“Really?” Clara said. “Is there opinion on what exactly his business is?”
“Nothing I’d rely on,” Vincen said.
“Well, then perhaps I should go and find out.”
“You probably should,” Vincen said, with a false solemnity. “After all, you’re very old.”
After she’d finished her pipe, Clara made her way down the path toward Jorey’s tents. Her own little encampment was well within the circle of the sentries and patrols. No one challenged her. Indeed, many of the thin-faced, hard-eyed men knew her already and seemed to view her with a kind of indulgence. She felt as though she were in danger of becoming something of a mascot to the army.
The state of the men had come as something of a surprise. The campaign had left them hard and slight, like dried-meat versions of themselves. Even Jorey was thinner about the cheeks now, his gaze prone to a fixedness that she couldn’t entirely interpret. They moved through the countryside, camp to camp and day to day, with an air of exhaustion balanced against determination, and it left her wanting to send them all home. Many of them had wives and children back in Antea. Farms or trades from which they’d been plucked by the obligations of their lords. She wished that she could tell them all to go back. To sleep in their own beds again. To eat their own food and drink beer and wine and sing along to the performers who stopped at the taprooms and street corners. But of course that was impossible. And even if she had convinced them, Geder’s priests would have said the opposite and won.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the guard outside Jorey’s great tent of framed leather said as she came near. “The Lord Marshal’s in conference.”
“Is he?” Clara said, raising her eyebrows. “With whom?”
“Couldn’t say, my lady,” the man said.
“Couldn’t or won’t?” Clara said with a smile. “Well, don’t you mind. There’s nothing I have to say that can’t wait a bit. I’ll just sit until he comes free.”
“It’s… it’s raining, my lady.”
“Well, hopefully he’ll come free soon.”
The guard licked his lips. “Just wait here a moment, my lady,” he said and ducked into the tent. The voices that came from within were too muffled to make out words, but she could still recognize the sounds of the individual men. The guard and Jorey. The eerie, unpleasant voice of one of the remaining brown-robed priests. And then another, unfamiliar one. When they emerged, the priest and the guard flanked a wide-shouldered Jasuru man with scales the color of bronze and an embarrassed expression. His gaze flickered to Clara and then rapidly away. She wondered who he was.
“The Lord Marshal’s free, ma’am,” the guard said, and so she had to go in and see Jorey rather than follow the Jasuru. It was expected of her.
“Mother,” Jorey said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d meant to come ask after that letter you wanted me to carry home, but now I’m curious about that man who just left. He isn’t one of ours, is he? Though of course, I mean yours. The only one I really have is Vincen.”
“I can get you more servants if you want them,” Jorey said. “It wouldn’t be a problem.”
“That’s kind of you, dear, but I wasn’t fishing.” At least not for that, Clara thought as she sat. The Lord Marshal’s tent was as large as some shacks. Whole families lived in the poorer quarters of Camnipol in rooms with less space than this. It occurred to her that, since the bulk of the army had come from the siege at Kiaria, the framed leather walls around her had likely been Lord Ternigan’s before her plan had set him at odds with Geder. It made the space seem ominous.
“He’s a merchant from Sara-sur-mar,” Jorey said. “By which I mean a smuggler. He came because he had information to sell.”
“Really? That seems presumptuous. Was it something you actually paid for?”
“It was,” Jorey said, leaning over his little camp desk. A thin, cheap scroll showed lines of pale ink. A map, perhaps. “Callon Cane’s appeared there. Set up a house. Started paying bounties for acts performed against Antea.”
“That’s a poor choice on his part,” Clara said. “If I were in his position, I’d choose someplace to work that wasn’t where my enemy was walking toward next.”
“Well, you aren’t leading a campaign of sabotage and murder designed to bring down the throne,” Jorey said. “Our new friend knows of a way past the city walls. A smuggler’s tunnel. He sold us the directions to it and the path to Cane’s house. I questioned him with one of the priests. The information’s good. It isn’t a trap, or if it is, it’s not one he knew about.”
“Not a spy, then,” Clara said. “Just a profiteer.”
His eyes went empty for a moment, and he sighed. “Father would hate this.”
“He would,” Clara said. “But which part of it were you thinking of?”
Jorey’s laugh was short and bitter. “I was imagining how he’d feel about sending men in like thieves in the night. Crawling through tunnels and assassinating the enemy rather than facing him in the field. But you’re right. There are a hundred other aspects of this that he’d have hated as much. Or more.”
“Thieves in the night?” Clara said.
“We can’t afford another siege. The men are exhausted. I’m exhausted. When Vicarian was here, he’d talk me out of it. Convince me all of this was possible, but without him, now…” Jorey shook his head. “We shouldn’t have won at Porte Oliva. It was luck, and Geder sending those weapons. If the dragon comes again, we won’t have surprise to help us. Most of these men have been fighting since Sarakal. They’ve won and won and won, and the only triumph we’ve given them is another march. Another battle. Another chance to die.”
“It’s war,” Clara said.
“It’s not, though. Wars end. This is something else,” Jorey said, and dropped his head into his hands. “Maybe I’m looking at it from the wrong end. Maybe this is all the hand of the goddess. The gates opening in Porte Oliva. The tunnel in Sara-sur-Mar. Maybe it’s all the spider goddess giving us ways to win the battles when we can barely keep marching anymore, and I’m only being ungrateful.”
“Is that what Vicarian would have said?” Clara asked.
“It is,” Jorey said. “And when he said it, I’d be convinced. But he’s not here, and I’m just not as persuasive.”
“So few of us are,” Clara said, “but—”
“I am trying, Mother. I am trying as hard as I can to be this man. To be the nobleman and servant of the crown. I am trying to forget that my father died at Geder’s hand. I tell myself how much we owe him, and how kind he’s been. To me, to you. To Sabiha. And most of the time, I can do it. I can remember how he came to the wedding because I asked him to. How he took care of Sabiha when the baby was coming. Vicarian’s let the past go. He doesn’t struggle anymore. I want to be like him. I want to believe that all of this is going to come to some perfect and glorious end, and that you and Sabiha and Annalise will all be fine if I can just do what needs doing and not feel anything. And some days, I almost manage.”
He wasn’t weeping. Even the pain in his voice was dry. Her son’s soul had become a desert. All the replies she could think of—It will be all right and Trust your instincts and Geder is a monstrosity—would have made the moment worse. She took Jorey’s hand and sat with him for a time in silence.
Jorey called the march not long after, and Clara retired to the little cart Jorey had found for her. The grasslands were behind them, the river on their left as they moved north toward Sara-sur-Mar. Vincen drove her team of two old, tired mules with their moth-eaten rumps and long, broad ears. Clara chewed on a knuckle, her mind busy and unquiet.
“We have to get word to him,” she said.
“Who, my lady?” Vincen said.