Master of the Cauldron (23 page)

No,
thought Sharina, smiling.
But he has a real man-of-war's ghost in his mind
.

Aloud she said, “Garric's very pleased that you're willing to undertake this dangerous task with minimal force, milord. He doesn't want to rule the Isles with his sword.”

Waldron snorted again, this time in bitter humor. “Willing?” he said. “I'm forced to by the fact my cousin Bolor is an idiot. An idiot or a knowing traitor, and I prefer to believe the former. We bor-Warrimans have had our share of fools, but never before a traitor. If that's what Bolor is.”

He took a deep breath, scanning the shore. The vessel's officers had sorted out the rowers by then. All the long oars were in position, hanging just above the water to either side of the hull.

“And aye, I know Prince Garric doesn't want to rule with his sword,” Waldron went on. “His sword or his army's swords. He's the right king for the Isles now, your highness.”

He turned and glared at Sharina as though he expected her to disagree. “He's the right king, wherever he was born or whoever his ancestors were,” he said forcefully. “On my oath as a bor-Warriman!”

Bedrin and several of his aides were talking with the sailing master beneath the trireme's curving stern piece. Their voices rose, but the words
were still unintelligible to Sharina in the bow. The trumpeter blew a signal. Three of the following vessels replied, but the last did not.

Bedrin snapped a command. The trumpeter signalled again, still without getting a response.

“This is where the People landed,” Waldron said, gesturing toward the shore. “Back when I was an ensign in Lord Elphic's regiment.”

He spoke in a tone of quiet reminiscence; partly, Sharina suspected, to calm himself by retreating into the past, where he could forget the voyage just ended. “Here at the mouth of the Val. They paddled their ships like canoes instead of rowing them, and the hulls were made of bronze instead of wood.”

“Bronze?” said Sharina. “Weren't they awfully heavy, then?”

“Not particularly, no,” Waldron said. “Except at the ribs and keel, the metal wasn't any thicker than your own skin, your highness.”

He shrugged, and went on, “I don't know how they could've sailed boats like that any distance, the way the sea would've worked them up and down, but they got here somehow. Thousands of them. For a long time afterward, the price of bronze wasn't but half what it'd been in silver before all those boats were broken up and sold.”

The last ship of the squadron finally replied with a quavering trumpet call. Bedrin shouted an order. The trumpet and curved horn called together.

The seated flutist began to play the rhythm of the stroke. The oars dipped down, splashed, and drew back in a bubbling surge. The
Star of Valles
started toward the river mouth hidden for the moment beneath a blanket of mist. The hull steadied as her speed reached that of a man walking at leisure.

“Why didn't the People go on up the river, milord?” Sharina said. The question had occurred to her, but primarily she asked to make Waldron more comfortable by ordinary talk and to settle herself as well. “There are only fishing villages and small pastures in the marshes on this part of the coast.”

“I'm not a great lover of ships,” Waldron said, smiling grimly to emphasize the degree to which he could put the statement more strongly. “But it was a good thing that we had ships on that day—had half a dozen triremes, at any rate, that Stronghand could crew and put in the water right away. It wasn't much of a fleet, but the People's boats were brittle as
eggshells. They landed as soon as they reached Ornifal, because the Val is plenty deep enough to drown in—and that was the only choice, if the triremes caught them on the water.”

The old warrior shook his head at the memory. “They came down on us so quickly, you see. There was next to no warning, then there they were, like cicadas coming out of the ground. Tens of thousands of them, all of them men. They had good swords and good armor, and they kept their ranks well. I wouldn't call them soldiers, rightly—they fought like they were hoeing rows of beans. But the city militia that stood between them and Valles was no better, and there wasn't time to raise the levy from all over the island.”

The mist was no more than a faint haze when the
Star of Valles
drove into it, though it continued to curtain the shores while the squadron kept to the center of the channel. A few small boats were on the water. Men with clam rakes stood in them, watching the warships pass.

“We were the only real troops in the city, Lord Elphic's regiment,” Waldron said. “Stronghand—though he was just Valence the Second at the time, he'd made a tour of his northern estates and we'd escorted him back to the capital. The People were marching up the right bank of the river, a quarter mile wide at low tide and only half that at high. They couldn't go inland because of the marshes.”

The sun was visible over the hills to the east of the Val's boggy floodplain. The mist had lifted, and the sound of cowbells drifted across the water. The
Star of Valles
cut the brown water at a fast walk, a good speed for her partial crew but not difficult to maintain over the short distance remaining before they docked at Valles.

“Stronghand put the city militia in the People's way just below the Pool,” Waldron said, his voice strong and his face suffused with a harsh pride. Waldron didn't boast, but his whole personality was shaped by the certainty that he and his—the cavalry of Northern Ornifal—were the finest soldiers in the Isles. “North of there the channel's bounded by firm clay soil for leagues to either side. If the People got that far, they'd be able to use their numbers—and there were twenty thousand of them, maybe more.”

“Who led the People?” Tenoctris asked. She'd taken a sliver of bamboo from her satchel, but she didn't seem to intend a spell; she was just holding the little wand between her index fingers while she listened to Waldron's memories. “Were you able to tell?”

“A wizard,” Waldron said. He laughed. “And he was no general, that I can tell you, but he probably didn't think he needed to be with the numbers of men he had. He wasn't even with his army, but the prisoners told us later. He didn't have a name, at least to them: he was just the Master.”

He looked at the right bank. Just to the north, the deep green of marsh grasses gave way to squared fields, varied by the type of crops and pasture. “Right there it was,” he said, pointing with his right hand. The fingers of his left played with the pommel of his sword. “That's where they met the militia.”

He lowered his arm and breathed deeply. “There was a barricade of sorts, carts with their wheels off mostly, but even so city folk couldn't have held them long. And then
we
came, Lord Elphic's regiment and Stronghand with us. We rode through the marshes on their flank. We had shepherds to guide us. The People didn't have time to form a shield wall against us, and after the front of their column stopped they were packed too tight to even use their swords. We mowed them down like barley till our swords were blunt. And then the tide came in.”

Waldron slammed his right palm against the left, cracking like a thunderbolt. “They couldn't stand against us!” he said, his voice rising. “The militia slaughtered them at the barricade, and the tide didn't stop. The triremes rowed up and down the banks and swept them under, those our swords hadn't killed. There's never been such a day as the Battle of the Tides!”

Never for the young Waldron bor-Warriman,
Sharina thought. And few enough such days anywhere, this side of Hell. She'd seen war, but it was still hard to imagine death on the scale of the barley harvest: the mud and water both bloody red and rafts of corpses drifting out to sea on the current. Mouths open, eyes staring, bodies already beginning to bloat with the gases of decay. Tens of thousands of corpses…

“You mentioned talking to prisoners, Lord Waldron,” Tenoctris asked. She didn't seem as distressed at Waldron's account as Sharina was. Perhaps at Tenoctris' age, the awareness that everyone dies was so constant a companion that death even in wholesale lots no longer had the horror Sharina felt. “Is it possible that any remain for me to examine?”

“We captured some,” Waldron said, staring far into the past. “It didn't seem like many, but there must've been thousands by the end. They were willing to talk, but they really didn't know much. From what I was told, at least. I didn't talk to any of them myself.”

The
Star of Valles
had entered the Pool, the basin just south of Valles where the current grew sluggish. There the big freighters unloaded their cargo onto barges for transport the rest of the way to the city. It included naval installations also, and a pair of triremes were exercising in the broad waters. The trumpeter beside Bedrin in the stern blew a signal to the guardships, but the squadron didn't slow.

Waldron turned away from the rail to face the women for the first time since he'd begun to reminisce. “I had seventeen men in my troop when the battle started,” he said in a different tone of voice from the one he'd used during the previous portion of the story. “There were three of us left at the end, and only my standard-bearer was still mounted. He'd have given me his horse, but I couldn't have lifted myself into the saddle. I was so tired. I've never in my life else been so tired. They carried me back to Valles in a wagon, and it was a week before I could raise my sword arm above my shoulder, it'd cramped so badly.”

“And the prisoners?” Tenoctris said. She didn't sound peevish, but she was quietly determined to get an answer.

“They died,” Waldron said. He shrugged and smiled faintly. “Oh, I don't mean we killed them. I don't think anybody who'd been in the fighting had the energy left to do that. But they sort of ran down. They didn't eat, not enough at least, and they even seemed to forget to drink. Mostly they just sat. They'd answer questions, not that they knew much except that their Master had sent them to capture Valles, then go on to conquer the whole island. There'd be more of them coming soon, or so they said; but no more did. And in a few weeks they were all dead. Or so I was told.”

Waldron held out his right arm. He repeatedly made a fist, then relaxed it, as if he were working out the swelling and numbness of a long battle.

“Stronghand's councillors, the ones who survived, summoned the levy,” he said, his mind slipping again into the past. “The king himself didn't leave his bed for three months, and he was never the same man again. Even when he was sober, and that was rare. But the People never returned.”

The horns and trumpets of the whole squadron began to call, waking echoes from the Valles riverfront. A watchman at the naval dock rang his bronze alarm gong in reply.

“Never…,” Lord Waldron whispered.

“At least until now,” said Tenoctris, echoing the words that had formed in Sharina's mind.

 

Garric awakened; Liane had touched his cheek. When she felt him twitch she whispered, “Quietly. Garric, I see light coming through the wall there.” She pointed.

Garric's sword belt hung from the head of the bed on his side. He got up in his bare feet and drew the long sword with only the least hiss of the blade's chine on the bronze plate protecting the mouth of the scabbard.

A three-wick oil lamp hung from a wall bracket, but the only wick lighted when they went to bed had burned to a blue ember. It was dark enough in the bedchamber that Garric should've been able to see light coming from any other source—and he didn't.

The suite he and Liane shared had been used for storage until only hours before the royal contingent arrived at the earl's palace. It'd suffered severe water damage some decades ago, very possibly around the time the previous earl died along with his hopes of kingship at the Stone Wall. The frescoed plaster above the wainscotting had fallen, leaving rough brick walls, and the wood had warped in many places also. The damage hadn't been repaired immediately, so the unused room had attracted unused objects the way silt settles to the bottom of a pond.

“There, do you see it?” Liane said. She'd pulled on her left slipper. She pointed again with the other, then slid it on also; she hadn't been raised a peasant and gone barefoot eight months of the year. “Just a faint line.”

Garric still didn't see anything, but he didn't see any reason to say that. He could trust Liane. He stepped to the lamp and filled it from the ewer of oil in the alcove beneath the bracket, being careful not to submerge the ember of wick yet remaining.

Normally that'd be the job of the servant sleeping in the small room off the bedchamber, but Garric preferred privacy to having somebody perform tasks he could handle perfectly well himself. He'd had plenty of experience in his father's inn, after all.

As the flame brightened, Garric looked around the room. He found what he needed immediately, as he'd expected he would. The palace servants who'd been told to prepare the room for guests wouldn't have had time to do a careful job even if they'd been willing to make the effort.
The skirts of the bed covered a considerable quantity of trash they'd found easier to hide than to bundle up and carry out. One of the objects was a half pike whose shaft had begun to split where the head was riveted onto it.

Garric sheathed his sword, then buckled it around his waist. Liane had donned an outer tunic over the one she'd slept in. “What should I do?” she asked.

“Bring the lamp closer,” Garric said as he fished out the half pike. Though it was an ornate thing intended for show rather than serious use, it'd do for his purposes. He thrust the point into the wainscotting and struck brick immediately.

“More to the right,” Liane directed, unhooking the lamp from the bracket.