As bewildered as a newborn, Jamie forced a polite smile. All he wanted was to return to camp and find his comrades, but he was stuck here until her noble drunkenness decided to release him.
“Trevisa took a liberty with me all those years ago. That’s why they called him the Fox; he was always stealing into the chicken coop.” She breathed a gentle sigh. “When my lover,
my angel
, challenged him, Trevisa had him killed. Back then I was without influence, and nobody else cared a whit about the murder of a vagabond knight. Ah, but it broke my heart, and set me on an…
interesting
path.”
She handed her glass to her body servant, and dabbed a kohl-stained tear from her cheek. Jamie noticed that the servant’s knuckles were crisscrossed with dozens of pale scars, and that he had a very workmanlike hunting knife hanging from his belt that was quite at odds with the satin breeches and ill-fitting wig.
The Countess smoothed faint creases from her gown. Her hands were small, plump…scarred. “I have waited almost thirty years for this day. Patience, dear Jamie, can remain a faithful virtue when all others are lost to you.” She took his hand in hers. “Thank you
for
your
patience and for reminding me of the only person I have ever loved. I’m pleased you were here to share the moment when I finally saw him avenged. That you are so like him, and that your comrades were my weapons only sweetens the cup. Now, Jamie dear, I have two little gifts for you.”
“There really isn’t any need, I—”
“No, I insist, and not even kings can resist me when I am adamant. You must take them. I had a…” She smiled. “Suffice to say, I no longer need them, but you might.” She unfastened a fine, gold locket and chain from around her neck and dropped it in his palm. She then unfastened another, this time of silver with a carved piece of horn hanging from it.
“The locket is just a keepsake, a little something to remind you of me. The other is more useful. I fear you have some dark roads to walk, Jamie dear. It won’t save a life, but it will keep it for a time. Goddess forbid,
you
should ever need it.” She wrapped his hand around the gifts. “Do as you will with the locket, but look after the horn. ‘Tis old magic—
good
magic.”
“Magic is outlawed in Suvia. Aren’t you afraid of the Redemption?”
She giggled. “Surely you’ve learnt that there is only one law in Suvia, if not the entire world?”
Jamie smiled. “Don’t get caught?”
“Precisely. Now go, I release you. I can see you’re itching to be away. Please pass on my congratulations to Captain Stenna.” The Countess kissed his cheek before drifting over to the pavilion. Her servant gave him a knowing smile and followed her.
Jamie wasn’t sure, but he got the distinct impression that he’d been a pawn in a game he hadn’t realised he’d been playing.
To take his mind off his embarrassment he opened the locket. Pressed behind glass was a curl of hair that had faded to the colour of dried blood. Painted on the other half of the locket was the portrait of a young woman. She had an unremarkable face, except for her eyes. Even though the years had blurred and cracked the paint they still stood out. Bright as pins, and as sharp as needles; the young girl crossed the decades and fixed him with a penetrating gaze.
The Antian camp that had earlier been mired in sullen anxiety erupted in cheers of joy and relief when the Hammer and the Anvil returned in triumph. It took Alyda half an hour to make her way through the jubilant crowd and back to her command tent, by which time her side was a constant, throbbing ache that pulsed pain with every breath. She lifted the tent flap to find that Vorbek had beaten her back. The Northerner was already sprawled in a chair, mug of ale in hand, a broad grin plastered across his bloodied face. Alyda tugged off a gauntlet, but she’d need help with the rest of her armour. She was about to shout for Polyn, when Jamie hobbled in, sweating like a cob stallion.
“Sorry I’m late, Captain—the road was choked with Suvi
prisoners on their way to Lemarasch Keep,” he said and set about unbuckling her armour.
Alyda took off her helm and sweat drenched arming cap. Long, black braids uncoiled down her back, sodden and heavy. Vorbek also wore his hair in the triple braids, as was the tradition in the Guards. Not only were they an easy way of identifying the various ranks, but they also provided excellent padding under a coif—something Alyda was most grateful for given how much her ears were ringing. Vorbek’s squire, Keris, was struggling to remove the knight’s dented breastplate. The task wasn’t made any easier by Vorbek reaching over her for a jug of ale that was on the table.
He snagged the pitcher and poured Alyda a drink. They charged their mugs, splashing froth over the maps spread across the table. The two squires rushed to save them. Alyda couldn’t care less, the long anticipated battle, and probably the war was over, and they’d won. She gulped the ale. It was sweet and cool, and gone all too quickly. She held out her tankard and Vorbek obliged her with a refill.
“I was feeling a mite lonely for a while there, Stenna,” he said.
Alyda raised an eyebrow. “You’d better not be complaining. Some of us have fought
two
battles today.”
They laughed—victory more intoxicating than any ale. Alyda looked at Trevisa’s magnificent standard propped in the corner of the tent. It would also be going back to Antia; the question was,
with whom?
The Captain of the Hammer snatched a coin off the table, and gestured to the captured colours. “Heads or tails?”
Vorbek scratched his matted beard before answering. “Tails.”
Alyda flipped the coin, sparking a golden trail through the air. It hit the table, pirouetted, and finally came to rest with the stern face of King Daris uppermost.
Alyda flashed Vorbek a grin. “Don’t feel bad, old friend—I just can’t lose today.”
Vorbek laughed. “Aye, so it seems. Enjoy it, Shorty. There are too few days in a lifetime when everything falls just right.”
The tent flapped open. Trenham breezed in wielding a wine bottle instead of a bow. Alyda probed her side, cautiously exploring the extent of her injury. The mercenary flopped onto a chair and dragged the cork from the bottle with his teeth, before spitting it away.
“You should get your surgeon to take a look at that, or perhaps use some o’that
heathen magic
to heal yourself.” said Trenham, grinning.
Alyda gave him a dead-eyed look. “You’re about as funny as pox. As for this, I can wait. Gedthis has a tongue sharper than any blade. Let me at least—”
Vorbek coughed, and indicated with a frown that someone was behind her. Even before she turned around she knew who it was.
Gedthis stepped into view and glared daggers at her. “I’ll get to work, shall I?”
Vorbek and Trenham declined the surgeon’s invitation to leave while he worked. They decided to stay and offer ale, wine, and advice. Alyda accepted the wine, but the medical advice and alcohol were pointedly refused by the surgeon.
Gedthis cut open Alyda’s bloody shirt and poked at the gash where the spear had sawed along her ribs. “I had hoped you wouldn’t end up being skewered this time, Captain. Don’t you do all that practicing to prevent this sort of thing from happening?”
“I’m obviously not very good yet, Gedthis,” said Alyda through gritted teeth.
“Luckily for you, I am.”
“So, Squire Turlowe, did you enjoy being in the company of the Black Countess?” Trenham enquired.
Jamie frowned at the mercenary. “Do you mean Countess Duvessi?”
“Aye. Not that I’d call her the Black Countess to her face—I’m too fond of breathing.” He winked at Alyda. “I heard she was quite taken with you, Jamie lad. Must be those flaming locks, eh? All women of taste find us redheads irresistible—isn’t that right, Captain Stenna?”
Though it hurt, Alyda had to laugh. The Irregulars had been attached to the Guards since they’d arrived in Suvia three months ago. During that time she’d got to know Trenham and his company. Despite his terrible sense of humour, he’d proven himself to be an excellent commander of competent fighters. He also knew her father, which was enough for Alyda to stay on friendly terms with him, even if she didn’t trust the mercenary as far as she could spit.
“I must thank the Countess,” she said. “Short of telling us what colour breeches the Beast would be wearing, she was right about everything else. She’s a damn good intelligencer.”
Trenham nodded in agreement. “Aye, she’s done well for us and her prince. Although, she’s made an enemy of the Brotherhood and they have long memories.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Tell me, d’you know what happened to Prince Jerim’s troops? I heard they didn’t even disembark.”
Alyda and Vorbek exchanged a look of caution. Despite his affability, Trenham was still a mercenary, and they were always sniffing around for information that might lead to the next contract. Alas, it wasn’t a secret that Prince Jerim and his brother, King Daris were at odds, but she wasn’t going to be drawn on the subject by Trenham.
“The Governor of Cathlan fell ill and returned home on the orders of the King.” She wasn’t one for lying and didn’t think she’d convinced Trenham of anything other than her loyalty.
“Ah, I see.” The mercenary smiled. “Well, as pleasant as this has been, I’d best be going. It’s a long way back to Careth. We must do this again sometime; it’s been both enjoyable, and profitable.” He patted his coin pouch, tipped the knights a salute, and left.
Alyda took another swig of wine, but it was doing little to numb the pain Gedthis seemed intent on inflicting. “Asha’s Paps, Gedthis! It hurts more now than when it fucking happened.”
“I doubt that very much, Captain.” He got up and wiped his hands on his apron. “I need to get something from my tent. Try not to do anything, or go anywhere while I’m gone.”
“That cowardly
fa’cachta,”
Alyda swore in Tamalak when she was sure Gedthis was out of earshot.
“I take it you mean Jerim and not the sawbones?” Vorbek asked.
“Aye, Gedthis isn’t averse to bloodshed.”
“I think we may be sent to chastise a certain younger brother when we get home.”
“Probably. Although you never know—Jerim might really be ill.”
They were still laughing when Gedthis returned with a cloth covered bowl.
“That’s very kind of you Gedthis, but I’m really not hungry at the moment,” said Alyda.
“I’m glad you’re in high spirits, Captain. There are other wounded who aren’t feeling quite so light-hearted.”
“I’m not surprised if he’s been ministering to ‘em.” Althus side-mouthed.
The surgeon narrowed his eyes and whipped the cloth off the bowl. Alyda was relieved to see that it contained nothing more sinister than hot water and herbs. Gedthis fished a threaded needle from the water. It looked unnecessarily long.
“Lean over to the side please, Captain,” said Gedthis as he expertly twisted a knot in the steaming, linen thread.
Alyda did as he asked, and hoped she looked more at ease than she felt. Althus gave her a reassuring nod; he knew the drill.
“Squire Turlowe!” Gedthis snapped. “For gods’ sakes, hold the damn lamp still. I’m good, but not even I can work in the dark. This might sting a little, Captain.” He wrinkled his nose and uncorked a small bottle of something that smelled like wine vinegar.
“So when do you think you’ll be ready to leave for Toresta?” Alyda asked Vorbek.
She knew he answered because she could see his lips moving, but she didn’t hear a word he was saying. As Althus started to speak, Gedthis poured the liquid over her side. Pain dug fiery talons into her flesh and stole the breath from her lungs. She didn’t cry out, like all knights in the Guards she took the pain, dragged it into her gut and held it there until it died.
A welcome breeze wafted into the tent, cooling the sweat that was running down her face. Alyda looked to the entrance and saw a shock of white blonde hair; it was Della, one of the company heralds. Alyda beckoned her in.
The herald limped in and peered at Alyda’s side. “That looks nasty. I thought you said it was a scratch, Gedthis?”
Alyda glared at the surgeon.
Now
she wanted to call him a
fa’cachta
.
“It is a scratch,” he snapped as he deftly stitched the stinging flesh together. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
Della smiled apologetically at Alyda. “I’m sorry, Captain, but there’s some Suvies outside. Shall I tell them to come back when he’s finished or…?”
Alyda shook her head and blessed Gedthis with a barbed stare. “No, bring them in. It’s only a scratch.”
Vorbek stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened his braids. The herald showed two Suvians into the tent; dressed in their finery they looked as out of place as snowdrops in a desert. Alyda knew Count Lemarasch; he was an aide to Prince Ranulfi. He always seemed a decent sort and, unlike most of the prince’s staff, possessed of more than half a brain. She had no idea who the other one was, but judged that if he’d ever been a warrior it had been a long time ago. The stranger had a full, almost perfectly round belly, and was wearing possibly the most elaborate uniform she’d ever seen. If martial prowess was measured in gold braid he must surely be a god of war.