It was another two days before Sister Gilma released him, albeit with stern warnings about over-exerting himself and making sure he drank at least two pints of water a day. He convened a council of captains atop the gatehouse from where they could observe the progress of the defences. A thick pall of dust was rising from the workings as men toiled to deepen the ditch surrounding the city and make good the decades long neglect of the walls.
“It’ll be fifteen feet deep when completed,” Caenis said of the ditch. “We’re down to nine feet so far. Work on the walls is slower, not too many skilled masons in this little army.”
Vaelin spat dust from his parched throat and took a gulp of water from his canteen. “How long?” he asked, hating the croak in his voice. He knew his appearance was not one to inspire great confidence, his eyes deeply shadowed with fatigue and his pallor pale and clammy. He could see the concern in the eyes of his brothers and the uncertainty of Count Marven and the other captains. They wonder if I’m fit to command, he decided. Perhaps with good reason.
“At least two more weeks,” Caenis replied. “It would go quicker if we could conscript labour from the town.”
“No.” Vaelin’s tone was emphatic. “We have to win the confidence of these people if we are to rule this place. Pushing a shovel into their hands and forcing them to back-breaking toil will hardly do that.”
“My men came here to fight, my lord,” Count Marven said, his tone light but Vaelin could see the calculation in his gaze. “Digging is hardly a soldier’s work.”
“I’d say it’s most certainly a soldier’s work, my lord,” Vaelin replied. “As for fighting, they’ll get plenty of that before long. Tell any grumblers they have my leave to depart, it’s only sixty miles of desert to Untesh. Perhaps they’ll find a ship home from there.”
A wave of weariness swept through him and he rested against a battlement to disguise the unsteadiness of his legs. He was finding the burden of command, with all the petty concerns of both allies and subordinates, increasingly irksome. His irritation was made more acute by the insistence of the blood-song calling him to the voice and the marble block he knew lay somewhere in the city.
“Are you unwell, my lord?” Count Marven asked pointedly.
Vaelin resisted the urge to punch the Nilsaelin squarely in the face and turned to Bren Antesh, the stocky archer who commanded the Cumbraelin bowmen. He was the most taciturn of the captains, barely speaking in meetings and the first to leave when Vaelin called a halt. His expression was perpetually guarded and it was plain he neither wanted or needed their approval or acceptance, although any resentment he may have felt over serving under a man the Cumbraelins still referred to as the Darkblade was kept well hidden. “And your men, Captain?” he asked him. “Any complaints about the workload?”
Antesh’s expression remained unchanged as he replied with what Vaelin suspected was a quote from the Ten Books, “Honest labour brings us closer to the love of the World Father.”
Vaelin grunted and turned to Frentis. “Anything from the patrols?”
Frentis shook his head. “Nothing, brother. All approaches remain clear. No scouts or spies in the hills.”
“Perhaps they’re making for Marbellis after all,” offered Lord Al Cordlin, commander of the Thirteenth Regiment of Foot, known as the Blue Jays for the azure feathers painted on their breastplates. He was a sturdily built but somewhat nervous man, his arm still rested in a sling after being broken at the Bloody Hill where he had lost a third of his men in the fierce fighting on the right flank. Vaelin suspected he had little appetite for the coming battle and was unable to blame him.
He turned to Caenis. “How goes it with the governor?”
“He’s cooperative, but hardly pleased about it. He’s kept the people quiet so far, made speeches to the merchant’s guild and the civic council pleading with them to stay calm. He tells me the courts and the tax collectors are operating as well as can be expected in the circumstances. Trade is down, of course. Most of the Alpiran ships put to sea when news spread we had taken the city, the remainder refuse to sail and threaten to fire their ships if we try to seize them. The Volarians and Meldeneans seem keen to take advantage of the opportunity though. Prices for spice and silk have risen considerably, which means they’ve probably doubled back in the Realm.”
Lord Al Trendil, commander of the Sixteenth Regiment, gave a suppressed huff of annoyance. Vaelin had forbidden the army to have any part in the local trade for fear of accusations of corruption, severely disappointing the few nobles in his command with money to spend and an eye for profit.
“What about the food stores?” Vaelin asked, choosing to ignore Al Trendil.
“Full to the brim,” Caenis assured him. “Enough for two months of siege at least, more if it’s carefully rationed. The city’s water supply comes primarily from wells and springs within the walls so we’re unlikely to run short.”
“Provided the city folk don’t poison them,” Bren Antesh said.