“Then I’ll be back in three years,” the boot promised, and went out the door, calling, “Aye, aye, brute, I’m here.”
Everyone sat, still and taut, while they listened to the brute bellowing his troops into line. Then came the heavy tread of forty feet marching. It faded and was gone.
Ralke heaved a sigh of relief and came to his feet. “Good fortune! I’ve never been more glad for a boot’s stupidity!”
“I’m glad, too.” Bilar rolled to his feet.
“I’m fifteen,” the girl said indignantly as her weight lifted off Gar. He sat up, scattering straw. “So tha art, ma lass, but if the boot had knowed it, he’d ha’ come back and taken ‘ee off to the woods, and brought ye back weeping,” her mother said, with the air of one who knows by bitter experience. “Keep the face smudged and the locks in a tangle, as I’ve bade ‘ee!”
“Thank ‘ee for so quick a lie,” Bilar said to Ralke.
“The least ah could do,” Ralke said, unconsciously falling back into the villager’s accent. “Thank ‘ee for the hiding of us!”
“Glad, we’re glad. Remember us if tha comest back this way. Dress thee, na, an’ be off!”
Ralke changed clothes quickly, leaving his hair for later washing. Then he beckoned to Gar and went out the door—but he turned back to count twelve copper coins into Bilar’s hand.
The earthquake hit, and Cort’s eyes flew open, his heart thudding wildly with fear. “What’s happening?”
The earthquake stopped abruptly, the room stopped shaking, and a strange voice said, with regret, “Sorry to have to wake you, lieutenant. You need your sleep—say, another ten hours’ worth.”
“Sleep?” Cort sagged back onto the bed. His stomach lurched and tried to climb up his throat. “Let me die! My head feels like an anvil with a smith forging a -sword! Who stuffed their laundry into my mouth?”
“You did, only it wasn’t laundry, it was a whole bottle of brandy.”
Memory stirred. Cort rolled to the side, squinting against the horrid glare. “I know you from somewhere…”
“We met last night,” the stranger said obligingly, “over a couple of civilians your soldiers had decided to use as punching bags.”
“I remember.” But the effort made Cort’s head hurt, and he grabbed it with a groan. “An alley … a band of citizens…” He squinted up at the stranger. “You’re … Poniard? Dagger?”
“Dirk,” the stranger said helpfully, “Dulaine. Here, drink this.” He held out a tin cup full of dark fluid.
Cort flinched at the smell. “Brandy? It turns my stomach now!”
“Hair of the dog that bit you,” Dirk insisted. “Just a shot, lieutenant. Drink it down and you’ll feel better—eventually.”
Cort eyed Dirk, decided he must be ten years older than Cort himself and had presumably had more experience with toxic fluids. He accepted the tin cup gingerly, took a deep breath, and downed the liquid at one swallow. Then he dropped the cup and exhaled, feeling as though he were breathing. fire.
Dirk caught the cup and set it aside. “It’ll help, believe me.”
Cort held his head, moaning. “What happened? I remember the alleyway, and…” He stared up at Dirk. “I hired you as a sergeant!”
Dirk nodded. “You were a little drunk by that time. You can change your mind, no hard feelings.” But Cort was hot on the track of memory. “You beat the changeling corporal!”
“Well, you know and I know that he’s not really a changeling…”
“No, any man who can do that is too valuable to let go,” Cort mused. “Why did you let me drink so much?”
“I’m your sergeant, not your conscience! Besides, I could tell you were in a mood to get very drunk on very little, so I figured you needed it, as long as it was safe.”
“And you made sure it was safe.” Cort stiffened, looking around him, realizing for the first time that he was in a bedchamber. “How did I get here?”
“I carried you,” Dirk explained simply.
“And rolled me into this bed?” For the first time, Cort realized he was naked except for his loincloth. “And stripped me?”
“Your uniform needed cleaning, by that time,” Dirk explained. “Excuse me—your livery.”
“I couldn’t keep the liquor down?” Cort blushed furiously.
“The body’s little defense against alcohol poisoning, lieutenant.”
“Did I…” Cort reddened. “Did I babble?”
“Nothing worth repeating,” Dirk said firmly, “and I was the only one who heard you.”
But the sympathy in his eyes told Cort that his new sergeant had heard about his broken love in detail. He reddened even more and turned away, but said, “Would you hand me my kerchief, please?”
“I’m just one of your sergeants.” Dirk rummaged on the table, then came back to press the kerchief into Cort’s hand. “You don’t need to say ‘please’ to me.”
“I don’t usually ask my sergeants to wait on me,” Cort said. He slid Violet’s ring from his finger, and noticed for the first time that it was really a rather cheap gaud—surely the metal was only brass, for it had made his finger green, and the stone in it was the color of her name; yes, but it had the sheen of glass. Why had he never thought of that before? But he wrapped the ring in his kerchief and turned to hold it out to Dirk. “Would you do me one more favor? Take this to Squire Ellsworth’s house, down on that broad side street where the well-to-do people live. Anyone in town can tell you where it is. Tell them…” His stomach suddenly bucked, and he stopped to choke it down. “Tell them it’s for Violet, and that I wish her well in her future life.”
“Sure, lieutenant, no problem. I mean, ‘Yes, sir.’ ” Dirk straightened and turned to go.
“Why couldn’t you have just let me sleep?” Cort moaned.
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot!” Dirk turned back. “There’s a messenger here, a very young soldier wearing your livery, who says he’s from Captain Devers. Want me to let him in?”
“No!” Cort clutched the blanket about him, then remembered himself and pointed at his pack. “There’s spare livery in there. Toss it to me, will you?”
“Sure.” Dirk opened Cort’s pack, pulled out the clean clothing, and set it on the bed. “I’ll tell him you’ll just be a few minutes. Want him to wait downstairs?”
Cort weighed the likelihood of his making it down the stairway without falling, and decided, “No. Tell him to have his breakfast, if he hasn’t already, and to have a flagon of ale if he has, then to come back up and wait upon me here.”
“Will do. Hope you feel better soon.” Dirk went out, but before the door closed, Cort heard him telling the messenger, “He’s a little under the weather, but if you give him a few minutes…”
Then the door closed, and Cort heaved his legs out of bed, then waited for his stomach to settle again. The movement had made his head start pounding worse, too. When both had slackened, he reached out for the livery and began dressing. He knew that the young soldier was indeed a messenger, and suspected what he was going to tell Cort: that they were to report back to headquarters as quickly as possible.
CHAPTER 8
The mules began to pace faster, heads bobbing, and the drivers began to talk to one another with excitement. Then the caravan rounded a curve. The trees opened out into a broad plain cut up into small fields surrounding the walls of a city with a castle dimly seen through the morning mist. The drivers cheered, and Ralke breathed, “Home!” His eyes sparkled, his gaze fastened to his city.
Gar studied the town. Something was different about it, contrasting with Loutre, but he couldn’t pin it down. “Who’s your boss?”