by Sally Green
“How you feeling?” Rashford peered down at March.
March dragged himself up to a sitting, or at least a slumping, position. “Like I’ve been kicked by a donkey, then trampled over by him and his friends.”
“You calling my boys donkeys?” Rashford sat down next to March.
“If the hat fits . . .”
“Don’t know what that means.”
“It’s an expression from Pitoria.”
“You been there too?” Rashford asked, picking at the worn leather of his tatty boots.
“Yes, just a month or so ago.” March had told Rashford a little of his life in Calidor, but he’d not spoken about his adventures in Pitoria. “I wish I was there now.”
“How so?”
“It’s peaceful. Rich. Good food. Not many donkeys.”
Rashford sniggered.
“I went up on the Northern Plateau. Where the demons live.”
“You see any demons?”
“A couple. We were attacked by one. I slept with the dead body of another in a snowstorm to keep warm.”
Rashford frowned and stared at March. “You serious?”
“Always. The smoke’s serious too. And the demons. And the war. Not sure I’d want to rely on the smoke, though. Or the king who fuels his army with it.”
“That’s treasonous talk there, March. You’re new to the Bulls, so I’ll let you off this time.” But Rashford sounded like he really didn’t care. He pulled the bottle from his waist holder and held it out to March. “Take some. It’ll heal your nose.”
The bottle was heavy with purple smoke. All the other boys carried similar bottles with leather covers, which hid the smoke’s luminous purple glow. March slipped the cork to the side, letting out a slight wisp of smoke, then sucked it in. The smoke went straight to the roof of his mouth and March pressed on the sides of his nose, straightening it as best he could while it healed.
Rashford said, “I’ll let you fill your own bottle soon, when we get our supplies.”
Rashford had given March and Sam empty bottles on the first day, and March had been giving this a bit of thought. He asked, “Whose bottle did I get? I’m guessing that you’ve lost two of the brigade and that’s why you had empty bottles for us.”
Rashford squinted ahead, then shrugged. “Seems I’ve forgotten the old men’s names already.”
“So they manned up?” It was a phrase he’d heard the other boys use a few times—a phrase that seemed to fill them with fear. It meant that someone had become too old for the smoke to work anymore. When that happened, they’d be out of the Bulls. March remembered that the smoke worked for Princess Catherine, Edyon, and himself, but not Sir Ambrose or King Tzsayn, who were only a few years older.
“It ain’t hard to work out, March. We’re all getting older. But you can’t ever really tell when you’ll man up. Seventeen, eighteen, definitely by nineteen.”
March nodded and wondered when it’d happen to Rash-ford. He was the oldest of the boys, after all. “So, what hap-pened to them? I mean, did they just leave?”
“My commander found them different positions. They’re regular soldiers in the regular army now.”
“Your commander? Who’s that? When do you even see him?”
“Not very often, which is often enough. But, as it happens, we’ve all got a new commander now, and I’m going to see him in a few days. You and Sam will have to come with me. He wants to see all new recruits. There’ll be a little test to prove your worth.”
March had heard some of the other boys talking of this too. It sounded like a race, and, although it apparently always turned into a fight at the end, it didn’t sound any worse than what they did every day in training.
“Will the other brigade leaders be there?” March had heard much talk of the other brigades too—all consisting of a hundred boys. The Bears, Hawks, Stags, Lions, Eagles, Foxes, and, not forgetting the Wasps, who had a particularly young membership and were reputed to be as tiny and vicious as their name suggested.
“They’ll be there.”
“And anyone from the main army? The man’s army, I mean?”
Rashford snorted. “We don’t have anything to do with them.”
“But they should be arriving soon. I mean, I assume we’re here for a purpose and we’re not just beating the shit out of each other every day for the fun of it. We must be going to attack Calidor, which means the Brigantine army must be on its way.”
Rashford shook his head. “No, March. You’ve got to think differently. This is a new world we’re in now. And the way we boys’ brigades fight is different from anything anyone’s seen before. We can leap over ten soldiers, then turn and kill them all with a few sword strokes. Even you’ll be able to disarm another swordsman. You’ll break his arm if your sword clashes with his. All this practicing we go through gives the boys a bit of confidence, but the smoke gives us the power to win. With the smoke we’re unstoppable. We can do what we want. The old mans’ army just gets in the way. Well, actually, they’re left behind. They’re a joke. They fear us showing them up.” He leaned forward and whispered, “They fear us fucking them up too.”
And March, for the first time, realized Rashford was right. The boy army didn’t need support from the normal fighting force—they’d only slow the boys down. “But wouldn’t Aloysius want to come and see the carnage he’s made?”
“You mean the carnage we’ve made.” Rashford shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”
“He’ll want to see it at some stage. I’m guessing we run in, kill everything in our path, and then hold the fort until the men arrive. Which sounds fine . . . until we run out of smoke. How much smoke do they give you? Enough for days? Weeks?”
“Ten days, tops. They’re tight like that. Our relationship isn’t like a normal army; ours is based on trade—they give us smoke, we give them dead bodies.”
That sounded right at first, but March thought about it for a few moments more and shook his head. “No. They give you smoke. You give them certain victory. You have more power than you realize. They’re right to fear you.”
They sat in silence for a few moments before March asked, “But what happens at the end of it all?”
“We win.” Rashford grinned, his white teeth shining in the dark.
March disagreed. “You only win when you have smoke. If you don’t have smoke, you lose. That’s why they ration it. At the end of the war, or when you man up, at best you’ll be given a shit job in the regular army. The sort of job that goes to people like us, who aren’t nobility, who have already served our purpose. I reckon King Aloysius won’t want you hanging around like a bad smell.”
Rashford looked at the sky. “Well, I’ve no intention of hanging around, March, when that time comes. I’m no fool. I haven’t been to fancy Calia or bloody Pitoria. I’ve never slept with a dead demon or poured wine for a prince. I’ve lived in Brigant all my life, and I’ve seen worse things than you could imagine: men hung, drawn, and quartered for nothing; people starved; children run down by men on horseback. I don’t know what’ll happen to me, but I do know, for the first time in my life, I have the power to do whatever I like. I’m going to enjoy that while I can. And I look at you and see someone much the same as me.”
“But you’re not thinking beyond ten days of smoke?”
“I didn’t say that, March. I’m making my own plans. But I’m certainly not going to share them with you.” He leaned close and whispered, “I like you, March, but there’s something about you . . . You’re holding something back. I’m not sure I can trust you yet—with my secrets or with my life. But I hope there’s nothing too bad going on in your head, ’cause from what I hear, my new commanding officer will suss it out.”
“I’m not worried, Rashford. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“Good job. ’Cause you don’t want to get on the wrong s
ide of Prince Harold.”
EDYON
CALIA CASTLE
EDYON SAT beside his father in yet another meeting with the chancellor and Lord Regan. He hoped this one would go better than the last. He was trying to be quiet this time. Trying to be a dutiful son, one who did not enrage his father and who proved his loyalty to the country.
Thelonius was reading a message that had just arrived from Lord Darby.
“The Pitorians are holding their position in the north of Pitoria. Aloysius is still with his main army in Rossarb. The Pitorians believe he’s farming the purple demon smoke but have no idea of the quantity he has. Lord Darby says the Pitorians are convinced of the power of the smoke, and also convinced that the Brigantines plan to attack Calidor as well as Pitoria, and even beyond. Darby is impressed by Queen Catherine, who is firm but reasoned, but concerned because he has not yet seen King Tzsayn, who is still ill from the wounds he suffered when a prisoner of Aloysius. The Pitorian army is a considerable force, even though it has been depleted by a sickness in the last few weeks.”
Edyon was pleased that Lord Darby was impressed by Catherine. His thoughts briefly went back to when she was a judge for Edyon’s murder trial. “Firm but reasoned” summed her up perfectly. That sounded all to the good, but Tzsayn had been healing for weeks, and yet he still hadn’t met with Calidor’s delegation? Why not?
Thelonius looked up briefly and then began to read again. “Lord Darby’s assessment is written thus: ‘The Pitorians are vulnerable to an attack from the Brigantines in the north—they should hold against normal forces, but the boy army is an unknown factor. They are also vulnerable to an attack in the south—if the Brigantines sent a force by ship, the Pitorians would have to split their army, and the north would likely fall.’ It is Lord Darby’s assessment that such an attack is likely.”
And if the north were to fall, the Brigantine army would have clear access to the whole of Pitoria, the Northern Plateau, and the demon world, and they could transport the smoke to their boy army as fast and as often as they wanted. They would be unstoppable. Edyon was itching to speak, but should he comment? What was he supposed to do or say?
Thelonius looked to Regan. “Our own reports are that the Brigantine fleet is massing.”
Regan nodded. “A naval attack seems inevitable. But will they attack us or the Pitorians?”
Both, probably. Edyon wanted so much to speak, but he pushed his fist over his lips. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
Thelonius tapped his finger on the scroll. “Aloysius wants revenge for Boris. I’m sure of that. He wants his daughter to suffer. I suspect he will attack the Pitorians first, but we won’t be far behind.” Thelonius continued to read through to the end of the message. “Lord Darby recommends we send assistance to the Pitorians, not with men but with boats.”
What?! Darby recommends helping our enemy’s enemy! Shocking.
Regan scowled. “But if they have our ships, we are vulnerable.”
The chancellor was frowning too. “The lords will oppose such a move.”
Regan continued. “We need all our boats for our own defenses. The Brigantines could attack our coast first—or even if they come for us second, as you said, it won’t be long. It’s not our fault that the Pitorians haven’t prepared their own fleet as we’ve prepared ours.”
Edyon wanted to scream. If they didn’t help to protect Pitoria now, then it would be impossible to stop the boy army later! What did it matter whose “fault” it was?
Edyon was surprised to see his father smile. “Lord Darby has quite an ingenious plan. He suggests we send fifteen scullers. The loss of just fifteen small boats should not affect our defenses.”
“Then how will it help the Pitorians?” the chancellor asked.
“They can use the scullers to steal ships from the Brigan-tines, thus depleting the Brigantine fleet while adding to their own.”
Lord Darby was turning out to be both astute and clever.
“Won’t they need training in their use?” the chancellor asked.
“Yes,” Lord Regan replied. “The scullers are our design. They ensure our waters are safe. If we give away their secrets to the Pitorians, then we have no advantage, should they ever come for us.”
Oh, that’s ridiculous. Why would they do that? They’ve never threatened Calidor. If Regan said another thing, Edyon would have to chew off his own tongue to stop himself from speaking.
Thelonius shook his head. “Regan, you go too far. The scullers are our design, but they’re no secret weapon. We either give them boats and train the Pitorians, or give them boats and men. And I know you won’t want to do the latter.”
“Nor do I want to do the former. We should give them nothing.”
“Nothing?” Edyon couldn’t not say it. But it came out as a strange kind of squeal, forced through his lips, and he tried to cover it with a cough.
“This is not the thin end of the wedge that you fear, Lord Regan,” Thelonius said. “This will not lead to Pitorians coming to fight on Calidorian land.”
“The boats are Calidorian and will have Pitorian men on them,” Regan countered.
Thelonius muttered, “And if you say it, the other lords will too.”
“The boats won’t be Calidorian if we sell them to the Pitorians,” Edyon said. Regan and Thelonius turned to him. “Just thought I’d make a small suggestion. I mean, it’s just an idea. And presumably we can charge a high fee for these scullers, whatever they are.”
Thelonius nodded. “I like that idea, Edyon. The lords can share equally in the revenues. It will offset some of the burden of financing the army, and the building of the wall and sea defenses.”
“I thought the Pitorians were broke,” Regan said. “After they paid the ransom for Tzsayn, Aloysius has all their money. They won’t be able to pay us a kopek.”
“We can give them a loan,” Edyon said. “Charge them interest. We do it all the time in Pitoria.”
The chancellor was nodding as well now. “That would be an excellent source of income for the future.”
Regan’s scowl deepened. “Yes, until the Pitorians default on the loan and use our boats against us. Then the deal will not look so excellent.”
Thelonius sighed. “I understand your concerns, Regan, but while we’re all nervous of potential enemies, our one known enemy is Aloysius. The letter from Lord Darby explains clearly the threat he poses, and we have to deal with that threat. If the Pitorians show any threat to us in the future, then we will react to that.”
“So you’re going to send boats and men?” Regan asked.
“We are going to send fifteen scullers and a few men to train the Pitorians. We will charge for the boats and the training, as my son wisely suggested. We will not be fighting alongside the Pitorians on the boats. This is a business transaction. The men we send will only be to train. No Pitorians will come to Calidor.”
“And I will calculate a price for the boats, the service, and the interest on any unpaid amounts,” the chancellor said.
“Excellent,” Thelonius said, nodding. “Can’t you see this benefits us all, Regan?”
“I merely wanted to raise awareness of the risks. But of course, as always, Your Highness is correct.” Regan bowed deeply and added, “There are benefits to us all, indeed.”
CATHERINE
NORTHERN PITORIA
A woman must know her own mind before she can act on it.
Queen Valeria of Illast
“THE KING has asked for you, Your Majesty.”
Catherine looked up from her desk at Doctor Savage.
“He’s awake?”
“Awake but weak. If you could encourage him to rest, Your Majesty, that would help.”
“I’ll do my best, but he has a will of his own.”
And he always claimed he was well even when he was clearly feverish or in
pain. What was it about Tzsayn that made him unable to admit to weakness, even to himself? Catherine remembered the first time they had met, on her arrival in Tornia, how proud and aloof Tzsayn had appeared. She’d learned a little more about him since then—and, yes, he was proud, but he was not aloof at all. He loved his family and his country. He was intelligent, witty, extremely brave, and aware that his life hung on a thread that could snap—or be cut—at any moment.
It was Ambrose who had talked about life being held by threads, though now Catherine couldn’t remember how that conversation had come up. But she liked the analogy. Yes, threads could break, or be cut, but they could also be strengthened by being bound with others.
“You are a welcome sight,” Tzsayn said as Catherine entered his bedchamber.
The king was propped up in bed on a mountain of blue pillows. It was over a month since his release from captivity and the wounds to his neck had healed over, but his face remained drawn and there was still a haunted look to his eyes. It seemed to Catherine that although he was no longer being kept in a cage, forced to watch his men being tortured to death, he was still seeing it in his head. She sat down close to him and took his hand, feeling how thin it had become.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling fine. Very fine. Even better now you’re with me.”
“Your leg?”
“I don’t want to talk about my leg anymore. Savage has bored me to death about it today. Tell me about you . . .”
“I’m fine also. Working hard. Getting jobs done.”
“I wasn’t thinking of jobs; I was thinking of you. Dealing with all the pressures of state as well as those of life . . . and death.”
Catherine frowned. Which death was he thinking of?
Tzsayn seemed to read her mind and he added gently, “I mean your brother. We’ve still not spoken of that.”