The girls told their story over dinner, then Nish his, leaving out only such details about the amplimet and the Aachim invasion as might be considered strategic information. These he would reveal after the children were asleep.
‘So, your father is Perquisitor Jal-Nish Hlar?’ said Troist.
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘No, but I’ve heard much about him. Hmn.’
What did that mean? Nish’s father had a lot of enemies.
Troist questioned Nish in detail about his father. No one could be too careful, for the enemy had been surprisingly successful at recruiting spies and impostors. Finally he seemed satisfied, whereupon Yara began, for she had travelled to Tiksi a good few years ago. Nish must have answered to her satisfaction, for she made a sign to her husband, to which Troist nodded. He glanced across to where the twins were curled up together on the small bed asleep.
‘Well, Cryl-Nish,’ said Troist, ‘your tale astounds me, and that doesn’t happen often. It was a happy day when you ran into our daughters on the road, and I will never forget your service.’
‘Thank you, surr. If I may, I will tell you the rest of it, for I’m deathly tired and my head still throbs from the blows I took.’
‘Does it?’ said Yara, coming up close with her candle. She checked his skull with long cool fingers, turned his head from side to side and looked into his eyes. ‘I don’t think there’s any damage, apart from a minor concussion. I’ll mix a potion for you.’
While she was busy, Nish told Troist about the amplimet, what he knew of Tiaan’s geomantic abilities, and all she had done at Tirthrax.
‘There has been rumour of an enormous fleet of craft, that resemble clankers, coming over the mountains from the west,’ said Troist. ‘No doubt our leaders have the scrutator’s despatches, though no news has come down to me. But of course I am only a junior officer.’
‘Though a brilliant one,’ said Yara, handing Nish a mug. ‘Drink this.’
Troist bowed in her direction. ‘Yara is the genius of the family,’ he said. ‘She will be Advocate-General one day. I am merely diligent and hard-working.’
‘Pfft!’ said Yara, attending Nish’s leg. ‘You will be commander of all our forces before the children are grown.’
‘I would like to be,’ said Troist. ‘I make no secret of that. But neither hard work nor good connections are enough. One must also have the good fortune to be where it matters, and the ability to seize the opportunity when it comes.’
‘And win it!’ said Yara.
‘Perhaps we can help each other,’ said Nish.
‘Perhaps,’ Troist said in a non-committal way. ‘What is it you want, Cryl-Nish?’
‘Since I lack the means to go home, I must do my best for the war, and for myself, here. As you know, I am an artificer by trade and have seen combat with the enemy. And with my knowledge of the Aachim constructs, I may be able to help plan to defeat them, should it come to war.’ That was a faint hope, since he had seen them only at a distance, but it was the one advantage he had.
‘Indeed,’ said Troist, who seemed to be thinking fast. ‘And what can I do for you?’
‘Take me on as your adjutant.’
‘Only the commander has an adjutant,’ said Troist, looking to Yara as if seeking her advice. She was a cool, reserved woman except with her family. It would be hard to fool her. But Yara nodded, almost imperceptibly.
‘Tactical assistant, then. Call it what you will. I would like to make my career in the army, by your side. Can this be done?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Troist. ‘You are well spoken, well connected, and you have valuable experience. I will see about it as soon as we rejoin my unit. That, unfortunately, could be more difficult than you might think.’
‘Why is that, surr?’ asked Nish.
‘The defeated army has been scattered. I hope enough have survived to make a small fighting force, but first I must find them. I am leaving in the morning. You may come with me.’
They slipped out of town the following morning, heading east. Nish had expected it would just be himself and Troist, but the family accompanied him, along with five soldiers discovered among the refugees. They were all mounted. Nish had no idea where the horses came from but it spoke considerably of Troist that he had been able to obtain them in such chaos.
Troist was busy all day, despatching his troops one way or another, conferring with new soldiers who appeared out of the dust, some mounted, armed and ready for war, others footsore, worn out and weaponless. Nish tried to keep up but it was a long time since he had sat on a horse and his head still throbbed. Finally, catching him deathly pale and swaying in the saddle, Troist said curtly, ‘Your place is back at the camp. I’ll see you tonight.’
It was not a reprimand, though it felt like one. Nonetheless, Nish was glad to return. The camp was hidden in a scrubby gully scarcely visible from a distance. Three soldiers stood guard. Yara was working in an infirmary tent which already had half a dozen casualties in it, and more coming in all the time. Meriwen and Liliwen cleaned wounds and applied bandages. Clearly it was not the first time they had done it. Everything looked efficient and well-organised, though there was much worried talk about their lack of supplies and weapons. Nish lay in a corner, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was woken by someone roaring out orders like a drill sergeant. A soldier was directing the laying out of the camp, which now comprised almost a hundred troops.
As it grew dark a squad of a hundred and fifty marched in, followed by smaller groups and a mounted troop. There was no sign of Troist but as the mess tent began serving dinner Nish heard an unmistakable squeak and rattle.
His professional interest aroused, he limped to the edge of the firelight. Four clankers appeared, one after another, their eight mechanical legs moving in rhythmic pairs. They were a different design from the ones he was familiar with, lower and broader, with the overlapping armour plates shaped like leaves rather than oval shields. The shooter’s platform on top contained seats for two shooters: one to load and fire the catapult, the other for the javelard that could fire its heavy spears right through the armoured body of a lyrinx.
Troist came galloping in, close to midnight. Sliding off his horse he gave it an affectionate pat, greeted his wife and daughters and immediately went to the command area, a patch of stony ground covered by a canvas slung on long ropes from tree branches. Nish was called in as well.
The tent was crowded. A small map was spread out on a folding table. ‘We are here,’ Troist said, indicating a spot on the map about six leagues south-east of Nilkerrand. ‘We’ll break camp at dawn and head south-east, across the plains of Almadin in the direction of the Worm Wood. That’s an enormous forest,’ he said to Nish, circling it on the map. ‘Quite the largest in eastern Lauralin. Our next camp will be here,’ he stabbed at a location with his forefinger, ‘or failing that, here. I hope we can find more soldiers on the way. If General Boryl escaped –’
‘He did not, surr,’ said a bald man with a bandage around his bare chest. ‘I’m his adjutant. I saw him fall.’
‘Slain?’ asked Troist.
‘The blood would have filled a bucket. His head was practically severed –’
‘Later!’ Troist glanced at his wide-eyed children. ‘What of the other officers?’
‘Most are dead, surr. The enemy broke into the command tent and slew them in a minute. Had not I been outside they would have killed me too. You are the most senior officer alive, surr. If you can’t rally the troops, I fear all Almadin will be lost.’
‘I thought as much,’ Troist said heavily. ‘Well, there’s not much I can do with a few hundred troops and a handful of clankers, but whatever can be done, I’ll do it.’
He turned away, and Nish, standing at his elbow, caught a strange gleam in the man’s eyes. Troist’s chance had come. Should he be able to seize it, it would be the making of him. If he failed, none of them would survive.