Polo looked over to Danamis and smiled once he realised he was being intently observed. “It does my heart good to see you my lord! You have indeed had an anno miraculoso. Defeating the mutiny against you and then being reunited with your father. Reversal of fortune indeed, yes?”
“I would say that fortune favours those who take charge of their own destiny but I thank you for your sentiments, Captain Polo.”
The Bo, dressed in a wide-sleeved black silk gown showered in geometric patterns of scarlet, leaned forward, hands crossed upon the polished blackwood table. “We have heard much of your skill at arms, Admiral Danamis. Your resilience, too. I wish I had taken more time to speak with you last summer here at the palace. Perhaps we can redress that in the coming days?”
Danamis gave a slight nod. “I remain at your service, my lord. For myself, I would hear of the new arrangements that your emperor has made with Scythiana, a place so far from home. Perhaps it was the tendency there for people of red hair that captured his attention.”
Polo’s face went hard, the last trace of smile dissolving. But Xiang Lao bowed his head politely. “We could speak of many things I am sure, Admiral. Things of mutual interest and concern.”
Danamis smiled. “Of that I am certain, Ambassador.”
Doors opened beyond and palace halberdiers entered, rapping their polearms on the wide-planked floors. As one, the men at the table rose, turning to watch the entry of the dowager queen, regent of Valdur. She wore the same flowing gown of night blue and golden stars that she had worn a few days earlier when she had met with Danamis. Cressida floated across the room and took her seat, each of her councillors bowing low as she settled into place, her hands perched confidently on the arms of the high-backed chair. Her eyes moved across the council but didn’t rest on any one man, for even a moment. Danamis saw how she barely acknowledged him. Best course, he thought.
“Good my lords!” she began, “Pray, be seated. What advice do you offer me today regarding the threat against the throne.”
Baron Raganus cleared his throat and straightened his burgundy felt sugarloaf hat as he regained his seat. “Your Majesty, as advised earlier, we have the ambassador of the Silk Empire, attended by Captain Polo. Would you hear them?”
She turned to Raganus. “I am pleased that the ambassador has returned to court. Will he speak for himself or will Captain Polo make the address?”
“I will begin, at least, your Majesty,” said Polo, “but the ambassador is more than capable of presenting his proposal on his own behalf.”
Cressida directed her gaze to the aging, elegant seafarer. “Then, Captain Polo, tell us what news you have of the rebellion that swirls around Perusia. For my own sources say that a Milvornan army waits just on the other side of the border. I doubt its intent is benign.”
Danamis leaned back in his chair. Now came the moment, he thought. It was time for Polo and his backers to show their cards and in so doing reveal the price of aid.
“It is true, your Majesty, my sources confirm that the Milvornans are building an encampment near Tarolis. It is likely they will invade Perusia in the coming days. It is a formidable force, mercenary companies and militia alike.”
“I have asked Maresto and Saivona to send armies and my loyal dukes will not fail me,” replied Cressida. “Admiral Danamis has his men and indeed my own guard on the border will add to that force.”
Baron Raganus cleared his throat dramatically. “Your Majesty, there is other news that affects the calculus, if I may.”
The dowager queen inclined her head.
“I have received word this very morning that Duke Ursino has defeated an army of Duke Alonso’s mercenaries in the north of the duchy, south of Livorna. He will now lay siege to the Ara and may even march on Maresto city itself. If Alonso loses the hinterland of Maresto, then he will be busy defending his city and the Saivonans will not be able to cross to get here. If such things come to pass, then the throne is in peril and Ursino’s boastful claims are no longer idle ones.”
Danamis sat up, watching as Cressida visibly reeled from the import of Raganus’s words.
Captain Polo gave an unctuous smile. “With respect, my queen, nothing is yet lost and the relief force that your father urged is already on its way from Colonna. It is Sinean. Three ships and no more than two days from here.”
Cressida attempted to rally. “My lord, it is a gracious gesture of the Silk Empire but three ships will hardly stem a major invasion from the north or the west.”
“These are not Valdurian carracks, your Majesty. They each carry one thousand warriors and are the length of ten of your galleys laid end to end. They will defend Perusia and the throne.”
The Bo nodded and smiled. Danamis quickly calculated the odds of defence if the Sineans decided to impose their will. There were none. With a force that size, if it were true and Polo was not stretching the truth as he often did, there would be no way to resist a Sinean occupation. He could not even begin to wrap his mind around the size of the ships Polo had described. That such vessels could even exist had never even occurred to him. Cressida was looking at him now, almost imploring him to help.
“And under whose command are these ships and their soldiers?” he asked, struggling to keep his tone one of mild interest. “Yours, Captain Polo?”
Xiang Lao let out a bellowing laugh before Polo could reply. “If Valdur and the Sinae are allies then what does it matter? I am sure that we could put you on the quarterdeck of one of them, Admiral!” He looked from Danamis to the queen, his dark eyes twinkling with enthusiasm. “Your majesty, on behalf of my master, the Supreme Lord of the Five Thrones of the Silk Empire, I offer you a formal alliance. One of deep friendship and mutual benefit.” He lifted a large folded parchment from his lap and gently placed it upon the table. He slid it towards the centre towards Raganus. “We would wish the House of Sempronius to continue to prosper—and Valdur with it.”
Raganus gestured for a guard to retrieve it for him. “And your terms, ambassador?”
Danamis had no doubt whatsoever that Raganus, now chancellor of the kingdom, already knew them.
“I will leave you now to discuss them in private with her Majesty and the rest of her esteemed council,” said Xiang with a flourish. “You will soon see that they are the means to a new golden era for Valdur.” He rose and bowed low three times to Cressida, his strangely folded silk hat fluttering with each dip. He backed away, and with folded hands concealed in his voluminous sleeves, he left the chamber.
Piero Polo looked about the table, like a fox regarding a yard full of chickens. “Shall we begin?”
Cressida frowned and again cast a glance over to Danamis. Danamis gave her a wink and lifted his forefinger slightly in a gesture of reassurance. He now had less than two days to come up with an alternative to handing over the keys to the kingdom to the Sinaens, and he already knew there was but one.
Twenty-One
WORRY AND FEAR. The two hung over Livorna like a foul invisible fug, from east in low town to the reaches of the Ara plateau high on the west side. Every man of sound body from white-haired grandfathers to boys with but a wisp of downy chin beard had been told their duty. The battlements would be manned, the gates reinforced by cart, barrel and crate, the stones and rocks hauled up in wicker baskets to join the copper vats of sand and pitch already stationed there. Short iron tripod braziers already sat stocked with coal and wood every forty feet along the zig-zagging stonework. Pinched faces regarded one another on the streets across the cramped ribbon of a town, some people hoarding bread and meat, others spending their last silver on dark strong wine should this week be their last.
Now the apprehension had come to an end. Templars along the walls had shouted their warnings below that soldiers had been sighted riding beyond the tree line on the ridge south of Livorna—scouts. They were lightly armoured and bore no banners. Although the portcullis was already down at both stone gatehouses, the order was given to close and bolt the great reinforc
ed wooden gates as well. Like wildfire, the word spread across the town, bells adding to the cries of the militia. Some prayed it was an army from Maresto; others of a more pessimistic nature knew it was Torinia’s war dogs that had come.
Lieutenant Poule stood shoulder to shoulder with Acquel on the highest embrasures at the main tower, watching the small groups of horsemen as they cantered along the length of the town, far out of bowshot. They could be seen stopping every so often to confer, as if noting details of the walls.
“Torinia?” asked Acquel, knowing the answer.
“The Black Rose would have already come a-knocking if it were they,” replied Poule. “These men are sizing us up for attack. I expect we will have the main army here before the sun sets. Bastards.”
Acquel leaned over the wall. “Sweet God. What has happened to the Black Rose? Where is Strykar?”
“If the Blue Boar has got here first then we must fear the worst: that they have already met upon the field, and lost.”
Acquel turned to face the mercenary. “You’re saying we will have no relief? That we’re alone?”
Poule grunted. “Brother Acquel, I’m no Seeker. We will likely have two choices: negotiate a surrender when asked or hold out as long as we can. Duke Alonso will have to send an army north to deal with the Blue Boar. We will have to last until he does.”
Acquel took a deep breath to steel himself. “I must tell the High Priest what is happening. And then the two of us must see the High Steward, and find Brother Volpe! I just pray he won’t be at the bottom of a wine jug.”
“If he is, he’ll be in good company,” mumbled Poule as he turned to enter the tower stair.
ACQUEL FOUND KODORIS in a state of deep reflection, unmoved to action by his news of the enemy’s arrival on their doorstep. Seated in his chambers, garbed in his purple cioppa and surplice, the High Priest seemed oddly detached as he fingered his shining medallion of office.
“I’m going to low town now to inform Count Marsilius that the siege will shortly be upon us. I don’t know if he will treat with Ursino personally or if he will delegate to me.”
Kodoris looked up at him, his face almost blank. “I shall lead prayer in the Temple Majoris this evening, Magister. That is where my duty takes me.”
“Lucius, the walls are sound. The men have been trained and the Order of Livorna stands ready to defend. Maresto will lift the siege if we stand firm.”
The High Priest returned a wan smile. “You are the chosen of Elded. You will persevere. And I will do what I must.”
Acquel frowned. “You are the head of the One Faith now. Your presence will be demanded, needed by the people. Will you stand by me?”
Kodoris seemed to look past Acquel and into the middle distance of his own mind. “I will stand by you, Brother Acquelonius. When the time comes. This I know.” The delivery of the words sent a chill through Acquel. It was more than a promise: it was preordainment. Acquel stepped back, unwilling to delve into the nature of Kodoris’s vision. He would have his hands full leading a battle he was manifestly unqualified to undertake with only one grizzled veteran soldier and an old monk to depend upon. And he knew the strength of the walls of Livorna would have to compensate for the weakness of their skill at arms, and their hearts.
He left the monastery and returned to the battlements to find Poule waiting for him, Ugo Volpe in tow. Acquel could see more horsemen out on the gently sloping plain before the town walls. A wagon and team came into view, halting under a stand of gnarled ancient olive trees: the quartermaster and supplies for the siege, he guessed. The main army would no doubt be hard on their heels. He cast an eye down the long line of the battlement as it wound its way east like a sleeping dragon, the crenulations its spine of stone. Already men were gathering, the constables having rounded up their detachments to man the wall. As Poule had warned him more than once, their defence would be thin and should more than one attack occur along the length of the town, they would be hard-pressed to deal with both. Somewhere below him, a bell slowly and incessantly chimed.
Volpe smiled broadly as Acquel reached him. “Brother Acquel, we are ready. First watch of the brotherhood is on the wall west of the main gatehouse. Lieutenant Poule has tasked the militia eastwards to the gate at low town.” He placed an avuncular hand on Acquel’s shoulder. “Now we wait for their first move.”
“It will be a call for surrender,” added Poule helpfully. “That is the usual form in such matters. So who will speak for Livorna? You or the High Steward?”
Acquel felt a strange exhilaration—an almost drunken giddiness—now that the wait was over. He had felt this feeling before, at sea. When about to fight the pirates of Darfan, and it had worried him afterwards. How could a holy monk find rapture in the prospect of battle? This time, he took solace in the feeling. Action was far better than waiting in ignorance, of being afraid. “We will find out now. We’re going to the palace.”
As expected, it was Voltera who met them in the great hall. He was agitated, face glistening with sweat.
“Magister, we were worried you would not come! Terrible news this day.” He turned on his heels and beckoned for them to follow him across the hall and into the meeting chamber. When they entered, Poule let out an oath that carried up to the high-beamed ceiling. Acquel froze where he stood. There in the centre of the ornate panelled chamber stood Marsilius the Count, and Strykar. The mercenary looked as if he had been dragged by a horse. He was filthy and dishevelled, his face the colour of granite.
“Sweet God above!” said Poule as he reached his commander. “Coronel, my good lord, what has happened? Where is the Black Rose?”
“Defeated,” said Marsilius, his voice oddly matter-of-fact. “And Coronel Strykar has just arrived to give us the news. Alone.”
Acquel joined Poule, who was restraining himself from seizing Strykar in a hug while he stammered away in surprise and shock.
“Strykar, what has happened?” said Acquel, his stomach lurching.
The mercenary looked at Acquel, nodding almost as if to convince himself of the situation. “We were shattered. At the far side of the Taro River. It was the entire force of the Blue Boar and the Whites. Ursino and his own knights. And the Milvornans for good measure. They have joined Ursino.”
Acquel’s mouth fell open. “Elded save us. Where is the Black Rose?”
Strykar looked behind him and retrieved his silver wine goblet from the table beyond. “They fled. Back over the river and south. I only hope most made it to Maresto. We lost a few hundred I think.”
Poule was shaking his head in utter disbelief. “Sir, how did you escape? Are there no others with you?”
“I was struck down and captured on the field. Unconscious. The tale of my escape can wait until later.” He took a deep swig of wine. “There is more I must tell you. Of the sorceress.”
Acquel grasped Strykar’s arm. “The canoness? What has she done?”
“She has summoned beasts to their aid. Griffons. Huge creatures. They tore our vanguard to pieces and when the Milvornans hit our flank we collapsed. The Scarlet Ring was our rearguard but they fell back too and fled.”
Acquel released Strykar and stood back, coldly numb as the news washed over him.
“And they carried the Hand of Saint Ursula with them as they attacked. They might have damned well good as carried the crown and throne with them to prove their claim. The royal beasts of Valdur and the Hand!”
Brother Volpe stepped forward. “They do not have the Hand of Ursula. We do. Tell me of the beasts.”
Strykar looked at the little round priest and scowled. “Who the hell is this?”
“This is Brother Volpe,” said Acquel. “He was a fighting monk of Astilona and has great knowledge of the arcane. He is my... advisor.”
Strykar laughed, a derisive guffaw borne of exhaustion and failure. “Your advisor? And Poule here your general?” He turned to Marsilius. “Good my lord, take me to a sickbed that I may sleep unto death.”
M
arsilius blinked, debating whether to honour the request. But Volpe put his hands on his hips and growled a reply. “I have asked you a question, Coronel, and I expect an answer. It is we who will now face these creatures. I must know what you have seen.”
Strykar bellowed and threw the goblet across the room where it struck the hearth with a clang. “Who am I to be interrogated by this priest!” Voltera jumped backwards at the outburst and two guards sprang forward and seized the mercenary. Marsilius raised a trembling hand to stay them. “Let him be.”
Strykar raised his hand to his brow and lowered his head, instantly ashamed of his outburst. “I must get back to Maresto,” he said quietly. “To warn them.”
“They will be warned by your comrades who got away,” said Volpe, his voice like steel. “We need you here at Livorna.”
“He is right,” said Acquel softly. “Strykar, we need you. And we may have a weapon with which to fight the canoness.”
Strykar looked up, his face a mask of despair. “I lost my command. My company.”
“But Livorna will give you back your respect,” said Volpe.
“And I will follow you,” added Poule, nodding. “All of the militia.”
“So will the Templars,” said Acquel. “We are ready to fight them at the walls.”
Strykar looked up to the garish plaster roses and vines on the ceiling, a cruel reminder of his comrades, now scattered and broken. He smoothed back his greasy hair with both hands and pondered the choice. To stay or to make an escape for Maresto. To return in shame, alone, after the remnants of the Black Rose had streamed back south, was something he could hardly contemplate. He could already imagine the look on Alonso’s face when he would enter the palace. Perhaps Acquel and this old monk were right. To stay and fight for Livorna—defeat the siege maybe—that would go some way in restoring his reputation. He looked at each of them in turn.
The Witch of Torinia Page 25
