Thinking about that overlong sword of his, Cnán did her best to simulate the sweet song of a lark, which they had chosen as a sort of password. A moment later, she heard the call echoed from the branches of a tree over her head. Her call hadn’t been convincing enough to fool a real bird; this was Vera, perched somewhere nearby, no doubt with her crossbow. R?dwulf and Rafael would be up in other trees, ensconced in shooting positions with clear views of the ground between here and the Mongols’ camp.
Having been thus announced and heralded, she passed out of the tree belt and into open, sandy ground beyond to find Feronantus and Percival, fully armed and armored, standing silently next to their horses and brooding over the river, which ran shallow, and hence rather noisily, through a channel about twenty paces away. This was not its main branch. It divided around a long, slender island, a sandbar that had been colonized and reinforced by leggy trees that thrust from the water and sand like bristles in a brush. The fork they looked over now was the inferior branch, easily forded this time of year. On the opposite side of the little island, it ran deeper. Much of its breadth was suitable for wading, but the middle stretch would require swimming or a boat. A boat ought to be drawn up on that shore. Feronantus had paid for it and offered to pay the same amount again after the boatman delivered them to the far bank—to Asia.
“What news, Vaetha?” asked Feronantus, using the false name that Cnán had given him the first time they had met—this had become a perverse, affectionate habit.
“None,” she said. “Yet.”
“Where does the moon stand?”
“One finger to go.”
“Yasper found what he wanted?”
“The market seems to have satisfied him in many ways.”
Feronantus enjoyed this, but Percival threw her a wounded look.
“One day, your skills as an observer will get you into trouble,” Feronantus said.”
“If this is not trouble,” Cnán returned, “then what is?”
Feronantus considered it, then shrugged. “It is what we do.”
“Attacking sleeping, unarmed men?”
“This undertaking is difficult enough to begin with,” Feronantus said. “You yourself have told us many times that it is nothing more than a slow form of suicide. If we were to forgo the use of stealth and surprise, and restrict ourselves to frontal assaults in broad daylight...” He shook his head. “They will all be awake soon enough,” he said, “and making them so is your responsibility; if you are so concerned with making it a fair fight, then go and do your job.”
With a parting glance at Percival—who declined to meet her eye—she turned back into the belt of woods and slipped through it as quietly as she could. Emerging from its western side, she got a clear view of the moon, just now touching the horizon, and felt shame for being late, followed by annoyance that these men had the power to make her feel shame.
The breeze was light, but unquestionably out of the west, and this told her where to find Yasper—near the eastern edge of the broad oval where the Mongols had staked out their ponies. Downwind, in other words, so that the ponies would not scent him and whinny in alarm. He was expecting her, glancing back nervously in her direction as she scurried among the moon shadows of shrubs and low trees. As she drew closer, her nose detected a new stink: Yasper had put fire to something that was smoldering rather than burning, and spinning out a long braided thread of smoke.
As she crouched next to him, he gripped her upper arm and pointed toward the Mongols’ camp. It was difficult to see much, given that it was dark and that she was peering through numerous ponies. Some of these had lain down so that they could sleep deeply, while others dozed standing up. But her eye was drawn by a flickering in the nearest of the campfires. This, she realized, was caused by the movement of at least one person who was on his feet and stealing toward it. Either Finn or Istvan.
Yasper began huffing and puffing on a twist of some fibrous material, causing the feeble wax to glow bright orange. He was working with a punk that burned slowly once lit. As she watched, he touched another punk to it and blew some more, igniting the second one, which he handed to Cnán. He then set his punk on the ground at a safe remove from his basket, into which he reached with both hands and pulled out a stack of flat packages wrapped in paper. This occasioned a lot of rustling and drew the attention of a nearby pony, but Yasper did not seem to care. He handed the packages to Cnán. “Remember, wait until you hear me—what I’ll do,” he whispered and then stood up in the moonlight and began to walk openly among the ponies, bending from time to time to sever a rope with a knife. This created minor commotion among the horses, which swung about and pawed the ground, snorting, but none bolted.
As Yasper ambled along, he began to hum an aimless sort of tune and then to sing in the slurred diction of the profoundly drunk. This drew the attention of one, and then another, of the Mongol sentries, who converged on him briskly, telling him to get lost. Yasper called back to them in an obsequious, apologetic tone, speaking in his native tongue, a Germanic dialect. More horses began to wake up and clamber to their feet. Now there was whinnying. It all sounded incredibly loud to Cnán, and she reckoned that it must have grabbed the attention of all of the sentries in the Mongol camp, which, after all, was not that large.
Consequently, when some of the formerly sleeping Mongols began to cry out in agony, terror, or rage, the sentries’ response was not as purposeful as it might have been. She saw one of the sentries running toward that sound, only to double over with an arrow in his belly, and reckoned that Istvan must have sheathed his bloody dagger and gotten out his bow. Depending on how much time Finn and Istvan had had to accomplish their task, they might have wiped out an entire arban—and their plan, quite specifically, had been to focus all of their attentions on one arban rather than spread the pain around.