“I’m sorry about that,” Jaryd told the man, riding on the spare mount that had been brought. “The Tyree and Valhanan nobility all want me dead, to say nothing of the northerners. My friends keep an eye out for me.”
Prince Damon’s man nodded. “There is danger in crowds. Your friends are wise.” They rode along a road between fields crowded with the greatest encampment of soldiers Jaryd had ever seen. The ground before the walls of Sherdaine was a solid mass of tents, men and campfires. The air seethed with conversation, shouts, the clash of weapons practice, the whinny of horses and the rattle of armour. Cooking fires burned, and a mist of smoke smelled of equal parts bacon, green wood, and manure.
These were men of Larosa, Jaryd knew. Men-at-arms, for the most part-what Lenays would call militia, villagers and peasants sworn to regional lords, and pressed into service whatever their will. These men were poor, but they were gods-fearing Verenthanes, and did not relish the great numbers of pagan barbarians brought into their midst…though Jaryd thought they’d have been no happier if the Lenays had only brought Verenthane soldiers. Worse, the young Larosan Prince Balthaar was to be wed to the barbarians’ princess.
Well, Jaryd thought sourly as he rode toward the gates, there were some Lenays none too impressed with the marriage either.
Prince Damon’s man presented the guards at the gates with a Verenthane star from about his neck, which the guards examined, then returned with a wave through. Beneath the portcullis, and onto rattling paved roads, and the commotion of city life on a scale Jaryd had never seen before. There was a great courtyard to one side, fronted by a grand temple, all in the same pale stone as made for Sherdaine’s walls. It seemed there was a market in progress in the courtyard, for crowded stalls did brisk business, and the cries of sellers competed with the bellows of a town crier for attention. The temple was spectacular, with soaring spires and coloured glass windows.
Past the courtyard, they rode between buildings of stone foundation, with wood-beamed walls and small, multipaned windows. The crowds were oppressive, housewives carrying food from the market, tradesmen hauling loads on donkeys, busy cityfolk of every description going about their daily lives, and clogging up the streets. Soldiers too, though they seemed more well dressed than most, and none were Lenay. Again, more stares at the two Lenays ahorse. Jaryd did not resist the impulse to ride straight and proud, and stare down at such men with disdain.
Damon’s man led Jaryd around so many corners, and down enough crowded lanes that Jaryd soon found himself utterly lost, and without clear sight of Sherdaine’s walls or towers. Eventually they stopped before a wide wooden gate, and the man rapped on a metal panel that slid aside. A brief conversation, then the gates were opened and they dismounted to lead both horses into a private courtyard surrounded by the facing windows of a wealthy residence. Here, it was peaceful.
Jaryd left the horse in the care of a servant and followed his guide beneath a small archway and into a second, more intimate courtyard. Here he found Lenays, nobility all to look at them, seated to catch the sun though shaded by the courtyard’s central tree, eating good food and wine. None paid the new arrival particular mind, laughing and conversing with animation as Jaryd followed his guide to an open door. Within, he found Prince Damon, sitting with his back to an open window, reading.
“Ah,” said Damon, looking up with a smile, and got up to embrace Jaryd. Jaryd was surprised, but returned it gladly. Damon had saved his life, in the hallways of Baen-Tar Palace, when the Tyree nobles had been about to kill him where he’d fallen. They had ridden together to northern Taneryn with Damon’s sister Sashandra and Kessligh Cronenverdt, and Jaryd knew the prince to be no friend of his own enemies. He wondered what had inspired this invitation.
“You look well,” Damon told him, seeming genuinely pleased at that. “And beringed.” Touching the several rings in Jaryd’s ear, with some amusement. “When your hair grows a little longer, you’ll be a true Goeren-yai.”
“You look well too,” said Jaryd, not entirely truthfully. Damon looked well in that he seemed older than in Jaryd’s memory, and there was a look to his lean face that was more manly than Jaryd recalled. Yet much of that new age was worry.
“We grow older,” he admitted. “Koenyg assured me that it would happen, and I did not believe him. Please, sit.”
Jaryd drew up a chair. The quarters seemed pleasant, far from princely, but they were comfortable.
“Why are you not at the palace?” Jaryd asked.
“Actually it’s not a palace, just a castle.” Damon shrugged. “Sofy prepares. I’m little use to her, she accuses me of brooding.” His face fell, revealing a deep, troubled sobriety. “I’d thought as much beforehand. I sent men ahead to find me separate quarters. Being away from courtly intrigues can have its advantages, and Koenyg has tasked me with things that require a staff of my own.”
“That man,” Jaryd asked, gesturing to the door his guide had departed through. “Who was he?”
“Best you don’t ask,” said Damon. “He needs to go places and talk to people. If he is no one, that becomes easier.” Jaryd frowned. “One of Koenyg’s tasks was to help prepare the army for battle. He is concerned that for all our new equipment of shields and armour, our tactics vary from region to region, even from town to town. He warns that we need to introduce some uniformity to our battle plans, and I agree. The nobility are not such a problem, since most of them are cavalry, and cavalry tactics are more or less similar throughout Lenayin. It’s the Goeren-yai and the villagers, as always, who make the problems.”
Jaryd nodded. “I’ve been working with men of eastern Valhanan to improve our shieldwork and formations. I’ve tracked down any number of Bacosh men with experience of fighting the Steel. I think we’ve made improvements, but some men insist they don’t see the point. Luckily the headmen of Baerlyn have influence with the other villages, so they don’t argue too much, but not all regions are so lucky.”
“I know,” said Damon. “I need good men from amongst the Goeren-yai, men who know different styles of warfare. I need men I can trust, Jaryd, and who will be respected by those beneath them. I’d like you to be one of them.”
Jaryd looked at him for a long moment. It was not a surprise, on the commonsense level of preparing for war. He was certainly qualified, and Damon knew that he was honest and loyal. But for politics…
“Have you any idea of the number of people who’d like me dead?” Jaryd asked the prince.
“A mark of honour, in this company,” Damon said drily. Jaryd heard bitterness in his tone. “Northern fanatics, limp-wristed Tyree and Valhanan nobility, I’ve no care for them. Have you?”
Jaryd blinked, trying to think. Politics was not his strong suit. He had only recently come to learn, somewhat painfully, that direct assault was not always the best solution to his problems. Prince Damon challenged him to do what came naturally, expecting him to follow his instincts. It would be smart of the Dunce of Tyree, however, to consider his options first.
“Not fear of them, no,” Jaryd said carefully. “But those men have great influence with Prince Koenyg, which shall surely be trouble for you.”
Damon frowned. “I’m a prince of Lenayin,” he replied, pointedly. “I make my own decisions. Your rank shall be captain. Militia captain, it’s true, but it’s about time we formalised the militia ranks, if only for sake of convenience.”
“Are you fighting with him?”
“With who?”
“Your brother. Koenyg.”
Damon stared at him. There was a darkness in his gaze. A power that Jaryd could not recall having been there before.