The man called Sardinac straightened. “We don’t have too many artillerists to spare, Count. These are hired retainers we’re working with, remember, not Torunnan regulars.”
“Don’t I know it! Take some of the guns which they have deployed about the Fimbrian quarter. And send another courier in to treat with that ass Formio. His position is hopeless, and it’s not his fight. Safe conduct out of the city—the same as the last one.”
Sardinac bowed, and exited in Venuzzi’s wake.
Fournier wiped his brow with a scented handkerchief. He was surrounded by fools, that was the problem. Such a beautiful plan, but it had to work in all things or it would work in none. There was so little margin for error.
Out on to the balcony his restless feet took him. You could see a corner of City Square from here. It was like glimpsing a slice of some odd carnival. He could see Knights Militant bedecked with banners, richly robed priests—and a milling crowd of several thousand of the city lowly who had braved the curfew to see what was going on. That also had to be contained. His men were like butter scraped across too much bread. Who would have thought Macrobius would issue out of his lair and get up on his hind legs to preach, the old fool?
There was a lit brazier in the room, the charcoal red and grey with heat. Fournier went to the table, unlocked a small chest and took out a battered scroll with the broken seal of the Merduk military upon it. He studied it for a moment thoughtfully, and seemed about to consign it to the brazier, but then thought better of it. He tucked it into the breast of his doublet and patted it with one manicured hand.
“S ERGEANT! We’ve a priest here wants to go and talk to the Fimbrians,” the young soldier said. “That’s all right, ain’t it?”
The sergeant, a corpulent veteran of many tavern brawls, marched ponderously over to the barricade where the black-robed Inceptine stood surrounded by half a dozen nervous young men with the slow-match smouldering balefully on the wheel-locks of their arquebuses. He drew a sabre.
“New orders, Fintan lad. No-one to go through the lines. Courier arrived just this minute. Father, your time has been wasted. You might want to say a prayer for us, though, out here facing those damned Fimbrians.”
“By all means, my son.” The priest, his face hidden in the cowl of his habit, raised his hands in the Sign of the Saint. As he did, the wide sleeves of his raiment fell back to reveal badly cut wrists. The soldiers had bowed their heads to receive his blessing, but they snapped upright when a clear young voice shouted out: “Sergeant! Bring that man to me at once!”
Colonel Aras was standing outside a nearby grain warehouse surrounded by a crowd of other officers and couriers. He stalked forward. “The priest! Grab that priest and bring him here!”
The Inceptine tensed as he found the barrels of six arquebuses levelled at him. The sergeant looked him up and down quizzically.
“Looks like someone else is in need of a prayer, Father.”
“It seems so, Sergeant,” the priest said. “Be careful of those Fimbrians. They collect the ears of their enemies, I’ve heard.”
“Bring him into my quarters, Sergeant, and be quick about it!” Aras barked, white-faced. “Enough chatter.”
The Inceptine was escorted past the crowd of staring soldiers and into the cavernous interior of the warehouse. There was a little office within, divided off from the rest of the building. They left him there. Some young noblemen were bent over a map. They straightened and nodded at him, looking a trifle bewildered. Aras ordered the room emptied.
“You can throw back your hood now, General,” he said when they had gone.
Corfe did as he was told. “I congratulate you, Aras. You have quick eyes.”
The two men looked at one another in silence for a long moment, until Aras stirred and reached for a decanter. “Some wine?”
“Thank you.”
They drank, each watching the other.
“What now?” Corfe said. “Will you turn me over to your master—and the kingdom over to the Merduks? Or will you remember your duty?”
Aras flopped down into a chair. “You have no idea what this has cost me,” he whispered.
“To do what? Betray your country?”
The younger man sprang to his feet again, his face outraged. But it leaked out of him like water from a punctured skin. He stared into his wine.
“You were wrong,” he said quietly. “Wrong to go about things the way you did. The great men of a kingdom cannot be trampled upon. They will not wear it.”
“And in the end their own prestige is worth more to them than the kingdom. You know me, Aras. If a man has ability I couldn’t care less whether he’s a duke or a beggar. Look at Rusio. I made him a general though he was one of my bitterest enemies. But Fournier—he is motivated by more than wounded pride, you must know that. He has his heart set on ruling Torunna, even if it is only as a pawn of the Merduks. You are all—all of you—merely his tools, to be used and discarded.”
“He’s going to negotiate a peace, and end the war with honour,” Aras said.
“He is going to capitulate unconditionally, and feed off the carcase that the Merduks leave behind.”
Aras turned away. “What would you have me do?” he murmured. “Betray him?”
“A traitor cannot be betrayed. These Fimbrians you are besieging. They served under you in battle. They held their line at your orders, and died where they stood because you asked them to. They are your comrades, not your enemies. When did Fournier ever set his shoulder beside yours, or face a battle-line with you? Give it up, Aras. Do the honourable thing. Order your men to stand down and let me save this city of ours.”
Aras said nothing for a long time. When he spoke again it was in a loud voice. “Haptman Vennor!”
A young man in the livery of one of the southern lords put his head around the door. “Colonel?”
“The men are to stack arms and stand down. This priest here is to be escorted through our lines to the Fimbrian barracks. Dismantle the barricades. It is over.”
Haptman Vennor gaped at him.
“Sir—on whose authority—?”
“Obey my orders, damn it! I command here. Do as I say!”
The startled officer saluted and withdrew.
“Thank you,” Corfe said quietly.
“I hope you will speak up for me at my court-martial, sir,” Aras said.
“Court-martial?” Corfe laughed. “Aras my dear fellow, I need you in the ranks. As soon as we have this little mess sorted out, we have a meeting with the Merduk army to arrange. I cannot afford to lose an officer with your experience.” He held out a hand. Aras hesitated, and then shook it warmly. “I won’t let you down, sir, not again. I am your man until death.”
Corfe smiled. “I think I knew that already, or part of me did—else I would have bolted as soon as you recognised me.”
“What do you want me to do with these mercenaries?”
“They will remain under your command for now. Mercenaries or not, they are still Torunnans. As soon as Formio and his men have shaken out, we’ll march on the palace together.”
O DELIA stood on the balcony and watched the smoke of war drift over the tortured city. Out by the North Gate there were crackles of volley-fire rolling still, and the waterfront was a mass of fire above which the smoke roiled in billowing thunderheads. The masts of ships stood stark and angular against the flames. Some of them had had their moorings cut to save them from the inferno and they were drifting helplessly down the estuary towards the sea.
Nearer at hand, the deafening roar of the artillery salvoes had subsided at last, to be replaced by a chaotic storm of gunfire and the massed roaring of men fighting for their lives. The Fimbrians were storming the palace, and terrified valets and maids had come running to her chambers to huddle in panic-stricken crowds, like rabbits fleeing a wildfire. And Corfe was alive. He and Formio were retaking the palace room by gutted room. Fournier had lost the gamble, and would soon surrender his life as well. It warmed her to think on it.