Rina felt her eyes glaze over. These were important details, she supposed, but this talk was dull. She mentally thanked Brasley for engaging the general in this line of conversation so she didn’t have to.
“Forgive me, General,” Brasley went on. “But why shouldn’t the Perranese land anywhere up or down the coast and just start marching inland? Why throw themselves at a fortified city first?”
Inshaw smiled tolerantly. “I take it you’re not a military man, Baron Hammish.”
“No, sir. I’m a drinking man.” Brasley gestured to his cup, and a servant scrambled to fill it.
The general laughed. “A man after my own heart. Allow me to explain. Landing a large army at some desolate patch of beach does have the advantage of no opposition. But that would leave the Perranese forces exposed, with no stronghold to fall back to. They tried something similar in Klaar but on a much smaller scale. A terrible scheme, in my opinion. Imagine launching an invasion from a frozen, isolated wilderness like Klaar.” He mustered an apologetic smile for Rina. “No offense, your grace.”
Rina returned an equally perfunctory smile. “None taken.”
The general had already turned back to Brasley. “Failing to take Sherrik not only means no stronghold for the Perranese; the duke can also harass him from the south. Then ships from Kern can sweep down from the north and pinch the bastard savages in the middle.” Inshaw slurped wine and shook his head. “No, the Perranese will attempt to take Sherrik, then dig in and fortify. I shudder to think the cost of blood to throw them out if they do that. Fortunately, we have no plans to let that happen.”
“It’s my understanding you’re not on your way south to reinforce Sherrik,” Count Becham said. “You’re going to Kern instead. Why?”
“Ships,” Inshaw said. “I’ve been charged by Pemrod to commandeer as many ships as possible. Another brilliant idea of mine. If the siege hasn’t started yet, we can resupply and reinforce Sherrik much faster by sea. If the Perranese beat us there, then we can still engage their blockade more efficiently from Kern.”
“You seem eager for it,” Rina said.
Inshaw waved for the servant to refill his cup again. “No true soldier is eager for war, your grace.” This was something the general seemed obligated to say but clearly didn’t mean. “But a man trains himself, trains his men, studies all the historical strategies at the war college. I’m glad that I’ve honed these skills all of my life on the chance they might be needed . . . which they are now.” He drank deeply, smacked his lips. “My only goal is to perform my best for my king and his people.”
“Admirable sentiments,” Rina said.
She glanced down the table. Gant caught her eye. He didn’t seem any more interested in what the blowhard general was saying than she was. Rina understood his look and nodded curtly. Yes, I’ll meet you later.
Inshaw stood abruptly, tilting on unsteady legs and thrusting his cup into the air. “To Helva and the king!”
Everyone else at the table lunged to their feet, likewise lifting their cups. “To Helva and the king!”
***
Rina returned to her tent, startled when she discovered Talbun waiting within.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Talbun said. “But we need to decide some things.”
“Oh? What’s to decide?” Rina’s eyes darted around the interior of the tent as if expecting an ambush. An absurd thought, but she hadn’t been expecting the wizard and was caught off guard. A narrow cot, a camp stove, a small table, and a chair. Nothing untoward. Talbun sat in the chair, refilling a cup in one hand from a pitcher of wine in the other.
“Don’t be obtuse,” Talbun said. “We know each other now. I’m not going to do anything to you. And I know you wandered off to speak to Ferris Gant.”
Rina cleared her throat and felt silly. “Are we friends, then? Do we share our secrets?”
“I haven’t had a friend in a century.” Talbun considered for a moment as if the idea were something just now being presented to her. “But for lack of a better term, yes. I hope we are.”
“Okay,” Rina said. “I suppose I need as many as I can get.”
“Then sit,” Talbun said. “And talk.”
Rina spotted her saddlebags at the floor of the cot. She opened them and fished around for a chuma stick, found one and lit it from a lantern hanging from a tent pole. She sat on the cot, crossed her legs, and puffed.
“Gant says Pemrod wants me to come back to the capital with him,” Rina said.
“How is he able to communicate with Merridan?” Talbun asked.
Rina shrugged. “He says he has a way.”
“Probably scrying crystals,” Talbun mused. “Nothing terribly complicated if you have the gold to pay for it.”
“I doubt money is a problem for the king’s grandnephew,” Rina said.
“Are you going?”
“To Merridan? No,” Rina said. “Or if I am, not because Gant wants me to. Certainly not to please Pemrod, the old bastard. He wants to start the whole matrimonial process. I don’t think he believes in long engagements. Probably he’s just impatient. He’s used to getting his way.”
“North fills an empty palm,” Talbun said.
Upon leaving the temple, Rina had related to Talbun and the others what High Priest Krell had said to her. She’d hoped for insight, but her friends’ guesses weren’t any better than her own. Applied in some ways, Krell’s words seemed plain. Considered other ways, cryptic.
“I don’t see how marrying Gant fills an empty palm,” Rina said.
“Well, it’s all supposed to be figurative, isn’t it?” Talbun said. “Filling an open palm could just mean giving something to somebody. If you give your hand in marriage . . . It’s a stretch, isn’t it?”
“Why don’t gods just come out and say what they mean?” Rina frowned around the chuma stick in the corner of her mouth and puffed angrily.
“An old and long-dead philosopher friend of mine explained prophecies and other such divine edicts like so,” Talbun said. “It’s not so much what the gods tell you as it is how you react to it. They dazzle you with some enigmatic words and bewilder you and see what you do. We’re all just human dice the gods throw to see how we tumble, to see if we come up sixes or ones.”
“So I’m a die that’s been tossed?”
“That’s the theory,” Talbun said. “And Mordis watches to see how you’ll land.”
“South pays a debt,” Rina said. “I suppose it’s too simple to think that I can go south and do something—whatever it is—and that will fulfill my obligation.”
“Or maybe the trick is that it is so simple.”
Rina chewed the chuma stick, puffed. “For an all-powerful wizard, you’re not so much help.”
Talbun grinned. “I did bring you some wine, but I drank it all.”
“It’s the thought that counts.”
South pays a debt. Rina blew a long gray stream of chuma smoke into the air and thought about that. If Alem had gone with Tosh, then he’d be somewhere in the south. She wished Alem were here. She felt something hollow and gnawing in her chest whenever she thought of him. It seemed unlikely the gods were interested in Rina’s love life. Alem might be somewhere in the south, but that was a coincidence, not an answer. Krell guessed the path north had something to do with another tattoo, but Krell so much as admitted he didn’t actually know anything. And if the tattoo were anything like the one on her other palm, then she didn’t want anything to do with it.
She didn’t want to be thrown like dice. She didn’t want any of this.
“Did you really drink all the wine?” Rina asked.
“I was only fooling.” Talbun filled a cup and handed it to her. “Here.”
Rina tilted her head back, finishing the wine in three big gulps. It burned her throat. She wished it would burn everything away, her desperate need to see Alem again, all these stupid tattoos, and red eyes lurking in the shadows of her dreams.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
> Tchi sat on his horse just within the tree line on a low rise west of the road. He had a clear view of the army encampment below. His smaller force hid in the woods behind him. The spy sat on another horse next to him. The commander had three choices and didn’t like any of them.
According to the spy, Duchess Veraiin had left Klaar with a small party and had taken refuge in the army camp. The first choice was simply to watch and wait, although Tchi doubted he could hide five hundred men for long.
Which led him to the second choice. The moon would set soon, and under the cover of darkness, he could take his force in a wide circle around the camp, putting a bit of distance between them. He’d task the spy and his men with keeping tabs on Veraiin’s movements. It was the safer course, but the risk was that his men would be too far away to take action should the duchess become vulnerable.
The muted clank of armor in the darkness caught Tchi’s attention. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. “Password.”
“Bone breaker,” came a guttural voice from the darkness.
A second later a burly sergeant stepped into the moonlight with two men behind him. His one good eye gleamed a hard challenge to any who met his gaze. His other was covered by a black eye patch. His face looked carved from some gray stone. Instead of the long, curved sword usually favored by the Perranese warrior, a short, heavy, double-bladed war axe hung from his belt. His name was Yano, and he’d seen two decades of action in the colonies before the Empire had been kicked out. He considered the officers—including Tchi—wet behind the ears, and his attitude constantly rubbed up against insubordination. Tchi had been tempted on a few occasions to reprimand and demote the man, but the men under him were the best, and fiercely loyal to him. Tchi needed the insolent bastard.
“Report, Sergeant.”
“Their scouts are lazy and inexperienced,” Yano said. “They might stumble over us eventually, but we’re safe for the time being. Being attacked doesn’t seem to have entered their thinking. No defenses. The usual sentries. Nothing impressive. It’s almost like they’re asking for it.”
Which brought Tchi to the third option: attack. The object would not be to defeat the enemy. The forces in the camp outnumbered Tchi’s men two to one. But a raid to capture the duchess might work. Surprise would be on their side.
But Tchi didn’t like the risk. There was risk in any military engagement, of course, but the Veraiin woman was an unknown. If the stories were true, then it was unlikely she would meekly let herself be kidnapped.
Then there was the fact that nobody had actually ordered Tchi to take the woman. Left to his own devices, it was up to Tchi to decide how best to use his forces in aid of the imminent invasion fleet. The army camped below might be on its way to reinforce Sherrik, in which case harassing them might be the right thing to do.
Yano must have read the hesitation on Tchi’s face.
“So, do we attack, Commander?” the sergeant asked.
Tchi frowned. “I’ll let you know my decision when I make it, Sergeant.”
Yano turned his head and spit. “As you say, sir.”
“How many horses do we have?” Tchi knew the answer but wanted to show he was considering all the possibilities. He winced inwardly at the need to do so.
“Fifty,” Yano said. “But I wouldn’t take a few of those packhorses into battle. Call it forty-five.”
“How would you do it?”
Yano peered down at the camp, scratching the stubble on his chin. He pointed. “They’ve bunched all their horses together on our side. Easier to water and feed them like that, I guess, but stupid. Provides cover for us. We send our quietest men to take out the sentries, then our men on foot can hide among the horses and wait for our riders to storm in. Tossing torches at some tents will add to the confusion. They’ll waste a lot of time getting their pants on. Our riders can cover the men on foot as we pull back, and we can run off their horses too. By the time they organize a pursuit, we would be long gone. They might not even bother. It’s a pretty sloppy outfit. My only wish would be to know where the woman is. Searching from tent to tent drags things out. Not the best for this sort of thing.”
Tchi turned to the spy. “You’re sure she’s down there?”
“Saw her enter the camp with my own eyes,” the spy said.
“Send for the wizards,” Tchi said. “Tell them I might have work for them. Sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“Pass the word among the men. We’ll go in after the moon sets.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Yano’s salute was very nearly respectful.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Far in the eternally frozen north, high on a lonely peak in the Glacial Wastes, the Temple of Mordis drew the faithful. The ancient black pyramid had long been an important symbol for the order, a place of reverence, the mother temple of the entire cult.
A dozen of the faithful trudged up the worn steps of the Skyway of Eternity in the dark, a zigzagging line of torches.
Foot traffic to and from the holy place had picked up considerably since the Great Reconstitution. Bremmer watched them come from the steps of the temple. Climbing the lonely path had once been a tedious obligation designated to lesser priests to keep them busy and test their patience. Now everyone wanted to do it.
Understandable, really, Bremmer thought. When your god comes back to life it’s kind of a big deal. Okay, maybe “back to life” is not quite the way to put it. Back from the realm of the gods? Back in his old body? None of it quite sounded reverent enough.
How to talk about these sudden and groundbreaking changes in the order itself was part of Bremmer’s new job. As the priest who ushered in Mordis’s return, he was immediately raised to abbot of the mother temple, a title invented specifically for him. That someone so young and inexperienced should be granted such an honor took him completely by surprise.
But over the following few weeks it had become clear that the cult elders were more than happy to keep the newly returned god at arm’s length while they scrambled over ancient tomes and other church documents to determine just exactly what it meant to have the god they’d worshipped for centuries walking among them. Bremmer understood all too well that he was considered expendable. Anger Mordis, and he lashes out to crush those around him? No problem. It’s just Bremmer.
Bremmer didn’t care. He was devout. If he burned at the hands of an angry deity, then it was meant to be. In the meantime, he alone acted as the liaison between the cult and its god. It was a position of honor and power, and he didn’t plan to let this opportunity go to waste.
In the meantime, the most pious of the order made the arduous journey up the Skyway of Eternity to hear the wisdom of Bremmer, delivered twice daily in the evening sermon. Well, sometimes it was a sermon. Other times more like a lecture, and on occasion, a sort of roundtable discussion.
Bremmer was still getting the hang of it.
The temple was now off limits to all but Bremmer, and Bremmer himself entered only when summoned.
Skilled priests had hauled tools and building materials up the Skyway to refurbish the outbuildings. There had even been talk in housing a permanent garrison of monks, as the order had done in days of old. The elders seemed optimistic. The Cult of Mordis was not a popular religion by Helvan standards, and many in the order saw the return of their god as fodder for a membership drive.
Fools. Don’t they understand what’s happening? Don’t they know something big is coming?
Of course they did. It was simply that they didn’t know how to react. The entire order was in a state of shock.
Mordis has returned!
Whatever that meant.
Bremmer was cold.
He escaped the bitter wind into the largest of the stone buildings, where novices scurried to prepare the evening meal. The hall was wide enough for two long wooden tables. There were fireplaces at either end of the room. Other novices stoked them periodically. After the meal, the tables would be shoved to the
walls and the chairs turned to face Bremmer for the nightly sermon.
Bremmer paused to observe one of the priests skilled in woodwork. He was carving a figure into one of the great wooden support beams in the center of the hall. He looked up at Bremmer and smiled.
“I think it’s coming along well, don’t you, Abbot Bremmer?”
“You’re doing a good job.” Bremmer made a point of saying “good job” to anyone he could, even just a novice washing the dishes. It was ridiculously easy and seemed to mean a lot to them for some reason.
“It’s my honor to carve the likeness of the martyr Glex,” the priest said. “All will remember his sacrifice, which made the Great Reconstitution possible.”
Yeah, he did a great job lying there and bleeding.
“Don’t carve too much away from the belly,” Bremmer said. “Glex was fat.”
The new group of priests arrived, and they were given something warm to drink and promised food. They were assigned places to sleep. Bremmer uttered perfunctory words of welcome. Abbot Bremmer was a celebrity in the order. They were pathetically gleeful to see him, to hear his words, to know they would serve Mordis under his watchful eye. Wide-eyed fools could not get enough.
Bremmer loved every second of it.
The hall filled with all the priests at the top of the mountain. Nearly a hundred of them crowded at the long tables, spooning in weak broth and eating brown bread and turnips. The way they talked, one might think they were at a fancy feast, dining on pheasant and drinking the finest brandy. There was a peculiar kind of excitement in the air. The priests were animated, talkative, enthusiastic.
The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2) Page 22
