“Don’t you mean, ‘Are
we
going to do this?’ I’m not doing it alone, you know.”
“All right. Are
we
going to do this?”
“It’s on my to-do list. Things have been busy.”
“We’ve been on the march for how long? There’s been time,” she argued.
“No, there hasn’t.”
“It wouldn’t take that long.”
“But it
should
,” I said, and she hesitated, blushing.
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Oh.” There was really only one reason why she wouldn’t comprehend that, but I thought I should check to be sure, so: “How many men have you, ah, been with?”
“Been with?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well… none. Not yet. And I didn’t think I’d go this long after I was married. Not that I haven’t enjoyed it, but this extended post-wedding celebration has been more martial than marital.”
“Fair point, I suppose.”
“If they leave a cart, we could just stay right here,” she pointed out. “Bronze can catch up, even carrying us and pulling the cart with the tent and other gear. You can take all the time you want. Before they leave, we can have someone else mix the body paint if you’re in a hurry, of course, and I still have the ceremonial gown for you to tear—”
“Hold it. First of all, I’m not too keen on body paint; it smears. We can do that if you insist; I’m not actively against it. But I’m not too keen on this sort of thing being done as a ceremony or ritual. It really kills my mood. Got that?”
“As you say, Your Majesty,” she replied, inclining her head. “If we aren’t going to be fully formal about it… can you spare a little time for me, here and now?”
Duty for breakfast, obligation for lunch, responsibility for dinner. Maybe I should look at this as less of a responsibility and more as a dessert. Surely, something about being a king should be rewarding?
“Of course,” I said, quietly. “But which would you prefer? Mind you, if we stay with the army, you’ll never get a lot of time in one go, and there may be a lot of interruptions.”
“I’ll stay. I haven’t had a chance to really fight anyone and I want to. Practicing with your knights is all good, but I want to stand to battle. I’ve never gotten to kill a man,” she said, and her half-smile quirked higher.
And you think the brand-new Queen of Karvalen is going to get within a hundred yards of the enemy while Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar are watching you?
I thought. I didn’t say it. Besides, there might be a way…
“All right,” I said, instead. “How do you want to do this?”
She nodded toward the hangings that concealed the royal sleeping area I never used. She started unbelting and unbuckling and unlatching.
I did my best.
Kammen stuck his head into the tent a couple of hours later. I assume he noticed the pile of armor and clothes because he coughed, loudly, twice.
“What is it?” I asked, not moving from the tangled pile of fur and legs and blankets and arms and pillows and hair.
“Just checking to see if we can strike the tent and pack it. We’re almost ready to move out.”
“Give me a minute. A flicker or three.”
“As you wish,” he said, then added, “Sire.” I heard him step outside and stop, probably standing guard outside the front flap. I looked at Lissette.
“Ready to get up?”
“No. I’m tired and sore. You’re
heavy.
”
“I did warn you,” I replied. “Up. Duty calls, Queen Lissette.”
She looked at me with a serious expression.
“I’m going to learn to hate that phrase, aren’t I?”
“I’ve learned to hate one that’s very similar, Your Majesty,” I agreed, “I’d like to think that the mark of a good ruler is never learning to like it.”
She grumbled, but stood up and poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin. I climbed to my feet, whisked myself clean, and started to dress. She scowled at me. Prettily.
“That’s just not fair,” she observed. I shrugged and did a cleaning spell for her.
“If you ask, anyone will start teaching you magic,” I pointed out.
“I know. I’m just afraid to look dumb.”
“So ask someone privately. Thomen is a sharp guy and can keep his mouth shut.” Quietly, I also added, “He likes Tort an awful lot. I think Tort likes him, too, but is more concerned with being dedicated to me. If she wants Thomen, I wouldn’t say no.”
“I’ll remember that. Are you leaving now?”
“Probably. I think they left this tent for last.”
We finished dressing and came out. Yes, they were waiting on us. The tent was emptied, taken down, packed away, and we were on the road in ten minutes. The infantry alternated between a light jog and a brisk walk. People rode on carts wherever they could; they took turns, with the people in the front of the march climbing on during a walking phase, riding through a jogging phase, then getting off to let the next group on while falling back to the rear.
It seemed complicated, but it worked. Everyone got a chance to rest even though we were in a hurry.
And they
sang
. They were happy to be hustling along a rutted dirt track and were looking forward to a fight.
I don’t know. I just don’t know. I have misgivings about warfare in general—that is, I recognize that there may be circumstances when an offensive war is necessary and right, but I don’t like it. Yet, these aren’t conscripts, dragged from their homes, or draftees told to report or suffer the consequences. These are volunteers who know where they’re going, what they’re facing, and what may happen.
I still don’t know how I feel about that.
The army advanced quickly, with mounted scouts constantly checking the path ahead; we hurried west and made it to Bildar much more quickly than I anticipated—a matter of eight or nine days, instead of another two weeks. Partly is was the summer weather and the dry tracks. The autumn storms would be coming soon, though.
We also sent scouts ahead to negotiate passage with Bildar. Bildar was more than willing to let us cross; they were eager to get the war resolved in a hurry. Their economy was seriously hurt by the diversion of the river, to say nothing of their sudden fresh water and sewage problems. Since we promised to restore the river to its rightful course, they swore to let the army through with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of speed.
They even offered to contribute a dozen wagons to the cause, which Kelvin gratefully accepted. I called Tort; she dumped what diamonds we had on hand in a bag and tossed it through the gate. We flat-out bought more horses and wagons, maybe even enough to have the whole army ride, if the roads were dry enough. I think Bildar was happy to see the horses go; water was becoming scarce.
Which reminded me to check the weather. Tort zoomed out on the sand table to get an actual satellite view while I watched through the mirror. The weather patterns of a flat world are decidedly unpredictable, but watching the way clouds moved gave me a fair idea of what to expect over the next day or so. It looked like sunny weather for the march, at least for a while.
Yes, there are spells that will predict the weather. They only work for where you’re standing, and I didn’t want to waste gate power; it wasn’t well-charged to begin with.
There are also spells to influence the weather. The problems with that are, first, other magic workers who may have other ideas, and second, any sky gods that may have a priest in the area. The first is a problem when you’re trying to help out your army; the enemy may notice how important it is to you and disrupt it, or even reverse it. The second may or may not be a problem, depending on the dogma of the religion in question. You may have to pay a fee—excuse me, “present a gift”—or you may have to perform a penance as part of your apology for interfering in the workings of their deity’s plans.
And all that assumes you haven’t directly irritated the deity in question. I had no desire to have words with Father Sky.
It looked like good weather. I planned to avoid attracting attention.
Tort also showed me the fuzzy area where the army of Byrne was crossing the Quaen. If we zoomed in, the area grew more and more indistinct and out of focus. Farther out, the image cleared. It was a clever spell, I grant you. Still, at a comfortable midrange, I could make out the wooden roadway as they laid it down. They’ll probably be crossing tonight.
That suits me. We’re across already and farther south. We stand a really good chance of intercepting them. We’ll be heading along the road toward Kilda, almost due west. If the Byrne army heads down that road, we’ll be on our way to intercept them. If they head south along the Quaen, toward Bildar, we’ll be in good position to about-face and intercept them anyway. With Tort giving directions, we should know their route well in advance.
Plus, I plan to do some eyeballing tonight. Wizardry is afoot and it may be clever wizardry; we could be tricked. I don’t really think that’s the case—an army is hard to hide!—but I plan to reduce the level of uncertainty to a minimum.
T’yl, on the other hand, reports that he has had no luck penetrating Byrne. Oh, the city is easy enough to see. The castle—what used to be a fortified house, expanded over the last few decades—is another matter.
“A magician is entrenched there,” he told me through the mirror. “There is no other way to have defenses of that degree. I could penetrate them, but it will be immediately obvious to whoever controls them. Do you wish this done?”
“No, thank you. I’d rather let them think our whole attention is on the army.”
“As you say.”
“I would like to know if Prince Parrin leaves, however. I’ll scout out the magical defenses myself, soon. But if he bolts, I want to know about it. While he’s running, he’s a good target.”
“And if he does not run?”
“Then I’ll go in and get him. After we settle with his military.”
“Of course. I shall keep a close eye on the matter.”
Other people keeping a close eye on things are Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar. Taking things in shifts, they won’t leave me alone for an instant. I’m not sure they’re really worried about an assassin in camp. I think they’re just reacting to the idea that I’ll be putting myself in danger and they won’t be able to do anything about it. It’s not a rational response, I know, but it seems like something they’d do. In a way, I sympathize. There are a lot of things outside my control that I’d like to nail down, too.
Speaking of getting nailed, Lissette has apparently discovered the joys of being married. To be fair, I can’t say that I’m in any position to object. If anything, I should be overwhelmingly pleased, mainly because Lissette seems to tackle sex with the same attitude that she tackles combat. She’s determined to do it as often as possible and do it
right
. She’s constantly asking if there was anything she could have done better, or if there was another way, or anything else she could do.
As far as I’m concerned, she’s getting very good, indeed. If I like it, she tries it. If there’s anything she doesn’t like, I have yet to find it.
And I’m an idiot.
Lissette is pretty, in excellent shape, listens to me, wants to please me, and thinks I’m just darn amazing. True, she’s a little put off by the whole dead-at-night thing, but we’ve worked that out. She goes to sleep and I go to work.
So, why am I thinking of Tort?
Not all the time, of course. While Lissette and I are being intimate, I’m pretty focused on what I’m doing. But afterward—or in between—I’m lying there with Lissette and wishing she was Tort.
Yeah, yeah, yeah… “You’re in love with her, stupid!” I don’t
feel
“in love” with her. I love Tort, yes, no question. I miss her, too. But she’s not My One True Love or anything like that.
Maybe I just don’t love Lissette. I mean, I like her, yes; it would be hard for me not to like her. There are things about her I could wish were different—she’s barely literate, doesn’t understand my objections to slavery, and I suspect Tianna multiplies better than she does, just as examples—but Lissette is still a wonderful person. She’s open-minded insofar as she isn’t entrenched in her opinions, is willing to learn, and will try anything once (twice, if it doesn’t kill her the first time). She’s had it drilled into her that she’s Queen, and that means “second in command to the King,” a
profoundly
liberal attitude in Rethvan culture. She still addresses everyone politely, regardless of station, and asks instead of orders.
It hurts me that I miss Tort when I’m holding Lissette in my arms. It seems unfair to Lissette, but what can I do? Heart surgery? It’s an arranged marriage, for crying out loud!
I’m trying to hide it by being attentive, solicitous, and as agreeable as possible.
Is that guilt? It feels like guilt. But what do I have to feel guilty about?
Lissette kissed me goodnight when the sunset started and settled in to sleep. I left her to it and rolled into a vampire burrito. It’s unlikely anyone will disturb me in the tent, but you never know. I always take precautions, even in full armor.
Once cleaned, dressed, and armed, I mounted Bronze and we were away into the night. I made sure to wear my old armor; it was less conspicuous. If things went well, I might want to be sneaky.
For practice, I wrapped Bronze’s hooves in a muffling spell, one that would damp the shockwaves in the air and ground. It didn’t make her silent, but she was eerily quiet. I liked it. Unfortunately, there was really nothing to be done about her breathing fire. That’s just part and parcel of her exerting herself.
Hmm. On the other hand, I could probably work out a spectrum-shifting spell to make the flames non-luminous in the visible range. Invisible fires!
Oh, dear. With enough work, I could upshift the heat and light into the gamma range. The total output wouldn’t be immediately lethal, though, and not useful as a weapon. On the other hand, she could be the source of heat and light for most versions of an Archimedes Ray spell. It wouldn’t be overwhelmingly powerful, but if I could get the focus down to a pinpoint it could be quite damaging. I might even mount such a spell on her, directly, so she could choose to breathe fire on something half a mile away—a horse with a built-in laser gun!
I’m not sure if constantly thinking up new wrinkles on how to kill people is a good quality or not.
We whisked along the road, racing up toward Loret. It wasn’t a long trip, but we slowed well short of it, not wanting to be a fiery beacon to any scouts. When Bronze cooled enough, we proceeded at a walk. I made sure to work a disguise spell for her, darkening her appearance against moonlight gleams and mottling it to break up her outline. She didn’t much care for it and I agreed with her.
On the other hand, we spotted the scouts before they spotted us, so I can’t say it was wasted effort.
I killed and ate them while Bronze led the horses farther down the road; we would bring them back with us later. I just didn’t want a relief party to find them wandering and instantly know something was wrong. With the scouts simply missing, the alarm would take longer.
We crept up, shadowed and silent, alert for anything that might give us away. We found two more watchposts, apparently dropped off rather than mounted. I killed them and tossed their dismembered, bloodless remains into the woods.
Byrne’s camp was fairly well laid out. The central sections were orderly, at least, with tents in neat rows. Only about a third of the force was in tents, I estimated. The rest were sprawled wherever they pleased, forming an unwitting but effective barrier between any threat and the camp proper. At a guess, the militia, draftees, and conscripts were sleeping on the ground; professional soldiers and officers were in the better quarters. Several low fires illuminated the area around a trio of much larger tents, probably the remains of cooking fires near the commanders’ tents.
Now that I could eyeball the forces directly, the spells that clouded scrying were useless to them. Whoever was in charge of cloaking the cannon from detection obviously didn’t think it worth the effort of hiding them from purely visual detection. And why should he? Anyone who made it into line-of-sight was about to be a target, anyway. In theory.
There were ten bronze cannon, each about six feet long, with a bore diameter of four or five inches. It bothered me immensely that the cannons and their carriages resembled Napoleon twelve-pounder guns. I saw a gunner’s quadrant sticking out of the one visible muzzle. The carriages had two wheels and a pair of trails with spades. They would be towed backward to their position by a team of horses hitched to the trails, then turned around to face the enemy.
Altogether, it looked like an incredible breakthrough in gunpowder technology. I was immediately suspicious. Weapons like these didn’t just spring into being without a lot of basic research, expensive development, and battlefield experimentation. Black powder, all by itself, was a major undertaking to get exactly right—and believe me, if you don’t get it
exactly
right, you just get a lot of smoke.
I had to take a closer look.
Jon taught me a spell to avoid notice. It’s really just a spell to influence the way someone thinks. Anyone in range will have the idea that you belong there and you can go about your business. He called it a Don’t Mind Me spell. I always thought of it as a Somebody Else’s Problem spell—the wearer of the spell was somebody else’s problem and could be safely ignored.
It has its good points. As long as you don’t do anything weird, people within range just ignore you. It’s better than invisibility in some ways; you can walk through a crowd and nobody screams. In this case, I could walk through a lot of sleepers and probably not even wake anyone.
The drawback was that it affected the minds of those in the area. While it’s hard to notice that sort of thing when it’s happening to you, any wakeful wizards would almost certainly become aware of the mental influence after it was withdrawn. Which meant that, if I made it to the cannon, my departure would have to be at high speed and probably with a variety of spells and projectiles chasing me.
Assuming.
Well, I run faster than most people can see, I’m in magical armor, and it’s hard to kill a dead man. It was worth a shot. I fired up my silencing spell and the Don’t Mind Me spell and started in, picking my way between sprawled sleepers. I wondered how many of them were going to get stepped on if I had to hurry out. There was really a fair amount of space between them, but they were scattered haphazardly.
Nobody sounded an alarm. I’m not sure anybody even looked at me. Admittedly, I was a shadowy figure walking carefully through the camp, but I almost expected something more than being ignored. Is that my ego talking, or my pessimism? Or am I just forgetful of how poorly humans see in the dark? I do forget, sometimes. Night falls and the world becomes a shadowless monochrome for me. I see
better
at night, albeit without the usual colors.
I take that back. I do see colors, but only the colors of energy—spells and souls, mostly. Everything mortal or material fades to grey.
Still, the real trick to sneaking in was getting past the guards around the cannon. There were three of them, mostly standing still and sort of keeping a lookout. Judging by their relaxed attitudes, I don’t think they took their job seriously. Still, I approached one, angling my path so as to be headed past the cannon, not at them; his gaze moved over me and he didn’t even nod as he dismissed me from consideration.
At my point of closest approach, I planted a foot in the trampled ground, leaned, and
moved
. There was a very quiet, spell-muffled thud of metal armor on brigandine, a faint rustle of cracking bones as I hit him across the throat with my forearm, and no sound at all as I laid him down between two pieces of artillery.