The Fell Sword (16 page)

She wrote out the young Empress’s answer, rolled it very small, and gave it to the master of the mews. She stood and watched as one of the great black and white birds was taken from the ready aviary, given a bone tube and instructions, and launched. A low-level adept cast a complex phantasm.

The bird rose in the air, its seven-foot wings blowing a fresh breeze over the Outer Court.

Ser Alcaeus bowed at the open door of the Captain’s pavilion. Toby was polishing a sabaton with a rag dipped in wood ash. He bowed to the Morean knight and nodded. ‘He’s drinking,’ Toby said.

The Captain was sitting with Ser Alison and Ser Thomas. On the table before them lay a second-rate piece of parchment, carefully marked up in white lead and covered with other scrawls in ink and in charcoal.

The Captain nodded to Ser Alcaeus. ‘Good evening. Alcaeus – don’t be angry.’

The Morean nodded his head. ‘I’m not, my lord. But I’d like to say that I don’t like having two sets of loyalties, with both of my masters tugging at my strings.’

Bad Tom stretched out his booted legs, filling the whole back room of the pavilion. ‘Then don’t have two masters,’ he said.

Alcaeus flung himself into a stool. ‘Every man has two masters – or three, or four. Or ten. Lords, mistresses, the church, parents, friends—’

The Captain nodded. ‘Would we have any chivalric literature at all without troubled and divided loyalties?’ He shrugged at Tom. ‘You evade the issue by killing anything that disagrees with you.’

Tom fingered his short black beard. ‘If I take the job as Drover,’ he allowed.

‘Just so,’ said the Captain. ‘Alcaeus?’

The Morean handed over a pair of scroll tubes. ‘Yes, if you accept success as the only condition.’

The Captain raised his eyes. They were twinkling. ‘Well, well. How desperate she must be. How
angry.
I should have asked for more.’ He raised his hands. ‘I can agree to payment on success only. Toby – have Nicholas sound “All Officers”.’

Nicholas Ganfroy was a young man who had a fancy parchment from the Inns of Court in Harndon stating that he was qualified to serve as a herald in all circumstances. He was very thin and seemed younger than anyone else. There was almost no woman in the company he hadn’t mooned after in the three short weeks he’d been attached to the household. His trumpet-playing was in no way as good as the former trumpeter, Carlus the smith, a giant of a man who had died in the final battle at Lissen Carrak.

On this occasion, however, he was awake and attentive, and after three somewhat squalid tries, he managed to sound ‘All Officers’ well enough to bring Ser Jehan, Ser Milus, Master Gelfred, and the new corporals, Francis Atcourt, John le Bailli, and Ser George Brewes. Ser Alcaeus ranked as a corporal, as did Ser Alison. She raised one side of the pavilion to make more room, and shouted ‘Tommy!’ in her streetwalker shriek across the evening camp.

Her page dropped the boot he was polishing and sprinted for the command pavilion. Once arrived, he helped Toby and a dozen other pages and squires raise an awning, spread trestle tables and lay out camp stools borrowed from the other pavilions until all the officers sat in a circle around the Captain. Two senior archers came; Cully and Bent. The two men sat with the knights in easy camaraderie that had been absent a few months before, and were served wine without comment by the squires. The last man to arrive was the notary. He nodded to the Captain and took a seat by Bad Tom.

The Captain held up a hand for silence. ‘Ser Alcaeus has negotiated us a good contract with our new employer,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to it we turn a healthy profit. So now it’s time to get to work. You’ve all had several weeks of boredom and training. The new lances have had time to settle in. The old warriors have had time to shake the fear.’ He looked around. ‘Or maybe not, but we all pretend, yes?’

Sauce grinned. ‘Anytime, baby,’ she said.

‘We could make that our motto,’ allowed the Captain. ‘Gelfred? Would you sum up the situation?’

Gelfred stood and unrolled the parchment that had been opened earlier. It was a whole sheep’s hide, scraped very fine, and by lamplight it was transparent.

‘The Duke of Thrake has about five thousand men in two main forces. One is encamped on the so-called Field of Ares by the south-west gate of the city. Most of that force are knights and men-at-arms, although with a few exceptions, the Morean men-at-arms are not equipped or horsed like us at all. They ride lighter horses and wear coats of mail.’

Tom grinned. ‘So they’re what – a hundred years out of date?’

Ser Alcaeus leaned in. ‘There’s truth in what you say, Tom, but they are also much better disciplined than most of your Alban knights, and much more capable of manoeuvre than, say, the Galles.’

‘Easy meat for a shaft, though,’ Bent said.

Gelfred allowed himself a small smile. ‘As you say.’ He looked around as if expecting more interruptions, and then went on, ‘The second force is more balanced, with northern hobilars, which they call stradiotes, to support their men-at-arms, and mounted archers. They are stationed to the south-east of the city, watching the gate where the Vardariote Regiment is quartered. It is fairly obvious that this Duke is more concerned with the Vardariotes than he is with us – if he knows we’re here at all. In the last three days we’ve picked off more of his scouts than you’d believe.’ He grimaced. ‘However, he has his own force of Easterners.’ Gelfred shrugged. ‘Honours are about even. We haven’t taken one of his Easterners, and they haven’t taken any of ours, although Amy’s Hob had a close shave today.’

It was well known in camp that Amy’s Hob had ridden in at last light with an arrow in the fat of his arse. It had been cause for a good laugh.

‘There’s a powerful Etruscan squadron based on Salmis, across the bay from the city.’ Gelfred looked at the Captain, who nodded. ‘We have a source who suggests that the Etruscans are backing Duke Andronicus in exchange for trade concessions.’

Alcaeus nodded. ‘That matches the word my mother sends,’ he put in. If he was interested in the Captain having an alternate source of information inside the city, he didn’t say anything.

‘The Etruscans have sixteen galleys and three round ships. Almost a thousand of their marines and three hundred men-at-arms.’ He looked around.

Cully whistled. ‘Horn-bow archers, every man. Wicked devils, they are. Just like us.’

Bent agreed. ‘Rather fight boggles and irks. Their archers ain’t up to much.’

The Captain leaned back so far that his stool creaked. ‘Are the Vardariotes loyal, Alcaeus?’

‘No one is sure. They refused to parade for the traitor, but they haven’t left their barracks. Easterners are rather inscrutable.’

‘When were they last paid?’ asked the Captain.

Alcaeus fidgeted. ‘Not in a year.’

The Captain steepled his hands. ‘Can you get their leaders to meet us?’

Alcaeus shrugged. ‘I can try,’ he said.

The Captain looked around. ‘Offer to make good their arrears of pay. I’ll cover the cost. In exchange, I want them to publicly form up on their parade in the morning and ride through the streets of the town to the—’ He paused and looked at the gate. ‘The Gate of Ares.’

Everyone craned forward together.

‘We’re going to fight on the Field of Ares?’ asked Michael, the excitement plain in his voice.

‘I certainly hope that the soon to be ex-Duke of Thrake thinks so,’ said the Captain. ‘Ser Alcaeus, I need a simple “yes”, or “no” from the Vardariotes in an hour. Toby has written orders for every officer. We march in an hour.’

They sat in stunned silence.

Bad Tom laughed. ‘You thought he was going to discuss strategy?’ he asked. ‘Come on, Sauce.’

She was reading her orders already. ‘Need someone to read it to you, Tom?’ she asked.

No one else would twit Tom that way. His hand went to his sword and his head shot around, but she grinned at him.

‘We’re going to march all night across strange ground to fight people we’ve never met,’ she said.

Tom nodded. ‘Aye,’ he admitted. ‘It’s like a grand dream come true.’

The Court of Galle – The King, his Horse, and Lady Clarissa

The King watched Lady Clarissa play, and licked his lips.

She smiled at him and continued to play and sing.

When she finished her motet he applauded, and she bent her head modestly. The King rose from his stool – a stool of purest white Umroth bone from Ifriqu’ya, set by a fruitwood table inlaid with the ivory from the same beast – and walked to her. He put a hand on her shoulder and felt that she was trembling slightly, and he could not stop the spread of a predatory smile.

‘You dress very plainly for a woman of my court,’ he said.

‘My lord,’ she said very quietly.

‘I would have you wear more elegant things,’ he said. ‘I suspect that you are beautiful. I desire to be surrounded by beautiful things.’ His hand began to stroke her back and shoulder insistently.

She stiffened under his hand.

‘Your Grace?’ asked Abblemont, and the King managed not to jump.

‘Yes, my Horse?’ he asked.

He turned, his hands already far enough from the woman that he could pretend he’d never touched her.

‘Another matter – not for the military council,’ Abblemont said.

Mademoiselle de Sartres collected her lute and walked to the door of the King’s private solar. Her uncle gave the slightest sign and she knew she was released, and breathed a sigh of relief. The King saw her sigh and his temper flared like the sudden shock of cold water on hot rock.

‘I summon and I dismiss, Horse,’ he said.

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Abblemont said. ‘But the matter is urgent and of importance to our policy and the kingdom.’

‘I was not through with her!’ the King shouted. Abblemont’s blank-faced indifference angered him as much as his mother’s and his elegant wife’s did. He seized the first thing to hand – the stool – and threw it across the room where it struck the wall and exploded, sending shards of Umroth bone in all directions.

‘Your Grace,’ Abblemont said, carefully.

As usual, when the King had destroyed something, he felt much better. ‘My apologies, Horse,’ he said. ‘You may, of course, dismiss your own niece. What is this business?’

‘I want to send more knights to de Vrailly – and more men-at-arms. He is to lead an expedition on behalf of the King of Alba, so we have it in our power to place a complete army inside that kingdom’s borders while appearing to be the best of friends.’

The King crossed his arms. ‘The Captal? Must we? That lackwit braggart . . .’ He looked away.

‘Your Grace must see him as the tool to hand,’ Abblemont said. ‘While I have your private ear, I have a report that the King of Alba’s Privy Council has openly accused us of counterfeiting their coin.’

He was unprepared for the King’s shriek of rage. ‘How dare he! As if I am some common criminal?’

Abblemont spread his arms and decided that this would be a poor time to remind the King that they were, indeed, conterfeiting Alban coinage. He stifled his sigh because it was becoming more difficult, not less, to manage the King.

‘Tell me – Horse, tell me exactly – why I need to support de Vrailly’s pretensions?’ The King didn’t shriek these words. He seemed in control of himself again.

‘Your Grace, if de Vrailly can become the King of Alba’s mailed fist, the kingdom will fall into our hands whenever we choose to claim it. As it is, the King of Alba is about to anger two of his key noblemen. He may drive them into a position where they are available to join us – or he may eliminate them, and thus reduce his own fighting power. In effect, he will be using our army to crush his own.’ Abblemont was careful not to add that he was using de Vrailly to promote cracks in the Alban court and discredit the Alban Queen. It seemed the simplest way.

‘Very well. Send more men to de Vrailly.’ The King sounded like a sulky boy, and he furthered that impression by chewing on the end of his thumb.

‘I had thought to send more knights to aid Messire de Rohan,’ Abblemont said.

‘That loathsome gossip?’ the King said. He nodded. ‘Perfect.’ He walked over and looked at the wreckage of the stool. ‘Please see that this is removed and get me another – perhaps ebony. I like to surround myself with beautiful things,’ he said.

Abblemont kept his eyes down.
And you like to break them
, he thought.

Liviapolis – The Princess

Harald Derkensun hated being on duty in the prison. It was demeaning. In Nordika, no one was ever put in prison. Any Nordikan would prefer to die.

The assassin, however, was a model prisoner. He was not a contemptible weakling but a man, and Derkensun found him a pleasant surprise. He nodded pleasantly to Derkensun when he came on duty, and was otherwise silent.

At some point, a pair of men from the Logothete’s office came and tortured the assassin. He said nothing – nothing at all.

The more senior of the Logothete’s men shrugged. ‘Early days yet. Heh – Nordikan. No sleep after this point, eh?’

Derkensun shook his head. ‘Eat shit and push off,’ he said. ‘I do not take part in such things.’

The Logothete’s men seemed immune to his anger, and the more junior man remained. He saw to it that the assassin was placed in an iron cage and he rattled a spear shaft against the bars periodically. The only other prisoner, an old man who had been taken for public blasphemy, complained about the noise.

Derkensun put a hand on the shoulder of the Logothete’s interrogator. ‘This is against the law,’ he said.

The interrogator shook his head. ‘There is no law,’ he said. ‘Not for animals like this one. He’s a professional killer. Hired man. And his officer escaped. When he betrays his officer, we’ll let him go.’ He grinned. ‘When we threaten to remove his feet, he’ll talk. Today was like our formal introduction; don’t be such a— Hey!’

‘Come back with a warrant,’ Derkensun said. He took the interrogator to the great iron-bound door. ‘This man is certainly a criminal. So get a writ from the princess – anything. Until then, stay out of my way.’ He was angry – angry to be made part of something so deeply dishonourable. And his actions had, at least, bought them all a night of sleep.