Before Desiderata’s golden light began to pluck them from the air, before the captain rose from his body, dangerously exposed, to chase the last two down-before that, the population of barghasts was culled in a sheet of forged iron tips and heavy bodkin points and quarter-pound arrows. An ancient wyvern-an important clan leader-died in a moment.
The sky was empty.
The mood in camp was festive as the Queen dismounted and Ser Ranald caught her down and then held her arm as she swayed. Behind her, Rowan, the new Lorican wet-nurse, fed the baby, who had slept through the attack and all the consequent archery and sorcery and now looked around with wide-eyed curiosity at the adult exaltation.
The Red Knight bent his knee and kissed the Queen’s hand. “Another good victory for your grace,” he said.
“Another good victory for my captain,” she allowed. “Come, Ser Gabriel. I wish to read all the dispatches.”
“Grim reading, your grace,” he said, and motioned to Toby to start lighting candles in his pavilion. The Queen had acquired courtiers and new men-but he knew most of them and he also knew his sole power over her would not last long. Corcy was at her side, and that seemed well enough. There were two pretty younger men he didn’t know at all. And Towbray. The earl looked like a tired old falcon-bedraggled and yet still dangerous.
There was Blanche. Their eyes crossed, and she flushed, looked away, and frowned.
Damn.
Nicomedes laid out glasses and Alcaeus opened a leather pouch and stacked the messages in the neat imperial order of times and dates. Becca Almspend put a hand gently on the Queen’s arm and then pulled out her spectacles and began to read.
“You see? I’m not even allowed to read my own messages,” the Queen said.
“Not your own, your grace, but my master the Emperor’s,” Ser Alcaeus said. “Loaned to you perhaps.”
A frosty silence lay over the table.
“Alcaeus?” the captain said, in that particular voice.
A pause.
“My apologies, your grace. I felt a point needed to be made, but I have spoken ill.” Alcaeus’s voice was silky with twenty years of surviving various courts, but his brow sprung beads of sweat.
Lady Almspend looked up from the dispatches. “I’m sure we all know the debt of gratitude we owe the Emperor in these dark days,” she said.
Michael cleared his throat. Francis Atcourt looked out the pavilion wall at the suddenly fascinating tail end of the sunset.
“Right,” the Red Knight snapped. “We all love each other. And each other’s intelligence services.”
Ser Ranald laughed aloud. “I think you’ll love this particular well, my lord,” he said, and handed Ser Gabriel a small twist of parchment.
Gabriel laughed aloud. “Well, I for one am going to hell,” he said. “Because I find this delightful. Someone has gifted the archbishop six inches of steel-some sort of small crossbow bolt. I wonder how that might have come about?”
“Dead?” Michael asked. His eyes were on his father.
“Very satisfactorily dead,” Ser Gabriel said, with relish. “What good… luck.” He looked up and his eyes met Towbray’s. “Don’t you think, my lord, that it is remarkable how these events occur? That those who most offend her grace-die.”
Towbray shot to his feet. “Is that a threat?” he asked, hand on his dagger.
The Red Knight sat back. Both his hands were visible. “Yes,” he said.
He and the Queen exchanged a glance.
Towbray glared at his son. “If that’s how you view me, I’ll take my knights and retire to my estates,” he said.
Ser Gabriel shook his head. “A man can die very quickly on his estates. I think you should ride with us, and get to know your son again, and perhaps meet his excellent wife. I promise you, my lord, that as long as you are with us and serving her grace’s interests, you are perfectly safe. Well-apart from the boglins and barghasts.”
Now the Queen smiled. “My brave Towbray needs no further threats,” she said, her voice as pure gold as her magick. “I will keep him by my side for his good company and good counsel, and we’ll have no more of this.”
Throughout, Lady Almspend kept reading, the Queen’s son kept feeding, and Toby and Blanche continued to serve their master and mistress. The service went on-food was served, wine brought.
Out in the darkness, the moon rose, the watch changed, and suddenly Sukey’s voice could be heard. “Grow up in a barn, you useless fuck?” and all the gentles at table laughed or giggled.
Almspend handed the dispatches back to Ser Alcaeus. Charts and maps were unrolled-now scarred with many plans and many daggers.
Gelfred appeared out of the night, dressed in black, and with him was Donald Dhu’s son Kenneth, dressed in deerskin and mail. Both settled into seats that Toby unfolded for them, as if their coming was appointed and ended some preliminaries.
“So,” the captain said. “We lost a day, and the red banda’s lost all their horses. There’s worse to come. We know we’ve already lost messenger birds.”
“How?” the Queen asked with real interest.
“Every message is numbered and we often sent duplicates. And we resend digests with lists of messages by dispatch rider and sometimes by occult means.” Alcaeus failed to keep the smug and civilized superiority from his voice.
“Your grace, the Moreans-the Emperor-have more than a thousand years of experience at this, since Livia herself and her Legio XVIII came here.” The Red Knight smiled at his unnecessary display of historical knowledge and Alcaeus grinned at his erudition.
“So glad we all know which legion came with the Empress,” Francis Atcourt muttered.
“May I continue?” Ser Gabriel went on, as if he had not provided his own digression. “We’re missing birds. Every bird we lose slows our communications and limits our knowledge. It’s only going to get worse.” He looked around. “Second, the red banda’s little disaster is going to slow them. It’s not a catastrophic loss, except that the Emperor will not have Ser Milus on whom to rely in the event of a crisis.”
Ser Michael shook his head. “Meaning he’s dumb as two thick planks and now he has no minder.”
Ser Gabriel shook his head. “I hope it’s not so bad as that-there’s some good heads there. But with all courtesy to Ser Alcaeus, the Moreans can become quite pliable when the Emperor is in the field. I fear for them and I wish Tom would get there.”
“Sweet Christ, my lord, you’re suggesting that Tom Lachlan will be the voice of reason?” Ser Michael laughed ruefully.
There was a brief silence.
“I really wish you hadn’t put it that way,” Ser Gabriel said. He looked around. “In the good news category, we’re shot of the archbishop and all of his baggage. Anyone else have anything positive to offer?” he asked.
Gelfred nodded. “Dan Favour’s ride north made contact with Count Zac’s southernmost patrol. We’re that close. Will Starling says Ser Tom and Amicia are two days ahead of us at the top of the gorge.”
Gabriel made a face. “That’s slow. They must have had trouble.”
Michael shook his head. “We’ve been fast,” he said. “Ask anyone.” He rubbed the seat of his pants, and Desiderata laughed.
The Red Knight took a bowl of filberts from Toby and passed them around after taking a handful. “So-here we are. South end of the gorge, three days from Albinkirk. Here’s the beeves, off to the west. Yes?”
Kenneth Dhu leaned in. “Better ’an that, milord. We’re already at the Nail.” The Nail was a large rock carved with ancient and somewhat intestinal carvings. Men tended to avoid it, but Hillmen always paid it a visit and left it presents.
“Amicia will reach Albinkirk tomorrow. She might even press on to Lissen Carak. Tom will reach Ser John Crayford. We ought to be able to move fast-we should be free of barghasts for a day, at least.” He looked around. “I’d give anything to know where Gavin and Montjoy are, or the Emperor was exactly. But I have to guess he’s at the Inn of Dorling.” He put a large filbert there.