“You are correct,” Maev said with a smile. “He complained bitterly and swore it had ruined his back.”
“Why did you bury it?” he asked.
“A highland woman with so much coin? What would she spend it on, Huntsekker? I have acquired many business interests in my life. Each has cost me a great deal of coin, yet each has then supplied ten times the outlay in profit. I seem to make money far faster than I can spend it.”
“You make that sound like a complaint. Most men would give their left arms for such a talent.”
“Yes, that is exactly the kind of thinking that shows why they do not possess it in the first place. One doesn’t become rich by risking one’s limbs. The problem with men is that they bring obsessive pride into their undertakings. Often it blinds them to their own shortcomings. Making money is easy. If I were Varlish, I would own a palace, and the king would likely make me a duchess. As a Rigante I am not allowed to use a bank or to own large parcels of land. So I bury my wealth. Since Jaim died I have used smaller boxes.”
“Shame we didn’t dig those up,” muttered Huntsekker.
“We will leave soon after first light,” she said. “You may sleep in Kaelin’s room. It is at the top of the stairs on the left.”
Huntsekker had not slept well. His dreams had been all of Maev Ring and her smile, and he awoke discomfited and uneasy.
Now, as they sat close together on the wagon’s driving seat, he could smell the scent of her hair.
“You are not a talkative man,” she observed.
“Not unless I have something to say.”
“I recall you were married once.”
“Twice. First wife left me while I was in the army. Second wife died. Sixteen years ago now. Selma. Good girl.”
“You were still young then. Why did you not remarry?”
“Why didn’t you?” he countered.
“I wish I had,” she said.
“To Grymauch?”
“Of course to Grymauch,” she snapped. “What a stupid question.”
“Wouldn’t have worked,” he said.
“Would you care to explain that?” she asked coldly.
“No. Don’t think I would.”
“Well, that is truly irritating.”
“No more than you should expect from a stupid man,” he retorted.
“I didn’t say you were stupid. I said the question was stupid. There is a difference. If I offended you, I apologize.”
The wagon reached a slight rise. Huntsekker flicked the reins across the backs of the team. “It’s not important,” he said. “I can be as stupid as the next man. I never pretended to be clever. Neither did Jaim.”
“I never understood why you liked him. He stole your bull, and he prevented you from killing Chain Shada. I would have thought you would have hated him.”
“I don’t hate anyone. Never have. And I couldn’t really tell you why I liked him. Everyone did, though. Galliott often talks of him. He took it hard when his musketeers shot Jaim down. He’d spent two days trying to find Jaim to arrest him and prevent him from making an appearance.”
“Yes, people liked him,” said Maev. “They soon forget, though. Parsha Willets said she loved him. Didn’t stop her marrying that cloth merchant two years after Jaim was dead.”
“Damn, but you are a hard woman,” said Huntsekker. “I used to see Parsha Willets. Damn fine whore. Always gave a man his chailling’s worth.”
“Thank you for sharing that.”
Huntsekker ignored the sarcasm. “I saw her two nights after Jaim’s death. Went to her house. We sat and talked for a little. I could see she wasn’t in the mood for business. Her eyes had a kind of faraway look. She’d been drinking and crying. She didn’t say much at first, but I sat there quiet and she started to talk. A lot of it flew by me. Love and such. Then she started to slur her words. All the color had gone from her face. When she passed out, I knew it wasn’t just a drunken stupor. I went and got the apothecary. Nice little man. He got to her, managed to rouse her a little, forced her to drink something. Then she vomited. I carried her up to her bed. The apothecary sat with her for a while. I waited downstairs. When he came down, he took the goblet she’d been using, dipped his finger into the dregs, and tasted it. He told me the name of the stuff, but I’ve forgotten it now. Anyway, it was poison when taken in large doses. Parsha Willets tried to kill herself. As far as her marrying the cloth man, well, good for her. Whoring’s no trade for a woman of her age. I’ll bet Jaim would have said the same.”
Maev was silent for a moment. “I never had any ill feeling toward Parsha. In some ways I envied her. Not her life, you understand. Merely the fact that she and Jaim . . . had something I did not. It was kind of you to help her as you did.”
“And that surprises you?”
“Why would it not? Kindness is not a trait one would associate with someone in your chosen profession.”
“A farmer, you mean?”
“You know very well what I mean, Harvester. You kill for the Moidart. I don’t doubt it was you who wrung the neck of that vile bishop after the trial.”
“Some tasks are more pleasurable than others,” he admitted.
It began to rain, and Maev busied herself raising a canvas hood above the driving platform. The wind rippled at it, and the hissing and splattering of raindrops made conversation difficult. That was a blessed relief to Huntsekker.
Sadly, the rain did not last long. Huntsekker was beginning to dread the night camp.
“So how did you become a hunter of men?” she asked.
“I forget. It was a long time ago.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Sometimes. It makes a break from the monotony of farm life. Most of the men I’ve hunted have been killers themselves, or thieves, or rapists.”
“And that justifies your calling?”
“I don’t have to justify myself to anyone.”
“Then what are you doing now?”
“By heavens, woman, given the choice between continuing this conversation and having a wasp nest in my ear, I’d choose the latter.”
Her laughter rang out. “You are easily nettled, Harvester. Are you usually so short-tempered?”
Huntsekker did not reply. Three men had moved into sight on the road ahead and were waiting for them. One of the men carried a musket; the other two had pistols in their belts.
“Good evening to you,” said the man with the musket as Huntsekker hauled on the reins.
“And to you, friend. Now move aside, for I’d not want the wagon wheel to run over your foot.”
“Nice wagon,” said the man. “Well made. What are you carrying?”
“I’m going to repeat my order to you, boy, on the off chance that you are either deaf or stupid. Move aside.”
“Not very friendly are you, old man? That’s a big mistake out here.” He swung the musket from his shoulder.
As he did so, Huntsekker produced a pistol from inside his bearskin coat. Cocking it, he pointed it at the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The musket man flew backward, landing in a heap. A second man pulled a pistol from his belt. Huntsekker was about to leap from the wagon when a shot came from his left. It made him jerk. The second man shouted in pain as a pistol ball slammed into his shoulder. His weapon fell from his fingers. The third man slowly raised his hands. Huntsekker glanced to his left. Maev Ring was holding two small pistols. Smoke still curled from the barrel of the first.
Huntsekker looked hard at the men. “Is our business here concluded?” he asked.
Both men nodded.
“Good. Hand me the pistols and the musket.”
The uninjured young man did so. Huntsekker threw them into the back of the wagon. “Best take your friend to the nearest surgeon,” he said. “That ball will have pushed cloth and dirt into the wound. Likely he’ll come down with gangrene.”
Flicking the reins, he drove the wagon past the two robbers. The wheels crunched over the body of the first man.
“How on e
arth were you planning to defeat three armed men with one pistol?” asked Maev.
“I figured if I shot the first, you’d tongue-lash the others to death.” He watched as Maev placed the pistols back in the leather bag at her feet.
“It’s a wonder to me you’ve survived so long in your chosen profession,” she said. Huntsekker tugged at the spikes of his beard. “I’ve noticed you do that a lot when you are nervous,” she pointed out.
It was going to be a long ride to Eldacre.
Winter Kay had always been a man of restless energy with an ability to drive himself harder than his colleagues. Since the death of the king that talent had increased to a level that astounded his officers. He rarely slept, keeping a team of riders on hand around the clock to deliver messages to senior officers and distant army groups.
Within three days of the assassination the Redeemers had control of the capital and all the major ports. The last vestiges of the defeated covenant army were hunted down, and many of their supporters in the south arrested and summarily hanged. Redeemer forces across the land established military law, and the power of Winter Kay closed around the nation like a fist of iron.
At Baracum he reorganized the army in preparation for the march on the north. With all secure behind him Winter Kay would be able to lead sixty thousand men on the march. Sir Sperring Dale had arrived from Eldacre, and his reports showed that the Moidart now had around eighteen thousand men, including new recruits. Redeemer seer scouts also reported some two thousand Rigante moving south to join him.
Winter Kay involved himself in all aspects of the current campaign from the supply of food and necessary equipment to the training and recruitment of officers. Strategy meetings were called often, and Winter Kay spent hours scanning written reports detailing the minutiae of preparation. With his senior officers he studied maps of the north, calling for population estimates and supply routes for the rebels.
“This,” he told his staff, “will be a war of annihilation. The north will be laid bare. Not a single rebel is to be spared. We will lay waste to his lands and ensure that no future rebellion ever returns to haunt us. Choose your men with care. Weed out those with a weaker disposition. The men who march north must be like wolves, savage and uncompromising.”
He radiated confidence and seemed unperturbed by the news that Gaise Macon could no longer be seen by his seer scouts. “He has acquired a demonic amulet or some such,” he said. “It will avail him nothing.” Attempts to kill the spirit of the vile little magicker aiding the Moidart had also met with no success, though Winter Kay now knew his identity. Aran Powdermill, a demon worshiper and mystic.
Powdermill did not have the talent to penetrate the seer ring around Baracum, and his spirit always fled swiftly when discovered. He was a nuisance, nothing more, though his use of ward spells around Eldacre meant that the Moidart could meet with his generals in secret. This was of only limited use, as the same men would then have to relay his orders to their own officers outside the walls, and those orders were observed and reported back to Winter Kay.
The attack on the north could not proceed for another five weeks while supplies were gathered. Winter Kay used the time wisely, strengthening his hold on the nation. He had himself declared protector general of the realm and issued edicts and proclamations, promising the restoration of the Great Council and changes to the law once the enemy had been defeated. Attempts were being made, he announced, to find the true heir to the murdered king, and when this was completed, a golden age of peace and harmony would be restored. A nation sick to its soul of war greeted the news with joy.
Other reports were sent out telling of the atrocities committed by the vile Moidart and his treacherous son, Gaise Macon. Macon had been part of the force that had murdered the king. His capture was of paramount importance, and a reward of two thousand pounds in gold was announced for any man or men who brought his head to Winter Kay.
In Eldacre Galliott the Borderer was on the verge of exhaustion. The problem facing the army of the Moidart was a simple one. It would begin to starve in less than two weeks. The food required to maintain the strength of eighteen thousand men was just not available in Eldacre so soon after a harsh winter.
Galliott had sent out skirmishers to scour the countryside and buy cattle where they could, and the main warehouses in Eldacre had been commandeered, much to the chagrin of the owners. A rationing system had been speedily introduced. This had already caused ill feeling among the residents of Eldacre. That ill feeling would grow substantially worse when the food ran out.
Eldacre had been one of the main suppliers of cattle, grain, and oats to the king’s army. Many merchants had become rich on the profits, but that meant that only the bare minimum of supplies was warehoused in the north. It was shipped immediately south, where it earned twice what it would in Eldacre. That avaricious pursuit of wealth had backfired alarmingly now that the north needed feeding. There were no substantial stockpiles. Food was still being imported through the three coastal towns in the east, and some was due to be brought to Eldacre within the next month. Too little and too late.
If the army was to be fed, the people would starve. If the army starved, the people would be enslaved or murdered.
Galliott was close to wit’s end when Maev Ring arrived. He was summoned to the Moidart’s office. As he entered, he stumbled and righted himself. Maev Ring was sitting opposite the Moidart. Galliott saw the concern in her face as she looked at him. “Are you well, Captain?”
“It is Colonel now,” said the Moidart, “and he is simply tired.”
“Yes,” mumbled Galliott, “tired.”
“Madam Ring is to take charge of supply,” said the Moidart. “Find her a suitable office and apartments. She is to have the rank of quartermaster general.”
“A woman?” said Galliott.
“Very observant, Colonel. She is indeed a woman. Were you in some doubt of this?”
“No, my lord. I meant . . . there has never been a woman with army rank.”
“As far as I know,” said the Moidart, “there has never been an army which selected its own officers. I have discovered that I am an innovative man. By my reckoning the question of supply will prove crucial within the next three weeks. It is vital, therefore, that we have a quartermaster who will ensure that no disasters occur. I suggest you find General Ring an office, brief her on the situation, then get some rest. You look like a walking corpse.”
“Yes, my lord.” Galliott led Maev Ring back to his own office. Papers littered the desk. Some had fallen to the floor.
“Talk me through the actions you have taken so far,” said Maev Ring.
Galliott yawned and tried to bring his thoughts to order. He outlined the rationing program and told her of the skirmishers and the attempts to purchase cattle and meat.
“I have two thousand cattle being herded toward Eldacre,” said Maev Ring. “It is also the lambing season, and so meat will not be in short supply. We will issue promissory notes to farmers for their produce, with those notes to be redeemed for coin upon request. Grain is a greater problem, but we will surmount it. Get me a list of Eldacre’s most prominent exporters. I will need to speak to each of them.”
“I have already spoken to them. There are no stocks.”
“Where there is wealth, there is a way, Galliott. You spoke to them as a soldier seeking to appropriate their goods and thus reduce their profits. I will speak to them as a businesswoman and promise them riches. You will find thereafter that there is at least three times the amount of food available.”
Moving to the desk, she lifted one of the papers lying there and scanned it. “Go and get some rest, Colonel. I shall remain here and look over your paperwork. Come back in three hours and we will begin to make plans.”
Gaise Macon’s arrival in Eldacre caused a flurry of excitement. He rode in with his weary men, left Mulgrave to see to their billets, and traveled on to the castle, a black hound running alongside his horse.
Citiz
ens and soldiers paused to watch him as he rode past, a handsome young man with golden hair riding a tall gray gelding. In a well-cut cavalry jacket of dark gray silk and thigh-length boots over pale gray leggings, he looked every inch a cavalryman. Glancing neither to the right nor the left, he did not acknowledge the occasional cheer that went up from those who recognized him.
Inside the castle walls he dismounted, leaving the gelding in the care of a groom. Then he strode into the castle, the black hound at his side. The beast padded alongside him, casting baleful looks at any who came close to the general.
Gaise climbed the stairs and walked to his father’s offices, pushing open the door. The Moidart looked up, then stood, his face expressionless. “You took your time coming home,” he said, moving around the desk. As he approached Gaise, the black hound bared its teeth in a snarl. The Moidart glanced down at it, then flicked his fingers. “Sit!” he commanded. The dog sank to its haunches instantly.
“I understand you have now acquired the Pinance’s army.”
“Indeed.”
“Have you sent forces into the Pinance’s land?”
“No. Not yet.”
“It is necessary, one to acquire a fresh line of supply, and two, to offer us a second line of defense. It should be done today. There are far too many troops sitting around here doing nothing. How many men do we have?”
“Just under eighteen thousand, though I expect the Rigante to send a force.”
“Winter Kay will have more than fifty thousand when he comes. Twenty thousand cavalry, twenty-five thousand musketeers and pikemen, and some two hundred cannons.”
“I quake in my boots,” said the Moidart. “A glass of wine?”
“Aye, that would be welcome.”
“I take it that Shelding was hard on you. You seem to have acquired a touch of steel in your personality. I am most happy to see it.”
“A touch of steel?” Gaise said coldly. “Nicely put. But wholly incorrect. I always had a touch of steel. You were just blind to it, as you were blind to everything else I ever did. It used to concern me that you held no affection for your son. It used to worry me and make me think I had done something to offend you. Now it concerns me not at all. You do not like me, Father, and I detest you and everything you have failed to stand for. That said, we now face a common enemy. I will lead your forces. In public I will acquiesce to your wishes. In reality I am now in control here.”
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