“As viceroy,” Sequero said at last. “You are not expected to command troops, but to be the administrative head of the province. Is that not true, sir?”
Trust Sequero to work it out first.
“Yes, Hernan.”
“Then someone will have to be appointed overall commander of the military part of the expedition once it reaches this Western Continent.”
“Eventually, yes.”
Di Souza and Sequero were looking at one another sidelong and Murad had to make an effort not to laugh. He had planned it well. Now they would be striving like titans to gain his favour in the hopes of promotion. And there would be no conspiring behind his back, either. They would trust each other too little for that.
“But that is in the future,” he said smoothly. “For the moment, I want you both to begin drawing up guard rosters and training routines with the assistance of your sergeants. I want the men well drilled while we are at sea, and they must be proficient with arquebuses by the time we make landfall. That includes the officers.”
He saw Sequero wrinkle up his nose at the thought. Nobles disliked firearms, considering them the weapons of commoners. Swords and lances were the only arms a man of any quality should have to know how to use. Murad had had to overcome that prejudice himself. Di Souza, who was closer to his troops, already knew how to use an arquebus and how to read and write, whereas Sequero, though quicker witted, was of the old school. He was illiterate and fought with sword alone. It would be interesting to see how they both developed in the voyage west. Murad was pleased with his choice of subordinates. They complemented each other.
“Sir,” Sequero asked, “do you expect any kind of resistance in the west? Is the continent inhabited?”
“I am not entirely sure,” Murad said. “But it is always best to be prepared. I am positive, though, that we will meet nothing which can overcome a demi-tercio of Hebrian soldiers.”
“These sorcerers we are sailing with,” di Souza said. “Are they convicts being deported, sir, or are they passengers embarking of their own free will? The Prelate of Abrusio—”
“Let me worry about the Prelate of Abrusio,” Murad snapped. “It is true that we could choose better stuff to form the seed of a new province, but I do as the King wills. And besides, their abilities could prove useful.”
“I take it, then, that we will not be embarking a priest, sir?” Sequero asked.
Murad glared blackly at him. Sequero sometimes liked to walk a narrower line than most.
“Probably not, Hernan.”
“But sir—” di Souza began to protest.
“Enough. As I said, we are all subject to the will of higher authorities. There is no cleric in our complement, nor to be honest would I expect one to take ship with such fellow travellers. The new province will have to do without spiritual guidance until the first ships make the return voyage.”
Di Souza was obviously troubled and Murad cursed himself. He had forgotten how God-damned pious some of the lower classes could be. They needed religion like the nobility needed wine.
“The men will not be happy, sir,” di Souza said, almost sullenly. “You know how they like to have a priest on hand ere they go into battle.”
“The men will follow orders, as they always do. It is too late now to do any differently. We sail, gentlemen, in eight days. You may inform your sergeants of the timing two days before departure—no sooner. Are there any other questions?”
Both ensigns were silent. Both looked thoughtful, but that was as it should be. Murad had given them a lot to think about.
“Good. Then, gentlemen, you are dismissed to your duties.”
The two rose, saluted, and then left. There was a charming pause at the doorway as they silently wrangled over who should precede whom. In the end di Souza exited first, and Sequero followed him smiling unpleasantly.
Murad sat at his desk once more and steepled his fingers together. He did not like di Souza’s emphasis on the priest. That was the last thing the King wanted—a cleric accompanying the ships westward to send back reports to the Prelate of Hebrion. It would seem odd, though, to the men not to have one.
He shook his head angrily. He felt like a warhorse beset by horseflies. It would be better once they were at sea and he had his own little kingdom to rule. And the Saints protect anyone who tried to gainsay him.
He opened the locked drawer of the desk and heaved out an ancient-looking book, much battered and stained. Hawkwood had sent him a letter, in his insolence, asking for a perusal of it. It was the rutter of the
He flipped through the worn tome, squinting sometimes at the spidery scrawl of the entries. Finally he lit a candle, shut the door and sat peering at page after page in the yellow light as though it were the middle of the night. The parade-ground noises faded. In the sour salt and water smell of the rutter it seemed he was transported to another age, and heard instead the slap and rush of waves against a wooden hull, the creak of timbers working, the flap of canvas.
Murad knuckled his eyes irritably. So much of what was written in the rutter seemed to him utterly incomprehensible, though no doubt to a sailor it would make perfect sense. He was not going to let Hawkwood see this, though. No, he would give the good captain as much information as it suited him to give.
Conjoined to the rutter was the log of the
It was the record of an uneventful voyage westwards. The health of the crew seemed good apart from a few minor accidents, and there was only one major storm.
From here the log began to grow more interesting.
