He was right. Piro's heart sank. 'But my brothers — '
'The world does not revolve around the troubles of House Rolen,' Tyro snapped, then seemed to regret his temper. 'First thing tomorrow, Tsulamyth will try to convince Elector Cera of the importance of this particular squabble.'
Byren had force-marched his men over the secret pass and across the foothills, through slopes of winter-bare grape vines, to what had been Cedar tradepost. Now it was a well-built fort. He'd kept his followers out of sight and he was glad he had. Originally, he'd intended to wait until he heard Orrade's attack on the far side, before launching his own, but he'd had an idea. Why use force when trickery would do? He took Corvel and Feid aside to explain his plan.
Both warlords heard him out, then tried to find flaws.
'So you'd approach the fort late in the day as a trader returning home to the spar with a wagon of goods to sell?' Feid rubbed his jaw. 'That'll get you inside overnight until they open the gate on Foenix Spar-side but, if your identity was discovered, you'd — '
'No one will recognise me.' Byren didn't mention that he knew the tradepost's keeper, and he expected the man not to reveal him. Besides, he trusted to his mother's training. Piro was not the only one who had enjoyed acting out the myths. All he needed was padding to make him look fat, ash to age his hair, and he could hunch over to make himself seem shorter. The Merofynians were looking for a young, tall kingson. 'I'll need three or four likely lads to come with me.'
'Take my sons,' Corvel offered. 'They're spar-born. They can pass for a trader's sell-swords.'
Byren had been meaning to take his honour guard, but Corvel was right. Winterfall and the others were not spar-born, and might unwittingly betray him.
So, just on dusk, Byren dressed in a trader's serviceable cloak and joined three of Corvel's four sons. The youngest drove a wagon borrowed from the sympathetic vintner. Its wheels moved slowly under the weight of a dozen barrels of fine Rolencian red as they headed for the main road over the pass.
With the player's assistance Byren had disguised himself, rubbing ash into his face and beard to turn them grey, and affected a limp. Old Man Narrows had loaned his own staff to complete the transformation. Seela was right, warriors in the prime of life tended to dismiss the old and the lame.
Cedar tradepost came into view, the top floor of the third storey visible over the palisade. Last time he was here, he'd been defending the scholar and his family. He wondered briefly what had happened to them and little Rodien. He could only hope they were safe somewhere.
Then the tradepost had nestled in the valley, near the narrow defile that led to the only path over the Divide. Now, hastily built but sturdy wooden fortifications had been extended so that a palisade surrounded the tradepost, blocking the defile's entrance. Everyone had to pass through the fort.
Defended by one gate tower, the gate facing Rolencia was sturdy, and already closed. Byren led the horses, leaning heavily on a staff. When he rapped on the wood, the gate-keeper opened the slit and accepted Byren's story without reservations.
'Your goods must be worth protecting to hire three sell-swords,' the gate-keeper said. 'What do you carry?'
'Rolencian red for the warlord's own cellar.'
The gate-keeper closed the slit, slid the bolts out and swung the gate to let Byren and the cart in. Corvel's youngest son flicked the reins to get the horses moving, and the other two walked alongside the wagon.
They'd entered the courtyard and the gate was closed behind them, when the gate-keeper announced, 'There's a new tax for crossing the Divide, one-fifth of your wares.'
'One-fifth!' Byren spluttered as he knew a trader would. 'That's daylight robbery.'
The gate-keeper smirked. 'If you want to sell your wine to the warlord, that's what you'll be paying.'
Grumbling energetically, Byren ordered Corvel's sons to unload the right number of barrels.
As they were being rolled away, the gate-keeper turned back. 'There's also the charge for housing and feeding your horses, and yourselves.' He named an exorbitant price.
Byren threw up his hands. 'You'll ruin me.' But he paid, after some haggling.
In the tradepost proper, he found several other travellers, none of whom were happy with the new charges. But they kept their voices low. From the gossip, he learnt how the keeper of the tradepost had objected when the Merofynians first arrived. Now he and his family worked as servants in the kitchen.
Byren bristled on the keeper's behalf. The sooner he reclaimed Rolencia, the sooner he could right the wrongs done in King Merofyn's name.
When the keeper's son served their meal, the lad's gaze fixed on Byren, then glided deliberately past him. In a few moments, the keeper himself came out to supervise. The fort's forty or so Merofynian solders crowded the tables, claiming the best of the food.
The keeper put a tray of pastries on Byren's table, pausing just behind him.
'Is there anything else I can do?' he asked softly.
Byren's reply was equally soft. 'Be free with your measures of ale and wine tonight.'
The keeper nodded and retreated to the kitchen.
Byren forced himself to eat. If this failed, not only would he pay with his life but the keeper and his family would also die. He hoped Orrade attacked at dawn, as planned.
Fyn lay on a rock beside Orrade to study the fort in the fading light. Spar locals had known exactly where the fort's lookouts were posted and had eliminated them, preventing word of their approach from reaching the fort.
But all their precautions were pointless, for the fort was ideally situated. Built at the end of a narrow defile, just before the pass path opened out into the Rolencian foothills, there was only one approach and it was heavily guarded.
'This will be a slaughter,' Fyn muttered.
'It only needs to be a diversion for Byren,' Orrade said. But Fyn could hear the anger and regret in his voice. They were going to lose good men in a hopeless assault.
They climbed down, returning to where Aseel, Catillum and Bearclaw from Unistag Spar waited. Bantam and Jakulos were within hearing distance. They were never far from him.
For some reason Florin was present. Fyn had noticed she slept next to Orrade, in his fire circle, and assumed she was his lover, for all that they were being circumspect.
When Orrade explained the situation, the older warriors exchanged looks.
'We knew it wasn't going to be easy,' Catillum said. Fyn noted that he did not offer to cast an illusion to get them inside the gate.
'Let me lead the assault, with my honour guard,' young Aseel offered, eager to wipe out the shame of his cousin Rejulas's betrayal.
Fyn noticed Orrade flinch. He didn't want to send the untried youth to almost certain death, but to refuse Aseel would dishonour him. Fyn stiffened. It wasn't right, asking men to die for his brother while he sat back and watched.
'I'll lead the attack,' he heard himself say.
'You can't,' Orrade objected. 'Byren would kill me if anything happened to you. You're his heir now. I'll lead. We attack just before dawn.'
Towards dawn, Byren woke his three companions and they slipped out of the tap-room.
'Wait here.' He left them in the dark entrance, to stumble his way across the courtyard to the privies.
The fort was silent, no hint of trouble. And, lucky for Orrade, it was a cloudy night. Byren could barely see his hand in front of his face.
Across the courtyard, by the spar gate, the night watch congregated around a burning brazier. After relieving himself, Byren limped back to join the others.
'Six men guard the gate winch, none too alert. Take them down silently if you can. I'll distract them.'
They nodded their agreement and kept to the building's edge so they presented no silhouette.
Byren made the trek across the courtyard a second time.
'Here, you?' One of the night watch proved more alert than the others and strode over. 'Weren't you just out here?'
Byren shrugged, remaining bent over as he leant on the staff. 'I've the old man's curse, a leaky tap.'
