Daughter of Blood (48 page)

Kalan shook his head, reflecting on his childhood love for tales of forlorn charges and desperate defenses. Clearly, Ornorith of the Two Faces had been paying attention, since he was now charged with leading exactly such a defense, with nearly a thousand lives depending on his decisions. Still, at least many in the caravan had some garrison experience, which together with their overall numbers should give the camp a fighting chance.

When a wyr hound brushed against him, Kalan turned and saw Faro, dogging his shadow. “I'm your page,” the boy said before Kalan could speak.

“Oh, that look!” Jad was grinning. “Hearing his accent, some may doubt Tehan's endorsement, but that look is pure Blood stubborn.”

Sometime soon, Kalan thought, I'll have to discover what else Faro's mother taught him, beyond the rules that govern bonds of honor. And find out what he knows of his father. For now, though, it was one of many matters that would have to wait. “All right,” he said, because Jad was right about the stubborn look, and so far none of his efforts to keep Faro out of harm's way had worked. “But you stay by me and follow orders. No arguments.”

“May I live to see it,” Tyun said, very dryly, and although Kalan could not disagree with the sentiment, he chose to ignore it.

K
alan spent what little remained of the day inspecting the camp. Jad and Tyun had already set watches and organized the Blood retainers into new companies, with the eight-guard broken up to lead each one. Tyun's marines were to be the reserve, shoring up weak points, since a force of any size would place the entire perimeter under pressure. Jad had also made sure the caravan's food and weapons were inventoried and every available container filled with water, before having the majority of both removed behind the inner defenses.

By the time Kalan reached the perimeter, sand and dirt to counter incendiaries had been stockpiled along the barricades. The wagon canopies had been taken down, both as proof against fire and to prevent enemies concealing themselves inside during an attack, and the area between the inner and outer defenses cleared of tents. The clearance would minimize the chance of fire taking hold and also provide a killing ground if the defenders were forced back to the inner camp. But we
have
to hold the dike, Kalan thought, otherwise the attackers will use its cover to fire on the inner camp with impunity. Once that happens, we'll be done for.

Frowning, he watched Sarr and his team deploy every
available stave and metal bar into a sharpened palisade around the base of the earthworks. “I think you're right,” he said aloud, “to assume enemy cavalry.”

Tyun had left to oversee the first change of the new watches, but Jad nodded. Cavalry engagements might be rare in the Wall's mountainous terrain, but being on the plain changed the game—and removing the threat of opposing cavalry was another reason for the were-hunters to have targeted the camp's herd. “We'll keep our horses for Tyun's reserve and to use for sorties,” Jad said. “The palisade will help counter enemy cavalry, and Aiv's teams are cutting thornbrush to barricade between the wagons and along the crest of the dike.”

The thornbrush would help, but Kalan knew pikes would be essential to support the palisade. His gaze shifted from the outer defenses to the burned cook wagon, then back again. “Let's prepare what we need to fire the outer wagons if we are forced back.”

More assumptions, he thought: that we'll manage a controlled retreat
and
have the conflagration too far underway for the wagons to be pushed against the inner defenses. They would also have to try and find a way to set the fires without sacrificing defenders, because anyone who remained behind would die—very possibly, if taken alive, like those who had ended on the death standards. Yet in view of the camp's size and the defensive preparations, Kalan remained optimistic that they could hold the outer perimeter. Warrior House discipline, he thought, should still counter the level of 'spawn incursion Kelyr had reported.

News of his Honor Captaincy had raced through the camp, so Kalan's inspection also enabled people to see and speak with him. He made a point of approaching any whisperers, huddled in their twos and threes, as well as those who appeared isolated or withdrawn. Nerves were on edge and tension high, but the undercurrent accompanying his progress was that if those elevated as a result of the Honor Contest had turned out to be traitors, then conversely, exile must prove the newcomers' worth. “Besides, they're here,” one wagoner muttered, as Kalan and Jad moved on.

Yet treachery to Blood, Kalan reflected, all depended on where the defectors' original loyalty had been pledged. Or whether the honor guards had been ensorcelled or compelled in some way, as Faro's story suggested. Regardless, Kalan knew he could not rely on enemy infiltration being restricted to the Honor Guard. Even the Sword warriors could be facestealers masquerading as survivors, and Orth shooting the were-hunter a ploy to gain trust. Admittedly, once Myr and Faro were safe, the wyr hounds had lost interest in the Sword pair. Orth and Kelyr's obvious shock on learning of the death standards and their comrades' fate was also a point in their favor.

But I can't take anyone at face value, Kalan thought, not after what I learned of facestealers in Emer. He was also conscious that it was the Sword warriors' information about the level of Swarm incursion that had convinced him to dig in and defend the camp. Only time, he supposed, would bear out their veracity and his judgment. Meanwhile, he had emphasized to both the exiles and the Sea marines that the Sword pair were not to be trusted or allowed into the inner camp, ostensibly because of Orth's grudge against Lady Myrathis for having thrown the rock. Which given his disposition, Kalan reflected now, is reason enough.

The first campfires were being lit, and the wind dying as dusk thickened over the plain, although Kalan knew it would pick up again when full night fell. Sarr and those with him had completed their work on the palisade, and Jad was helping Aiv and her team work the last of the thornbrush into place. Six of the wyr hounds were patrolling the perimeter, but a glance back showed three still trailing him, together with a drooping Faro. “Asleep on your feet, I see.”

Faro's head jerked up. “I'm awake!” He cast a longing glance toward the nearest campfire as cooking smells wafted cross the camp.

“We'll eat soon,” Kalan told him, “once I've reported to Lady Myrathis.” He had discussed the merits of a cold camp with Jad and Tyun, but their enemies already knew exactly where they were, and warmth and hot food would
help morale. Turning, he saw Orth and Kelyr sprawled by one of the nearby fires. They were watching him, although they did not move.

Faro followed his gaze. “Do we really need them?” he whispered.

Yes, Kalan thought. Briefly, he debated a conversation on the Code's stricture about succoring fellow Derai in the face of the Swarm, but decided against it. “Just make sure you stay away from them.”

“I go where you go,” Faro said, with the expression Jad had called pure Blood stubborn, then pointed. “Look! They're putting up your tent.” Kalan had been concentrating on perimeter and plain, but now registered the garnet-and-gold panels rising above the inner camp. “I thought the ruling kin were going to burn it,” Faro added, then clapped his hands over his mouth. “I'm sorry!”

“Don't be.” All the same, Kalan was surprised the tent had not only survived the aftermath of the Honor Contest but turned up here. The mystery was resolved once they reached the inner camp and found Murn tidying away the sailbag he had claimed held Nimor's state robes.

“Which it does,” the secretary informed them, grinning. “But Envoy Nimor only brought one set, so there was plenty of room for the tent as well. He said we couldn't let it be burned, and Captain-Lady Hatha vowed that if he beat her at cards, she'd see it found its way to us. The envoy's good at cards,” he added, “but we didn't think the Captain-Lady was trying terribly hard to win. Since you're Honor Captain now, Lord Nimor and I thought you needed your own tent.” Murn hesitated. “And that it might hearten the camp to see Storm Spear colors.”

Faro was certainly beaming. “We should fly the oriflamme, too.”

False colors, Kalan thought wryly.

“Are they?”
The spark of Yelusin, quiet for so long, caught fire briefly.

“I might have lost it,” Kalan said, then relented as Faro's face fell. “No, I have it still. After we've eaten you can help
Murn raise it. Although I'm sure fires and hot food will do more to lift spirits,” he told the secretary.

Murn shrugged. “According to Blood's fireside tales, it was often the Storm Spears that saw both their House and the Derai through similar defenses. Even we,” he added, “remember them on our own memorial.”

Kalan sensed the discussion was never going to go his way, so asked after Lady Myrathis instead. “No, don't wake her,” he said, when Murn told him she was sleeping. He and Faro ate at the Sea company's fire, and Kalan only waited until the oriflamme was raised as promised before sending Faro to bed as well. “No discussion,” he said, thinking the boy looked ready to keel over.

Faro visibly reconsidered argument. “Do I stay with the Sea Keepers?” he mumbled.

“The stealers,” Kalan said, to tease him, then regretted it as Faro darted an abashed glance at Murn. The secretary looked startled, a mug paused halfway to his mouth. “No, you can use my tent, now it's up.” Somehow, he didn't think he was going to be spending a lot of time there. “You're still my page,” he added, to divert Faro's attention, and the boy beamed again.

F
ull darkness had fallen, and a shrill restless wind was rising when Kalan began another round of the outer defenses, keeping to the shadows thrown by wagons and dike. Two of the wyr hounds accompanied him, blending into the night so thoroughly even he had difficulty seeing them. He paused often, listening to the night sounds out of the Gray Lands, but could detect nothing amiss. The scattering of conversation from the nearby campfires was mixed. Whatever the camp's complement feared was to come, few were discussing it, and the only place Kalan lingered was near the Sword warriors' fire. Several of Sarr's palisade builders were there as well, and one kept peering toward where the oriflamme had risen in the last of the dusk. “I thought the Storm Spears were just fireside tales,” he said finally.

Kelyr spoke from just beyond the fire's circle of light.
“The story told in Swords is that their order was real enough, until the Earls of Blood exterminated them.”

The palisade builders exchanged glances. “I don't know about that,” a woman said finally, “but those things that massacred our herd were straight out of a fireside tale.”

Orth's laugh grated out. “I always thought that fireside nonsense would bite you Bloodites on the arse one day.”

Several of those around the fire muttered darkly, until one of their number chuckled. Kalan saw that it was Sarr, lying full length with his hands behind his head. “Looks like it's biting yours as well,” the farrier said, grinning. Kalan heard Kelyr murmur a warning to Orth, who rose and stalked back to their bivouac, halfway between two fires. Kelyr waited a few minutes more before leaving, too, and Kalan ghosted after him, using a touch of concealing power to aid the darkness.

“The bastard was right,” Kelyr told Orth. “We could all be caught like rats in a trap. But don't go killing him for saying so until we know this is over. Or Khar either.”

Orth muttered a curse, and Kelyr began tossing a handful of knucklebones. “You know what's the biggest fireside tale in all this?” He snatched the knucklebones neatly out of the air. “It's the notion Blood's Bride could be half of the Rose, when the Rose never marries outside its own. Lovers maybe, but marriage . . .” Kelyr threw the knucklebones again. “If you ask me, someone's pulling a ruse on Night. Either that or they've already pulled one on Blood. Nine knows, the Bloodites seem gullible enough.”

Orth spat. “Who cares? Like you keep saying, staying alive is what matters.” Kelyr shrugged and continued playing with the knucklebones. If there was any comfort to be derived from their conversation, Kalan decided, moving on, it was that the pair made unlikely facestealers. As for Lady Myr's heritage, the straightforward explanation was that the rare or unusual was not the same as the impossible. Yet the more Kalan thought about alignments within the Nine Houses, the more he felt Kelyr was right. In terms of formal alliance, the Rose had stood aloof throughout Derai history,
an apartness that had become isolation following the Great Betrayal. Traditionally, they were also the Derai's peacemakers and treaty brokers, as well as lovers of poetry and the arts, so Blood was hardly the obvious choice for a marriage outside their own ranks.

It would be interesting, Kalan thought, to know which House initiated the marriage and why the other then agreed to the alliance. Blood and Rose territories did not adjoin, and as far as he knew, Earl Sardon and Lady Mayaraní's marriage had not been a love match—which all added up to Lady Myrathis being as much an anomaly, lineage-wise, as her nature had made her growing up in Blood. Yet with Lady Mayaraní dying so soon after the marriage, any speculation caused by the alliance would have been forgotten, in the same way Myr had been overlooked.

Not everything that happens has meaning, Kalan told himself. Only this was a marriage between two Derai Houses, and such arrangements were always about advantage within the Alliance. First Blood and the Rose, he reflected, and now Night, as though someone is weaving new alignments: could that have been what Ise's dying caution meant? But rather than the old woman's fading whisper, he heard the drum of Grayharbor rain and Che'Ryl-g-Raham's murmur against his ear:
“I like puzzles.”

Briefly, Kalan held still, before shaking off both memory and speculation and joining Rhanar, who was captaining the current watch with a wagoner called Nai as his second. She was one of those with guard training who had been invalided out, in her case with a withered leg, a legacy of the plague years before Kalan was born. He suspected Rhanar had selected her as much for a similarly taciturn disposition as competence, since neither had much to say, beyond Rhanar's observation that the six wyr hounds were maintaining their perimeter patrol.

Nai pursed her lips. “They're different,” she said. She bit off the second word as if she had already said too much, but Kalan guessed she was referring to the hounds' reputation for instability.

“Don't rely on them,” he cautioned. “Even wyrs may not recognize these enemies.”

“I'd prefer higher ramparts,” Rhanar muttered.

Kalan nodded, because even with the dike's thornbrush crown the camp still felt horribly exposed compared to a keep or hold's walls. They were all silent, listening to the wind and watching the darkness, and Kalan wished he did not remember a similar sly, prying wind from his flight across the Gray Lands six years before. But he could not shake the recollection, or the certainty that a Swarm attack would use magic. Exactly as they did this morning, and in the Old Keep, as well as in Jaransor and Emer, he thought: they must laugh, seeing how we've hamstrung our ability to fight on equal terms.