Arlen nodded. ‘This “Painted Man” business is the first thing I mean to clear up.’
Thamos stopped a respectful distance from Arlen and stood haughtily while a smaller man Renna had not noticed appeared before him. The man wore armour and kept a short spear strapped to his back, but he did not have the look of a fighter. Both weapon and armour looked more ornamental than functional. His hands were smooth, likely more used to a quill than a spear. His tabard was embroidered with two emblems, a throne overgrown with ivy and a wooden soldier. He bowed.
‘May I present His Highness Count Thamos of Cutter’s Hollow, Marshal of the Wooden Soldiers, brother to Duke Rhinebeck of Angiers, and Lord of all the lands and peoples between the River Angiers and the southern border.’
Thamos looked at Arlen, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. Renna knew nothing of courtly manners, but she knew a rub when she saw one. She smiled, eager to watch Arlen break the man.
But to her surprise, Arlen bowed deeply. ‘Count Thamos,’ he said loudly, so all could hear. ‘Thank you for bringing aid and succour to the refugees suffering on your lands. You honour the Hollow by standing with the Cutters in the night.’
Thamos’ eyes narrowed, as if waiting for the hook, but Arlen only bowed again. ‘We were never properly introduced,’ he said, looking up to take in Darsy, the Butchers, and all the crowd. ‘Ent been introduced to any of you, really. I’m Arlen Bales, out of Tibbet’s Brook.’
Utter silence fell over the crowd at the words. Renna looked around and saw everyone holding their breath, waiting on his next words.
The silence only lasted a few seconds, though it seemed far longer. Then everyone began talking at once, a cacophony too great to make out the words of any one person. Even the Wooden Soldiers began to chatter in the ranks.
Thamos glanced to Dug Butcher, who turned back to look at the crowd. ‘Shut it!’ he barked, cutting through the din. ‘This ent some Jongleur’s show!’ Immediately, the noise died down to a few mutterings, but Renna could see folk biting their tongues. It wouldn’t last long.
Thamos pursed his lips, digesting Arlen’s words. ‘Tibbet’s Brook,’ he grunted. ‘So you’re Milnese, after all. Beholden to Euchor.’ He spat the name as if it were poison.
Arlen shrugged. ‘Lines on a map may say so, but truer is Euchor never gave a rip about Tibbet’s Brook, and the folk there returned the favour. I grew up in the Brook, ay, but I’m my own man.’ He met the count’s eyes. ‘Euchor no more tells me what to do than you.’
Thamos squinted and they locked stares. The count had killed several demons in the battle, and he and his armour glowed fiercely with Core magic. Renna could see the halo around him pulse with his breath, and knew the count would be inhumanly fast. Incredibly strong. And that the magic was screaming at him to attack.
She might have been concerned, but for all his power, the count was facing Arlen Bales. The tattoos on his skin were glowing fiercely now. Renna did not know if it was intentional, but the effect it had on the crowd was clear. Many of the Cutters began murmuring and drawing wards in the air.
The count and Arlen postured like two dogs presenting over a bitch, but Arlen had bigger teeth, and the loyalty of the pack. All around them, Cutters adjusted their grips on their tools, and the Wooden Soldiers shifted nervously.
Arlen ignored the tension, breaking the stare with a disarming smile. He turned to Renna, bowing and sweeping a hand at her in a smooth, practised gesture. He might not wait on proper manners most of the time, but it was clear he knew them.
‘My apologies for not introducing my companion,’ he said. ‘This is Renna Tanner, also from Tibbet’s Brook.’ He stood, looking up over Thamos’ head to the Cutters clustered around them. ‘And my promised.’
Again Renna saw the collective jaw of the crowd drop, but this time she felt her own fall with them. His saying it aloud, in front of these people, made it seem far more real than it had just a moment before. She was promised to Arlen Bales. Again.
This time, Thamos was quicker to recover, moving to Renna and bowing, taking her hand and kissing it smoothly. ‘An honour to meet you, Miss Tanner. Let me be first to offer my congratulations.’
Renna knew from Jongleur’s pantomime that gentlemen kissed ladies’ hands in the Free Cities, but she’d never so much as seen it done. She stiffened, not having the slightest idea how to respond. She felt her face colour, and was thankful for the cover afforded by the night.
‘Th-Thank you,’ she managed at last.
Thamos rose and turned back to Arlen. ‘Now,’ he said in a low voice, ‘if you’re quite finished making the bumpkins gasp, might we have a word or two in private?’
Arlen nodded, and the count’s manservant escorted the leaders to a large pavilion of heavy canvas at the centre of the warded section of clearing. Inside, the tent was richly appointed with warm fur carpets, a four-poster bed, and a great table surrounded by a dozen chairs. At its head was what Renna could only describe as a throne, a heavy thing of polished wood with a high back and great ivy-carved armrests. It was the biggest chair she’d ever seen, and dwarfed every other seat in the room. Haloed in magic and wearing his bright armour, Thamos looked like nothing more than the Creator himself as he took the seat, sitting in judgement over the proceedings.
A moment later, Arther, Thamos’ manservant, cleared his throat and held the canvas open for the Tender Renna had seen looking after Jow Cutter and the other wounded. He carried his warded staff, but though his beard was grey, he was still straight-backed and seemed to have no physical need for the support.
‘Tender Hayes, High Inquisitor under Shepherd Pether of Angiers,’ Arther announced. Arlen’s brow furrowed, and Renna could sense his immediate mistrust of the man.
‘Sent to replace Tender Jona, I recall,’ Arlen said, looking to Thamos as if the count had been the one to make the announcement. ‘Has Jona gone to your inquisition already?’
‘That is the concern of the Tenders of the Creator, and none of yours,’ Tender Hayes cut in acidly.
Arlen snorted, glancing to Darsy.
‘They took him weeks ago,’ Darsy said. ‘Vika is beside herself with worry, but they wouldn’t let her accompany him, and she has had no word since, despite all her pleas.’ She nodded slightly Thamos’ way.
Arlen looked to the count, but Thamos spread his hands helplessly. ‘As Tender Hayes says, this is a matter for the Council of Tenders. It is out of my hands.’
Arlen shook his head. ‘Not good enough. A wife deserves word from her husband and proof that he is well … as he had best be.’
‘How dare you!’ Tender Hayes demanded. ‘You may wear a Tender’s robe, but you are not of our order, and it remains to be seen if you-’
‘If I what?’ Arlen challenged.
‘Enough!’ Count Thamos said. ‘A Messenger will take a letter from Mistress Vika tomorrow, and return with one from her husband in one week. If she wishes to visit her husband, an escort will be arranged.’
Tender Hayes fixed the count with a stern glare. ‘Your Highness-’
‘I’m not your student any more, Tender,’ Thamos cut him off. ‘Spare me the lecture. If the council has a problem with my ruling, they can take it up with my brother and see who truly has his ear.’
They exchanged a look, and Hayes nodded, bowing. ‘As Your Highness commands.’
Thamos grunted. ‘Good.’ He looked to Arlen. ‘May we consider the matter closed, or do you have more veiled threats for me? We have taller trees to fell than some hamlet Tender preaching off Canon.’
Arlen nodded. ‘Taller by far, Highness. The corelings have tired of our resistance. They mean to push back, and push hard.’
‘Let them,’ Merrem snarled. ‘Every demon in the Core ent got half a wit between them. We’ll make a bonfire so big the Creator will see it.’
Dug grunted in agreement, but Thamos said nothing, staring hard at Arlen over steepled fingers.