Demontech: Gulf Run (12 page)

“You men,” he said, swinging a pointing finger to indicate the soldiers on the other side of the road—including the two Frangerians who claimed they were in command, “form up to protect the wagons and their passengers. We’re moving out.” He began to turn to order his men to harness the horses but was stopped by a finger that poked him in the base of his throat just above his breast plate. The finger belonged to the short Frangerian with the axe.

Haft said slowly and clearly in Zobran, “Did you understand what I said about officers and who you know and what you know?”

Bal Ofursti understood standard Zobran well enough. His jaws clenched and his face turned red. So he
had
heard right. “Yes, I did,” he gritted.

“Were you born stupid, or did you have to learn it?” Haft roared inches from his face. “You don’t give us orders. We’re taking the wagons. You and the passengers can come with us or not, but we don’t go with you.”

He began to draw his saber. Haft didn’t move a finger to defend himself, but forty men shifted their weapons, and bal Ofursti knew that if he drew, every one of them would do his utmost to kill him before his saber cleared its scabbard. He let go of the hilt and the blade slid back.

“Captain!” a voice said in very rough Zobran. Bal Ofursti looked at a sergeant of the Skragland Bloody Axes. The man looked like a barbarian in his fur cloak with its distinctive maroon stripes. “Sir Haft bears the rampant eagle. We follow him. You would be wise to do the same.”

Sir Haft?
Was the sergeant claiming the low-ranking Frangerian was a knight of some sort? And what was this about a rampant eagle? Haft could tell by his expression he didn’t know what the eagle meant—he was glad he wasn’t the only ignorant person on that score. Before bal Ofursti could ask about the rampant eagle, another voice demanded his attention.

“The Royal Lancers of Zobra obey Lord Spinner’s commands,” said a man wearing a royal-blue doublet and carrying a wicked-looking lance.

Lord Spinner? What was going on here?

Then two other men announced that the Zobran Prince’s Swords and the Skraglander Blood Swords also followed Lords Spinner and Haft.

Lord Spinner, Lord—or was it Sir—Haft? Were they high-ranking officers in disguise? No, they couldn’t be, they were too young! But—But—

Nobles, that was it! They had to be nobles. Younger sons of dukes or princes or something. They had the arrogance for it, especially that Haft. He’d straighten this out later.
He
was the officer here, the trained leader of men. These younger sons would have to learn the difference, that it took time to gain the experience to be real officers. The most important thing right now was to get away from Dartmutt before the Jokapcul extended their perimeter. He bowed, still wondering
why
these young lordlings chose to disguise themselves as such junior men.

“Lord Spinner, Lord Haft. I am at your command.”

“Good.” Spinner nodded curtly. “I’m glad you decided to join us. We need every fighting man we can get. You will stay in command of your troops, you know them better than anyone I might assign to them. We want to go north. Do you know a route that circles far enough west to avoid Jokapcul patrols?”

Yes, he did.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

It took nearly an hour for the caravan to wend its way from the boulder field to the other road and line up behind the six wagons from Dartmutt. This time, the Zobran Border Warders formed a mobile picket screen to the rear and Haft led the Bloody Axes between them and the caravan’s tail as a strong rear guard. They had to be ready in case the Jokapcul sent a strong patrol in their direction. Half of the Earl’s Guard and a squad of Zobran Royal Lancers rode ahead to scout the way. Silent and Wolf dogged them—to make sure the Dartmutters weren’t leading the caravan into a trap.

There were twenty-three women in the Dartmutter party; bel Yfir, the Earl’s favorite concubine, with five handmaids; three other concubines, each with four handmaids; and two wet nurses to care for the two babes among the six children. Captain bal Ofursti had twenty mounted soldiers of the Earl’s Guard. The butler bal Stanga and six teamsters with their wives and five children filled out the royal party. Sixty-four people. The wagons and soldiers were the most welcome. As for the rest, well … The teamsters could be trained at arms—if they ever found time to stop and train them. The women were another matter. The concubines expected to be waited on and catered to. That didn’t cause much problem, their handmaids dealt directly with that. The problem arose when the concubines expected the march to be run according to their whims.

Nobody in the caravan had time or energy to spare to taking care of the women Alyline had quickly dubbed “the royal bed toys.” Certainly no one had the inclination.

“But we simply
must
stop now,” bel Yfir insisted two hours after they set out. “I—I must attend to
private
matters. And I grow weary from sitting on this harsh bench. And my tent
must
be erected so I can refresh myself before we continue this journey.” She waved a paper fan before her face. She had removed her travel gown because it “makes me perspire” too much. Her loose inner gown, finely stitched with delicate designs in gold and silver thread, clung in drapes to her body; a sheen of sweat turned the thin red material nearly transparent where the damp cloth clung to her flesh. One of her handmaids dabbed with a cloth at her neck and bare shoulders from just inside the body of the wagon behind her.

The wagon that carried her, her handmaids, and their goods was constructed like a small house, with a porch roof that extended over the driver’s bench on which she sat. The wagon was exceptionally well sprung and, despite her complaints of its harshness, boasted nicely upholstered benches. Most of the wagons—and none of the dog carts—that had begun the journey in Eikby didn’t have springs. Neither did any of them boast upholstered benches.

“Lady bel Yfir,” Plotniko said with notably less patience than he’d had the previous dozen times he’d been called upon to respond to one of her complaints, “if your bottom is sore from sitting for so long, get down and walk awhile. If you have to make water, find a bush and squat, like everybody else.” He strode off, leaving her gaping at him in shock at being so rudely spoken to, as though she was—was
like everybody else
!

She turned to Captain bal Ofursti, who was riding escort alongside her wagon, and sputtered indignantly. “Captain, chastise that man!” she finally said.

“Lady,” he replied with a gallant bow, “I doubt the nobles for whom he serves as translator would take kindly to my chastising him without their permission.”

She was nearly as shocked by that as by Plotniko’s response to her oh so reasonable request. The instant she recovered, she thrust out her arm, poking her driver in the cheek with a sharp fingernail—he flinched away but voiced no protest—and shrilled, “Quit my company this instant! You are dismissed from the guard! The earl shall attend to you when he joins us!”

Bal Ofursti shook his head, thinking how glad he was he hadn’t decided to claim this one for himself. “Lady, the Jokapcul took Dartmutt. I don’t think the earl will be joining us.” He wondered idly which of his men he disliked enough to give her to. It’s probably a good thing bel Hrofa-Upp isn’t one of her handmaids, he thought. He wondered again which of the nobles owned the golden woman. If neither did—or even if one of them did …

Bel Yfir brought him back to the present unpleasantness. “Of course he will,” she insisted. “If those barbarians from the west have taken him, we will simply pay the ransom and get him back.”

In pieces, he thought. If they haven’t already killed him.

“Now quit my sight!”

He bowed again and drew his horse aside to let the wagon proceed without him.

Sergeant Afi, a grizzled veteran of the Skragland King’s Outer Guards before he’d returned to Dartmutt to serve with the Earl’s Guards, pulled up next to him. “She’s beautiful to look at,” he rumbled, “I grant you that. But what a shrew! I don’t understand how the earl puts up with her.”

Ofursti shrugged. “I guess if a man has enough power and wealth, a woman will be sweet to him and do whatever he wants.”

“And think his power and wealth are hers so she can treat everyone else like chamber slops.” Afi spat into the trees and watched the wagon trundle away, then asked, “Do you want me to move up and take your place next to her?”

“No, let her ride without a visible escort for a time.” He shook his head. “I think tomorrow we’ll have to trade off teamsters. It’s cruel to have one man drive her every day.” He idly noted one of bel Yfir’s handmaids drop off the back of the wagon and walk boldly back along the column. Probably looking for one of the nobles, he thought.

The “noble” the handmaid bel Bra sought wasn’t Spinner or Haft. Chief concubine bel Yfir thought a lady would be more sympathetic to her plight. That gilded woman might dress like a wanton houri, but she obviously had rank fully equal to the two noblemen who protected the mob of ragamuffin refugees.

There!
The woman in the high-necked dress, she was one of the gilded lady’s handmaids. The handmaid was quite lovely in her own right, though not as striking as the gilded lady. She was probably made to dress so plainly so as to not detract from her mistress’s beauty—unlike the concubines’ handmaids, who wore gowns that would be indistinguishable from their mistresses’ except that they lacked the decorative filigree of gold and silver embroidery.

Bel Bra picked up her pace and headed directly to Doli.

“I don’t understand you, I don’t know that language,” Doli replied in Bostian when bel Bra spoke to her. She said it again in Skraglandish, Frangerian, and a couple of other languages, but gave up when it became obvious bel Bra only understood Dartmutter. Doli looked around for anyone who might know Dartmutter and called out to Plotniko, who was walking briskly away, toward the head of the column.

The master carpenter had seen the Dartmutter woman, whom he recognized as one of the chief concubine’s handmaids, and could guess why she had collared Doli. He didn’t want anything to do with the matter and made haste to get out of Doli’s sight before she could call on him to translate. When he heard his name, it felt like a stab between his shoulder blades, but he ignored the call and kept going. To no avail. A moment later a horseman cantered up to him and slowed his horse to a walk.

“Master Plotniko,” the horseman said, it was Kovalev, one of the Eikby Guards, “Mistress Doli needs you to translate.” He pointed in her direction.

Plotniko stifled a groan. “Can you tell her you couldn’t find me?”

Kovalev shook his head. “She’s looking at us.”

Plotniko let out a sigh. “I’m tired of translating for those people. I wish they hadn’t joined us.” But he turned and waited for Doli and bel Bra to come up.

“She wants what?” Doli asked, shocked, when Plotniko translated.

“Her mistress wants your mistress to join her in the lead wagon.” He spread his hands helplessly. “That’s what she said.”

Doli looked from one to the other, confusion on her face. “Uh, ah, there must be some error here, something lost in translation. I mean, she’s speaking Dartmutter, which isn’t your tongue, and you’re translating into Frangerian, which is neither of our native tongues.” Frangerian was the one language the two had in common. “I don’t have a mistress, and everybody knows that.” Suspecting that Plotniko’s Frangerian wasn’t very strong, she looked around for someone who spoke the Eikby dialect of Zobran and was strong in a language in common with her.

There, Alyline!
No
, not Alyline! She didn’t really want anything to do with that brazen hussy. If it wasn’t for Alyline, Spinner would be hers and would never have turned to that tavern whore. Well, Maid Primrose wasn’t
really
a whore. Actually, she was a nice young lady Doli had made friends with. And Maid Primrose had rebuffed Spinner as soon as she knew what was going on between him and Doli—and that Golden Girl. Served him right, being unfaithful to two women at the same time!

But before Doli could call someone else, bel Bra spotted Alyline and scampered to her.

Plotniko groaned and reluctantly followed. No matter what Doli thought, he knew he’d translated right—and he knew who bel Yfir meant when she asked for Doli’s “mistress.”

When he reached them, Alyline was eyeing the handmaid who was clutching her hand. Bel Bra was barely restraining herself from tugging on Alyline’s hand, aching to haul her by main force if necessary to bel Yfir—she didn’t want to face her mistress’s wrath if she failed to bring the noblewoman to her.

“Master Carpenter,” the Golden Girl said with cool civility. “I almost think I understand the strange form of Zobran these people speak. Please tell me I’m mistaken that this one tells me the chief bed toy demands that I ride in her wagon with her.”

Plotniko shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, but that is what she wants. She was quite insistent.” Behind him, he heard a gasp as Doli realized what bel Bra wanted.

“My mistress, indeed!” Doli sniffed.

“Whatever would make that trollop think I would want to ride with her?”

“
She
doesn’t think she’s a trollop. To her, being chief concubine makes her royalty—or close enough that there’s no difference. And she believes you’re a noblewoman.”

Alyline barked a sharp, unamused laugh. “A djerwohl dancer a noble?
Pfagh!
The only thing nobles are good for is paying us to condescend to dance for them!”

Plotniko raised his hands helplessly.

“Well, she can—” Alyline cut off whatever she was going to say and jerked her hand from bel Bra’s grasp. She made shooing motions with her fingers. “Go away. Tell your mistress I want nothing to do with her.”

Bel Bra wailed and jabbered too rapidly for Alyline or Plotniko to understand. Her back was bowed and tears ran down her face as she futilely grabbed at Alyline’s moving hands. The Golden Girl gave her a look of contempt and pity and walked away. Bel Bra cried louder and buried her face in her hands. Slowly, she sank to her knees.