“But still less than I need to know! Damn it! Harmodius and his circle believe that you are all in this together...you, and Ash, and Tar.” At the last name, the irk raised his head suddenly.
Master Smythe nodded. “I suppose we should have planned for a moment when humans began to cooperate instead of endlessly playing the factions,” he said. “But like you and all the other sentient species, in general, we do what works until it explodes.” Master Smythe looked at Gabriel. Both men were standing.
“Do you believe in...a higher being?” Smythe asked.
Gabriel choked on the smoke from his pipe. He coughed. “No. Or yes. No, until I met Amicia, and now...” he shrugged. “Now, I confess to fearing to ask any more questions. Not of you. Of the world.”
Master Smythe looked out the window. The strong light made his too-perfect features look as if he were in fact a manuscript illumination. The sun placed his face in bright light and his back in too-heavy shadow. “I don’t know why I have this urge to confide in you,” he said. “But it has begun to occur to me that there is a string of coincidence too strong to be likely. That four of the great human mages should ally just at the time when the gates were preparing to open. Just in time for the fates to provide a human whose actions were nearly invisible to Ash. Because of your parents you are almost ideally suited to the moment. As is Amicia. And dozens of others—perhaps even me. And you came to me just as I began to see the probabilities. Thorn allowed Harmodius to take him. Why? The faeries who helped Tom Lachlan wound Ash...why?” He shrugged.
Gabriel joined him at the window. Only as he approached it did he understand the light. It was not the light of day.
It was aethereal light. The window was, at least at that moment, looking out at everything, and nothing.
“Are you saying it is all predestined? I’d hate that,” Gabriel said.
“You know something, Gabriel?” the dragon asked. “Just this once, I don’t know what I’m saying. No one could follow all the arcs from here. Or at least, none of my kind. And yet I have a feeling that there’s a hand on the balance.”
“Helping the side that minimizes negative outcomes?” Gabriel joked.
The dragon turned from the window slowly. “I do believe that’s the most profound thing you’re ever said to me,” he said.
“What?” Gabriel asked. “What? I was teasing you.”
The dragon made no gesture, but the quality of light changed, and they heard voices outside...voices of men-at-arms and pages and archers.
“What did I say?” Gabriel demanded.
“Let me think on it. In the meantime, please understand that many, many refugees are coming here simply for protection from the plague, and I am content that it be so.” Smythe went and sat, his limbs only a little inhuman in their motions.
“Any advice on how to deal with Irene?” Gabriel asked.
“Please. I understand the appeal of humans and sex—better than you might think. But your endless rituals of mating? Not my business. I will say, however, that she’s coming here as much for protection from the plague, which she fears, as because she actually intends to ally with anyone. She shares her father’s belief about the importance of the empire. She will almost certainly demand an oath of fealty from the queen.” The dragon made a face. “She thinks you will marry her and give her the future of power and stability that she wants.”
Gabriel groaned. “A moment ago you were conjuring a higher power. This is the sublime to the ridiculous. From stopping a sorcerous plague to the petty politics of one dangerous young woman.”
Master Smythe blinked. “Gabriel. This is the great game. Everything matters. You know that. We watch even the sparrows fall, because we know that everything is everything.”
Gabriel felt a little like a small boy being lectured by his tutor, and his resentment rose. “Some problems seem a little more heroic than others,” he said. “I have another question. You said there was one of you...a dragon? Who had learned about the Odine. And that one of you...I can’t remember...had reported? Had lied?” Gabriel paused. “I’m not sure what I’m asking, but it’s a damn sight more interesting than Irene’s love life.”
Smythe released a long stream of smoke. “That is the failing of many beings,” he said finally. “They solve the most attractive problems. If we are going to win, we must solve all the problems.”
“I don’t think I can kill her,” Gabriel said, a little wildly.
“Perhaps you should just mate with her,” Smythe said. “Need you make it so complicated?”
“That would needlessly entangle my personal life,” Gabriel said.
Master Smythe blew a smoke ring. “Surely this kind of thing is normal to your kind?” he asked.
Gabriel stared at him. “What? Having multiple wives?” he laughed.
Master Smythe let out a little smoke. “It seems to me that most of the males have multiple partners while pretending to have just one, and most of the females have single partners only when these limitations are imposed by males. It all seems inefficient and...traumatic. Much time could be saved if only—”
Gabriel rose and bowed. “I think I’d rather hear you discuss the endless hermetical complications of the negative outcomes,” he said. “Probably less terrifying. I do not wish to marry Irene, and she would not settle for any lesser status. I am not interested in forcing Blanche to accept a lesser status to suit my political career; indeed, that’s exactly the advice my mother would have given.”
Master Smythe sat back. “Wise woman, your mother,” he said. “Marry your empress and have your sons with your laundress.”
“Fuck yourself,” the Red Knight spat. He left the paneled room and slammed the door.
Only later did he realize that Smythe had not answered his questions about the dragon and the Odine.
* * *
Gabriel changed into riding clothes instead of resting, his head roiling with new information that fell like grain from a field cart after harvest whenever he confronted Master Smythe. He borrowed a pair of ronceys from the inn and headed out down the road to the west. His own household was already in the courtyard, under Francis Atcourt, and he took the time to embrace men, to lament the loss of Wilful Murder, and then he was away. He found Gavin and the main body just three miles from the inn. Unaccompanied and out of harness, many men didn’t recognize him, but Gavin did, and his brother crushed the breath out of him before Bad Tom came up on horseback to do the same.
“Just in time to take all the credit,” Gavin said, but his grin said it was raillery, not malice. “Christ crucified, we’re going to make it. Two days ago, I thought we were going to lose to the wilderness.”
Gabriel watched the column going past. Men’s heads were up. Their equipment was wrecked, and their clothes shredded, but what they had was clean and neat, and they had some fire in their eyes.
“Well done,” Gabriel said.
Gavin nodded. He was scratching under his pauldron, trying to reach his shoulder under the mail.
“You are free of the plague?” Gabriel asked.
“Oh yes,” Gavin said. “I have a new problem; my scales are spreading. Again!”
Gabriel frowned. “Let me have a look tonight.”
Gavin grinned. “Just the reason to have a sorcerer brother. To cure your scales.” He laughed.
Bad Tom slapped Gabriel’s back. “Dull wi’out you. Your brother’s no slouch, but he’s careful.”
Gavin narrowed his eyes. “Ticondonaga is surrendering, damn it,” he said. “We didn’t need to fight.”
Gabriel put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Tom, I think you’ve managed to offend us both.”
Tom laughed, as was his wont. “Well,” he said, “where next?”
Gabriel looked at the distant inn on its ridge. “We’ll discuss it there,” he said.
Sauce came up, coughed, and shook her head. “Not in harness, riding about alone. And when did you last practice? Eh?”
Gabriel looked aroun
d. “Why do I miss you people?” he asked.
“No idea why anyone would miss Tom,” Sauce said. “Me? You need someone to tell you all the things no one tells you.”
“I do?” Gabriel asked. “Never mind. Where’s Michael?”
“Rear guard,” they all said in a ragged chorus.
He rode farther west, and found Michael and George Brewes riding nags at the head of a mixed force. He had never before seen a version of George Brewes that seemed happy to see him, and both men had to exclaim over his silver hand.
“We have a horse crisis,” Ser Michael said. “If we’re going to fight, we need horses.”
“We have a plague crisis,” Gabriel said. “That’s first.”
“Oh aye,” Michael said. “How’s my da?”
“Right now, he’s not my favourite,” Gabriel said. “Does he ever stop scheming?”
Michael laughed. “No,” he said simply. “Why?”
Gabriel shrugged. “We can talk over dinner. I want to get the sick wagons in. Would you allay my fears and send me half the rear guard to cover?”
Michael nodded. “I’ll do better. I’ll come myself. Ser George had only this moment proposed the same; that the sick were too naked, even with most of the archers. And Ticondonaga safely behind us.”
The rear guard, most of the white banda and some of the green, turned about without a murmur. Every man and woman of the green banda wore a black armband. Ser Gelfred had been one of the best-loved men in the company.
The horses were in terrible shape. They were the survivors of the horse plague, and the company had stretched itself very thin to remount the white banda. The normal losses of a battle and three weeks fighting in dense country had done the rest.
Michael saw where his eyes were going. “Some will be restored by rest and food. But the rest...” He shook his head.
Gabriel’s fears swelled to a ridiculous height as they rode back, and he rode faster and faster, regardless of the state of the rear guard’s horses.
But Sukey’s wagons were all together, the company’s archers riding along either margin of the road, and they were moving smartly when Gabriel found them, seven miles from the inn.
Sukey looked bad, but Gabriel knew he wore the same look; too much magery, and not enough appetite. The same working that froze the disease seemed to lower other functions. He kissed her without fear—he already had the disease.
The knights of the rear guard split into two bodies to cover the front and rear of the wagons.
“We can’t spare one man or woman,” Gabriel said. “There’s a thousand years of military experience lying in these wagons, and I need them all.” He rode along the wagons, leaning in through the canvas covers, and when he found the master grammarian in a wagon, he passed him as much stored ops as he felt he could spare.
The grammarian took the power. He came and sat on the wagon box, and nodded. “As soon as we passed the Wyrm’s boundary,” he said, “we passed out of the immediate crisis. The issue is no longer power. It is now technique.” He sounded as if he were lecturing students.
Gabriel put his head in every wagon and told them that they were in the Wyrm’s circle, that they were safe from the plague, and that they’d have a week or more of rest.
Michael nodded when they reached the end. “At least a week,” he said. “Better two. The heart of the company has been fighting far too long. We almost lost it in the woods.”
Gabriel nodded. “But you didn’t,” he said. “Where’s Aneas?”
“He took some of our best and went off to hunt Kevin Orley,” Michael said.
“I know,” Gabriel said patiently. “He defeated Orley yesterday, or so Alcaeus tells me. Do you have his location fixed? Hermetically?”
Michael looked abashed. “Damn.”
Gabriel knew it was because Mortirmir was fighting plague and Alcaeus was already on another mission.
“Never mind, I’ll find him with a messenger,” Gabriel said. “We’re spread too thin.”
“Damn, it’s good to see you again, and to see the Inn of Dorling between my horse’s ears. Gabriel, I’m not afraid to say...I need a rest, myself. I’ll bet Tom and Sauce need a rest.”
“A nice restful tournament?” Gabriel asked.
Michael laughed. “I hope the queen brings Kaitlin!” he said. “And my son!”
“Since you’re in a rush to see them,” Gabriel said, “you could take the red banda out at first light and meet them on the road.”
Michael smiled. “I walked into that.”
* * *
Dinner—their first dinner together in three weeks. The whole of the officers of the company, gathered at one immense table in the courtyard of the Old Inn. There were faces missing; Bescanon and Gelfred were the highest ranking, but Chris Foliak was not there either and a half-dozen other corporals who had eaten their meat with their captain in early spring, just three short months before, in the same yard.
But Sauce sat by Count Zac, now an honourary officer; Bad Tom had an arm around Sukey while he propounded his latest theory of how to conduct the expected autumn campaign against Ash, and Sukey leaned against him as if she needed his warmth and his solidity. Michael sat by Gabriel, with Gavin on his other side, and Ser Milus Dunholme sat by Gavin with Ser Francis Atcourt.
They ate beef—excellent beef, cut thin and served with little cellars of flavoured salts and a great bowl of pepper that was itself worth a small fortune. Wine and ale flowed, and all around the central tables, archers and men-at-arms and pages and company servants from highest to lowest were waited on and served as if they were all nobles. At other tables sat the survivors of the Nordikaans, and Zac’s handful of Vardariotes. The Scholae and the rest of the Vardariotes had already gone east to meet Princess Irene, cursing their ill luck and vowing to make up on their drinking time as soon as they returned. The leaders of the royal army had their own tables, and the infantry had their own feast, but several officers of the royal foresters sat at the central table, and so did Lord Wayland and Ser Ricar Fitzroy. The forces of the Wild—the Faery Knight, Lord Kerak, and their people—had all been invited by the Wyrm to a separate feast.
When the first edge of their three-week appetites had been taken off, and before anyone became too drunk, Gabriel mounted a barrel and they all fell silent, or mostly silent.
“Friends,” he said.
Some cheered. People laughed, there was a snatch of song—
“Listen up,” he snapped. They fell silent.
“I think that Ser Michael and Sukey have already spread the word. But let me confirm it. A week of rest. The inn will provide you. Sleep. Eat. Do anything else you like, as long as you drill and sew. Expect that we will be marching away in ten days. Sukey will serve out wool and linen. But that’s for later. For now—well done.”
“When do we get paid?” called someone. Almost certainly Cat Evil.
“Pay parade on Saint Catherine’s Eve,” the captain said.
“Where next?” another voice called. It sounded like Wilful Murder to Gabriel. He knew that couldn’t be.
“Ask me in a week,” he said.
“Who’s paying for all the wrecked kit?” called another man.
“The awkward sods who wrecked it!” roared Tom.
Gabriel shook his head. “We have a dozen armourers coming with the queen. We’ll do our best to restore our kit.” He looked around. “You aren’t paying.”
That got a cheer.
“On Saint Catherine’s Day, we’ll have a tournament,” he said. “Archery, swords, jousting, a melee on foot and on horseback. We’ll post all this in a day or two. The prizes will be splendid. Contests will last three days, and we’ll end with a great feast.”
“And then we march away,” groaned a lugubrious voice.
“And then I’ll give you a day to sleep it off,” Gabriel said. “And then we’ll march away.”
They cheered and cheered. Most of them hadn’t had ten days of rest—archery tournaments and foot m
elees were restful—since the Winter War began.
Harald Derkensun got to his feet. Men fell silent.
“Are you the emperor, or not?” he roared.
Men and women began to thump the tables with their fists.
“Imperator! Imperator! Imperator!” they called.
Gabriel had the strangest feeling, of love and of invasion. He wanted the adulation and he was afraid of it. He wanted to be emperor because he knew what he could do with it. But he was afraid of it, and what it would do to him.
But inside him was a boy who’d craved the good opinion of others and seldom had it. So he drank in their cheers.
Derkensun was still standing. “Don’t make me hoist you on a shield again!” he called.
Gabriel smiled, and realized that this was getting out of hand. He also knew that he couldn’t tell the Nordikaans that he wanted to negotiate with Irene before he accepted.
“I am too tired to be emperor tonight,” he called.
Derkensun frowned, drank some ale, and sat. He glared at Gabriel.
“Eat and drink and sleep,” he said. “Red banda knights must turn out to escort the queen at first light.”
Archers jeered their social superiors in a way that only the broad-minded could have understood as good-natured.
“Next formation, under Bad Tom, in three days.”
A hearty cheer. This meant they could get especially drunk.
“Carry on, then,” he said, and jumped off his barrel.
Michael nodded. Atcourt knelt by his captain.
“All the knights will go,” he said. “We discussed it. Even Ser Christos and the Moreans.”
Gabriel nodded. “Well, if you can manage it,” he said, “I guess I’ll have to lead you.”
He walked over to where Derkensun sat. “I need you to give me a day or two,” he said.
Derkensun looked at him. His look held something—bitterness? Disillusion? “Acclimation is supposed to be spontaneous,” he said. “You do not tell the guard when we may acclaim you.”
Gabriel took a proffered mug of dark ale, drank some, and sat back. “I need a few more days,” he said. “I’m not discussing the politics of Morea. I’m asking on behalf of all the people who will die if we fuck this up.”
The Plague of Swords Page 26
