‘Why are they moving at night?’ Nenia asked Aranthur.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Sometimes soldiers practise marching – maybe they practise at night?’
‘It’s too much like the night Pater was hurt,’ Nenia said.
With the shutters barred, the inn was like a fortress, and all the sound was muffled. There were only half a dozen patrons, all local men and women who finished their food and left through the kitchen door for their homes in the village on the ridge behind the road.
‘I want to see what’s happening,’ Nenia said, as the wheelwright slipped out of the kitchen door, the last drinker.
‘So do I.’
Aranthur followed her into the dark yard. She knew her own ground, and he almost lost her when she went into the dark stables. He followed her movement, stubbed his toe on a stall and then saw light when she opened a postern door in the north side of the stable. He followed her out into a shock of spring jasmine that grew right against the door. The smell was remarkable. Nenia grabbed his hand and pulled, and he emerged into the spring night.
Then she dropped into a drainage ditch that ran along the edge of the newly ploughed and manured field to the north of the inn, and ran along a path so narrow he couldn’t see it. He followed more carefully, watching the evil-smelling water to his left, and then followed her up the bank. She stood under a leafless tree.
‘That’s how Lecne and I slip out of the house,’ she said very quietly, in his ear.
Aranthur, still full of stock smoke, was moved to think that her hair smelled beautiful, and that he’d already kissed another woman, and that the night was very still.
There were men talking on the road. A horse neighed, and another, and then there were hoofbeats.
‘Let’s go closer,’ Nenia said.
Aranthur was unsure, but she was off, and he was following her, wondering if he knew anything about human nature. She had seemed so cautious at First Sun; now she was bolder than he.
They moved along the road in the scrub – ground too uneven and rocky to be farmed. Then, barely breathing, they climbed the scree towards the road.
They were almost among a troop of cavalry. There were hundreds of them, in half armour. Horses were grazing in the field opposite, and some men had started a fire.
They were speaking the western form of Liote, the language of the Iron Ring, the twelve cities at the other end of the Empire. It wasn’t entirely unlike Arnaut, and Aranthur listened, acutely aware of the warmth of Nenia next to him.
‘Volta,’ she said. ‘They are from Volta.’
Aranthur knew she was correct as soon as she spoke.
He tried to think. Volta was invading the Empire? But Volta was technically part of the Empire. With the fall of their duke, everyone said they were restored to stability and that they only wanted to make money, anyway.
He had no idea how many armed people he was looking at. Hundreds? How much did hundreds of mounted, armoured warriors cost?
‘What are they saying?’ he whispered.
She said nothing. After what seemed like a long time, she tapped his shoulder and they slipped back into the rocky ground and then all the way back to the inn.
‘They were talking about attacking,’ she said, her voice high.
Aranthur tried to think his way through it. Armed men in large bodies were not bandits. There were not that many bandits in the whole of the Empire. People talked about mercenaries, but the only mercenaries he ever saw were the men who guarded shops in the City.
‘They seemed rich, to me,’ Aranthur said. ‘Good horses, expensive armour. Aristocrats.’
Nenia was leading him through the stable.
‘Aristocrats from Volta?’ she asked.
Aranthur tried to make it all go together. He had certainly heard men at the sword school talk about Volta – about the duke, who some of the sword students seemed to think was a great leader …
Armour.
Drako.
‘I’m going to ride east,’ he said suddenly.
‘They’ll stop you,’ Nenia said.
‘No, I can go up onto the ridge and take back roads for a few hours. Time could matter.’
‘Take Lecne. He knows every path around here.’
In five minutes it was done. He pushed his clothes into his travelling malle and Lecne saddled horses. Donna Cucina was still wringing her hands.
Aranthur bowed to Don Cucino.
‘Syr,’ he said, ‘I have a duty. It is not something I can explain, but more than your inn may be at threat.’
Don Cucino made the blessing of the Eagle, and then the same for his son, and Nenia, instead of shaking hands, brushed his lips with hers.
‘Bring my brother back,’ she whispered.
And then they were away, riding north. His lips burned from Nenia’s kiss, and he thought I’m an idiot.
They rode for two hours, until the sickle moon was up, riding along farm tracks between looming hedges, and then right across muddy vineyard tracks. A dozen times one of them had to dismount to open or close a gate, but they were both country boys and despite the haste, they were careful to close what had been closed or leave open what had been left open.
‘Where are we going?’ Lecne added, as if he’d been holding his breath for the whole time.
‘Lonika,’ Aranthur said.
They paused to give the horses a rest where they rejoined the main road. They alternated trotting and galloping along the road until the sun was rising in the east behind them, staining the sky salmon pink. There were normal folk on the roads, farmers and farm wives, and a tinker with a cart, and little knots of Easterners, their heads down, their belongings on their shoulders.
‘Poor bastards,’ Lecne said. ‘And now we aren’t searching the woods.’
Aranthur watched the trees. He was excited, and tired, and when he closed his eyes, he could see the dead children. He felt odd, and he could still taste the stock he’d smoked.
He loosened the sword in the scabbard at his side, and they gave the horses a little food and rode on.
They came to the Volta Gate of Lonika just before the bells rang for midday prayers.
‘Now what?’ Lecne asked.
Aranthur rode straight up to the soldiers at the gate.
‘I have to speak to General Tribane,’ he said.
The dekark was summoned. He glanced at the two men, took in the mud and the sword and the tack, and frowned.
‘Who are you, any road?’ he asked.
‘Timos, City Cavalry,’ Aranthur said, as he’d been taught. ‘I have a report on something west of here, and I know the General.’
The dekark was an older man, a professional more familiar with road construction than with fighting. He nodded.
‘Come with me.’
The two of them followed the dekark into the town and then to the central square opposite the Temple of the Twelve. There, at a big writing table in the main hall of the town’s palazzo, sat General Tribane, writing furiously.
She looked up. ‘Timos,’ she said, not very pleasantly. ‘I’m working.’
‘My lady,’ he said. ‘General.’
He realised he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He glanced at Lecne and the dekark.
‘There’s a big company of armoured horse on the Volta road, out by Fosse, or they were there at midnight,’ he said. ‘I think they were Voltain.’
‘Why?’ she asked sharply. ‘What?’
‘They sounded like Westerners.’
She shot to her feet. ‘Bucceleri, on me, right now.’ She looked at Aranthur. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My guide and friend, Lecne Cucino of the Inn at Fosse.’ Aranthur nodded and Lecne made an excellent bow.
General Tribane nodded. ‘Good. You saw these men yourself?’
‘Yes, General,’ Aranthur said.
Out in the yard of the palazzo, a few dozen men and women in full armour were checking their girths. A few were already mounted, and a short woman was squint
ing down the barrel of a puffer. She thrust it into the saddle holster and shouted something, and the rest of them began to mount.
There was a lot of blasphemy.
‘Get these two fresh horses,’ she said. ‘Timos, are you City militia?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, General. Selected Cavalry.’
She nodded. ‘Good, I own you, then. You are now on active duty and subject to orders. Do you understand?’
Aranthur’s heart gave a lurch. ‘I’m a Student, ma’am … That is, Alis.’
‘Now, I’m ma’am. Or General. Jennie? We ready to ride?’
The woman who’d been first to mount snapped a salute.
‘All present.’
‘Get new mounts,’ General Tribane ordered, and turned aside.
Behind her, two young men had laid out a whole suit of armour – black, with red leather lining that showed at the edges.
She was wearing it minutes later when she emerged, mounted on her tall black unicorn. Rasce was in a stall and curried; Aranthur was just about holding himself upright on a big cavalry charger a hand taller than Rasce.
The General looked directly at Aranthur, so he approached her with Lecne beside him.
‘You two with me,’ she said.
‘They have a lot more cavalry than you do,’ Lecne said.
The General smiled. ‘They have a lot more people on horses. I have all the cavalry. Right, boys and girls?’
The short man was right behind the General, with a banner on a lance. The banner was a black rose on a gold ground.
‘That’s right,’ he growled.
And they were off.
Aranthur thought that he and Lecne had made good time riding for Lonika, but the General’s cavalry rode like Eastern nomads. Every trooper had two horses, and they rode fast, paused to change, and rode again. Aranthur could just barely manage to stay in the saddle, and Lecne began to groan before they passed Adriano.
There was no conversation at a canter or a gallop, and they were alone with their fears and their fatigue. The tinkers and farmers and refugees scattered off the road as soon as they heard horses’ hooves. Aranthur watched them as he rode by in the bright sunlight. Towards evening, as they entered the hills, the road was empty. There was smoke on the horizon.
‘Rest,’ the General ordered, reining in. ‘Ten minutes.’
She dismounted, walked to the ditch, and spat. A trooper brought her a canteen of water and she cast a complex occulta that took Aranthur by surprise. He hadn’t known she was a mage, much less that she had so much training, rare among fighters.
She shook her head and ate a sausage.
‘Don’t talk to her,’ the female officer, Jennie, said from behind Aranthur. ‘You’re Timos? City cavalry?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.
She handed him a sausage. ‘Myr Jeninas, Buccaleria Primos. Like being a centark, but with a fancier title.’
She smiled. She had the most deeply tanned face Aranthur had ever seen.
The very short man stumped over.
‘You are the proverbial bad penny,’ he grunted. ‘You keep turning up.’
He took a chunk of sausage from Jeninas, munched, then held out a slightly greasy hand as big as a rich man’s plate.
‘Drek Coryn Ringkoat,’ he said.
Hearing the three names, Aranthur’s face broke into an unfeigned grin.
‘You are a Jhugj?’ he asked.
The short man shrugged. ‘I am. At least half. The short half, I reckon.’ His deep blue eyes seemed to bore into Aranthur’s. ‘General likes you.’
His face was amazingly immobile. He gave nothing away.
‘That’s … good?’ Aranthur said.
‘Maybe so, maybe no.’ Ringkoat shrugged.
‘Boots and saddles,’ Jeninas called. ‘Check your priming.’
‘Want to be useful?’ Ringkoat asked.
‘Yes.’ Aranthur glanced at Lence, who nodded.
‘Give me a hand up. I have the tallest horse for the shortest legs.’
Ringkoat nodded to Aranthur. Aranthur reached down and made a step with his hands. The Jhugj was incredibly heavy, and despite his strength, he almost gasped, but the man stepped up and got his leg over the high-backed saddle.
He looked down. ‘Stay close, where I can see you two.’
He put the black rose banner into a leather cup on his stirrup, drew a long puffer from his saddle holster and opened the hammer to peer at the priming.
Aranthur mounted. Lecne got on his own horse, a smaller gelding.
‘I don’t have a weapon,’ Lecne said.
‘Good,’ Ringkoat said. ‘Fighting ain’t for amateurs. Don’t die, is all.’
He turned his horse and walked to where the Primos was waiting, and the other cavalry began to form on them. A dozen were already gone; Aranthur had noticed them riding up the ridges on either side of the road.
The General was on her big black monster, as still as a statue.
‘Syr Timos,’ she said. ‘Something tells me you know more than you are saying.’
Aranthur nodded. Her comment helped him decide; he hadn’t known what to say, and now he did.
‘I only had one long look,’ he said. ‘But most of the horsemen had new armour.’
Her head turned a fraction, and her eyes seemed to kindle.
‘In the dark, you saw their new armour?’
‘Yes. And I heard it. New straps. New leather.’
‘And you knew to look for new armour,’ she said.
He was silent, aware that her whole troop of cavalry was watching him.
‘Ma’am, is it enough if I say I’m friends with Tiy Drako?’ he asked. ‘Sometimes I work with … cold iron.’
She nodded sharply. ‘Yes indeed. Music to my ears, in fact. Right. No trumpet. No one acts until I say, or do. Understand?’
There was a loud murmur.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
The compact column set off west along the Volta road, towards Fosse, a few miles away.
The shadows were long. It was a spring evening, with a red sun setting in splendour and mayflies rising from the stream that came down out of the Arnaut hills. The road west appeared to run through the dark green, temple-tall spruces and on into the setting sun like a path to adventure.
There were still hundreds of cavalrymen there. They had spread across the fields, and some had picketed their horses while others stood about. In the middle distance, smoke rose from the chimneys of the inn, and off to the north, more smoke from the chimneys of the village.
The General’s troop rode swiftly along the road, scattering a handful of mounted men who had probably been intended as guards. Off to the left of the road, on the apron of a farm gate, stood a huge coach with eight horses, surrounded by men in full armour.
The General’s troop rode straight for the coach. There was no resistance, although all over the fields to the north men stood, and some gathered the reins of their horses.
Aranthur and Lecne stayed by the banner, as they’d been told.
The armoured men by the coach had time to mount, and form two crisp lines facing the road. They were in full white armour, magnificent armour full of Gothic curlicues and elaborate, baroque metalwork, and they wore long, pointed sallets on articulated bevoirs that hid their faces.
The General’s troop rode right up to them. It was not as Aranthur had imagined. Myr Jeninas’ horse was breast to breast with one of the armoured men, and Ringkoat with another. Aranthur was pushed aside, and so was Lecne. He could tell that this was something the General’s people practised; their formation was so dense that a spear would not have fitted between man or horse.
‘Pennon Malconti,’ the General said.
‘General,’ said a heavy voice from within the helmet.
‘You are taken in arms within the borders of the Empire,’ the General said. ‘You and all your people are under arrest. Stand down. Dismount, and stand by your horses.’
‘We outnumber y
ou by many,’ the deep voice said.
The General shrugged. ‘You will die first, Malconti.’
‘I require instructions,’ Malconti said in his hollow voice.
‘You mean your precious duke didn’t tell you what would happen if you were caught?’ the General said. ‘Ask him. He’s in the coach, no doubt.’
Malconti backed his horse out of the line, which closed. Two walls of horseflesh and steel faced each other, and they were not silent. The horses had begun pressing and nipping, and Aranthur’s heart raced.
‘What’s happening?’ Lecne asked.
‘Don’t ask me,’ Aranthur said, but when the Duke of Volta emerged from the coach, he understood some of it.
The duke was beautifully dressed, as he had been the day the drake had been unloaded on the docks. He seemed unimpressed and un-hurried as he came down out of his coach. Malconti dismounted and offered his horse. The duke shrugged and walked forward as if oblivious to a hundred armoured warriors on the edge of violence.
‘General,’ he drawled, ‘I had hoped that the Emperor might help me, but his whore has poisoned his mind against me, so I took matters into my own hands.’ He smiled. ‘If you will just turn a blind eye, in a few hours I will be Duke of Volta again.’
‘I arrest you in the name of the Emperor,’ the General said loudly and clearly.
‘I am blood-immune to your laws,’ the duke said.
The General nodded. ‘Of course you are. But a court can decide that, or the Emperor. Perhaps you will find you are not immune. Any road, my lord, no one else here is, so we’ll take your men and leave you to reconquer Volta alone.’
The duke looked around. ‘No. We will fight.’
The General raised her voice. Aranthur felt the moment at which she augmented her voice with an occulta.
‘All of you will dismount and stand by your horses. If you raise or touch a weapon, it’s assault on an Imperial officer. If you use that weapon, you are a rebel. Whatever you think you are doing, you are at arms inside the Empire, and that cannot be tolerated.’
Men were looking at each other.
Cold Iron (Masters & Mages) Page 33
