“Excellent. Marius, you should leave immediately …”
“There’s just one more thing …” She had not heard this voice before and it faded, probably because the man speaking was walking away from the window.
Saldur’s voice returned. “You have? Where? Tell us at once!”
More muffled conversation.
“Blast, man! I can assure you that you’ll get paid,” Ethelred said.
“If he’s led you to the heir, he’s no longer of any use. That’s right, isn’t it, Sauly? You and Guy have a greater interest in this, but unless you have an objection, I say be done with him at your earliest convenience.”
Another long pause.
“I think the Nyphron Empire is good for it, don’t you?” Saldur said.
“You’re quite the magician, aren’t you, Marius?” said Ethelred. “We should have hired your services earlier. I’m not a fan of Luis Guy or any of the Patriarch’s sentinels, but it seems his decision to employ you was certainly a good one.”
The voices drifted off, growing fainter until it was quiet.
Most of what she had heard held no interest for Modina—too many unknown names and places. She had only the vaguest notions of the terms Nationalist, Royalist, and Imperialist. Tur Del Fur was a famous city—someplace south—that she had heard of before, but Degan Gaunt was only a name. She was glad the talking was over. She preferred the quiet sounds of the wind, the trees, and the birds. They took her back to an earlier time, a different place. As she sat looking out at her sliver of the world, she found herself wishing she could still cry.
CHAPTER 14
THE EVE
Gill had a hard time seeing anything clearly in the pouring rain, but he was certain that a man was walking right at him. He felt for the horn hanging at his side and regretted trapping it underneath his rain smock that morning. During thirty watches, he had never needed it. He peered through the gray curtain—no army, just the one guy.
He was dressed in a cloak that hung like a soaked rag, his hood cast back, his hair slicked flat. No armor or shield, but two swords hung from his belt, and Gill spotted the two-handed pommel of a great sword on his back. The man walked steadily through the muddy field. He seemed to be alone and could hardly pose a threat to the nearly one thousand men bivouacked on the hill. If Gill sounded the alarm without cause, he would never hear the end of it. He was confident he could handle one guy.
“Halt!” Gill shouted over the drumming rain as he pulled his sword from its sheath and brandished it at the stranger. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I’m here to see Commander Parker,” the man said, not showing any signs of slowing. “Take me to him at once.”
Gill laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the bold one?” he said, extending the sword. The stranger walked right up to the tip, as if he meant to impale himself. “Stop or I’ll run—”
Before Gill could finish, the man hit the flat face of the sword. The vibration ran down the blade, breaking Gill’s grip. A second later, the man had the weapon and was pointing it at him.
“I gave you an order, picket,” the stranger snapped. “I’m not accustomed to repeating myself to my troops. Look sharp or I’ll have you flogged.”
Then the man returned his sword, which only made matters worse.
“What’s your name, picket?”
“Gill, ah, sir,” he said, adding the sir in case this man was an officer.
“Gill, in the future when standing watch, arm yourself with a crossbow and never let even one man approach to within one hundred feet without putting a hole through him, do you understand?” The man did not wait for an answer. He walked past him and continued striding up the hill through the tall wet grass.
“Umm, yes, sir, but I don’t have a crossbow, sir,” Gill said as he jogged behind him.
“Then you had best get one, isn’t that right?” the man called over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir.” Gill nodded even though the man was ahead of him.
The man walked past scores of tents, heading toward the middle of the camp. Everyone was inside, away from the rain, and no one saw him pass. The tents were a haphazard array of rope and stick-propped canvas. No two were alike, as the soldiers had scrounged supplies as they moved. Most were cut from ship sails grabbed at the port in Vernes and again in Kilnar. Others made do with nothing but old bed linens, and in a few rare cases, actual tents were used.
The stranger paused at the top of the hill. When Gill caught up, he asked, “Which of these tents belongs to Parker?”
“Parker? He’s not in a tent, sir. He’s in the farmhouse down that way,” Gill said, pointing.
“Gill, why are you off your post?” Sergeant Milford growled at him as he came out of his tent, blinking as the rain stung his eyes. He was wrapped in a cloak, his pale bare feet showing beneath it.
“Well, I—” Gill began, but the stranger interrupted.