Ahh... Now it began to make sense. This wasn't Faro speaking. Those words had been drilled into him and were now bouncing around his skull, trying to take over. So I waved him closer, grabbed his collar, and slapped him hard across the face.
“Ow,” he said, more in shock than in pain. Something resembling sobriety seeped back into his eyes. “Ow. You hit me.”
“You were talking gibberish. And you owe me a falcon.”
“I can't feel my legs.”
“You'll be fine.”
I got up and pulled him to his feet again. He at least managed to remain standing as long as I held on to him. Together we set off towards the safety of the inn.
“So you have a little trouble getting on with girls, eh?”
Faro was a study in abject misery. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I put you to so much trouble. I just can't.”
“Can't what?”
“Can't... be with a girl. I keep feeling like I...” He cleared his throat a few times and swallowed hard. He slurred but kept going in a melancholy, self-pitying tone. “I get excited and I keep thinking I've got a lash in my hand, and I start to see her face, hear her voice crying out. Then I have thoughts that... Thoughts that no man in God's service should have. I must remain celibate!”
“Lad, you don't have to share a bed with God every night of your life. I think He understands.”
In seconds he went from depression to clumsy anger. “You don't understand! Nobody understands! It was terrible at first, but it's so much worse now. I think I love her, Byren, but when I see her I only remember how good she looked when I was hurting her! Can you imagine how awful that is?”
Finally I saw the whole picture. Poor sod. I did feel an impulse to help; the moral thing to do would be to try to fix the cracks separating him from Yazizi, and take a stab at making them happy together. Another part of me wanted to keep her for myself and would quite happily fall into the same trap as him. Saints help me.
A compromise, then. The boy wasn't going to tackle all his problems in one night, nor I mine. Right this minute all he really needed was to bed someone. The practical thing to do would be to help him with his inhibitions. Anything to shake him up a little.
As luck would have it, I knew a brothel not far out of the way, and Faro was no longer in any state to object. I escorted him through streets, doors and obscuring curtains, and reassured him while the owner went to fetch his prize Harari slave.
It might soothe the boy's tortured mind, or maybe put him off forever. Whichever. It would at least break the stalemate in his heart, either way.
I felt drained by the time we arrived back at the inn. All the rush of fighting and drinking had gone, worn off too soon. Now only the worst remained. Every cut and bruise on my body was throbbing. Lines of cold fire burned where they intersected with old war wounds, and my joints ached like an old man's.
Had I ever come so close to death? Twice in the last week, things had been truly desperate, and someone else had saved my life. I wondered if it had always been that way. I couldn't remember anymore. All the battles of my past seemed to run together, indistinct flashes of steel and blood.
Maybe I was getting old. Maybe taking this job had been a mistake. Maybe I was just bellyaching from too much wine.
I glanced at Faro, who was worse off than I. I watched him slump onto a bench in the abandoned common room. He alternated between a vacant look and a strange, smug little smile. Grunting, I helped him mount the stairs and decided to put him up in my room. Delivering him to Sir Erroll in this state, at this time of night, would be the rotten thing to do.
He dropped on the floor the moment we were inside, and didn't move beyond the slow rise and fall of breaths. “Steady on, man,” I told him. I doubted he heard me.
I tried to follow his example, but sleep refused to come. I lay engaged in morbid thoughts and guilt until I got sick of it. There were more useful things I could be doing. I dug out my armour and oiled the leather and fittings, then took a whetstone to my sword and knife. Even the insistent scrape of stone on steel didn't disturb Faro.
An hour later I'd finished every bit of make-work I could think of. My sword was free of nicks and burrs, sharp in all the right places. My knife was keen enough to shave with. Speaking of...
The beard had annoyed me for a while now, itching and bristling, and the grey in it was getting worse. I'd rather not look like somebody's grandfather, whatever the reality might be. I set my shiny breastplate up as a mirror and went to work in the candlelight.
Each scrape brought a storm of hair tumbling down. Some old battle scars appeared again as I dragged the blade across my skin, turning my chin and cheeks into a pink spider-web, but they didn't seem as bad as I remembered. I looked... clean. That was something I hadn't experienced in a while.
“Not bad,” I said, inspecting myself. Strong, angular cheeks and a good jawline stood revealed from under the matted carpet. I'd been handsome once, and there was still a little bit of it left.
I should probably have waited with shaving until I was sober, but oh well. I bandaged my cuts and got on with it. Enemy swords rarely hurt me as much as I hurt myself.
Still aching, a little delicate in the head but not too fuzzy, I left the room. I still had no taste for sleep. Might as well head downstairs and see if there was anything greasy in the kitchen that might satisfy my craving belly.
I wore only a simple pair of trousers, not even a tunic, expecting no one to be up at this hour. The common room was dark, so I padded barefoot across the floor and prepared to hop over the counter. Out of nowhere I heard the hiss of a firelighter, and spun around to see the woman setting a lit candlestick down on her corner table, looking directly at me.
“You should be counting sheep, Byren,” she murmured. Glancing down from my bare chest to my trousers, she let out an amused little hum, and I could do nothing to hide my embarrassment. In return, however, I caught my first glimpse of her face free of paint and powder.
Her cheeks were pale and smooth, offering a faint hint of freckles towards the nose. Her lips were no longer ruby-red with dye but a warm pink, like posies in springtime. Even without her mask, she looked in control of herself and the situation around her.
Throwing caution to the wind, I approached her table and pulled up a chair. “Seems I'm not the only one burning the midnight oil.”
“Did I express a wish for company, sir?”
“No, Milady,” I admitted, “but you didn't ask to be alone.”
She smiled at my response. “Very good.” Her eyes lingered on the bruises across my chest. “You've a knack for getting yourself into fights, haven't you?”
“Isn't that what you pay me for, Milady?”
“Mm. I see your beard was among our casualties.” She rested her chin on her steepled fingers and gave me a long, critical stare. “I like it. You look less of a barbarian.”
With effort I resisted the urge to blush. I felt like a boy again, smitten by the local lord's teenage daughters and determined to bed them. They'd all been married by that age, of course, but their husbands couldn't be there to watch them all the time. I'd learned early in life that if you carried yourself right, vows made before the church didn't make as much difference as they should.
“Forgive my impudence, Milady,” I chose my words with care, “but why are you up at this hour?”
“Hah! I knew you'd ask sooner or later, dear Byren. That's another thing I like about you.” She paused for a long time. There were no lines on her face, but something about her suggested weariness, the kind that went soul-deep. Then, “I've been to speak with Lord Farrow. He has confided in me that the First Army was defeated thirty leagues north and is now in full retreat, running here. They're less than two days away. The King is with them and the Duke is right on their heels.”
I went rigid in shock. My hands gripped the edge of the table until my fingers ached. She caught my expression and nodded. “My thoughts exactly. We can't wait for Aemedd, we shall have to lea
ve at first light. I sent word but have no guarantee that he'll be ready.”
Without thinking, I blurted out, “Is that why Farrow staged the riot? Why he captured them?”
A tiny gasp escaped before she could clamp it down. It was all I needed to know I'd been right. I could see her guard come up like a curtain wall. Then she seemed to reach some inner decision and sighed all the tension back out. She gave me the truth. “His Majesty will need bodies to man the walls, and it matters very little where they come from. Give each one a crossbow and they may well turn the tide.”
“This... This is a lot to take in,” I said, leaning back, reeling. “The First Army is the King's personal command. The Household Regiment and three more almost as fine. All that, defeated?”
“So it would seem. If it's as bad as Farrow says, it could be the biggest military disaster of the war. It could be the end.”
She stood up and came to me around the table, gently taking my hands in hers ‒ a staggering breach of protocol for an unmarried lady. There was something in her eyes, something worried. “You'll promise to keep this between us?”
“Of course!”
“Good. This is awful news, it mustn't spread yet. I‒ I fear for my country.”
I don't know what possessed me, but I stood and folded my arms around her, and she did not resist. I held her, and there was a moment so comfortable and warm that I lost myself in it. I only realised any time had passed when it was over, when she pulled away from me with a sudden jerk.
“Thank you for your concern, Karl,” she said coolly. “Good night.”
She left in an abrupt whirl of skirts, a white-clad shadow vanishing in the night. I stood alone in the glow of the candle, aroused and confused, hurt and horrified at the same time. Then a thought struck me.
Karl, is it? I wondered, and dared a smile.
I was packed and ready before dawn, and so was everyone else. No wagon to slow us down this time. We'd be hard-pressed to find roads or even solid ground on the Harari steppe. Instead Yazizi got the dubious honour of riding with the baggage on a slow and stupid draught horse that only responded after multiple kicks in the ribs. It was a far cry from her spirited little palfrey ‒ I could probably outrun it on foot ‒ but she still seemed happy to ride.
The woman showed me no further interest that morning. She didn't need to give any orders. Between Sir Erroll and myself, everything was sorted out in record time, and the whole group mounted up. Adar rode double with Faro, and I sat astride our 'borrowed' rouncey. We wouldn't have known who to give it back to, if the owner was even still alive.
“I am not a horseman,” I muttered as I clenched the reins tight.
“You did it twice before without falling off,” Yazizi pointed out guilelessly. She was just on my right, too close for comfort. “Remember how it was. Keep your feet in the stirrups, keep your weight in the middle, and stay still unless you want him to do something.”
I shot her a dark look. “Easy to say for someone who could ride before she could walk. In the King's Own we'd run for a day and a night without rest, and still fight at the end of it.”
Smiling, she kicked the old draught in the sides and set it lumbering forward at its own unhurried pace. “Remember, Karl.”
Gradually our little column started moving. The woman and Sir Erroll took up the van, naturally, with Yazizi and the boys in the middle, while my own good self brought up the rear. The streets were foggy and cold, a perfect early-autumn morning in Farrowhale.
Only once Yazizi lost all interest in me, at least for now, did Faro drop back to ride next to me. He paid little attention to his passenger, who slumped in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. You could've mistaken Adar for dead if it not for his hands, twitching faintly.
The squire seemed relaxed and comfortable atop his own horse. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen him less anxious, and he tipped his hat to me.
“My head hurts,” he said, smiling. He slipped a falcon from his waistband and handed it to me. “I believe I owe you this.”
I took the coin and rolled its pleasant weight between my fingers. “Did you sort out what was bothering you?”
“No, but I know more than I did. I also have more to make penance for, but that's the price of the lesson.” He shrugged. “You were trying to help me. Thank you.”
“It's nothing.”
“It's not,” he insisted, “and someday I'll repay you.”
He broke away and left me to my thoughts. If only I'd had any. Much of my mind had checked out while the body worked on recovery. It needed a little more time to conquer all the alcohol I'd poured in last night.
I didn't even notice when we passed through the White Gate, the cobbles now mostly clean of last night's slaughter. There were soldiers everywhere in twos and threes, patrolling the charred rubble and escorting small bands of Northerners back to the inner city.
We soon came to a halt at Corramon's Arch, which guarded the city's western entrance, a tall tower over mighty bleached-oak gates and an iron portcullis. The huge, intricately carved stonework had a palpable weight to it as you got near. The pillars on either side of the tower were two great angels carved in bas-relief, and their upraised wings formed the arch itself. Both angels showed the scars of time and siegework, their faces chiselled off in antiquity by some invading army, but they were no less beautiful for it.
Sadly we couldn't stop to admire the architecture. I tried to get a better view but only managed to confuse my rouncey into shuffling backwards and forwards. Then a figure called out, riding out of the shadows at the base of the Arch.
“I received your message, my dear Lady,” it said. To my lasting disbelief, I recognised Aemedd of Leora swaying atop a shaggy Harari camel, waving at us from behind white desert robes and a sun veil. On his head, fastened with a simple leather strap, was the helm.
I thought, What in God's name do you think you look like?
Sir Erroll's horse and the squire's both shied away from the camel as it came near, unaccustomed to the smell. Thankfully my rouncey barely reacted, either raised around camels or trained to deal with them, and Yazizi's draught horse remained unimpressed. The woman approached Aemedd without a moment's hesitation.
“A pleasure to see you, Professor. I feared you wouldn't be able to come.”
“And miss this opportunity? I would regret it for the rest of my life.” Aemedd's face moved behind his veil, though it was hard to tell what he was doing with it. From what I remembered of him, he had a smile like a slice of damp bread. His lips never opened far enough to show teeth, and I'd be damned if I could find any spark of genuine mirth in his half-closed eyes. “I am ready to travel if you'll have me.”
The woman bowed her head in what might pass for humble gratitude. “We would be sorely pressed without you, Professor. Please join me, I'd like us to speak.”
Sir Erroll's horse bucked and neighed as Aemedd whipped his camel into motion. The knight started to protest, but his lady shot him a withering glance over her shoulder, and he shrank back like a beaten dog to join me at the rear of the column.
“Byren,” he greeted me curtly. I could hear his teeth grinding together from where I sat, and he watched the quiet conversation between Aemedd and the woman like a hawk. “This is a farce, and that man a clown.”
I chuckled. “You've met?”
“Not really. I...” He stopped himself and let out a hard sigh. “Point well taken, Byren. It's a poor thing to judge the man when I barely know him.”
I shrugged and said nothing. Wouldn't want to correct him for thinking me more subtle than I was.
When he spoke again, he was deep in thought. “I admit, I've been a knight-errant for a while now, and it's a friendless life. The people you come across treat you as either a novelty or a nuisance. They might try to talk and flatter their way into your esteem, but they always reveal their true selves sooner or later.”
“How do you mean, Sir?”
His moustache parted for a lopsided smile. “I
admit I was unsure about you at first. I still am in some ways. Mercenaries come in all kinds, as I'm sure you know. Now that we're going into the steppe, though... I'm glad I'm not the only man around who knows which end of a sword to hold.”
“Um. Thank you.”
He tipped his hat in salute and spurred his horse on ahead to join the column, which was already well out in front, on their way into the fields and farmlands outside the wall. I followed clumsily, fighting to get the rouncey moving in the right direction.
Soon the walls of Farrowhale were an indistinct grey shape in the distance, rapidly diminishing behind us.
2. Book of the West
“Never get yourself involved in the employer's entanglements.”
- Contractor's Second Rule
In a way it was good to leave the city behind. No more walls to get trapped inside, no drawn-out, starving siege, no invading army coming to kill us. Nothing made me happier than marching away from a place that was about to get surrounded and squeezed tight.
Still, I couldn't help but feel like I'd abandoned Farrowhale somehow. The sergeant in me wanted to stay and fight the good fight alongside my king. I hadn't served in the Army for nigh-on eleven years but that little voice never quite seemed to die, despite my continued attempts to kill it.
“Have you been to the steppe before, Byren?” Sir Erroll asked me as the sun began to set on our first day on the western road. By all acounts it had been an easy ride, but my arse was raw and I didn't have any patience for the usual social graces. “I've faced Harari raiders, but never on their own ground.”
“Nor have I, Sir, and I hope it stays that way.”
I felt a little apprehensive as I looked ahead, knowing that beyond these green fields things got hot, and dry, and desperate. Harsh conditions which bred hard people. People like Yazizi, who would rather break than bend. If we were spotted, I could only hope the Harari would decide we had nothing worth stealing. Otherwise... Well, I had no illusions about how that would go.
Written in Blood Page 10
