The Dog of the North (16 page)

Arren sat with his back against an oak tree. ‘In truth, only Lord Thaume’s family are entitled to enjoy it. Strictly speaking that excludes the pair of us.’

Eilla sat on the ground beside him, her arms holding her knees against her chest. She grinned with something like her old spirit. ‘I have been in here many times: the walls are not
maintained as they should be.’

Arren looked at her. ‘Had I known your negligence of status we could have met here throughout.’

Eilla’s smile vanished. ‘Much would have been avoided had we done so.’

‘The events are behind us now. I must of necessity look ahead, and you should do so too.’

‘Is it so easy to dismiss the death of a man?’

‘Surely you have no sympathy for Foulque? Lord Thaume would not have hanged him so swiftly if he had not been convinced of his evil.’

Eilla thought a moment. Her dark eyes searched the ground for answers. ‘No. But I should have. He died through my testimony. I don’t feel guilty that he died – but I should,
shouldn’t I?’

‘You know I would have killed him last night, without a pang.’

She turned her eyes to his face. ‘You are trained for war. You cannot afford scruples. But that does not stop me questioning my own conduct.’

‘That is what comes of following the Wheel,’ said Arren with a half-smile. ‘If you followed the Way, the viators would tell you to forget the matter. The Wheel’s emphasis
on introspection is unhelpful.’

Eilla did not smile. ‘We do follow the Way, Arren. We just follow it in our own fashion. I had no idea you were become the theologian.’

Now Arren laughed. ‘Never think it! Sleech is a tedious canting hypocrite, and I have no more intention of modelling my conduct on his precepts than on Sir Langlan’s – rather
less, in fact, since Sir Langlan at least derives some pleasure from his vices. But the Way is here to make our lives easier, so why torture yourself with conscience?’

Eilla lay back on the grass and looked up to the sky. ‘I do not devote great attention to the matter,’ she said. ‘But it is difficult to look on last night with
equanimity.’

‘The matter is simple,’ said Arren. ‘Foulque attempted an outrage. In this Lord Thaume agreed, and dispensed field justice.’

She stretched out and rolled on her side to look at Arren. ‘No doubt you are right. And I have never thanked you for saving me.’

Arren shrugged. ‘The circumstances left me little choice. I could hardly leave Foulque to work his will.’

‘But he had a knife.’

‘And not the faintest concept of how to use it. For three years I have learned every kind of chivalrous combat, and several less honourable. If he had killed me I would have deserved
it.’

‘I thought you were not coming,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘You were so late, and you had not come the weeks before.’

Arren looked into her eyes. ‘Did you come every week?’

‘Of course. I had said that I would.’

‘But we quarrelled last time.’

‘I quarrel with Clottie every day. We have been friends for so long, Arren, in a sense we are like brother and sister. Quarrels will never change that.’

Arren thought for a moment. ‘Brother and sister?’

‘Well, in a sense. I cannot believe you are going tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Look at the buds on the trees. They are nearly in bloom, but by the time they flower, you will be
marching north under Lord Thaume’s banner. Are you afraid?’

Afraid! Tardolio shows great presumption in bringing his host south. He must be chastised.’

‘I did not ask whether it was right to defend Croad against Tardolio – how could it be otherwise? I asked about your feelings.’

Arren was puzzled. ‘I have no choice in the matter. If I trouble to think, I am conscious only of eagerness to begin. I should like to be back in the city for the Midsummer
Fair.’

Eilla reached out and took his hand. ‘Be careful, Arren. This is not a game. We are not playing at raiders now. These are real raiders with real swords.’

‘It is the raiders who should beware,’ said Arren with a confidence he did not think to examine.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘My father will want to be assured that I am unhurt.’ She skipped to her feet and kissed him fleetingly on the cheek. Arren watched her as the
sunlight dappled her dress and she dwindled into the distance.

I might never see you again, he thought, wondering as he did so where the notion had come from.

4

The sun was barely up the next morning when Lord Thaume rode out of Croad at the head of his army. He was flanked on one side by his cousin Sir Artingaume, on the other by
Oricien. Arren marched some way back in Sir Artingaume’s company, with Guigot alongside him. Oricien would rejoin the company once they were out of sight of the city.

As they marched out through the North Gate, Arren looked back over his shoulder. The walls were packed with folk watching them on their way. Lady Jilka, wearing Lord Thaume’s scarlet
ceremonial robe to indicate her regency, sat on her strider looking impassively ahead. Beside her were Master Guiles and Lady Cerisa. Arren’s eyes were drawn to the path atop the city walls:
he saw standing alone on a tower Eilla’s figure watching the troops as they marched out of the gate.

The army was not as large as Lord Thaume had hoped. Duke Panarre had sent no troops from Glount, and he had been forced to leave before his additional request had even reached
King Arren at Emmen. Nonetheless, to Arren’s eyes the force looked as grand and glorious a host as had ever been assembled. The cavalry rode in martial formation at the front of the column,
both riders and gallumphers gaily arrayed in canary-yellow surcoats. The yellow and blue banner of Croad rode at the front of all, and as the sun came up it reflected off the knights’
helmets. Who could stand against such a force?

By the time the army stopped for lunch, some eleven miles further on, Arren was not so convinced of the glory of warfare. His new boots pinched his feet abominably, and the city of Croad was not
yet out of view. His mail felt heavier than he expected and chafed against his shoulders, despite the cotton undershirt Ierwen had given him.

Oricien, now back with his squadron and on foot, chewed his bread with deliberation. If he was feeling qualms, he kept them to himself. Guigot, meanwhile, evinced a sunny good humour. Arren had
never seen Guigot light-hearted before, but he seemed in no way discommoded by the distance they had covered or the discomfort of their equipment.

‘Eat up, Arren!’ he said. ‘Tardolio will never be vanquished on an empty stomach. I aim to ensure my strength is at its maximum when the raiders come in view.’

The lads had been assigned to the care of Serjeant Fleuraume, a wiry veteran of many campaigns. He did not interpret his duties as including excessive deference to his charges.

‘Guigot is right, lads,’ he said. ‘An army marches on its stomach, and this is where we have the advantage over Tardolio. He has brought his army by ship as far as Hengis Port,
and then disembarked them on Jehan’s Steppe. He cannot hope to keep them fed in the way that we can, for we can send food up from Croad whenever we choose.’

‘Why then, in that case,’ asked Arren, ‘do we not have more appetizing victuals?’

‘If it was fine foods you wanted, you could have stayed behind with Lady Jilka,’ said Fleuraume. ‘You will find little pampering on the battlefield.’

‘Viator Sleech eats well enough,’ said Oricien. ‘I do not notice Master Pinch stinting himself, and even Master Coppercake appeared to be tucking into a roast fowl when I
walked past.’

Fleuraume shook his head wryly. ‘You have much to learn, lord’s son or not. Coppercake is quartermaster for the duration of our campaign; you must expect him to divert the best food
for himself. And Sleech is a viator – have you ever seen one of them go hungry? He says he must keep up his strength for when he Finds the Way with the soldiers who call at his coach. Pinch
simply finds himself in the right place at the right time, since he travels in the following stout-coach.’

Oricien frowned. ‘This is not right. Sleech, Coppercake and Pinch do not fight, but they eat the best food. And yet we must throw our bodies before the enemy on a diet of bread and
cheese.’

Fleuraume grinned. ‘That is the first rule of army life: the less a man contributes to the fray, the more he eats. You must get used to it.’

5

By the time the army camped at nightfall Arren was ready for immediate sleep, but Fleuraume had assigned him cook’s duties. Two men from the squadron – farmers
in normal life – had caught rabbits, and Arren superintended a stew bulked with potatoes issued by Coppercake. After supper Lord Thaume summoned them to his own tent. Outside on the ground
sat the lord with his war captains, arrayed around the fire. The featureless steppe stretched away in all directions, both Croad and Tardolio’s army lost in the magnificent emptiness.

‘Now we are away from Croad we can think with a clear head,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Pinch, are you able to divine the whereabouts of Tardolio’s force?’

Pinch looked into the fire as if he had not heard, but eventually he said: ‘I have conjured a dimonetto of the least potent sort to scour the countryside. My powers are weak on such
matters, but I have compelled it to a kind of truth. The dimonetto tells me that the host is to the north—’

‘That is scarcely news,’ said Sir Artingaume with a harsh bark of laughter. ‘I should be surprised to hear they are to the south.’

‘—but the Steppe is barren terrain. It is unable to tell me more precise geographical information. It can, however, estimate with exactitude the size of Tardolio’s army. This
news is not good, since he has about three thousand men – half as large again as our own force.’

‘What of the composition of the forces? How many are cavalry?’ said Sir Artingaume, running a hand through his short grey hair.

‘The dimonetto conveyed no such exact information. The Unseen Dimensions are rather different to our own. The distinction between cavalry and infantry is lost upon it.’

Sir Artingaume stood, grimacing as he shook the stiffness from his legs. ‘Do you still command the dimonetto?’

‘It is pent within my stout-coach by magic. I may use it again tomorrow.’

‘Bring it forth now, that we may interrogate it.’

Pinch shook his head. ‘That would not be advisable. The being requires careful handling. I can communicate with it only with difficulty; restraining it is even more taxing.’

Sir Artingaume scowled. ‘It has seen Tardolio’s army. There is much information it could provide if only the correct questions were asked.’

‘If I sent a bird north to assess Tardolio’s strength, would you expect interrogation to be productive? The dimonetto is no larger than a bird and probably less
intelligent.’

Sir Artingaume tipped the dregs of his stew into the fire and looked down to where Pinch reclined on the ground. ‘Could you not secure the services of a more useful dimon? A more
intelligent and tractable being could furnish valuable information.’

‘If you wish to make such an attempt, Sir Artingaume, do not allow me to stop you. I find my reserves much depleted from bringing forth this dimonetto. I could not summon a more powerful
beast without oversetting my reason. In your case, the potential losses are less significant.’

Sir Artingaume eventually discerned Pinch’s meaning. ‘I meant no offence, although I wonder why Lord Thaume did not secure a more potent thaumaturge.’

Pinch raised his eyebrows. ‘I can think of five, perhaps six, thaumaturges who could summon and control a modest dimon without destroying their minds. They would find this war at best
trivial, at worst incomprehensible. I myself agreed to assist Lord Thaume largely from ennui, which reflects poorly on me.’

‘Enough,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘We are grateful for the information you have gleaned, Master Pinch. To know the size of the enemy force is valuable knowledge. We must consider
where to force battle.’

Darrien spoke up. ‘In a sense the terrain is irrelevant. Jehan’s Steppe is flat: there are few defensible positions. There are no hills we can defend, no rivers to put at our
backs.’

‘True,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Can you draw any conclusions?’

‘We should not push on too far. The further Tardolio must come to meet us, the more his lines are stretched, and the harder he will find it to feed his men. Conversely, the closer we
remain to Croad, the more easily we can maintain our supplies.’

‘If Tardolio should defeat us too near to Croad, he can advance upon the city before we can regroup,’ said Sir Langlan.

Sir Artingaume gave a croak of outrage. ‘Defeat! This is not credible! You must apologize to Lord Thaume on the instant!’

Sir Langlan drained his goblet. ‘We are outnumbered. If we do not fight well, we lose,’ he said. ‘Lord Thaume would be a fool to think victory assured.’

‘Sir Langlan is right, up to a point,’ said Darrien. ‘But if we are beaten, Croad would not fall in a day. We have supplies within the city, and our walls are strong. Unless
Tardolio destroys us in a single engagement, he must besiege the city while defending his rear. I say we fortify here. We know where Tardolio is going: let us wait for him.’

Lord Thaume was silent while he thought over the views of his captains. ‘Let Tardolio come to us,’ he said. ‘We will dig in here. Oricien, tomorrow you will learn the life of
the labourer.’

6

Arren had found the discussion interesting, although he did not look forward to digging ditches on the morrow. He was more stimulated by the thought that Master Pinch had
a dimonetto pent within his stout-coach. What harm could it do to take a peek? Pinch himself had characterized the being as ineffectual, but any dimonetto was better than none. What a story he
would have to tell Eilla if he examined the dimonetto!

While the captains debated the best means of fortifying their surroundings, Arren slipped away into the dark. Master Pinch’s stout-coach was identifiable by the lightning-bolt standard
flapping feebly above it in the moonlight. Was there really a dimonetto within?

Arren noted with surprise that there were no guards outside the stout-coach. Pinch had said that the dimonetto was ‘pent’, whatever that meant, but this was negligent conduct.