Heirs of the Blade (44 page)

Twenty-Six

The hall of Leose was busy now, far more so even than when the young nobles had danced here. Salme Elass was holding her council of war.

She held pride of place, with Alain sitting to her left, and Isendter Whitehand to her right, whilst the seneschal, Lisan Dea, hovered in attendance behind. Around the room she had assembled many of those same aristocrats that had been hunting the stag, together with their own champions, their war leaders and headmen of their retinues.

Elass watched the Lowlander take her place. Telse Orian gave the new arrival a companionable nod, and young Chevre Velienn was scowling at her as an upstart, but Tynisa ignored them both. Partly that was because the girl’s attention was directed instead at Elass’s son, who was, after all, the hook that the princess had caught her on. There was more, though, for there was a casual arrogance about the girl suggesting that opinions of the assembled nobility were now beneath her notice.

In truth, it is a shame that she is a Lowlander. Were she of our kinden, and of halfway decent blood, then perhaps she might make a good match for Alain after all. He could profit from being taught that kind of self-assurance.

Almost directly across from Elass sat Lowre Cean, with some of his own people about him. Tynisa’s chosen seat placed her on the periphery of his influence, which was fitting enough, for she was the thread by which Elass had hauled the old man in, after all.

She surveyed the mustered war leaders and let her wings shimmer a moment about her shoulders, her signal that she was about to speak. ‘You all know why I have gathered you here,’ she addressed them. ‘Elas Mar has suffered grievous incursions from the lordless lands to our south. For a long time that wilderness has been a breeding ground for bandits and killers, and yet nothing has been done. For reasons I cannot guess at, our Prince-Major has not deigned to purge those lands of their lawless inhabitants. So now my villages are burned, my people killed, and I cannot sit idle. We have a force here that is superior to the brigands in discipline, and whose cause is just. We will drive them from Elas Mar, and then we will scour their own territory of them, so they shall find no rest and no home. I shall take back these lawless lands on behalf of the Monarch.’

‘And the Monarch will recognize your efforts, Princess?’ Lowre Cean asked sardonically. ‘And what has Felipe Shah to say about this?’

‘I have sent to him for aid,’ Elass returned, quite calmly. ‘Our prince has written to me: he declines to come. He will not support us, for all our cause is plainly a righteous one.’

‘And does he give any reason?’

Elass considered the terse missive she had received back from her liege, the Prince-Major. ‘None,’ she said, which was both true and false. Suffice to say that half of Felipe Shah’s reasons had been incomprehensible, the other half anathema.

There was a pause, into which Lowre was clearly being invited to add something more, but he held his peace.

Elass nodded. ‘Our southern border is heavily wooded, and the brigands take advantage of this to more easily cross into and out of our lands. Already four villages have suffered their depredations. That is where we must meet them: we must scout them even as they venture forth to raid. We must follow them back to their dens. We must drive them from the trees and ever southwards. We must capture their leaders, kill any that follow them. We will deliver the Monarch’s justice that these wretches believe is sleeping.’ Again she glanced at Lowre Cean. ‘Does our strategist have any wise counsel? Your victories against the Wasps are well remembered.’

‘I am not your strategist,’ Lowre said tiredly. ‘Make your own plans.’

Elass’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘My son will fly for the border, taking with him a band of our best, to deliver a message to these criminals that they will clearly understand. He will make a severe example of whoever he can catch. By the time our main force has joined him, the bandits shall no doubt have lost their stomach for the fight. And I believe, Prince Cean, there is one amongst your household who wishes to accompany Alain.’

Lowre Cean’s face was stony, but he said nothing.

‘Maker Tynise,’ Elass named the girl, ‘you see here beside me my champion.’ A nod towards Isendter, who had knelt motionless throughout. ‘My son will lead the attack on these villains. Will you be his huntress,
his
champion, when he does so?’

She could see the Lowlander wanting to glance at Lowre for his reaction, but she had said ‘Yes,’ already, her response following eagerly and inevitably after Elass’s question. Lamplight glittered, caught on the badge that she wore.

Elass smiled pleasantly at her, saving the razored edge of her expression for the old man opposite her.
Oh, I know, my Prince.
Felipe Shah had apparently sent a personal request to his old friend Cean, to look after this girl. Elass had no idea why the Lowlander was so important, whether she might be some great dignitary whose death would tarnish Shah’s honour, or whether this represented just one more inexplicable fragment of sentiment from the prince.
But it is enough that I have taken her from them. Let them fret, and now let her live or die by her skills.

Staring across the room at Lowre Cean, Elass knew the old man could read all of these thoughts in her face. She revealed them there clearly, just for him.
I will turn you to my purpose, my Prince
, she reflected.
When I asked you on to my lands I sought a hero, not this senile wreck of a man I see before me. You shall either recover your earlier glories or I shall strip you of all you have. And as for Felipe Shah . . .

The girl, Tynisa, had first arrived at her door with news of her son, Salme Dien. As always, the foreigners did not understand how life was amongst a civilized people. She had no such son, nor had she for many years, since long before the Lowlanders’ own wars had claimed Dien’s life. Felipe Shah had taken her son from her, and reworked Dien into his own creature. She still remembered the day that he had quite publicly made the request of her. Oh, it was an honour, no doubt, and because it was an honour she could not refuse it, and so she had been deprived of yet another child, and only Alain left at her side, the least promising of the lot.

But I have found a way to strike back, at last, through this Lowlander girl. Perhaps, in the end, I will kill her myself – have Isendter challenge her and then cut her down. Or perhaps the brigands will spare me the trouble.

And, of course, after that rabble of thieves is dealt with, I have other plans. Then perhaps you shall find, Felipe Shah, just what happens to a prince who forgets what it means to have noble blood.

‘When were you going to tell us that this was the plan?’ Mordrec demanded, chasing after Dal Arche, as the bandit leader tried to walk away. Receiving no immediate response, the Wasp-kinden simply dogged Dal’s steps all the way out of the encampment, still demanding, ‘When, Dala? Or did you think we wouldn’t notice?’

Dal’s other two lieutenants, tall and close-mouthed Soul Je and the stocky Scorpion Barad Ygor, followed a few paces behind, content to let Mordrec draw their leader’s ire.

At last Dal rounded on them. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked.

‘I want you to tell me the truth about what this cursed
plan
is!’ Mordrec insisted. ‘Let’s go raid the Salmae, you said. They’ve got plenty of what we need, you said.’

‘And have I led you astray, in that?’

‘Dala, what you failed to mention is that you thought we needed
people
. You had us running about picking up thieves and malcontents to bring to you, when all the while you had this business ready to spring on us.’

‘Mord, this was never the plan,’ Dal protested.

The Wasp blinked. ‘Then what in the pits
is
it?’

Dal looked back at the encampment, seeing a messy aggregation of tents, lean-tos, fire pits and sleeping rolls.
Spring’s turning out mild, which is just as well. Most of these people never thought about where they’d be sleeping, fools that they are.

‘Four villages,’ Ygor the Scorpion reminded him. He spoke in an absurdly cultured drawl that originated somewhere half the world away, in a place ruled by Spiders.

‘Victims of our own success,’ Dal murmured.

‘Success?’ Mord hissed, back on the offensive again. ‘I know what success looks like, to a bandit. It looks like a little loot, and nobody about to catch you yet. It doesn’t look like piss-near all the people of four villagers deciding to sign up with you. What are you planning to be at the end of this, Dal? A general?’

Dal tried to recall where generals featured in the Imperial scheme of things.
Ah yes, at the top.
‘You want me to turn them away?’

‘Yes, I want you to turn them away! Maybe one in five is some use, good to hold a spear or pull a bow. We’ve got
children
out there, and old people, too. What’s the point of them? Why are they even here?’

‘Victims of our own success,’ Dal repeated.

‘Stop
saying
that,’ Mord snapped.

Soul Je held up a long-fingered hand. ‘He’s right,’ the Grasshopper intoned.

‘How is he right?’

‘Mord,’ Dal addressed him, ‘you know that pile of loot we’re sitting on, all the food, the drink, the cloth bales, the honey, the kadith, the gold? You do understand that was taxes intended for the Salmae, yes?’

Mordrec nodded , with an expression stubborn enough that Dal knew he already understood. Still, he pressed on.

‘And you can see the actual villagers from here, yes? Do they look as though they got much of that stuff? You’d describe them as prosperous? Well-fed?’

‘And who’s going to feed them now? Do they reckon they’re better off with us?’

Dal shrugged. ‘Because at least we’re fighting, is how they see it.’

‘We’re not fighting, we’re robbing,’ the Wasp pointed out mulishly.

‘I don’t mean fighting the Salmae specifically, although we will. I mean fighting what
is
,’ Dal told him.

‘Since when were we idealists?’ asked Barad Ygor slowly.

‘We’re not. We never were.’ Dal threw his hands up suddenly. ‘I’d go back south, right now, if there was anything there for us, but the reasons that brought us here still hold.’

‘Dala, we came to raid. That lot behind us isn’t a raiding party,’ Ygor stressed. ‘We can’t move fast. We can’t get ourselves out of the way, if a hundred Mercers suddenly turn up. Or at least
they
can’t.’

Dal looked past his lieutenants, at the camp beyond. ‘You’re right. We need to do something about that.’

They exchanged uncertain glances.

‘You’re going to turn them away?’ Mordrec asked. Although it was what he had been arguing for, he sounded uncertain now.

‘Separate out those who can fight,’ Dal instructed. ‘The three of you, take half of them, and all the non-combatants. Lead them to Siriell’s Town, with your pick of the supplies.’

This was greeted with silence.

‘There’s nothing at Siriell’s Town any more,’ Ygor started slowly.

‘There will be once you’ve repopulated it with this lot,’ Dal told him. ‘And before you ask me what’s to stop the Mercers attacking the town again, we’ve shifted the battle lines. While we’re here gnawing at their vitals, they won’t be sending any punitive expedition further south.’

‘I was wrong. You’re not a general. Inside your head you’re a prince,’ Mordrec accused him.

‘I’m a brigand, Mord, like all of us, but think of this. Four villages raided, now, and most of the locals just came right over to join us. We’ve got half again as many fighting men, even after you take the non-combatants away. If we keep rolling in that kind of support, we can raid as far as the gates of Leose itself. And where will they be able to raise a levy from, if all their peasants are under
our
flag, hmm?’

‘We’re not exactly equipped for a siege,’ the Wasp pointed out, although he sounded less adversarial now, the spirit of the idea working on him.

‘Let them keep their walls. I doubt that they can eat them, once they get hungry,’ Dal Arche declared. ‘I want the three of you gone by tomorrow for Siriell’s Town, or whatever’s left of it. Get your charges lodged there as soon as possible, and bring me back anyone you find who’s able to fight. Bring me weapons too, as many as you can: spears, arrows, axes even – whatever you can get. We’ve got plenty of hands all of a sudden, and nothing to put in them.’

He looked from face to face, seeing Ygor and Mordrec still unhappy, Soul Je merely impassive. ‘Or what?’ he asked them. ‘No, we didn’t ask for this. We came here to raid some villages, put a little thorn in the side of the nobility, get a little plunder. We knew that the Salmae taxed hard and all we thought was that the locals wouldn’t risk their necks to defend the tax collector’s haul. Well, fate’s dealt us more cards than we know what to do with. What would
you
do with what we’ve been given?’

‘Where does it end?’ Ygor asked quietly. ‘We break the Salmae, and then what? Felipe Shah? The Monarch?’

Dal shrugged. ‘Where does a bandit’s life normally end? What were you expecting?’

‘Dying rich in a Spiderlands whorehouse, for preference,’ the Scorpion considered. ‘But, seeing as I’m a few hundred miles out of my way for that, why not raise an army? Next-best thing, isn’t it?’

‘Damned right it is,’ Dal confirmed. ‘And you, Soul?’

The Grasshopper had remained silent a long time, but now he nodded, just the once. ‘Let’s do it.’

With that said, Mordrec gave in with poor grace. ‘We’re dead men from now on. They’ll stamp down hard when they think it’s bandits. If they find out we’re stealing their peasants, they’ll keep on stamping till we’re just a stain on the grass.’

Dal’s smile was resolute. ‘There comes a time in a man’s life when he gets the chance to be free, even if it’s just for a day or so. That chance doesn’t often come twice.’ In his mind he saw the marching armies of the Twelve-year War, as viewed from the midst of a block of terrified peasant levy being thrown headlong at the black and gold, without a choice, without understanding, just bodies for the grinding Wasp war machine to chew up and spit out. Who should a man blame for that kind of memory? Blame the Wasps? Oh, too easy. The Dal Arche of back then had no grievance with the Wasps, had barely heard of their Empire. When they come to throw you into the fire, he considered, don’t blame the fire for burning you, blame the hands that threw you.