Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (11 page)

He broke away from Torrance’s arm with a start.  “You
can’t put any of this on
my
shoulders!  I…I can’t carry the Arm!”

“Nor will you,” Celerity countered.  “Do not for a
moment think you are anything beyond a convenient tool at the king’s hand.  You
are, and will be, no closer to being the Arm than your commander is.”

Marik stood firm, glaring at her as he lashed back
with, “Stop confusing the matter, and stop dancing around!  I want to know what
you want from me!”

“We aren’t asking you for anything.  We are telling
you what you will do as a citizen of Galemar.  If that is insufficient, then
the duty you are bound to as a member of your band.  The Crimson Kings
Mercenaries serve the crown when called upon.  Attempting to quit once you have
been so ordered is tantamount to desertion.”

While Marik opened his mouth to make a hot reply to
the threat, the seneschal drove it home by saying, “In this matter,
Knight-Marshal Tybalt will enforce the desertion penalties fully.”

“You show me the bars of my prison before you shut the
door,” Marik growled, arms twitching while his mouth drew a thin line.  “I must
assume that whatever you have in mind, I will disagree with it completely.”

“It is simple enough,” the seneschal revealed.  “With
the army and Arm forced to cover the eastern border, the western conflicts have
few men available to resolve them.  They are outmanned, and face considerable
odds given the information we have.  Re-securing the Stoneseams will be a
monumental task.  Galemar has not faced such a difficult battle since—”

His words were interrupted when Torrance cut the air
with his hand, flatly stating, “Stop gilding the lily.  Marik is a smart enough
lad.  I’ve testified to that.  But in the end he is, like myself, a
mercenary.”  Facing his hire-sword, he stripped away all the fat.  “Simply put,
they have decided life will be easier if this is somebody else’s problem.  So
they will drop the problem into your lap.”

“They’re leaving the entire job of fighting back the
black soldiers to us?”  Marik was incredulous.

Torrance shook his head in a slight movement, the
anger still present in his eyes…but the merest smile appearing nevertheless. 
“I did not say they were giving the problem to the band.  They are foisting it
off on you.”

The last shreds of doubt fell away.  Marik understood
it plain enough.  What made no sense at all was, “Why in the lowest hell?  What
am I to them?  I’m a
mercenary
!  Not a soldier, much less an officer!”

“That is one of the many fish bones in Tybalt’s craw,”
Torrance agreed.  “As for what you are…that should be plain enough.  You are a
man who has twice played influential roles in major battles.  Once in a
one-on-one duel against a retinue of knights and the head of the Nolier army. 
Again by single-handedly breaking through the enemy line and forcing a wedge to
their command core, then taking out the powerful magic user who was leading
them.”

Sour tendrils crept into Torrance’s eyes during his
last statement.  Marik was forcibly reminded that, after the verbal thrashing
Sloan and Fraser had given him over his recklessness, Torrance would surely
have words of his own to deliver on the subject.  This was neither the time or
place for that, though.

“In the nutshell, you have proven to be a man who
finds victory where others would certainly meet with defeat.  Both your
battlefield accomplishments and your tenacity for surviving near-certain fatal
wounds have impressed King Raymond.”

“Which,” Celerity picked up, “strikes his majesty as
opportune.  Tybalt intended to give command over the Tullainian border to one
of his colonels.  The king sees a grave situation the likes of our darkest
moments in Galemaran history and desired the Arm to command those battles.”

The seneschal added the final bit.  “To finish
plainly, as you observed earlier, the current trials required by those who
contend for the position are less challenging than originally they were.  As
great a warrior as our current Arm of Galemar is, he would struggle to make
optimum use of the minimal forces available for the western defenses.”

Marik wanted to shout at them.  To scream bloody
murder.  To demand what insanity ruled their thinking.  Unfortunately, childish
tantrums and equally foolish questions would serve him little use.  After he
left this room, he would be able to rationally find a way to return to his
proper place in the Ninth Squad beside Dietrik.  Until he could escape their
lunacy, what he needed most was to make an impression of competence.

He thought he might have made a good beginning at that
by refusing to yield to their rank.  Before he blurted out words that would
tarnish his image, he carefully considered his next statements.

“Not to be the Arm…but to act like it.  No.  It is not
so simple as that, is it?  What you want is someone to tell you how the
real
Arm would solve the problem.  How the
real
Arm would act in this
situation.  But you’re not about to let on about it.”

“Of course not,” Torrance agreed before the others
could naysay him.  He briefly stood united with his fellow mercenary against
the upper echelon.  “No one can possibly admit the truth of it openly.  Tybalt
is furious and hardly alone in that.  Yet Raymond remains convinced that
unorthodox methods will be required to fend off this unorthodox enemy whom none
can identify.”

That made Marik bark a harsh laugh.  Looking at the
seneschal, he forcefully asked, “Do you expect me to pull a string of answers
from the air like a festival illusionist?  You’d be a double fool if you
thought I could tell you what to do when your own men obviously haven’t been
able to.”

“No.  I do not.  And before you continue, I will see
to it that certain points are made clear.  First,” he intoned, flexing his
fingers so as to resemble a man examining his fingernails, “you are to serve
the crown as the wartime prescripts of your band demand.  That means you will
obey or else suffer imprisonment at best, the remainder of your days in a labor
gang at worst.”

Once he was satisfied by the glower over Marik’s face
that the message had been received, he continued.  “Second, you will not be
acting as the Arm of Galemar in any function you might be familiar with.  What
we desire from you are the insights such men are known for.  Your
accomplishments coupled with your evaluation of the Thrae Valley reenactment
suggest you might be able to do so.  To that end, your duty will consist solely
of analysis, evaluation and advice.”

Marik’s temper got the better of him.  He could not
contain it.  “Because of a few guesses about a model, you want me to plan a
campaign?  That’s madness!”

“Wrong.  It is because that, of the strategists
currently in service to the king, none have ever so completely recreated
Faustus Hueart’s strategy when they studied the valley.”

“I don’t believe that!  It’s too simple for anyone to
look at and miss the obvious.”

“Take my assurance that, in the course of their
studies, every tactician, including Tybalt, took different paths.  Each would
have cost Basill Cerella’s forces a great toll in men, and none would have
assured victory.  That is beside the point.  What you are to do is study the
situation, use your firsthand knowledge of the enemy and craft a plan to put
forth before the throne in three day’s time.”

“You will not be alone in this,” Celerity added,
adopting the seneschal’s firm, patient tone.  “Tybalt has his men analyzing the
information as we speak.  Your advice will only be one of multiple courses
proposed.”

Oddly enough, never having dreamed words from her
could do so, Marik felt comforted.  From their manner he had anticipated having
the responsibility for entire regiments forced onto him.  What they wanted,
when considered coldly, was simply a new point of view.  In a way it was what
he had thought to do all along; present information.  That there would be men
far more capable at crafting battle plans than he at hand meant the king would
never be foolhardy enough to put his faith in a
mercenary’s
untutored
advice.  The others would be certain to point out his errors.

All they wanted from him was a different layer of the
onion.

The seneschal continued.  “You will study what
information we have, which is mostly in the enclave’s keeping.”  He nodded at
Celerity, who accepted the gesture serenely.  “You may study whatever you wish
if it grants you the insight to deal effectively with the enemy, considering
the forces at your disposal.

“However, keep in mind the simple fact that you are
not to make an issue of what you are doing.  You are no ‘unofficial Arm’,
whatever has been said.  The council will be
most
displeased if rumors
to that effect begin circulating.  Outside the enclave, if you must speak to
anyone regarding your duty, that person must first be approved by a member of
the council.”

Celerity ordered, “You will come to the enclave’s
tower tomorrow morning to learn what Tru has uncovered.”  She wore a mask of
impassiveness, the cracks in it revealing her true feelings barely perceptible
to him.  He could see she still regarded him as an impertinent apprentice who
lacked proper respect.  “From there you will decide what next step you wish to
take.”

Silence hung in the air.  Celerity and the seneschal
had nothing further to add.  They left him alone with Torrance, who must know
what they were meant to do following the meeting.

“I don’t know which way is forward and which way is
back!” Marik vented.

“Keep your wits in proper order,” Torrance commanded. 
“I
will not
have you casting any ill regard over the Crimson Kings! 
There exists already as much of that as we can work around.”

The temporary unity of mercenary-hood between them was
clearly ended.  Marik faced Torrance without the rigid postures of soldiers
addressing superior officers, electing to continue his bravado against the
gale.  He would see if the hurricane winds would break him in the end after
all.  At this point, he would almost welcome it.

“How did the king and his council latch onto
me
? 
Mercenaries are nameless nobodies, no matter what great deeds they pull off!  I
can’t believe that cursed song or the reports would be enough to put this bee
in their ears.  By all rights, they shouldn’t have a clue that the two fighters
in both battles are the same man!”

Torrance lofted a single finger, his bearing that of a
stern nursery attendant preparing to chastise a toddler for tipping his
undersized furniture into the hearth.  “You may accept, in all measure, the
blame for that, Marik!  When you reported to Janus the exploits of your
contract to safeguard Hilliard Garroway last summer, you conveniently left out
the fact that you challenged Balfourth Dornory to a death match!”

 Prepared for any rebuke except that, Marik felt his
spine stiffen after all.  “I did no such thing!  A death match?  If I had, I
would be hanging from a gallows rope!”

“No?  Well, whatever the facts, that is the version of
the tale still burning through the Inner Circle like a wildfire!  According to
rumor, you, the bardic hero who struck down a squadron of enemy knights, was on
the verge of slaying a cowardly noble who had deserted at the Hollister
battle.  Only your
respectful deference
to proper etiquette regarding
the shedding of blood in the home of your host stayed your hand.”

“Who said that?  That never happened!”

Torrance glared at him, his temper short.  “Of course
it didn’t!  You’re a mercenary, for the love of all the gods!  But be that as
it may, you surprise me.  I would never have expected such foolhardiness from
the lowest cutthroat who eeled his way into Kingshome, much less a man who has
demonstrated a sharpness of wit during his contracts.  I trust Fraser’s
judgement enough that I have no doubt he reported true.”

Marik scratched his chin.  “I’ve never claimed to be
smart or clever.  Dietrik can tell you that, too.  Balfourth…he’s been a
splinter under my fingernail ever since the beginning.  Under all our nails. 
My temper got the better of me that night.”

“You had best keep it under tight rein,” Torrance
ordered with emphasis.  “The eyes of powerful people will be on you
constantly.  Any slip, no matter how minor, will reflect on the band.  If you
damage our reputation…”

There was no need to complete the promise.  Marik knew
full well the band’s reputation formed the entire foundation of their place in
the world, particularly among the nobility who refused to contract with any
free swords except those acknowledged as the best.

“What does Balfourth have to do with my being
summoned?  I don’t see how that could possibly matter.”

That brought a heavy sigh from the mercenary leader. 
“The court thrives on gossip, on rumors, no matter their credibility.  You
likely would have faded from their minds soon enough.  That song about the
battle and their love of heroic wartime figures would gradually ebb under
current affairs until you were mentioned nevermore.  But,” he added, his words
hardening, “when you pull a stunt such as shaming a pampered lapdog like
Dornory with the truth, that changes matters!  It transforms you into an
ongoing figure, a character from the old epics who continues to make waves
without regard for his own station.  It’s antithetical to their nature, so it
makes for rich and juicy talk among them.”