by Tim Stead
Just for a moment it happened. She was not trying at all, and suddenly she was the flock, all of it at the same moment, aware of everything around her, seeing in every direction at once, hearing everything. Each piece of the shattered image fell into place and she saw with something better than eyes.
As soon as she had it, she lost it again. The unity shattered, and again there was only confusion, fragments of sight and sound swirling about her.
But she could do it! The flock was complex enough to hold her mind. There was enough space that she was not diminished within it, and yet there was a way to see, to hear, to be the flock.
How many years had she wasted not knowing this simple thing? If Pelion had said to her, those long centuries past, just three words: be the multitude, everything would have been different. But he had not. She had put herself into one sparrow, a tiny creature with mind no bigger than a single candle flame to illuminate the library of her consciousness, and she had been terrified by it, as though a puff of wind would blow that candle out and she would simply cease to be.
Now she was indeed the lady of the sparrows, the god of a thousand eyes, or she would be when practice yielded the skill that she had touched upon. She withdrew from the Sirash feeling renewed.
She would return to them, to Narak and Beloff and all the others, but not yet. First she must prove herself somehow. She would become what she was meant to be, and they would see it, and they would ask her to rejoin the society of the Benetheon once more.
Pascha rose, stretching the stiffness out of her limbs. It felt as though she had been still for hours, and perhaps she had. She went out of the small room and locked the door again behind her. She called for her maid to attend her, but there was no answer. She went to the kitchens where the girl was usually to be found, but there was no sign of her there, either.
She went up stairs to her sitting room, and heard voices drifting in through the open window. Curious, she stepped to the window, keeping to one side so that she would not be seen. This house was not a particularly grand building, and stood no more than twenty yards back from the street. A semi-circular driveway swept round beneath a roofed space, a space where one could step down from a carriage out of the rain, and back to the road again.
Her maid was standing close to the road, talking to a man. It was not an intimate conversation. She stood a respectful distance from him, head tilted forwards in an attentive pose. Pascha could not hear what passed between them, but she could hear the tone of his voice, of her voice, and see the gestures that he made. The man was giving her commands.
She studied him carefully. He was well dressed, a gentlemen to all appearances, but his face was hard and cold. There was no asking in his stance, no cajoling, no kindness. He wore a short sword of a functional kind, unornamented and well worn from what she could see. He was a man who used his sword, a dangerous man, and she could see that Teean knew it.
He glanced up at the house and she pulled back a little. She did not quite know why, but she did not want that man to know that she had seen him. She did not think him well disposed to her. His presence gave her an uneasy feeling.
So she could no longer trust Teean. She rang the bell, and saw the maid say a last few words to the man, nod, and then run inside.
27. Duke Elyas
Duke Elyas wished for the hundredth time that he had listened to his physics’ advice. He rode beside Aidon, and did his best to put the pain out of his mind, but it was increasingly difficult to stay upright in the saddle, and he feared that if he slumped over the saddle, or even fell, it would take some of the heart from his men, and he thought that they needed it all.
Behind him rode and walked the army of Avilian. Thousands of horses and men on foot, hundreds of wagons loaded with supplies. They followed him.
If he had stayed in Bas Erinor they would have wondered why he did not lead them, but they would have followed Aidon just the same. Now he had no choice. The riding had made his illness worse. What had been an irritation and a mild weakness back in the castle had become a severe pain and a tiredness that filled his body with a desire to stop, to fall to the ground, to sleep away the rest of his life. He badly needed to rest.
Riders approached, and Elyas welcomed the distraction. They were his own men, scouts sent ahead to ensure the safety of the trail. Their officer pulled his mount up just a few yards from the duke and his retinue. He was smiling.
“My Lord Duke,” he said. “Good news.”
“Report,” Elyas commanded.
“The Afaeli camp is no more than a mile distant, my lord. They have not been attacked, and their forces are intact. The King extends his invitation to you to join him and relax after your long journey.”
Did the Afaeli know of his illness? He looked back at the army for a moment, plodding slowly onwards. By nightfall they would be encamped with their allies, and only the Berashi were to come. He looked across at Jiddian, the only member of the Benetheon to ride with them.
“Deus, I am inclined to take up that invitation. I confess I am tired. Will you ride with me?”
Jiddian smiled. “I will, Lord Duke,” he said. Jiddian cut an imposing figure. He wore no armour, but carried a bow slung across his back and a long sword at his hip. He was a tall man, powerfully built, and after so many days in the saddle he looked as fresh as he had at the start. He was clothed all in silks and satins, apart from the fine brown leather boots that covered his feet.
“Aidon, you will take the army to the end. See them properly camped. I want no slackness because we are among friends.”
Aidon nodded and turned to one of the other officers. Elyas spurred his horse forwards. Just a few more minutes and the torture of perpetual movement would cease. He could sit, take a glass of something to ease his gut, and perhaps recover some of his comfort. He rode away from the noise and the dust of his army and quickly gained the ridge that lay before them. He reined in at the highest point and looked at the spectacle before him.
To his right and left, ahead and on every side there were guards set about the valley, camped on the hill tops and ridges, guarding every point of the compass. Down below a river flowed through a flat area many hundreds of acres in size, and on the western side of the river lay the encampment of the Afaeli army. Six thousand men looked a great deal in such a space, but he knew that nearly twice that number marched behind him.
It was an army to write the words of legends, but Elyas didn’t feel like a legend. He felt like an old man, a sick man. He spurred his horse on, down the long slope that led to the tents and campfires of the Afaeli. The King’s tent was not difficult to see. They had erected a small palisade around it, and guards patrolled the fence, stood at the gate. He swung down carefully from the saddle, and approached the gate. Men sprang forward to take their mounts, and the guard officer at the gate bowed.
“My Lord Duke,” he said. “The King awaits.” He cast an uncertain glance at Jiddian.
“Be at ease,” Elyas said. “This is Jiddian, God of Eagles and lord of the air.”
The guard officer bowed again.
“Honoured, Deus,” he said.
They passed through the gate and were conducted within the tent. Elyas had to admit that the Afaeli King had not stinted on his comfort. It was a canvas and silk palace. The man had even brought comfortable chairs with him, six of them. Those alone must have filled a wagon.
“I am most glad to see you, Lord Duke,” the king said as they entered. They had never met, but Elyas recognised the Casraes features, the long lobed ears, the broad nose, and the pale blue eyes. The Afaeli king was a descendant of the man who had offered the crown of his country to Narak.
“King Pridan, I am most glad to be here,” he replied. It was no lie. He slumped into a chair with a sigh of relief.
“It has been a difficult journey?” Pridan asked.
“Not so much, but I have had a touch of indigestion for the last entire day. Could I trouble you for a glass of milk, if you have such a thing?�
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“Of course.” A servant was dispatched to fetch it. Who would have thought, Elyas wondered, that the king of Afael would bring milk with him? But then it was he who had asked for it. He smiled at the sight of the white liquid, poured from an earthenware jug into a fat glass and handed to him. He sipped and felt the pain in his gut retreat a step. Milk was no cure, but it seemed to buy him a small respite.
Jiddian accepted a glass of wine, and leaned forward in his chair.
“Have you seen anything?” he asked. “Any Seth Yarra scouts? Have there been any skirmishes?”
“Nothing,” the king replied. “We have not seen as much as a Seth Yarra rabbit and my riders have been a full day to the east.”
“So far? We have been watching them, of course, and they have not moved from their camp, but we thought there would be scouts, men testing the land around them for our presence.”
“It is odd that they have not moved,” Elyas commented. “They have had an age to come out and engage Afael. It can only be to our advantage that they have not. In a week the Berashi will be here, and they will have lost what advantage they had.”
“They seek to draw us in,” Jiddian said. “I do not see the advantage in it for them unless they grow their force, but no ships have come for a month. The Seth Yarra army remains the same size.”
“They will be harder to beat within their wall, but I do not see the point. Will they sit there for ever?”
“Harder?” Pridan raised an eyebrow. “We will suffer greatly if we try to winkle them out. My scouts have looked upon their walls, and it is quite a fortress they have built. We cannot starve them out if their ships supply them, and even if we do break their ring, they can simply fall back to the island beyond. They have positions there, too.”
Elyas smiled. “So we wait for Prince Havil,” he said. “And When Havil comes, Narak will come, and then we shall have a plan.”
Pridan nodded, his faith in Narak was absolute, it seemed, but Jiddian frowned, trying his best, Elyas surmised, to look as though he himself would not need the Wolf God’s strategy. Elyas was unconvinced.
28. The Plan
It had been a hard day, but Councillor Captain Cain Arbak was very pleased with himself. His first meeting with the council of merchants had been a storming success. The night before he had spent a couple of hours sketching out a plan, and he thought it a fine one. It was not as expensive as a full levy would have been. In fact it turned out so cheap that he could almost have afforded it from his own modest profits.
There would be no levy. The merchants would simply approach the duke and offer to register men, train them, and provide weapons and armour. Each man would be offered a small sum for attending training sessions on three days of each week. Men would continue to work in their usual jobs, but if the call to arms came there would be a regiment of men ready to march at a few days notice, men who could hold a lance, swing a sword to good effect, or handle a bow without causing injury to their own fellows.
He felt that he had justified their faith in him, earned his place on the council, at least for the moment. The others had been appreciative, and even impressed. Jerran had basked in a glow of borrowed wisdom.
Now it was back to business. The Seventh Friend was open again, Sheyani was playing on the dais and Bargil was by the door, counting heads as the early custom crowded into the public room.
It was up to the duke what happened next. It was forbidden for anyone to raise troops in the city without his express permission, even for one’s own protection, and all the merchant guards and caravan guards were licensed. It would not be the real duke, of course. Elyas was somewhere on the great plains with the Avilian army, sharpening his sword for the battle to come, and for once Arbak was glad that he was elsewhere. It would be the duke’s youngest son, Quinnial, who would decide.
It had become a habit with Arbak to help the barkeepers serve the customers at the start of the evening, singling out customers who came regularly, exchanging a few words with them. It was something he took pleasure in. When he had done this he placed himself at the end of the bar on a stool set aside for his use, and watched the mass of people ebb and flow, laugh and talk, and pay money over the bar. Here he usually sat for about an hour before retiring to one of the private rooms, assuming that one was free, to eat a light meal.
Arbak followed his routine, but he also listened. It was surprising what he could hear from his seat by the bar, and sometimes he walked among the tables to stretch his legs, greet a few regulars, and he heard even more. People talked freely, and sometimes they even talked to the landlord openly of things they would have been better advised to keep quiet about.
Arbak felt that he was becoming an oracle of all things in Bas Erinor.
He could, for example, tell you which blacksmith to avoid if you didn’t want to be overcharged, which inns were reputed to harbour thieves, which husbands sought comfort outside their marital beds, which wives received gentlemen callers when their husbands were absent, and he had a pretty good idea of the balance sheets of every business in the district.
He had just returned to his seat by the bar after one such excursion when one of Bargil’s men approached quickly across the public room, a look of mild panic on his face.
“Captain, the duke is here.” He managed a stage whisper, but a couple of heads still turned. Arbak gathered his thoughts quickly.
“You mean the son?” he asked. “Lord Quinnial?”
The man nodded.
“As a customer?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“How many in his party?”
“Just three, Captain.”
“Prepare Honour,” he said. “Wine, glasses, make sure the fire is well stoked.”
The man nodded and hurried away behind the bar. Arbak wove his way through the crowd to the door. It was a necessary part of his duty as a host when the great came to call. He must greet them, escort them to suitable accommodations. It was expected.
Outside in the street Bargil was guarding the young lord. Arbak could describe it no other way. He stood between Quinnial’s party and the queue waiting to enter, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other on his hip, glowering at the crowd. He was half turned, so that he could see the rest of the street as well. It was a classic bodyguard’s stance.
The duke’s son, currently ruler of Bas Erinor in his father’s stead, stood apart with a young woman and an older man, who was undoubtedly a soldier. Quinnial looked mildly amused, the girl, who was quite pretty in the aristocratic manner, stood close by him, and the soldier at a respectful distance.
“My Lord Quinnial, we are most honoured by your visit,” Arbak said, bowing deeply enough to show his respect.
“You are Captain Arbak?” Quinnial asked.
“I am, my lord.”
“Well you certainly seem to have the most popular inn in Bas Erinor,” Quinnial said, gazing pointedly at the crowd. “Can you squeeze us in?”
“A private room is being prepared as we speak.”
He showed them to the room, leading them across the public room, which in itself was quite an event. Many of the people present recognised the duke’s son and the noise of conversation fell away. A few men bowed, others turned to each other and whispered quiet words. Arbak smiled. He could not have hoped for this in a thousand years. The ruler of Bas Erinor had chosen to grace his inn with a visit within a month of opening. It was the sort of thing that changed a man’s fortunes, and he had to admit that his fortunes were already pretty excellent of late.
He did not linger in the public room. He thought it would be an obvious, unnecessary ploy, showing off the duke’s son to the public. He ushered them quickly into the room called Honour, and was pleased to see that food and drink had been laid out for his guests.
“My Lord, “Arbak said. “You will pay for nothing tonight. Consider yourself and all your party as my guests.”
“Absolutely not,” Quinnial said, but he smiled as he said it. “I will
pay, as any other customer would pay, and do not seek to discount the prices. I will not have it said that Bas Erinor sold favours to its loyal subjects.”
Arbak was at a loss for a moment. Nobody had ever refused free food and drink before, not here, or anywhere he had ever been.
“As you wish, my lord.”
Quinnial sat down and examined the food, he picked up an olive and put it in his mouth.
“Good,” he said. “And is that Telan wine?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Well, will you sit with us a while, Captain Arbak?” There was a slight emphasis on the rank, not enough to be overtly insulting, but sufficient to show that there was a question mark in Quinnial’s mind.
