The Adjunct nodded thoughtfully, accepting the point. ‘True enough, Sergeant.’
Goss straightened, offering an abbreviated battlefield salute, and Suth turned to see Fist Rillish approaching. ‘Just in time,’ the Adjunct called.
Fist Rillish bowed. ‘Let’s hope Greymane is as prompt.’
The Adjunct was massaging his shoulder. ‘When do you expect him?’
‘Tonight — Burn speed him.’
The Adjunct grunted his acknowledgement. ‘We should be able to hold till then. I leave you to it.’
Fist Rillish bowed again, turned to Sergeant Goss; he pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he studied the man. ‘Your captain is on the east shore, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Goss took Suth’s arm. ‘On our way.’
*
Within the pressing mass of Roolian soldiers Ussu tapped the shoulder of his Moranth escort. He had seen enough. It was now plain to him that this second wave of invasion brought more than mere soldiers. Other powers, it seemed, deemed the timing right to challenge the Lady’s long dominance. Head down, he walked back up the slope, hands clasped behind his back. If it was equally evident to her by now… then he may be able to strike a bargain, of a kind.
Head down, lost in thought, he failed to note the row raging around Borun’s command position. If he had seen it he would have turned right round; as it was, he walked right into it. ‘You! Mage,’ someone demanded. ‘Talk some sense into your companion.’ Ussu looked up, blinking: a crowd of the Envoy’s officer and aristocratic entourage surrounded Borun. The Duke had spoken. Kherran, that was his name.
‘Yes, my Duke?’ Ussu asked mildly.
‘Remind him of his duty!’
Ussu turned to Borun. ‘Well, Commander? Whatever is the matter?’
‘It is now Envoy Enesh’s wish that the bridge be blown.’
Ussu raised an eyebrow. Rather late for that. ‘I see. And?’
A shrug. ‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’
‘I see.’ Ussu turned to Duke Kherran. ‘You heard the man. You had your chance. Now it can’t be done.’
The Duke advanced upon him, his round face darkening with rage. For a moment Ussu thought he would strike. Through clenched teeth he snarled, ‘We note you had sufficient munitions to mine the bridge earlier!’
‘That was earlier,’ Borun said, his voice flat. ‘Now, more importantly, what we do not possess is the bridge itself.’
The Duke was almost beyond words in his frustration. He pointed to the structure. ‘Well… do it here! This end!’
Borun waved the suggestion aside. ‘Inconsequential. The damage would be no more than that incurred on the far side. It could be repaired in a day. No, our only hope would be to seize the nearest shoreward pier and demolish it.’
‘Well? Do it!’
‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’
The man went for his weapon. He froze in the act, his chest heaving, gulping down air. ‘You two… You are deliberately frustrating our efforts! You wish us to fail! Overlord Yeull will deal with you!’ He gestured to the entourage. ‘Come!’
‘I strongly urge that all boats be pressed into a general withdrawal from the east shore,’ Borun called after the Duke.
‘Let it be on your head!’
The Moranth commander watched them march off. ‘We will be blamed no matter what,’ he mused aloud.
‘Yes. But not to worry.’
The matt-dark helm turned to him. Ussu could almost imagine the arched brow. ‘No?’
‘No. I have a feeling that we may count on the intervention of a higher authority.’
The helm cocked sideways in thought. ‘Indeed.’
Ussu entered the opened front of his tent. He searched among his herbs, touched a hand to his teapot: cold. ‘Hot water!’ he shouted. At the fire a servant youth leapt up to do his bidding. ‘So much for the imponderables, Borun. What of the practicalities? Do we withdraw?’ And Ussu glanced out of the tent. The Moranth commander was facing the river, armoured hands brushing his belt at his hips.
‘No.’
Ussu was quite surprised. ‘Really? We relinquish one bank just to keep the other?’
The commander entered the tent. He picked up a twist of dried leaves and brought them to his visor, took an experimental sniff. ‘Haste, High Mage. Speed. This quick dash to take the bridge. The forced march across Skolati. All these speak of a strategy for a swift victory. Yes?’
From a meal set out for him Ussu tore a pinch of cold smoked meat. ‘Granted.’ The dirt, he noted, had been raked clean. Poor Yurgen, Temeth and Seel. Able apprentices, but all without even the slightest talent. What would he do for assistants now? He sighed. Ham-handed soldiers no doubt.
Borun crossed his arms, leaned against the central table. ‘Then it is my duty to frustrate this strategy, no? I must impede, slow, delay. Disputing the crossing will effect that.’ He began pacing. ‘Oh, he may cross downstream, or upstream, but that would add weeks to his march. Not to his liking, I think.’
‘Very well. So we remain.’
‘Yes. And thus the question, High Mage… What can you contribute?’
Ussu popped the meat into his mouth, both brows rising. Ah. Good question. He cleared his throat. ‘I will need new assistants.’
Bakune sat hunched forward on his elbows over his small table next to the kitchen entrance at the back of a crowded tavern. He was dressed in old tattered clothes, his dirty hair hung forward over his face and he kept one hand tight round the shot glass of clear Styggian grain alcohol. He studied that hand, the blackened broken nails. When was the last time he had been so dirty? If ever at all? Perhaps once, as a child, running pell-mell through these very waterfront streets.
That night of the escape the Theftian priest might have had a boat waiting but neither he nor Bakune had anticipated the harbour’s being closed. No vessels allowed in or out. The gates of the city had been sealed as well. They might have escaped their cells, but they effectively remained imprisoned within Banith. Bakune was under no illusions; he was certainly not important enough to warrant these precautions, nor did he think the priest so. No, the posted notices revealed that these prohibitions against travel had been levelled more than ten days ago.
The giant Manask, about whom Bakune had his doubts — after all, the man’s features betrayed none of the telltale markers of Elder blood, such as pronounced jaw, jutting brow, or deep-set eyes — had then bent down for a whispered conference with the priest. It was yet some time to dawn and the three occupied a narrow trash-choked alley close to the waterfront. While Bakune kept watch, the whispering behind him escalated into a full-blown shouting match with the two almost coming to blows. Only his intervention brought silence. The priest glowered, face flushed, while the cheerfulness the giant usually displayed was now clouded, almost occluded.
Manask had turned to him, set a hand on his shoulder, and winked broadly. ‘You will wait here a time, then Ip- the priest will lead you to our agreed hiding hole. I myself must travel ahead by stealth and secrecy to make arrangements for our disappearance. Do not fear! These clod-footed Guardians will not track us down. For am I not the most amazing thief in all these lands? Come now, admit it, have you never seen anything like me?’
‘No, Manask. I admit that I have never seen anything like you.’
The giant cuffed the priest. ‘There. You see?’ The priest just rolled his eyes. ‘And now… I must away into the gloom…’ and the giant backed down the alley, hunched low. ‘Disappear like smoke… like the very mist…’ He waved his hands before his face as if he were a conjuror, hopped round a corner. ‘There! And I am gone! Ha!’
‘Like a fart in the wind,’ the priest growled.
Bakune never did find out just what the giant’s ‘arrangements’ constituted. The priest had merely slid down one dirty wall and sat for a time, arms hung over his knees. Then, after a while, he had stood, sighing, and motioned for the Assessor to follow. They walked the back alleys. It struck Bakune that the city was astonishingly quiet, the streets empty; there must be a curfew in place. Eventually the priest stopped at one slop-stained door.
