‘That’s the way the great game is played.’
Oliver looked out across the battlefield. It was twilight now. Had they really been fighting all day? He was exhausted; his body still aching with the power of the earth that had flowed through his fey bones. ‘My family paid the price. Our allies, our people, the people in Middlesteel. They all paid the price.’
‘Dear Circle, lad. We would have stopped this if we could,’ spat Harry. ‘That’s what we do. We didn’t know about Shadowclock or the Special Guard or Tzlayloc’s plans for a return to the old ways. When I volunteered to be the bait I just thought this was going to be 1581 all over again — a bunch of Carlist extremists with Commonshare gold jingling in their pockets who wanted Hoggstone’s head on the end of a pike. We watch, Oliver. But we are not omnipotent, we are not gods.’
Oliver stared at the remaining Wildcaotyl fleeing from the radiance of the Hexmachina and nodded. ‘No, Harry, you are right. No gods for Jackals. Never again.’
‘Your uncle knew the risks, Oliver. I’m sorry about Titus, I really am. But you know the man he was. He would have given his life twenty times over to save Jackals.’
The sound of sackpipes floated across the fields of Rivermarsh and Oliver heard a sixer whinny. It was Mad Jack, in the shadow of the steamman war frame. ‘Good hunting, young fellow?’
‘Yes, major. Where’s Guardian McConnell?’
‘There’s a bit of her over there, and a bit more over that way. Damn bloody shiftie cannon took her head off. Met that gypsy filly by the way, mad as hell at you. Wants her horse back.’
Oliver looked around. ‘I believe it ran off.’
‘Ah well, she’s a witch — she’ll call it back to her.’ Mad Jack stared up at Harry and the incremental soldiers. ‘You bally navy types took your time. Marine regiment?’
Harry tapped the gold lion on his leather tunic. ‘Political.’
Mad Jack tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ah yes, enough said.’
‘I would say the Commonshare are losing, major,’ said Oliver.
Mad Jack turned his sixer towards the fleeing Third Brigade troopers. ‘Of course. We’re Jackelians, and this is our land, eh? Best be back at it, there’s plenty of trees between here and Quatershift and a lot of rope for stringing them up.’
‘Good hunting, major.’
Harry watched the cavalryman kick his horse after the retreating Third Brigade companies. ‘We need to talk, Oliver.’
Oliver nodded. ‘Somehow I thought we might.’
The Court of the Air had weapon-smiths. Mother Loade had been right.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Commodore Black stepped out in front of the two figures fleeing the battlefield, one of them so weak he was staggering — practically being carried by the other. ‘Ah now, Jamie, it seems like you are in the same pickle as I.’
Jamie Wildrake looked up. ‘Well, well, the Duke of Ferniethian.’
The submariner pointed to the semi-conscious body the agent was hauling behind him. ‘Thinking of becoming a royalist, now your wolftaker friends are after you?’
Wildrake dropped Prince Alpheus’s body in the snow. ‘The House of Guardians will pay to get him back. I’ll share the reward with you.’
‘What’s a king worth, Jamie? As much as the reward that was on my head, for the sea boots of poor old Samson Dark? As much as the blood money they paid you for the fleet in exile? A king must be a rare old thing these days — how many of the royal breeding house did your compatriots push into a Gideon’s Collar?’
Wildrake put his hand on his sabre’s hilt. ‘One too few, it seems. Let’s just say noble pedigrees will be at a premium once the Guardians discover how many royals were processed inside the collars. Now get out of my way, fat man.’
The commodore pulled his sabre out. ‘You’re right to be blessed worried, Jamie. There are worldsingers lying comatose all over Rivermarsh with faces like they’re sucking on a berry with no juice. You’re duelling on barren ground, Jamie, but even without your witch fighting tricks you’ve still got those fine muscles of yours. Why don’t you show me what they’re worth?’
Wildrake thrust out with no warning, his steel springing off the commodore’s sword.
‘Not bad for a fat man, eh?’ said the commodore. ‘The royal fleet wasn’t fussy, we couldn’t afford to be, could we? Our boats took crew from all over. You remember, don’t you?’
Wildrake stamped down and feinted, following through with a slashing cut, but the commodore turned it with hardly a movement. It was the kind of spare duelling style that would serve a fighter well in the confined corridors of a submarine vessel.
‘Concorzia, the Catosian League, the Holy Kikkosico Empire of — all those different fighting styles, you pick up a little bit here, a little bit there.’
Wildrake moved his sword from side to side, trying to batter his way through the commodore’s guard with his superior strength.
‘I would say the Court’s duelling masters were heavily influenced by the east.’
Wildrake switched the sabre to his left hand and darted in, the ring of steel unheard except by the prone form of Prince Alpheus.
‘One cut, one kill,’ said the commodore. ‘Fast, deadly, versatile. Everything they admire out Thar way. You’re good, Jamie.’
‘Shut up!’ shouted Wildrake. ‘Stop talking and fight me!’
‘Be careful of what you wish for, lad.’ The commodore’s sword nipped out and Wildrake caught and turned it, but not before Black nicked the corner of the wolftaker’s shirtsleeve, a line of red blood traced across the white silk.
‘You should have kept your jacket for protection, Jamie,’ said Black. ‘But I can see why you chose to throw it away. Commonshare uniforms have never been popular in Jackals and it’s the poor that are going to be wearing them in Middlesteel now, after the looters have stripped the corpses of all your friends — and the uniforms have been dyed a decent Jackelian green and brown by the ladies down Handsome Lane.’
Wildrake thrust forward, feinting, changing sword hand from left to right then slicing out at the commodore’s arm, drawing blood in a mirror of the submariner’s strike.
‘A duke’s blood looks the same as mine,’ spat Wildrake, circling the commodore slowly.
‘So they trained you to fight as a secret lefty,’ coughed the commodore, giving ground by a couple of steps. ‘They’re a sharp crew, alright, your clever friends above the clouds. Still dreaming Kirkhill’s visions after all these years.’
Wildrake snarled, flipping the sabre between his hands. ‘Sharp enough to take you, Samson Dark.’
Wildrake stamped forward, sending a flurry of muddy snow spraying over the commodore’s trousers, the clatter of steel floating hollow in the silence of the twilight battlefield. Black curved his opponent’s blade away twice, diverting the agent’s thrusts with small turns. There was a dull ache in the commodore’s arm, the pain of having to hold the weight of the sabre telling now. Wildrake’s unnatural shine-stimulated muscles gave him the edge in a contest of endurance. The popinjay probably spent hours in front of a mirror holding a sword out straight, relishing the pain of the weight. Admiring himself.
‘Just how much would parliament pay for Prince Alpheus’s return?’ wheezed the commodore, swaying his sword defensively.
Wildrake grinned. ‘Trying to buy time to recover, fat man? You should have spent less time feeding your face in the pantry and more time down the muscle pits.’
‘I should have, Jamie. I should have. But maybe the old pirate in me wonders how much I could get for the boy’s head.’
Wildrake tried to cut under the commodore’s guard. Black barely managed to parry the attack. It was like being battered by a windmill. Relentless vigour without end. Only his defensive fighting style was keeping him
