* * *
Ghelel Rhik Tayliin allowed her fury to grow steadily in the pit of her stomach. This last revelation of the dispersal of the army assembled in her name was too much. Now that they had reached the Seti plains a simple direct forced march east was all that was required. Any fool could see that. But this latest news – to divide the army! Insane! The worst error of any bumbling lackwit. Her own readings of the military arts were plain on that topic. Never, ever, do that.
The grey mud of the churned-up shore of the Idryn sucked at her boots as she made her way to the command tent raised next to the assembled wagons and carts of the army's supply. Materiel never stopped moving, with more arriving even as she pushed her way through the maze of crates, piled sacks and penned animals. The ten swordsmen of her guard followed a stone's throw behind despite her direct orders to remain at the wagon. Her Royal Palanquin - Hood take it!
Beyond the ragged borders of the entrepot, Seti tribesmen rode back and forth, whistling and lashing lengths of braided leather, driving lines of cattle and oxen east. East? Away from the carts? She gaped at the spectacle.
To make things worse the Talian and half-breed Seti drovers nudged each other and grinned her way – the mud-splattered Duchess! Ghelel gathered up the ends of her long white surcoat emblazoned with the winged lion of her family crest, made sure her helmet wrapped in white silk cord rested firmly and evenly on her head, then raised her chin defiantly.
The drovers looked away. She almost congratulated herself on that small victory when she caught sight of her bodyguard slogging up protectively close. Glaring at her guard – who seemed not to notice the attention as they scanned the surroundings – she started off again, wincing as she pulled each boot from the stiff sucking mud. May the Gods forgive her: hand-tooled Rhivi leather imported from Darujhistan. From Darujhistan! Why had they dressed her in such finery? As she neared the tent, laughter and raised voices snapped her gaze around. There, in the mud and shallows of the river, bare-chested men used mattocks and iron bars on wagons. Bashing and levering them apart. Demolishing them! Trake take them! They were destroying the wagons. What in the name of the Abyss was going on in this madhouse?
‘Stay here!’ she told her guard then tossed open the tent flap. Amaron stood at a camp table assembled from boards over two barrels; behind it sat General Choss, booted feet up on a stool, a towel draped over his face. Neither moved. ‘What is the meaning of this insanity!’
Amaron turned, raised a quizzical brow. Again, Ghelel was impressed by his height. Now, however, long into his sorcerously-maintained senescence, the belt across the expanse of his armoured belly seemed embarrassingly taut.
‘Which insanity might that be – my Lady?’
Ghelel could never shake the feeling that the two men were laughing at her. But she ploughed on, determined to defend her prerogatives. ‘Dividing the forces, firstly.’
Amaron glanced to his commander. ‘Ah.’
Sitting up, Choss pulled the towel from his face then rested his hands among the scraps of paper littering the table. The man reminded Ghelel of a lion, a scarred, battle-hardened veteran of countless scrapes, wiry with a bushy tangled head of curly hair and beard. Choss cleared his throat. ‘That was settled last night, Duchess. We saw no need to wake you.’
‘My presence is requisite at all command meetings.’
‘Ah, well, you see. In the field things don't really hold to any regularly scheduled meetings or such. We have to move quickly.’
‘Then come and get me, dammit!’
Choss's gaze went to Amaron and he smiled faintly. ‘Very well. But please remember – you supported relinquishing command of forces to me and I do not have the time to explain every decision.’
‘You seem to have the time now.’
‘Flanked you,’ said an amused Amaron.
Sighing, Choss poured out a glass of wine from a decanter on the table. He raised it to Ghelel who shook her head. He sat back. ‘Very well. So what is it you want explained?’
‘I have heard that you are leaving some ten thousand men here south of Tali. Gods, man, that's more than a fifth of the entire force! We need every man for the march east! Heng, you say, may have come out against us, or is at least making a bid for independence. We must intimidate Itko Kan and Cawn. We may face pitched battles in Bloor and, finally, Unta. The very capital! Why weaken ourselves before we even meet the enemy?’
Choss moved to speak but a wave of lowing from the throats of countless oxen and cattle overtook them together with the high-pitched whistles and yipping of Seti horsemen. The tent shook with the rumbling of the hooves.
‘What is going on!’ Ghelel yelled through the din.
‘The Seti are driving most of our animals east.’
‘Why!’
Choss raised his voice, ‘Duchess, the resistance of Heng has upset our timetable. We must get there quickly, before Laseen reaches the city with forces loyal to her. If she can stop us there our movement will lose its momentum. Commanders and provinces will begin drifting back to her. That will be the end of us.’
‘But you assured me Laseen has barricaded herself in the capital!’
The two men exchanged glances once more. As the press of cattle passed, the noise fell. ‘Yes, Duchess. However, her agents may make an offer to the Kanese. A privileged position in a new co-dominion rule … who knows? They might be bribed into extending their protection to Heng. Then we would be facing two opponents. We must get there before any such arrangement can be effected.’
Ghelel pointed to the shore. ‘So tell me, how does leaving men here manage that!’
Choss downed his wine, set the glass carefully on the table.
‘Duchess. The old Itko Kan confederacy is not the only principality we must worry about. South of the Idryn is Dal Hon—’
‘Who have sent assurances of neutrality.’
Officially, yes. However, we have drained Quon Tali of every hale man and fit woman able to hold a spear. We dare not leave it completely defenceless. The Dal Hon Council of Elders might decide to dig out their old treaties with Heng and march on Tali. That's why we're leaving ten thousand men between them and Tali.’
‘They wouldn't dishonour themselves after assuring us—’
‘Dishonour!’ Choss's hand slapping down on the table smashed the glass flat. ‘Honour? Glory? All that horseshit those moon-eyed minstrels sing on about – none of that matters here in the field! Here, a man or woman can have personal honour, yes. But no commander or state can afford it. The price is too high. Annihilation of all those who follow you. I intend to win, Duchess. That's the school I was trained in. Winning! Plenty of time afterwards to rewrite the history to make yourself look good.’ He raised his hand and gathered up a handful of reports to wipe the blood away. ‘Right now we're makin’ rafts. And with the help of our few hamlet mages and some Seti shamans we'll barge down the Idryn as if Hood himself was after our behinds.’
‘I'll get a healer,’ said Amaron.
‘Not yet,’ Choss called after him. ‘No, now I think is a good time to let Ghelel know our plans for her.’ He grinned as he wrapped a cloth around his hand.
Ghelel actually felt the short hairs of her neck bristling. ‘Oh yes, do please inform me. Perhaps it involves a royal barge and a hundred slaves rowing?’
Amaron smiled – the first real smile Ghelel could recall from him. ‘Don't worry, m'Lady. The dress and the wagon and the bodyguard are all for show.’ He hooked his hands once more at his taut belt. ‘We have only one real mage worth the name, Lass. That's a joke compared to how things used to be. Our one advantage with you is that no one, absolutely no one, can reliably identify you. We're keeping watch on your old stepfamily, of course, but outside of them there's only a handful who can be used by any mage to get a handle on you – such as Quinn. Thus, the fa?ade of the palanquin,’ he pointed to her white surcoat, ‘and the costume. We plan for you to slip away from all that during the river trip. A new identity has been pulled together for you.’
She eyed the two men – so obviously pleased with themselves. Schemers. She saw it now. These men loved schemes. Who else could have endured to rise as part of the old emperor's staff? ‘A new identity. I see. Pray tell as what… ?’
‘An officer,’ Amaron replied. ‘A cavalry leader. Prevost, I believe, is the old rank. In the Marchland Sentries.’
The Marchland Sentries! Under the Marquis Jhardin? They're all veterans – the raiding is constant on the Nom Purge frontier. They'll never accept me.’
‘They accept new recruits all the time. And the Marquis does command.’
‘What does he know?’
‘Only what he needs to know. I leave the rest up to your discretion. I suggest something close to the truth of your upbringing. Such as being of a minor noble family that spent its last coin purchasing your commission.’
She nodded reluctantly – anything was better than the damned painted carriage and this ridiculous costume. ‘When?’
‘Molk will have all the details. He will be posing as your servant.’
Ghelel raised a hand. ‘I'm sorry. Did you say servant?’
Amaron nodded, serious. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Not like I've been hearing about? All these adjuncts and aides and seconds in the Talian forces?’
Choss and Amaron exchanged wry glances. ‘Oh, yes, Duchess. The Talian army has elected to follow the old ways of doing things. Pre-Malazan. Any self-respecting officer must have a servant, even two, or three: a groom for his or her mounts, an aide-de-camp or adjutant for his or her daily duties, even an attendant to go with them into battle. You being poor can only afford one.’
Queen of Mysteries, no. The man's slouched, he stinks and he's wall-eyed to boot. ‘No, not him. Anyone but him!’
Amaron's grin did not waver; he was obviously very pleased with his arrangements. ‘Oh yes, m'Lady. He's perfect.’