“I think you should go first, bro,” his brother rumbled. “You’re the one who understands that stuff.”
“Yes but—” He made a snap decision: “—Follow me at once, both of you. We can recover the camp later if we need to. I may need witnesses to back me up.”
“I’d kill for a bath!” Elena ended on a squeak. “Let’s go!”
“Count of three,” said Huw. He bared his wrist to the chilly air and squinted. “One, two—”
He lurched as the accustomed headache kicked in, then gasped as the humid evening air of home hit him in the face like a wet flannel. The noise of insects was almost deafening after the melancholy silence of the forest. To his left, Elena blinked into view and winced theatrically. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced, unslinging her P90. “I may be some time.”
“Whatever.” Huw waited a few seconds before he turned to his brother, who was grinning like an idiot. “Is she always like this?”
“What? Oh, you should see her in polite society, bro.” He stared after her longingly.
Huw punched him on the arm. “Come on inside, I’ve got to report this immediately.”
He headed for the front room, shedding his pack and boots and finally his jacket and outer waterproof trousers as he went. The mobile phone was where he’d left it, plugged in and fully charged. He picked it up and unlocked it, then dialed by hand a number he’d committed to memory. It took almost thirty seconds to connect, but rang only once before it was answered. “This is Huw. The word today is ‘interstitial.’ Yes, I’m well, thank you, and yourself, sir. I want to speak to the duke immediately, if you can arrange it.”
Hulius watched him from the doorway, a faintly amused expression on his face. From upstairs, the sound of running water was barely audible.
Huw frowned. “Please hold,” Carlos had said. He was the duke’s man; he would have been told that Huw was working on a project for him, surely?
“Trouble?” asked Yul.
“Too early to say.” Huw sat down on the bedroll, cradling the phone. “I’m on hold—oh. Yes, sir, I am. We’re all there. I have an urgent report—what? Yes. Um. Um. Can you repeat that, please? Yes. Okay, I guess. Transfer me.”
He clamped his free hand over the mouthpiece and grimaced horribly at Yul. “Shit. We’ve been nobbled.”
“What—” Yul began, but Huw’s face turned to an attentive mask before he could continue.
“Yes? My lady? Yes, I remember. What’s going on? It’s about—oh, yes, indeed. You want—you want us to meet you where?—When?—Tomorrow? But that’s more than a thousand miles! We could fly—oh. Are you sure?” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, my lady. Um. We’ll have to get moving right away. Okay. You have my number? We’ll be there.”
He hung up then put the phone down deceptively gently, as if he’d rather have thrown it out the window.
“What was that about?”
Huw looked up at his brother. “We’d better roust Elena out of her bath. Shit.” He shook his head.
“Bro?”
“That was my lady d’Ost—one of his grace’s agents. I got through to the duke’s office but he’s busy right now. Carlos passed on orders to submit a written report: meanwhile we’re to get moving at once. We’ve got to drive all the way to the west coast and back on some fucking stupid errand. We’re to take our guns, and we’ve got to be in Las Vegas by noon tomorrow, so we’re going to be moving out right now. There’s a private plane waiting for us near Richmond but we’ve got to get there first and it’s going to take eight hours to get where we’re going once we’re airborne. Some kind of shit has hit the fan and they’ve got my name down as one of the trustees to deal with it!” He trailed off plaintively. “What’s going on?”
Hulius grunted. “Two and a half thousand miles, bro. They must really want you there badly.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of. Hmm, Lady d’Ost. I wonder what she does for the duke?”
Otto stared at the buzzing gnat in the distance, and swore.
“Gregor, my compliments to Sir Geraunt and I request the pleasure of his company in the grand hall as a matter of urgency.”
The hand-man dashed off without saluting, catching the edge in his voice. The faint hum of the dot in the sky, receding like a bad dream of witchcraft, put Otto in mind of an angry yellowjacket. He could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears; the morning smelled of brimstone and gunsmoke. Too early, he thought. He’d barely taken the inner keep an hour ago: he’d counted on having at least a day to arrange things to his advantage. “Heidlor,” he called.
“Sir?” Heidlor had been saying something to one of the gunners, who was now hastily swabbing out the barrel of his weapon.
“Get the fishermen into the grand hall and have them set their nets up between ankle and knee level, leaving areas free as I discussed. Once they’ve done the hall they’re to do the barracks room, the duke’s chambers, the kitchen, and the residences, in that order. The carpenters are to start on the runways in the grand hall as soon as the fishermen are finished, and to move on in the same order. This is of the utmost urgency, we can expect visitors at any time. Should any of the craftsmen perform poorly, make an example of them—nail their tools to their hands or something.”
“Yes, sir.” Heidlor paused. “Anything else?”
Otto swallowed his first impulse to snap at the man for hanging around: he had a point. “Find Anders and Zornhau. Their lances are to go on duty as soon as they are able. Station the men with the fishers and carpenters, one guard for each craftsman, with drawn steel. In the grand hall, place one man every ten feet, and a pistoleer in each corner. For the cleared spaces, position two guards atop a chair or table or something. Warn them to expect witches to manifest out of thin air at any moment. Rotate every hour.” He paused for a moment. “That’s all.”
“Sir!” This time Heidlor didn’t dally.
Otto turned on his heel and marched back towards the steps leading down from the battlements. He didn’t need to look to know that his bodyguard—Frantz and four hand-picked pistoleers, equally good with witch gun or wheel lock, and armed with cavalry swords besides—were falling into line behind him. The way the witches fought, by stealth and treachery, his own life was as much under threat as that of any of his soldiers, if not more so.
The corkscrewing steps (spiraling widdershins, to give the advantage to a swordsman defending the upper floor) ended on the upper gallery of the great hall. Otto looked down on the fishermen and their guards, as they hastily strung their close-woven net across the floor at ankle height. Spikes, hammered heedlessly into the wooden paneling, provided support for the mesh of ropes. The carpenters were busy assembling crude runways on trestles above the netting, so that the guards could move between rooms without touching the floor. At the far end, near the western door that opened onto the grand staircase, there was a carefully planned open area: a killing ground for the witches who would be unable to enter from any other direction.
Sir Geraunt, the royal courier, was standing directly below him, looking around in obvious puzzlement. “Sir Geraunt!” Otto boomed over the balcony: “Will you join me up here directly?”
A pale face turned up towards him in surprise. “Sir, I would be delighted to do so, but this cat’s cradle your artisans are weaving is in my way. If you would permit me to cut the knot—”
“No sir, you may not. But if you proceed through the door to your left, you will find the stairway accessible—for now.”
A minute later Sir Geraunt emerged onto the balcony, shaking his head. A couple of weavers also emerged, lugging a roll of netting between them, but Otto sent them a wave of dismissal. “We are in less danger from the witches the higher we go, but the balcony must be netted in due course,” he explained, for the younger man was still staring at the work in the room below with an expression of profound bafflement.