Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 14

Baron Ranel of Nita pushed open a side door to the stables of Castle Gris and peered round the darkened hall. Horses snorted in their stalls, while a single lantern set on a stool provided the only light. He shut the door behind him and called, ‘Stabler! Where are you, man? Stablemaster!’

A great-bellied older fellow came stumbling out from the rear, pulling on his jacket. ‘Yes, m’lord? You called?’

‘Yes, dammit. That horse-dealer out of Unta – is she still here?’

The stablemaster blinked, still somewhat bleary, then nodded. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I believe so.’

Ranel glared, expectantly. ‘Well? Go get her, dammit!’

The stablemaster flinched, ducking. ‘Of course, m’lord. I’ll send one of the lads right away.’ He rushed to the rear.

Alone, Ranel tapped his hands nervously on his thighs and peered about the stables. He lifted a tankard and sniffed, only to make a disgusted face and set it aside. He then approached the nearest stall; the horse within reared, nickering, and he flinched away.

A short time later there came a knock from the rear and the stablemaster emerged accompanied by a slim woman, her long dark hair slightly dishevelled, who was adjusting a long quilted wrap about herself. She bowed to Ranel. ‘You called, m’lord?’

‘Yes. I’ve been thinking about that offer you made – the roan mare. I must say I am most interested now.’

The woman bowed again. ‘Excellent. M’lord is wise to consider the offer.’ Her gaze shifted edgewise to the stablemaster next to her, and Ranel started as if realizing something. He dug at a pocket to pull out a few coins, which he extended to the stabler.

‘Here you are, my man – for your trouble.’

The stablemaster touched his brow, bowing. ‘Many thanks, m’lord.’ He withdrew, bowing again as he did so.

‘The offer—’ Ranel began, but stopped speaking as the woman raised a hand for silence, her gaze fixed on the rear where the stabler had disappeared. A door shut there and she lowered the hand.

‘The offer remains as stated,’ she said.

Ranel waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes. I just want assurances.’

The woman had yet to withdraw her hard gaze from the rear. ‘There are no assurances in our business,’ she said, adding, ‘Horse trading, of course.’

Ranel laughed, a touch nervously. ‘Of course, yes. Horse trading.’

‘You are leaving for Jurda?’ the woman asked.

Ranel sighed his frustration. ‘Yes. All forces. On the morrow.’

She nodded. ‘We will finalize the deal there, then.’

The nobleman eyed her, frowning. ‘How will I—’

‘We will be in touch,’ the woman said.

‘Ah. Of course. Yes. Until then.’

The horse-dealer bowed once more, backing away. ‘Until then. May you profit greatly from this wise choice.’

Ranel waved her off. ‘Yes, yes.’ He returned to tapping his thighs nervously, and once the woman had disappeared he ran to the side door, yanked it open and fled.

The stable remained quiet for a time until straw came filtering down from the loft above and a youth straightened to brush the husks from his shoulders and hair. After a large yawn, he descended rather recklessly from the loft, using slim handholds, and plopped down to the dirt. Here, hands on hips, he regarded the closed double stable doors. Turning his back to them, he straightened, took a deep breath, then quickly knelt to pull a blade from a boot, and in that same swift motion threw it over his shoulder at the doors.

The slim throwing dagger struck home in the wood with a solid blow; the youth turned and nodded his satisfaction. He crossed to pull it free, muttering, ‘Well, that’s something, anyway.’ He pushed the blade home in his boot, then peeped out of the side door and slid out into the darkness of the Gris bailey.

In a slow circuitous walk, the lad avoided posted torches and lanterns to approach a train of wagons being loaded with supplies and materiel. Here he studied them, one after another, until coming to one bearing great bags and straw baskets of arrows and crossbow bolts.

A sly smile crept up his lips and he reached in to take one particular crossbow bolt which he then tucked into his shirt. Stooping, he slipped away towards the main keep.

Taking servants’ halls and entries the lad made his way higher and higher. With each floor the passageways became more narrow, the traffic less, until guards he met at barred doors waved him onwards.

The last door, guarded by two youths quite similar to him, opened to allow him entry to a lit bedchamber. Here, Malle of Gris sat in her bed, reading. Peering up, she waved the youth to her. He clambered up on to the piled furs and blankets at the foot of the bed.

‘Well?’ Malle asked.

He nodded. ‘It will be at Jurda.’

She tapped the book in the palm of her hand, her gaze becoming distant. ‘Yes. It would have to be, wouldn’t it?’ Her gaze sharpened, turned upon the youth. ‘You will follow. Finish things there.’

He nodded, and then a mischievous grin twitched his lips.

She eyed him sidelong. ‘What is it?’

From his shirt he withdrew the crossbow quarrel, extended it to her. She took it and ran her fingers through its fletching – the blue and yellow of Nita – and a similar smile crept across her lips. Handing back the quarrel, she ruffled the youth’s hair. ‘You were always my favourite, Possom.’

Grinning contentedly, the youth snuggled down amid the heaped blankets and closed his eyes while Malle returned to her book.

* * *

Recruitment and training was now Nedurian’s preoccupation. Cadre mages had to be assigned and integrated into squads. The marine army style of engagement had to be differentiated from the traditional ship’s crew free-for-all fighting they all knew. Dassem was at the fore of this, transforming Mock’s Hold from a pirate admiral’s personal manor into a military training facility, and Nedurian was grateful; things got done when the Dal Hon swordsman spoke, and everything proceeded so much more smoothly than if he were out there trying to convince everyone himself.

This day he was surprised to glance over to find Tayschrenn with him at the crenellated wall overlooking the Hold’s main yard cum training ground. Their ‘High Mage’ stood with crossed arms, his long face registering a sort of peevish confusion as he watched the swordwork routines.

Nedurian cast him a questioning look. ‘You are troubled, High Mage?’

The man’s brows wrinkled in distaste. ‘Not that title, please.’ He pointed to the ranks of trainees, recruits and veterans all mixed together at Nedurian’s suggestion. ‘The cadre mages training in their units, I understand. But sword- and shieldwork for mages? Really? Isn’t that a waste of their time?’

Nedurian gave a curt nod in appreciation of the question. ‘Some will probably always feel that way no matter what. It took some convincing from me’n’Dassem to bring them into line. Nothing heavier than shortsword for them, of course. But the same basic training for everyone. Builds unit cohesion, helps our cadre mages understand what their cohorts have to go through. And they’ll have to defend themselves sometimes.’ The High Mage grunted his acceptance of the point, though his face still registered his distaste for it.

‘Cohesion?’ he asked next, dubious. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. Once they’ve seen action together and fought side by side, it’ll happen. I’ve seen it again and again.’

The Kartoolian mage eyed him sidelong. ‘The old Talian formation.’

Nedurian nodded once more. Then, since he had the man here, he asked, ‘Any word?’

There was no need to say more; both knew he was asking after their erstwhile leaders. The High Mage let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Still missing, but alive, I hope. At least, Jadeen hasn’t reappeared either.’

‘They are hiding from her, you think?’

A wintry smile came and went from the severe Kartoolian. ‘Yes, I imagine that is what most people are thinking, hmm?’

‘But no?’

The High Mage waved a negative. ‘No. They came upon a clue to an ancient legend, and they are now chasing that.’

Nedurian raised a brow at that. Really? ‘What legend, may I ask?’

Tayschrenn glanced about, perhaps checking that they were alone. Visibly reluctant to say anything, and hesitating for a time, he finally murmured, apparently against his better judgement, ‘The Army of Dust and Bone.’

At first Nedurian could say nothing – he must’ve gaped, stunned. ‘The Army—’ he began, almost shouting, then choked himself off. ‘You’re joking. That’s impossible.’

‘I do not joke,’ the High Mage huffed, offended.

Nedurian reflected that yes, this was true. So far the Kartoolian struck him as one of the most humourless, stiff, and even obtuse people he’d ever met. Some used much stronger language than that, such as arrogant, haughty, and pompous, but he did not see the preoccupation with hierarchy or the lust for prestige or status those terms suggested – rather, it seemed to him as if the fellow simply did not know how to get along with people, or couldn’t be bothered to try.

So, the Army of Dust and Bone … Nedurian shook his head, awed. Outrageous. Who in their right mind would dare meddle in that terrifying mystery? Everything he’d ever heard or read about those ancient legends warned everyone to stay away. The Elders were powerful and dreadful – it was a blessing their days were over. Only a fool, or an insane, power-craving …

He shook his head once again, this time in exasperation. Ah …

After a moment he cleared his throat, and leaned his forearms on the crenellations before them. ‘Well, from all I’ve heard about that I’m guessing we won’t be hearing from either of them ever again.’

Tayschrenn nodded his assent. ‘That is the most likely outcome.’

Footsteps announced the approach of a guard, who bowed. ‘Mages, your presence is requested by the commander.’

Commander – Nedurian understood that here on Malaz that could only mean a naval commander, so, Choss, not Dassem. The Dal Hon swordsman was usually referred to as the Sword, in any case.

As he and Tayschrenn, following the guard, reached the second floor of the keep, Nedurian immediately sensed that something was amiss: the tension and heightened awareness of the guards virtually screamed the fact. ‘What happened?’ he demanded of their guide, who gestured them ahead to a meeting chamber.

Within, they found Choss seated, his shirt hanging in tatters, a guard dressing his torso in fresh cloth. Blood gleamed wet down the old sailor’s trousers. A thrown rug covered what could only be a body on the floor.

Choss raised his chin to the corpse. ‘What do you two make of her?’

Nedurian pulled away the rug. It was a woman, probably in her twenties, muscular – hard-trained. Black-haired, her skin was paling now, but carried a swarthy olive hue such as characterized the inhabitants of the west coast. ‘I don’t recognize her,’ he said.

‘An outsider, then?’ Choss asked.

‘Possibly,’ Tayschrenn answered. ‘I do not recognize her either.’ The High Mage crouched to examine the body more closely. He ran his hands down her back, her arms, squeezed her hands. ‘City bred,’ he announced. ‘No typical development associated with rural farm work. Hands soft except for weapon-calluses.’

Choss grunted, then winced, his wide shoulders bunching in pain. ‘The mainland, then.’

‘Most likely.’

‘Where?’

Nedurian and Tayschrenn shared a weighing glance. ‘Not Dal Hon,’ Nedurian supplied.

Tayschrenn gave his curt agreement. ‘They wouldn’t trust an outsider. And Bloor and Gris are too preoccupied,’ he added.

‘As are the far west city states.’

‘Yes.’

‘Itko Kan,’ Nedurian judged.

Tayschrenn seconded that with a nod. ‘Someone is already attempting to break up our alliance.’

Choss frowned, uncertain. He lifted a decanter of wine, but Nedurian stepped up and pushed it back down to the table. ‘No. Thins the blood.’ He glanced to one of the guards. ‘Bring boiling soup to the commander.’

The burly Napan pulled a face. ‘Soup? Am I a child to be fed hot soup? What’s next? Milk?’

‘Listen to the veteran,’ Tayschrenn said. ‘I’m sure he’s cared for more wounded than he wishes to remember.’

A touch surprised by the support, Nedurian offered the High Mage a nod of gratitude, which the Kartoolian missed entirely, his gaze unfocused as he pursued his own thoughts and speculations.

Choss, meanwhile, was considering what had caused him to pick up the wine. ‘Break up the alliance?’ He looked to Nedurian, who sat back, thinking.

‘Our High Mage has leapt to the end conclusion. Consider it.’ He gestured to Choss. ‘The one Napan commander here on Malaz. Perhaps the calculation was that Surly would retaliate, or one of the Malazan captains would take the opportunity to wrest control of the island from her – that is, from Kellanved. A new admiral, and back to the old rivalry.’

Choss pulled a hand down his beard, grunted a sort of grudging understanding. ‘Maybe.’

A guard set a bowl of broth before the commander, who wrinkled up his mouth.

‘Eat it,’ Nedurian told him. ‘Denul training supports my opinion here.’

The muscular Napan grimaced, but hunched forward, and raised the bowl to his lips.

‘I have contacted Calot in Dariyal,’ Tayschrenn announced. ‘He will inform Surly.’ He cocked his head, thinking. ‘This also raises a broader issue …’

‘Which is?’ Choss asked.

‘Communication. How to stay in touch across distance.’

‘A problem throughout all history,’ Nedurian answered. ‘We have the mage cadre …’

‘Indeed. However, not all possess the capability.’ He stroked his long chin, thinking. ‘Perhaps we could manufacture items for communication. Certain crystals’ natural resonance would work well for this …’

‘Whatever they might be, they would have to be portable,’ Choss put in.

Tayschrenn nodded absently, already lost in thought. ‘I will work with Nightchill on this. If I can find her. Gods know where she spends her days.’ He inclined his head to Choss. ‘I leave you in good hands, then,’ he said, and walked out, hands clasped at his back.

Choss watched him go, then turned a raised brow on Nedurian, saying, ‘Now that is one odd bird.’

Nedurian couldn’t help but crook a small smile. ‘We’re lucky to have him. He’s extraordinarily powerful, just doesn’t know how to mine it yet. Sort of like a natural archer who hasn’t yet learned how to draw a bow properly.’

‘Breathing,’ Choss said. ‘I’m told it’s all in the breathing.’

Nedurian sat at the table and took up the wine, sipping it while Choss watched, his lips tight. ‘I’ve heard that too,’ he said.

* * *

Iko was reviewing the latest candidates for the guard when news reached her via her own paid palace informants of some sort of incident involving the young king. Bowing out quickly, she set off across the sprawling grounds for the Kan family residences; the location surprised her, though she had noticed that lately the Kan family had been working to increase their influence, considerable though it already was.

As she hurried, she could not help but reflect upon the disappointing quality of this year’s crop of candidates. Years ago none would have even been considered. Was this a sign of their society’s falling dedication to tradition and plain hard work? Or was it a sign that she was now officially one of the veterans, despite her tender years? Yes, tender, she reaffirmed to herself, dammit!

The Kan family guards and retainers at the compound doors hesitated as she approached, but seeing her determined not to slow her pace one whit, they reluctantly opened the doors at the last moment. Within, a long, richly decorated hall led to an equally gilded main reception chamber and here she found the young king before the seat of the honorary head of the extended Kan noble family, the ancient dowager, Lady Serenna.

Between two Kan guards stood one of the king’s tutors, the youngest of them, a brilliant scholar of history, logic and calligraphy, Bahn Throol. The fellow was pale and sweaty, obviously ill at ease.

Iko pushed through to the fore of the gathered crowd of functionaries, petty bureaucrats and Kan family hangers-on. Catching sight of her, Lady Serenna glowered her distaste, then glanced away, dismissing her. She returned her attention to the scholar. ‘Touching the king’s person without his permission is a serious charge,’ she announced, her voice high and thin. She addressed the young King Chulalorn the Fourth. ‘You said he did so, yes?’

From the youth’s flushed face and hunched shoulders Iko could tell he was fairly withering in embarrassment. He nodded his lowered head.

Lady Serenna rapped her camphorwood fan against the armrest of her chair. ‘Speak up! Remember, you are the king!’

The child raised his chin, said hoarsely, ‘Yes.’

‘I was merely adjusting the grip of his stylus—’ the scholar Throol began, only to be cut off by another rap of the dowager’s fan.

‘Quiet! You will speak only when invited to do so!’

Scholar Throol wisely ducked his head.

‘And you struck him for his impudence?’

The young king nodded.

Shocked, Iko pushed aside the last functionary blocking her way and strode forward. ‘You struck one of your tutors?’ she demanded.

The youth spun, his face brightening. ‘Shimmer!’

Lady Serenna repeatedly rapped her fan against her armrest. ‘Quiet – remember your place, Chulalorn!’ She turned a slit gaze upon Iko. ‘This does not involve you, Sword-Dancer. This is a family matter only.’

Since Iko did not owe any allegiance or debt of patronage to the Kan family, she ignored the dowager and instead addressed Chulalorn the Fourth. ‘You must never strike an unarmed man or woman, yes, my king?’

The lad nodded morosely. ‘Yes, Shimmer.’

‘And you must respect those with wisdom and learning – yes, my king?’

‘Yes, Shimmer. I’m sorry.’

‘Do not apologize to me, my king. Apologize to Scholar Throol.’

A choked breath from Lady Serenna brought the lad’s attention to the dowager. ‘A king,’ the old woman fairly snarled, ‘does not apologize.’

Iko crossed her arms, eyed the ancient; she offered a nod of agreement. ‘Perhaps not. However, an honourable man does,’ and she turned her gaze to Chulalorn, waiting.

The lad glanced between her and the dowager, swallowed, and lowered his head. He turned to the scholar, murmured, ‘My apologies, Scholar Throol.’

The tutor paled even further, a hand at his throat. ‘Really – there is no need – my king is most gracious …’

‘Leave us!’ Lady Serenna hissed. She waved the fan to encompass the entire chamber. ‘Leave us! You will now leave us! All of you!’

In a rather undignified scramble the chamber cleared until only the Kan guards, Lady Serenna, Iko and the young king remained. Scholar Throol had been marched out by two of the guards.

The Dowager Lady Serenna sat glowering down at Iko. Finally, she turned her dark gaze upon Chulalorn. ‘Does a king command?’ she demanded.

The lad nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Is he commanded by his underlings?’

Chulalorn blinked, uncertain, shot a sidelong glance to Iko, but nodded once more. ‘No.’

Lady Serenna appeared to relax; she turned her disapproving gaze upon Iko. ‘Sword-Dancer,’ she announced, ‘you failed in your duty to protect my nephew, King Chulalorn the Third. Such incompetence has long troubled me greatly, and makes me doubt your ability to fulfil your duties.’

Iko let her arms fall, suddenly shaken. ‘You have no authority—’

‘This is true,’ Lady Serenna agreed. ‘However,’ and she pointed the fan to Chulalorn, ‘the king does.’

The boy stared, obviously confused.

‘Chulalorn,’ Lady Serenna explained, ‘your personal guards serve at your pleasure. You may choose to dismiss them at will.’

Her ward glanced between them, frowning, until understanding came and his mouth fell open. ‘But …’

‘Be a king,’ Lady Serenna demanded.

Tears welled from the young lad’s eyes and he twisted his fingers together. His pleading gaze begged Iko for guidance, any sort of help, and seeing him tortured like this broke her heart.

She quickly knelt to one knee, saying, ‘I beg permission to withdraw my service, my lord.’

He nodded, quite beyond words. His voice was barely audible as he whispered a cracked ‘Accepted’.

Rising, Iko bowed to the lad one last time then turned on her heel without a single glance to the dowager. She would not give the old lizard the satisfaction.

The doors to the Kan compound closed behind her and she looked up at the sky, blinking back her tears. Stupidly done, Iko, she told herself. So stupidly done.

Dismissed, she no longer had any claim to quarters in the palace, and so she packed what few personal belongings she owned. Her fine mail suit and the whipsword she had to leave behind, as they were possessions of the crown.

Packing, she turned and saw the regent, Mosolan, watching, arms crossed. She offered him a nod that he answered with a long slow regretful shake of his head.

‘I could hire you into the palace guard,’ he suggested.

‘No. I couldn’t bear to stand there …’ She shook her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But they’ve long been jealous of your relationship with the king. I should’ve warned you, I suppose, but,’ and he shrugged, ‘it never seemed the right time.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘They couldn’t allow an outsider that much influence … they just couldn’t.’

She noted that he was merciful enough not to add: And you walked right into it.

‘What will you do?’

She shrugged, closed up her single bag. ‘I don’t know. Join the army, maybe.’

‘You? In the regulars? I don’t think so.’

‘Whatever. I don’t know.’

He pushed away from the jamb, appearing troubled. ‘Listen. Stay in touch. I could use someone on the outside – you never know.’

She knew he was trying to be helpful, but she was just angry. Angry at damned palace politics, at the pathetic dance of influence and favour that she thought she’d been above all this time. But mostly she was just damned furious at herself.

She dipped her head in acceptance. ‘Yes, thank you. It’s just … I’m not sure. We’ll see.’

He extended his arm and they clasped wrists, as veterans, and she headed out across the gardens towards the main front doors to the palace grounds. Along the way she glimpsed a few Sword-Dancers, those off duty, watching from a distance. But none approached, and she knew why.

Dismissal. Shameful dismissal.

Better to die in service than endure such. She reached the tall and ponderous iron-bound doors, one of which the guards pushed open a crack for her.

Without, she paused in what seemed a brighter, and harsher, light. The door thumped shut behind her. The bustle, noise and clatter of the city of Itko Kan assaulted her senses and she winced, blinking, shading her eyes.

She realized that for the first time in her life she had no duties, no calling. No … purpose. Nor did she have anywhere to go. A slim purse of coin was all she now had to her name. She strode forward into the traffic of the city and let it take her where it would.

* * *

Three days after the disastrous attempt to join the Crimson Guard, Gregar was off duty, playing troughs with his squad-mates, when Leah came and set a hand on his shoulder.

‘Visitors for you,’ she murmured, rather subdued.

A quip died on his lips as he saw that their new sergeant appeared quite serious; she also waved Haraj up. ‘You too.’ She motioned them to follow.

‘Who is it?’ Gregar asked.

She gave them a strange evaluative look. ‘You’ll see.’

Gregar shrugged, unconcerned. Anything to break the boredom of this waiting was welcome. All pretence of actively besieging Jurda had long been abandoned, and their presence had lapsed into plain dull garrison duty. Meanwhile, more and more forces gathered; every would-be princeling, duke, petty baron and man-at-arms east of Cawn seemed to want a share of the glory to come – allies and enemies of both Gris and Bloor. And both had more than enough of each.

Beyond the Yellows encampment stood two men wrapped in long crimson cloaks against a cold drizzle. Gregar and Haraj exchanged looks of wonder, for here were the unmistakable figures of young K’azz D’Avore and the mage Cal-Brinn, of the Crimson Guard.

The Red Prince bowed to Leah. ‘My thanks.’ The girl curtly lowered her head and turned away, probably, Gregar thought, to hide a blush. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ K’azz continued, to him and Haraj.

‘Why wouldn’t we?’ Gregar asked, bemused.

The young fellow – perhaps Gregar’s own age, he realized – appeared apologetic. ‘Well, my father was not very complimentary.’

Gregar just shrugged. ‘He was right … we wasted your time.’

K’azz and Cal-Brinn shook a negative. ‘No,’ said K’azz, ‘it was sprung on you and that was not proper. You must forgive my father – he believes every man and woman who has ever picked up a sword wishes to join the Guard.’

Haraj rubbed the back of his neck, almost wincing. ‘He’s probably right.’

Gregar peered about, at the passing soldiers – keeping a respectful distance, but always staring, as the bright red cloaks could mean only one thing. ‘So … what can we do for you?’

K’azz nodded, growing serious. ‘As I said, I’ve come to apologize on behalf of the Guard. I – we,’ and he gestured to Cal-Brinn, ‘want you to know that in declining to abandon your comrades before battle you displayed the very qualities we want the Guard to stand for. Loyalty. Comradeship. Honour.’ The young man shrugged, almost sheepishly. ‘Rather than being angered or insulted we should have saluted you. At least, that is how I and many others feel. So, the invitation stands. Who knows, perhaps in the future you may wish to seek us out.’

‘And your father?’ Gregar asked.

‘He will grumble about it,’ murmured Cal-Brinn, ‘but Surat would be in favour.’

Gregar let out a long breath, quite surprised and quite unsure what to say. ‘Well … my thanks …’

‘You will not think poorly of us, then?’ K’azz asked.

Gregar fought a laugh at the thought of his opinion mattering to anyone. He waved a hand. ‘Gods, no. Not at all.’

The young man smiled winningly and saluted with a fist to his chest. ‘Very good. Perhaps we shall see you again.’

Gregar gave an awkward half-bow. ‘Ah, yes. Perhaps.’

The two Crimson guardsmen walked off and all heads at nearby cookfires turned to follow them. Gregar and Haraj exchanged looks of bewilderment. Gregar scratched his head. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘I think he meant it. I think he really admired that you chose to stay with your troop – even though you’re sure to be trampled like an idiot for your trouble.’

Gregar threw a swing at the lad. ‘I’ll just hold you ahead of me. Wouldn’t that work?’

‘I’m obliged to say no, it wouldn’t.’

Back at their camp a worried-looking Leah met them, tapping a hand to her newly issued shortsword. ‘What was that about?’

Gregar and Haraj shared another look, uncertain what to say. Gregar shrugged. ‘Just that we can try again, maybe. In the future.’

The sergeant visibly relaxed. ‘Good.’

‘Good?’

She flinched, sneering. ‘A’course! Good for the company! They expect to see you holding the colours. What else could I mean?’

Gregar rubbed his chin, a touch puzzled by her reaction. ‘Sure … whatever.’

‘Damned right!’ she growled. ‘Anyway, word’s going round. Tomorrow or the next we withdraw from the siege and march east, to the marshalling grounds.’

‘We’re gonna be there for the fight, hey?’ Haraj said.

The young woman’s mouth turned down. ‘Everyone is gonna be there. Shaping into a godsdamned bloodbath.’