“Everyone healthy between fourteen and sixty.”
“Pit.” Styke didn’t like the idea of conscription. Forcing someone to fight didn’t make them a warrior. But beyond his personal ideals, the fact that Lindet had already turned to conscription meant that she was worried about this war. “Next time you see soldiers stealing from Fatrastan citizens, string them up.”
Ibana’s eyebrows rose.
“What’s the point in fighting for people who will starve before winter?”
Ibana responded, “Lindet would argue that every resource left behind is one the Dynize will snatch up.”
“Then Lindet damn well needs to guard her citizens better.” Styke had a small sense of understanding: The Dynize landing all along the coast meant Lindet had to pick her battles. This was as bad or worse than the Revolution. But that didn’t make it right. “You’re recruiting?”
“Anyone who is strong enough to ride and hold a lance.”
“They know what we’re really up to?”
“They know that they’ll be left behind if they don’t follow orders. We added about a hundred and fifty to our numbers since you left to deal with Tenny Wiles.”
“Good enough, I suppose,” Styke said.
Ibana watched him sidelong. “How did that go, by the way?”
“It went well.”
Ibana opened her mouth as if to ask further, but something in Styke’s tone must have warned her away. She took the map, rolling it out on her lap. “We’ve got some news from our scouts.”
“Yeah?”
She paused, looking Styke in the eye. “Do you really believe Jackal and his muttering about spirits?”
“What does that have to do with our scouts?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I have more evidence to believe him than not,” Styke replied.
“Well, I don’t. It’s a lot of horseshit.”
“Then why do you ask?”
She hesitated again, clearly frustrated. “Because he was right.” She drew her finger along the map. “The coasts are in flames. Every major city and most of the small ones are either captured or under siege. Little Starland is definitely gone, just like Jackal told us a week ago. Swinshire is captured, too.”
“Shit,” Styke said. Swinshire was on one of two major routes from the center of Fatrasta out onto the sliver of land on the west coast they called the Hammer. They’d planned on swinging through Swinshire to pick up news, a day of rest, some recruitment, and a major resupply before their final push toward whatever awaited them near the godstone.
That meant they had one option left—Bellport—and Styke wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Valayine, the third of the men who’d betrayed him to Fidelis Jes, was rumored to be in Bellport. Since letting Tenny Wiles go, Styke had wanted more time to consider his actions before another confrontation.
“Bellport it is, then,” he said.
“Bellport it is,” Ibana agreed, rolling up the map. “You figure out what you want to do about those dragonmen?”
Styke cursed them under his breath. Their mere presence complicated things, let alone the fact that they wanted to kill him. “Did you triple the size of our scouting patrols?”
“I did, but no one has seen hide nor hair of them since they fled Granalia.”
Styke remembered the dragonman in Landfall. He’d been an arrogant prick, acting like he could take on an army and win. Styke had now seen two of them fight, and his victories had come from brute force that few could match. He had no doubt that four dragonmen, if they were so inclined, could make life miserable for the lancers.
But would they? They’d taken great pains to come after him when he was isolated. Perhaps they didn’t want the risk of fighting a whole army.
“Not much we can do until they show their faces again,” Styke said. “Drill the men and make sure they know exactly what we’re dealing with. I don’t need dozens dead because they underestimate the enemy. With any luck, they’ll keep their distance when we reach Bellport.” Styke ran a hand through his hair, listening to Celine’s snoring in the next tent over. “Drill the men for an extra hour tomorrow. You’re still using that buddy system?”
“It’s working pretty well, I think,” Ibana answered.
“Good. I’m going to try to get some sleep. If you see Ka-poel, tell her we’re going through Bellport instead of Swinshire.”
Styke watched Ibana drill the men the next morning, enjoying the way the horses raced back and forth across the meadow. He waffled between frustration and amusement when volunteers fell from their saddles or dropped their lances, but was definitely annoyed to see Major Gustar and the Riflejacks were showing up the old lancers.
They rode out of their camp just after noon with a wind at their backs and the sun high in the sky. Smoke rose in a pillar above some town far to their south, and the road was clear for as far as the eye could see.
Styke paused on Amrec, looking back toward the place they’d spent the night, and spotted figures in the distance. Curiosity got the better of him and he removed his looking glass, directing it toward the strangers. They were far enough away that he couldn’t make out any details beyond the fact that there were four of them and they were on horseback. They weren’t wearing Dynize breastplates or yellow Fatrastan jackets.
They sat still, watching as the Mad Lancers marched down the road before slowly beginning to follow. Styke briefly considered sending a platoon to run them down, but rejected the idea. He’d either wind up with a slaughtered platoon of lancers or waste everyone’s time. The dragonmen weren’t going to be seen unless they wanted to be seen.
The Dynize bastards, Styke decided, would be harder to lose than he hoped. Troubled, he put away his looking glass and urged Amrec to catch up with the rest of the lancers.
CHAPTER 23
Michel wasn’t able to see Yaret until the day after he spotted Forgula meeting with Marhoush. Michel expected to return to the capitol building, where he’d meet with Yaret in one of the enormous offices upstairs. Instead, Tenik led him to a street a few blocks over from the capitol building, where a row of townhouse mansions lay within an easy walk of the engine of government.
The street was full and lively, packed with Dynize dressed in military uniforms and civilian clothing, and it quickly became apparent that the Dynize elite had simply moved into the homes formerly owned by their Fatrastan counterparts.
The Yaret Household was headquartered in one of the smaller townhouses at the far end of the street. It was a strange sight: Soldiers flanked the front doorway, while a pair of redheaded children played in the narrow garden out front and restless teenagers loitered on the sidewalk. Tenik scattered the teens with a sharp word and led Michel past the soldiers to the front hall, where Michel found a bustling household.
“Household,” it turned out, was an apt word for Yaret’s power base. Dynize of all ages filled the halls and rooms. Michel, with his limited Dynize vocabulary, overheard conversations involving political strategy, economic speculation, war projections, and plenty of gossip as he was led down the halls and up to a door on the second floor.
“Is this Yaret’s family?” Michel asked in a low voice as Tenik rapped on the door.
They both looked back down the hall at a pair of thirty-somethings sharing a cigarette and openly lambasting a rival family whose name Michel hadn’t caught. “Yaret’s Household,” Tenik corrected. “Family has importance in our culture, but Household comes first. Everyone in this building is loyal to Yaret through blood, action, or political ties.”
“How big is the Household?”
“Here? A few hundred, if you don’t include active soldiers.”
“And back in Dynize?”
“Tens of thousands.”