by Steven Gould
He shivered, unable to draw away from the overt symbolism, the image of a dark portent, a literal storm on his horizon. Damn, it’s hard! What do they expect from me? I’m only seventeen! Suddenly he felt unbelievably weary.
Phillip came back into the room. “By the way, while you were at the library a rider brought a message from Halvidar Gahnfeld.” He moved over to the sideboard and poured two glasses of wine. “You’ve been asked to attend a briefing this evening at Marshall de Gant’s. Also, he said something about Coronet Sanchez getting in with his ‘cargo’. Does that make sense to you?”
Leland nodded. “Yes, it does. What time is this briefing supposed to be?”
“Half-past seven.”
“May I eat with you here?”
Phillip nodded. “A pleasure.”
“Well, I’ll send one of my guards to tell Gahnfeld to join me here by seven. Then we’ll go on to the meeting.”
“Certainly, Guide.”
It was dark when Leland and Gahnfeld arrived at the quarters of Marshall de Gant. The Noram officer had a townhouse on the edge of the City Guard’s compound. Unlike most of the houses around, its exterior was well lit and the posted sentries wore armor.
An officer Leland recognized from the trip from Laal was seated just inside the building, checking people off as they arrived. He nodded gravely to Leland and Gahnfeld and made another check on the list.
It was moderately crowded inside the briefing room. Chairs had been arranged in rows and a bar set up to one side. Leland noted Sylvan Montrose by it, holding forth on some subject or another before a small group of younger male and female officers. Several other officers stood or sat in small groups across the room. More than one of them, Leland noted, were looking across at Sylvan with a sour expression.
Marshall de Gant was standing over by a wall map talking to one of his aides. He nodded briefly in Leland’s direction when Leland entered the room.
Leland bowed back.
“Do you want something from the bar, Warden?” Gahnfeld asked.
Leland frowned, then said quietly, “What’s the protocol on something like this, Gahnfeld? Is it social or serious? Or somewhere between?”
Gahnfeld stared at Leland, the corners of his mouth twitching for a moment before he said, “Somewhat in the middle. I suggest you have a cup in your hand, though. The marshall is a great one for toasts.”
“Oh.” Leland thought for a moment. “Cider then, or tea. If there’s nothing free of alcohol, then wine.”
Gahnfeld nodded and moved over to the bar.
A voice, heartrendingly familiar, came from behind Leland. “Climbed any good rocks lately?”
An expression of anguish passed across Leland’s face as feelings, bottled up for months, threatened to pour out. He took a deep breath, then turned around. Almost whispering, he said, “It’s good to see you, Uncle Malcom.”
Malcom de Toshiko stood there, smaller than Leland remembered him. Leland never remembered looking down on Malcom before. The steward’s hair was silver and the skin around his eyes was etched deep with lines. He glared at Leland almost challengingly, then, in a motion that could easily have been a twitch, he winked.
Quietly he said, “No use giving these jackals more arrows than they already have. We’ll talk later at the estate.” Then he turned and walked away, greeting others with considerably more warmth than he’d shown Leland.
Leland fought down a smile and did his poor best to look dejected. He was spared further effort in this by the arrival of Gahnfeld and a request to be seated by Marshall de Gant’s aide.
As they sat, Leland cautiously sipped from the tankard Gahnfeld had given him. It turned out to be carbonated spring water flavored with pear juice.
“Gentlemen,” Marshall de Gant started. “Thank you for coming. Not that you had any choice, of course.” He paused for a moment and a small chuckle swept the room. “Although I have your units’ sizes and strengths on paper, I’d like a chance to review those before we march. Especially those new units and captains I may not have served with. To that end, I’d like unit leaders to introduce themselves in turn and describe the forces they command.” He pointed to a man on the back row and said, “Suppose we start with you, Mildred.”
A middle aged woman, thick waisted and stern, stood. “I’m Mildred de Fax of Scotia and I’ve two hundred pikes and two hundred archers for the dance.”
One by one, skipping seconds, subalterns, and halvidars accompanying them, the unit leaders stood, gave their names and titles, and described what they were bringing to the campaign.
Spring artillery from New New York, light cavalry from Nuevo Tejas, archers from Napa, crossbow men from Acoma, and armored foot from Noram. When it was Uncle Malcom’s turn he only said, “Malcom de Toshiko bringing the Claw of Newland, four hundred heavy cavalry.”
Leland’s turn came a minute later. He stood, cleared his throat, and said, “Leland de Laal. With me are eight hundred mounted infantry.”
De Gant frowned. “What do you mean, mounted infantry? Don’t you just mean cavalry?”
Leland shook his head. “No, Marshall. We are mounted to reach where we’re needed quickly, but once there my men are trained to fight afoot.”
From the side of the room Sylvan Montrose’s voice raised. “That’s because Laal’s troops are green. They can barely ride.”
Beside Leland, Gahnfeld stirred in his seat and started to rise. Leland put his hand on Gahnfeld’s shoulder and pushed down. In a calm but firm voice he said, “I ask anybody to name a time when Laal has failed Noram.”
There was a murmur of approval at this statement.
De Gant frowned at Sylvan. “Guide Sylvan, you are here at the high steward’s request, but he said nothing about letting you speak. He only asked that you be allowed to watch and listen. And he only asked—he did not command this. I’ll thank you to let me determine the fitness of my forces.”
Sylvan shrugged and sketched a derisive salute, but Leland thought he could detect a flush working up the man’s neck.
De Gant went into a general discussion of the forces they could expect to meet and the general terrain of the Plain of the Founders. “The daily weather report from the Hearth Mountains says the snow is falling thick and the daytime temperatures are rarely exceeding freezing. It’s already snowing in southern Kun Lun. That means we’ve got about a month before the water levels of the Black drop enough to begin the campaign. So, I want the last unit on the road two weeks from today. Any questions about the general scheme of things? I’ll be going into detail later.”
There were none. “Well, then, I offer you the health of High Steward Arthur de Noram. And Zanna!” He raised his glass and all stood.
Leland found his mouth dry, so he drank half of the tankard in the toast. The next toast, to victory, finished off the water.
“Well, as we’ve accomplished what I set out to do,” said de Gant, “I suggest we adjourn to the bar and accomplish what the rest of you have already set out to do.”
The men surged toward the bar, groups forming here and there to talk as the wave receded. The noise level rose correspondingly. Leland stood and stretched. When he turned to look at Gahnfeld, he saw him glaring across the room at Sylvan.
“Stop it, Halvidar! You’re not here to get in a brawl.” He pulled Gahnfeld around so he wasn’t facing Sylvan. “Besides, you could probably get executed for bruising the high steward’s prospective son-in-law.” Leland rubbed his stomach unconsciously. The carbonated water was not agreeing with him.
Gahnfeld glared at the wall. “He’d no right to talk about the Eight Hundred that way. Sir.”
“Perhaps. But, Halvidar, we don’t care what he thinks.”
Gahnfeld shook his head angrily. “But, Guide—”
Leland held up his finger in warning. “You’re not listening, Myron. What did I say?”
Gahnfeld slumped. “Right, sir. We don’t care what he thinks.”
Leland grinned. “That’s the ti
cket. Let’s get out of here.”
He started threading his way through the crowd, nodding politely to people as he passed. As he reached the door he looked back to make sure Gahnfeld was still with him and found Sylvan blocking Gahnfeld’s way.
“You had something to say to me?” Sylvan was saying, one hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. “You seemed anxious to catch my eye a moment ago.”
Leland took a quick step back toward them and spoke just as Gahnfeld opened his mouth. “Halvidar! Are you going to keep me waiting all night?”
Gahnfeld stiffened, then closed his mouth and slowly turned. “Coming, Guide.”
He stepped around Leland and walked toward the door. Sylvan started to step after him and bumped into Leland.
“Oh. Excuse me, Guide Sylvan. Most clumsy of me.” Leland stepped back, as if to give Sylvan more room. In doing so he completely blocked Sylvan’s advance.
Sylvan stopped then and focused on Leland. He moved closer. His breath smelled of Apple Jack and he was swaying slightly. He was frowning, angry.
“Ah, it’s the child from Laal. A green leader of green troops.”
Leland smiled. “Green wood is flexible. It has the capacity to absorb punishment without damage.” He bobbed his head preparatory to leaving and, quite unintentionally, burped loudly in Sylvan’s face.
Those people in the immediate vicinity, who’d been watching the proceedings with interest, laughed.
Sylvan flushed bright red. His hand flashed out to grab Leland’s throat, but Leland, veteran of the singing bamboo, slid to the side. As a result, Sylvan grabbed the shirt of the man who’d been standing behind Leland and started pummeling him, so angry and drunk that it took him several blows to notice it wasn’t Leland.
Several officers ended up holding Sylvan down long enough for him to stop thrashing around. By the time some measure of decorum had been restored, Leland and Gahnfeld were long gone.
Early the next morning Leland examined Coronet Sanchez’s cargo in the privacy of the barn. The coronet, a stocky man with red hair and a perpetually sunburned noise, stood by nervously.
Finally Leland nodded. “Excellent, Sanchez. These will do the trick nicely.”
Sanchez frowned, then asked, “Pardon me, Guide, but what trick are they going to do? They’re just fishnets.”
Leland ignored the question. “Was there any problem?”
“No, sir. We did just what you said and bundled our weapons on the packhorses. I made out that we were merchants from Napa, thinking of selling nets to people living near the mountain lakes.”
“Good.” Leland straightened. “I’ve got another job for you.” He stepped closer to Sanchez and pulled two scraps of cloth from his pocket.
“I want you to go to Grissom & Sons and talk with Abel Grissom. Halvidar Gahnfeld will write you a letter of introduction. They’re to commission the manufacture of eight hundred twenty cloth ponchos, hooded. The ponchos are to be this color on one side and this color on the other.” He handed Sanchez the scraps. One was tan and the other dark green. “They must be completely reversible and warm. They should also be treated with oil and beeswax to make them as waterproof as possible.”
Sanchez nodded. “Like uniforms.”
Leland smiled. “Yes. But make sure that they’re at least knee length on our tallest men. We’ll need them in two weeks.”
“Isn’t that pushing it, sir?”
Leland nodded. “Yes, it is, but the price we’re paying reflects that delivery.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right, then. Hop to it. I’ve already told Gahnfeld about the letter.”
Sanchez saluted, started to leave, then turned back. “Begging your pardon, Sir, but should I post a guard on the nets?”
Leland shook his head. “No. Why should we? They’re just fishnets, after all.”
Sanchez shook his head. “Uh, right sir.” He left.
Leland spent the rest of the morning moving about the estate. He watched the Third and Fourth hundreds engaged in spear, sword, and shield work. He saw the Fifth and Sixth hundreds in archery practice. He watched the Seventh and Eighth hundreds practicing unit maneuvers at the walk, trot, and run. The First Hundred was standing sentry duty around the estate while the Second tried to sneak past them.
Shortly before noon he returned to the house to find Gahnfeld reviewing training schedules.
“Well, Halvidar? What do you think?”
Gahnfeld looked up from the sheets of paper. “It’s hard to say. If we truly have the two weeks that Marshall de Gant has promised, we might have something that doesn’t fall apart at first contact with the enemy. These boys may be green but they went through complete militia training under Captain Koss. By now they won’t kill their horses through ignorance, and I know they have stamina. Not that this will help them much at the plain. These things have always been fixed-front affairs in the past.”
Leland nodded slowly. “I know. Do they know how to dig?”
“Like rabbits, Guide.”
“Have you scheduled any training on indirect fire?”
Gahnfeld looked hurt. “Of course.”
Leland smiled. “Very good. I just want you to add one thing to the schedule.”
Gahnfeld frowned. “Yes?”
“Teach them to be still on command.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
Leland paused. “I want them able to freeze in one position for long periods of time. I don’t want them to scratch, sneeze, yawn, stretch. I want them to be as rocks.”
Gahnfeld nodded slowly. “Yes, Guide.”
“Any messages for me while I was out?”
“Yes, sir. I had the orderly put them on your desk.”
“Thanks.” Leland nodded and stepped into his office.
The office was his father’s, of course, but Gahnfeld hadn’t hesitated a second in setting up his own office in the anteroom outside and moving Leland’s few papers and books into the big desk.
Leland tried not to think of his father as he sat in the chair, but found this impossible. The chair alone, built for his father’s more heroic proportions, made him feel like a child in a grown-up’s seat. He shook his head and picked up the messages.
There were five of them. The first one was from Chancellor Cornelius de Moran, inviting Leland to join him and a few of the university faculty for supper that night.
The second was from Marshall de Gant, confirming in writing the Order of March he’d outlined the night before. In addition there was the statement that Cotswold was not expected to have observers in the coming enterprise. Leland smiled at this. I wonder what de Gant would do if Sylvan became steward of Noram?
The third was from Sylvan Montrose’s secretary saying that “Strong drink does strange things” and Sylvan truly regretted any offense he might have given the night before. Leland merely noted that Sylvan had not regretted it enough to write the note himself before putting it aside.
The fourth note was from Guide Margaret de Jinith, requesting Leland to call on her at his earliest convenience. It closed with the phrase “and no excuses!”
Leland smiled at that.
The last note said “Keiko. Four p.m.” Keiko—practice.
“Orderly!” he called.
One of Gahnfeld’s hand-picked headquarters staff appeared in the door. “I’ll be riding into the city after lunch. Please have my horse ready.”
“Yes, sir. And your guards, sir?”
Leland frowned and thought of Gahnfeld’s reaction if he tried to go without at least two men. “I suppose so. But no banners!”
The Gentle Guide Margaret received Leland, appropriately, in the reception room of her apartments. She was attended by several young daughters of the Noram guardianship whom she insisted on introducing to Leland.
Leland kept himself from fleeing, but just barely. He responded to the introductions with a glassy-eyed smile and “Honored, Gentle Guide,” over and over again. When the introductions were through, Lelan
d turned to Margaret and said, flat-voiced, “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “Here. Sit by me and tell me what you’ve been doing since you’ve arrived.” She looked up. “Somebody bring the warden a cup of that tea.”
Almost immediately Leland found himself holding a cup of tea, a scone, and muffins presented by three of the women. Another brought him a napkin, and still another moved a small table nearer for him to set his bounty down. Several chairs sidled closer.
Leland began to sweat.
“So, what have you been doing?” Margaret repeated politely.
“I’ve been attending to small chores, nothing very exciting. We’re training our men, seeing to provisions. Things like that. I did get to visit the Great Library, though.” He sipped his tea. He started to ask what sort of things he should see in Noram, but reflected that he couldn’t cope with the tour “guides” that might suddenly rise up. “I’m afraid that in Laal our dances run to outdoor affairs, country style. I’ve never attended a formal ball. Perhaps you could tell me what they’re like.”
The question was inspired. For the next thirty minutes Leland’s part of the conversation consisted of an occasional question and polite noises of surprise. He drank three cups of tea and ate two scones and four muffins. In addition, he learned things about the social side of Noram that he’d never suspected, much less wanted to know even after learning them.
Finally Guide Margaret said, “Well, dears, I want to talk to the warden alone for a while. Thank you so much for coming.”
When they’d left, Margaret laughed. “I thought your eyes were starting to glaze over, toward the end. I won’t do that to you again, but at least you’ll have someone to dance with at the ball.”
Leland glared at her, then laughed as well. “I’ve heard more about clothing in the last half hour than the last year. Is that all they talk about?”
“Well, not really. Advantageous matches are a popular subject. What do you think the match between Marilyn and Sylvan is about? True love?”
