Of course you do, boss! Ariosto beamed approval.
Gabriel laughed. His eyes were hurting, and he wiped his cheeks and felt a fool.
They launched without fanfare, and as Ariosto patiently climbed, Gabriel looked down at a long line of wagons that had come through the pass just to the south. A single heavy wagon had lost a wheel and the whole train was stopped, high up, but there was a knot of men around the wagon.
He couldn’t see over the pass into Etrusca, but he knew that a hundred and fifty leagues to the south, the new Patriarch of Rhum, Lucius di Bicci, was marching north as fast as he could. Trying to join with the army of the Duke of Mitla, currently huddled behind four long leagues of earthwork entrenchments and bastions at the head of a long valley by Lake Darda. Their combined force would have twenty thousand men.
The duchess and Sauce together might have eight thousand.
But behind him, on the plains of Galle, the ancient sorcerer whom men called the Necromancer was trapped, or at least, he was on parchment. No one knew exactly what he could do on a battlefield. Convert an army of men to not-dead?
Even while flying, Gabriel shook his head.
He didn’t know, and he was about to find out.
Under Ariosto’s magnificent wings, Count Zac saluted with a golden mace and rode north toward Arles. His cavalrymen were the very tip of a long lance of men who were forming in a camp that had almost ceased to be, stripped to the ground in an hour. The fires were out, the last horse shod. Gabriel touched Ariosto’s side and his mount began a lazy turn north. Just over the next ridge there was dust—Sauce and her staff, coming to take command.
Just off to his right, the Company Saint Catherine was unfurled. Men were ready to march.
The dice were flung.
Gabriel had time to organize a little food; to change from flying clothes to his red jupon and silk hose. Then, with Blanche on his arm, he returned to the great hall, and bowed deeply to Lady Clarissa, who was, if anything, even younger than the emperor, her brown hair and clear skin somehow magnified by short rations. She was as thin as any of her people, and her brown wool gown was almost as simple as that of her maids, except that it was covered with embroidery in brown silk thread; like Blanche, she wore a knight’s belt of plaques to show her authority, but unlike Blanche, from her belt hung a sword.
Blanche leaned over. “I want a sword, too,” she said. “And lessons in how to use it.”
Gabriel made a note on his wax tablets. And showed it to Michael, who had the grace not to laugh.
Clarissa smiled when she saw Gabriel and even more for Blanche and Kaitlin. She waved for them to join her on the dais of the hall, where heavy chairs had been set for all of them, including Ser Michael.
Below the dais, Jules Kronmir, in green, moved small wooden blocks on a large map of Arles and Galle even as a pair of monks worked on the map itself from another table, adding details and cursing when they rubbed wet ink with their elbows.
“It’s done,” Gabriel said. “Tom’s on his way here with the household and the Harndoner guilds. Sauce and the duchess will have the rest. Master Kronmir, I understand that you wish to accompany Sauce? If so, you have about an hour to prepare.”
Kronmir nodded. “I can be little help against the Necromancer,” he admitted. “I am increasingly concerned about reports from Etrusca. Have you read the material in the yellow tab?”
Kronmir had organized all the imperial correspondence by colour code. Yellow was the most secret, for the simple reason that Kronmir thought most people would expect red to be the most secret.
Gabriel nodded. But he said, “A synopsis, please?”
Kronmir shrugged and beckoned to Mortirmir, who looked naughty and produced a field of shimmering, sparkling black.
“I thought we didn’t use black?” Gabriel asked.
“We didn’t,” Mortirmir said with adolescent insolence. “Look where that got us. I’m practicing.”
Kronmir, despite a shimmering aethereal field of forbidden sorcery that blocked every spectrum, leaned close and whispered.
“We are all agreed that Master Smythe has not been particularly forthcoming about our adversaries. Yes?” the master spy asked.
Gabriel did not enjoy being patronized any more than anyone else, but he waved the man on.
“We are under the impression that the Necromancer was the adversary in Antica Terra. But information is coming to light to challenge that. One possibility is that the Necromancer represents … rebel odine, rebelling against the will, by which we mean the ‘main’ Odine …”
Gabriel leaned forward. “Is that even possible?” he asked.
Kronmir glanced at the surrounding black bubble. “Magister Mortirmir says it is possible,” he said.
Gabriel sat back and swallowed a curse.
Kronmir shook his head. “I think there’s another player,” he said. “I no longer think that the Patriarch of Rhum is a tool of the Necromancer. I have a little information on Lucius di Bicci now; may I summarize?”
“Be my guest,” Gabriel said.
“Bicci was a professional soldier. He was in orders as an archimandrite and he may have been a monk. Some years ago, he went east to find Holy Ierusalem. When he returned, he was a changed man—religious, charismatic. And he had arcane powers.”
“Possessed?” Gabriel asked.
Kronmir shook his head. “Hermetical powers are so much rarer here than in Alba, my lord. Magister Petrarcha; Al Rashidi; the famed Yahadut astrologer, Bin Maymum; a dozen in a generation, with ten times our population. And nothing like our hedge witches.”
“Or our Mag,” Gabriel said with a grim smile.
Kronmir bowed his head in assent.
“So?” Gabriel asked. “The point?”
“Your Grace, the point is that we might have three or thirty adversaries here. The Necromancer made the first move for the gate. I wonder if he was the best player? Or merely the least subtle?” Kronmir narrowed his eyes. “Or the most desperate?”
“He’s not done yet,” Gabriel said.
“Admitted. But if the Necromancer represents a rebel faction in the Odine complex-mind …”
“What does that mean, Jules?” Gabriel asked.
“That every worm is part of a greater … assembly.”
Gabriel sat back. “Clearly …” he said. “A single will.”
“Except that Mortirmir has this theory of rebel wills,” Kronmir said. “And perhaps it needs to be said that the evidence of the past … is very strong that the Necromancer is the one who looked for … evidence. About the workings of the gates, their locations, their interrelations, if I may coin a phrase.”
Gabriel digested this in silence.
“If all these monstrous powers were mere states playing the game of kings, I would guess, based on the evidence I see, that the Necromancer was never a lone player. He had an ally with whom he intended to work. Always. May I speculate?”
“What else do I pay you for?” Gabriel asked.
“I lack the mind of a Power, but something tells me that the Necromancer was and perhaps still is working toward either escape from here or reconciliation with the will. Perhaps both.”
“Even God has rebel angels,” Gabriel said. He shook his head. “So the Patriarch is the puppet of the will?”
Kronmir spread his hands on the table in the weird, shimmering light-dark of the shield. “Maybe. I want to go south with Ser Alison and make contact with … my network. I need more information.”
“What do you fear?” Gabriel asked.
“I fear a terrible surprise on the day the gates open,” the spy said. “I fear that we are dupes playing, not for ourselves, but for some other power.”
Gabriel scratched at his beard. “I fear to lose you. After myself, you may be the next most important man in the empire.”
Kronmir flinched. “Sire!” he said.
Gabriel shrugged. “Knowledge is power, Jules. And you hold all the threads of knowledge in your hand
s.”
Kronmir nodded. “Your wife … is adept. The messenger birds all know her. Ser Michael is very competent; if he were not a great lord, I would employ him to gather intelligence, and to read it.”
“You know, Jules,” Gabriel said, “There is something terrifying about having you, a man who tried to kill me several times, telling me that my wife and my best friend are … competent.”
“They are,” Kronmir reassured him.
Gabriel laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
Eventually, his sides aching, he paused, wiped the tears from his eyes, and blinked at his chief intelligencer. “Very well. You can accompany Sauce; I want regular reports.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“But first,” Gabriel said, and he smiled. He tapped a wand and in the aethereal, in his palace, he waved at Mortirmir, who snapped his aethereal fingers.
The shimmering black shield fell.
Everyone in the hall was looking at them. You cannot raise a shimmering black globe in a crowded room without drawing attention.
Francis Atcourt entered, in armour, at the head of a file of knights and squires. They moved to stand like an aisle of steel in front of Gabriel’s chair. Toby brought a low wooden stool with an elaborate stool whose cushion was embroidered in the ancient arms of Arles.
Blanche reached up and unpinned the simple gold circlet she was wearing. Gabriel nodded to the Archbishop of Arles, who was in on the plot.
“Lady Clarissa de Sartres, please approach the imperial throne, such as it is,” Gabriel said.
There was a steady buzz of talk, occasioned by the shimmering black globe; now the hall was silent.
Lady Clarissa, acting Duchess of Arles, rose, walked down the aisle of knights, and knelt on the cushion.
“By the ancient power of my office, I restore the crown of Arles, falsely seized by Galle, to you in token of which I give this circlet,” he said. He rose, bowed deeply to the archbishop, and handed the man the circlet.
The archbishop nodded in return, took the circlet, and placed it on Clarissa’s head with a prayer.
Gabriel bowed. Clarissa rose.
Gabriel nodded. “In the fullness of time, if we triumph, you can have a coronation: anointment, a heavy cloak, choirs, sycophants, everything.” He smiled. “But the office is done. You are Queen of Arles.”
Clarissa bowed her head. “My father would have given his life for this,” she said quietly.
Gabriel nodded. “I know,” he said. “And it may be that you are also Queen of Galle. Honestly, no person alive can tell that right now. I would that we leave the Sieur Du Corse to act as constable and regent until such a time as we can determine what is best.”
Clarissa nodded. “You don’t plan to marry me off to one of your knights?” she asked.
Blanche winced.
Gabriel smiled. “You beat the Necromancer,” he said. “You held your castle against all comers. I don’t think you need a man to make you stronger.”
“Today will live on in history,” Clarissa said.
Gabriel held out his hand, and she found her chair had been moved next to his, and Blanche’s. She sat.
“Master Kronmir,” Gabriel said.
Kronmir looked up from writing. “My lord?”
“Come here,” Gabriel said.
Kronmir passed between the household knights and knelt.
Francis Atcourt produced a pair of golden spurs.
Gabriel drew his long war sword. “By token of this blow, I make you knight,” Gabriel said. “Despite your methods, you have prevented two assassinations, countless attempts on other lives, and your work has repeatedly placed us and our empire at an advantage over our foes. Your courage would be a legend among my knights if only they were allowed to know what you do.”
Kronmir maintained his face, but he was in shock. He did his best to accept the buffet.
Toby put the belt on Kronmir while Atcourt adjusted his spurs.
“Other assassins will be jealous,” Gabriel said very quietly.
Michael leaned over to Kaitlin and said very softly, “Prevented two, made two of his own; that just makes him even.”
Kaitlin giggled.
Kronmir flushed. He rose, saluted with his sword, and went back to his charts, the gold belt glowing on his hips.
“Toby,” Gabriel said.
His squire froze in the act of pouring wine.
“Approach.”
Toby’s heart beat very fast.
It was hard not to hope. Especially when he could see that Queen Clarissa was smiling; that Francis Atcourt had another pair of spurs in his hand; that Blanche was beaming at him.
“Kneel,” the emperor said.
Toby could never remember the rest.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the solar, packing the emperor’s traveling kit.
Anne Woodstock was hiding behind the door. “Which, I’m changing!” she spat.
“He’s leaving!” Toby answered her. He took one razor from the bundle that the Marshal had loaned them, and put it in the big leather saddle trunk. Razor, towel, soap; small pot, clean shirt, clean braes, spare points …
“By Saint Katherine,” Anne went on. “Am I riding, too? I was just changing into girl’s clothes.”
“Change back,” Toby said heartlessly. “We’re riding in an hour.” He smiled. “Or stay here and serve Lady Blanche and Master Nicodemus.”
“No thanks,” she said.
“Want a clean shirt?” he asked, looking into his master’s armour basket to check on his maille.
“Yes,” Anne said.
Toby took one from his own pack and threw it over the door. “I won’t peek,” he said. He went on packing, his back to the door.
In a minute, she emerged in doublet and hose. “The clean shirt is everything,” Anne said. “I owe you—Sweet Christ, what’s that on your hips, you lout?”
Toby grinned. “A knight’s belt, sweeting,” he said with a bow.
She whistled. “He knighted you?” she said.
“You’re the squire now,” Toby said. “So you’re lucky I’m doing your work for you.”
Anne gave him a cautious hug.
“Your turn will come,” Toby said, trying not to relish a chaste hug too much.
Anne nodded, also trying not to relish the hug. She had the briefest notion of putting her lips on his, and dismissed it in despair.
Gabriel sat with Master Julius, and the orders rolled from his mouth through their pens and onto parchment. The stacks of orders sat in piles of scrolls like the skulls left by some conqueror.
Blanche sat in the corner with a six-fold wax tablet, prompting Gabriel.
“Venike rangers,” she said.
“Damn,” he said, and dictated an order—really a polite suggestion that the Venikans use their ranger corps or anyone else they could find to collect wandering farm animals taken by the Darkness and get them fed and watered.
“An incredibly difficult and inglorious job,” he said when he had finished dictating.
“Shall I put that in?” Master Julius asked.
Gabriel sighed. “But the world will not, I hope, end in twenty-two days,” he said. “So there must be food. In fact, we’ll need to ship food to Alba just to keep the Brogat fed. If the new Queen of Arles can save enough of our former not-dead, they can bring in the harvest and ship it.”
“So right now you’re stripping northern Etrusca to feed Arles,” his wife said.
“Exactly,” he answered. “If we fail, none of this matters. But we may as well plan to succeed.”
“Because you like to win,” she said seriously.
“Because we all like to win,” he said. “Especially when the alternative is personal extinction. Eh? Now, wagons. I need them all.”
“You are a fearsome tyrant,” Blanche said.
“In this moment, what is needed is a tyrant,” Gabriel said. “Can someone take a note for Captain Parmenio? Venike? And a copy to the Doge? We’
ll need every ship they can muster, and some covering warships, to move food. Parmenio will know the odds, and he probably knows more about fighting sea monsters now than anyone else.”
“Giselle will not appreciate being bypassed,” Blanche said.
“I will make sure I mention it to Giselle before I ride,” the emperor said.
The orders rolled on.
In late afternoon, the imperial household arrived. Master Nicodemus threw himself into the work of the imperial chamber; he relished it. Toby and Anne handed it over with relief and satisfaction.
Count Zac, golden mace in hand, directed the distribution of a hundred wagons’ worth of flour and dried peas. The other wagons were laagered and the whole surviving Milice of Arles marched out, spear in hand, and mounted guard over the largest food supply in the duchy. News of the emperor’s elevation of their duchess to be a queen was electrifying. The men of Arles stood taller.
The Huscarls of the guard rode east into the setting sun, leaving just six of their number to guard the emperor. The rest never halted, and neither did the Harndoner guildsmen and women on their Venikan ronceys, nor the fifty wagons of supplies that were moving east with the army. By nightfall they were ten leagues to the east, almost as far as the site of the disastrous battle between the Duke of Arles and the Necromancer in the spring.
The rear guard, Syr George Comnena and his Scholae in their scarlet and maille, arrived last. Pages were waiting to take their horses; Comnena knelt to his emperor.
Gabriel sat in the hall with Blanche and Michael and Kaitlin. Francis Atcourt stood guard; Adrian Goldsmith, now Atcourt’s squire, wore full harness but sat sketching.
The Bishop of Arles bowed to Gabriel and indicated a cushion.
The emperor rose and returned the bow. “George Comnena,” he said softly, “I am about to have you crowned Caesar.”
Comnena muttered a piece of blasphemy that would have shocked his wife or his sister.
“There isn’t another time,” Gabriel said. “I could die tomorrow. Understand?”
“Yes,” George Comnena answered. “My great-uncle was emperor,” he said. It made no real sense; it was the comment that floated into his head.
“Exactly,” Gabriel said.
Just at dark, Tom Lachlan and all of the remaining knights of the casa rode into the citadel of Arles and were given rooms.