don’t share their measures, mistress.’

  Desiderata sat up. ‘Really?’

  Diota clucked, looking for a second damask slipper. She found it under the daybed. ‘Every wheelwright builds to their own set of sizes – usually given ’em by their father or grandfather. Some build cartbeds to the width of the narrowest bridge – I grew up in the mountain country, and the Bridge of Orchids was the narrowest lane in the baillie. No carter would build a cart wider that that, and no wheelwright-’

  Desiderata made an impatient noise. ‘I take your point. But military carts-’ She shook her head. ‘There are no military carts. We have vassals who give cart service. They hold their cottages and farms in exchange for providing a cart and a driver. Can you imagine anything clumsier? And when their cart breaks down, it’s the king’s problem.’ She chewed on the silver pencil. ‘He needs a professional train. Carts built for war, with carters paid a wage.’ She scribbled furiously.

  ‘I imagine it costs too much, my lady,’ Diota said.

  Desiderata shook her head. ‘You know what it costs to repair the wheels on one cart? War does not need to be this expensive.’

  ‘You make me laugh, my lady,’ Diota said. She had found both of the red calfskin slippers – a miracle in itself – and she was putting the whole collection all on shoe forms to keep them stretched.

  Desiderata gave her nurse the sort of smile that squires at court fought to gain. ‘I make you laugh, my sweet?’

  ‘You are the Queen of Beauty, with your head full of romance and starshine, and now you’re organising his supply train.’ Diota shook her head.

  ‘Without forage and fodder, a knight and his horse are worthless,’ Desiderata said. ‘If we want them to win glory, they must be fed.’ She laughed. ‘You think my head is full of starshine, nurse – look inside a young man’s head. I wager that half of the young louts who try to look down my dress and fight to kiss my hand will ride off to do great deeds without even a nose bag for their chargers. Without an oiled rag to touch up their sword blades. Without a sharpening stone or a fire kit.’ She tossed her head to move her mane of hair. ‘I’ve watched knights my whole life. Half of them are good fighters – fewer than a tenth make even marginally competent soldiers.’

  Diota made a face. ‘Men. What more need be said?’

  Desiderata laughed. She picked up a second scroll. ‘I’m moving forward with the plans for the tournament. The king will have almost the full muster of knighthood together anyway, so I’ll move the date by a month – the fourth Sunday in Pentecost isn’t a bad time for a big show. The planting will be done and only the haying will be in.’

  ‘Fourth Sunday – Lorica Cattle Fair,’ said Diota.

  Desiderata sighed. ‘Of course.’ She made a face. ‘Drat.’

  ‘Have your tournament at Lorica instead.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Desiderata mused. ‘Very good for the town – good for our relations there, as they’ll rake in a profit. And I understand my husband had to make some concession there.’

  ‘Because your perfect knight burned the Two Lions,’ Diota spat. ‘Foreign fuck!’

  ‘Nurse!’ Desiderata swung a pillow with great accuracy, catching her nurse in the back of the head with a soft tassel.

  ‘He’s a lout in armour.’

  ‘He’s reputed to be the best knight in the world,’ breathed the Queen. ‘You cannot judge him by the standards-’

  ‘By the Good Christ,’ Diota said. ‘If he’s the best knight in the world, then he should embody the standards.’

  They glared at each other. But Diota knew her duty. She smiled. ‘I’m sure he is a great knight, my lady.’

  The Queen shook her head. ‘I confess he lacks something,’ she admitted.

  Diota made a noise.

  ‘Thank you, nurse. That will be quite enough. Despite your ill-mannered grumbling, I take your point – no doubt the king does need something nice done for Lorica. Holding the tournament there – if the timing is right, if the army is returning that road, and if the town fathers are in favour – yes, it would do very nicely. And I would get my tournament.’ She rang a silver bell, and the door to the solar opened to admit her secretary, Lady Almspend, one of the few university-taught women in Alba.

  ‘Two letters, if you please, Becca.’

  Lady Almspend curtsied, sat at the writing table, and produced a silver pen and ink from her purse.

  ‘To the Mayor and Sheriff of Lorica, the Queen of Alba sends greeting-’

  She dictated quickly and fluently, pausing while her secretary filled in titles and appropriate courtesies with equal fluency. It was the habit of kings and queens to employ scholars of repute as secretaries, as most of the nobility couldn’t be bothered to learn the task and employed others to do any actual writing. But Rebecca Almspend managed to write fine poetry and research the works of the troubadours of the last two centuries, and still found time to do her job thoroughly.

  ‘To his Alban Majesty, from your devoted, loving wife-’

  Lady Almspend gave her an arch look.

  ‘Oh, say what I mean, not what I say,’ Desiderata pouted.

  ‘You Grace will forgive me if I suggest that sometimes your performance as a wilful beauty overshadows your obvious intelligence,’ Lady Almspend said.

  Desiderata let the nails of her right hand pass lightly down the back of her secretary’s arm. ‘Let my letter be coy, and let him gather how very brilliant I am by looking at the design of his new war carts,’ she said. ‘Telling him how very clever I am will only cause him distress. Men, my dear Becca, are like that, and you will never attract a lover, not even a bespectacled merchant prince who adores your head for long columns of figures, if you wear wimples that hide your face and seek to prove to every lover that you are the smarter of the pair.’ The Queen knew perfectly well that her intellectual secretary had attracted the devotion of the strongest and most virile of the King’s Guardsmen – it had been something of a wonder at the court. Even the Queen was curious how it had happened.

  Lady Almspend was perfectly still, and the Queen knew she was biting back a hot remark.

  The Queen kissed her. ‘Be at peace, Becca. In some ways, I am far more learned than you.’ She laughed. ‘And I am the Queen.’

  Even the staid Lady Almspend had to laugh at the truth of this. ‘You are the Queen.’

  Later, when giving justice, the Queen summoned two of the king’s squires, and sent them with the letters – one was delighted to go to the army, if only for a day or two, and the other, rather more dejected, riding to a merchant town to deliver a letter to a retired knight.

  The Queen allowed them both to kiss her hand.

  North of Harndon – Harmodius

  Harmodius was on his second night without sleep. He tried not to think about how easily he’d done such things forty years before. Tonight, riding very slowly down the road on an exhausted horse, he could only hope to keep his hands on the saddle, hope that the horse didn’t stumble, throw a shoe, or simply collapse beneath him.

  He’d drained every reserve of energy. He’d set wards, thrown bolts, and built phantasmal dissuasions with the abandon of a much younger man. All his carefully hoarded powers were gone.

  In a way, it had been marvellous.

  Young magi have energy and old ones have skill. Somewhere in the continuum between young and old lies a practitioner’s greatest moment. Harmodius had assumed his had been twenty years ago, and yet last night he’d thrown a curtain of fire five furlongs long – and swept it ahead of his galloping horse like a daemonic plough blade.

  ‘Heh,’ he said aloud.

  An hour after he’d extinguished the fiery blade, he’d met a foreigner on an exhausted horse, who had watched him with wary eyes.

  Harmodius had reined in. ‘What news?’ he asked.

  ‘Albinkirk,’ the man breathed. He had a Morean accent. ‘Only the castle holds. I must tell the king
. The Wild has struck.’

  Harmodius had stroked his beard. ‘Dismount a moment, and allow me to send the king a message as well?’ he said. ‘I’m the King’s Magus,’ he added.

  ‘Ser Alcaeus Comnena,’ the dark-visaged man replied. He swung his leg over the horse’s rump.

  Harmodius had given him some sweet wine. He was pleased to see the foreign knight attend his horse – rubbing the gelding down, checking his legs.

  ‘How’s the road?’ asked the knight.

  Harmodius permitted himself a moment of glowing satisfaction. ‘I think you’ll find it clear,’ he said. ‘Alcaeus? You’re the Emperor’s cousin.’

  ‘I am,’ said the man.

  ‘Strange meeting you here,’ Harmodius said. ‘I’ve read some of your letters.’

  ‘I’m blushing, and you can’t see it. You must be Lord Harmodius, and I’ve read everything you written about birds.’ He laughed, a little wildly. ‘You’re the only barba- only foreigner whose High Archaic is ever read aloud at court.’

  Harmodius had a werelight going, and was writing furiously. ‘Yes?’ he asked absently.

  ‘Although you haven’t written a thing in five years, now? Ten?’ The younger knight had shaken his head. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I had thought you dead.’

  ‘You weren’t far wrong. Here – deliver this to the king. I’m going north. Tell me – did you see any Hermetics fighting against Albinkirk?’

  Ser Alcaeus had nodded. ‘Something enormous came against the walls. It pulled the very stars from the sky, and threw them at the castle.’

  They had clasped hands.

  ‘I long to meet you under more auspicious circumstances,’ Ser Alcaeus had said.

  ‘And I you, ser.’

  And with that, each had ridden off – one north, and one south.

  Who can pull stars from the sky and hurl them at castle walls? Harmodius asked himself, and worried that there was only one answer.