Lord of Janissaries (112 page)

“No Romans,” Warner said.

“Caesar will send aid,” Octavia said.

“Majesty,” Warner said gently, “I am certain that Marselius Caesar would like to send aid. I also know that even a single cohort is valuable to him at this moment. The turmoil in the south grows worse each ten-day, and as the weather improves and the Demon grows closer, Rome will need even more legions to hold the southern borders.”

“They disbanded two legions after the last southern campaign,” Gwen said.

“Sure,” Warner said. “And they’ll probably call them up again, but it sure won’t be until they’ve got crops planted. Otherwise, what’ll they eat this fall?”

And it takes time to assemble militiamen, Gwen thought.

“Whatever the Romans can do, they won’t be sending any legions tonight,” Warner said. “And that’s when we march. Your Majesty, my lady. This is farewell, until we come back with Prince Strymon’s head.”

“God be with you,” said Octavia.

Gwen fumbled for words. “Come back safe” didn’t sound right, but what—? “Good hunting,” she said grinning.

Warner embraced her and kissed her on the forehead, in a less brotherly fashion than usual. Gwen felt Octavia’s eyes on her and blushed. She was still blushing when the door closed behind Warner.

“Lady Gwen,” said Octavia, carefully looking at her knitting.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Is Lord Warner your—lover? He has a reputation—”

“Almost as bad as Lord Morrone’s?”

“I wasn’t going to insult him, but . . .”

That came close to confirming the rumor that Morrone was jealous of Octavia’s being both wife
and
confidante of his friend Ganton. It also suggested that Octavia’s watching her father be the Don Juan of Rome had given her a distaste for unchastity in others.

If I want to be Octavia’s friend and confidante, does this mean I have to keep my pants on except when Les visits?

Probably. And now the sixty-four silver question: Can I do it?

Maybe. If Rick’s not interested. Meanwhile, I can tell Octavia the truth. . . .

“Lord Warner is not my lover and never has been. If Caradoc had not offered first, I might have married Lord Warner, as we have much—much in common. But I have been faithful to Lord Les, and pray only that Yatar, Christ, and all the Holy Archangels bring him safely back to me at the end of his travels.”

That last part, at least, was the truth and nothing else.

* * *

“Please be seated, my lords. Wine?”

Murphy and Bheroman Traskon sat down at the big table in Rick’s conference room at Castle Dravan. Rick noted that Murphy sat down as quickly as Traskon. The first time he’d addressed a group of nobles that included Murphy, Ben had glanced behind him to see who was being spoken to. Now Murphy wore the title as easily as his Tran clothing.

Rick sat at the head of the table. The noon sun lighted the white plastered walls covered with maps drawn in charcoal. Murphy kept glancing at them.

“They’re current as far as I know,” Rick said. “After lunch you can help update them.”

“Main thing is we haven’t found any new threats.”

“Good.”

“On the other hand, everybody agrees on the twelve thousand we know about.” Murphy pointed to the arrow indicating a detachment of Strymon’s army marching toward Dravan.

“We can hold those.” Rick kept his voice even, and turned to Traskon. “My Lord Bheroman.”

“My Lord Captain General,” Traskon said. “My knights and I await your orders. I have assembled the ban and arriere-ban to hold our lands, and my knights are ready to ride. Tell us how we may avenge the dishonor to our Lady Eqetassa.”

“Thank you. I expected no less.” Rick swallowed hard, as he always did when he thought of Tylara in Strymon’s hands.
Tylara might have been Traskon’s stepmother, if Sarakos hadn’t thrown his father off Castle Dravan’s battlements. And I’d never have met her. Would that be better? No. But—Traskon wants something. What?

Murphy cleared his throat. “My Lord Captain General, it has come to my ears that you plan to arm the villagers, that they may defend themselves as they did against the Westmen.”

“Yeah, Sergeant?”

“Captain, they say you’re going to give them guns—nothing big, maybe, but
guns
!”

“So have I heard also,” said Traskon. “When the Westmen came, Hilon the blacksmith of Clavton, a town in my lands, proposed that the town buy guns to defend itself. I asked then, and I ask now, how can we be sure that villages and towns so armed will defend themselves only against our common enemies, and not their lawful lords? How shall a bheroman do his duty, if his towns can refuse theirs? It also seemed to me—and forgive me, my lord, if this grieves you—but the Lady Eqetassa seemed willing to hear me.”

Damn right. Tylara isn’t about to arm towns against the nobility. And now what?
Rick laughed aloud.

“My lord?” Ben Murphy asked.

“Nothing. Your pardon.”
And one thing’s for damn sure, Ben Murphy’s gone native. The great-grandson of a man hanged for shooting a landlord’s rent collector is trying to keep people from shooting his rent collectors!
Rick spoke quickly in English. “Found out being boss man isn’t all that easy, right, Sergeant?”

“Sir!”

And now for my stuffiest shirt.
“My lords, I will never arm rebels. Moreover, our guns are too few for me to allocate them to the villages. That is true also for our firepowder.”

“Thank you, my Lord Captain General,” said Traskon. “And—may I say that our thoughts are with you, in your grief for the Lady Eqetassa?”

“Thank you.” Rick forced a smile. “It could be worse. She’s alive, so we should see her again once the ransom’s paid. She’ll probably throw a pot at me for spending so much.”

The two noblemen laughed dutifully and bowed themselves out. Rick sat motionless until the door closed. Then he got up and poured himself a cup of the wine the others had refused.

I didn’t talk to her for a year, and now she’s a prisoner. That has to be a nightmare all by itself.

It was hard to think like the Tamaerthan nobility, but couldn’t she think that was punishment enough? He had no way of knowing.
She thinks every bad thing that’s happened in the last year is her fault. Everything from crop failures in the south to Morrone’s defeat.

The only good thing about the situation was Apelles.
I’m glad he went with her. He’s no psychiatrist, but he’s smart, and she listens to priests. If anybody but me can talk her out of the crazy notion that she’s got the world on her shoulders, it’ll be him.

And meanwhile he had eight thousand men to command and twelve thousand enemies to face, and despite his assurances to Murphy and Traskon he was pretty sure the enemy’s strength was growing. He went to the map and stared at it. It had cost good men to fill in the information there, but now he knew that Strymon held all the roads north into the Five Kingdoms, and could bring down reinforcements as needed.

The only thing to slow them down would be the remnants of Morrone’s force, and the sheer logistics of marching an army in the spring when there wasn’t much grass and granaries would be empty. A quart of wheat a day for each man. A bushel for each horse. It all added up to a
lot
of transport, and the transport horses had to eat, too.

If that damned Ajacias had kept all the grain supplies in his goddam castle, Strymon wouldn’t have—

If wishes were horses, beggars could ride.

“Jamiy!”

His orderly opened the door.

“Officers’ Call in one hour.”

* * *

The Death Wind Bringer hung low on the horizon, bloated until it looked more than ever like the evil eye. Around it the stars were coming out, as Mad Bear walked out of the Silver Wolves’ camp toward the vigil hill.

He walked slowly, according to custom, but his thoughts ran on ahead of his feet. The sacrifice was ready at the hilltop.

It had never before occurred to him that he should defy the gods. Yet now he thought he would aid the Stone House Chiefs no matter how the sacrifice went. The thought was frightening.

If he didn’t stay with the Stone House Chiefs, there would be no home for the Silver Wolves. Without a home, they would perish, Walking Stone’s work would be done for him, his enemies would lose heart, and all this without costing the dung-weaned son of a diseased mare a single warrior!

This was the truth, but not all of it. The rest of the truth was that Mad Bear had begun to see that the sky-wizards themselves might be the sign from the gods. If they were indeed wizards. Mad Bear had begun to doubt even this. Certainly they had wizardry at their command, but they bled and died like men—and when they died, they died like warriors.

It seemed true, what he’d thought first in the tent where he awoke a prisoner of the wizards. Nothing among gods or men would ever be the same again, and a wise man would do what his own wisdom told him to do, not wait for signs that the gods might have already given.

Mad Bear knew that he himself would not live to see all that would come of the rule of the wizard-warriors. Still, he might get sons who would, and
their
sons might stand beside the wizard-warriors as blood brothers and fight among the very stars.

He would have to be content with drinking his death toast from Walking Stone’s skull.

The path began to climb the hill. Mad Bear slowed further and raised his spear to the Child of Fire. He would keep the vigil according to custom, give judgment likewise, and make the horse sacrifice afterward.

He would make the horse sacrifice alone, though, with no one aiding. If by some chance he
had
angered the gods, let their punishment fall on him alone.

21

Tylara awoke with a headache that felt as if Great Guns were being fired inside her skull. Dull knives stabbed her in the ribs every time she breathed. Her left wrist and right ankle throbbed so hard she was glad she was in bed with no reason to move them.

It wasn’t much of a bed—she felt straw under her and smelled damp fleeces piled over her—but it was a bed, inside some building with whitewashed plaster walls around her and a thatched roof overhead. The knowledge that she was safe in a bed, out of the weather and perhaps in the hands of friends, made her groan in a way the pain could never have done.

She had given herself into the hands of the gods as a sacrifice, to turn away their vengeance from her husband and children, from Chelm and Tamaerthon and Drantos. She should not be alive. She
could
not be alive unless the gods had rejected her sacrifice.

What she felt now was worse than the pain of her wounds, although she had not endured such pain since she bore Isobel. It was despair, which she had not felt since she crouched in Sarakos’ bedchamber, wondering who would come next, Sarakos or the crone with the whip?

The despair was not so much for herself, although she knew that if the gods had not allowed her to offer her own life in return for Caradoc’s they would demand something worse. The despair was for those innocent men and women who would now be dragged down with her into the gods only knew what pit of demons.

Except that in a pit of demons, one could at least be sure that one was already dead, and that matters could grow no worse. Tylara knew that her husband’s punishment, her children’s, Ganton’s—all would begin like hers, while they were still alive to taste the worst of it.

Pride still forced her to cram her right fist into her mouth to stifle another groan. A moment later she saw faces looming over the bed. A woman and two men. One of the men was armed, while the other looked vaguely familiar. She knew she ought to know him, but she could not remember his name. The woman washed her face and neck, and the man held a cup of cool water that tasted of wine and herbs to her lips. They did things to her wrist, ankle, and head that both hurt and soothed at the same time.

She was still trying to put a name to the man when her eyes grew too heavy to be worth the trouble to keep open, and she let them fall shut.

* * *

The second time Tylara awoke, the pain in her head was only muskets firing, not Great Guns. She realized that her ankle was twisted and swollen, that her wrist and at least two ribs were probably broken, and that her stomach was dreadfully empty.