But Siniava had had powers he still lacked. Siniava had been able to change shapes, to appear like someone else.
You do not need that. Your face brings terror to your enemies and respect to those who serve you.
Still … it would have been nice to be able to change.
A lesser power. Great powers become greater by being more themselves.
That made sense. He sighed once more and took a last look to the north, where the height on which Cortes Immer stood trailed away as a descending ridge into the lowlands along the eastern branch of the Immer, the Imefal.
Sunlight glinted on something—something moving. He squinted. No dust rose behind it—rain had fallen the day before. A shout rose from the lookout’s post just below. He heard the clatter of feet, of weapons, from the lower levels and then, leaning over, saw his men running to the walls. A mounted troop was already at the gate.
Fallo. The Duke of Fall, like Andressat, had not been receptive to his demand for obeisance. But the Duke of Fall was old and would die soon, and his son might be more malleable. His son had a taste for luxury, it seemed. He had dealt with those who traded in and out of Slavers’ Bay to the east, bypassing—as he thought—the Duke of Immer’s control of the Immer ports. But in his pirate days, Alured—the right name for that time—had made contacts he’d never lost. So he knew what Fall’s son desired and made sure he got it in more quantity and better quality and at a lower price than before.
True, Fall’s daughter-in-law was the child of Sofi Ganarrion, whose mercenary company had, despite flamboyant uniforms, fought extremely well against Siniava and now had joined with Fallo’s own troops to guard that dukedom. And Ganarrion was northern—from some northern kingdom—
Kostandan. Like her father, of royal blood. Seafolk, originally.
His advisor’s annoyance edged the information; he had been told that before. Seafolk … who might know that he himself still had connections in Slavers’ Bay. But probably not a girl.
He headed down the stairs to the lookout’s post. The man bowed as deeply as Alur-Visli wished. Yes, he thought he could see that it was a horseman coming along the Fallo—Immer road. A messenger from the Duke, perhaps?
He said nothing but continued on to his chambers. If it was a messenger, he should appear to be what he was: the most powerful lord in Aarenis. He changed his shirt, his doublet, shrugged into a new capelet, lifted his chin while his servant adjusted the fall of lace at his throat. He always wore his sword—a sword now, not a seaman’s cutlass—and the various knives he had found useful over the years. He hesitated, once his servant had left him, over the casket where the necklace lay. Rumor said everyone knew he had it—must have it—but he had shown it only to a few trusted men. Was it time to wear it openly?
Yes. But with the chain of office.
The chain of office, made to his order in Immerdzan, downriver, with the medallion of the Duke of Immer, copied from a design found in the ruins before he rebuilt Cortes Immer. He took the chain of office from its velvet-lined box and put it over his head to lie smoothly on his shoulders. Then, anticipating the beauty within, he opened the casket. It always took his breath away. The stones were flawless, radiant with their perfection. His. His forever. And someday … soon … he would have the rest of the set. The crown, the rings, the goblet … all would be his, and the power they held as well.
The necklace settled around his neck, inside the chain of office. The image in his expensive polished mirror looked … exactly as a powerful duke—even a king—should look. It lacked only the crown.
In his office, he spread maps on his map table … He already knew his plans for this year’s campaigns, but the maps would make it clear, if the messenger was from Fallo’s court, that he had yet more plans. His advisor had taught him how to look impressive—his clothes, his demeanor, his actions.
The messenger, escorted into his office still mud-spattered, was in fact one of his own spies, not from the Duke of Fall at all.
“My lord, Fallo gathers an army—”
“An army? All he has is that excuse for a militia and Ganarrion’s cavalry that everyone jokes about.”
“My lord, no … I mean, there’s more, my lord. The Cold Count—his polearms company has been reinforced, from the north I hear.”
Count Vladiorhynsich. In Siniava’s War, the commander who had held Rotengre in siege while Kieri Phelan had taken over half the rest of the besiegers north to free Dwarfwatch from Siniava. Brutally effective, his troops. Alur-Visli had seen them at work, had been glad not to face them. But now he had more … he was sure he had more. And he had magery to strengthen his troops and weaken his opponents.
“They’re moving, my lord. And the farmers say that Fallo is reinforcing the border.”
“Market gossip?”
“Some, my lord. And some say … what happened to Count Andressat’s son … it’s made Fall angry.”
Let the old man be angry; he had no teeth to bite. But the Cold Count might, if he had enough troops. Surely he did not. Five hundred at the start of Siniava’s War and fewer later. Even if he’d been training Fall’s lax militia … but if the northerners got involved here, in eastern Aarenis … he’d counted on them coming in from Valdaire only. Kostandanyans … yes, there’d been some going in and out of Slavers’ Bay in his pirate days, and from there … not so far across the Copper Hills to the North Trade Road.
He’d intended to take Fallo eventually, but maybe he should do that first, to have security at his back when he pressed west to Valdaire. The Guild League cities were already frightened, already distrusting one another’s commitment to the League. Very little interference would keep them stirred up. One campaign season should be enough to conquer Fallo; it would be over by Midwinter Feast.
His advisor was silent but aware—he had learned to tell. Silence usually meant agreement.
“You will speak to no one of your message,” he said, putting power into it.
The man’s face paled. “No, my lord, to no one.”
“You will not go back to Fallo; you might be recognized. You will stay here, with other duties, for the time being.” The man bowed, even paler now. “Other duties” had, for some, meant a cell in the dungeon and long interrogations. “You are excused,” Visli said. The name draped his shoulders with power; he could feel it.
Now for the planning. The maps, arranged for show, held his attention as he considered how many troops, what kind, how long to gather them, move them … He looked up as sunlight lay a bright hand on the maps. So long? But he had his plan. He sent for the captains resident in Cortes Immer.
“A change in plans,” he said when they stood before him.
“My lord.”
“Fall is our new target. I would not have that fool at my back as we move west.” He looked with particular intensity at the captain who had dared suggest, the year before, controlling Fallo first. The man showed no expression, no flicker of eyelid, no traitorous wish to claim that idea for himself. “We have word of an attempt by northerners to infiltrate from Slavers’ Bay and suspect an attempt to take over the Immervale while we are far to the west. Instead, we will take Fallo and gain control of Slavers’ Bay. I will send word to my sea force today.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I have decided what troops we need. Each of you, with a suitable escort, will ride west and north to bring back those units, except for you, Captain Gedarnt.” This time the man’s eyelids did flicker in surprise.
Send Gedarnt north.
That had not been his idea. Why that?
I have a reason he should not hear. Do it.
He gave the orders as smoothly as if he’d thought them over for days. “You will take your troops to the Northern Trade Road, ready to attack Fall’s forces in the rear, should they retreat, and to interdict any reinforcements that might come by that way. You will note all trails that might lead over the mountains and note signs of usage. Though it is unlikely, we know small groups have used at
least two such in the past. You will have all my forces now at Rotengre, including the raiders harrying Sorellin’s fields. That should reach near four hundred.”
Gedarnt bowed low. “Yes, my lord. As my lord commands.”
He looked at each face intently, allowing his advisor to see with those eyes, so much more penetrating than his own. “One campaign season,” he said. “One will see it done. Come to the maps and see how it will be done.”
They came, and he showed them—step by step, march by march. “The forces opposing us are the Fallo militia, whose qualities we know—they may have had more training with Ganarrion there, but Ganarrion was never known as a strict disciplinarian. Count Vladi was, but he is older now, and his force somewhat reduced. So a cavalry company who have seen no combat for these several years while their commander played courtly games, a polearms company of good quality, but again out of practice, and the militia. An unknown number of Kostandanyan troops brought in by sea … possibly good soldiers but possibly those thought least useful at home. We cannot know that yet.”
“My lord—” That was Captain Tikart. “Will not the Guild League sense a weakness and attack?”
“No. They will have rumors enough of why we delay even as they try to adjust their trade routes to avoid Lûn and Cortes Cilwan. They will be glad of a respite but not trust it. And next year … next campaign season or before … we will be on the move west again.” He cast a look at Captain Gedarnt. “Had we moved against Fall first, it would have given them warning of our initial attack on them and they might well have combined against us—but now they’re paralyzed by fear, and the corruption of their currency has made them distrust one another. Now we can attack Fall without worrying that they will attack us.”
The discussion went on; Alured-Visli allowed his captains to ask questions for a while, then told them to return after dinner for their written orders and bring their own estimates of troop strength and supplies. When they’d left, he went to the window and held up the necklace of blue and white jewels, watching them catch the light just like ripples of the sea.
He knew. His advisor had told him what they were, what power they held, what power the crown held, the crown that someday would be his. He would command an element, and the very element so important to him for so long as a pirate captain. He would command water. He would never be thirsty, never lack for water to float his ships or fill his wells.
Light danced on the walls of his office, as if from moving water; he smiled and tucked the necklace under his shirt.
You must go with your troops.
Alured-Visli had not expected that. When he’d sent agents and then troops west and northwest, his advisor had forbidden him to go, had insisted he must stay in Cortes Immer. This was just a small campaign, nothing like as complicated, and if he hadn’t been needed on the field there, why now?
I must see with my own eyes what resources the Duke of Fall has.
His second woman would birth her child in the next hand or two of days. He wanted to know if this would be another son or a daughter. His first son was just standing now, wobbly and unable so far to take a step without holding on to something.
But if he must go, he must.
By the time his troops from downriver, Lûn, and Cortes Cilwan had gathered, Visli Vaskronin, Duke of Immer, was more than ready to leave. His concubine had birthed a daughter three days before, a child he had ordered killed for the horror of that cleft lip running right up into her nose and the disfiguring birthmark across half her face. The concubine as well: the curse must have come through her side, not his; his son by his first concubine had grown into a handsome shirtling. It had not escaped his notice that the birthmark was shaped like a dismasted ship. When he found that the family from which he’d taken her had disappeared in the last twelve hands of days, he was sure they’d done it.
You must find and punish them. His advisor had taught him the uses of punishment long ago but still insisted he was not hard enough. Take your vengeance; never let an enemy escape; never give one ease. Else they will see weakness and make alliances against you.
Two other women were pregnant by him. He had their families under guard now, but … what if those children, too, were cursed? He knew gossip raged in his stronghold; he could not help but know. Best to be on the road to battle with men—men, not gossiping women and boys—around him.
He rode the handsome black bay his agents had brought from Valdaire’s horse market. A thief’s horse, it had been; that pleased him. Market talk his agent had brought back with the horse suggested that the Thieves’ Guild in Valdaire wanted it out of the city, far to the east if possible, before some legendary master thief from whom it had been stolen returned. Well. He understood thieves’ politics. The loser in this game would never find his horse. So far, Vaskronin had not been able to discover what thief-taught tricks the horse knew. Perhaps he would on this journey.
From his scouts he had an accurate idea of the land ahead. Immervale, the rich lowlands between the Imefal and the middle branch of the Immer … slow going, with the inferior road deep in mud in places. Ahead were the rounded hills and fertile valleys of Fallo itself, and finally the estate—hardly a stronghold—of the Duke of Fall. No grim gray stone walls too high to scale with ladders here but a wall intended more to train flowers against and hold out cattle from the house gardens than a defense against invasion.
A few days on the road and he’d almost succeeded in putting the frightening mask of that dead infant behind him. Here he might also see infants dead, but they would not be of his breeding and therefore of no concern. His scouts reported Fall’s troops moving, but not all were headed south, toward him. He hoped that meant Fall had a report of troops coming along the North Trade Road. Surprise would have been good, but dividing troops was also good. With luck—and with the winds this time of year it would take luck—his ships would be approaching Slavers’ Bay and he could frighten Fall from three directions.
They were yet days from the Duke’s estate when his scouts reported a force blocking the road ahead, a hundred or so of Fall’s militia and less than that of cavalry in Ganarrion’s colors. That would be only what showed, he was sure. A cavalry reserve, perhaps among trees on the slopes of a hill. A militia reserve. Some kind of archers. Even a half-hundred of Count Vladi’s pikes.
Sitting on his black horse, two names for himself competing in his head, listening to reports, Alured-Visli considered how best to attack, drawing on what he had learned from his onetime allies in Siniava’s War: expect reserves, expect a unit you did not know was there, with weapons those in sight have not shown. His advisor stirred in his head but for once did not interfere. His advisor, he’d been told, had never fought this kind of war.
It would be a test battle, this first one. He had brought six hundred with him, a mix of weapons—he would see what worked. Every other consideration vanished as he made his decisions, ordered his troops, and advanced.
The Fallo contingents stood firm, though they were visibly outnumbered. So—they thought their reinforcements were larger than his. Larger they might be; harder they could not be, especially the veterans of the battle for Cortes Cilwan. Nor were they better equipped. In the first sandglass of the battle, his troops pushed back the Fallo infantry and his cavalry swept Ganarrion’s riders aside time and again. The Fallo reserves—poised, he was sure, on the slopes of the hills—did nothing.
That worried him. They should have—they must have—some point at which they would come charging down. He would have put his reserves in by now if his troops had been pushed back so far.
Now the Fallo front line appeared to waver, and in the rear some turned to run. His own troops pressed forward, his captains glancing back at him for an order to advance, pursue … but it did not feel right. So short a battle, given up so easily? He gave the order to halt; his flagmen flipped the flags back and forth at once, and his captains yelled at their men. His troops halted, shifted to a tighter formation.
Even
as they did, the woods to either side gave back the sound of men running headlong through the trees, and Fallo’s reserves poured out into the open. All the reserves? They had seemed to lack discipline before, and now again they had not waited to be sure they had his flanks.
He signaled advance, and once more his troops pressed forward. The lines stiffened on Fallo’s side; the noise intensified. Slowly, bloodily, his troops made headway, pushing Fallo’s troops back step by step, death by death. He had the advantage; he had the numbers and the right weapons, and it worked as he had planned.
Because you knew to halt. How did you know?
He did not have time now. His advisor could see what he had seen only if he spoke the words to explain in his mind or let his advisor take over. The battle could still be lost if he did not stay alert. He said those words aloud as well as in his mind: “Not now. Later.”
Silence from his advisor. He rode his horse a little way up the slope of the hill on his sword-hand to get a better view of what lay ahead. Fields, a few simple farmhouses, a vill in the distance. A narrow bridge over a small creek, the line of the creek winding between him and the vill. And between him and the vill, what looked like a long mound casting a shadow—with no hedge on top. Black dirt against the green of young grain. It ringed the vill.
Fall’s troops must have come from there, must have tried to fortify the vill and then decided to march out to meet him. That could have worked if he’d had fewer troops or fallen for that ambush. But he had enough men to kill them all, given time.
He pushed them back almost to the creek, which seemed sunk deep in the rich soil. Then, to his surprise, a line of soldiers rose from the creek, coalesced into four cohorts of pikes, and—fresh and eager—plowed into his front lines. At the same time, cavalry in Ganarrion’s colors galloped out from the vill, jumped the creek upstream and down of the battle, and fell upon his flanks.
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