Feltock, who looked remarkably comfortable in the saddle, even with only one leg, opened his eye and glanced around. ‘Eight days.’
Eight days. We’d lost forty-three soldiers in the two weeks since leaving Aramor, so assuming nothing changed, another twenty-odd unwitting men and women would die before even seeing the enemy.
‘I’m curious, General,’ Ethalia said. ‘You’ve got the troops marching in a different formation today – and every time we stop, you order them to check their weapons . . .’
‘Aye. A sword doesn’t do much good if it’s stuck in its scabbard, my Lady.’
‘But if we’re eight days from the fight . . . ?’
‘Eight days from the border with Avares, my Lady.’ The General shot me a glance; not that he needed to remind me that my so-called plan held any number of risks. ‘Nobody said anything about eight days from the fight.’
‘You think the Avareans could already be in Pertine?’
Feltock shook his head. ‘Nah, they’ll want to come through Lesteris Pass, down the Degueren Steppes. The snow’s still heavy on the ground but it’s beginning to melt, so they won’t want to risk getting caught in an avalanche – that means they’ll likely wait another two weeks. That’s why Valiana was pushing for us to meet the enemy in Pertine rather than wait in Aramor: this way we get to the battlefield first and have time to prepare.’
‘I just thought she was, you know, standing on principle or something,’ I said.
Feltock laughed. ‘Ah, she’s full of principle, she is.’ He tapped a finger to his forehead. ‘But clever, too. She read the lie of the land just right, my girl did.’
My girl. Jillard was her true father and Feltock the man who’d protected her most of her young life. I felt like I’d lost something very precious, but I shook the thought away. Get over yourself, idiot.
‘Forgive me, General,’ Ethalia said, ‘but if the Avareans won’t yet be in Pertine, then who do you anticipate having to fight?’
The old man’s jaw tightened. ‘Our friends, my Lady. Our friends.’
*
‘Your Grace,’ I said calmly. It’s remarkably hard to be calm when you’re standing between two armies in front of a man who looks suspiciously like he’s about to order you killed.
‘Falcio, you damned fool,’ Meillard, Duke – no, Prince of Pertine – started. ‘Did you really think I’d let you march an army through my Principality?’
‘I’m sorry, your Grace. I must have been confused. I’d heard you were quite happy to let armies march across your lands.’
‘Falcio . . .’ Valiana warned.
Meillard gazed at her with a mixture of disgust and sympathy. ‘I thought better of you, Realm’s Protector. Despite your inexperience and sentimentality, you’ve often proved to be—’
She held up a hand. ‘Kindly spare me, your Grace. If you think you’re the first man to patronise me this way, you must have been sleeping during all the Ducal Council’s meetings.’
The old Duke’s solicitude vanished instantly. ‘Very well then, you want to be treated as an equal? Here’s the simple truth: your army is too small and your soldiers are largely untrained, hungry and already exhausted.’
He turned to Feltock, ignoring Valiana and me as well now. ‘Seven-teen hells, Feltock! I knew you as a wise and steady General – did they cut out your brain when they took that eye of yours?’
Feltock showed not the slightest sign of ire or concern. ‘I’ve wondered that same thing myself, your Grace. You see, I’ve discovered that even with an arrow through the eye socket, clearly damaging the brain, the mind can still—’
‘Not the time,’ I said.
‘Ah, right.’ To Meillard he said, ‘I look forward to sitting down for a drink, your Grace. We can talk over the good old days.’
‘I’m afraid your days are numbered, Feltock.’
‘Quite likely. This Trattari bastard is apparently determined to bring me to an early grave.’
Meillard gave me one of those looks I often get from Dukes: ten gallons of condescending disappointment mixed with just under an ounce of grudging respect. ‘I’ve never understood why powerful men and women pay such heed to a failed farmer with nothing but a half-decent sword arm and a faulty sense of self-preservation. You know nothing of politics and even less of war.’ He glanced at Feltock. ‘Damn it, General, you’ve clearly got the Trattari’s ear. Speak honestly to him – advise him. Help him see reason.’
Feltock turned to me. ‘Falcio, this plan of yours is reckless and foolhardy. You should abandon it at once.’
‘So noted,’ I said.
Feltock turned back to Meillard and shrugged. ‘You see what I have to deal with, your Grace?’
The Duke growled, ‘I should have the two of you bastards hung for traitors.’
‘That part comes later,’ Brasti called out from behind us. ‘Also, we’re not the ones who committed succession.’
‘He means “secession”,’ Kest clarified.
Normally the two of them annoy me when they get like this, but the look of barely contained fury on Duke Meillard’s face brought a smile to mine. ‘You’re going to tell your commanders to cede the road to us, your Grace, then you’re going to allow five hundred of them to join our army and fight for their country, if they wish.’
‘Five hundred?’ Brasti walked over and looked past Meillard. ‘There’s a good thousand men there, Falcio.’
‘True, but I figure we’ll never get more than half of them to agree to join us, so we might as well make those ones feel special.’
Meillard grunted. ‘You think even one of my men would join your hopeless cause?’
‘Well, I admit the pay’s not great, your Grace, but the food’s about to get better.’
‘And how do you reckon that?’ Meillard asked. ‘You think I didn’t send scouts into Aramor? We know your supply lines are stretched – you’ve not enough food to last even a week.’
‘True – but that’s all about to change,’ I explained, ‘because you, Duke Meillard, are going to start supplying us with food and medicines and wood for arrows and bolts, as well as whatever billeting your people can provide without causing themselves undue suffering.’
He laughed. ‘And why would I do this, exactly?’
I let the smile fall from my face and made sure he could see I was deadly serious when I said, ‘Because right now I don’t give a shit about the Avarean invasion force. I don’t need an army bigger than theirs, your Grace. I only need one bigger than yours.’
Meillard’s eyes widened, then he swore, ‘You son of a bitch! You knew I’d block your way – you wanted me to do it – so you could take us on without fearing an attack to your flank.’
I gave him my best impression of a confused bystander. ‘Is that what I did, your Grace? I do apologise. It was an accident on my part, stemming from my complete lack of knowledge of politics and warfare.’