The Fell Sword (56 page)

Among the company, the pay parade was an opportunity for practical jokes and levity – wives would press forward to collect a husband’s pay, and then again to collect their own, for example, and a man unlucky enough to be absent – Daniel Favour was not present when his name was called – was helped by mates who shouted, ‘’E wants it all given to the poor!’

Shortly after, Gelfred, the Hunt Master and an officer of the company – highly paid and thus always good for entertainment – was also absent.

Wilful Murder, who had a real name and had already collected his pay, grinned at his nearest neighbour. ‘None o’ they scouts is on parade,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t all wrong yester e’en. Someone’s gonna cop it.’

At Hannaford the parade paused, and every man and woman present was served a fine cup of malmsey wine, heavy and sweet, by troops of Ordinaries with trays. The Megas Ducas jumped up on the table and raised his cup – everyone in the courtyard including the visiting students raised theirs, and the Megas Ducas shouted, ‘To the Emperor!’

Twelve hundred voices echoed his shout.

The Imperial servants cleared away the cups – red clay with Imperial wreathes of olive leaves – and the parade recommenced at Hand, Arthur, mounted archer, and carried straight through to Zyragonas, Dmitrios, stradiotes. The sun was setting, the air was chilly, and the courtyard was packed with deeply satisfied soldiers.

In keeping with an established tradition, Dmitrios Zyragonas – a pleasant-looking man with ruddy cheeks, bright red hair and the last name on the whole parade – was greeted as he left the parade by the company’s oldest camp follower, Old Tam, with every available child gathered about her. She put her arms around him before he even thought to resist, being a well-born Morean and unused to what passed for humour in Alba, he was unready when she put a hand in his pocket and equally unready when she began to kiss him, while forty children shouted and called him ‘Papa’ and ‘Daddy’ and demanded money.

‘There’s my honey,’ croaked Old Tam. She was smiling as broadly as an escaped lunatic and licking her lips. ‘So young!’ she cackled. ‘I only want yer better part, love!’

The Scholae, among whom Zyragonas was a staid and upright figure – were laughing themselves silly as the poor man tried to escape the harridan and the children, many of whom played their parts with touches of realism that might have chilled a less hardened crowd.

Zyragonas fled as soon as he was free of their outstretched hands – ran back into the ranks of his comrades like a one-man rout – and then had to endure the laughter as Old Tam raised high his purse, neatly cut off his belt.

‘I have yer
best
part, love!’ she yelled.

There were plenty of linguists to translate the jest into Nordikan and Morean.

But then, when everyone had laughed long, the Megas Ducas rose from his chair, and the old woman turned, curtsied, and handed over the blushing man’s purse, and the Megas Ducas restored it to its rightful owner who couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

‘Gentlemen and ladies – benches, wine, and food. Many hands make light work – let the wedding begin.’ He clapped his hands, and everyone ran for their task – assigned at the morning parade.

Bent reappeared from the kitchens, where he and four men and four of Gelfred’s dogs had sampled the malmsey and most of the food. Now they went into the towers around the yard, taking an early dinner and a cup of wine to the Vardariotes who were on duty so that the other soldiers could drink.

Tables appeared, and long, low benches, and a line of men went through the yard like dancers, putting beeswax candles in tall bronze sticks on every table. Men looked at the sky – darkness was coming with heavy grey clouds.

The princess’s confessor came through the Outer Yard in full ecclesiastical regalia. The Scholae murmured. As the first cups and plates began to accrete on the tables, they heard the Officer of the Day shout his challenge, and after the reply the outer gate opened.

The Moreans in the yard froze.

All of them fell to one knee.

The Megas Ducas walked out into the Outer Court, and Bent whispered in his ear – and he hissed an order and fell to his knees – in his best hose, on cobbles. Most of the company didn’t need the whispered order – they could see Ser Michael on his knees in his wedding clothes, and Ser Thomas too, in his magnificent quilted hose.

The Patriarch walked into the yard at the head of twenty professors of the Academy and another ten priests and bishops.

He beamed at the soldiers, and walked among them, bestowing blessings in all directions. He placed his hand on Ser Thomas’s bowed black head – his chin went up as if he’d received a shock, and then he smiled like a man who has won a great prize, and the Patriarch passed to the next man. He blessed Ser Alison and, eventually, he came to the Megas Ducas, placed his hand gently on his head, and nodded.

No lightning struck.

The Megas Ducas kissed his ring.

Very low, he said, ‘I hope Your Holiness is here for the wedding?’

The Patriarch’s eyes twinkled. ‘You mean I’m too late to get paid?’ he asked.

After that, there was nothing that could have made Kaitlin’s wedding any less than a great feast. She herself – when she appeared – looked sufficiently magnificent to quell the rumour among the Moreans that she was a low-born farm girl. It was obvious that she was a duchess. She and Despoina Helena vanished together and as preparations were made their giggles and snorts of laughter could be heard peeling out of the Scholae guardroom, which had temporarily been co-opted as the bridal chambers.

Ser Michael – most everyone knew he was the Earl of Towbray’s eldest son – walked like an earl. It was possible, watching him, to see the Red Knight and the King in his back and his legs, in the way his right hand rested on his dagger, in the arrogance of his jaw – or in the delight of his eyes when he took back his bride’s veil of seven yards of Hoek lace. Ser Giorgios was less showy, but had the dignity that most Moreans seemed to carry, and he smiled at everyone who caught his eye. And at his bride, who didn’t seem to mind that her beautiful gown of golden satin and seed pearls had been upstaged.

Gropf’s thin mouth smiled at those gowns and he flicked his eyes at the bride when she kissed her husband.
Five months pregnant? Sweeting, that’s what the overgown is for!
He had no one to tell that his greatest triumph as a cloth cutter now came in front of a patriarch in the Imperial Palace – two years after he’d turned his back on his trade and gone to war.

But he couldn’t stop smiling.

Neither could Wilful Murder, who’d just received the fullest pay day of his adult life and not a sequin in stoppages. He wandered the feast, wagering on anything that anyone would accept a wager on – the time in pater nosters until the bride next kissed the groom was a favourite. He offered odds that the whole company would march the next morning at sunrise.

Mag had a brief and sobering interview with the Captain, and took notes – but the moment the service began and she saw Kaitlin Lanthorn, whom she’d known as a puking, tiny baby not expected to live, now going to the altar to wed a man who was arguably the wealthiest young man of his generation, in front of some of the most famous people in Christendom, she cried. She cried steadily through the service. But she’d made every stitch of linen the bride was wearing, and she’d woven in every scrap of happiness she could draw from the
aether
. And she’d made a weather working too – her first – that roofed the Outer Court like a bowl of fire.

When the wine began to flow and people walked about freely, the Patriarch came and sat by her. ‘They tell me you cast that,’ he said pleasantly.

She smiled and looked at her feet.

‘These same people tell me you’ve never had an education in the
ars magicka
.’ He smiled.

She almost said she’d been tutored in Dar-as-Salaam – it was on her lips, one of Harmodius’s memories imprinted in her head. She hadn’t fully assimilated what she’d learned from Harmodius and from the Abbess in the last days of the siege, but she spent time working through what she could remember, every day. Hence her first weather working. But as usual, she found it easiest to be silent.

So she raised her eyes.

They met, eye to eye, for a moment.

The Patriarch broke the contact politely, and shook his head. ‘The north of Alba must be rolling in talents,’ he said.

Mag nodded. ‘It is,’ she agreed.

‘May I invite you to visit the Academy?’ he asked. ‘For more than two thousand years, we have served the needs of men and women with special gifts – hermetical, or scientific, or musical, or scholarly.’

She smiled and looked at her hands. ‘Do you offer a course in embroidery?’ she asked, thinking that he sounded just a little like the dragon on the mountain.

After the boards were cleared, the musicians – who had eaten the dinner and watched the wedding with everyone else – came forward. While they tuned their instruments, the students gave a display of the hermetical art – air bursts of fire, tableaux of the heroes of the past striding across the yard – Saint Aetius fought a great horned irk twice his height, and fought so well that the soldiers roared their applause—

‘I told you that nothing would look as good as a real fight,’ Derkensun said, picking himself off the second-storey floor of the Imperial horse barn. It was not just a new working but a set of nested new workings – it had taken four of them, the two Comnena nuns, Baldesce and Mortirmir. Mortirmir had fought – sparred, at least – with Derkensun, and the working had transmitted their images – subtly altered – to the courtyard below. As the soldiers roared their approval, Mortirmir embraced the Nordikan.

He laughed his great laugh. ‘Bah – it was you witches who made the glamour!’ But he accepted their plaudits, and he and Anna sat with the students for the next course.

Anna put her hand on Derkensun’s arm suddenly – they were being served beautiful custards, obviously the product of the Imperial kitchens. Anna was ignoring the magical shows to enjoy the food – she’d never had enough to eat in in her entire life and the custards—

But a woman in a plain brown overgown had appeared by Megas Ducas’ side. Anna noticed her immediately.

She pointed, her mouth full of delicious custard.

Beside her, Derkensun was grinning at an Ordinary. ‘Is that Quaveh?’ he asked.

The servant bowed. ‘It is, sir.’

‘Anna, this is Quaveh from the
other side of Ifriqu’ya
!’ he turned. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Who is that woman?’ Anna asked.

The Megas Ducas was enjoying himself far more than he’d expected to. Some of the drugs worked – and Harmodius was obviously doing his best to hide himself. While the Duke suspected that had to do with the presence of the Patriarch – just a sword’s length away in his throne of ebony and gold – a holiday was a holiday. He was alone.

Or at least, he
felt
alone.

He was considering sending Toby for his lyre when he caught a hint of scent and then she was at his side.

‘I am incognito,’ declared Princess Irene. ‘Please call me Zoe.’

The Duke girded himself.
So much for being alone.

Ser Gavin was sitting with the groom’s party and flirting somewhat automatically with the Lanthorn girls. Ranald Lachlan was staring into darkness and drinking steadily and being a dull companion.

Ser Alison leaned back her chair. She was dressed as a woman – magnificently dressed – except for the knight’s belt at her hips. ‘Who’s that sitting with the Captain?’ she asked.

Gavin did a double-take and smiled knowingly. ‘Well, well,’ he said. He dug an elbow into Ranald, who looked and shrugged.

Ser Michael was an arm’s length away, kissing his wife. He rose for air and caught Gavin’s eye.

‘Get a room,’ said Gavin.

‘We have one,’ said Michael, brightly. ‘What are you and Sauce staring at?’

Kaitlin, who looked like an angel come to earth, leaned forward, being exceptionally careful of her train and her ermine and her jewels and all the other things that didn’t matter as much as the man who had just kissed her, and said, ‘It’s the—’

Ser Giorgios paled, and his new wife had to use years of courtly training not to spit her wine. ‘The Porphyrogenetrix!’ she said. ‘At my wedding!’

Gavin grinned. ‘Good. That’s what I thought, too.’

Ser Thomas appeared and leaned down among them, bowing to – of all people – Sauce. ‘May I have the honour of a dance?’ he asked.

‘Horse or foot?’ Sauce said, automatically. She was ready to fight, and despite her gown and her tight kirtle, she looked like a warrior in that moment.

Bad Tom just laughed. ‘Got you. But—’ he swept a comically exaggerated bow ‘—but I mean it. They’re about to play for dancing. Come and dance.’

‘Why?’ Sauce asked suspiciously. ‘Ain’t you doing Sukey?’

Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Not for another few hours. Come on, Sauce – come and dance.’ He looked at Gavin. ‘What are you all looking at?’ he asked with his usual air.

‘Not you,’ Gavin said. He indicated the Patriarch’s table without actually pointing.

‘All the big hats,’ Tom agreed.

‘So who’s sitting with the Captain?’ Sauce asked. She rose to her feet and put her hand on Tom’s arm. ‘If you make this a mockery of me, I’ll have your guts out right here, so help me God and all the saints.’

Bad Tom grinned. ‘Are you like this with all the boys?’ he asked. Then his half-mocking grin vanished. ‘Sweet Jesu, it’s the princess.’

‘Got it in one, boyo,’ drawled Sauce.

While Bad Tom was gawking, Ser Jehan and Ser Milus came around the wedding table and each took their turn to kiss the brides and kneel before Kaitlin, slap Michael and Giorgios on the back, and then – Jehan first – crave a dance of Sauce.

‘Am I the only girl you boys know?’ she asked.

Ser Jehan – almost fifty, all muscle and gristle and hard-won chivalry – blushed.

Tom pointed at the Megas Ducas, who was rising with the woman in brown – really, the girl in brown – on his arm.

‘Don’t point,’ hissed Gavin.