The Dog of the North (53 page)

As they rode through the newly homeless, Monetto asked: ‘Are you now Arren once more?’

Beauceron shook his head wryly. ‘I can never be Arren again. I have had my revenge. Oricien’s city is destroyed and he lives to witness it. That does not make me who I was, or give
me what I have lost. What of you, Master Coppercake?’

Monetto looked around at the devastation he had helped to cause. ‘I left Coppercake behind when I rode out with you,’ he said. ‘I never imagined it would come to
this.’

Beauceron turned in the saddle to look into Monetto’s face. ‘I am sorry, old friend. Would you have come if you had known where it would lead?’

He gave a harsh smile, bitter with the weight of hindsight. ‘How could I? Lord Thaume had misjudged you, and I could not stay. But if you had told me that night that you proposed to
destroy not only Thaume’s family but his city, to cast all of Croad to the wolves, to roam the steppes with a band of vagabonds – indeed, to be a vagabond myself – well, I think I
would have taken myself back to Glount.’

‘I did not know myself,’ said Beauceron quietly. ‘On that night, I knew only my rage, my pain, my loss: I did not know where it would take me. We came here by degrees. Perhaps
that is how we all come to wrong.’

‘“Wrong”? You acknowledge error?’

Beauceron laughed. ‘“Error” is perhaps not the term. I have achieved a kind of Harmony, albeit a dark one. Viator Sleech or Lord High Viator Raugier might not have approved,
but I have followed my own Way. I cannot delight in what I have done, but I cannot regret it.’

‘How touching is your remorse,’ called Siedra from behind them. ‘I never imagined you so maudlin.’

Beauceron turned in his saddle. ‘Do not mistake me, Siedra. My revenge is not yet complete. I will not set it aside through softness of heart.’

They rode over to Brissio’s throne. ‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ said Beauceron politely. ‘Allow me to present my prisoner, the Lady Siedra.’

Brissio gave a moment’s incredulous stare. ‘You are cool, and no mistake. You flee the field, and return as if nothing had happened.’

‘I did not “flee”,’ said Beauceron. ‘I chose not to burn my troops. Since you are here, and there has been no formal surrender, you evidently made the same choice:
although, in keeping with your slow perceptions, later than me. And if you had not thrown the cavalry away with your rashness, the city need never have been burned.’

‘Be assured you will account in Mettingloom for your conduct,’ said Brissio. ‘I hear a rumour that you started the fire.’

‘It is not rumour, but fact.’

‘You freely own to destroying the city?’

‘It was never worth the expense of garrisoning. Better to remove the presence of Emmen in the North altogether.’

Brissio rose from his throne. ‘The cost of the army was underwritten by the city’s revenues. The Winter House will be bankrupt! How will we repay our loans?’

Beauceron shrugged. ‘That is not my concern. Davanzato may suggest some weaselly expedient, if your father has not yet hanged him.’

‘I will have you hanged in his place! Guards!’

‘My lord,’ said Captain-General Virnesto. ‘With all respect, this is not the most opportune time to settle your scores with Beauceron. Lord Oricien approaches with his party.
We must accept his surrender with fair grace, then consider how we will defend the city against King Enguerran’s approach.’

Beauceron and Monetto both uttered caws of laughter. ‘King Enguerran!’

‘I fail to see the joke,’ said Virnesto.

‘My man Tocchieto may have been mistaken,’ said Beauceron. ‘He is fond of a tipple on occasion.’

Brissio rose. ‘There was no army?’

Beauceron shrugged. ‘Conceivably not.’

‘I might have taken the city without losing my cavalry?’

‘Time will tell.’

Virnesto said: ‘Why, in the name of the Consorts? Your own men have died along with mine, to no purpose.’

‘You disappoint me, Virnesto. You were present when Brissio and Oricien made their compact to dispose of me once the city had surrendered. You did nothing to stop it. In such circumstances
I was entitled to look to my own deliverance.’

Virnesto looked at the ground. ‘My lord,’ he said to Brissio. ‘There is nothing to be gained from further wrangling. Oricien is here.’

Brissio sat back on his throne with heavy emphasis. ‘My crown!’ he called.

Virnesto and Beauceron, as the senior captains, flanked the throne, mounted on their strong gallumphers. Before them approached Lord Oricien on a white gallumpher, its coat stained with smoke
and soot; on a smaller black strider at his side rode Lady Isola, who was once destined to be the Lady of Croad. Beauceron tried to catch her eye but she stared only at the ground.

Brissio rose from his throne. ‘Halt before me, the master of the North!’ he said in a ringing voice. ‘Why do you approach me?’

Oricien reined in his gallumpher. He removed the golden chain from around his neck. ‘I am come to make surrender of my city,’ he said in a thick voice. ‘The ruins you see
behind me are yours now.’

A retainer took the chain and placed it around Brissio’s neck.

Oricien looked around. ‘Siedra!’ he cried. ‘Are you hurt?’

Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Arren has kidnapped me,’ she said in a thick voice.

Oricien addressed Beauceron. ‘Can you not release her? Is the destruction of Croad not enough? I have nothing: you have taken it all. Would mercy not be a greater demonstration of your
power?’

Beauceron laughed. ‘My plans for Siedra are not yet complete. If you wish to have her back, go to the slave markets at Taratanallos in a year’s time. You may buy her, if you have the
money. She is unlikely to command a great price unless my men use her with unusual care.’

‘Arren, I beg you!’

‘As I once begged Siedra to tell the truth to your father? Say your farewells while you may.’

‘Enough!’ bellowed Brissio. ‘This is a solemn moment, my great investiture. All other matters are subordinate. Tell me, Oricien: were you at Jehan’s Steppe?’

Oricien blinked slowly. ‘I was – as was he.’ He pointed at Beauceron. ‘Arren is the son of Darrien, the Captain of my father’s Guard.’

‘We shall come to “Arren” later,’ said Brissio. ‘For the nonce, it is necessary that you make apology for Jehan’s Steppe, where so many good knights
died.’

‘My lord! This is unprecedented! Tardolio invaded us: we merely defended our lives and our property. You may not do this!’

‘I now decide what may and may not be done,’ said Brissio. ‘I am Prince of Mettingloom by right, and Lord of Croad by arms. If you do not comply with my wishes, the folk of my
new realm shall suffer.’

Oricien hung his head.

‘Good my lord,’ said Isola, her voice barely audible. ‘Such vindictiveness is not the mark of a great prince.’ She swivelled her eyes sideways to Beauceron’s face
at the mention of vindictiveness. ‘Can you not show compassion?’

Brissio scowled. ‘Now is not the time for your importunities, woman, especially as you have broken your parole in fleeing to Oricien. I am the master of the field, and all must acknowledge
it.’

Oricien slipped from the saddle of his gallumpher and knelt before Brissio, his face expressionless.

‘I kneel before the new Lord of Croad.’

Brissio permitted himself a look of satisfaction. ‘Your obeisance pleases me. Still, you must abase yourself further, and beg pardon for the crimes of Jehan’s Steppe.’

Beauceron looked around the group. Virnesto stared stolidly ahead; Isola’s face was crimson. He had yearned to see Oricien humiliated, so where was his satisfaction? Brissio was a man so
far below Oricien in dignity, honour and courage that the scene before him was an abomination.

‘Come, man, a prince must not be kept waiting. When we return to Mettingloom, while you await your ransom, I will teach you something of due respect.’

Beauceron gave Brissio a marvelling stare. What was the point of taking Oricien for ransom? There was no one left to pay it: his city was a smoking wreck, Siedra his only surviving relative.
Once again Brissio had proved himself a buffoon.

Oricien dropped to his second knee. ‘I beg the pardon of your lordship for—’

‘No!’ came a sudden scream from Isola. In a moment Beauceron was never able to recapture, she leaped from her strider to Brissio, full length, without touching the ground. Her arms
were outstretched, and there was a glint of metal. Brissio staggered back with a cry, Isola on top of him.

‘She has pricked me, the dimon!’ cried Brissio. ‘Oh, but I am hurt!’ He pushed Isola aside and from his belly came an ooze of red. ‘Treason!’ Blood bubbled
thickly from his mouth. Attendants rushed to his side.

‘Detain her!’ shouted Virnesto as the guards looked on in horrified wonderment.

Beauceron weighed up the situation. Brissio was sorely wounded: there was no hope for Isola. Treason it might not be, for Isola had sworn no fealty to the northern kings, but she had wounded
– perhaps mortally – the royal Prince. He hesitated for a moment. He could not rescue Isola and extract Siedra from the fighting. Could he let her off so easily? Isola climbed to her
feet, looked around in desperation. Her eyes met Beauceron’s, shining with glorious defiance. He spurred his gallumpher forward, scooped Isola up in one arm. ‘Mon-etto, ride!’ he
called and with his free hand wrenched the gallumpher’s nose towards the ridge and the trees.

Brissio tried to rise and sank back with a groan. ‘After them,’ roared Virnesto. But Beauceron had a crucial twenty yards’ lead, and from the hill charged fifteen of his
cavalry, firing with cool accuracy into the gap between the Dog’s men and their pursuers. Anyone who wished to catch Beauceron would need to brave a storm of arrows.

Beauceron did not look back. It was hard enough to control the gallumpher with one hand and counterbalance Isola’s weight.

By the time he gained the ridge the pursuit had been reined in. His men were experienced in this kind of skirmish, and they knew the terrain. There was no way Virnesto would be able to bring
them to book.

He set Isola down. ‘You have paid any ransom you ever owed, my lady. You are free.’

Isola looked up at his gallumpher and gave a hoarse laugh. ‘And so you repay me for my treacheries,’ she said. ‘You leave me in the wilderness without a mount, my choices the
woods, or Brissio’s men.’

‘You mistake me, my lady,’ said Beauceron. ‘There has rarely been good will between us, and perhaps I have rarely deserved it. You are free to leave if you wish; otherwise you
may remain with us. Our path is unlikely to take us to Sey, but we will set you down wherever on our travels you see fit. I have achieved my goals, in large measure.’

Isola extended her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For my part, I repent of any wrongs I have done you. They are too many to list.’

After a moment she said: ‘You left Siedra behind.’

‘I could not have taken her and you as well. I had to leave one of you. I found I could not leave you to suffer for such a noble deed.’

‘The “noble deed” was defending the honour of a man you had sworn to humble. And then you let Siedra go. What of your vengeance?’

Beauceron swept his arm to encompass the smouldering city. ‘We have had vengeance enough for one day, my lady.’

He smiled and summoned Rostovac with a fine white strider, onto which he gently handed her.

‘Shall we go, my lady? We have many miles to travel before we make camp tonight.’

As the column moved away, Beauceron looked back over his shoulder one last time. The plume of smoke, reaching skywards from the burning city, all but blotted out the setting sun.

Six months later Beauceron led his men back north after a summer campaigning in northern Emmen. He judged it unwise to return to Mettingloom until he had a better sense of the
tenor of affairs. Prince Brissio had died three days after his stabbing by Isola, and events in the Winter Court would necessarily be febrile. It would be difficult now to return before the snow
came, and Beauceron had resolved that if he returned at all, it would be when the Summer Court was in session. For now, he had decided that his men would winter in Hengis Port while he gathered
intelligence of the North.

He had sent his men on ahead to secure lodgings, so when the path took him along the ridge past Croad he was alone. The sun was sinking in the sky and he fancied to see a smoky smudge across the
clouds. He looked down into the valley to see signs of movement. There were even some wooden structures inside the still-intact walls, although no one had troubled to mend the West Gate through
which the Winter Armies had entered. Croad was slowly returning to health and life: there had been nothing to detain the folk of Mettingloom.

He rode down the track from the hills and at the base turned to the south, away from the city and out into the sprawling agglomeration of farms, many of which appeared neglected. As he came out
through a straggly clump of trees he saw the house of Canille’s old farm before him. A lad of some twelve or so years deftly broke the neck of a rabbit he had caught in a snare; rapt in his
task he did not notice Beauceron’s approach. His gallumpher snorted and the boy looked up and jumped to his feet.

‘Have no fear, lad. Is this Canille’s farm?’

The boy backed away. ‘You are a raider. There is nothing for you here.’

‘You need not be alarmed. I am merely revisiting the scenes of my youth. Tell me if this is Canille’s farm.’

The lad pulled the knife he presumably used to skin rabbits from his belt and set his jaw. ‘We have no need of you here. Go back to the North!’

Beauceron looked down into the boy’s flashing dark eyes with a hint of recognition. ‘You are brave, to stand against a mounted raider. I admire your courage. It is not necessary for
you to prove it today: I require information, not goods. Someone – a lady, a lady who needed no title – once lived here.’

From his side came a female voice. ‘Do not move! I have a bow trained on your neck.’

Beauceron turned to look, stared into the copy of the boy’s face. ‘Eilla! But Lord Thaume exiled you!’