“I remember, Master.”
“Mad with grief,” the magister continued, “the people cried, ‘Never such loss again!’ But now we have been defeated once more.”
“Surely not all this could have been foreseen, Master.”
Yaarike shook his head. “I do not criticize our Sacrifices, who gave their all, and of course I could never find fault with the Mother of the People—to criticize the queen is to doubt the most sacred of truths. No, it is not our plan of battle I criticize, but our overconfidence. And here we see one perfect example.” He gestured to the immense coffin atop the wagon. “I cannot help but think that an army, even one with so distinguished a leader as High Marshal Ekisuno, should not be carrying such impediments as the marshal’s casket along with them when they go into battle. If we had won, then whether Ekisuno had lived or not, it would not have been an issue. But since we lost, we are now forced to carry him with us—and as you no doubt noticed, we have been somewhat slowed by the great warrior’s corpse in its monstrous, weighty coffin.”
In the hush of the ruined great hall, the only noise beside the murmur of the funeral Celebrants repeating their death-prayers was that of the wind keening in the broken ramparts above. Viyeki wondered why his master would say such a thing, especially about a personage as important as the late Ekisuno. It seemed almost a sardonic joke, but it was never possible to be certain with the order’s high magister, who was deep as the innermost chasms of Nakkiga. All Viyeki could do was nod and hope that he did not offend.
“Ah. I am glad you agree, Viyeki-tza,” Yaarike said. “And here is Commander Hayyano and his men, no doubt come to discuss how we may all sell our lives to protect Marshal Ekisuno’s lifeless body.”
Now Viyeki was almost certain that his master was speaking in some satirical fashion, although he still could not understand why: Ekisuno had not only been the supreme leader of the queen’s armies, he was also a descendant of the great Ekimeniso, the queen’s long-dead husband. If there was anyone whose corpse should be protected from profane mortals, surely it was Ekisuno.
Hayyano stopped before them and briskly made the several appropriate signs. He had been one of the less effective league commanders of the Order of Sacrifice during the battle for Asu’a, which may have been a reason he had survived, but he had learned the trick of looking busy and important. “How many of your Builders do we have, High Magister?” he demanded before he had even reached them. “We will have need of their engineering skills to defend this place.”
Yaarike was silent for several moments, long enough to remind Hayyano that he was outranked not just by Yaarike himself, but even by Host Foreman Viyeki. When Yaarike saw the realization finally cross the commander’s face—a subtle but unmistakable flash of unease—he waited a moment longer, then said, “We have enough Builders to make this place secure for a while, perhaps, League Commander, but not enough to defend it against a long and serious siege.”
“But there are many tunnels beneath us, Magister!” Hayyano said with poorly hidden surprise. “That is why this place is called Tangleroot! They will never be able to drive us out. And we will kill ten for every one we lose.”
“I was aware of the reason for the castle’s name, Commander.” Yaarike’s words were dry as dust. “And if we have no other choice, then yes, each of us can sell his or her life very dearly. But even if we kill twenty for every one of our fallen, we still will not survive long, and we will be little help to those who await us back at Nakkiga. Is that not our greater duty?”
Hayyano drew himself up. He may not have been one of the queen’s most successful officers, but he was a handsome, powerful figure and Viyeki knew him to be brave. Talk of duty had brought back his confidence. “My men and I are of the Order of Sacrifice, Lord Yaarike,” the commander said. “Our death-songs are already sung. Whatever the outcome, we will make the queen proud of us.”
“Certainly. If the queen lives, that is—as we all so dearly pray she will.”
Viyeki saw the Sacrifice commander react in shock to old Yaarike’s words. “May the Garden preserve her from harm—of course she will survive!”
“As we all pray.” Yaarike made the familiar sign that meant May the queen live forever. “But in the meantime, we ourselves have two great responsibilities.”
“Protecting the body of Ekisuno, the queen’s most noble general,” said Hayyano promptly.
Yaarike’s nod was perfunctory. “Yes, of course. But also the lives of the queen’s living servants—my hundred and more Builders, and your three dozen or so Sacrifices, as well as the mixed two or three dozen from other orders, most of whom will be little use in a real fight.”
“You would not expect the Celebrants to fight beside Sacrifices, would you?” said Hayyano, looking uneasily at the funeral priests gathered around Ekisuno’s coffin. “In any case, they have their own work to do.”
“If the choice is between all of us dying like rats and the Celebrants taking a moment between prayers to swing a sword or throw a large rock, then yes, I think they should fight.” Yaarike’s face was emotionless, but Viyeki knew the magister well enough to hear the anger in his voice. “And as the highest noble within this refuge, I expect my word to be obeyed.”
“Of course, High Magister,” said Hayyano quickly, but his face suggested he was suppressing more argument. Viyeki thought the commander seemed helplessly transparent. Small wonder that despite high birth, he still held only middling rank.
“Good. Then I want you and your soldiers to make a survey of how we may best defend this place, Commander. We will put my Builders to work shoring up the most needful spots. The mortals who have besieged us—what are they doing?”
“At the moment, not much of anything,” said Hayyano. “They seem to think Ogu Minurato is already theirs and that all they have to do is wait.”
“They are not entirely wrong,” said Yaarike. “We have little to eat and the well is full of rocks. That at least is a task my Builders can begin now. Go, League Commander Hayyano. We will meet again when the First Lantern appears in the sky.”
“Yes, Lord Magister.” Hayyano crossed his forearms over his breast in ritual acknowledgment, then led his Sacrifices out again.
When he was gone, Yaarike shook his head. “I am glad that the Singers here with us have a field commander like Tzayin-Kha,” he said. “She at least is clever and thinks before speaking. What is the Order of Song doing at this moment?”
Viyeki did not like the Singers. Like most servants of the other orders, he distrusted the spell-wielders and was terrified of their great master, Akhenabi, Lord of Song, the most powerful person in Nakkiga but for Queen Utuk’ku herself. “Tzayin-Kha said she would send her followers out in false skins to look upon the enemy’s numbers and disposition. And that they would light the fires of unease among the mortals.”
“Good. I am glad to hear they are occupied.”
For a moment, Viyeki thought he could see the weariness behind his master’s immobile face. “I will occupy our Builders as well, Master,” he said. “With your permission, I will go and see that the well is cleared of stones.”
Yaarike nodded. “Yes, do so, Viyeki-tza. Shoring up the defenses of this place will be thirsty work.”
He bowed. “It will be done before the Lantern is on the horizon.”
“So if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life soldiering, what are you doing here in the coldest part of the north, little Dogfish?” They were sharing Porto’s horse, and the older man was trying to keep Endri distracted. The young man had gone pale when the Northern thane in charge of the mercenaries had given them their orders, and in the two days’ riding since then Endri’s thoughts had been spinning again and again through the same dismal eddy. “Why aren’t you home helping your father make seed cakes?”