'How long? How many days?'
'Sorry, Captain, I can't remember rightly and I'm not so good at counting. I'd say more than less.'
'You're no fucking help,' said the captain. He waved his men to continue, the sack of fruit still in hand.
Gelthius watched them go and chuckled. The Second's legionnaires were getting all sorts of news about their enemies, and none of it matched up. The general had given each of those sent to Talladmun a different story to tell, some putting him far to hotwards, others claimed he was just a couple of days' march away. Some of the tales had the legions as a bedraggled remnant of their former glory preying on whoever they could find, while others spoke of an army numbering fifty thousand well-equipped soldiers. Gelthius guessed all of the bad information was really Anglhan's idea; it smelt like the sort of thing he would think up.
It was a mean trick to play on men already missing their first three supply shipments, intercepted by Ullsaard's legions before they reached Talladmun. Hungry and confused, after a rough season quartered in the Anrairian cold and rain, the legionnaires would be dispirited.
No doubt the patrol Gelthius had just met would enjoy their fruit back in camp; unfortunately for them it was laced with canaris juice, which made it pretty much certain they would be throwing up their guts before the end of the watch. Gelthius had been assured that he wouldn't be poisoning anyone, just making them ill for a few days. The aim was to get the Second to refuse orders or disintegrate by desertion. Gelthius didn't really care whether they drifted away or fell down dead, as long as it meant there were less spears pointed at him when the Thirteenth had to face them.
Pleased with his first success, Gelthius turned back towards the house he shared with some of the others, to get another bag of fruit.
Magilnada
Early Spring, 209th Year of Askh
I
The city bustled with activity. Every market square was filled, and men at the gates claimed never to have seen so many people coming to Magilnada. Anglhan stood on the long balcony at the front of the old lord's hall and looked over his city. The wind was still fresh down from the mountains, and the sky was overcast, but he was warmed from within by a deep glow of satisfaction.
Everybody was happy, and that was the key. Anglhan had lowered the taxes — not by much but just enough — and had emptied the city's coffers to make some much-needed repairs and improvements. The fire-damaged buildings had been torn down and were being replaced by new houses and businesses. Anglhan had also made generous offerings at the garden of shrines on behalf of the city, which had confused his Askhan underlings, but been well-received by the citizens of Magilnada.
When he had bought his first debt, Anglhan had realised that in order to make money it was necessary to spend some, and he had taken that philosophy with him through life. Back then it had been half-a-dozen debtors and two handcarts, his caravan growing in size each year until he had enough money for the landship. That had been an extravagance; he could have just as easily been a caravan captain and moved as much cargo. But the pleasure had been in the ownership of such a vessel, of knowing that he was in charge and answerable to nobody.
He had left the landship in the mountains. He wondered if it was being looked after or mouldering into ruin, or had been pulled apart and used for firewood. He felt no pangs of guilt about abandoning the landship to its fate; he had a far greater domain to control.
And the spending had worked, as he had known it would. Everything from Salphoria had to come past Magilnada; between Ullsaard's legions and the hill tribes in the general's pocket, that meant everything stopped at Magilnada. Anglhan had been building new storehouses as quickly as possible, and almost every room in the city was filled with guests or paying visitors. The shrine attendants were happy, the craftsmen were happy, the traders were happy, and that meant Anglhan was happy.
'Admiring your own little empire?' asked Noran as he joined Anglhan.
'Certainly,' Anglhan replied. 'It's important to enjoy the benefits of our labours.'
Noran laughed but there was no mirth in his expression.
'Labours? What labours have you done to earn this?'
Anglhan turned a smile upon his companion.
'Only last night I had to endure a meal with three chieftains from the Vestil, who could talk about nothing except pig farming and fucking. And I'm not sure they realised there's a difference between the two.'
'A terrible hardship, I am sure,' said Noran, leaning against the balcony rail, eyes on Anglhan. 'I have no idea why Ullsaard trusts you.'
'You're a fine one to talk about hardships,' said Anglhan, his mood spoilt by Noran's accusations. 'I pulled myself up from the filth of my parents' village to make myself the man I am today. Who the fuck are you? An Askhan noble who has never known a day's hard work. You've been given everything you ever wanted; I had to take what I needed. Don't talk to me about what I've done to earn this.'
'The price levied on me for this winter can never be repaid,' said Noran. He glowered at Anglhan and left, the door slamming behind him.
Anglhan looked at the city again, at the crowds meandering through the streets and gathering around the wagons in the markets. He missed Furlthia and wondered if his old mate was still in the city somewhere, or if he had really left.
The lord of Magilnada sighed and wandered back into the hall, pushing aside his glum thoughts with a dream of golden pillars and serving boys.
II
Noran shoved his way through the crowds, ignoring the shouts of annoyance that followed as he plunged through the streets towards the house he shared with Anriit and Ullsaard's family. He knew why he was in such a foul mood; the deaths of Neerita and his son still hung over him; and when he thought about this whole ludicrous enterprise, their deaths seemed entirely pointless. Noran had said nothing, but Ullsaard's claim to become the next king of Askhor was clearly insane. He had no chance of taking on an empire and winning, no matter how clever he thought he was or how great his legions were.
As he cut down an alley between two low halls, Noran kicked out at a stray dog eating scraps from the gutter. The mongrel yelped and scurried away. Noran felt a sudden pang of guilt at his becoming so thoughtlessly cruel. His self-loathing ignited his simmering anger again and by the time he reached the modest house where he lived, he was in a mood to kill someone, or himself, or both.
The servants opened the doors as he approached and he strode inside, fists and jaw clenched. He knocked aside a tray carrying a cup of water, sending the servant reeling back, the cup smashing on the floor. He stomped up the stairs and flung open the door to his bedchamber, where Anriit sewing sat by the narrow window.
She looked so much like Neerita at first glance, but there was nothing save disdain in her expression. It was a harsh reflection of the face of his dead wife, full of malice and accusation. Anriit had never liked him, but every glance and word from her since Neerita's death was filled with hate.
'Get out,' he snapped, pointing to the door.
'Get out yourself,' Anriit replied.
Noran crossed the room, snatched the canvas and thread from his wife's hands and tossed it out of the window.
