Hasty assent. They glimpsed for a moment the powerful authoritarian figure Macrobius had been before Aekir fell.
“I will talk to the king,” the Pontiff went on. “Eventually. I will impress upon him the pre-eminent importance of our findings. Do not forget that we are here at the sufferance of the Torunnan sovereign and, high ideals or no, we must think carefully ere we cross his wishes. And I cannot believe he will look upon these revelations favourably. Albrec, Mercadius, you will continue your researches. I want every shred of evidence you can muster to support this work of Honorius. Brothers, this thing goes out into the world soon, and once out it can never be recalled. Be aware always of the gravity of your knowledge. This is not a subject for gossip or idle speculation. The fate of the continent is in our hands—and I mean no exaggeration. The wrong thing said in a moment of carelessness could have the most severe consequences. I enjoin you all to silence whilst I meditate on my meeting with the King.”
They bowed where they sat, and several made the Sign of the Saint at their breasts. This Pontiff was not the humble, vague man they had known hitherto. He sat upright and commanding in his seat, his head moving left and right. Had he possessed eyes, they would have been glaring at his fellow clerics.
“A Papal bull is the proper way to announce this thing, but I no longer have regiments of Knights Militant to ensure its swift dissemination among the kingdoms. We must rely on King Lofantyr for that, and I will not have him given information which is already extant in the tittle-tattle of the palace servitors. There must be discretion—for now. Albrec, your impulses do you credit, but Monsignor Alembord has a very valid point. If we are not to sow chaos among the faithful and fatally undermine the New Church, then we must be careful. So very careful . . .” Macrobius sagged. His brief assertion of authority seemed to have drained him. “I would that this cup had been passed to another, as I am sure you all do, but God in his wisdom has chosen us. We cannot change our fates. Brothers, join me in prayer now, and let us forget our differences. We must ask the Blessed Saint for his guidance.”
The room went quiet as they joined hands in meditation. But there was no prayer in Albrec’s mind. The Pontiff was wrong. This was not something to be announced by decree, to be carefully released to the faithful. It had to explode like some apocalyptic shell upon the world. And the Merduks—they had to be given their chance to accept or deny it also, and as soon as possible. If martyrdom lay along that road, then so be it, but it was the only road Albrec could see himself taking.
And at last he did pray, the tears running down his face.
T HE talking-shop is open for business, Corfe thought wearily.
The long table was almost obliterated by the scattered papers upon it, and spread out over them was a large-scale map of Northern Torunna, all the land from the capital up to Aekir itself. Little wooden counters coloured either red or blue were dotted about the map. Nearly all the blue were crowded into the black square that represented Torunn, whilst the reds were ranged over the region between the River Torrin and the Searil. Ormann Dyke had a red counter upon it. It pained Corfe to even look at it.
Men were sitting down both sides of the table, the King at its head. To Lofantyr’s right was General Menin, commander of the Torunn garrison and the senior officer present. To his left was Colonel Aras, pleased and self-important at being seated so close to the King. Further down the table was white-haired Passifal, the Quartermaster-General, and a quartet of others whom Corfe had been introduced to at the start of the meeting. The man in sober civilian clothing was Count Fournier of Marn, head of Torunn’s city council. He looked like a clerk, a lover of quills and parchment and footnotes. He was rumoured to be the Torunnan spy-master, with a secret treasury to finance the comings and goings of his faceless subordinates. Opposite him were two more robust specimens: Colonel Rusio, commander of the artillery, and Colonel Willem, head of cavalry. Their military titles were largely traditional. In fact they were Menin’s second- and third-in-commands. Both were iron-grey, middle-aged men with sixty years in the army between them, and court rumour had it that both were as outraged as the King at the upstart from Aekir’s sudden promotion over their heads.
Seated to their left was a big, grey-bearded man dressed in oil-cured leather whose face was deeply tanned despite the season, his eyes mere blue glitters under lids which seemed perpetually half closed against a phantom gale. This was Berza, admiral of His Majesty’s fleet. He was not a native Torunnan, having been born in Gabrion, that cradle of seafarers, but he had been twenty years in the Torunnan service and only a slightly odd accent betrayed his origins.
Corfe sat at the bottom of the table, flanked by Andruw—a colonel now, promoted on Corfe’s own authority—the Fimbrian commander Formio, and Ranafast, once leader of Ormann Dyke’s mounted arm. Marsch, whom Corfe had also promoted, should have been present, but he had begged off. There were too many things to do, and he had never been much of a one for talking. Besides, he had added, he served Corfe, not the King of Torunna. In his place sat Morin, obviously fascinated by this glimpse into the military politicking of Torunna. The tribesman had insisted on wearing his chainmail hauberk to the meeting, though he had been prevailed upon to leave his weapons behind. Clearly, he still distrusted all Torunnans, save for his general.
Two hours they had been here, listening to report after report, speculation piled upon speculation. They had heard lists of troops, equipment, horses, details of billeting, minor infractions of discipline, loss of weapons. And they had been saying nothing of any real use, Corfe thought. What was more, hardly a word had been said about the attempt on his life the previous night. The King had uttered some vague banalities about “that unfortunate incident,” and there had been mutters around the table condemning the Merduks for resorting to such treacheries, but no discussion about palace security, or even speculation as to how the assassin had penetrated the palace. Clearly, it was not a subject the King wanted aired.
But now, finally, they were getting to more relevant matters. The deployment of the Merduk forces. Corfe’s flagging interest waxed again.
“Intelligence suggests,” Fournier was droning on, his voice as dry as his appearance suggested, “that the two main Merduk armies are in the process of combining. They are somewhere in this area”—he used a wooden pointer to indicate a position on the map some ten leagues north-east of the capital —“and their total strength is estimated at one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand men. This, gentlemen, is after leaving one substantial detachment at the dyke, and another down on the coast to guard their supply base. Nalbenic transports are ferrying stores across the Kardian, building up a sizeable supply dump there—exactly where, we are not yet sure. They are provisioning for a siege, obviously. I would guess that within a week, perhaps two, we will have their van encamped within sight of the walls.”
“Let them encamp all they like,” General Menin growled. “They can’t encircle the city, not so long as we control the river. And Berza here can see off any river-borne assault.”
“What of our fleet, Admiral?” Lofantyr asked the sea-dog. “What is its condition?”
Berza had a voice as deep as a wine cask, coarsened to a bass burr by years of shouting orders over the wind. “At present, sire, the great ships are at anchor along the city wharves, taking on powder and shot. I have a squadron of lightly armed caravels down at the mouth of the Torrin, to warn us lest the Nalbeni try to fight their way upriver. Work on the two booms is almost complete. When they are ready, it will be virtually impossible for any vessel to force the passage of the Torrin.”
“Excellent, Admiral.”
“But sire,” Berza went on, “I must put it to you again that the booms, whilst admirable for defence, curtail our own offensive movements. The Merduks cannot sail upriver, but equally the fleet cannot sail down to the sea. My ships will be little more than floating batteries once the city is besieged.”
“And as such they will make a valuable contribution to Torunn’s defences,” the King said crisply. “Their broadsides will command the approaches to the walls, doubling our fire-power.”
Berza subsided, but he seemed discontented.
Corfe could remain silent no longer. “Sire, with respect, would it not be better to keep our fleet free to manoeuvre? Count Fournier says the enemy is building a large supply dump on the coast. What if the fleet were to sally out and destroy it? The Merduks would have no choice but to retreat in order to preserve their lines of communication. We might throw them clear back to the Searil, and Torunn would be spared a siege.”
The King looked intensely annoyed. “I quite understand your fear of sieges, General,” he said. “Your
