saddle, a tattered vellum scroll hanging from the horn. The horse was placidly tugging at the grass, her reins dangling.
Strings recognized the youth, though for the moment he could not recall his name. But Tavore had placed him in command of the Wickans.
After a long moment, the sergeant moved forward, making no effort to stay quiet, and sat down on a boulder a half-dozen paces from the lad.
The Wickan’s head snapped up. Tear-streaked warpaint made a twisted net of his narrow face. Venom flared in his dark eyes and he hissed, a hand unsheathing his long-knife as he staggered upright.
‘Relax,’ Strings muttered. ‘I’m in grief’s arms this night myself, though likely for an entirely different reason. Neither of us expected company, but here we are.’
The Wickan hesitated, then snapped the weapon back into its sheath and made to walk away.
‘Hold a moment, Horsewarrior. There’s no need to flee.’
The youth spun round, mouth twisting into a snarl.
‘Face me. I will be your witness this night, and we alone will know of it. Give me your words of sorrow, Wickan, and I will listen. Hood knows, it would serve me well right now.’
‘I flee no-one,’ the warrior rasped.
‘I know. I just wanted to get your attention.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Nobody. And that is how I will stay, if you like. Nor will I ask for your name-’
‘I am Temul.’
‘Ah, well. So your bravery puts me in my place. My name is Fiddler.’
‘Tell me,’ Temul’s voice was suddenly harsh, and he wiped angrily at his face, ‘did you think my grief a noble thing? Did I weep for Coltaine? For my fallen kin? I did not. My pity was for myself! And now you may go. Proclaim me-I am done with commanding, for I cannot command myself-’
‘Easy there, I’ve no intention of proclaiming anything, Temul. But I can guess at your reasons. Those wrinkled Wickans of the Crow, is my guess. Them and the survivors who walked off Gesler’s ship of wounded. They won’t accept you as their leader, will they? And so, like children, they blunt you at every turn. Defy you, displaying a mocking regard to your face then whispering behind your back. And where does that leave you? You can’t challenge them all, after all-’
‘Perhaps I can! I shall!’
‘Well, that will please them no end. Numbers alone will defeat your martial prowess. So you will die, sooner or later, and they will win.’
‘You tell me nothing I do not know, Fiddler.’
‘I know. I’m just reminding you that you’ve good reason to rail at the injustice, at the stupidity of those you would lead. I had a commander once, Temul, who was faced with the same thing you’re facing. He was in charge of a bunch of children. Nasty children at that.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘Not much, and ended up with a knife in his back.’ There was a moment of silence, then Temul barked a laugh. Fiddler nodded. ‘Aye, I’m not one for stories with lessons in life, Temul. My mind bends to more practical choices.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, I would imagine that the Adjunct shares your frustration. She wants you to lead, and would help you do so-but not so you lose face. She’s too clever for that. No, the key here is deflection. Tell me, where are their horses right now?’
Temul frowned. ‘Their horses?’
‘Aye. I would think the Seti outriders could do without the Crow Clan for a day, don’t you think? I’m sure the Adjunct would agree-those Seti are young, by and large, and untested. They need the room to find themselves. There’s good reason, then, militarily, to keep the Wickans from their horses come tomorrow. Let them walk with the rest of us. Barring your loyal retinue, of course. And who knows, a day might not be enough. Could end up being three, or even four.’
Temul spoke softly, thoughtfully. ‘To get to their horses, we would need to be quiet…’
‘Another challenge for the Seti, or so I’m sure the Adjunct would note. If children your kin must be, then take away their favoured playthings-their horses. Hard to look tall and imperious when you’re spitting dust behind a wagon. In any case, you’d best hurry, so as not to awaken the Adjunct-’
‘She may already be asleep-’
‘No, she isn’t, Temul. I am certain of it. Now, before you leave, answer me a question, please. You’ve a scroll hanging from your mare’s saddle. Why? What is written on it?’
‘The horse belonged to Duiker,’ Temul answered, turning to the animal. ‘He was a man who knew how to read and write. I rode with him, Fiddler.’ He spun back with a glare. ‘I rode with him!’
‘And the scroll?’
The young Wickan waved a hand. ‘Men such as Duiker carried such things! Indeed, I believe it once belonged to him, was once in his very hands.’
‘And the feather you wear… to honour Coltaine?’
‘To honour Coltaine, yes. But that is because I must. Coltaine did what he was expected to do. He did nothing that was beyond his abilities. I honour him, yes, but Duiker… Duiker was different.’ He scowled and shook his head. ‘He was old, older than you. Yet he fought. When fighting was not even expected of him-I know this to be true, for I knew Coltaine and Bult and I heard them speak of it, of the historian. I was there when Coltaine drew the others together, all but Duiker. Lull, Bult, Chenned, Mincer. And all spoke true and with certainty. Duiker would lead the refugees. Coltaine even gave him the stone the traders brought-’
‘The stone? What stone?’
‘To wear about his neck, a saving stone, Nil called it. A soul trapper, delivered from afar. Duiker wore it, though he liked it not, for it was meant for Coltaine, so that he would not be lost. Of course, we Wickans knew he would not be lost. We knew the crows would come for his soul. The elders who have come, who hound me so, they speak of a child born to the tribe, a child once empty, then filled, for the crows came. They came.’
‘Coltaine has been reborn?’
‘He has been reborn.’
‘And Duiker’s body disappeared,’ Strings muttered. ‘From the tree.’
‘Yes! And so I keep his horse for him, for when he returns. I rode with him, Fiddler!’
‘And he looked to you and your handful of warriors to guard the refugees. To you, Temul-not just Nil and Nether.’
Temul’s dark eyes hardened as he studied Strings, then he nodded. ‘I go now to the Adjunct.’
‘The Lady’s pull on you, Commander.’
Temul hesitated, then said, ‘This night… you saw…’
‘I saw nothing,’ Strings replied.
A sharp nod, then the lad was swinging onto the mare, the reins in one long-fingered, knife-scarred hand.
Strings watched him ride into the darkness. He sat motionless on the boulder for a time, then slowly lowered his head into his hands.
The three were seated now, in the lantern-glow of the tent’s chamber. Topper’s tale was done, and it seemed that all that remained was silence. Gamet stared down at his cup, saw that it was empty, and reached for the jug. Only to find that it too was empty.
Even as exhaustion tugged at him, Gamet knew he would not leave, not yet. Tavore had been told of, first, her brother’s heroism, then his death.
