The Lord Marshal was taking no chances. It was the Lord Marshal who had suggested the second innovation, a layer of black felt lining the inside of the tents, so no one would be silhouetted against the canvas by lights within. Another small thing, but it would make the King, his Heir, and the officers less of a set of targets once night fell. Unless a spy was able to watch them closely, one wouldn't even know when they were in their tents.
The Lord Marshal himself was there to greet them, and Alberich moved closer to Selenay as they all dismounted. This would be another good time to strike at her, in the moment when everyone was a trifle relaxed at the end of the journey.
But Kantor had made a statement that needed to be answered. :She is not Valdemar? Then let her become Valdemar,: he said fiercely. :Men fight better when the symbol of what they fight for is before them. Why do you think we carry a shrine of Vkandis before us when we wage war?:
He actually took Kantor aback for a moment. :An interesting observation,: the Companion replied, and left it at that.
It was as well that he did, for Alberich's attention was elsewhere now—scanning every face and every body around them, even—no, especially—among the servants of the highborn. That was the place for a traitor to slip in, among the servants. He watched without seeming to watch, a good trick he had acquired in the taverns of the worst part of Haven. There were a great many tricks he had acquired there, or learned from Dethor, and he had taught most of them to Selenay's Six, and Sendar's too, or at least as many as he could impart to them in the short time he had to school them.
He was pleased to see that they were using those lessons; pleased to see that the ones guarding Sendar were doing likewise. They were more obvious in their watchfulness, but there was no harm there; they drew attention to themselves, and if there was anyone watching them, he would spot the watchers....
Layers upon layers of care and misdirection, of planning and deception, and upon them Selenay and Sendar's lives might depend.
The moment passed; the King and Heir moved into the circle of guards and canvas. Thin protection, or so it seemed, but stronger than one might guess, for they were out of the milling crowd, where a knife could be employed suddenly and without warning, and into a more controlled place where more watchers watched the watchers.
He joined them, in the background, always in the background. Now, more than ever, he needed to be unnoticed.
How ironic, that he, who had trained for most of his life to be a leader, should now require of himself to be insignificant.
How ironic that he should find, as he dropped back to be a shadow-Herald in his dark gray leathers, that he preferred the place in the shadows to the one in the light. He watched young Selenay as, white-lipped, but with her head held high, she took her place beside her father at the planning table.
And then he turned his attention to those around his King and his charge. He knew what the strategy for the initial stages of battle would be, at least for now; it had been discussed and discussed until it was tattered. He knew, and he feared that the enemy knew.
But it had been too late to prevent them from knowing when the strategy was decided—and as he himself had told Dethor, "No strategy survives the first engagement." You could plan and plot all you liked, but when your plans depended on the enemy doing what you thought he would do, it wasn't likely that he'd cooperate with you.
Now all they could do was see what he did, and trust that they could move to counter it, whatever "it" turned out to be. Chances were, it wouldn't be anything they had planned for. The Tedrel Warlords had not survived this long by being stupid. If anything, they were entirely too clever; that very cleverness had caused any ruler who might consider hiring them to take a good long look and realize that they were in many ways as much a danger to the one who had hired them as they were to the enemy they were sent against. So no one, in all the time they had been roaming, had ever before hired the entire nation. Broken up into Companies, they were safe to have inside your borders. Only the Sunpriests, in an act of monumental hubris, had gathered all the Companies together in one place.
Now the Sunpriests were well aware of their folly, too late to do them or Valdemar any good.
We cannot simply turn them back, he thought with anguish. If we do, they will only turn on my people—
And of all of those here in this camp, he was the only one who would care if they did.
But what else could he have done, except to act as he had? He hauled his divided attention back to where it belonged, and kept it on Selenay and those around her. The tents were dark, thanks to the felt lining them; the only light came from the entrance and the unlined canvas tops. The bases had been rolled up to ankle-height to allow air to circulate. The interior of the one they were in was sparsely appointed—that would change when the baggage train caught up with them—and for now, the only seating was on folding stools. Sendar was offered one of these and refused it; Selenay did not.
Talamir called for food and drink, and when it came, made sure that both the King and Heir availed themselves of it. Sendar was, of course, completely immersed in all the reports of the commanders, even though there was nothing new in them. Selenay was looking wan, but Alberich did not suggest that she retire to her own tent. She had to harden herself; they all had to harden themselves, to go beyond what they thought they could do until there was no more strength left, then find more strength, somewhere, somehow.
As if she had heard his thought, she turned her head toward him and met his eyes. Then she rose and took her place at her father's side, paying every bit as much attention to the reports as he was. Although the King did not even glance at her, Alberich watched as he placed his hand on her shoulder, tacitly welcoming her presence, and showing any who doubted that she belonged there.
Good. Now no one would suggest that she get some rest, dismissing her as irrelevant to their discussions.
A movement—an odd movement—caught his eye. Without turning his head, he identified the movement as someone pulling slightly away, rather than leaning toward the group. His peripheral vision was excellent, better perhaps than anyone guessed, for he had no trouble telling who it was without betraying his interest by looking at the man.
It was Orthallen, who was serving as the commander for the militia of his sector. His brows were furrowed, his posture tense.
And he was frowning at Selenay.
15
ORTHALLEN—
There were some singular holes in Alberich's intelligence regarding Orthallen. At that moment, Alberich wished that he'd spent a little more time trying to fill them.
But in the very next instant, Orthallen's frown vanished, to be replaced by his usual, affable expression, apparently leavened by worry. And if Alberich hadn't seen the transformation, he would have thought that the expression was genuine. Now, however, he was aware that it was a mask, one that Orthallen could don in the blink of an eye, and very seldom dropped.