condemning him to provoke the very mutiny he was desperate to avoid.
He was inspecting the funeral guard-the entire army, of course, drawn up in open ranks by companies with arms reversed-when between two of the men he happened to glance at the rank behind, and there saw a soldier: grinning.
The sight was like a trigger to his thermite-hot rage. He stormed between the files and halted in front of the grinning soldier as he tried to compose his face.
“What’s funny, soldier?” he said softly.
The man looked woodenly ahead of him.
“Pleased that your Duke is dead, is that it? Pleased because you think now he’s not here to lead us any longer your lily-white liver will be spared the risk of venturing into the barrenland?”
All around him there were hisses of indrawn breath. Trying to watch without moving their heads, nearby men eaves-dropped.
“Well, you’re wrong!” Yanderman blazed. He spun to the sergeants accompanying him. “Two of you arrest this man! Hold him till after the funeral. We won’t dismiss on pyrelighting-” Deliberately he raised his voice to let the whole army hear. “We’ll continue! A dishonourable dismissal in full form! And a discharge to the barrenland for this coward who welcomed Duke Paul’s death as saving him from it!”
The reaction went through the parade like wind through grass.
After that, there was no backing down.
The pyre was lit at last, pouring greasy-black smoke high into the clear blue sky. With its crackling as a background to his words, Yanderman licked his lips and uttered the first command of the dismissal drill.
Here and there among the soldiers, a man did move. Checked. Looked at his immobile comrades. Went back to his place and stood, like the rest, rock-still.
He repeated the command.
“We’re not sending anyone to the barrenland!” a voice called from a distant corner of the parade, and instantly he was echoed by a stormy chorus. “Right! No! We’ll not send a man to the barrenland-it’s fit only for devils, not for men!”
Head swimming, Yanderman looked at his fellow officers. Not one of them was making any move to counter this insubordination. On most of their faces, indeed, was a look which implied, “Serve him right-he wasn’t fit to inherit the Duke’s authority!”
Only Stadham moved towards him, speaking almost without moving his lips.
“There’s no hope for it now, sir. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. We’ll be lucky to escape with our lives!”
“Esberg!” shrieked the men at the back of the parade who had first voiced the refusal. “Back to Esberg! If they won’t lead us home, we’ll go on our own!”
“Right! Yes!” Again the storm of agreement, and now the men began to break ranks, their noncoms unable to decide what to do.
“But if we go”-a piercing voice carrying above the tumult-”we might carry the green plague with us! Do you want to carry that back to your families?”
“Burn the camp, then!” came the mad howl in answer, and all at once the army was a mob. Some of them hurled their arms down and snatched brands from the Duke’s pyre to wield like torches as they led the rush; others paused long enough to hurl final insults at their officers-Yanderman was prepared for an instant to be picked up and thrown into the flames with his master-and then they were headed for the camp gates, screaming and starting fires as they went.
XIII
After his first moment of shock, Conrad had dived for concealment in a small hollow between two clumps of shrubs. For what felt like a century, and might in reality have been some hours, he lay there on his belly trying to follow the progress of events from the sounds that reached him and very occasionally, when things quietened down, daring to raise his head and peer out.
Directly they emerged from the camp, the soldiers seemed to split into two main factions, and there was a great deal of shouted argument. Conrad caught snatches of phrases-something about the green plague, and going the same way as the Duke-and was transfixed by the realisation of what had presumably happened: the Duke, whose leadership had been praised by the soldiers who came to Lagwich, must be sick or dead.
Some of the soldiers, however, headed back into the camp almost at once. Shots followed, and sometimes screams as well; then from behind the now dense veil of smoke they began to re-emerge singly and by groups, laughing and staggering under loads of loot-gaudy clothing, fine swords, jars and kegs of liquor and bags so heavy they must contain precious metal or coins.
Before that, however, the larger portion of the army-consisting of those men more afraid of the green plague than eager for easy pickings-had formed up in rough order under ad-hoc leadership and set off shouting and chanting in the direction of Lagwich. Watching them, Conrad knew that it was his strict duty to sneak back to the town’s land somehow and warn the people. But when he desperately cast about for a possible route, he could see no cover-and if he showed himself, it was much too likely he would be shot down on principle.
He was almost overwhelmed by relief when he realised, some minutes later, that others beside himself had decided to keep an eye on the army camp. The familiar blast of Waygan’s horn sounded an alarm, and the disappearing tail of the rabble-army broke from its formation and ran out of sight in a way which suggested anger- anger at not falling on an unsuspecting prey, was Conrad’s guess.
Then more shooting drew his attention back to the camp, and he peered between the leaves of the sheltering shrubs and tried to figure out what-apart from looting-was happening there.
A group of three soldiers, burdened with their prizes, was heading straight for him.
His heart paused for a long second. Then he concentrated on making himself as nearly invisible as he could.
“Bunch of fools!” one of them said in a rough bass voice. “Taking cloth and clothing when everyone knows it was a blanket harboured the green plague in the Duke’s tent!”
“But only where a spot of blood had fallen,” corrected a second voice, rather wheezy as though the man was trying not to pant hard.
“That’s not why I kept my hands off such stuff,” the third said-a fruity baritone with a slight chuckle. “Too bulky! Why drag cloth around when there’s good coin?” Something jingled, and the man laughed.
“Coin weighs, though,” the bass voice grumbled. “Ah, to the barrenland with this sword! Why should I need two of ’em? Here’s enough money to buy a horse and pay my food and lodging back to Esberg!”
A thump announced the discarding of the sword.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” the wheezy voice inquired. “Where, for one thing, are you going to buy a horse? Not in Lagwich! By this time the plague-scared fools’ll have shut the town up oyster-tight-and do you fancy sitting here till they starve open the gates?”
Bass-voice snorted. “Let ’em play siege-engineer all they like. They’ll not have patience to succeed. After a few nights this close to the barrenland, when they think of their snug tents burned behind them, they’ll leak away and have to beg or fight back to Esberg. Whereas we, my friends, will be home and dry, with a little over for a celebration.” A heavy slap, as on a leather bag stretched tight by the weight of its contents. “Move along! We’re ahead of the game, but we have to stay ahead.”
Their irregular footsteps, accompanied by the jingling of their stolen coin, faded.
Mouth dry, Conrad finally ventured to lift his head again. The very first thing that met his eyes was the discarded sword, the sun glinting on its hilt.
Out-and back. Clutching the weapon as though to draw supernatural comfort from it, Conrad gazed anxiously around to make sure no one had noticed his brief emergence. But the only people in sight were the backwash of the looters coming smoke-grimed from the ruins of the camp. In knots of half a dozen they made their unsteady way towards Lagwich and their less greedy comrades.
A bitter taste rose in Conrad’s mouth. So this was the true nature of the men whose ranks he had hoped to
