Doroga nodded, then stepped up onto the platform to stand over Attis, staring down at him, his hands on his hips.
“You would be the Clan-Head Doroga?” Attis asked politely.
“Yes,” Doroga said. “You are the man whose people convinced Atsurak to lead thousands of my people to a bloody death.”
Attis stared at Doroga, then swept his gaze around the room. Finally, he looked down at his own blanket-covered lap and smiled, rather bitterly. “It wasn’t difficult.”
The buzz of conversation in the room simply stopped. Everyone stared at Attis, Amara included. Oh, certainly, everyone had known who was behind the events preceding Second Calderon, but there was what everyone knew, then what they could prove. Lord and Lady Aquitaine had gotten away with it without leaving any concrete proof to connect them to the Marat invasion. No one had spoken of it openly—such a charge, made without proof, would have been instant and undeniable reason for the Aquitaines to call the speaker to the juris macto.
And yet, Attis had just admitted to his part in the plot, in front of the most powerful Citizens of the Realm.
Doroga grunted, nodding, evidently unaware of what he had just done. “Lot of people died. Yours and mine.”
“Yes,” Attis said.
“If there was time,” Doroga said, “you and I might have an argument about that.”
“Time is something of which I am in short supply,” Attis replied.
Doroga nodded. “It is done. Dealing with the vord is more important. But I will have your promise not to do any such thing in the future.”
Attis looked bemused. “Yes. You have it.”
Doroga nodded and extended his hand. Attis reached out, and the two traded grips of one another’s forearms.
“Thank you for your help today,” Attis said. “You saved the lives of many of my people.”
“That is what good neighbors do,” Doroga said. “Maybe no one ever taught you Alerans about that.”
“Entirely possible,” Attis said, a smile still touching his lips. “I must ask you if any more of your people might be willing to help us.”
Doroga grunted. “I have called. We will see who answers. But I and my Clanmates are here. We will stand with you.”
The Princeps nodded. “I welcome you.”
“Be a fool not to,” Doroga said. “After this is done, you and I will talk about balancing scales.”
“I would be pleased to discuss it,” Attis said.
Doroga grunted, faint surprise plain on his features. “Right. Good.”
“We should begin, I think,” the Princeps said.
Doroga folded his arms on his chest, nodded to Attis, and ambled back over to Amara and Bernard.
“Citizens, Senators, Captains,” Attis said, raising his voice. “If you would give me your attention, please. We will discuss the defense of the Valley. Our host, the rather farsighted Count Calderon, will describe his defensive structures to you.”
Bernard looked at Amara and gestured in irritation at his jaw.
“Ah,” she said. “Your Highness, my husband has injured his jaw and will have difficulty speaking. With your permission, I will brief everyone about our defenses.”
“By all means,” said the Princeps.
Amara stepped forward and up onto the platform with the sand table. Everyone gathered around to look. “As you can see,” Amara said, “the Calderon Valley is divided into three separate sections by the new walls. We are currently just behind the westernmost wall. It is by far the longest and the lowest, running approximately five miles, from the escarpments to the shores of the Sea of Ice and standing at an average height of ten feet. The second wall is approximately twenty miles from here. It is just over three miles long and runs from this salient of the escarpments to the sea. It is of standard construction at twenty feet, with gates flanked by towers every half mile. The final defensive wall is situated here, at the far end of the valley, protecting the town of Garrison and the refugee camps of those who have already arrived.”
“I’m curious,” interrupted Senator Valerius, “how a Count of the Realm managed to fund all of this construction—and then to conceal its presence, as well.”
“With a great deal of support, sir,” Amara replied calmly. “The sections of wall within sight of the causeway were raised only a few days ago. The rest went unobserved thanks to the generous use of camouflage to hide them from the view of fliers and the fact that few visitors to the Valley stray far from the causeway.”
“It seems odd to me,” Valerius said. “That’s all. Such a project must have cost you hundreds of thousands of golden eagles.”
Amara eyed Valerius calmly. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“I find myself reluctant to trust your word, Countess—or the word of the Count who built these unauthorized and illegal fortifications—”
“Oh bloody crows, man!” Antillus Raucus abruptly snarled. “What the crows does it matter where they came from as long as we have them at hand when we need them?”
“I merely point out that this is a legal matter that can hardly be ignored once the current crisis is abated. If we are to entrust the security of the Realm to the loyalties of this… questionable pair of individuals…”
Lord Placida didn’t speak. He simply turned to Valerius, grabbed the man’s tunic, and with a grunt flung him out of the tent to sprawl in the mud outside. The motion was so sudden that Valerius’s bodyguards were caught frozen. Placida turned to face them with narrowed eyes, then pointed at the door.
They went.
“Ass,” muttered Raucus.
“Thank you, Placida,” the Princeps murmured in a dry voice. “Countess, please continue.”
Amara smiled at Lord Placida, nodded to the Princeps, and returned to her narrative. “We have been studying the potential defenses of the Valley for some time,” she said. “This is the plan we believe will best accomplish the goals the Princeps has specified…”
CHAPTER 31
Gaius Octavian’s host came down upon the vord-occupied city of Riva like a thunderstorm.
Though I’m not sure anyone’s ever done it quite this literally, Fidelias mused.
As the Legions and their Canim allies swept down from the hills above Riva, the low-hanging clouds and curtains of rain seemed to cling to the banners of Aleran troops and Canim warriors alike, bound by a myriad of misty, intangible scarlet threads that stretched out into the air all around. The leashed clouds engulfed the entire force, concealing their numbers and identity from outside observation—courtesy of the Canim ritualists, led by their new commander, Master Marok.
Within the cloud, Crassus and the fliers of the Knights Pisces hovered over the heads of the marching forces. The Knights Aeris had gathered up the swirling energy of a dozen thunderbolts from a storm that had come through before first light. The strokes of lightning rumbled and crackled back and forth between the Knights, blue-white beasts caged in a circle of windcrafting. Their growling thunder rolled out ahead of the advancing host, concealing the sound of marching troops and cavalry alike.
“This all looks quite stylishly ominous,” Fidelias commented to the Princeps. “And appearances can be quite important. But I can’t help but wonder why we’re doing this, Your Highness.”
Octavian waited for a crash of thunder to roll by before he answered. “There just aren’t many ways to disguise the identity of a force on the move,” he called back, his voice confident. “And I want our full strength to come as a surprise to the vord.”
“I see,” Fidelias said. “For a moment I thought that you’d effectively blinded and deafened us all for the sake of making a memorable entrance.”