Woes and Hose Page 16

  Ettore rubbed his forehead. “It will be a disaster, Taddeo.”

  “They need not ever touch Sacony soil, Your Grace. Send them directly to Ostfort.”

  “Under whose banner? Do you think King Ulaf will appreciate Gepenia suddenly meddling in his affairs?”

  “I could go, Your Grace. I could—would—lead the armies.”

  Ettore felt a moment of panic. He suddenly didn’t want Taddeo to leave his side. He felt vulnerable, exposed, even though he knew the captain hadn’t excelled in his duty last year. But stuck deep in the mire as he was, and slowly drowning, it was his only escape.

  He sobered up. “What do you think Admiral Zanobi will say to this?”

  Taddeo looked resolute. “The admiral will have no choice. He can always spare a carrack or two, to see our contingent ferried safely north. After that, I will await the landing of the Gepeni troops, and then lead them to Ostfort. We will relieve the siege and rescue your daughter.”

  Ettore stood silent, thinking. It was a terrible idea. But he couldn’t think of anything else that would help him save his face, save his head—and save Amadea.

  “The Saint give you strength and luck, Taddeo,” he said, decided.

  The captain would need every ounce, Ettore knew.

  CHAPTER 23

  Take the Crown

  “Why do people fear the night? Because it is the reflection of our souls.”

  —NOCEMUS, DISCIPLE TO THE FAMOUS PHILOSOPHER GARNA, BEFORE THE FALL OF THE VALEDIAN EMPIRE (EST. 300 YEARS TO THE END)

  24th Day of the Month of the Linden

  Dietrich stood with one leg propped against a dented helmet. There was a severed head inside the helmet, sunk in the bloody mud of the battlefield. Smoke was eddying from the barrels of his two pistols, and he felt an urge to reload them, but all his gunpowder was wet, drenched in gore.

  Besides, there was no need.

  He had won.

  Coming over the hill crest to the west, limned in dark orange sunlight, was the army of Drechknights, led by none other than his father. All of them mounted, all of them grubby with road dust and old combat scars, and yet, they held the ranks with precision, riding in unison, named swords unsheathed and laid on the pommels.

  They had arrived to relieve Ostfort, but it was no longer necessary. Dick had won the war. The named sword blades would stay dry.

  Patiently, Dick waited for Father to come close. As he neared the carnage, King Ulaf removed his black helmet and handed it to a knight on the left. Voytech had taken his off, too, and was grinning that lopsided grin of his.

  Dick could see the scrutiny in his father’s eyes. Cold, menacing, calculating. The line of his lips, stern, tightly pursed. Dick held his breath, waiting. He knew Old Fart would have lots of questions. Behind Dick, most wisely, his own troops had retreated to a safe distance, the cackle and dizzy glory of their triumph muted for the moment. Dick would have to face the king on his own.

  I am not afraid, he told himself. Was that a lie?

  “The battle is over,” King Ulaf said suddenly. Not even the cries of ten thousand crows nor the moan of ten thousand wounded lying in cold puddles could muffle his voice.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And you won?”

  Was that a challenge? Dick swallowed. “Yes, Father. I won. I defeated the Barvans. To the last.”

  King Ulaf nodded slowly. “Tell me how you did it.”

  “A two-pronged attack, then a feint. I let their rear retreat, then punched into their flank, severing the enemy force into two halves. Our auxiliaries began chasing the stragglers, under the cover of arquebus fire from the forest—there—so they couldn’t regroup, while the knights slowly encircled the main body and carefully cut them down. The enemy fought bravely, but they stood no chance. We pummeled them with cannon from the walls, and they had nowhere to flee. In the end, it was a massacre.”

  “Dick…”

  “Yes, Father?”

  King Ulaf smiled, making Dick skip a heartbeat. “I am proud of you.”

  “You are?”

  “You’ve done well.”

  “I have?”

  “This is a great achievement.”

  “It is?”

  “A supreme victory for Monrich. And a personal feat for you. Today, you have proved yourself worthy of the Drechtoter line. Over the years, I’ve had my doubts, but I never lost hope. I knew you would rise mighty one day. In fact…”

  Dietrich swallowed. What now?

  “…I think you are ready.”

  “For what, Father?”

  King Ulaf was beaming. “To become the king, that’s what, Son.”

  Did he just call me son? Dick wanted to weep. “Is this a cruel jape, Father?”

  The king turned toward the Right Man. “Voytech, hand him the crown.”

  This isn’t happening. Any moment now, Father will remember how I stole Eva from under his nose, or he will be angry that I still haven’t sired a child with Amadea, or he will find any other trivial reason or excuse to slight me and despise me. He is just toying with me. He’s a cruel, manipulating bastard.

  But there was only pure honesty on Father’s chiseled, hard face.

  Voytech grunted. “Who would have thought. Prince Lard has become a man.”

  Dick hesitated.

  “It is my turn to apologize, Dietrich,” Voytech continued. “That will be my last insult. From now on, you are my king, and I will serve you to the grave.”

  Whose grave, Dick wondered.

  “I really am surprised. But I am also mightily impressed. You have become a true leader.”

  “Your words warm my heart,” Dick said carefully.

  Voytech reached into a saddle bag behind him. “My Prince. Come here and take the crown yourself, and become the king.”

  “What about you Father?” Dick whispered in a frightened tone.

  King Ulaf suddenly looked old and weary. “I’m done with the wars and killing. I can now rest peacefully knowing my kingdom is in capable hands. All I’ve done these years was to prepare you for the day you are to take the helm of our realm. Now, I can finally let go. You will be the king, Son, and I will enjoy the warmth of the summer sun in Eisenstar and watch you raise my grandchildren.”

  I must be dreaming, Dick thought, but he walked over.

  Voytech was holding the saddle bag flap open. “Take the crown.”

  Dick realized all his anger and hatred were gone. He no longer wanted Father dead. He almost felt disappointed. He had lusted to be the king so badly, and now that he was to become one, he felt cheated, robbed of all that anticipation, rancor and drama. It should have been spectacular. It should have been bloody. He had wanted to have a hateful speech for his dying father, to gloat and spit on the dead body of his sire, to have Voytech killed in front of the whole court. Now, this submission was terrifying. Disheartening.

  Boring.

  Dick reached into the saddle bag. He frowned.

  Voytech nodded. “Take it.”

  Dick tried to lift the crown, but it was too heavy. Dick glanced inside. It was the silver-and-ruby crown all right, but it was lodged hard onto the brow of a severed head, covered in old, crusted, black blood. He couldn’t prize it free.

  Why the head? It didn’t matter. He lifted the whole head, and the flour-colored face of his dead cousin Ruddy stared at him. There was a gaping hole just above the eyes, with the glistening ball from Dick’s pistol still buried in the bone.

  What is this, Father?

  Ruddy suddenly winked at him.

  Dick screamed…

  …and woke up, bolting up into a sitting position with the grace of a catapult. He saw Crispin standing at the foot of the bed, holding a pink-colored tunic. Dick yelped. Mutt, busy wagging its tail behind Crispin, barked.

  “Master?”

  Dick tried to regain his breath. He was shuddering and sweating. It was a dream after all, thank the Saint. Must be all the wine I had drunk three days ago. An austere celebration
of the summer, but with enough vintage to compensate for any lack of opulence. “What…what are you doing?”

  “I am laying down clothes for you, Master. The Warden’s Circle convenes today, and I wanted you to be presentable. Pink is a good color. Very virile.”

  Dick took another moment to calm down. Finally, hunger and the terror of his sleep prevailed, and he slid out of the bed, shaky, disturbed, feeling violated. Old Fart had intruded his dreams again. “What am I doing today?”

  “You were to have a breakfast with your lady wife, but she has gone to pray, I’m afraid.”

  Amadea had been doing a little too much praying lately, he thought. Not that he minded. It gave him a great excuse not to be seen with her this morning.

  Now that Ostfort was under siege, it was highly important for him to be seen with his wife as much as possible, Lady Enduria had insisted. People strongly believed in royal unity and happiness, and so he had to prove it at every opportunity. A warden who could not keep his own household intact could hardly keep a besieged city safe, now could he?

  “After that?”

  “As usual, the circle will want to know your war plans.”

  But I don’t have any, Dick thought with annoyance. He was a warden, not a conjurer. He couldn’t just make the tens of thousands of filthy invaders disappear.

  Not that their presence was truly felt inside the city. For the past three eightdays, the Barvans and Nurflanders had done very little actual warring. They hadn’t even torched the nearby villages and fields, but rather just scattered the small folk and then taken over the houses and the crops. They were tilling the lynchets and strips themselves. It was obvious they intended to stay for a long time. There was no rush.

  They have a whole year to practice wearing down our walls before the snows come again, so they might as well do it on well-fed bellies. They will end up selling us our own cabbage.

  If Ostfort had endless food supplies, Dick wouldn’t have minded their presence. That—and the need to prove himself before Father sauntered east out of Eisenstar and came to save him. He could not afford that. He had to show Old Fart he was worthy of his title.

  He recalled the nightmare and shivered again.

  “Get me some food, Crispin.”

  Later, he sat down with the men he was supposed to trust on all matters military and administrative. For an instant, he almost sympathized with his father. If the King’s Circle was anything like his own, then it was a sorry, wasteful affair. But Dick knew these men cared for the pretense, and he indulged them.

  They certainly were not indulging him.

  “That will not be possible, Your Royal Highness,” Ritter Heimo said.

  “Silly me, I thought you commanded the local garrison?”

  The ritter reddened. “Your Royal Highness, the situation is quite delicate. The battalions are still not at their full strength. If we move them out, we risk disease and defeat. The Barvans may choose to strike farther south, and Loblank might also end up becoming besieged.”

  “And the Loblank garrison?”

  “Deployed in Salabia, Your Royal Highness.”

  Dick fumed. It was all the herzog’s fault. Sigismund was never going to forget his humiliation, and now he was going to sacrifice Ostfort just to see Dick ruined. He had sent his own men into the nearby palatine, under the pretense of having to keep peace in Salabia. Dick didn’t believe Baan Bolek would so easily give up on all his three sons, nor have the courage to rebel, not ever again. Still, you couldn’t really know with wormy little men. Their pride might mean more to them than anything else in the world.

  He sniffed. “If the baan so much as thinks of ignoring my request, I will have Zbigniew’s head encased in the finest Salabian glassware and sent to him on a swift horse.” Dick ignored the pale look on the boy’s face at the far end of the table. “Zbigniew, you will write your father and demand he sends all his forces to our aid. The same goes for your baan, Count Svetibor.” The siege had its blessings and curses. The same fate that had kept Eva at his side also detained the two nobles in Ostfort. Dick had hoped to have been rid of them by now, but he would have to endure them a while longer. But then, it might prompt the baans to act in his aid much sooner than they would otherwise.

  Reeve Gotelieb cleared his throat. “I would not recommend that, My Prince.”

  Dick bristled. Same old argument, only they had never talked about it before in front of the Salabian and the Korav. Dick decided he wouldn’t allow insubordination any longer. “Why not? Royal subjects should help their masters, shouldn’t they?”

  The reeve hesitated, cast a quick glance at the two hostages, then looked away. “We shall discuss this another time, My Prince.”

  “Any news from Eisenstar?” Dick expected the Drechknight garrisons to pour into Ostfort and obliterate the foe. Except that hadn’t happened yet. Dick wasn’t sure what worried him more—Father coming to his rescue too soon or not coming at all. But he had to come, didn’t he? He wouldn’t abandon his heir, or let sheep-fucking savages humiliate him, wouldn’t he? Would he?

  Of course, for obvious, infuriating reasons, Old Fart wouldn’t share his plans.

  “Not yet, My Prince.”

  One of the clerks tapped on the table. “Your Royal Highness, there’s a Hyevan mercenary captain by the name of Afanasy offering his services. His brigade is camped outside the city, and he asks for two hundred thousand silver to switch sides and stab the Nurflanders in the back.”

  “What a charming character,” Reeve Heimo growled.

  “That’s a sizable sum,” Dick said. “Do reply. Keep him interested, but promise nothing.”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness.” The clerk started writing.

  “And our supplies?”

  Lady Enduria didn’t need to look down at her notes. “With the Drechknights in the city, we have enough to last us till the Day of Martyrs.” She cast an accusatory glance at the reeve, as if it was all his fault.

  How poetic, Dick thought sourly. But he was glad he had the knights with him. If anything might make Father and Voytech care, it might be the threat of the destruction of their corps in Ostland.

  The rest of them kept on droning for a while, touching every aspect of city life and military strategy they could think of, and soon enough, Dick drifted away, thinking of Eva. She was waiting for him. Well, not really waiting, more sort of had no choice but to see him when he came to visit—but she did have a choice of not speaking to him—and she did speak.

  Dick just wanted the meeting to be over so he could go and see her.

  He realized Lady Enduria was looking at him with those sharp, hawklike eyes. He felt an urge to scratch his groin.

  It is my opportunity to shine, Dick thought. Only, just like in Enissia, he still didn’t know how he would solve the situation. But he believed his luck, cunning, and maybe a pity gesture from the Saint might give him just enough to survive this ordeal.

  I never ask for anything, and yet misfortune haunts me.

  Soon—if not soon enough—it was over. Everyone had run out of smart words to say or share. The Barvans and the Nurflanders still encircled the city, and their numbers even made the fearless reeve keep docile and silent.

  Dick sighed, as though just finished with an arduous sword practice. “Dismissed.”

  Life was too short to waste on boring meetings. He rose, hardly waited for their flurry of salutations, and went into the city to see Eva. Maybe she would hate him a little less this time.

  CHAPTER 24

  A Pair of Scissors

  “The best place to hide oneself? In plain sight.”

  —GARNA, FAMOUS PHILOSOPHER, BEFORE THE FALL OF THE VALEDIAN EMPIRE (EST. 340 YEARS TO THE END)

  24th Day of the Month of the Linden

  Eva was bored. Again.

  She was a prisoner. Again. And there was a war brewing. All of her plights had one theme in common.

  Prince Dietrich II.

  Bastard.

  She hated being
locked up inside the house, even though her captor did his best to accommodate her needs. A maid came every morning and replaced the silk sheets on her bed. She had fresh food and expensive wines, board games, books, needlework. Dick was even willing to let her have pet birds, but she wasn’t keen on having a cage brought into her own cage.

  It was a moderately luxurious imprisonment, but imprisonment nonetheless.

  There was always a guard outside the door, and two more in the gardens, and she thought she had seen someone sitting on a rooftop of the building on the opposite side of the street, with a crossbow resting in their lap, eating an apple. A constant reminder that she wasn’t free to do what she wanted.

  Eva almost believed Dick when he said this was for her protection.

  But there was no mistaking the aura of war enveloping the city. Patrols walking through the streets, day and night, the yelling and cursing of engineers setting up cannon, the hushed voices of worried women, telling the horrors of the last siege.

  The house she lived in had a balcony, and Eva would sometimes spend a few moments sitting there, knees covered in a quilt, enjoying the fresh air and the sun. She wondered what would happen if she tried to escape. If she leapt off the balcony, would she break her ankle on the rough cobbles below, and would she be robbed of her little perks if she were caught? The people passing in the street rarely glanced up. They were too busy minding their own fears and worries.

  Eva knew no one could recognize her. Few, if any, would believe her if she told them her identity. If she did so, Dick said she would probably end up getting trussed, tossed into a smelly bag, and carried off to a different prison, and then ransomed, sold, or maybe killed…

  She did not want to contemplate that avenue.

  No. Dick might be a vile man, but he had not hurt her.

  So, she sat at the balcony obediently, quietly, trying to pretend she was in a safe, cozy place. She tried to enjoy the food and the drinks and the books. And she waited for Dick’s company. As much as she hated admitting it to herself, she was somewhat impressed by his language and wit. Maybe she was just lonely. But he listened to her, he tried to comfort her—he made an effort to lessen her predicament. It was almost as if he cared.