Du Corse whistled. “And we hope the Necromancer is between our claws.”
“And we hope that our other enemy is watching us gather shipping at Lucrece,” Gabriel said. “You did order that?”
Du Corse gave a wry grin. “Every ship in Havre, and every ship I could beg or borrow from the Conte de Hoek. Who is miraculously unaffected by anything. He says that the Nordikaans are pressed hard from the east; a veritable horde from the Wild.”
“I wish the Count of Hoek the best, as long as he doesn’t make any further attempt to undermine Alba’s coinage.” Gabriel was staring at the map.
“I suggested such a thing, by messenger,” Du Corse said.
“In other news, I have appointed you constable and regent of Galle,” Gabriel said. He had a scroll to that effect, and he retrieved it. It was odd, functioning without servants, but Ariosto put him in the unique position of traveling alone.
“And Clarissa is Queen of Arles,” Du Corse said thoughtfully.
“Yes,” Gabriel said.
“So you have restored the Kingdom of Arles in the stroke of a pen,” Du Corse said.
“Yes,” the emperor said. Their eyes met and locked, and the two men stared at each other for enough time that Du Corse’s squires grew uncomfortable.
Du Corse pursed his lips. “I would like to have been … consulted,” he said, as graciously as he could manage.
Gabriel thought of saying what was on his mind, but he recognized that Du Corse had not, in fact, spoken what was on his own. So he nodded. “There was no time or place,” he said. Quietly, “Let me add, as one villain to another, that we have not found the King of Galle, and if we do, he will not survive our finding him.”
“Will he not?” Du Corse asked. “Ahh.” He nodded. “And I am appointed regent by the emperor.” He looked over the high plains of Galle. Ripe wheat ran in an endless sea of gold to the horizon, broken only by hedgerows of summer green.
Gabriel nodded. “Yes.”
“No lawyer in Lucrece would accept the right of the emperor to rule over Galle,” Du Corse said, his voice low.
“You mean, while they look under their beds for the not-dead?” Gabriel asked. He shook his head. “That’s last year’s news, my lord.”
Du Corse took in a deep breath. “Majesty—and by God, Gabriel Muriens, I admit your majesty … if we win, if we hold the line …” He shook his head. “Then what?”
“You are King of Galle,” Gabriel said.
Du Corse’s eyes narrowed. “I know that,” he said. “I mean … you’ve broken the old order. Not just here. Everywhere.”
“I know that,” Gabriel said with the smug satisfaction that made him so easy to hate.
Du Corse flushed. “Will you rule us all? The once and eternal king and magister?” He looked away. “I’d hate that.”
Gabriel flirted with various half-truths. Then he shook his head. “No. I mean, mayhap, if I survive, there will be some fiats from the throne. We need a set of concords. We know so much now; we need an agreement of all the races as to the defence of … everything. We need to build a structure of governance that will survive a thousand years and produce the soldiers and magisters to hold the gates without … becoming barbarians.”
“By Saint Michael the Commander of Paradise,” Du Corse said. “You are an idealist.”
“I am,” Gabriel said.
Du Corse nodded. “I’m in,” he said. “But then, you knew that.”
Gabriel chose not to answer. He needed Du Corse chained to him by chains of steel, but then, that was true of all the men and women he had to trust, and if Ash suborned just one …
He spent an hour he didn’t have instructing three very untrained Gallish mages, if mages they could even be called. None of them wanted to allow him access to their rudimentary memory palaces; in each case, Gabriel performed the kind of reconstructive work that Harmodius had invented when dealing with Mortirmir. He left them with simple structures that were solid, and he left them with the ability to build a competent shield. A golden shield. And he lectured a small legion of priests who were less than enthusiastic.
“Don’t try to face the Necromancer with an army,” he told Du Corse. “These three can buy you minutes. That’s all.”
Du Corse cursed. “Can you give me a magister?” He laughed nastily. “I told the king we needed mages.” He looked back. “I’m going to have trouble with the church. The rumour is that you are about to fight the Patriarch of Rhum.”
“I’m not going to face him in person. But he’ll cease to trouble us, one way or another. He’s in league with the Necromancer.” Gabriel considered what he knew from Kronmir and frowned. “Or at least, with someone.”
Du Corse pulled on his pointed beard. “Now, how do I know that?” he asked.
Gabriel thought of a number of responses. He shook his head. “You don’t. But I do. I’m sorry, messieurs, but we are at the point here where every throw of the dice must be as close to rigged as I can make it, and my empire is really a house of cards balanced by your trust in me, and nothing else.”
Du Corse smiled. It was a nasty smile. “I know,” he said.
His smile was feral, and yet, in response, Gabriel had to grin back.
“How does it come, Majesty, that with the fate of the world in the balance, the hands shaping the defence of humanity are such rogues?” He smiled. “I include myself.”
Gabriel was able to shine his genuine smile. “Think of what we’re doing,” he said. “We’re lying to the most dangerous immortal being we know of, unless God is real. Honest men would not do.”
Du Corse and he clasped arms. “I may still need magisters,” Du Corse said.
“If worst comes to worst, it will be me, in person,” Gabriel said.
He leaped into Ariosto’s saddle. His mount had eaten three sheep, and looked a little cross-eyed. He thought about Du Corse.
Despite Du Corse being his first great opponent, a ruthless adversary in a dangerous game, Gabriel trusted him.
The more so as he had the right bribe in hand. Carrot and stick.
Is this what it is like to be a dragon? he asked himself as he started back.
Distances in the air were deceptive; only today, after days of flying, did he realize that he could reach Arles if he wanted, and curl in Blanche’s protective arms, and …
That way madness lay. He watched the hills rise before him, and then—
There was a sharp tug at his reality, as if someone grabbed his life in the aethereal and gave it a shake.
In no real time at all he was in his palace. He pulled the shield off Prudentia’s arm; the one he kept ready, and he deployed it—
Slam.
The entire shield crumpled in a single blow. But Gabriel was not new to combat in the aethereal. The overflow of power from the attack roiled into a second layer, which absorbed it and used it creatively in a series of, not shields, but baffles, so that the second and third attacks were channeled into the real as heat and light.
Ariosto was up on one wingtip, and a new sun burned a bowshot below them, but none of the energy touched them.
Dive.
On it, boss.
In his palace, he deployed the most powerful shield-working he had to hand and he began another, using Prudentia to run the working while he funneled her power, changing raw ops to potentia at a speed that most practioners would envy.
There was no fourth blow.
He had time to look; there was no hermetical source anywhere near him.
The world of the aethereal was and was not like the world of the real. It was very empty at high altitude; the plane of action had no other players and almost no gradient of power. All that was located elsewhere in more than three dimensions, but as the ground rushed at him in the real, so that gradient of probabilities approached from all directions and dropped toward a singularity.
He had no time to ponder the philosophy of it. He deployed Mortirmir’s search working; the one that looked for signs of
nothing, generated by purpose.
This time, the result was unambiguous, or rather, the probability was startlingly high.
So his attacker had launched attacks like an assassin and then vanished under a curtain of very subtle manipulations.
Or so it appeared.
In the real, Gabriel hauled on Ariosto’s reins, both really and metaphorically, and the great avian’s wings cupped air and they slowed their descent very suddenly. They were perhaps half a league above the forests of the Massif. Gabriel leaned out over his saddle and cast a very unsubtle bolt of golden lightning.
Once, when Gabriel was very young, he had been hiding from his brothers, who were, as usual, tormenting him. Or perhaps he had tormented them. It didn’t matter; he ran into the stables to hide, and he ran into the cellars where the winter grain was stored for the destriers, and there, when he kicked a bag in his rush to hide, a veritable carpet of mice flowed out; hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. He had stood in shock, unable to move; the carpet flowed away into the darkness and away from the shaft of sunlight coming down the stair shaft.
His lighting bolt struck something, and it exploded outward like the tide of mice. It was organic, it was malevolent, and it had a passive shield, which Gabriel has assumed, until that moment, was impossible.
And then he was blinded by the thing’s response.
Chapter Three
The San Colombo Pass—Ser Alison
Hundreds of leagues to the south and west, the combined strength of Venike, Berona, and the company descended the San Colombo Pass and wound its way back into Etrusca.
Sauce and the duchess had discovered that they had a great deal in common, and there was a good deal of laughter as their armies drove south.
Kronmir envied them. The duchess paid him little attention, and as both of them were well versed in the tactics of scouting and exploration, they had little need for the Thrakian, who rode with ill-concealed temper.
It wasn’t just being ignored. Knighthood lay on Kronmir’s shoulders like a burden, an unasked-for reward that threatened his equilibrium.
I am a spy, not a man of honour. If I have honour, it is my secret. And when I order a man’s death by stealth, is that knightly?
Who does he mock? Me, or chivalry?
Why can Giselle not notice me, if only for a moment? To be polite?
Why am I behaving like a child?
It was a little more than a hundred imperial leagues from Arles to Mitla, leaving aside the towering mountains and the winding San Colombo Pass through them. Six days’ march for a determined army.
They came down the San Colombo on the second day like a torrent from the mountains, and Kronmir was delighted in a dour way when Daniel Favour, acting as commander of the green banda, invited the Thrakian to join him in leading the push into the forests of the Mitlan highlands. Kronmir was unemployed until he could find Brown; he’d already sent a message summoning Lucca, who had to be healed enough to function. Or so Kronmir had to hope.
The green banda moved fast, even by Kronmir’s professional standards, and every man and woman of the company’s scout had a bag of flour and a slab of bacon at their saddlebows.
They reached the endless waves of ridges that Kronmir remembered so well from his first visit by nonnes. The land was still; birds sang, but no large animals moved, and no church bells sounded.
“This land is still in Darkness,” Kronmir said.
Favour changed horses. “We need to go further,” he said. “Nightfall in seven hours, give or take.”
The whole banda split into groups of five; hands, the company scouts called them. Two hands rode south, toward the sea.
“Genua is at war with Venike,” Favour said.
“Agreed.” Kronmir nodded. “Sooner or later they will take the field against us, without a single Odine being involved.” He was nonetheless impressed to see that a junior officer in the company could make a political decision. The scouts would watch the Genuans; and capture a few if it came to that. Or kill them.
“What do I do?” Favour asked him.
He shrugged. “It is really Ser Alison’s decision. But we watch everyone, Daniel. I have spies in taverns in Arles. I have spies in Venike. We should be watching Genua.”
The rest of the banda rode north and east, spreading out as they went. An hour after they crested the first ridge, Kronmir and Favour were almost alone; a tall Hillman named Gilchrist moved with them carrying a heavy oliphant, or ivory horn, in his hand. From time to time, horn calls echoed along the ridges.
Kronmir enjoyed the ride, and the speed, and being away from the duchess. He had no role to play, except that he’d covered the terrain before, and twice he was able to guide them.
At midafternoon, a low horn called three times, paused, and called again.
Favour smiled. “That’s good to hear,” he said. “Long Paw has found the Venikans.”
Kronmir was startled at how young they all were; Favour was twenty-one, if even that old. But two years of uninterrupted war had made them masters, and they covered the terrain without breaking a skyline or crossing a valley except by stealth.
They rode along the highest ridge through oak trees so old that there was no undergrowth, and emerged into a clearing with the ruins of an ancient temple amid a grove of apple trees.
Standing in the ruins were a trio of rangers, all wearing dark green and carrying the crossbows preferred by all the Venikans. Kronmir dismounted and tied his horse to a sapling. He took Favour’s as well; the younger man was in command.
Favour looked puzzled to hand his horse to anyone. “I’m not much of an officer,” he commented wryly.
Suddenly Kronmir was in demand. He spoke Etruscan fluently; Favour’s Low Archaic was not up to detailed planning. Kronmir listened to the Venikan officer, Lorenzo. Long Paw, the eldest, stood patiently in shadow, saying nothing. Kronmir knew that Long Paw spoke Etruscan and several dialects, and assumed that the man was employing an excellent caution.
“He says that the Mitlans are snug behind their entrenchments waiting for the Patriarch. The Patriarch is close; perhaps two days south,” Kronmir said.
Favour nodded. “Do you know where the Patriarch’s troops are? And how fast they are moving?”
Lorenzo nodded. He spoke rapidly, drawing on a wax tablet.
“I think I got all that,” Favour said with a smile.
Kronmir translated anyway. “He says that the Patriarch is north of Firensi, and that he is making less than twenty leagues a day; he has infantry and baggage. He says that he saw them himself yesterday.”
Lorenzo said in Etruscan, “I do not think that the Patriarch or the Duke of Mitla know exactly where the other is.”
Kronmir translated.
Favour chewed the end of his mustache.
Kronmir glanced at him. “Ser Alison should know this immediately. I’ll go.”
“Do it,” Favour said, nodding. “Tell her I’m going to assume we’ll attack the Patriarch. I’ll push south; start beating up their scouts, if they have any. I’ll leave Captain Lorenzo to watch the Mitlans.”
Kronmir nodded. “I have it.”
“What do you think?” Favour asked.
“I think that surprise is Ser Alison’s greatest ally. Don’t be seen, would be my advice.” Kronmir hated giving advice, but in this, his views were simple.
Favour was confident enough not to bridle. He thought about it a moment. “Alright. It’ll be dark before I could make contact anyway. Get her to tell you what her plan is. And you can guide the column to here. Ask Captain Lorenzo how far to the Patriarch’s outposts from this ridge?”
Kronmir asked.
“If he marched fifteen leagues today, he’s forty leagues away right now. Mayhap as little as thirty. There is a … hmm … hand of the Venikan rangers watching; he’ll have a report eventually.” Kronmir shrugged. “Do you need me here to translate?”
“Yes,” Favour said. “But I imagine Ser Alison needs you, too. We’ll mu
ddle through.” He glanced at Long Paw, his mentor. The older man smiled.
“I can manage a little Etruscan,” Long Paw ventured.
Kronmir took his mare, originally provided by the Duchess of Venike in what seemed like another time and another world, and a spare horse given him by the Hillman, Gilchrist, and he was away. It was a little like fleeing the not-dead dragon; if he allowed himself nostalgia, he could imagine the duchess riding beside him.
He did not allow himself nostalgia.
He covered three ridges in less than two hours, and found the company’s pioneers just planting the little banners that marked a camp. They waved him to the rear, and less than a league on he found the two commanders with Conte Simone of Berona on a little knoll above a stream, watching the army march by.
He dismounted and bowed.
Ser Alison waved him forward. “From Favour?” she asked.
“Yes, my captain,” he said.
She grinned. “You and I may yet be friends. Say your piece.”
“My ladies, before terce we made contact with the duchess’s rangers. They report that the Patriarch is less than fifty leagues hence; south, toward Firensi. The Duke of Mitla is behind his entrenchments and under observation.”
All three of the commanders dismounted. He extracted his wax tablets from his saddle pouch and drew a map.
“Ser Daniel will push forward but will not make contact until ordered. With the Patriarch. Captain Lorenzo will continue to observe the Duke of Mitla.” Kronmir bowed.
“Eh?” Ser Alison raised an eyebrow.
“My lady, we assumed you would go for the Patriarch before he can join the duke.” He looked at her, and then at the duchess, who winked, warming his heart absurdly.
“You guessed right, for all you are is a hired killer, Ser.” She looked at him as if he were a particularly loathsome insect. Then she grinned. “Best news I’ve heard in a week. You willing to ride all the way back?”
“I am, but Ser Daniel thought you’d want me as a guide.”
“I have the duchess as a guide.” She looked at him as if buying a horse.
The duchess smiled at him. “As we were together the last time we passed these ridges,” she said.