“Hmm. Interesting. I’ve seen how you are at court, Croy. You’re a true gallant, aren’t you? I’ve seen you walk past a coterie of fair ladies, all of them endeavoring to catch your eye, and never a single one does.” The Baron giggled. “If you were a less virtuous man, you’d have a passel of bastards by now, and no one in the kingdom would look askance at it. You might do well, in this case,” the Baron went on, choosing his words carefully, “to be warmer. My physick tells me the king will not awaken. That his body is wasting away. Before you know it, you could be the royal consort, and all it would cost you is a few encouraging words. Maybe a gentle caress now and again.”
Croy blushed and looked away. “She’s a girl of fourteen!”
The Baron giggled again. “Her mother married Ulfram when she was twelve and he was thirty. Oh, don’t look so scandalized. Such marriages are common at court, and they’re not nearly as venal as you might think. They say Ulfram didn’t lay a hand on the current queen until her breasts had swollen and her hips were round enough.”
“This is immaterial. I… have a lady of my own, though she’s far away,” Croy insisted. “I would never betray her affections.”
“Yes, yes, fine. I wish I had a son at hand, that’s all, or perhaps that I wasn’t already married myself. Someone needs to woo Bethane. She can’t possibly rule the kingdom herself-and it wouldn’t hurt our cause if we had a strong king ready to put in place.”
In gentler days Croy might have thought such talk smacked of treason. But he knew the Baron was simply being realistic. High principles were in shorter supply now than even proper arms and armor.
The Baron brought a fist down hard on his table and made the cutlery jump. “But we came together tonight to talk of manly things, not the affairs of princesses. We are here to discuss swords and blood and war.”
“Indeed,” Croy said, glad for the change in subject.
Chapter Fifty-One
The Baron sighed and looked down at his maps and reports. “Redweir has collapsed, as we expected. Morget used sappers-a strange tactic for a barbarian, but it works. The town is invested and most of its populace is dead, according to my spies.” The Baron unrolled a map and held it down on the table with a goblet and a jeweled dagger. “Two thousand men are inside its walls, under Morget’s direct leadership.”
“I’ve seen what he’s capable of now,” Croy said. “He’s proved an effective leader of men. I didn’t expect that when I first met him.”
“Leading barbarians is easy. You point them in the direction of defenseless women and untapped kegs of ale. They run after those things like a mule after a wormy apple. Here,” the Baron said, and tapped at a point on the map, on the road just north of Redweir. “Here, we have reports of messengers heading back to Helstrow. It will take them two days to get there, even if they push their horses to death. By tomorrow dusk they’ll likely be this far.” He pointed again, at a spot quite close to Easthull.
“You wish me to ambush them, milord?”
“Of course. If Morg doesn’t hear from his son in a few days, he’ll wonder what went wrong. He’ll send another contingent of troops to investigate. Not too many-a few hundred. Those are numbers we can oppose.”
Croy nodded, thinking. It would be a costly battle. For all his tireless efforts at recruiting, he’d found precious few men. He could marshal perhaps three hundred bandits and deserters and farmers who were missed in the original conscription. Against even a hundred well-trained, well-armed barbarians, he still could not guarantee a victory. The cost in blood would be staggering. “Perhaps,” he said. “But it will alert Morg to our presence here. So far we’ve stayed below his notice-the worst we’ve done to harry him could be written off as the work of bandit raiders and a few soldiers still fighting on their own.”
“That can’t last forever. Someone will see your face and tell Morg that an Ancient Blade is still at large. When that does happen, we need to capitalize on his surprise-and how it will invigorate the villeins. Better, I think, that we take the battle to him now. We need a victory, Croy. A victory to show the barbarian he is not invulnerable.”
Croy took a deep breath. A victory-a small victory-might give Morg reason to pause. It might concern him. But a major victory could shake him to his core. Give him enough of a fright to send him back east, across the mountains, and forget about Skrae for a while. One decisive stroke, made at the perfect moment, could turn everything around.
He knew Easthull didn’t see it that way. The Baron could only imagine the war stretching on for years, a bitter back and forth of sieges and countersieges as the barbarians moved west, a mile at a time. He was afraid, and Croy didn’t blame him. His own plan involved major risk, in the short term. Still, he knew he was right.
“This is the wrong time,” he said. “In a month I can double our forces, even treble them. I can send runners to the western fiefs and manors. I can recruit men from as far as Ness. And I can train them, teach them how to hold their ground. Then, when Morget withdraws from Redweir, I can meet him on the road before he can regroup with his father at Helstrow.”
“Out of the question. He has two thousand men.”
“He’ll need to leave a garrison at Redweir. That might cut his force in half. And we’ll never have another chance like this to catch one of the main chieftains by surprise. If we strike now, even if we win, Morg will strike back. He’ll scour all of Greenmarsh looking for us. We’ll be forced to disperse again-and we won’t be able to regroup before winter.”
“Hmm,” Easthull said, smoothing his map with one hand. “I see you’ve been giving this some thought, Croy.” He walked over to the narrow window at the back of the withdrawing chamber, perhaps forgetting it was covered with cloth to keep any light from escaping. “Militarily, perhaps, your plan makes good sense.”
“I’m… glad to hear you say that,” Croy said, cautiously optimistic.
“Politically, of course, it’s too large a gamble. You’ve been away from the court for too long, old friend. Even when you were there you never learned the art of statecraft. If we have a victory now, so soon after Morg’s initial success, we show him that we speak his language. He’ll treat with us then. He’ll come and make parley with me and we’ll come to some agreement. Perhaps we’ll have to let him keep some of our land, and give over some of our peasants into his thralldom. Perhaps he’ll want tribute of gold.” The Baron shrugged. “Let him have these things. The majority of Skrae will be free of this shadow. Then slowly, over time, we can negotiate for a return of what is ours.”
Croy’s blood surged in his veins. “That’s… folly.”
The Baron turned to look at him. “I beg your pardon?”
It was an insult. He was calling Easthull a fool. Duels were fought over such lapses of polite speech. Yet Croy could not stand here and listen to such drivel. Morg would never negotiate with them now. They were down on their backs, with their bellies in the air. Morg had them right where he wanted them. When dealing with barbarians, you didn’t try to talk to them. Bribing them was no use either. Ulfram V had proven that, and paid for it dearly. You responded to their force with force-and you had better be sure you could back up your feints. “Your pardon, milord. But this plan of yours-”
“I have decided on it. I await only your making it so.”
The dimly lit room was tinged with red in Croy’s vision. “I think you are forgetting something, Easthull. I’m the one who recruited our troops. I’m the one who commands them.”
“And I believe you are forgetting something, Croy.” The Baron thumped the table again. “You are a knight, and I am a baron.”
Croy could feel his hand moving toward Ghostcutter’s hilt. He forced it to stay by his side.
“The Lady put me in this station for a reason,” Easthull went on. “Because I am a man who can see the larger picture. She made you a knight to ride about on chargers and lop the heads off of my enemies.”
“I serve the king,” Croy said.
�
��And right now, I speak for the king as regent.”
Croy’s teeth clicked together in anger. “No one has appointed you to that role! Only the king can name a regent, and he-”
“And he is fast asleep. I am the only man suited to the job. If he could wake long enough to be asked, he could name no one else.”
“I… grant you that point,” Croy said, the words coming from his mouth as if each were coated in poison. “But-”
“But? You have some better claim to put forth? Do you, Croy?”
“No,” Croy grunted.
He could see that Easthull refused to be baited further. “I have precedence here. That is not in question. So I will give the orders, and you will do my bidding.” He sat down in a chair with his ankles crossed. The way a king would sit on a throne. “Kneel, Croy. Kneel on this floor, right now, and kiss my signet ring. Show me you have not forgotten who you are.”
Croy took a step toward the Baron, breathing deeply through his mouth.
He had taken certain vows. The same vows every knight took.
He lowered himself onto his knees.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Money kept coming in, as it always had, and that was enough to keep the guild of thieves quiet. Not that there was much noise in the city anyway. The better share of the shops and workplaces in Ness had closed down, their windows boarded and their bustle silenced. As Malden and Cythera walked through the streets they’d always known, they kept remarking to each other how different it seemed.
One didn’t notice the crowds, the clamor, the noisome smells, and the piled filth until they were gone, really. “We should have a war every year,” Malden japed, “if only to keep the streets clean.”
Cythera laughed, but only softly, and not for very long. She was distracted that day. Something was on her mind. Yet when he asked her what it was, she simply changed the subject.
“Look, Malden,” she said, and pointed toward a little alcove by the entrance to a close. “When was the last time you saw one of those?” She indicated a small clay statue of the Bloodgod, in the shape of a man with eight arms. Seven on one side, each holding a tiny clay knife or club. The eighth was alone on the other side, clutching the stem of a tiny flower.
“It’s been a while,” Malden admitted. Images of the Bloodgod were technically forbidden by law, and most were kept behind closed doors. The Burgrave had never bothered to tear them down-in fact, when Malden broke into the palace earlier that year, he’d seen a quite large and beautifully gilded statue of Sadu inside. Still, such an ostentatious display was enough to comment on. The official religion of Skrae was the church of the Lady. Religious tolerance was unknown in Helstrow or Redweir-in those places anyone who publicly professed to worship Sadu could be arrested and fined. The Bloodgod’s followers had never quite died out, however-Sadu was too well loved by the common people, especially in Ness, where his worship was unofficially tolerated. Though the priesthood of the Bloodgod had been outlawed and exterminated, his altars and his images ritually defiled or broken, the people continued his worship in their own small ways, and the Burgrave had always been smart enough not to punish them too zealously for it.
Still, displaying his image was a risky act. “Devotion is on the rise,” Malden said. “Religion is popular again in Ness. This was always such a sinful place. I hope people don’t ruin it by becoming virtuous now.”
“They’re terrified,” Cythera said. “The people, I mean. I suppose they have good reason.”
“Even in Helstrow I saw men turning to Sadu for help,” he told her. “He didn’t seem to respond.”
The tiny image was not the only sign of faith at large in the city. The Lady was widely venerated as well. Green and white streamers fluttered from every balcony, showing her colors. They’d been placed there by Pritchard Hood to remind the citizens that their lord was out on a holy crusade and that they should remember him in their prayers. Hood made a daily speech to that effect in Market Square, though few stopped by to listen.
The new bailiff never missed an opportunity to appear in public and remind everyone he was in charge. Malden wished to know more about this man-especially how he could be bought. He and Cythera were walking toward a tavern where Malden expected to learn such things. When they arrived, he sent her in to get a bottle of wine and two cups, while he excused himself to use the alley. Velmont was waiting for him in the shadows back there.
The Helstrovian had much news, though none of it what Malden had wanted to hear. “This new bailiff’s taken his master’s word to heart, all right. Hood’s employed thief-takers-just bravos, in troth, but sharpish men who’ll get their catch, don’t doubt it. It’s just a question o’ time afore he’s got someone to hang.”
Malden cursed. “Who is this bastard? Where did he come from? The old bailiff, Anselm Vry, was a corrupt and ambitious man. Pritchard Hood must be the same to have got the office so fast.”
Velmont shrugged. “I asked a few fellas for his story, like you told me. They said Hood was an acolyte at the Ladychapel but never took priestly orders. Found out he was better wi’ the church books than at sayin’ prayers. He worked fer Tarness as an exchequer until recent days.”
“Any suggestion he was more creative with his numbers than the law would like?” Malden asked hopefully.
“Not as I’ve heard. Your Burgrave took notice of him somehow and snatched him up last year. Put him in a place o’ trust, and he’s prospered ever since. Now he’s top dog in this city.”
“We need to find out just how holy he really is,” Malden said. “You’ve done good work getting this much. Go, now, and find out what you can about these thief-takers. Maybe we can grease them, and save ourselves some real trouble.”
“Me hinges could do wi’ a mickle oil themselves,” Velmont suggested.
Malden nodded and spilled coins into the Helstrovian’s hand. In an instant Velmont was gone. Malden headed into the tavern and found Cythera waiting for him with a smile.
There was one consolation to wartime, at least. He had Cythera around as often as he liked. He resolved to spend the afternoon enjoying himself, and before he knew it the sun was setting. For the first time in his life-a lifetime spent working mostly at night-he hated how soon the sun sank in autumn time. “Come,” he told her, releasing her hands and draining his last cup. “I’ll make sure you get home safe before night fully falls.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said, her eyes burning into his. They’d both had a bit too much to drink. Malden wondered if he would be invited to stay the night on the Isle of Horses. He could think of more romantic love-nests, but wherever Cythera was, he knew he could be happy.
He was laughing and holding her hand openly as they passed once more by the close where the image of Sadu had been put out. He wouldn’t have given it a second look had he not by accident trod on a piece of clay that shattered under his boot. He looked down and saw the arm of Sadu that held the flower. The idol had been dragged from its niche and smashed to pieces on the cobbles.
“Oh, that’s not right,” Cythera breathed, and bent to pick up the idol’s broken head. “Someone knocked it down. Who would do such a thing?”
Malden glanced up at the alcove where it had stood. Green and white streamers had been tacked up in its place.
Chapter Fifty-Three
It didn’t take long for the thief-takers to make their first catch. That very same night they discovered a thief in the Golden Slope. By dawn Pritchard Hood was ready to make an example.
Still, if he’d expected to draw a great crowd for the hanging, Malden imagined he would be disappointed with the result. A pall had settled over Ness since the Army of Free Men decamped, a miasma of fear and worry that kept voices hushed and spirits low. Even as the thief was marched up to the gallows and the noose tightened around his neck, the jeers and shouts of the gathered crowd were subdued and almost mournful. Considering this was the best public entertainment in the city all week, it was a sad showing. Malden barely had
to push or elbow his way through the crowd to reach the base of the gallows.
The bailiff seemed unfazed by the dispirited crowd. His eyes were bright as he read out the charges. “Let it be known that one Janbart, a notorious rogue, is found convicted of stealing a pewter cup chased with bronze from the house of the guildmaster Harrit Fuller, said burgess of the city being absent from his home on night the last. Let it be further known that under the authority of Ommen Tarness, Burgrave, I have found this man Janbart guilty, and have imposed sentence of death by hanging on this day. Janbart! Have you anything to say before the sentence is carried out?”
Janbart was a scrawny man of thirty, old before his time and none too steady of hand due to a fondness for drink. He looked even worse than usual up on the gallows platform-wasted and pale, as if he’d spent weeks in the gaol awaiting trial, though in fact Hood had pushed through the formalities with unheard of swiftness.
Malden was certain the man had been tortured after his arrest. The way he walked up the steps to the gallows suggested his leg had been clamped in an iron boot, and screws applied to his foot until he gave Hood what he was after.
He didn’t have to wait long to learn just why Hood would do such a thing. The bailiff wanted more than a simple confession.
“Must I say it?” Janbart whispered. If Malden hadn’t been in the front row of the audience, he would have heard nothing.
“You must,” Hood told the convicted man.
Janbart bit his lips and looked out over the heads of the crowd. “I will say only this, let my death be a warning to them that would follow the crooked path. The…” Janbart paused, as if trying to remember words he’d been taught. “… the Lady, verily, gave me every chance to be honest, and I rejected Her. Yet the blame is not entirely within me. If it were not for evil companions, namely one Malden, who is the master of thieves in this city, I would not be here today. I blame this Malden for my lowly end.”
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