The soldier did as he was told.
“Good,” Croy said. “Now. There’s soup in that pot. If you’re hungry.”
Six of them fell on the soup, making cups of their hands in the absence of proper bowls. Only Gavin seemed able to resist. Perhaps because he’d seen something so astonishing he’d forgotten his appetite.
“Sir Croy,” he said, after a moment. “Is that-”
“Aye,” Croy said, moving to stand over the sleeping form of Ulfram V. “This is your sovereign. You see now why I am so careful about what guests I entertain.”
Two of the men at the pot broke away to kneel and make the sign of the Lady on their breasts, the proper form of reverence for men of their station. The rest were too hungry-or not devout enough-to stop their feasting.
“He’s wounded,” Gavin said, his eyes wide.
“He sleeps. I cannot rouse him. Were any of you apothecaries or herbalists, before you became soldiers?”
The men stared up at him in incomprehension. No, of course they hadn’t been healers. Croy knew his luck wasn’t running in that direction these days. They had probably been farmers, like ninety-nine men out of a hundred in Ulfram’s army. Like ninety-nine of every hundred men in Skrae. Farmers conscripted, given a day or two of training, and then armed and put to service before they knew what was happening.
Croy turned away from them. “Eat, Gavin,” he commanded. “What was the last food you had?”
“A bit of bread three days ago,” the soldier told him. “Thank you, milord.”
Croy nodded. While Gavin went to the soup pot, Croy sat down by Ulfram’s head. He placed the point of Ghostcutter against the earthen floor and leaned on it, his forehead resting on the pommel. “What news have you of the war?”
One of the men-not Gavin-answered. “War’s lost,” he said, shaking his head. “The barbarian has all this land for himself, and none dare oppose him.”
“I saw them sending riders toward Redweir. Scouts before an invading force,” Croy said. “They don’t think it’s over yet.”
The soldier threw up his hands. “I never been to Redweir. Don’t know nobody down there. Why should I care what happens to them?”
Croy closed his eyes for a moment. If he could trust these men, if they could stand watch while he slept-but no. Not yet.
“Has any man seen Sir Hew, or Sir Rory?” he asked.
The soldiers looked at each other as if afraid to answer. “Everyone says they perished in the rout,” Gavin answered between sips of lukewarm soup. “Of course, they say the same of you, milord. And-And your master, there.”
“They think him dead?” Croy asked, suddenly looking up. That might actually be the first bit of good news he’d heard. If the general wisdom was that the king had died in the battle, then perhaps the barbarians thought so, too. At the very least that would mean they weren’t actively looking for him.
“Good, good,” Croy said. “We’ll let them think that until we’re ready to surprise them with the truth. When we’ve gathered our men in secret-all those who survived the battle. All those who would stand under the king’s banner. There must be others like you, others who fought and were defeated but not destroyed. Others ready to rise again, true men of Skrae, bloodied but not beaten, and when-”
He stopped because he’d caught the men looking at each other again. Like they shared a secret they didn’t want to give him.
Croy frowned but said nothing for a while. He waited until the men had finished eating. Then he asked, quite carefully, “Where was your company posted, during the battle?”
Gavin looked away as he answered. “We were billeted in the western part of town, in an old almshouse. We didn’t get word that the battle had been joined, not until the barbarian was already inside the gate.”
Croy nodded. “And when word did come, that the fortress was in full distress. Where did your serjeants send you then?”
Another conspiratorial glance.
Croy knew what their shared silence meant. These men had not been part of the fighting. They had probably never had a chance to draw their weapons. If they escaped Helstrow before the barbarians took the western gate, then they must have left even before he himself fled with the king over his shoulder.
These men weren’t battle-hardened veterans. They were deserters.
“Never mind, don’t answer,” he said. There were some things he didn’t want to know. Like whether Gavin and his men had deserted the fortress unhindered-or whether they’d had to fight and perhaps kill their own serjeants before they were allowed to go. Whether they were craven cowards, or, much worse, traitors.
Either way, he knew he would not be sleeping for some time yet. He couldn’t leave the king’s safety in such hands.
Honor-the vows he’d taken-the principles on which his life was built-all demanded that he bring these men to justice, if they were guilty. That he slay them on the spot. That was the penalty for desertion in every army Croy had heard of.
But the fortunes of war could play havoc with honor, he thought. Fear could do strange things to a man’s heart. So he decided to temper his anger with mercy. He would watch Gavin and his crew closely-but he wouldn’t slay them in the name of justice, not yet. Not until they’d had another chance to prove themselves.
“The past is the past. You’re here, now, and that’s what matters,” he said. “Here where you can still serve your king. We’ll need to make a litter for him, something two men can carry. We won’t get far if I have to keep him over my shoulder.”
“Milord, you aren’t thinking of going out there,” Gavin said carefully, pointing toward the door, “when we’ve safety and warmth right here?”
“Just as soon as we’ve all had a chance to rest,” Croy told him.
The war wasn’t over. Not while Ulfram V still lived.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The river Skrait twisted through Ness, carving its way between Castle Hill and the Royal Ditch before diving straight for Eastpool. There it widened out to make a natural haven for river boats. The land on either side of this harbor, also called Eastpool, was a district of tar-stinking wharves and low shacks. It gave home to the fish market by day and a steady trade in the seedier commodities after dark. It was a natural magnet for thieves, yet Cutbill’s charges rarely ventured there alone, since its quays and unpaved lanes were patrolled constantly by rivermen carrying spikes and harpoons-men who did not trust the watch to keep them safe.
In Malden’s experience there had been no time of day or night when Eastpool was not crowded with fishwives and burly salters, with sea captains and pirates looking for a place to lie low. Now, though, like all the Free City, it was a desolate wasteland, almost untenanted. He saw a few women gathered around a jug of strong spirits. They were watching the fishing boats that had been pulled up on the banks and turned hull up to resist the sun. He saw a few confused looking sailors, just in from far ports of call and unknowing of the war or the game fate was playing with Skrae. Yet in many of the twisty ways he passed through, under the shade of half the shanties in Eastpool, Malden was alone.
He headed down the Ditchside Stair toward the water and there he was able to hire a rowboat from a one- armed man who looked very glad for his custom. Yet when Malden told him where he wished to row to, the boatman scowled and demanded a deposit on guarantee of return.
“I shall be quite welcome there, I assure you. I’m known there, and fondly,” Malden told the man, but failed to convince him.
“There’s those in this world like their privacy, and Coruth, she don’t welcome nobody,” the boatman insisted. “Even old friends.”
Malden sighed and turned over an extra shilling, which he doubted he would get back even if he returned the boat in perfect condition. The boatman would probably insist the rowboat had been contaminated just by coming in
