Blood and Gold

by Ben Blake

  *

  The men put on their helms as they approached the Gate of Angels, in Mayence’s east wall, and they wore their shields slung across their backs with the black and white colours turned outwards. Only Calesh left his head bare. It made him stand out, in the age-greened copper armour Sevrey had given him at Harenc, when Calesh married Farajalla. That was as close as the duke could come to admitting she was his daughter. It was an excellent gift, but it did make Calesh an easy target. On the other hand, it made him recognisable to his own men too, able to raise morale just by riding past. Like so many things it was a trade: you gave with one hand, and took back with the other.

  On the arched gateway winged figures watched the road with stone eyes: in Mayence even the city defences were embellished with sculpture, as though that might somehow conceal their true purpose. Beneath them ten members of the Margrave’s Guard stood sentry, taking it in turns to check wagons and walkers into the city. Their livery of red and yellow stood out brightly in the throng. Several of them pointed at the approaching riders and presently one spoke an order, sending a younger man scampering into Mayence, almost certainly to take word of their arrival to the Manse. The officer didn’t bother to close the gate though, which in a time of war with soldiers drawing near was more than merely sloppy. Calesh saw Baruch’s mouth tighten.

  Merchants waiting to take their wagons into the city pulled to the side of the road when they saw the column coming. Farmers manoeuvred their carts out of the way. Travellers on foot stood and watched the soldiers ride by, prudently waiting until the armed men were gone before they resumed the jostle trying to get into Mayence. Their eyes followed Calesh, the only bareheaded man in the company, clad in his strange armour. Only the nine gate guards remained in the road in their uniform coats: blood and gold, they called the colours, perhaps thinking that made them seem braver. They stood in a single line as though to block the way, but their wide eyes and pale faces gave them away. Deer sometimes looked that way, when they saw the hunter only in the instant before the arrow was loosed.

  Calesh led his men onto the bridge before the gate, over the rushing river Kair. The crowd behind him had fallen silent, watching.

  “Halt and declare yourselves,” the captain of the gate guard said. His men shuffled their feet as the column came to a stop.

  “Do it,” Calesh ordered.

  “My name is Baruch Caraman,” he said. He didn’t remove his helmet, and his voice echoed metallically from the cheek guards that came over his jaw. “I am a Commander of the Hand of the Lord, whose soldiers these are. This is Calesh Saissan, the Marshal Commander of the East, whose name you may have heard.” He raised his voice slightly at the last, letting it carry. Murmurs rippled back through the throng.

  The officer only nodded. “You may enter with no more than ten men. The rest must go –”

  “We are going to the Preceptory of the Hand of the Lord,” Baruch said in that reverberant voice. He kneed his horse forward, letting it dance until it was sideways on to the officer. He and Calesh had talked about this, working out how best to make both a dramatic entrance and a statement, but without harming anyone or making needless enemies. “Under Sarténi law we have that right. You may not impede us. Stand aside.”

  “All of you won’t fit in the Preceptory,” the man pointed out, not unreasonably. He was hopelessly outnumbered, and the law was against him too, but he’d still retained the ability to think clearly. Calesh rather admired him, and made a mental note to find out the man’s name. He might be useful in the days ahead.

  “That is not your concern,” Baruch said. “If we men of the Hand choose to sleep standing on one another’s shoulders, it is our affair and none of yours. Stand aside.” The horse danced forward again, crowding close to the officer. “Or I will ride clean over you.”

  The officer stood aside. He had no choice really, with just nine men on foot against so many horsemen. If he’d had the gate closed before the Hand arrived it might have been different, but it was too late now. The first company of soldiers rode under the arch, into a wide avenue flanked with cypress trees and filled with suddenly staring citizens. A troubadour standing on an upturned crate stopped reciting and let his lute trail away, a last few forlorn notes hanging in the air before they faded.

  “Some welcome,” Raigal Tai complained. His voice, always loud, was magnified by the helmet into a giant’s boom. “If the Gate of Angels leads into Heaven, I think we had the right to expect cheering crowds and flowers tossed in the street.”

  Calesh snorted. “It’s not the same Gate of Angels, I’m happy to say. If it was, we’d already be dead.”

  “Wait a month and we might be,” Baruch put in grimly.

  They advanced down the avenue, a wide thoroughfare known as Waggoner’s Way, along which much of the trade of Mayence flowed. By now it was late morning, past the time when most of the morning carts had been brought in and unloaded, but before evening’s second spate of deliveries. A few vendors had set up stalls along the road, by the raised walkways on either side, and city folk moved to and fro between them in the shade of cypresses. But the crowds weren’t heavy, so there was plenty of room for shoppers to move aside as the cavalry paraded between the trees. They did so willingly enough, and a hush fell. Whispers ran through the onlookers, trailing a respectful silence broken only by the clop of iron-shod hooves.

  “God bless the Hand!” someone shouted suddenly. There was a cheer, ragged and spontaneous, and all at once the whole avenue was filled with shouting men and women, some waving their arms in the air and others capering like fools at a country dance. Several soldiers in the lead company shifted hands towards their sword hilts, but began to relax again even before Baruch could speak to them. There was no threat here, among their own people. One or two of the riders exchanged grins.

  “There’s your welcome,” Calesh said to Raigal Tai, over his shoulder. “Are you happy now?”

  Down the street the throng grew thicker, as word spread and the citizens of Mayence rushed to see for themselves. People hung out of windows and waved their arms, or threw hats into the air in delight. They must have heard the All-Church army was coming, and in the appearance of so many of the Hand they thought they saw salvation. Well, perhaps they did, though more fighting men would be needed to turn the tide.

  “They need to hear you speak,” Baruch said.

  He grimaced. “I’m not much for speeches.”

  “It’s too late for you to say that,” his friend said. His voice was very soft, and wouldn’t carry far. “It was too late the moment you decided to lay claim to command. You’ve put your feet on this path, and Raigal and I are with you, but some things you have to do.”

  He was right, as he usually was. Calesh had won the fame, Luthien was the best swordsman and Raigal simply terrifying in battle, but it was Baruch who spoke sense when it was needed and kept the others from going too far. We need to be together, Calesh thought again.

  He wondered how it was for Baruch. Calesh had found Farajalla, though he’d never looked for love. Raigal had his wife and son, and Luthien his love for God, but Baruch had never had anyone. I am married to the Hand, he said, but what would be left to him if the Hand was lost in this war? As it seemed likely that it would be lost, shattered by the very All-Church in whose name it had fought for so long. Soldiers in black and white surcoats lay in graves from Alinaur’s hills to the sands of Tura d’Madai, but their sacrifice counted for nothing any longer.

  A pair of Elite watched the column from the entrance to one of their temples, a small round building of white stone that shone in the sun. One was grizzled and grey, perhaps a veteran of those half-forgotten battles of the Hand, and the other a young woman with straw blonde hair and eyes of a blue bright even at this distance. Calesh thought he recognised her from the camp outside Parrien, when she had given a sermon to his men in the dark. She wore an expression of surprise, for some reason. He was seized by a sudden wild urge to rush over and scream at her; why
couldn’t you be careful? Did you have to flaunt your unbelief in the All-Church’s face, until they were so enraged that they came for you?

  “We were none of us careful,” he said quietly to himself. The words barely trembled on his lips, a mere breath in the air, yet Baruch half turned in his saddle and gave a thin smile, sad and terrible.

  There was a church on their left a little further on, its narrow windows boarded over and the doors barred shut. Near the stone floor they had a charred look, evidence of an arsonist’s interest in the abandoned chapel. Mayence would not be a safe place for the clergy of the All-Church just now. Calesh wondered where the priest was: hiding in a cellar perhaps, or fleeing eastwards in the dark and cowering under hedges by day. The thought cheered him, bizarrely. He hadn’t thought he was so vindictive.

  The vanguard passed into Musicians’ Square, though nobody played or recited just now. People stood dozens deep all around the plaza, squeezing the would-be artists from the provinces up against the walls and leaving only a narrow way clear. They began to cheer and applaud as the Hand of the Lord rode through, and then sent up a roar when the lead riders reined their horses in. Calesh took a deep breath and swung down from his saddle, then jumped from the stone coping to the statue of the lute player in the middle of the pool. He was able to wrap his hand around the figure’s neck and stand with one foot on a stone knee, lifting himself up above the crowd. Baruch was right: people needed to hear from him. He raised a hand for quiet.

  It came slowly. Baruch looked uneasy, and when he spoke rapidly to the man beside him several soldiers turned to scan the crowd, looking for any threat. But the crowd continued to clap and cheer, and Calesh shifted his foot on the statue’s leg. He looked over at Baruch and Raigal and made a helpless movement with his free hand. Laughter ran through the throng, and in its wake the cheers died to murmurs, and then to silence.

  “Thank you, people,” Calesh said. He didn’t have a clear idea what to say. “Uh, I know we in the Hand are mostly your own family, your own sons, but we’re certainly glad of the welcome anyway.”

  At that the crowd went crazy again, whooping and stamping their feet in delight. Farajalla had suggested he mention that, back at the Hidden House, to remind the citizens that the men of the Hand were their own flesh and blood. She constantly surprised him with her cleverness, this exotic outland wife he had found. Calesh raised a hand for quiet once more, and this time it came more quickly.

  “You know what we face,” he said. Words began to come to him, more easily, now he’d begun. “The All-Church has called Crusade against us. Their army has already begun to cross the river Rielle, and there’s no way we can raise a force anything like as strong.”

  Silence. From outside the square came a murmur, as of a throng restless with impatience.

  “I know war,” Calesh said. “I know how hard it is to win against an army so much bigger than your own. Every one of us will have to do whatever he can, all that he can, if we are not to be lost.” He let his gaze rove across the crowd. “You will be asked to make sacrifices. Remember, when you do, that the Hand of the Lord will be sacrificing as much as any.”

  “The All-Church tells its people simply to believe. To accept, and not to question. Our faith tells us to find God in our own hearts, and not in the crooked words of misled men.” Calesh paused. “I prefer ours, and by my heart and eyes, I’m going to fight for it.”

  The roar came all at once, even from some of the soldiers of the Hand themselves. Raigal Tai steadied Calesh’s horse as he leaped back across the pool and swung back into his saddle; he even got a shout of approval for that, as though mounting a horse was a virtue. He raised a hand in acknowledgement, redoubling the roar.

  “Nice speech,” Raigal said. “It’s a good thing Ando Gliss couldn’t hear you speak. He’d have fainting fits through sheer excitement.”

  “Words have never won a battle,” Calesh said. He motioned for the vanguard company to start moving again.

  “Wrong,” Baruch said quietly. “Words sometimes make men believe the battles can be won.”

  There was truth in that. Soldiers were a strange lot, tough and cynical, yet they could also be superstitious and moody. A word of comfort here, or a son’s name remembered there, could make all the difference to them. They didn’t need pretty oration, and indeed held it in contempt, but they did want to feel valued by a leader who fought and bled alongside them, and knew what battle was. Calesh had done so, and they knew it. Two words from him were worth a whole song from a troubadour back home.

  But words to civilians hardly mattered at all. Maybe they would encourage a few young men to join up, but not enough to make any difference. There wasn’t time to train them anyway. But they could repair crumbling walls, or dig cavalry ditches across roads, or any of a hundred other things. And in the end, perhaps they could man those walls with pitchforks and wood axes in their hands. It might mean enough to count.

  A small voice whispered that they would die in droves. Calesh ignored it; he knew that anyway. The question was whether they would achieve anything by their deaths, and whether that fate was any worse for them than the one the All-Church brought.

  The streets were still lined with crowds when the Hand of the Lord arrived at the broad granite block of the Preceptory. There were Chapter Houses all over Sarténe, and more in Alinaur and Tura d’Madai, but this was the heart of the Order where the big decisions were made. The first company rode past the steps and fanned out to form a double line, behind which the rest of the army drew up. Ahead of them the road ran over a bridge lined with bronze horses, and then past the Hall of Voices with its crimson dome and fluttering flags. Their course had brought them back to the river, lined on both banks here by groves of orange trees. Calesh could smell blossom on those branches.

  He swung down from his saddle when the others did. They all moved at once to gather around him.

  “All right,” Calesh said. He paused, hesitant for the first time, and looked up at the square bulk of the Chapter House. A figure emerged and began to walk down, and he saw it was Amand.

  You are strong enough for this, Farajalla murmured in his memory. Baruch was watching him. Calesh stood straighter.

  “It’s arranged,” Amand said as he reached the riders. His gaunt face twisted in distaste. “I can see the need, but nothing in my career has made me feel as dirty as this.”

  “I know,” Calesh said. He gripped the other man’s shoulder briefly. “But it must be done.”

  Amand nodded. His uniform was perfectly ironed, the creases sharp enough to cut. “The Quartermaster is in Alinaur on a fact-finding mission, but his deputy is here and will support us. The Chief Elite is here, and he backs us too. His name’s Alcalde.”

  “I remember Alcalde,” Calesh said. “A tall man, bearded. Or he was when I last saw him.”

  “He still is,” Amand confirmed.

  “We have a quorum of the senior men, then,” Calesh said. He took a mental breath, careful not to let it show. “You’ve done well, Amand. Thank you. Let’s take care of business.”

  They had barely started up the steps up when a knot of men emerged from the front doors. Most were Hand armsmen, hastily cramming helmets over heads or pulling on gauntlets as they hurried to form two lines of welcome. Such haste indicated carelessness to Calesh, because they should have known the moment armed men entered the city, and been ready for their arrival. He suspected that the cause of the laxness was the white-haired man who emerged at the head of the steps, staring down at the armoured men climbing towards him. The ends of his thick white eyebrows twitched as they approached. Beside him stood Alcalde, his beard and hair as dark now as they had been eleven years ago. The Elite broke into a bright smile when their eyes met.

  “Commander Saissan,” Darien intoned. The new arrivals came to a halt in front of him. His sharp-eyed gaze flicked over them: he must not have been drinking this morning. From what Baruch said, that was unusual. “I must commend you on your swift retur
n to Sarténe.”

  “Thank you,” Calesh said. “We need to talk.”

  Darien’s eyebrows jerked again. He would have noticed the lack of a title or a salute, and also that Calesh hadn’t asked to talk. His eyes narrowed. “I know you have been away a long time, Marshal Commander, and you have been the ranking officer among the Hand in Tura d’Madai for a long time. But still, I must insist on the basic courtesies, I’m afraid.”

  “And I must insist that we talk,” Calesh said.

  “Perhaps when you have rested,” Darien answered. He smiled tolerantly. “Men are not at their best after a long journey. Perhaps your behaviour is merely due to weariness.”

  “I’m not tired.” Calesh let his gaze slip beyond the old Lord. “Good morning, Alcalde. It’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, Commander,” he answered with another bright smile. “I trust you are well?”

  “Very well,” he said, and turned back to the old commander. “Baruch and I must speak with you. At once.”

  “When you have rested,” Darien said again. His smile stayed in place, but there was a terrible understanding in his eyes. He knew, Calesh realised: the presence there of Alcalde made it hard for him not to. He knew what was coming, but an old soldier’s pride made it impossible for him to accept, or even admit. And Darien Serran had been a fine soldier once, leading the Hand of the Lord for fifteen years in its struggle to drive the Jaidi out of Alinaur. He’d earned his scars, and his rank, many times over.

  But some old soldiers never grew used to life away from the battlefield. Many couldn’t shake off the nightmares that plagued them, and became hollow-eyed shells of who they used to be. Others never found something to fill the space where the old excitement had been: a sick excitement, to be sure, made as much of terror as anything else, but still addictive. Darien had filled that empty space with brandy. Whatever he had been, he was no longer, and for all the sadness in that he had to move aside.

  “I didn’t want it this way,” Calesh said quietly. “For the past twenty years you’ve led the Hand well, Darien. But the Hand needs decisive leadership now, and I think I can best provide it.”

  “Ah,” Darien said. “Are you so familiar with current affairs in Sarténe, then? Only a week after your return? It seems your talents are more impressive than I was led to believe.”

  “I will have advice from people who are familiar with those affairs,” Calesh answered. Beside him Baruch stepped forward.

  “I agree with him,” the stocky man said clearly. “Command in Sarténe has been a post suited to a decent administrator for a long time, Darien, but not anymore. We need energy and action now, the best battle leader we can find. That man is Calesh Saissan.”

  “I am Lord Marshal of the Hand of the Lord,” Darien began. He cut off when Alcalde cleared his throat.

  “I believe Commander Baruch is correct,” he said. Alcalde smiled often and genuinely, but there was no hint of softness in his iron tone. “As Chief Elite, I no longer have confidence in you as Lord Marshal, and I must insist you step aside, Darien.”

  It stopped the old man, but only for a moment. “I am entitled to a full hearing. And the Quartermaster is not here.”

  “The Quartermaster is a clerk,” Calesh said, “responsible for nothing more than requisitioning, and signing the accounts at the end of each month. His department will support me, but under the laws, you’re right, Darien. Are you really going to insist on a full hearing?”

  “I am,” the old man said. “And until that time I remain in my position, of course.”

  “Of course,” Calesh repeated. “Tell me, Darien. Do you think the officers don’t know you’re a drunk?”

  Darien froze. His expression never changed, but somehow what lay beneath it became brittle, so fragile that a breath might shatter it. He swallowed, and still did not speak.

  “I’m sorry,” Calesh said, more gently. “Truly I am. But understand me: I won’t let you lead in this war, Darien, or even pretend to. So far you’ve done nothing at all that I can see. Those men down there follow me because I fight beside them, and usually I win for them. I keep them alive. That matters more than familiarity with what passes for politics in the Manse these days.”

  “We’ll let you keep your rank,” Baruch said, “but only if you accept that Calesh has effective command of all soldiers in the Hand of the Lord. Write that out for all the company officers and there’ll be no need for a hearing, Darien.” He flinched at the look in the old man’s eyes. “I’m sorry too, old friend. But it must be this way.”

  “Must it?” Darien shook his head. “I used to think you were such a fine man, Baruch. Now I wonder if you will not regret this in Heaven. If you even go to Heaven.” His gaze went back to Calesh. “And as for you, Marshal Saissan. I might have been happier if you had stayed in the desert after all, but it seems I have no choice.”

  “No,” he said. “None at all.”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t matter,” the old man said. “Perhaps a battle leader really is what we need, as Baruch says, but I doubt that even your skills will make a difference to what is to come. We will die in the end, won’t we? A glorious end is the best we can hope for now.”

  “I won’t accept that,” Calesh said tightly. “And hearing you speak I’m glad, for the first time, that we’ve removed you from command. We will do what we can, and trust that it is enough.”

  He turned to Baruch. “Send soldiers to all the posts to inform them of the change in authority. I want every senior officer to attend a briefing in the Vaulted Hall at the dusk bell tonight. And send a man to the Manse, as well. Tell the Margrave I will attend him there at his earliest convenience.” He looked around the circle of his friends. “Now it begins.”

  “Or ends,” Raigal rumbled. There didn’t seem a great deal to say to that.

  Fourteen

  Close to Heaven

  A page trotted up to the group under the trees, bending to whisper in Cavel’s ear. The bony seneschal sat rather awkwardly in a chair shaded by a sycamore tree, flanked on both sides by youths clad in the red and green of the palace servants. Officially the colours were blood and lime, though the green was like no lime Cavel had ever seen. Beads of sweat stood out on the servants’ heads.

  Cavel was damp under the arms too, even in the shade. A little to one side Riyand sprawled on a divan, propped on one languid elbow as he listened benignly to a young troubadour sing his newest ballad with the gentle voice of the stream for accompaniment. Across the arbour a young blonde woman in an Elite’s green robes sat with her back against an acacia tree and picked at a bowl of fruit, seeming not to listen.

  Closer, yet hardly noticed, the Margrave’s wife was seated in a cushioned chair, head bent over needlework or embroidery. Ando could never quite remember the difference, or see how it mattered. There was not much for Ilenia to do except sew, and perhaps enjoy long soothing baths. Certainly Riyand rarely troubled her. He supposed Ilenia was pretty enough, in a quiet sort of way, big-eyed and with shining brown hair. She could have had a litter of children by now if Fate had brought her a different husband.

  Ando wondered whether she minded. She might be glad Riyand was so rarely in her bed, or she might hate Ando for taking the Margrave to his. She might even have lovers of her own. Perhaps he ought to find out, if he could. But he never knew what to say to Elenia, or she to him it seemed. They orbited each other in silence save for polite inconsequentialities, neither of them willing to be the first to speak of her husband.

  This was the first time the weather had allowed them to enjoy the palace gardens since winter passed. It would likely be the last time events allowed them to. Scouts reported that the All-Church army had completed its crossing of the river Rielle and was edging closer to Parrien, its progress slow but inexorable. Some of those scouts had already been lost, to fast-moving advance forces that ran ahead of the main army. Sarténi forces had begun to gather in response, in the valleys of the Aiguille around Mayence. War was comi
ng. There would not be many slow, idle afternoons left.

  And given a choice, Ando would not have chosen to spend this one listening to a second-rate singer perform his third-rate songs.

  The laughter of friends, the stars above,

  Praise freely given for art performed,

  And a woman’s breathing beside me at night.

  Such comforts fail when the wind is cold,

  Doors are barred, and I am far from home,

  In a place where God is little loved.

  The troubadours had been part of life in Sarténe for almost a century now, yet many of the singers still couldn’t get beyond the old, weary phrases and images. They made Ando think of an ancient carpet on the floor of a poor man’s home, frayed and worn thin by too much use. What this excuse for a singer did wasn’t art, to Ando’s mind, any more than digging out old drainage ditches was art, or slopping whitewash on a weather-faded wall. He was just revisiting what had been done before, and by better artists. Ando was glad when the song ended, on an entirely unnecessary flourish of plucked notes, and the troubadour bowed over his instrument as though expecting applause.

  He didn’t receive any.

  “I do wonder,” Riyand drawled idly, ignoring the player, “what news was so important that a page brought it to you here, Cavel.”

  Looking back at the seneschal, Ando saw that the messenger had already departed again, and one of the two who’d flanked Cavel before was missing as well. He sat up on his divan. These days the merest hint of trouble caused hearts to beat somewhat harder.

  “A disturbance at the entrance,” the seneschal said smoothly. For all his outward poise he still sat stiffly on his chair. Cavel was more at home pushing papers than listening to singers in the sunshine, but when the Margrave wanted to sit and relax, then the court sat and relaxed. “I don’t think you need concern yourself, my lord.”

  “The entrance to the Manse? Of course I should concern myself,” Riyand said. He didn’t stir from his propped elbow though. “Who was it? Our dear All-Church clerics, again?”

  “Not this time,” Cavel replied. “The Hand of the Lord.”

  Ando swung his feet to the grass and set down his wine, but he was given no chance to speak.

  “I sent a message that I would see Commander Saissan tomorrow,” Riyand said petulantly.

  “Commander Saissan?” the blonde Elite said from her place by the tree. “Is that who’s at the entrance?”

  “You know him?” Riyand asked in a surprised voice.

  “I was in Parrien when he and his men came ashore,” she said. “I held a brief service at their camp that night. Some of those men hadn’t received proper rites since they left for the desert.”

  “You were there?” Cavel’s eyes were narrow. “That seems rather a large coincidence.”

  “Really, Cavel,” the Margrave said with a laugh, “you must not be so suspicious. We can trust Elisande. I’m sure she had a perfectly good reason to be in Parrien.”

  Perhaps she had. She could have had a good reason and some foreknowledge too, Ando thought. He’d only been in Parrien himself because he already knew the Hand was coming home, and the harbour seemed an obvious place to wait for it. How Elisande might have known was a mystery. Perhaps Riyand thought so too, which was why his laughter sounded forced to Ando. Nobody else seemed to notice though. Perhaps he had imagined it. Either that, or he knew his lover’s moods more intimately than he had believed.

  Elisande tossed her golden hair. “I was travelling the coast, holding services in the towns and villages I passed through. It’s hardly an uncommon thing for an Elite to do. I didn’t expect to be questioned about it.”

  “Such are the times we live in,” Ando shrugged. “It’s unfortunate, but trust is a precious thing these days.”

  He frowned as he heard his own words. There might be a song in that concept, something about how distrust grows like a weed in the dark. Or rancour in a poor man’s soul. He almost laughed at himself: here he was comparing the poor troubadour before them to a worn carpet, and yet his own ideas were just as old and tired. That reminded him that the singer was still there, standing a few yards away with his lute clutched in both hands. Ando picked his wine up again and nodded to the man.

  “You’d best leave us,” he said. “If you want somewhere to play tonight, go and see the barkeep at Spring Blessings, on Three Lords’ Street. The pay is all right, and they throw in a good supper too.”

  The troubadour bowed and hurried away, almost breaking into a run as he hastened across the gardens. Ando watched him go and wondered why he’d made that last offer. The man wasn’t really good enough to make a living from his own songs; Heaven only knew how he’d managed to finagle an invitation to play for the Margrave, however briefly. His voice wasn’t great either, but perhaps he could scrape along singing other people’s work. Some few of the troubadours allowed that, more from vanity than for any other reason. It showed how grand they were, or so they believed.

  “What did you think of Commander Saissan?” Cavel asked behind Ando. “Did you speak with him?”

  “No,” Elisande said. “I only saw him briefly. At Parrien, and again today, on Waggoner’s Way.”

  “Coincidence upon coincidence,” Cavel murmured. Elisande raised a manicured eyebrow at him.

  Riyand’s voice drifted over theirs, lazy and bored. “I do not wish to talk of Commander Saissan, or any other soldier. This afternoon is for relaxation. I will return to business later.”

  “I don’t think you have a choice,” Ando said.

  He had been watching the singer retreat across the lawn, so it was Ando who first saw uniformed servants erupt from a side door of the Manse like a cloud of disturbed fruit flies. Several of them seemed to be trying to block the entrance, but to no avail: into their midst pushed several large men who flashed silver as their armour caught the sun. Ando could pick out black and white surcoats, the Hand’s colours. More men shoved through, scattering the palace staff across the paths and into a flowerbed. One of the servants actually ran in a circle with his hands flapping, like a witless chicken.

  Cavel shot to his feet. “This is intolerable! Where is the Guard? My lord, you must be taken to safety. I will –”

  “Safety?” Riyand snorted. “If I’m not safe in the Manse I’m not safe anywhere. Be still, seneschal. I doubt the Hand means me harm.”

  A knot of the Guard came running around the corner of the building, saw the emerging men of the Hand, and quickly formed tight ranks. They paused then, and with reason; already thirty of the Hand had poured into view, and more were coming. With a clear advantage of numbers the men in blood and gold might have risked a confrontation, but even that wasn’t certain. The Hand of the Lord had a formidable reputation as fighting men, and besides, when the All-Church army came these men would fight side by side. It would not be a good idea for them to smash one another’s bones now.

  “That’s him,” Ando said as he caught sight of a familiar figure. It was too far for him to see more than the man’s height, and his nondescript brown hair, but there was something in the way he carried himself that caught the eye. He remembered that from Kissing the Moon. “Calesh Saissan, I think.”

  Cavel shaded his eyes to look, and Elisande stood up so she could see. The soldiers formed a rough group and began to advance steadily across the lawns, not reacting even when the little knot of Guardsmen rushed along a gravel pathway to try to intercept them. It was too late. The Hand battalion drew closer, all the men armoured but none wearing a helmet or carrying a shield, until they came beneath the shade of the trees and halted.

  Except one. Calesh stepped forward alone, limping very slightly as though tired. He was the only man of them not wearing armour, just a light coat in the colours of the Hand. His expression was carefully blank, but Ando was experienced at reading what people tried to hide. A songwriter needed to see what others missed, and in Calesh he thought he saw barely-restrained anger in the tautness around his eyes. In fac
t Calesh looked furious, ready to spit nails, and Ando shot a sudden uneasy glance at his lover.

  “Commander Saissan,” Riyand said. His voice was cool and cultured, the tone of a lord in his element, controlling the scene. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, and I’m delighted you could pay us this surprise visit. Please, sit and join us in a cup of wine.”

  “Elite Elisande,” Calesh said. He offered the golden-haired woman a slight bow, ignoring Riyand completely. “I thought it was you I saw on the street this morning. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly at last. My men were grateful for the service you gave them that night in Parrien. Perhaps you’d consider speaking for us again?”

  “Of course,” Elisande said. “I offer the rites wherever they are needed, Commander.”

  “And Master Gliss.” Calesh nodded to him. “I hope you’ve forgiven me my harsh words concerning your lyrics.”

  He had forgotten them, in fact, but Ando didn’t reply. Riyand, rudely ignored in his own grounds, had turned pink in the face, and it was to him that Ando owed loyalty. The Margrave forced a smile.

  “It’s always pleasant to meet old friends once more,” he said, and this time the thread of tightness in his voice was too obvious to be missed. “Join us, Commander. Sit and drink.”

  Calesh turned to him then. All at once the veneer of politeness he had shown to Elisande and Ando was gone, replaced by a hardness that was very nearly cruel. Anger flashed across his face. Across the arbour Ilenia paused in her work and watched them, her hazel eyes keen.

  “I am not at leisure to dawdle the day away until my wits are sodden with wine,” he said coldly. “Your land is under attack, Margrave. Had you forgotten? Or do you not care?”

  Heart suddenly thumping, Ando watched his lover rise to his feet. Riyand’s wine glass fell to the grass, unheeded.

  “I do not permit anyone to speak to me that way in my own house,” the Margrave said. “Not even close friends. And you, Commander, are neither a friend nor likely to become one. I will accept an apology, if you offer it.”

  “I will not,” Calesh said. “I have crossed half the world to defend my home, and I think I could fairly expect that you would want to defend it too. Instead when I request an audience your page claims you are too busy, and then I find you taking the sun and enjoying fine wine in your gardens, surrounded by singers and sycophants. Tell me, Margrave, where is your army now? How do its provisions stand? How far have additional defences progressed? You will forgive me,” he added caustically, “if I do not expect you to know the answers. I doubt you’ve spent any time at all trying to find out.”

  “Command of the army is given to general Reis,” Riyand said. He sounded rattled now. “Such questions should be directed at him.”

  “Not true,” Calesh shot back. “Do you really believe you can lounge in your gardens and leave the work of defence to others? You are the Margrave! My hands and heart and eyes, do you take responsibility for nothing? Will you idle away your days with fripperies and a string of lovers, and never give a care for what happens outside your walls?”

  “That isn’t fair!” Ando snapped. Part of his brain told him it was that casual mention of a string of lovers which had angered him, but he plunged on anyway. “We have been working, but we need some rest. You have no right to make such accusations.”

  “Don’t I?” Calesh snapped at him. “I have to decide when and where to commit the Hand of the Lord to battle. Men will die because of the choices I make in the days ahead, singer. And it’s hard to ask those soldiers to fight for me, to risk death for this land, while its lord fans himself in the sun and does nothing!” His voice cracked on the last, making Ando jump. “The days when he could sample the city’s arts and culture at his leisure are over, do you understand? Perhaps you, balladeer, and others in this city feed him milk and honey and never expect anything from him. I will not be part of that.”

  “You don’t under –”

  “This is war,” Calesh said, riding right over Ando. Ilenia was watching him closely, her needlework forgotten in her lap. “War is not a forgiving mistress, Master Gliss. It is hard and cruel, and there will never be enough time to do half the things that need doing no matter how hard we work. Men will die for the things I can’t find time to do, as well, but I will not let a single one die because I couldn’t be bothered to make the effort!”

  “He does! He works –”

  “Excuse me,” Cavel said, and his dry tone cut through Ando’s rising voice. “You said you would decide when to commit the Hand, Commander Saissan. Is Darien no longer Lord Marshal, then?”

  “Darien remains ranking officer of the Hand,” Calesh said curtly. “Command in battle will be mine, however, until this crisis is over.”

  “I see,” Cavel said slowly. Ando could almost see the aged seneschal’s mind working. He knew what Calesh’s words meant as well, however carefully couched they were: Darien had been ousted from power within the Hand of the Lord, and Calesh had replaced him.

  “What do you suggest we do now?” Cavel asked. He was trying to take them away from their anger, Ando realised, losing the talk in detail until all the passion faded away.

  “The first thing is to abandon Parrien,” Calesh said at once. “It might have been possible to defend the town if you’d begun making preparations two months ago, when word reached me in Tura d’Madai that the All-Church would be coming here. But you’ve missed the chance. All of Sarténe up to the Aiguille will be lost to the fire because of that.”

  “I was trying to negotiate!” Riyand shouted. Calesh only flicked his eyes at the Margrave and then dismissed him, not bothering to hide his contempt. Riyand began to go red again. He picked up his glass, poured it full of wine and drained it in one long swallow.

  “Whatever we should have done two months ago,” Cavel murmured, “we can’t do it now. What is past can’t be changed, Commander. Perhaps you might advise us on matters we can still affect. General Reis,” he added, “has already advised us to abandon Parrien, in fact.”

  He was the smallest man there, bony and bald, but it was Cavel who seemed able to deal best with the big soldier. Calesh knew it too, evidently. He answered the seneschal when he had ignored the Margrave. “At least someone is thinking clearly. With Parrien and the lowlands abandoned, we can withdraw to the Aiguille. It might be possible to defend Mayence; certainly we can try. But we have to start working now, immediately, and keep on until we drop with exhaustion and sleep where we fall. And then wake, to work again. For one thing, we need to send out parties of cavalry to clear the farms of livestock and crops, anything we can eat, and bring it here.”

  “No,” Riyand said.

  “If we do this, we might be able to hold out until summer is over,” Calesh went on. Again it was as though Riyand hadn’t spoken. He aimed his words at the seneschal – and Cavel was listening, Ando saw with dismay. He wasn’t simply trying to defuse a tense situation after all. He was reacting to a shift in the balance of power, riding the changing tide, as a good diplomat must. “If the All-Church army is still sitting outside the walls of Mayence when the autumn rains come, the Basilica will find it hard to keep it supplied and almost impossible to stop dysentery breaking out in the camps. Time may do our work for us.”

  “No,” Riyand repeated.

  “There are other things,” Calesh went on, ignoring him once more. A hundred of them. We have to repair the wall, cut ditches across the roads, and dredge shallow places in the river if we can. The bridges must be broken to make the gates more secure. I’ll want every goose feather we can find used for fletchings, and all the carpenters in the city set to making arrows and spear shafts. All available warehouse space must be set aside for siege preparations, principally the storage of food and other essentials. Reliable men must be formed into a corps to stand guard on them, and enforce rationing. Most of all, seneschal, we must start at once. We’re abandoning Parrien in return for time, so we need to use every moment of it before the All-Church comes.�
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  “No,” Riyand said for a third time. He stood up, facing Calesh across the little glade. “I agreed to abandon Parrien because I had to, but I will not abandon this valley as well. Certainly I won’t send out men to pick the countryside clean, like some horde of scavengers. If we do that people in the villages will starve in their thousands come the winter.”

  “If so, it’s because you failed to do your duty before now,” Calesh said. “It’s disingenuous of you, Margrave, to complain the roof is falling in when it was your task to repair the tiles.” He held up a hand to forestall Riyand’s irate retort. “Spare me, please. I know not every man is a gifted leader, or wishes to be, but I do at least expect an effort. You have said and done nothing that might suggest you even accept responsibility for your shortcomings, and I’m not in the mood to listen to another feeble excuse. By God, boy, you’re as useless as a whelp that can’t bark and won’t bite.”

  Riyand’s red face began to shade towards purple. Ando could see past his lover to Ilenia, and he thought he saw a tiny smile touch the corners of her mouth before she concealed it. She did resent the emptiness of her life, then. “You show me no respect, captain.”

  “You do nothing to earn it,” Calesh shot back.

  “Earn it?” Riyand shouted. “I am the Margrave of Mayence!”

  “Does that make you harder to kill?” Calesh demanded. “My heart and eyes, rank doesn’t mean a thing in wartime. I’ve seen nobles freeze in terror and die blubbering like children, while farmers and cutpurses fight like badgers in a sack. In the East you live or die according to what you do, not who your father was. Your noble blood, Margrave, won’t stop a blade, and it won’t get you one step closer to Heaven either.”

  “I wonder,” Cavel said in his dry voice, “whether you think this bitter argument between two of our leaders is a good thing, Commander Saissan. How many nations have fallen because they were split inside?”

  “Many,” Calesh answered, not in the least abashed. “And many have fallen because their leader was a fool, and the men around him too weak to act on that knowledge.”

  “Fool!” Riyand almost screamed. Ando recognised the signs of real fury building and moved quickly to his lover’s side to put a hand on his arm, which Riyand shook off at once. The Margrave actually took a step towards Calesh, his fists bunching. “Guards!”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Calesh said wearily. “Look, I’ll go find this general Reis, and he and I will work out a plan between us. But I won’t let my decisions be influenced by you, Margrave, or by your unwillingness to work. I came home to save this land, and I’ll do that if I can, no matter what obstacles I have to deal with and who I might annoy.”

  He turned and started away. Riyand was actually shaking with rage; he tried to shout after Calesh but was too angry to manage anything more than a stutter. Ando stayed close beside him but didn’t speak. He didn’t really know what he could say. Calesh had twisted everything, made Riyand seem so much worse than he was, but his views were speckled with truth. They had all known for months that the army would almost certainly be sent across the river Rielle, and they had done nothing but talk, and hope for the best.

  “An intriguing man,” Elisande said quietly. She had been silent so long that Ando had almost forgotten she was there. “If he is as good as he thinks he is, we might have a chance.”

  Riyand glared at her, but it was Cavel who answered, pursing his lips. “Intriguing? Yes, but more than that. Calesh is what every noble ought to fear; a base-born man brought by events to a position of power, and with the talents to use it. He was right, you know.”

  “About what?” Ando asked, baffled. “Right about what?”

  The seneschal looked at him in surprise. “About noble blood, of course. It doesn’t stop a blade or get someone a single step closer to Heaven. The times when common people remember that are the times when kings fall.”

  “Very true,” Ilenia said quietly, making them all jump. “My father used to say the same thing.”

  “Shut up!” Riyand shouted. “I don’t want to hear what your father said, so just shut up!”

  She met his hot gaze with a cool one of her own, then turned her attention back to her needlework. Ando frowned at her, then turned to watch Calesh Saissan vanish into the side door of the Manse, his men following like smoke sucked into a hearth. He’d never considered the friction between nobles and common-born men before, but an earlier thought came back to him, of Cavel riding the tide of power when he felt it change beneath him. The old seneschal was loyal, Ando knew that, but he could still notice when sands shifted under his feet.

  As if to reinforce that point, Elisande rose and dusted off her green robe. “I believe I will accept the offer to hold rites for the Hand of the Lord again, with your permission. My thanks for a pleasant afternoon, Margrave.”

  Riyand waved a feeble hand in acknowledgement, but he didn’t speak. As she turned away Elisande’s gaze caught Ando’s, and he thought he saw the shine of compassion there. He felt a surge of anger in response. Elisande thought power had changed hands here today as well then, and she felt sorry for him because of it. It would be easier to bear if he didn’t think she was right.