The Prince nodded dumbly.
“And what about us, Castellan Norge?”
Norge consulted the ceiling. “Near eight thousand altogether. We can put six thousand on the road and still leave enough here to keep the defenses going for a while.”
“My lord Prince” – Geraden spoke carefully, controlling his emotion – “Eremis doesn’t expect to face an army of sixteen thousand. High King Festten doesn’t expect it. They don’t want to fight us. They want to overwhelm us.” He didn’t need to say the word, annihilate; it was implicit in his tone. “And they don’t have the strength to overwhelm sixteen thousand men.”
For a few moments, Prince Kragen didn’t answer; he chewed his moustache and glowered at his thoughts. Geraden kept himself still. Terisa held her breath. Norge appeared to be wondering whether this might be an opportune time for a nap. In contrast, Artagel was barely able to refrain from hopping from foot to foot like an excited boy. The Tor clamped both arms over his belly as if he feared that something inside him might burst.
Abruptly, the Prince turned to face the old lord.
He cocked his fists on his hips. Terisa couldn’t tell which took precedence in him, his eagerness or his anger; but he didn’t prolong the suspense.
“My lord Tor,” he said clearly, “you ask too much.”
The Tor raised an inquiring hand, lifted an eyebrow. The effort brought sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose.
“If this alliance you propose fails,” Kragen articulated, “you can retreat to Orison. You have two thousand men for a final defense. I have nothing. All the Alend Monarch’s might will be destroyed, and my people will have no defense left between the Pestil River and the mountains. I can not risk my father’s entire monarchy on this business of necks and nooses.
“I will not go. I advise you not to go.”
Terisa wanted to yell at him; she wanted to hit him with her fists. Don’t you understand? We’ve got to try. She contained herself, however, because Geraden was clenched still, unprotesting, and Artagel had gone ominously quiet.
In a dull rumble, the Tor asked, “What do you advise, my lord Prince?”
“Fight for Orison as long as you can,” replied the Prince. “Then join me across the Pestil. Bring the Fayle and the Termigan – bring the Armigite, if you can bear him – and add your forces to mine. With the Alend Lieges behind us, we will make Eremis and Festten pay dearly for every foot of ground they take.”
To himself, the Tor made a muttering noise, as if he were considering the idea. But before Terisa could panic – before Geraden could intervene – he heaved himself to his feet.
He tottered. Afraid he might fall, she reached out to support him. What was left of his hair straggled with sweat; his skin had a gray underhue, as if his heart pumped ashes rather than blood; his eyes were glazed, nearly opaque.
Nevertheless he spoke as if no one could doubt that he would be obeyed.
“Castellan Norge, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, my lord Tor.” Norge sounded vaguely somnolent: detached; impervious to argument.
“Escort my lord Prince out of Orison. I want him returned safely to his father. Safely and politely. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you, my lord Tor.”
“We march against Esmerel at dawn. Be ready. Confer with the Congery on the matter of supplies.”
Master Barsonage nodded assent.
“Yes, my lord Tor.” This time, there was a small bite in Norge’s tone, a touch of grim happiness.
Prince Kragen threw up his hands.
“Wait a minute.” Artagel wore his battle grin. He was unarmed, but at the moment he didn’t look like he needed a weapon. “You’re talking about marching into the teeth of the siege. Is that wise, my lord Tor? Shouldn’t we keep Prince Kragen with us? A hostage of our own? If we let him go, he can cut us down as soon as we ride out of here.”
“No,” the Tor said at once. The flatness in his tone was turning to nausea. “That the Alend Contender will not do. He knows where we go, and why. He may well resume his attack on Orison when we are gone. For that reason, we will leave two thousand men behind us, and someone reliable to lead them. But he will not harm or hinder us.”
Terisa wanted to ask, Are you sure? The mix of emotions on Prince Kragen’s face was too complex to give her much confidence. Maybe that was what he planned: a killing attack as soon as the guard left Orison? Unexpectedly, however, the Prince’s excitement seemed to gain the upper hand for a moment.
“Thank you, my lord Tor.” He spoke softly; yet his voice carried a hint of trumpets. “Rely on my respect. If my father’s friends were as honorable as King Joyse’s, Alend would have no need of Contenders to win the Seat.”
Kragen turned to go. Norge sent two captains to accompany him until more guards could be mustered. Nevertheless Terisa didn’t see his departure. She was busy trying to catch the Tor’s great weight as it tumbled to the floor.
The old lord had fainted.
FORTY-FOUR: MEN GO FORTH
Terisa and Geraden wanted to talk to Artagel – they wanted to know in detail what had happened in Orison during their absence – but for most of the day he had no time. He was busy with Norge, supporting the new Castellan’s authority, and the Tor’s, against anyone who doubted it, distrusted it. Of course, he had no official standing, no authority of his own. That, however, only increased his credibility. He was Artagel, the best swordsman in Mordant – and a son of the Domne. Since King Joyse’s decline, he was the closest thing Orison had to a popular hero. And he wasn’t actually a member of the guard – wasn’t actually under Norge’s command. His word, his simple presence at Norge’s side, threw more weight than half a dozen catapults.
Failing Artagel, Terisa and Geraden would have been content with Master Barsonage. But the mediator was busy as well. He had to ready the Congery for battle. And he had to make all the arrangements for supplying the guard. In practice, this meant determining with Norge’s seconds what supplies were necessary, in what quantities, and then issuing explicit instructions for the placement of those supplies in manageable piles in the vast disused ballroom outside the laborium.
Since the Congery had rediscovered its sense of purpose, the Masters had been busy. Working from the formula Barsonage had used to create the mirror of his augury, one of them had chanced to shape a flat glass which showed the ballroom. With as much haste as possible, two other Masters had succeeded at duplicating that new mirror; one glass alone would have been too slow – and would have placed too much strain on the Master who had made it. Along with its other weapons, the Congery intended to carry these mirrors on the march. Then the supplies which had been piled in the ballroom could be translated to Orison’s army at need.
Because the mediator had to put these plans into effect, Terisa and Geraden were left with no comfortable source of information.
Ribuld was almost gleefully glad to see them. Especially after Lebbick’s death – which he had been unable to prevent – the scarred veteran was eager to assign himself the job of protecting them. And he was happy to talk. From him, they heard about Saddith’s fate. On the other hand, he couldn’t answer the pertinent questions – couldn’t explain, for instance, how the maid had come to serve as a diversion for the breaking of Geraden’s mirror. He didn’t know the things Terisa and Geraden most wanted to hear.
For most of the day – what was left of it, at any rate – they had to rely on each other’s company.
This didn’t particularly distress them.
They had given the Tor over into the care of a physician, who had assured them that the old lord had the constitution of a stoat and would almost certainly recover as soon as he began to consume a diet more nourishing than wine alone – with the proviso, of course, that Gart’s kick hadn’t produced any interior bleeding. After the physician had reassured them, Terisa and Geraden went to her former rooms in the tower, the peacock rooms.