Tayschrenn nodded. ‘Fine. It will do for the moment. Now we can move on to our tasks. Once we are ready we are planning to move against Nap. An invasion of the capital, Dariyal, no doubt. Therefore our duty is to investigate what awaits us there on the isles. How strong are the talents? Do any hidden powers await us? What sort of opposition should we expect?’ He cleared his throat, uncertain what reaction his next words might elicit, but continued regardless, ‘I, ah, suggest, then, that you, Calot, and Hairlock travel by mundane roundabout means to the isles to investigate.’
Hairlock cocked a hairless brow. ‘Really? Him’n’me? Why us? Why not you or this lass here?’
‘I would attract too much attention,’ Nightchill supplied, as if stating a plain fact.
Hairlock smiled crookedly, looking her up and down. ‘You got that right, lass. There’s a touch of the Elders about you …’
She pointed to Tayschrenn. ‘And this one has announced his presence on Malaz already. Neither of you have.’
Tayschrenn inclined his head to her – she’d already grasped that salient point.
Hairlock’s jaws bunched as he chewed on this, unhappy. Finally, he gave a curt nod. ‘Fine.’
‘Excuse me,’ Calot began, raising a hand, ‘but when you say “mundane” do you mean by boat and such?’ Tayschrenn nodded, a touch mystified by the question. ‘Then I will need a fair amount of coin, my friend, as I do not travel with the common masses.’
Tayschrenn fought the urge to roll his eyes at the sheer prosaicness of the request, and instead inclined his head in assent. ‘You will both be given sufficient funds, of course.’
Calot shrugged within his bunched, thick cloak. ‘Very well. I’ll go ahead and nose around.’
Hairlock flicked a hand to indicate his agreement as well.
‘Then this first conclave is over,’ Tayschrenn announced. Calot hurried off; Hairlock went thumping after, hands clasped at his back, head lowered, scowling.
‘And what of us?’ Nightchill asked.
‘We remain on guard in case Itko Kan or some other entity decides to strike before we’ve gathered our strength.’
The strange, almost otherworldly sorceress had been peering southward as if distracted, but now she looked to him and extended a hand, inviting him to join her. ‘Prudent,’ she supplied. ‘And what of our patron?’
Tayschrenn fought to keep his irritation and impatience with just that party from his face, and offered, neutrally, ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I will reach out to him.’
The wind plucked at his robes and thorny bushes caught at the cloth as they walked a narrow path down the hillside. The sorceress wore only thin linen trousers and a loose shirt, yet she showed no discomfort from the chill wind, though she walked haltingly, and he thought he saw her wince in pain now and then.
‘And where are you from?’ he asked, now that they were alone and he could focus upon the mystery that the woman posed.
‘From very far away,’ she answered, her voice tired and very soft.
He cocked a brow. Fine. Be all reserved and distant, then. Yet his ruthlessly analytical self could not help but whisper in his ear: And are you irritated with her because she’s better at it than you?
* * *
It was Gregar’s first taste of a foot-soldier’s life and he wondered how anyone could ever be stupid enough to choose it, let alone actually like it. Of course, by now he understood that the word ‘choice’ wasn’t even in the common soldier’s vocabulary. Most of the wretched youths in this troop had no say in the matter at alclass="underline" impressed or conscripted by force, or offered up by their families to perform obligatory service as taxation owed to their lords in Yellows, or Gast, or Satar, or Netor.
And he couldn’t help glaring and clenching his pike-haft with white knuckles whenever these same lords came trotting past in their fine regalia of flowing tabards, plumes, and intricate painted heraldry. They went bantering and joking, trading comments about the deplorable state of this year’s pike-pushers, or what fun they’d have on the field of colours against the Grisian cavalry.
Gregar didn’t know whether to stab them in their fat arses, or puke; or do both at the same time.
Time passed and he and his fellow infantry remained standing at attention in the chilling rain. Haraj sniffed and shivered. The sun behind the clouds rose to midday and still none of the assembled knights and lords appeared from within their tents. The delicious aroma of cooking wafted over Gregar and his stomach rumbled.
‘How much longer are we going to have to wait?’ he complained to Leah.
‘Till the order to stand down,’ she answered from the side of her mouth.
‘But this is useless. We’re just standing here!’
‘Quiet in the ranks!’ Sergeant Teigan bellowed from down the line.
‘We serve at our betters’ whim,’ Leah murmured – not without a strong dose of sarcasm.
‘So we just stand here while they decide whether they want to get their expensive clothes and decorations wet?’
Leah crooked her lips. ‘Now you’re catching on.’
Sergeant Teigan came storming down the front rank. ‘Quiet!’ he bellowed, halting right before Gregar. ‘You hold the colours – show some dignity and respect!’
Gregar squinted up at the wet rag hanging limp from the top of the pike. ‘Know what I think, sergeant? I think you can take this spear and—’
At that moment Haraj fainted to the muddy ground. Sergeant Teigan gaped at him lying limp in the muck. ‘Insulting the glorious tradition of Yellows!’ he roared. ‘Get up, you worthless piece of human waste! You’ll stand all night for this!’
‘He fell because he can’t stand,’ Gregar supplied, and he knelt to pick the lad up.
‘Not you,’ Teigan snarled. He pointed to two others, ‘You and you. Stand him between you.’
‘But f’r how long, sergeant?’ one of them complained.
Teigan pulled a hand down his flushed face and looked to the sky above. ‘Until the fucking Enchantress invites you into her boudoir – that’s how long!’
‘Now that’s a long time,’ Leah murmured aside to Gregar.
‘Hold him up,’ Teigan snarled, ‘till he can stand for himself, and then he’ll be out here all the night – I’ll see to it!’
‘He’ll die of exposure,’ Gregar asserted.
Their sergeant cocked a brow to him. ‘And what of it? Little loss, I should say.’
Stung by such casual cruelty, Gregar answered, ‘I’ll stand for him.’
The bushy brows now rose, either in astonishment or sarcasm – Gregar couldn’t be certain. ‘Oh, you will, will you?’ The fat man bellied up, nearly pushing against him. They were close to identical height, yet the sergeant stood stocky and rotund, Gregar broad and muscled. ‘Well, maybe I have something to say about that!’
‘Which is?’
Now the brows clenched, knotting together over the sergeant’s tiny eyes, as if the man were momentarily confused by Gregar’s direct response; clearly things were not proceeding in the usual manner. He pushed a stubby finger into Gregar’s chest. ‘Then I say you will stand! There! How do you like that?’
Gregar nodded slowly, feeling rather confused himself. ‘Right … as I offered.’
The sergeant sniffed loudly and peered round triumphantly. ‘That’s right! Ha!’ He brushed his hands together as if having set things well in order, and stomped off.
Gregar cast an entreating look to Leah, who was doing her best to keep a straight face.
The sergeant struck a position at the centre of the line and turned to face the assembled ranks. ‘Anyone else?’ he bellowed. ‘Anyone else have any pressing engagements? Invitations to dine with the chatelaine of Unta perhaps? No? Extra sets of lacy underthings to air? No?’ He set his ham-like fists to his hips and surveyed the troopers, nodding to himself. ‘Then we wait here as ordered! And we wait until the damned hillside crumbles into the sea if need be! For we are Yellows!’ Scanning them once more, he nodded to himself again, then strode onward.