* * *
Ghelel found the raft trip down the Idryn not nearly the ordeal she feared. In fact, it proved rather pleasant, what with the non-appearance of Molk. After the third day she relaxed into her role of pampered sightseer, served by her maid-in-waiting – only one servant? she'd chided Amaron – in a tent on her own river barge.
She spent the days watching the treed shore pass, the distant rolling hills of the Seti plain, grassed but dotted with copses of trees. Seti outriders escorted the convoy from the north shore, yelling and yipping as they thundered past. Among them swooped the fetishes and pennants of the various soldier societies: wolf, dog, plains lion and jackal.
It seemed to her that, as promised by Choss, the fleet moved with preternatural speed. A foaming wake actually curled from the bow of her barge. She had not spent much time around water, but even she knew that was unnatural. On the rafts around her Talian and allied soldiery talked and laughed. Fires burned in upturned shields and metal braziers to cook meals as the convoy did not once pull in to stop, even at night. Through the day soldiers, male and female, stripped down to linen tunics and loincloths and dived in, splashing and washing, and, hidden away on a few sheltered raft-sides, held on tight and made love in the warm water.
On the seventh day they reached the falls. The great legendary falls of the Idryn. Broke Earth Falls. Ghelel had never been to it before. Soldiers and boatmen manoeuvred her raft to the shore and a tent was raised. For the meantime she continued to play along with her role as figurehead of the ‘Talian League’. She spent the day and night heavily guarded, but with a view of the falls and the equally amazing spectacle of the great convoy of rafts being unloaded, disassembled and carted down the trader road around the falls to be reassembled downstream. A masterpiece of logistical and administrative organization to which she supposed they owed Choss's decades of experience.
In the morning she was carried by palanquin down to her awaiting raft for the rest of the river trip, which she understood to be the matter of only a few more days.
The second evening on the river after that she was beginning to worry. She understood that they were supposed to leave the flotilla before they reached Heng; and Heng was close now. Very close. What had happened to this fellow Molk? Had he deserted? Part of her was glad to be rid of him. Another part was concerned; the man knew too much. When she entered her tent that night she found him sitting in her folding camp chair, his legs out before him.
‘I'll thank you to ask permission to enter next time.’
‘That would work against sneakin’ about, m'Lady.’ He leaned aside to spit but she jabbed a finger—
‘No! Don't you dare!’
Mouth full, the man searched helplessly about. He picked up a crystal goblet and discharged a stream of dark red saliva that curled viscid in its depths. He set it back on to the table.
‘Gods, man!’ She picked up the goblet by the stem, opened the tent flap, and tossed it out into the dark.
He scratched his tangled black hair. ‘Well, one way to clean the tableware, I suppose. Surprised you have any left.’
‘What do you want?’
He fingered the white silk tablecloth. ‘Thought you'd be pleased. Time to slip away.’ He raised his arms to gesture about the tent. ‘You do want to leave all this behind, don't you?’
‘Well, yes. I do. Just not with you.’
He stood, sighing. ‘Well, life's just one vile chore after another, isn't it? Least that's what / think.’
Ghelel eyed the rumpled greasy fellow. What was that supposed to mean? She looked him up and down again – he seemed dressed appropriately in his dirty quilted jacket, mud-spattered trousers and sandals. But what of her white dress? Not what Amaron had in mind, surely. She waved to her clothes. ‘Do I go out as this?’
The man appeared ready to give one response but caught himself, swallowing and grimacing. ‘No, m'Lady. Strip.’
‘I'm sorry?’
‘Strip down to your royal undies.’
She was still for a good few minutes, almost asked, what for? but managed to quell that – no sense giving the man any more openings. ‘Where's Heroul?’
‘She's keepin’ watch.’
‘I need her help.’
‘Nope. What she don't know she can't tell.’
‘Fine.’ Ghelel took a knife from the table, reached behind to her back and slit the lacing. His face flat, Molk turned away to open one of the broad wood travelling chests.
‘Looking for the silverware?’
Rummaging, he didn't answer. Ghelel stripped down to a silk shirt and shorts.
‘Here we go!’ Molk pulled a heavy canvas bag from deep within the chest.
‘What's that?’
‘Your gear. Armour, weapons ‘n’ suchlike.’
‘I see. Won't that sink?’
Molk hefted the bag. ‘Yeah. We'll have a moment or two.’
‘We?’
He gave her a sideways, wall-eyed look. ‘Can't you swim?’
‘No.’
‘Sweet Hood on his Bony Horse! I was told you were raised a regular tomboy ‘n’ such.’
‘Well, had I known I'd be jumping off rafts I'd have corrected the deficit!’
Wincing, Molk raised a hand. ‘OK, OK! Quiet, please, your ladyship. OK. I'll manage.’
‘Fine.’
‘Now, we just slip off the back, right? Think you can manage that?’
‘I can't swim at all.’
Shoulders slumping even further in his slouch, Molk rolled his eyes to the tent ceiling. ‘Gods. I'll find something for you to hold on to. OK?’
‘If you don't want me to drown, you'll have to.’
‘I'll find something,’ he grumbled as he pulled the bag to the rear of the tent.
Spluttering, flailing, Ghelel attempted to contain the panic that had risen to clench her chest like the hand of a possessing demon the instant she let go of the barge. Never had she known such helplessness and fear. She gripped the broad upturned pot so tightly to her she was afraid she might shatter it. The wake of the barge sent her spinning; the dark shores bobbed in her vision in a sickening way. Just hold on to this, Molk had told her, and the next raft will come to you. Grab hold!
She almost laughed aloud thinking of the chance of her releasing one hand from the only thing keeping her alive. Where was the man, Hood take him! Taken straight to the bottom? Thinking of the bottom brought to mind images of the gigantic whiskered fish, chodren they're called, larger than any man, which the soldiers had been pulling from the Idryn. Ate anything that moved, she'd heard.
The panic was rising near to the point where she could call out for help any moment. She kicked frantically to try to turn around. Or was she already turned around? Who could tell amid the darkness, the splashing grey-green waves? Something loomed, large and, from her vantage up to her chin in the river, impossibly tall above her: the cut timbers of a raft as they emerged from the dark. Come to her? It was about to plough over her!
As the timbers neared, Ghelel threw up one hand to grab hold. She banged her head, her body and legs being sucked under. The object that had supported her across the gap of open river was pulled away and run over, tumbling – an upturned chamberpot. Ha! Very funny, Molk.
She held for a time, washed by the churning waves, gathered her strength. After this she managed to pull herself up then sat, trailed her legs in water that felt warm now that the cold night air brushed her. Eventually, her breathing returned to normal. Movement, and a dripping wet Molk sat next to her and pulled the bag on to his lap. ‘Have a good dip, Captain?’
Ghelel blinked at the man. Captain? ‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Molk.’ Lower, she murmured, ‘I was almost killed. And that's Captain Alil.’
‘Alil? Very good, Captain.’ He sliced the rope sealing the bag. ‘Let's see what we've got here for you.’
The lack of personal space among the regulars was the first thing that struck Ghelel. That and the stink. Sitting on piled sacks, she was jammed shoulder to shoulder with Talian soldiery. One fellow even fell against her asleep until Molk straight-armed him down to the sodden logs; all much to the amusement of his squadmates. It was very confusing for Ghelel: these men and women were this fellow's friends yet they found it humorous when some stranger dumped him into the drink.
And the language! If she heard one more time how much some fellow was looking forward to catching some Hengan snatch she'd scream. The farting, belching and spitting were all rather much as well. Every time she almost threw herself to her feet to abandon the whole thing she'd catch Molk's watchful amused gaze and she'd subside: there was no way she'd give the man the satisfaction.
As it was she stayed awake the entire night and did not know what fed her tense muscles and the sharp sensory images from her surroundings: a soldier lighting a pipe from a lantern, a couple, a man and a woman, making out with only a plain camp blanket over their shoulders, a fight stopped by friends pulling the two men apart, the moon reflected bright silver from the rippling surface of the river. Was it excitement at doing what she'd always dreamed, or was it a plain and simple fear coming from the certainty that somewhere knives were being readied for her? She couldn't tell. In any case, she took some satisfaction from the knowledge that Molk also spent a sleepless night; every time she glanced to the man she'd found him watching the surroundings, his eyes scanning, watchful, glittering in the dark.
She pulled at the hauberk of overlapping metal scales over leather, not the best fit. Her sword though – her old one! How did they get hold of it? She almost pulled off the helmet but remembered Molk's comment: the best place to carry that is on your damned head.
The pre-dawn yellow and pink light gathered over the eastern horizon. It brought a strange optical illusion. A mountain rising all alone on the relatively flat plain. Ghelel squinted into the glow. She caught Molk's eye, gestured ahead. ‘What's that?’
Again, that amused knowing look. ‘Li Heng.’
‘But that's impossible. Those walls must be enormous!’
Wincing, Molk glanced around. Ghelel followed his gaze; soldiers nearby glared. Evidently she'd stuck her foot in it. He sidled closer, lowered his voice. ‘Yes. Strongest fortified city on the continent. Those walls have never been breached. Haven't you studied your histories?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well then, you know they were built to keep out more than just humans.’
Something in Ghelel shuddered. Of course! How could they possibly hope to succeed! Those walls were raised against the ancient enemy of the central plains, the rampaging demon – some said God – the man-jackal, brother of Treach, Ryllandaras, the man-eater. And they had never been overcome. Many say they would even have held against Kellanved's continent-sweeping armies. That is, without his dreaded undying T'lan Imass warriors. With their help Dancer assassinated the city's titular Goddess, the Protectress. Assassinated. Ghelel held Molk's gaze to let him know she understood his message. He nodded his slow acknowledgement.
Towards midday it was their raft's turn to unload. Ghelel grabbed for a handhold as it bumped up against its neighbours. Poles banged wood, soldiers cursed. The sun glared down with a heat and weight exhausting to her; it was never this hot on the coast. Downriver, the walls of Heng loomed like a distant layered plateau.
‘How will we find the Sentries?’ she asked Molk.
By way of answer Molk turned to a nearby soldier. ‘The Marchland Sentries?’ he asked.
‘How the Abyss should I know?’ the woman snorted.
Surprising Ghelel, Molk simply shrugged. He invited Ghelel to try. She crossed to the woman. ‘The Sentries?’ she asked loudly.
‘I said—’ the woman turned, her gaze flicked to the silver gorget at Ghelel's neck. She straightened. ‘Sorry, sir. The quartermaster on shore, perhaps, sir.’
‘Thank you, soldier.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Molk gave Ghelel a small secretive nod. The gorget also worked wonders in getting them ashore. Ghelel merely stepped forward and everyone slipped from her path. Molk picked up a set of saddle-bags that at some time in the night he'd switched for the bag.
Ghelel decided that she might come to like being an officer. Amid the chaos of the rafts and barges being unloaded she merely had to catch a soldier's eye, ask, ‘The quartermaster?’ and be pointed on her way. By the time she neared the quartermaster's tent she found she was staring down everyone she met.
The tent possessed a floor of lain boards. Ghelel stamped the mud from the tall leather boots – the last item out of Molk's miraculous bag – and entered. Molk waited outside. Within, a man sat studying a slate in his hands amid piled crates and sacks that reached the tent's tall ceiling. Ghelel cleared her throat.
‘Yes, sir?’ the man replied without looking up.
Well. So much for the talisman of rank. ‘The Marchland Sentries?’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘I didn't ask whether you'd heard of them – I asked to locate them.’
‘Don't know where they are. Sorry, sir.’
‘Well, then, pray tell who might?’
He looked up, blinked at her bleary-eyed, like a mole. ‘Try the Day Officer, Captain Leen.’
‘Thank you, soldier.’
The man returned his attention to the slate, scratched at it with a small nubbin of chalk. Ghelel sighed, counted to ten, then asked the damned question. ‘And where might I find this Captain Leen?’
The man slowly looked up again and said in a carefully neutral tone, ‘I would try the command tent … sir.’
Ghelel was clenching her jaws so tight she could not respond. With a fierce nod she turned and stamped from the tent. Outside she sucked in long deep breaths of the hot prairie air. ‘Where,’ she said aloud, ‘is the command tent?’
‘My guess would be that big one up on the hill,’ Molk offered from behind.
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Here to serve, Captain.’
She started up the shallow rise of trampled brown grass.
‘I'd say you're doing pretty good so far,’ Molk said as they walked.
‘Well, I haven't stabbed anyone yet.’
That got a laugh.
Guards at the wide entrance of opened flaps nodded Ghelel in. Molk waited outside. She was met by a young man at a table cluttered with reports who stood, bowing. ‘Lieutenant Tahl, aide to Captain Leen. Sorry about the mess – we'll soon be moving to a new location closer to the city. May I be of service?’
‘Yes. I'm looking for the Marchland Sentries. Where are they bivouacked?’
Tahl's browrs rose and he quickly looked her up and down.
‘Yes?’
‘Ah! Sorry, it's just that I was unaware they were due … a replacement.’
‘A replacement?’
‘Yes. Well, something of a cock-up you being here. Wrong shore. You should've disembarked to the south.’ And he opened his arms, shrugging.
‘Silly me.’
He smiled stiffly, sat. ‘Good luck, sir. You should find them in a village to the south.’
‘Thank you.’
Walking back down the hill she let out a long hard sigh. ‘What are they doing here anyway?’
‘Special assignment,’ Molk replied. ‘They were sent in early. They're doing scouting and, ah, intelligence gathering.’
She caught her step but kept walking. ‘Thought so.’ Amaron, the scheming rat! ‘Let me guess – they're working for Amaron.’
Molk rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘They're doing their job – guarding a frontier.’
She turned on Molk. ‘Burn take it! Amaron's touch will make that the first place anyone will look for me, dammitall!’
He glanced around, motioned for her to lower her voice. ‘No they won't. In the first place no one knows what I just told you. And secondly, as far as anyone knows you're still on that barge right now and will soon be disembarking into your wagon to be taken to the Seti camp.’
‘Really? You've got someone playing me?’
‘Of course! Gods, woman … honestly. Sometimes I wonder.’
‘I'm new to all this.’
‘That's for sure.’
She commandeered a small riverboat to take them across the river while a hundred yards downstream the broad royal barge wallowed in reed-choked shallows and the heavy wagon driven down to meet it looked to be sunk in the mud. On board the barge dozens of men pushed on poles while drovers cracked their whips over the pitiful lowing oxen. Molk sat at the bow of the punt, watching. ‘Too bad we missed all the speeches,’ he said.
Ghelel sat next to him, lowered her voice. This is stupid, me arriving at the unit the same day the barge arrives here at Heng. Shouldn't I have come ahead or something?’
Molk shrugged. ‘Down south they've got no idea what's happening here. And I don't think they much care either.’
‘Someone will piece it together.’
He sighed. They'll all piece something or other together – that's how they are in the unit. The important thing is that if they accept you, they'll defend you.’
She turned to study the man. ‘What do you mean // they accept me … ?’
‘Don't worry. Just, ah, don't give any silly orders and you'll be fine.’
‘I've never given an order in all my life!’
‘Really? I find that difficult to believe.’
Ghelel let that pass. ‘How am I supposed to know what's silly and what's not?’
He pulled a hand through his tangle of unruly black hair. ‘Well, don't give any then.’
‘None? But I'm supposed to command!’
The nose of the boat stuck into the mud of the shore. Molk jumped down. ‘Our thanks,’ he called to the fellow who'd paddled them across.
‘Yes, thanks,’ Ghelel called.
Throwing the saddle-bags across one shoulder, Molk immediately climbed the steep embankment. He pulled himself up by tree roots and handholds of brush. Ghelel followed. Past the screen of trees, she emerged once more on to the prairie of thick stiff grass. The sharp blades slashed at her mailed sleeves and leather greaves, hissed in the wind. Eastward, past the curve of the Idryn, the walls of Heng reared through a haze of smoke from the countless fires within. Ghelel took the opportunity to study the walls; they appeared to run in three ranks, the outermost the lowest, each rank increasing in height as one moved inward, so that even if one were to capture the outermost defences, one would still be subject to fire from further in. The gates too, she'd heard, ran in staggered openings around the circumferences of the various encircling walls – there was no straight run into the heart of the city. She was no student of siegecraft, but the prospect of investing this city seemed a chancy thing. What if they exhausted themselves taking Heng and had nothing left for Unta?
Couldn't they have simply ignored it? Let the Seti continue to isolate it? She had all these questions for Choss and Amaron after they'd gotten rid of her. How convenient for them. She hurried to catch up to Molk. ‘Is this it?’ she called.
He stopped. ‘What?’
She waved hungry wasps from her face. ‘Is this it? No escort or mounts or directions – just the two of us wandering across a blasted plain that goes on for thousands of leagues?’
The man made a show of turning full circle to peer in all directions. ‘Seems so.’ He started off again.
She threw her arms in the air. ‘This is ridiculous!’
‘Why?’ he called back.
‘Because …’ She refused to move another step, watched him walk away. ‘Because we'll get lost!’
He turned around, walking backwards. ‘No, we won't. I know exactly where I'm headed.’
‘Oh? Where's that?’
Molk pointed over his shoulder. ‘That way.’
Ghelel glared about the open expanse of wind-swept grasslands – if only to find some sort of alternative, any at all. Completely alone, it seemed the only thing she could do was jog after the crazed fool whom Amaron, in his senile idiocy, had actually set to guard her.
‘They say Burn sleeps beneath us,’ Molk was saying while Ghelel had been thinking of her youth, the dinners at Sellath House in Quon. What she had then taken as such selfless generosity – raising her as a ward from some distantly related family – seemed poisoned by what she now knew. Damn these noble families and their ambitions; not only had they stolen her future, they'd twisted her past as well.
‘Have you heard that?’ Molk asked.
‘Heard what?’ she said absently.
‘That Burn sleeps beneath us.’
‘She sleeps beneath all of us,’ she recited, bored.
‘No, I mean right here, beneath the Seti Plains. That's the local legend.’
‘No, I hadn't heard that. No doubt every tribe and community has similar myths. All of them equally true.’
Molk stopped short, gestured aside. ‘If you don't mind, Captain, I'd like to have a moment in the brush there. Call of nature.’
‘What? All of sudden you're all shy? What happened to the cursing, spitting lout I'd come to know? You're all just show after all, hey?’ She crossed her arms, waiting.
Molk had ducked into the brush. Invisible, he answered: ‘No female officer would allow that kind of behaviour from her servant. Don't you think?’
Ghelel threw her arms wide once more. ‘Gods, man! Who in the Abyss is going to know! We're in the middle of an empty wasteland if you haven't noticed.’
Molk appeared, doing up the tie of his trousers. ‘You know, that's a false assumption.’
‘What is?’
He shouldered the bags. ‘That the land of others is a wasteland. Just because they don't use the land in a way familiar to you doesn't make it useless or wasted.’
Ghelel started off. ‘I don't know what in Hood's name you're talking about.’
‘Obviously. For instance – this is prairie lion pasturage we're trespassing on right now.’
She laughed her scorn. ‘How in the Abyss would you know that?’
‘Didn't see the markers? I thought they were rather obvious. Anyway, it takes a lot more land to raise animals to support a family than it does tilled land. To a society such as ours based on tillage any open pasture's gonna look like wasteland. And I shouldn't say open either – that's misleading. Grazing rights are very carefully controlled and apportioned, you can be sure of that.’
Ghelel just rolled her eyes. ‘Why are you going on about all this horseshit?’
Molk nodded. ‘Good point. I just thought you might want to know a few things about the Seti riders who've been shadowing us since we left the river.’
Ghelel spun, scanned the shadow-swept hillsides. ‘I don't see anything.’
‘They're good at what they do.’
‘Pardon me for saying this, but as I heard the soldiers say – you're shitting me.’
‘Now who's the foul-mouthed lout?’
‘I'd rather be a foul-mouthed lout than a gullible fool.’
‘You said it.’
Though fuming, Ghelel walked on in silence. Perhaps she should just keep going south – walk away from all this. Clearly the only thing this fool could accomplish was get her killed. Didn't he realize this was serious? Still, at least no one was going to find her out here in the middle of nowhere! That was for certain. She stopped, drew off her scaled gauntlets, tucked them into her belt. ‘Did you at least bring water?’
‘Of course.’ Kneeling, he rummaged in the bags, pulled out a waterskin.
‘Thank you,’ she allowed, grudgingly. She took a deep pull then gagged, spitting. ‘Gods! What's this?’
River water, laced with a distillation of juniper berries. Makes it healthy.’
Distilled juniper berry? That's strong stuff.’
I find it has a calming effect.’
She tossed the skin back. ‘You can keep it. So, what happens tonight?’
Molk, who was drinking at the moment, gagged and spluttered out his own mouthful.
‘Touch too much distillate?’
Coughing, he wiped his mouth. ‘Ah, the Captain should be more careful with her language in the future, I think.’
She eyed the hunched, goggle-eyed hireling – what did Amaron possibly see in this fellow? ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘More's the pity – well, I've brought food, blankets. We'll bivouac under the stars this one night. That is, if we have any say in the matter …’
‘Any say?’
He raised his chin to indicate behind her. ‘Our friends – they've made up their minds about us.’
Ghelel spun. Five horsemen were lazily angling in upon them, single-file. Where in Hood's Paths had they come from? Grey and brown fur pennants dangled from their lances. Recurved bows stood tall at their backs. They rode on thin leather saddles, no more than blankets, with thin leather strap stirrups and reins.
‘Wolf Soldiers,’ Molk said.
‘Like I give a damn.’
The Seti encircled them while one kneed his mount closer.
‘Greetings, friend,’ Molk called loudly in the Hengan dialect.
‘Trespassers are no friends of ours,’ answered the spokesman in kind – a young warrior, his kinky black hair tied in a multitude of tails, a leather jerkin painted in umber and yellow streaks and swirls, the dusting of a moustache at his lip.
‘Trespassers?’ Molk laughed. ‘No, friend. We are Talian – allies.’
The youth frowned, considering. He pointed north. ‘Last I saw, Heng was that way.’
Molk laughed again. ‘Yes, yes. We're meeting our squadmates in a village south of here.’
‘We've burned down all the villages. Killed all the men and …’ he bared his teeth to Ghelel, ‘raped all the women. There's no one alive to the south. That was the last of our fun. Now, we just ride in circles around Heng while they squat in their city. It's dull. Our only fun is riding down Hengans who flee the city.’
‘Ah, well, we're Talians. We're wearing blue, as you see.’
The youth nodded. ‘Oh yes, you wear blue. But it strikes me, there must be blue cloth in Heng.’
Ghelel had had enough of this adolescent baiting, ‘Look here, you Hood-cursed—’
Molk clenched her arm. ‘My employer wishes to remind you that your warlord is an ally of our commander, Choss.’
With a squeeze of his knees the warrior began backing his mount. ‘The warlord, it seems to me,’ he said, ‘is very far away.’ With a touch of the reins the mount turned aside and the five wheeled, galloping off.
Ghelel watched them go. Damned thugs! She faced Molk. ‘Now what?’
He adjusted the saddlebags at his shoulder. ‘Well, seems to me, they mean to have themselves some fun. Let's move.’
Twilight gathered while they jogged through the tall grass. A whoop or the thump of hooves from the dark announced their pursuers. Occasionally an arrow would slash the grasses next to her and Ghelel would clench her teeth, Bastards. Molk, jogging ahead of her, suddenly disappeared. At first she thought it a trick of the late afternoon light but after a few more steps it became clear that the man was gone. Had an arrow from the ingrate ambushing Seti taken him? She involuntarily slowed, wondering, should she throw herself down? Hide? But to what end? They'd just trample her. Walking, her next step kept descending and she found herself falling forward tumbling head over toes and she managed one yell before slamming down on to stone bottom-first. ‘Ow!’
‘How expressive.’
Wincing, she leaned aside to rub her buttocks. ‘What in the Abyss?’
‘Just my thought as well.’
‘I'm sure. What's this? She gestured to the flat shadowed road running low between twin rows of tall grasses.
Molk, his head cocked listening to the night, whispered, ‘The Imperial road to Dal Hon. Thank the Malazan engineers for it.’
‘Quon Talian, you mean,’ Ghelel countered. ‘The only thing that island produces is pirates – not engineers.’
‘It produced the will to employ them.’
‘Which?’
‘Both.’
Sighing her irritation, Ghelel rearranged her armour and belts. ‘Now what? On this road the Seti would run us down in an instant.’
‘True. And that wouldn't be much fun.’
‘No, it wouldn't!’
‘I was talking about them.’
‘I was talking about both of us.’
Molk grinned crookedly, winked. ‘Now you've got the hang of it.’ He raised his chin to the north-east, up the road. ‘This way … there should be a hostelry close by, if memory serves.’ He started off and Ghelel followed.
‘The Seti said they burned everything down.’
‘I'm willing to bet they didn't burn this one down.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, as the youth said, the warlord is far away … Anyway, you'll see.’
Twilight deepened, transforming the road into a slash of darkness. Ghelel thought she heard the movement of something large through the grasses parallel to the road. After a long hike a curve in the flagged way revealed the burnt remains of a building. It resolved into the piled stones of a foundation supporting standing blackened timbers. A field of knee-high weeds surrounded the sacked structure. Ghelel stopped short, set her hands to her belt. Molk stopped beside her. ‘Oh,’ he said, and scratched his chin.
She was about to loose upon the incompetent fool the full torrent of the day's frustration when a man straightened from beside the road. He was almost indistinguishable in the dark, wearing blackened studded leather armour. He held a cocked crossbow and a long curved sabre hung at his side. A wide black moustache completely hid his mouth. ‘Who in cursed Fener's own entrails are you?’ he demanded in the Talian dialect.
Molk nodded to the man. ‘You're of the Sentries?’
‘Who's askin'?’
Molk gestured to Ghelel. ‘May I introduce Prevost Alil – a new officer.’
The man looked her up and down. ‘Really?’
Ghelel opened her mouth to answer that but the man raised a hand for silence. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, and walked out on to the road. He faced the darkness, listening, then raised his chin. ‘Cut it out!’
A moment later a horse leapt through the grass and thumped to the road, snorting and stamping. Its rider, the same Seti youth, twisted the reins around one hand, grinning his delight at them as the animal pranced in circles.
‘Toven,’ the man greeted him.
‘Just having some fun,’ and he directed the wide grin to Ghelel.
The soldier waved him off. ‘Yeah, well. Fun's over.’
Toven raised himself high on his mount and offered a bow. A kick and the mount reared and leapt up, pushing its way through the thick stands of grasses.
Grinning bastard. Ghelel watched the Sentry while he took the bolt from his crossbow and snapped the trigger. He swung the heavy weapon up on to his shoulder. ‘And who're you?’ he asked Molk.
Molk bowed. ‘The Prevost's servant.’
‘Oh-ho … So, you're the Lady's servant, are you? C'mon. This way.’
‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Ghelel demanded.
‘Shepherd,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Shepherd.’
They walked a good way into the night, the sergeant content to be silent, Ghelel determined not to ask him a blasted thing, and Molk apparently enjoying the cool night air. Eventually, Ghelel smelled smoke from cookfires, caught snatches of wind-carried conversation. The glow of fires and lanterns brightened the night ahead. ‘And just what are your numbers currently, sergeant?’
The man turned his head to eye her and Ghelel wondered if she'd made a mistake but worked to keep all such doubt from her face. She cocked a brow. He shrugged. ‘Well, at a guess we number about five hundred now. About four hundred medium cavalry and a hundred mounted heavies.’
Ghelel shot a hard look to Molk who appeared oblivious, peering into the darkness, whistling softly to himself. The road opened up on both sides to trampled fields dotted by tents and horse corrals. Shepherd escorted them through two pickets. Ahead, lights blazed from the windows of a three-storey brick building fronting a square of outbuildings including a large stable. Soldiers, men and women, came and went, laughing and talking, many drinking from leather tankards. Across the front of the house was the legend ‘House of Pleasant Welcome’.
Ghelel stopped short. ‘A brothel? A Poliel-damned brothel?’
Molk coughed into his fist, head lowered. Shepherd winced as if only now becoming aware of the fact. ‘Ah, yes, Ma'am – that is,
Prevost, sir. It's our temporary headquarters. The troopers are only allowed in off-duty.’
‘I see. And is this where you're taking me?’
Taking you to the Marquis, Prevost. He's inside.’
Off duty, is he?’
Another coughing fit took Molk. Obviously happy to pass this one on to his superior officer, Sergeant Shepherd waved an ‘after-you’ to the door. Inside, Ghelel winced at the sudden light. The main floor was crowded with tables. Soldiers ate and drank, laughing. The heat brought a sudden sweat to her; it also brought a wave of drowsiness. Her knees suddenly felt weak. No one, it seemed, paid them the least attention. Shepherd led the way to a table next to an open window where a man sat smoking a pipe, talking to a seated female soldier. The man was older, heavyset with short grey hair. He wore a leather vest over a linen shirt. The woman was slim, her brown hair hacked short. The scar of a sword cut drew her lips down into a permanent frown. Sergeant Shepherd leaned close and spoke into the man's ear. He nodded and stood. The tables nearby quieted. The man eyed Ghelel expectantly. She stared back then suddenly remembered and snapped a salute. The man slowly answered the salute. ‘Marquis Jhardin at your service, Prevost.’ He indicated the woman, ‘Prevost Razala. She commands the heavies.’
Ghelel bowed to the Marquis.
‘I would offer you a room but I imagine you wouldn't want to stay here.’
‘In that you are quite correct.’
‘Sergeant, ready quarters for the Prevost. No doubt you would like to freshen up after your journey. Afterwards we could see to the briefing.’
‘My thanks, Marquis.’
‘Commander will do.’
Sergeant Shepherd saluted and hurried out. Jhardin came out from the table and invited Ghelel to follow him. Lieutenant Razala bowed, ‘Welcome,’ she said, her voice hoarse – perhaps from the wound.
All eyes now followed as the two made their way through the tables. Ghelel thought their gazes held reserve mixed with open contempt. Molk followed at a distance. On the steps she asked, ‘You have been here for some time, Commander?’
He nodded, knocked the embers from his pipe. ‘Yes. We were sent ahead by Choss.’ He indicated a turn to a row of tents.
‘And you knew I was coming?’ He sent a questioning look. ‘One hardly would put a sergeant on picket duty.’ He smiled ruefully.
‘Yes. Word was sent.’
Ghelel did not have to ask how. The Warrens. So. She eyed the fellow as he walked along, nodding to salutes from soldiers, salutes which she again belatedly remembered to acknowledge. It seemed to her that he was far too accepting, far too relaxed for an experienced commander who had just been saddled with a young, inexperienced, officer – and female to boot. He must know who she was; or had been directly ordered by Choss or Amaron to watch over her. In either case, she wasn't going to call him on it. Not yet.
Ahead, Sergeant Shepherd waited at a tent. ‘Your quarters, Prevost.’
‘Thank you.’
Jhardin indicated Molk. ‘Send your man when you're ready.’
Ghelel nodded her agreement. Cursing herself, she belatedly saluted once more. The Marquis answered; an easy smile seemed to tell her that he did not set much by such formalities. She was startled as Molk opened the tent flap for her, then ducked within after. The long tent was divided into a general purpose room in front furnished with folding camp stools and a table set with an assortment of fruits, cheeses, bread and decanters of wine. The rear was her private sleeping chamber. Molk dropped the saddlebags and went straight to the table. ‘I am famished.’
‘Hood-damned nannies,’ Ghelel said, keeping her voice low.
He turned, his mouth full of bread. ‘What?’
‘This fighting force. Babysitters. Choss or Amaron has turned them into nothing more than babysitters. They must hate me for it.’
‘I think the word you're looking for is “bodyguard”.’
‘Bodyguard? Five hundred veteran men and women?’
Molk poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Think of it as a measure of your importance to our commander.’
Ghelel took the glass from him, downed it in one gulp. ‘It's a waste of fighting power. This force is needed at the siege.’
‘Five hundred would make no difference in any siege, believe me.’
She glared but could resist the scent of the fresh food no longer and she turned to the cold meats. ‘How much do they know?’
‘Jhardin certainly knows a lot. Razala less.’
‘How open should I be with them?’
‘That's up to you.’
She sat heavily in a stool, stretched her legs out before her. It didn't strike her at all as odd when Molk knelt and pulled off her boots. She hadn't slept a wink the night before and had alternately walked and jogged all the day through. She'd never been so drained. ‘T'm wrung out, Molk. I don't think I can face them tonight.’
‘First thing in the morning then,’ he said, standing. ‘I'll let them know.’