And when we are done, you will go HOME.
Men cheered, although some members of the company looked uncomfortable.
Gabriel waved to Morgon, afraid that if he even cleared his throat, the noise would resonate. Mortirmir bowed in the saddle, his feet now in the stirrups, and turned his horse, but the magister was stopped by Bad Tom.
Three cheers for the emperor! Tom’s voice rolled over the fields so loudly that it raised dust devils.
It had all been arranged, Gabriel saw, because the Nordikaans had the right of leading any cheer for the emperor, and there was Derkensun by Tom Lachlan’s stirrup.
He raised his axe.
Ave!
IMPERATOR
Ave!
IMPERATOR
Ave!
IMPERATOR
And then Gabriel, deafened and reeling from the waves of emotion not unlike the wave front of a wyvern or a mighty dragon, turned his horse, waved his sword, and began to ride along the cheering ranks. The Nordikaans grinned; the company roared; the Mamluk kettle drummers played crescendo after crescendo.
Beyond the company were the Etruscans; Sauce stood in her stirrups to cheer, and by her side was the famous Conte Simone; behind them stood ranks of Venikan marines, and Beronese knights and crossbowmen, and Padovans, Vrescians, and a handful of Venikan nobles, as well as contingents of mounted rangers and Venikan light horse, and a thousand professional soldiers of Mitla led by the new duke’s bastard brother: hostage and contribution in one man.
Across the road stood the chivalry of Arelat and a party of volunteers from farther east; heavily armoured in elaborate, fluted harnesses and speaking yet another language, they were the chivalry of the many princes of the Almain, an almost mythical place with a high reputation for chivalry and for beer. There were almost five hundred of them, despite their own lands being invaded by the eastern Wild, serving under Ser Calvin von Ewald and Ser Parcival, and they had brought a party of easterners to reinforce the Vardariotes.
And beyond them, filling the rest of the parade, were wagons and drovers; more than a thousand high-sided military wagons, all of them already loaded; grain, spare wheels, sheaves of arrows, more than a dozen mobile forges, bar iron stock, thread, wool, beeswax, candles, bandages, hats, sword blades, and all the sinews of war; beyond the wagoners stood the corps of drovers, six hundred armed men and women who would drive thousands of head of beef across the gates.
“Incredible,” Gabriel muttered. He saluted them all, Alemains, Arelats, and wagoners, and rode to the very end and embraced Sukey, who stood on the box of a wagon that had its own flag.
Adrian Goldsmith sketched it all.
There was no pay parade. Tippit called it; they were all standing in ranks, relaxed, or as relaxed as they could be with Ser Milus four paces away and watching the emperor recede toward the distant wagons.
“Going to take for-fuckin’-ever to unfuck this,” Tippit said with a professional’s disgust for amateurs.
“Oh aye,” admitted No Head, who was already worried about an engineering problem that the captain had given him.
“No Head, how long will it take for fifty thousand men to file off to the right and left and march back to camp?” Tippit asked.
No Head stared at the cloudless afternoon sky a moment. “Four hours, give or take,” he said.
Smoke looked back at them from his exalted place as master archer of the whites. “Hey, No Head, if you have your thinkin’ cap on … you know those stakes we’ve been practicing at?”
“The gates,” No Head said wearily.
Smoke nodded. “So how long will it take fifty thousand o’ us, wi’out animals an’ wagons, to pass the gates?”
No Head nodded. He looked after the distant emperor, as if the man might hear him from almost a mile away.
“Call it twenty hours,” No Head said.
“Fuck,” Tippit said. “Gates open when?”
Smoke looked around. No one was supposed to know.
Long Sam shrugged. “Sometime after five, I hear.”
“Aye, just when they ring matins, or so I hear,” agreed Simkin.
“Ave Maria. Does every one of ye know the timetable?” No Head looked disgusted.
Tippit looked at the sun. “Let me measure this for ye, then, lads. The gates, if they open at all, will spread their wings for us at matins. That means Cap’n will call it an early night. An’ we won’t get off this parade for another hour, at best.”
“Fuck,” Smoke muttered, seeing where this was going.
“We’re goin’ ta’ get fed a big meal, ’cause the company always gets steak before we fight …” Tippit continued.
“Fuck,” Smoke ventured again.
“And then the cap’n, or Bad Tom or Sauce, will stroll by an’ order us to our blankets, fer our own good,” Tippit said with relish. “’Cause if’n the gates open at matins, Tom Lachlan will want us booted and spurred before the cathedral strikes three.”
“Fuck,” said Smoke. “Right y’are. Dammit.”
“No pay parade,” Tippit said with disgust. “We’ll have to fight our way through somethin’ ’orrible, just to get paid.”
Mark my words. Smoke started. They all looked around.
“Damn him,” Long Sam muttered.
“Jesu, Sam, ye had to know that Wilful was too fuckin’ mean to stay dead.” Robin Hasty shrugged. “No disrespect intended,” he added, crossing himself.
Snot raised a hand in his tentative manner. “No Head?” he asked.
No Head rolled his eyes. “I ain’t a bleedin’ oracle,” he muttered.
“I got a question about loot, No Head.” Snot’s voice was a little whiny at the best of times.
“Loot?” No Head asked.
Men and women who’d ignored the rest of the exchange glanced at them. Oak Pew paused and stepped out of her spot. “Loot?” she asked.
“How much loot d’ye think a whole world might ha’, No Head?” Snot asked.
People held their breath. The silence was absolute; almost hermetical.
No Head calculated.
The silence lengthened.
Finally the short archer shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “I don’ ha’e any basis for calculation. But whate’er it is …” He grinned. “Whate’er it is, you can expect that we won’ get as much o’ it as we deserve.”
The last night was an odd one. No one in the emperor’s confidence could doubt that the gates were going to open; there was light coming through the gate as bright as a new dawn, and all the magnificent stained glass burned with colour before the sun set in midafternoon.
They all knew what was ahead of them, or rather, they all shared a legion of doubts about what awaited them.
The emperor stunned his household by attending evensong in the castle chapel. The priest kept looking at the emperor as if expecting him to sprout wings—or perhaps horns. As soon as he had been served dinner, he ordered everyone in the household to bed. Toby appeared as if by magic and led Queen Clarissa’s servants in clearing.
The emperor looked at his former squire and raised an eyebrow.
Toby flushed. “I thought I’d make sure that we were served by the castle,” Toby said. “So the rest of the casa could go to bed. Master Nicodemus agreed.”
“Bless you,” Gabriel said. He glanced at Ser Michael, who was wolfing down little rolls of beef.
Toby saw the tables cleared and the boards pulled and stacked. The emperor took his lady by the hand, and she, attended by her new maid, rose, accepted bows, and went up the tightly twisting steps to their apartments.
The Queen of Arles sat alone. She was in a plain brown gown and wore a knight’s belt as her only jewelry. She sat with her chin on her hand, looking out the great double window that dominated the upper hall.
Toby was the only other person there by happenstance. His purpose had been to find Anne, but he’d been too successful in organizing dinner, and she’d already gone up to help the emperor with his clothes and
weapons. Toby knew how much needed to be done to prepare the man for dawn.
Toby was afraid. He was afraid to go up the stairs and help Anne; afraid that this would be too much of an admission. Afraid she didn’t want him, as a man and as a squire.
He found the queen’s eye on him.
“Wine, Your Grace?” he offered.
She smiled. “You are a knight now, are you not?” she said in her curiously accented Alban.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, and when she held out a silver goblet, he filled it.
“So you will ride with them tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Toby answered.
She smiled. When Clarissa de Sartres smiled, she was quite beautiful; the transformation was breathtaking. “I envy you,” she said. “Many of my knights are going. I am not going. I will sit here and be queen.”
Toby had no idea whether there had been acrimony about the queen remaining behind. He didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.
She looked at him, and drank some wine. “Do you think you will triumph, Ser Tobias?” she asked.
Toby nodded. “Yes,” he said.
She rolled the goblet along the edge of the chair arm. “Why?” she asked. “Why so confident?”
Toby shrugged.
“Because of him?” she asked.
Toby felt trapped, but after a moment, he said, “I’ve been with him for some years, Your Grace. He doesn’t … lose.”
She nodded. “I want to be there,” she said. “A moment will come; the moment of victory. I do not want to be a girl and sit at home. I want my barons to remember that I was there.”
Toby was far out of his depth. But in that moment, he knew he would go up the stairs; Anne’s rejection, on the cosmic stage, was a small thing, a risk he could and should take, compared to the unfairness of being left behind.
“Maybe you should just come,” Toby blurted out.
Clarissa frowned. “That is not the path of duty,” she said. “All my life I have done what I have been ordered to do. Because, for the most part, the world would collapse if rulers did not do their duty.” She looked out the window. “I went to the Gallish court because my father ordered me to,” she said softly. “And I stayed home when my father went out to face the Wild.”
She shook her head. “I am unfair to you, young sir. These are not your troubles.”
Toby nodded. “Well,” he said. “I am a great one for duty, Your Grace. I ha’e been a servant, a page, and a squire; I generally do as I’m told.” He shrugged. “If you was to go along o’ us, and die …” He met her eye. “What would happen? Here?”
“My family line would end,” she admitted. “There would be trouble. Political trouble.”
“And if you don’t go?” Toby asked. He didn’t know why he was doing this.
“Ser knight, if we both survive this, I think perhaps you should return to my court and take a place as one of my counselors.” She put her wine aside, and Toby knew what she had decided.
Toby paused, ready to walk up the steps. But daring was coursing through him; perhaps it was her flattering words, or his intention of confessing his love to Anne. Either way, he nodded. “Listen, Your Grace,” he said. “Philipe de Beause needs an armed page. You can handle a lance?”
The Queen of Arles smiled again. “Oh yes,” she said.
Toby bowed. “If you choose this path, I can see to it …”
“Say no more,” she said. “Perhaps I will see you in the morning.”
Toby sprang up the steps with the energy he’d have used in a storming action. He reached the top and the door to the outer solar was open; he walked boldly in, to find Master Julius copying rapidly with both of his clerks and one of the imperial messengers helping him. Through two open doors he could see the empress being undressed by her lady. The emperor had his back to the door and was reading a message. There was a fire in the grate, and darkness was falling across the world.
Anne appeared at the inner door with a doublet across her left arm and the emperor’s war sword in her right hand. When she saw Toby, her face lit up. His heart beat very fast.
“I’ll do the sword,” he said, sitting on one of the benches at the second writing table. He drew the sword; it was spotless, but Toby took a rag and some oil and touched it up, checking the edge …
“Is that you, Toby?” called the emperor.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Toby said. Sharp in the last ten inches toward the point; sharp enough to shave with. But the rest …
“Shouldn’t you be rolled in a blanket with a sweet friend, Toby?” the emperor asked. “Since you are not, fetch the Megas Dukas, please?”
Toby ducked out, ran down the tightly curving stairs and up the opposite set to Ser Michael’s room.
“Cap’n wants you,” Toby called past Lord Robin, who was laying out armour.
Michael appeared, fully clothed, with a baby on his shoulder. “Lead on,” he said.
His child was spitting up onto his silk-velvet doublet. Toby ran down the steps and heard Ser Michael following, and then up, noting that the Queen of Arles was gone.
Morgon Mortirmir was right behind them.
The emperor was waiting with wine he’d poured himself.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said. “I won’t keep you. A last adjustment,” he said apologetically. “I will open the gate myself.”
“It’s a foolish risk,” Mortirmir said.
“Morgon,” the emperor said, his voice flat, “can we remember which of us is emperor?” He looked around. Blanche was in a shift, standing in the bedroom door with her lady’s face peeping over her shoulder. MacGilly was laying out the emperor’s arming clothes; Anne was already laying out a cold breakfast.
“I am the strongest,” Mortirmir said.
“When Father Arnaud died, I swore that I would not risk another life if I could do the thing myself. I will do this, gentlemen.” To Toby, it had the sound of an old argument.
Mortirmir shrugged. “If you fall—”
“Then I don’t have to worry about the next part. Sorry to interrupt your evenings. Go to bed.” The emperor bowed.
The Megas Dukas and the Magister Magi both bowed.
An armourer appeared at the door. He was very nervous, and Toby poured him a cup of cider, warm from the shoe on the hearth, and tried to calm him.
“I am to fit the empress!” he said.
Anne slipped into the bedroom and emerged with the empress, who was clearly not wearing anything under a linen shift, which added magnificently to the armourer’s confusion.
“Your … sabatons … were too tight? Highness.”
Blanche smiled. “So they were, sir.”
She sat; Beatrice laced on her arming shoes. The armourer stepped forward and put the sabatons on. His hands were shaking.
Toby glanced at Anne and found that she was looking at him.
An eternity passed, and both of them were still in gaze-lock. Toby realized that someone had said his name.
The empress was smiling. “Toby?” she asked.
“Your Grace?”
“Get the poor man a cup of wine,” she said.
Toby fetched wine, and helped the armourer away from the empress’s feet. Blanche was trying not to laugh.
“Just a matter of a small change,” the armourer said. “The rivets have to be just so loose. So happy …”
Blanche rose. The man stuttered and managed a very sketchy bow.
“They are perfect,” the empress said. “I could dance in them.” She began to execute the steps of an Etruscan court dance that she and Beatrice did every morning, her steel-clad feet winking in the candlelight. Her sabatons were edged in gold.
“I have never seen anything so beautiful,” the armour said. “Oh! I said that out loud.”
He turned bright red; so red that Toby was afraid he might do himself a mischief, and he guided the man to a table and put wine in his hand. The empress grinned at her lady and then indicated the steel
shoes, and Beatrice had them off in a flash.
“You’ll start a new fashion,” young Beatrice said. “We’ll all have to have armour.” She giggled. But she wiped the fingerprints from the steel with her very practical apron, and set the sabatons down with the rest of the harness laid out on the solar’s carpet by the fire.
The armourer watched Toby examine the sword.
“May I touch it?” he asked.
Toby held it out, and the man simply put a finger on the hilt, and grinned. “Ah,” he said in Galle. “What a night! I touched the empress, and the emperor’s sword.” He rose and walked out.
Toby followed him as far as the storeroom on the corridor, where he fetched a strop and a bowl. While Anne and Beatrice tidied away the last few things, he took some paste of wax and pumice and touched up the sharp blade of the war sword.
He put the sword back into the scabbard, heard Anne laugh with Beatrice, saw Master Nicodemus come through with linens over his arm, and worked the sword a few times—half draw, return, half draw, return.
Just right.
The emperor leaned out of the bedroom. “Go to bed, friends,” he said.
“Almost there,” Anne said. Toby smiled. It was exactly what he had always said. He placed the emperor’s sword in the upright rack near the fireplace. Next to the sword stand was a towel rack, which now held a spotless, newly made arming shirt and braes several sizes smaller than the emperor’s.
Master Nicodemus smiled. “Thanks, Toby,” he said. “I think we’re ready. Anne?”
Anne nodded, her arms full of dirty clothes.
Beatrice curtsied.
“I will wake you all,” Nicodemus said.
He swept out, as regal in his way as the emperor.
Anne dropped the dirty clothes in a hamper by the solar door and tried not to listen to the sound of talking from the bedroom.
Toby gathered up his polishing and sharpening and carried the refuse down the hall to the storeroom. He put the wax back, and wished he had water …
Anne came in with a candle. She rose on her toes to fetch another candle from a high shelf. Then she turned, and put her lips on Toby’s. “Don’t go anywhere,” she commanded. She went out. Master Julius came by, yawning; Toby pretended to be fussing with something in the tiny storeroom.