The Doomfarers of Coramonde (35 page)

The musicians
struck a lively dancing air and, by Duskwind’s previous arrangement, one of the
ladies of the Court inquired if Gil wouldn’t join in. He answered lamely that
he couldn’t, since he didn’t know the dances being done there, precisely what
Duskwind had been waiting for.

As the courtier
left in pretended disappointment, she turned to him with mock severity and
said, “Fie, that’s poor manners indeed to be nonparticipant in your host’s
entertainments. Can’t dance at all, then?”

He gulped.
“Sort of, but nothing like this stuff that you people call dancing.” He thought
about explaining American dances of the moment and decided he was better off
not getting into it.

“Well, then,”
she said, “all you need is a lesson or two.” With that, saying nothing less
would serve, she stood up, pardoning herself to her escort, and drew Gil away
to a corner of the vast room, behind a huge pillar of stone, to instruct him in
the fine points of the dance.

“See what
you’ve gotta go through to be a social lion?” he murmured to himself as she
corrected his stance and positioned his arms for him. His collar suddenly felt
tight and he wished his hands would stay dry.

The officer of
lancers, for his part, was no stranger to Court flirtations and understood with
a touch of amusement that he’d been used. Ah, well, another time perhaps. With
a shrug he began to cast about for another diversion.

Gil learned
quickly. He was not graceful but was well coordinated, and was soon leading her
through elaborate whirls, her slim waist cradled in his arm as they glided
along. At the finish she pirouetted within his arms. They found themselves
standing together, faces only inches apart as the music faded and applause and
noise of revelry came from the dance floor.

She waited
expectantly and so, of course, he collected all of his courage and kissed her,
once rather tentatively and then a second time with more conviction. She
responded, but found the kiss a bit rough, his embrace too tight.

“My dear,” she
gasped, “you must be more delicate or you’ll bruise me sure. But come now,
let’s return to the tables; I’m afraid my companion of the evening will be
anxious over my absence.”

He trotted
happily after her, and when they returned to the banqueting boards the officer
of lancers had taken a seat vacated by a wealthy usurer who’d passed out and
been removed by the servitors. He was relieving the tedium of the moneylender’s
voluptuous wife, who was most receptive. Both Duskwind and Gil thought this
terribly funny and roared with laughter, which the dashing officer caught and
acknowledged with a nod and a sardonic smile.

The outlander
and the Lady talked together of his world and hers, of their pasts and futures.
He opened up to her about things he rarely mentioned and, to her surprise, she
did the same.

This girl was,
he knew, a veteran spy and conspirator at age eighteen or so. She’d killed at
need and been his friend’s consort. Good sense told him not to become involved;
what could come of it but eventual disappointment? But he divined in her a core
of honesty and energy, an intelligent mind and a kindred spirit, and told
common sense to hang it up.

They drank and
tried a dance or two, and if he didn’t exactly dazzle the bleacher section with
his footwork, at least he didn’t trip or stumble.

The gathering
began to break up and he offered to see her back to her suite. He leaned
against the door frame and they talked in whispers, though there was no one to
hear, but were interrupted by a cry that seemed to come from her rooms.

He pulled the
Browning from where he’d prudently carried it in his boot and threw the door
open, to find the room unoccupied.

The shout had
come from the courtyard below and was being repeated and relayed through the
palace. Under the window, portglaves of the household ran back and forth with
torches and pointed to the sky. The two leaned out to peer upward, and even
then he was aware of her closeness and elated by it.

High in the
star-specked blackness hung an object of indeterminate shape, trailing long
columns of red fire. It circled slowly while they watched and swung away
westward.

“It fits
Springbuck’s description of Yardiff Bey’s aircraft,” Gil said when they’d
withdrawn from the window. “If he’s started to reconnoiter, he’ll move very
soon now. Especially if he’s counted the campfires out there and knows how he’s
got us outnumbered.”

He hissed in
exasperation. He should have foreseen an aerial recon and planned against it.

“I have to go,”
he said. “This changes things. We’ll be awfully busy before long.” His thoughts
were already on how they might counteract this disadvantage, make it work for
them.

He moved to the
door, and she felt a chill breeze that didn’t come of night airs. She stopped
him with a hand on his shoulder like a timid dove. She didn’t want him to go
out just now, to order the affairs of battle and let warm possibilities become
cool.

She put her
forehead against his chest, and he encircled her with his arms. No word passed
between them, but she went to the candelabrum and snuffed out the flickering
flames with her fingertips, leaving only the fitful light of the small fireplace.
She took both his wrists in her hands and led him to her bed.

Deftly, she
unfastened the flowing gown and let it rustle down about her ankles, and
gracefully she stepped from its folds, snatching the pins from her long hair
and shaking its loosened waves around shoulders and down her back.

Gil slowly
opened his tunic at its high collar, slipped it off and threw it aside,
catching her up in his arms. Her skin was amazingly warm and the scents of her,
the perfume at her throat and the exotic, unnameable aroma of her hair, made
blood beat at his temples.

He kissed her
harshly even as her fingers found the buckle at his waist. But she pulled her
head back.

“Softly, my
friend,” she whispered at his ear. “I’m no rough soldier’s woman. The night
stretches ahead; shall we squander it in impatience and haste?”

They went to
her long, wide bed, and the curves and complexities of their flesh met in
embrace. It was, for him, a passage of enlightenment, of increase. Like many
men, he knew something of sex but little of tenderness. In war, women had been
a commodity bought and sold; there’d been no time or place for love. There was
no gentleness; he’d stayed unschooled in affection, ignorant of regard for a
woman.

But the Lady
Duskwind subtly controlled the night, encouraging or rebuking and guiding his
actions, nurturing their lovemaking secretly. He didn’t see it overtly at the
time; all he knew was that in those hours, underlying the passion for her that
superactuated him, there was a great calm and sense of serenity.

Later, a time
having come when they spoke quietly of themselves and each other again, she
privily questioned her feelings for this foreigner, so stern and fey in some
lights, and so vulnerable and unsure in others.

They drifted,
heavy-lidded, into sleep. But just before dawn, a challenge was given as the
watch was changed in the courtyard below, and she blinked sleep from her eyes
to see him sitting bolt upright in bed, the cocked Browning in his hand,
alarmed and disoriented.

She pulled him
back down. As he slipped the pistol back under his pillow she returned to his
arms and, soldier and warrior in her own way, bitterly cursed the Doomfaring.

Necessity
knows no law except to conquer.

PUBLIUS SYRUS,
Maxim 553

A SPECIAL parley was called the
next morning. Only the highest, chieftains and knights-commander, were even
permitted to stand ranged around the room to listen. The leaders of the
alliance sat at a large circular pinewood table, since Reacher, a fair man in
all things by common testimony, wouldn’t sit above or preside over his
comrades.

At the table
with the Wolf-Brother were his sister, Van Duyn, the deCourteneys, Bonesteel,
Su-Suru and his acting war chieftain Ferrian. Springbuck and Gil were to
complete the assemblage, and had with them Dunstan the Berserker, whom they’d
asked to act as a sort of liaison aide.

Ever since the
incident at The Excellent Board, Dunstan had followed Gil steadfastly, perhaps
because the American had brought him out of Rage, or perhaps because the
outlander was more at ease with him than with his own people. Dunstan didn’t
say, and they didn’t ask. As Gil put it, “It’s not as if he’s whacked out or
vicious; maybe all he needs is somebody to keep him straight.”

The Prince and
his friends waited until the others had been seated for some time before making
their way to the meeting room. “I must make an entrance to help make my point,”
he said.

Gil and
Springbuck came forth side by side, Dunstan behind them, through a door held
wide by Kisst-Haa, the reptile-man. Nearing the table in step, helmet and war
mask clamped in their left arms, they stopped with the American three paces
from the table and the son of Surehand a step closer, next to the chair left
vacant for him.

Springbuck
thrust aside the seat and threw his high-plumed mask on the table. In the
silence that greeted him, he asked, “Is there anyone here who does not know the
significance of last night’s visit? Yardiff Bey has paid us a call to tally our
bivouac fires and see what he could of movements between here and Coramonde.
This can only mean that he’s ready to unleash Novanwyn on Bulf Hightower.”

He watched
their faces. He had as yet told them nothing new. He’d taken the floor from
Reacher, and while the Wolf-Brother was listening with equanimity his sister
was obviously piqued. Gil held his breath for the bomb.

“Therefore,”
the Prince continued, “I shall ride to the aid of the Hightower. Its warders
have always rallied to my family at need. Do they deserve less from their
liege?”

There were
instant objections from the Snow Leopardess, Van Duyn and Su-Suru. Bonesteel
was in thought, calculating the military factors and thinking, too, of his
sister, Rolph’s widow, still at the Hightower.

Gabrielle was
contemplating the Prince. War itself drains men, wears them thin, but the
relentless exercise of past weeks had built him up, filled him out to something
approaching his potential as a man. His friendship with the MacDonald had given
him an added self-assurance; even she had had no idea he’d planned this move.
Yes, the Pretender had evolved a definite presence, a mind of his own.

Springbuck cut
off the confusion of objections by bounding atop the gleaming table and holding
up both hands. The voices subsided immediately and most at the table looked at
him as if he were under a new, stronger light. Though there were those in the
room who thought him mad, Bonesteel was beaming at Springbuck’s demonstration.

“I go, too,”
the Prince resumed, “because this is an excellent chance to give Bey pause
while my loyalists established themselves and Freegate braces for prolonged
war. We must let Coramonde know that we can lash out over the Keel of Heaven to
deter the advances of our enemies.”

“And shall we
ride with you, then, to be crushed far from our undefended homes?” shouted
Katya angrily, her pale face flushed ever so slightly. The sight rather pleased
Gabrielle, who sat across from her.

“You speak of
following me,” he replied, “but I cannot force it, nor would I. You conjecture
in terms of defeat. I don’t plan on it or fear it.” He caught Bonesteel’s
reassuring nod. “I go, and my Legions with me. If you vote to aid me, so be it
and my thanks, but I wouldn’t demand it.”

Gil exhaled
softly. The Prince had the allies over a barrel and they knew it. Without him,
there was little hope of delaying the advance of the armies of Coramonde, and
the outcome of an unqualified confrontation with the hosts of Strongblade
couldn’t be doubted. Lacking Springbuck as figurehead, they’d have a much
harder time fomenting revolt across the Keel of Heaven; he was their only
touchstone of popular support in that country. Their only hope against the vast
resources of their enemies was help from an infrastructure in the populace
there.

And though the
Prince had mentioned it to no one, even Gil, he felt obliged to go to the
Hightower because of the death of Rolph Hightower that last night at Earthfast.
To him the expedition represented not only a political and strategic maneuver,
but an act of contrition as well.

Reacher cleared
his throat. He stood up and they all became quiet. “I suggest,” he said, “that
we take our most mobile elements on this foray. Your light dragoons and members
of the Horseblooded, and a contingent of men to leave as reinforcements for the
Hightower should that prove desirable.”

Katya had
slumped her curvy figure back into her chair, legs crossed and heels on the
table. She gave her brother a resentful squint and brought her feet to the
floor with a clump.

“At least,
then, you must let me come along, brother,” she grumbled.

But when the
strike force had been assembled, Katya was not included in its order of battle.
Neither were Van Duyn, Su-Suru and many others who stubbornly demanded a chance
to carry the igniting spark of war to the enemy.

Duskwind was
particularly miffed; she’d meant to go on the expedition from the moment she’d
heard of it. Dissuading her was a nightmare. Gil reasoned and debated with her
for as long as he could before losing his temper and telling her to take it up
with Springbuck, refusing to intervene and touching off a terrible row. She
began to plot in secret, but they didn’t permit their romance to suffer for
long because of their difference of opinion. They still danced and laughed and
drank and sang, exploiting as best they could the short time they had to be
together.