But she had to admit she was enjoying this one.
As dawn broke, the army of Angland filed through Ostenhorm towards the quay, where just about every vessel in the province had been pressed into service as a transport, the harbour made a shifting thicket by their masts. Drums thumped, pipes tooted, sergeants bellowed, boots tramp, tramp, tramped. The salt breeze caught flags stitched with old victories, the rising sun gleamed on gear newly forged in Savine’s own armouries.
And then there was Leo, the magnificent centrepiece to all this pageantry. He was utterly in his element, magnificent in dark grey uniform and gilded breastplate, roaring lions stitched into his cloak. Like a candle flame in a dark room, every eye was drawn towards him, every cheer and salute sent in his direction. He rode constantly up and down on his snorting, pawing warhorse as though a moment still was a moment wasted, trading jokes with the men, urging them on, standing in his stirrups to wave each company aboard.
“They look good, don’t they?” he asked, reining in beside her, gazing at the passing columns like a girl at her intended. “They look damn good.”
“Almost as good as their general,” she said, glancing at him sidelong.
He reached out and put a gentle hand on her belly. “I love you.”
Savine blinked at him. The truth was she had only loved one man, and he was the one they were going to war with. Love was unlucky. An encumbrance. She smiled, and pressed her hand against his, and felt their baby shift underneath it. “I love you, too,” she said, and shut him up with a kiss. There was plenty to like about Leo, after all. Especially at the head of an army. But there were some tasks he was not suited for.
“Wherever is Jurand?” she asked as they broke apart. “He organised most of this.” Antaup was laughing with a crowd of officers, and Whitewater Jin had stripped off his armour to help heft barrels aboard one of the transports. But she saw none of Leo’s other friends. Normally it took a heroic effort to prise them from his side. “And Glaward? He was meant to—”
“They won’t be coming,” said Leo, jaw muscles working.
Savine sighed. “Did you have some falling out in Sipani?” They could be like a gaggle of schoolgirls with their bickering. “Honestly, Leo, we can use every man, and Jurand more than anyone, you need someone beside you who—”
“Has a brain?” he forced through gritted teeth.
Won’t shit the bed in a crisis was what she wanted to say, but with Leo in this mood she settled for, “Has a cool head and a gift for organisation. You can’t let some petty—”
Leo growled each word with furious precision. “They will not be coming.”
“Leo!” It was almost a shriek, and Savine’s heart sank. Lady Finree was forcing her way through the baffled onlookers who had gathered beside the road.
The young lieutenant who’d been given the job of watching her hurried after, pink with embarrassment. “I tried to keep her out of the way, Your Grace, but—”
“What’s happening, Leo?” She looked pale, and scared, and much older than she had when Savine first met her, especially with her son sitting so far above her on his tall, tall horse. “This must be half of Angland’s army—”
“All of it.”
“But… going where?”
“To war, Mother. Where else would an army go?”
“Leo, I’ve heard a rumour…” She said the words in a horrified whisper. “That you mean to move against the Closed Council.” She gave a desperate, quivery smile. “Tell me it’s not true!”
There was a pause. “They’ve gone too bloody far!” snapped Leo. “Someone needs to stand up to the bastards.”
Lady Finree glanced over at Savine, and Savine studiously did not meet her eye, feeling just the slightest bit guilty for the elaborate deception she had worked on the woman. “Leo, you can’t mean…” She plucked weakly at his knee, at his saddle. “This is armed revolt. This is treason!”
Savine felt a chill creeping up her back, then. As though, in spite of all her long preparations, because no one had actually said the words, she had not realised quite what they were about. That chill became colder yet as she recognised another familiar face. Yoru Sulfur, that humble representative of the Order of Magi, slipping through the crowds towards Lady Finree’s side.
“This is patriotism!” snapped Leo.
“By the Fates, listen to yourself. You don’t understand!” Finree dropped her voice, eyes darting nervously over to Sulfur and back. “Undertakings were made, to get us where we are. To get you where you are.” She dropped her voice further. “I made promises to Bayaz—”
“Bayaz? What the bloody hell does he have to do with anything?”
“Everything,” said Sulfur, looking very directly up at Savine. She remembered the First of the Magi offering her a statue on the Kingsway. Mentioning profitable partnerships and healthy competition. Telling her that knowing one’s own ignorance was the first step towards enlightenment. And she remembered promising her father she would have nothing to do with the man.
“It’s not too late!” Finree was pleading. “I can write to the king, we can appeal for his mercy—”
Leo gave a disgusted hiss and turned his horse, making his mother scramble back almost into Sulfur’s arms. “I’ve grovelled enough to that fool. It’s high time we switched places.”
Lady Finree stared at the marching men, clutching at her chest with a thin hand, then edged close to Leo’s horse again. “Leo, please, listen to me. You’re a great fighter. You’re a great leader. Of course you are, but…”
“But what, Mother?”
“You’re not a general!”
“I seem to remember a battle at Red Hill!” he snapped, cheeks flushed red with anger. “I turned the tide there when no one else could!”
“You led a charge!” She caught hold of his horse’s reins near the bit. “Managing an army is a very different thing! Let me come with you, at least. Let me—”
“No!” He tore his reins from her hand. “You’ve kept me in your shadow long enough. It’s my time now!” And he spurred his horse savagely away.
“I wonder how long his time will last,” murmured Sulfur, gently shaking his head.
Finree stared from him to Savine. She looked so utterly distraught that it was hard to meet her eye. “Have you thought about what you’re risking? Have you thought about what happens if you lose?”
“There is nothing I have thought about more,” said Savine. Except what would happen if she won, of course. She already had most of the details of her coronation planned.
“People will be hurt.” Savine was disappointed to see there were tears in Finree’s eyes. She really was throwing away all the respect anyone used to have for her. “People will die!”
“And my master,” added Sulfur, “will be seriously displeased.”
Savine looked down her nose at him. “As my father once said, if you want to change the world, sometimes you have to burn it down.”
“But Bayaz,” pleaded Finree, “our arrangement—”
“Shit on Bayaz. I did not reach my place in life by paying the interest on other people’s debts.” Savine snapped her fingers at one of Leo’s aides. “Escort Lady Finree and her friend back to the Lord Governor’s residence. And see that they do not interfere.”
“Your Grace.”
“Leo, please!” Finree shrieked as she was hustled away. “Savine!”
But Savine had already turned her horse towards the ships and clicked her tongue to move him on.
She couldn’t have been much over sixteen, this girl, but she strode up bold as you like. She had broad, solid shoulders and broad, solid hips and a broad, solid jaw she was intent on aiming at Shivers however far he towered above her, which was quite the distance as she wasn’t tall. She planted the butt of an old spear on the ground in front of him, her broad, solid knuckles white about the time-darkened haft.
He looked down mildly at her. “Hello?”
“I want to talk to Rikke,” she growle
d.
Shivers held out his hand. “There she is.”
“What, her?”
“No,” said Isern-i-Phail. “Rikke is the other one-eyed woman with runes tattooed on her face. Yes, her, girl, who the bloody hell else would she be?”
“Huh,” grunted the girl, walking up to Rikke. “You’re younger’n I thought you’d be.”
“Give it time,” said Rikke. “I’ll get older.”
“Or you’ll get killed,” said Isern.
Rikke sighed. “She’s always trying to cheer me up. You’re a well of good cheer, Isern.”
“You’re Isern-i-Phail?” asked the girl, lip even more wrinkled.
“No,” said Rikke. “Isern is the other gap-toothed, tattoo-handed, fingerbone-wearing hillwoman. Yes, her, girl, who the bloody hell else would she be?”
“You three are quite the jesters, ain’t you?”
“Have a smile at breakfast,” droned Shivers, stony-faced, “you’ll be shitting joy by lunch.”
“Now who might you be and what might you be after?” asked Rikke.
“I’m Corleth.” The girl frowned at Rikke, then Isern, then Shivers, like she was daring them to call her a liar. “And I want to fight.” She snarled the last word like a curse. Reminded Rikke of one o’ those mean little dogs that’ll take on anything, no matter how big.
“Then fight you shall. We can use every spear. Get this girl a shield!” she called to one of the smiths, and Corleth strutted off with her broad jaw in the air, much pleased to be a warrior.
“Don’t like her looks,” said Isern, eyes narrowed.
“You don’t like anyone’s looks,” said Rikke. “You’re just jealous of her youth and strong hips.”
Isern propped her hands on her own hips, such as they were. “I’m the way the moon wants me and naught wrong about it from where I stand.”
Rikke snorted. “You’re straight down like a sausage, and a gristly one at that.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Skinny Rikke. Every pinch o’ meat fell off you when you went to see the witch. You’re like a head stuck on a spear these days, but without the flies. Most o’ the flies, at least.” And she burst out laughing.
“Harsh,” said Rikke, but by a poor stroke of luck she was obliged to wave off a fly at that very moment. She chose to rise above it as a leader should, turning away to take in the gathering.
Rikke had called, half-expecting she’d be ignored, but folk had answered and then some. They’d come in a trickle, then a flow, then a flood, from every village, farmstead and woodsman’s hut in the Protectorate. The smiths and fletchers of Uffrith had worked their hands raw the past few weeks arming folk, then they’d stuck on helmets themselves and joined the throng. Some of the town’s women had even took a break from nattering at the well to stitch Rikke a standard of her own. A big eye, with runes around it like the ones tattooed into her face. The Long Eye, on a red field, looking into what comes. It slapped and flapped against its pole behind her now, looking down on the greatest weapontake Uffrith ever saw.
“You sure about this?” murmured Shivers. “Not too late to turn back.”
Rikke frowned at him. “Never marked you as a turner-backer.”
Shivers only shrugged. He was a tough man to offend. Maybe living with a wound like his made harsh words seem harmless. “I’m for whatever works.”
“Well, you’re a big man, so you wouldn’t understand. When you’re small, you have to take chances. We might not get another chance like this.”
Shivers frowned at the warriors gathered, and slowly nodded. “Aye, I reckon.”
“Besides.” And Rikke leaned close, and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, which was something like nudging a tree trunk. “It’ll turn out sweet.” She pulled down her cheek so her left eye popped at him. “I’ve seen it. Now get ’em ready, I’ve a mind to speechify.”
“You really seen it?” murmured Isern in her ear.
“All you know is what I say I’ve seen. And I say I’ve seen it.”
Isern winked. “There’s the Long Eye for you.”
“Listen!” Shivers was calling, but his whispery voice didn’t have much poke to it and no one heard. “Listen!” But it was quieter than last time if anything. He took another breath.
“Open your ears, you fucking maggots!” screamed Isern-i-Phail, so loud Rikke flinched at it. But silence fell, and everyone turned towards her. So many faces, choking the square and the streets about it. More of her people than she’d ever seen gathered in one place. More than she’d known she had. Made her heart swell, to see them come out on her say-so. She thought of how proud her father would’ve been as she clambered up on the wall beside Isern, and it gave her a lump in her throat. She pushed back the hood she’d made from Savine’s red cloth and tried to scrub some life into her flattened hair with her fingernails.
“You know I’m one of you!” she screeched, voice a bit broken. “I’ll confess I look a touch odd these days, and maybe I am a touch odd, but you know I’m one of you. Born in Uffrith. Raised in Uffrith. Hope to die in Uffrith. Hope that last’ll be some ways off still.” A bit of laughter at that, a whoop or two and some light drinking. Rikke waved ’em down. “My father did all he could to keep this place free!”
“The Dogman!” someone roared, and there was a respectful mumble and grumble of his name repeated.
“Fought all his life so we could choose our own way. But here we are, still stuck ’twixt the Union and the North. It’s like we’ve a foot on either boat, but now the two are going different ways on the current, and if we don’t jump to one or the other we’re apt to get torn in two.” She grimaced and grabbed her crotch. “And in the most sensitive spot!” More laughter at that. Make ’em laugh, you’re halfway there, her father always told her.
“But now we’ve got a chance to win our freedom for good!” She reached out, like there was something in the air she could nearly grasp. “It’s there! Right in front of us! All we need is the bones to take it! And we will. I know we will!” She made a ring out of her finger and thumb, and held it to her left eye, and peered at them hard through the centre. “I’ve seen it!”
She flung up her arms and all those folk thrust their spears in the air and roared with one voice, all bound together in this grand adventure. All ready to risk everything to grab this chance. They were still cheering when she hopped down from the wall.
“Nice speech,” croaked Shivers, stroking his sore throat.
“Aye,” muttered Rikke, “but no one ever died from talking a good fight.” She rubbed at her own neck like she could rub away the nerves that had gathered there. “Fighting one’s another matter.”
The rain had started coming not long after dawn, spitting down on the milling crowds of warriors. Warriors from every part o’ the North where they called Stour Nightfall king. Which was pretty much all of it.
There were tough Thralls in studded leather with spear or bow. There were stout Carls in bright mail with axe and shield. There were Named Men whose helm and hilt and harness glinted with jewels. There were wild men from the distant North with furs and warpaint. There were tattooed savages from out past the Crinna with their crooked standards of bone and hide. There were thousands of the bastards.
They’d been flooding into the fields around Carleon for weeks. From up here on the roof of the gatehouse, Clover could see the muddy stain of their camps spread all the way up the far side of the valley. But the last day of summer was coming fast and the camps were emptying now, little trickles of men joining to become streams, flowing down towards the road south where they became a marching river. Steel gleamed with wet as the drizzle fell, here and there the standards of one War Chief or another flapping over the throng.
Stour watched this almighty mess with his arms folded, nodding like a baker seeing the bread rise just the way he wanted. “Ever see a weapontake like this, did you?”
Clover shrugged. “I’ve seen a few, and by and large they were about like this one. Lots of
men turning up with weapons. Sort of the point of the thing.”
Stour gave him a withering glance. “I meant, have you ever seen one so big.”
“I admit this is the biggest.” Apart from the one when Bethod went to war against the Union. Or the one when the Union went to war against Black Dow. But he doubted Stour wanted to hear that, and once you’ve seen a man starve one poor bastard after another in a cage, you get quite sensitive to what he wants to hear. Which Clover imagined was the point o’ the exercise.
“We’re going to show those Union bastards something,” snarled Stour. “On their own ground, this time. Never fought ’em in Midderland, eh?”
“No.” Clover didn’t bother to say that men usually fight harder on their own ground. He doubted Stour wanted to hear that, either.
Being honest, he wasn’t sure why the young King of the Northmen kept him close. He liked to think he was looked on as some noble mixture of bodyguard, advisor and mentor. In truth, the role probably tended more towards jester. But what can you do but play the role you’re given?
“You’re set on this, then?” Black Calder stepped from the staircase and out onto the gatehouse roof, grey-streaked hair plastered to his pale frown by the rain. He looked sourer by the day. Like milk left out in the sun.
Stour spread his arms to gather up that whole vast host. “Send ’em home now, they’ll be so disappointed!”
“I had a visit from Master Sulfur.” Calder rubbed worriedly at his grey stubble. He’d been pouring worry, doubt and scorn on the whole business ever since the first man turned up. “He’s not happy with this. And that means his master won’t be happy, either.”
Stour gave a snort. “Just as well my business ain’t making wizards happy. Be a frustrating bloody line o’ work, eh, Clover?”
“I guess,” murmured Clover, who found making kings happy frustrating enough.
“Daresay you can look after things while I’m gone,” said Stour, clapping a hand on his father’s back.
The Trouble with Peace Page 42