Without, twilight was gathering. The hillside sloped down like a dark green swath of silk to the Jurd, which glimmered, tree-lined, wide and black. The air was thick with the scent of ripeness, pressing into rot. Night moths and flies clouded around, attracted by the light. It occurred to Rillish that he was home yet this was no longer his home. Where could he call home now? The Wickan plains? They could hardly be expected to be welcoming at this point. Nil ducked out, joining him. The lad hugged himself over his plain deerskin jerkin. His unkempt black hair was a tangle, yet Rillish said nothing – one does not tell the premier Wickan warlock that he needs a haircut.
‘A rich land,’ the youth said, viewing the green hillsides. ‘You people have done well by it.’
Rillish eyed the Wickan adolescent, blinking. ‘Pardon…?’
A blush and duck of the head. ‘Sorry. All this once belonged to my ancestors.’
‘No, Nil,’ Rillish managed, his stomach clenching, ‘It is I who am sorry.’
The youth blew out a breath. ‘So different from Seven Cities.’
‘So, what will you do?’ Rillish asked, gesturing to the tent.
‘We will let them talk, then give our opinions, then let them talk some more, then give our opinions again and let them talk. Once they begin saying our opinions back to us as if they are their own, then we will agree with their wisdom and we will have their unshakable support.’
Rillish eyed the lad, who was looking down the slope, unmindful of his regard. ‘Nil?’
‘Yes?’
‘You are far too young to be so cynical.’
A bright smile. ‘My sister and I are far from young, Lieutenant.’
Yes, you have come so far too swiftly and for that I am sorry. ‘What are those opinions then? What should you do?’
‘Ah… you've hit upon the problem. We aren't sure yet.’ Horses nickered in a nearby corral, stirring restlessly and the lad's eyes moved to the noise. ‘What do you think of our envoy?’
‘It's possible we're intended to judge the offer by its bearer – candid, honest and practical.’
A boat appeared floating down the Jurd, sail limp, long sweep raising a bright wake. The eyes of both tracked it. ‘Yes,’ Nil said. ‘An honest offer honestly given, to be just as honestly disregarded at earliest convenience.’
In that statement Rillish listened for echoes of sullen resentment, sneering disdain or suppressed rage, but heard none. Only a sad sort of resignation that the world should be so ordered. ‘You are caught,’ he said. ‘You've done everything you can but you still have no true leverage.’
A long slow assent. ‘We are in a strange situation, Lieutenant. We ought to have all the advantages, camped as we are on the capital's doorstep, yet we find ourselves a sideshow. Unta has been sacked already. We can hardly threaten that. What will be our fate is in fact being determined far to the west – and we are not even there.’
‘You must still work to achieve the most advantageous terms you can.’
‘Yes,’ the lad sighed. ‘We must. Yet I wonder – have we done all that we can?’ Nil turned to face Rillish, and his gaze slid to the tent then back, cautious. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’
‘For what?’
‘For listening. Unlike many of my countrymen I think it useful to talk through things. I find that it helps unravel knots.’
Rillish motioned to the tent once more. ‘Your countrymen do not seem averse to talk.’
‘Most use it only to tighten existing knots.’
‘Ah. I see.’
The warlock took hold of the tent flap. ‘You need not endure any more of this tonight. Nether and I will manage things. I understand you have much more pleasant company awaiting you,’ and he grinned.
An adolescent effort at adult banter? ‘Yes, thank you.’
The grin faltered. ‘Now, if only I could find someone for my sister…’
Rillish bowed quickly, ‘Goodnight.’
On the dark road back to the farmhouse Rillish found two mounted figures waiting. Sergeants Chord and Talia. Sergeant Chord saluted, turned his mount, and rode off ahead. Rillish brought his mount alongside Talia's. ‘Sergeant…’
‘Lieutenant…’ She leaned aside and they kissed. There was something about her tonight; her smile was so bright in the dark, her eyes so full of a hidden humour.
‘You are looking… mysterious… this night.’
She turned her mount while watching him sidelong. ‘I have a secret.’
He stilled, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I am, as they say in your fancy aristocratic society – with child.’
‘What?’ He stared, utterly shocked. ‘But that's impossible!’
An arched brow. ‘Has no one told you how all this works, then?’
‘No! I mean, what I meant was… how could you know so soon?’
‘The horsewives told me. They're beside themselves. You should've heard them clucking over me.’
‘Well, you'll have to leave the ranks, of course.’
She faced him squarely. ‘I certainly will not. I'm a sergeant now. Got a pay increase.’
‘I could bust you down.’
‘For what?’ she snapped. ‘Misconduct with an officer?’
Rillish opened his mouth then quickly shut it, thinking that perhaps another assault would be inadvisable at this time. Reconnoitring and observation were clearly called for. Perhaps some judicious probing. Talia rode in a loud pointed silence, her back stiff, face averted. He cleared his throat. ‘Not the reaction you were expecting, I imagine.’
‘Damned straight.’
‘I'm sorry. It's just… quite a surprise. My first reaction is that you don't take any risks…’
‘You think I want to?’ She sighed, eased her mount closer, took his arm. ‘Old Orhan and I can swap duties.’
Orhan, Rillish reflected. The company quartermaster and horse-master. Demanding work, potentially dangerous, but not a battlefield position. A gimp leg and getting slow, yet a canny veteran who'd been in the service all his life. Was a sergeant on the listings.
‘… then I'll find a wetnurse among the Wickans. After that the little tyke can go to stay with my brother in Halas. He's a wood-wright there. Or what about your people?’
Rillish thought about his people. He thought of the high-season house in Unta and the off-season house in Haljhen. The family lands along the Gris River where vineyards, fields and orchards stretched for more than a day's ride in any direction. He thought of the barrels of wine ageing beneath the great manor house, the countless families who lived on and worked those lands.
All lost to him. Lost to Rillish Jal Keth, the family traitor.
And now he had an heir. An heir to the two swords he carried, the bag of coin under his shirt and a name he or she could never claim. He took Talia's hand. ‘So where is this Halas?’
One of their remaining Seti scouts came roaring up and pulled short at the last moment, his mount stamping, sweaty and lathered. Ghelel recognized Toven, the young smartarse who had teased her and Molk earlier. Now, she was grateful for the lad's love of excitement.
’They're headed for Heng,’ he reported.
The ‘they’ in this case was a huge Kan Confederacy army that had come marching out of the south, consisting of some four thousand lancers and twenty-five thousand infantry. The ‘they’ being the reason the Marquis and his command were now hunkered down in a copse of trees south-west of Heng.
The Marquis nodded his acknowledgement.
Thank you, scout. Get yourself a fresh horse.’
‘Aye, commander.’ A leering grin to Ghelel and the lad kicked his mount onward.
‘Going to get himself killed,’ Prevost Razala said with a kind of reluctant affection.