“Maybe.”
“But they probably think you’re dead. It was you that saved Livorna, they will learn that.”
Strykar turned and gave her a tired, thin smile. “It was you that saved Livorna, mistress.”
“And it was you that saved me, right here where we stand.”
Strykar looked out again over the plain and the lonely stands of ancient twisted olive trees. “I need you with me. You know the ways south off the main road. And I need bowmen who can actually hit something if we run into brigands or scouts from Aretini. I don’t know if I can beat the enemy to Maresto. In time, or at all.”
She did not answer for what to Strykar seemed an eternity. “I do not like this killing. Nor do my men. Bero has told me he still sees the ones he shot, up close here on the wall. It is one thing to kill an animal, another to slay a man.”
“What do you think would have happened to the folk in this town had the enemy breached us? To the women. The children. This isn’t just about a duke who wants to grab a crown, it’s a fight against the goddamned Devil himself. ”
She nodded. “That is why I stayed. And to safeguard my honour, my oath to the crown.”
He reached over and grasped her wrist. “It will all happen again, in Maresto. Unless the holy men stop this sorceress who leads Ursino around by his nose. I do not understand all of the things they say. This magicking they do. But I believe it.”
She stayed silent.
“It was my damned prideful arrogance that undid the Black Rose. At the Taro. I cannot undo that until I help defeat Ursino, if I can save the crown, save Maresto...” He squeezed her wrist and turned her to him. “I need your help to get us back. I want you with me.”
She pulled away her scarf, revealing the sad ruin of her face. “Even if it comes with this, Messere Julianus?”
His hand touched her fairer side, gently cupping her cheek before falling away. “Mistress Demerise, of all the women I have met in my miserable life, I would follow you to the gates of Hell itself.”
Demerise looked into his eyes but her voice betrayed no emotion. “Well then, sir. What am I to say to that?”
“Say you know a way south, and that you will take us by it.”
She nodded and began to wrap the scarf around her face. But Strykar gently pulled it down so it lay around her shoulders. “You don’t need that anymore. Not with me.”
Poule, still standing behind them, raised what little eyebrows his scarred forehead still possessed and reached into his pocket for another fig.
Thirty
THE RECEIVING CHAMBER of the Duke of Maresto was a swirl of glorious silks and brocades: nobles, soldiers, officials and the servitors who scrambled among them, the latter clothed in bright red livery of the finest Maresto wool. Three of the Duke’s favourite lurchers quietly threaded their way through the throng, snapping up morsels that had fallen on the vermillion tiled floor. It was a long chamber, high-ceilinged and ornate, decorated in terracotta, black and gold. At one end was Alonso, resplendent in his velvet cioppa and golden chain of rank, a feathered hat of the blackest silk tilting over one ear. He was stepping down from the dais that held his ducal throne, palm extended to take the dainty hand of Cressida, dowager queen of Valdur.
Some way down the salla, somewhat behind the ambassadors from Saivona but not as far down as the guild masters of Maresto, Danamis stood watching the pageant, Citala at his side. He noticed that they had given them a wide berth, those around them uncomfortable with such an exotic creature in their midst. Danamis looked at her and thought her most beautiful while those that gawped he reckoned as base fools, chained by superstition and poisoned by tall tales. Alonso had by now conducted the queen to his throne, vacated for her, while the young crown prince bounded up onto the dais to seat himself in the smaller gilt chair placed there just for him.
A blast from the herald silenced the burble of the court and Alonso, still standing, addressed them. “We give thanks for the safe arrival of her Majesty and our noble prince, Sarant!” There was spontaneous applause and scattered cries of “Vivat!” Cressida inclined her head to accept the acclaim. “We go to war in the coming days, to face a foe both arrogant and overconfident. A would-be usurper!” There were growls and groans of outrage and Alonso held up his hand. “But we in Maresto are not alone. Our new league unites us—Saivona, Ivrea, and Palestro. And more than this, our prince will join me in battle, at my side as we throw back Torinia. And this I swear to you all, his Highness will be not a year older before we are standing in Torinia itself!” More applause and Danamis watched as the boy on his throne smirked and nodded to the crowd.
Cressida sat back, head high, looking regal. After Alonso had made his address, she joined him at the foot of the dais as the noblemen converged like needles to a lodestone, all seeking notice from the queen and the Duke. Danamis watched as twenty halberdiers took up positions cordoning what had become a more intimate reception separate from everyone else further down the hall. Danamis noticed quickly that Alonso’s face transformed each time his eyes fell upon the queen. A look of more than admiration. No one could fail to see that he was smitten by her. Once more, it looked to his eyes that Cressida was returning the fascination.
A bumptious merchant in a rich wine velvet cloak jostled him as the fellow struggled to move closer to the inner sanctum, the fount of patronage. He had to admit to himself he was hurt by it all. Hurt by the fact that she had not thanked him, though it was he who had liberated her from Perusia. Hurt that he had seemingly been denied a place at the top even though he was still the senior representative from Palestro this day. Somehow, he was now on the outside looking in and the fires of resentment kindled to life in his breast. He turned to glance at Citala and found her looking at him with such a sad indulgent smile that he realized his face had betrayed his emotions. He swallowed and reached for her hand.
“Come, it’s time we found Strykar somewhere in the central courtyard as he bid. I long to see that ugly face of his again after so long.”
She lifted his arm and entwined it around her own. “We may walk among them but we are not of them,” she said quietly, her large almond-shaped eyes holding his. “You have done your duty to your queen.”
He strove to crack a smile for her. “Am I so plain to read?”
Danamis cut a path towards the double doors of the salla and guided Citala down the wide marble staircase to the ground floor and the sprawling courtyard that was encompassed by a seemingly never-ending loggia of sculpted arches. It was filled by armoured men of the ducal guard as well as hangers-on, but Danamis spotted the old mercenary straight away in the southwest corner—and he was not alone. A tall fellow, another of the Black Rose he assumed, dressed in boots and hose with a leather doublet and long cloak and hood. He saw Strykar open his arms wide and Danamis’s heart lifted as the mercenary enveloped him in a bear hug.
“The sea dog returns!” Strykar laughed, patting Danamis hard on both shoulders. “And with the beautiful Citala at his side!”
“Seems you’ve been busy since last we met, old friend. Brawling by the looks of you.”
“Worse than that, Danamis. And I shall tell you more over a jug this evening.” Strykar turned and gestured towards the figure who stood a few paces behind. “This is Mistress Demerise, a king’s Forester in Maresto.”
Demerise threw back her hood and bowed her head smartly. Danamis returned the greeting, barely concealing his look of astonishment. “Mistress Demerise, Nicolo Danamis at your service,” he said. He looked at Strykar. “A holder of the royal warrant and somehow in league with you? That begs a story as well, Strykar.”
“One you shall soon hear. It concerns Livorna and our mutual acquaintance, the monk. It is not altogether a tale to raise your spirits.”
Danamis scowled. “That sounds ominous coming from you.” He extended his hand to Citala and brought her forward. “Mistress Demerise, this is Citala, daughter of the chief of the merfolk of Valdur. My consort.” Citala pulled ba
ck her hood, revealing her snow white locks. She inclined her head, curious about this female who dressed as a man and who bore upon her face proof of some terrible fate.
Demerise bowed. “I have heard much of your kind, my lady.”
“For better or worse, mistress? We are much maligned these days.”
“Have no fear on that account. I am Decimali and follow the new commandments of the Saint.”
“Then I welcome you as a friend,” said Citala, her violet eyes shining.
“Good,” said Strykar. “Now that we’re all friends you both must come with me. I have something to show you.”
“What are you on about, Strykar?” said Danamis. “Something here at the palace?”
“No,” replied Strykar, his voice low. “Beyond the town walls. And we have little time. I shall tell you the whole story as we walk.”
“More conspiracies? I just managed to get out of one in Perusia with my skin intact.”
Strykar fixed Danamis with a heavy look. “Danamis, I am now the black sheep of the Black Rose. But I’ve been given a chance by the Duke to win back my honour. And I will need your help.”
He told them of the battle near the Taro River, the arrival of the griffons, his capture and his humiliation. And how through his own overconfidence a third of the Black Rose expedition had been lost. He told them of his escape, of how Demerise and her band found him, and how Livorna was saved. Danamis had guessed that Torinia was bearing down on Maresto but he had no idea just how bad the situation was. Nor had he known what kind of infernal powers had joined forces with Duke Ursino. He knew that Julianus Strykar was not inclined to exaggerate. What was bearing down from the north was a mortal threat.
The four of them looked a strange sight as they negotiated the warren of streets and made for the north gate: a dark nobleman in fine clothes, a soldier in half armour and black cloak, and two figures equally tall that defied description. Those merchants that caught a lingering glimpse even lost their bartering patter, necks craning, as the party swept by them at a rapid pace.
Danamis gestured to interrupt Strykar as they neared a massive gatehouse, under heavy guard by the militia. “So again... why are we paying visit to a painter for the court?”
They all pressed against the wall of the stone tunnel as a great laden oxcart came through, its wheels liberally spraying road muck. “He is more than a painter. My brother swears by his skills, he’s actually a craftsman of sorts. He thinks of useful things and then builds them.”
“Strykar, you sound like you’ve lost your wits.”
“What he makes are war engines. My brother has commissioned him.”
“Half-brother.”
“Yes, goddamn it, my half-brother.”
“Sounds like he’s just trying to get rid of you since you cocked things up out in the field.”
Strykar swore under his breath. “I had expected more in the way of support from the few friends I have left.”
Danamis raised his eyebrows and nodded towards Demerise who was furthest behind, bringing up the rear. “What’s all this then?” he whispered. “A woman, Strykar?”
The mercenary gritted his teeth. “Later... if I don’t end up throttling you beforehand.”
Strykar led them to a sprawling wooden lean-to built against the town walls, a workshop scattered with timber beams and uncut marble slabs. Beyond the workshop there was a great tent-like structure built from what Danamis instantly recognized as canvas mainsails, all roped and pegged to protect—or disguise from prying eyes—what lay behind. Strykar pulled back a flap. “As a man of the sea you might appreciate this.”
They entered. Danamis took a step then stopped, his eyes grown large. “What the hell is it?”
Strykar folded his arms across his broad chest. “It is a land ship. Impervious to attack.”
Danamis still wasn’t quite sure what was in front of him. It was a wooden war engine of some sort, maybe a siege machine, but its shape was, of all things, circular. It was like two enormous deep platters, one placed inverted on top of the other. He could make out what appeared to be square ports at different points along the outside. The machine was completely round with seemingly no front or back. It sat close to the ground, perhaps two feet above, and Danamis bent down to try and look at the underside. Wheels. Four enormous wheels were holding the craft up. He stood back and shook his head. The engine had to be at least forty feet wide and nearly as high.
Workmen in short tunics, carrying bits of timber and tools, paid them no heed as they went about their tasks, disappearing underneath the wooden contraption. A voice bellowed out from somewhere on the other side of the land ship. “Halloo! Messere Strykar!”
A short, wiry, grey-bearded man emerged from around one side. He had crows’ feet deep as road ruts and a beard that nearly reached to his navel. The man had hiked up his tunic into his belt, revealing two pale bandy legs, his green hose sagging unceremoniously around his ankles. Sweating profusely from his exertions, his right hand still clenched what appeared to be a wood auger for boring holes.
Strykar smiled. “Master Elanordo, this is an old ally of Maresto, Captain Nicolo Danamis.”
The old man pointed a bony forefinger. “Ah, the admiral of Palestro. I seem to remember your father turned me out when I was a younger man. Didn’t like the painting I did for him. Never paid me for it either.”
“Valerian Danamis never was much of a patron of art,” said Danamis. “But he might have changed his mind had he seen... this.”
Elanordo grinned. “I expect you’d like to have a look inside. That is the true marvel.” They followed him around to the other side as he jabbered away about his creation. “This is a wooden tortoise with some bite, my friends!”
Large double doors were cut into the machine, fixed by strong iron hinges. They hardly had to stoop to enter. A round hole in the top of the land ship let in light and Danamis’s trained sailor’s eye took in the details. A raised platform ran around the circumference of the structure and he counted six hinged ports. Two great wheels, which he was convinced were modified water wheels wide and flat, were mounted amidships. The whole structure seemed to sit on uprights and lateral beams tied into the wheel-boxes. Two smaller wheels taken from gun carriages were fore and aft to balance the machine. There was no floor. Enormous cogs like the inside of a clock were mounted higher up on the platform. Elanordo whistled to two of his workmen who were working on the hatches. “Giorgio! Give the visitors a demonstration of the traverse.” The workmen moved to the largest of the toothed cogs and grasped a long handle as they stood side by side. Slowly and with effort they pushed it, cranking it. It thumped as each peg moved around interlocking with a matching wheel. The entire top of the structure, platform and tent-like roof, began to rotate around. Another workmen pulled a rope and one of the hatches opened upwards and inwards. And Danamis knew at once this was a firing platform. A fortress on wheels. If the beasts of the witch were as big as Strykar had told, crushing men like ants, then he understood why Strykar had taken to the land ship.
Citala threw Danamis a look of complete bafflement but Demerise had already clambered up to the platform to walk around it, her tall frame stooping as she did so.
“It is moved by a few oxen placed here between the wheels, plus a bit of muscle from the crew when it’s needed,” said Strykar gesturing. “Crewed by as many as you can fit in. Gunners and archers. You hear that, Demerise!”
The huntress turned to him, her voice measured and assured. “I made you no promises, Strykar.”
Danamis ran his hand over a cog, sanded smooth and newly oiled. “So where are the guns?”
Strykar smiled and nodded at him. “That is where you come in, my friend.”
BROTHER VOLPE, PARTIAL to brewing an elixir or a tincture himself, beheld the apothecary’s work table with envious eyes. He picked up a long clear glass vessel and sniffed. A solution of agrimony, a plant difficult to come by these days this far south.
“Brother Volpe, I
would ask you again, sir, not to touch anything.” The apothecary scuttled around from the far side of the table and gently retrieved the glassware from out of Volpe’s pudgy hand. “If you insist on this then I will have to ask you to wait outside.” Volpe harrumphed and moved away.
“Coronel Strykar has told you what we require,” said Acquel. “I would ask that you deliver it up to us that we may leave you in peace.”
The apothecary grimaced. “But he has not explained why you need all of it. And you do understand that the Duke’s men have put it under a tax so punitive as to make it dear as gold?”
“We’re not selling it. Or buying it.”
“The Coronel wasn’t specific about whether I was to hand over the leaves or the elixir,” the apothecary protested.
“Both,” said Volpe, relishing his authority from Strykar.
The apothecary sighed. “Well, that is a shame. I was going to distil the last of the leaf this very week. But the lord Strykar is the one who calls the tune and I may but only dance to it.” He guided them further into the recesses of the cramped shop. There was a dusty cabinet of blackwood at the very back and from this he pulled forth a linen sack of no great size. “Here is the last of the myrra leaf. I pray to the saints that Messere Strykar is granted the good fortune to bring back more.”
Acquel took the sack from him. It weighed almost nothing. He pulled forth a leaf, bright green even in the dim light of the room and put it to his nose.
“It is myrra,” said the apothecary, annoyed. “The very last few handfuls.”
“And the elixir?”
The little man turned, bumped into Volpe, and mumbled as he made his way over to another cabinet. He fumbled for his ring of keys and opened a locked cupboard at the top. He brought forth three flat bottomed leather flasks each the size of a large wine goblet. They were stoppered with a cork and chain. “Here you are Brother Acquel, the very last ounces of it. Acqua miracula.” The little cupboard door squeaked as he began to close it. Acquel passed two of the flasks to Volpe then leaned over and stared into the apothecary’s froglike eyes.
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