Fire and Sword (16 page)

Orkid sighed deeply. “As safe as anywhere except Pila itself. I will protect him, Marin, although I suspect Areava herself will make sure my protection is unnecessary.”

Marin rested back in his seat and nodded glumly. “She is a fine-looking woman, and strong,” he admitted. “But I don’t like the nobles, and some of the officials—like that mayor whatsisname—”

“Shant Tenor.”

“—Mayor Shant Tenor and his ilk make me want to take to them with my ax.”

“Would it help if I told you that Areava feels the same way?”

Marin waved his hand. “I know all that. I read your reports myself, Orkid, whatever you may think.”

“I never doubted it.”

“This place is askew,” Marin said urgently, his body stiffening. “There is something wrong about it, something deep.”

“It is an ancient place of intrigues and plots,” Orkid said. Berayma’s dead face flickered in his memory and he could not help wincing. “Nothing here is ever quite what it seems.”

“They must come to Pila,” Marin said.

“Who?”

“Sendarus and his bride, of course.”

“Need I remind you that
this
is the capital of the kingdom, not Pila.”

“I mean for a visit. And soon. I want to see how Areava behaves outside of her own den, and I would like to see my son away from this court, if only for a short while.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Orkid said. “Maybe next summer? I could suggest it as part of a tour of all the kingdoms. It would be good for morale if the war with Haxus starts in the spring.”

“That’s an idea.”

“Now relax,” Orkid told him. “The event we have been planning for so many years has at last come to pass. Aman will no longer be considered a small backward province of Grenda Lear. The next ruler in Kendra will share our blood.”

“It is you who did all the work. For that I am grateful beyond words.”

Orkid bowed his head.

“What next?”

“We get the Key of Union off Lynan and make sure it is given to Sendarus,” Orkid said.

“Better he get the Key of the Sword,” Marin replied.

Orkid looked up in surprise. “What?”

“We convince Areava to hand Sendarus the Key of the Sword. If the marriage sees him accepted by the majority of Kendrans, then being bearer of that Key will make him acceptable to all. Even the Twenty Houses would not move openly against him.”

“And how do we manage that?”

“By getting him command of the army to move north in spring.”

“I thought Prince Olio had that command,” Amemun said.

Marin regarded his old tutor for a moment. Amemun had tutored two generations of Gravespears, including himself, teaching them almost everything they knew about Aman and the larger world outside. He felt a surge of affection for the man and his mane of white hair.

“Can Olio be persuaded to surrender it?” Marin asked Orkid.

“It is Areava we have to persuade,” Orkid said.

“Well, I’m sure you can handle that,” Marin said smugly.

“Be careful, brother. She is her own woman, just as her mother Usharna was.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Nonetheless, I have seen how she looks to you, and now that your nephew is her husband, I think she will be even more amenable.”

“You may be right. Time will show us one way or the other.”

“And time,” Marin said, “is something we have plenty of.”

Wedding parties were going on throughout the city. From her window, Areava could see bonfires in almost every square. Lanterns were hauled up the masts of every ship in the harbor. Snatches of song drifted up to the palace in the evening breeze.

“We have made them happy,” Areava said.

Sendarus stood behind her, his arms around her waist and his chin resting on her shoulder. “I am glad some of our own joy has spilled out.” He kissed her neck, and raised one hand to trace a finger along her jaw.

“In one year I must learn to be queen and wife. It is more than I ever expected.”

He kissed her ear and then her temple. He felt her tense.

“Is something wrong?”

She giggled nervously. “I am afraid.”

“Of tonight?”

She nodded, felt like a little girl. “It’s silly, isn’t it? It’s not as if we haven’t...” Her voice trailed off.

“We have never made love as husband and wife before. That is different. We are more than lovers now.” He stood back and turned her around, then kissed her on the lips. “We are one life; we have one future.”

She knew the truth of the words as she heard them, and kissed him back, and even as she felt her breath quicken and her skin flush with blood, the Keys over her heart seemed to come alive with a warmth all their own.

Snow was falling lightly, but the ground was warm enough to melt it right away. The road had become a long trail of slush. Riders picked their way carefully, but still horses and pack mules slithered and sometimes fell. Jes Prado sighed heavily as another of his mounts had to be put down because of a broken leg and its rider sent to the back of the column with whatever gear he could carry.

Freyma shook his head. “That’s the third today.” Prado said nothing.

“It’s a bad time to be traveling. Even waiting for the weather to turn colder would be better.”

“We don’t have the time,” Prado said curtly. “We have to be in north Hume before the end of winter.”

Freyma used the point of his dagger to pick some of his lunch out from between his teeth. He knew they would lose more horses, and maybe even a few riders to broken necks if Prado did not change his mind. Not that the losses meant much in a company this size. He shook his head in wonder at what Prado had managed to do. No single mercenary captain—
general,
Freyma reminded himself—had ever commanded such a large force. He had over two thousand riders on his rolls, and nearly another five hundred foot, mostly Arran archers: the best in Theare. The column stretched five leagues from scout to rear, and took a good three hours to pass a single point, and that was on a good road. In this muck it would take five hours or more.

No, it was not the effect on numbers he was worried about, but the effect on morale. Freyma knew from experience in the Slaver War how poor morale could lose a battle even before it had begun.

But Prado was determined, and no one questioned Prado, not Freyma, not even Sal Solway, who had once been a mercenary commander in her own right.

He glanced at Prado, wondering what was going through his mind and what was driving him so hard. There was some demon in there. A shout brought his attention back to the column. A mule was slipping off the road, and its handlers could do nothing to stop it.

“Get the bloody packs off!” Freyma yelled at them, then swore under his breath. He spurred his horse in the vain hope he could get there before it was too late, leaving Prado alone with his own thoughts.

But Prado did not notice. He did not see the struggling riders pass in front of him, even those that offered greetings, and he did not see the mule fall sideways, pinning one of its handlers underneath. He was thinking about Rendle, and wondering what the bastard was doing right now tucked away in his Haxus refuge. His lips were curved in a kind of smile as he thought how surprised Rendle would be when he saw Prado and his mercenaries riding down on his own pitiful company. It was a thought that kept Prado warm even on the coldest nights.

Prado would have been disappointed to learn that Rendle had not paid him a single thought in months, not since the night Prado had escaped his clutches. He had been far too busy with his own plans, and they had nothing to do with revenge.

“Well, my mercenary friend, what do you think?”

Rendle looked up from the map he was cradling in his lap. The man in front of him looked old before his time and overtired, but Rendle noticed the way the man held himself and the look of ruthlessness in his eye and was not fooled. “Your Majesty?”

King Salokan of the kingdom of Haxus—thin, ascetic, and proud—looked vaguely irritated. “What do you think?” He swept his arm out to encompass the military camp that lay before them.

Rendle grunted. “Good. There are four thousand, as you promised?”

“Of course, all mounted.”

“And I have their command?”

Salokan pursed his lips. “Well...”

“That was one of the conditions.”

“I know! I know!” the king snapped, his irritation with the steely little man before him genuine now. “But these are proud men, Captain Rendle. They are not used to serving under a ... under a ...”

“Soldier for hire,” Rendle finished for him, his voice unsympathetic.

Salokan shrugged. “There you have it! It was hard to convince my officers—”

“Who is the brigade commander?” Rendle interrupted.

“What?”

“Who is their brigade commander? I assume he voiced the greatest opposition to my taking over his troopers.”

“General Thewor. A loyal soldier. Many, many years of service—”

“Did he fight in the Slaver War?”

Salokan frowned in thought. “Yes, yes I think so.”

“Then he probably served under one of your mercenary commanders back then. Maybe even me.”

“Possibly.”

“Then, your Majesty, I suggest you remind him of that,” he said in a tone that let Salokan know he was not prepared to suffer Thewor gladly. “If he served under me once, he may have the honor of serving under me a second time.”

“I don’t know that Thewor will accept the logic.”

Rendle breathed heavily and threw the map away. The king jumped a little, and his personal guard stared threateningly, but Rendle sized up the former and ignored the latter. Salokan was a butcher. He had a cunning mind, an acute sense of survival, and—surprisingly to the mercenary— huge reserves of patriotism; the last was something Rendle could never understand.

Salokan had never forgiven Grenda Lear for defeating his father in the Slaver War all those years ago and was determined somehow, someway, to pay them back for that humiliation. Rendle knew he was one of Salokan’s keys for that revenge.

“I will not lead a force that is not completely behind me into enemy territory.”

“You will do what you are ordered to do,” Salokan said coldly.

“No, your Majesty. If you want Lynan, only I can get him.”

“I will kill you,” the king said, his tone suddenly mild. “One of your under-officers will lead your company into the Oceans of Grass under the command of my general.”

“If you really believed that, your Majesty, you would have killed me months ago.”

Salokan tried to feign offense, but could only snigger instead. “We read each other too well. That’s dangerous.”

“For whom?”

“For you, of course. I’m king.”

Salokan said the words without arrogance, and Rendle knew it was true.

“I’ll be gone in a few short weeks. You won’t have to worry about me then.”

“But you’ll be back. At least, I hope you’ll be back, with Prince Lynan as your prisoner. That is what all this is about, after all.”

Rendle shook his head. “No, your Majesty. This is all about your invasion of Grenda Lear. You will invade whether or not you have Lynan. The kingdom is confused and in more turmoil than it has seen for over a quarter century. Lynan’s presence in your army gives the invasion greater legitimacy, but that is only a political thing. You win or lose on your army.”

“And a portion of that is riding with you into the Oceans of Grass; which brings us back to our original point of contention.”

“Indeed. You want my mission to be a success. I can’t have some civilized dignitary in charge of it. I know the Oceans of Grass, I know the Chetts. Your General Thewor wouldn’t know which way was up once he was on the plains, and wouldn’t recognize a Chett if one came up and bit off his prick.”

“I won’t argue the point.”

“But you will argue with your general?”

“I suppose I must.” Salokan looked away. It was a small defeat, and stung his pride mostly, but he resented it more than he should have; he knew that, and kept his temper. His army was strong and ready but lacked experienced commanders; he could not do without Rendle. Not yet, at least. After he had beaten Grenda Lear and won back Hume—and who knows? maybe even conquered Chandra?—Rendle could be dealt with. Or promoted. Salokan had found that a good way to bind men to him, and some women. As long as they weren’t promoted too far; no point in giving them ideas above their station, and certainly not above Salokan’s station.

The king stood to leave. Rendle copied him. “Would you like to come with me to visit the general?”

Rendle smiled tightly. “Oh, I’m sure you can handle it.” Salokan nodded. “Undoubtedly. Still, I thought you would have liked to see Thewor’s face when I tell him the news.”

Rendle shook his head. “I bear him no spite.”
Yet,
Salokan thought. “As you say. We will meet again tomorrow.”

Rendle wanted to ask why, but thought he had pushed his luck with the king enough for one day. “I look forward to it.”

“There is the border post,” Prado said, pointing to the thin red pole by the side of the road. “We are marching into Hume. Another three weeks and we will be on the border, and the company can rest until the thaw starts.”

Freyma and Sal nodded, less cheered by the fact that they had reached Hume at last than they were depressed by the thought of another three weeks of marching in these conditions. The last two days had seen heavy snowfalls, and the temperature had been low enough to keep the snow on the ground. With over two thousand men and horses tramping over it, the road was still slush, but the margins were more stable. Still, the cold at night was terrible, and it was hard getting the company moving again in the morning.

After this, campaigning will be easy for them,
Freyma thought, but at the moment it gave him little consolation.

He looked up into the sky and grimaced at the darkening clouds. It would snow tonight. If it fell after the tents were put up, it would keep them a little warmer, but not by much. Speaking of which, they would have to make camp soon. Winter days were so short, and a good portion of each day was spent getting the company in order for the march.

He looked down the trail, saw that another hour would see the last of the mercenaries pass out of Chandra. Prado would probably call the camp then. His gaze stopped suddenly on the tall thin man sitting on a black stallion on the side of the road not one hundred paces from the border post.

Barys Malayka. I’ll be glad to see the last of that bastard. He’s been following us too close for my comfort, he and his sword.
Freyma smiled to himself then.
His sword Deadheart. I’d like to give him a dead heart.

For his part, Malayka was as happy to see Prado and his mercenaries leave Chandra. He could ride back to Sparro now and let King Tomar know the plague had left his lands. He was disappointed to see so many of Arran’s archers following Prado, but guessed most were out for adventure and were too young to remember what Prado and his ilk had done to the countryside during the Slaver War; then again, the Arran Valley had been virtually untouched. Prado and other mercenary captains had settled there after the war and brought it some prosperity. Thanks to Ushama’s amnesty, King Tomar could not go after them as he had wished.

But maybe now that war was coming again, an opportunity would present itself. Malayka liked the thought of that. He still wanted to give Tomar the head of Prado; the king would put it on a pike and stick the pike in the middle of a midden. Or maybe preserve it and keep it as a warning to all other mercenaries.

He waited until the last of the company had passed over the border, then turned his horse back to the road and started the long journey back to the Chandran capital. It would be several days’ ride thanks to Prado’s buffoons mucking up the way, and in the spring Tomar would have to pay to have it pounded and flattened again. Worth it, though, to remove any trace of Prado.

Malayka glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing in the growing dark. The company had disappeared as if it had never been, and in that moment felt in his bones that none who marched with Prado would ever return to Chandra alive. He repressed a shudder. Times were grim enough without entertaining flimsy premonitions, and why should he care anyway? Good riddance. Good riddance to all of them.