The faces seemed of stone. Tegestu saw spittle on Necias’ cheek. “We’ll get them, hey,” Necias said to the silence, clapping his hands again.
He is afraid, Tegestu realized. He rose to power in a series of wars, but he has never been on a battlefield before. It has made him nearly witless. The thought unnerved him, that he served a frightened man. Yet he had always known it, that Necias was not a martial man, that he had no understanding of demmin... he pushed the thought away, that a lord could have no demmin. He should take Necias away from here, he realized, before the others realized what they were seeing.
He took his canlan by the arm. “A word with you, Abeissu,” he said, as firmly as he dared. Necias nodded quickly, and seemed eager to be led away.
“My force will move soon, canlan Necias,” Tegestu said. “You wish to be with them, I know, but I think you must stay here.”
“Here? In the camp?”
“Aye. With Marshal Palastinas. Here you shall see more. Out in the dark, with me, nothing. I shall send messages, you will be informed.” He tightened his grip on Necias’ arm, trying to be reassuring. “We shall break Tastis tonight, with the gods’ help.”
“In the camp. Yes,” Necias said. He nodded briskly. “That makes sense, Tegestu. Thank you.” He tugged uncomfortably at the chain around his neck. “I’ll go, then,” he said, and clapped Tegestu on the shoulder. “I’m counting on you. Smash those rebels and we can all go home, hey?”
“No worry. We’ll beat them,” Tegestu said. He leaned closer to Necias. “Tell Marshall Palastinas I’m moving my headquarters to the old farm. He knows the one.” Necias nodded, repeated the message in a breathless voice, and then hurried away. Tegestu knelt, feeling a stab of rheumatism as his knee touched the cold ground, then returned to the silent group of Brodaini. The horses had been brought and stood saddled and ready. Tegestu looked carefully at the faces, watching for a sign that they had recognized the Abessu-Denorru’s fear, for any hint of contempt. Nothing, he thought, or they were keeping it to themselves.
His horse was brought; he put an armored foot into Thesau’s cupped hands and heaved himself up into the saddle. His horse was a mature beast, gentle and understanding of his old bones; it accepted his weight without protest. He looked down at the ring of faces.
“We shall triumph tonight, of that I am certain,” he said. “You have all done well.” He glanced at Grendis and saw her smile; he addressed the next words to her. “You have kept faith,” he said, “and you have made this victory possible. The gods reward you.”
They bowed in silence, the grave Brodaini response to praise; and then he signed them to mount. There was the sound of trotting hooves, and the interpreter Campas came out of the dark, looking uneasy in his unfamiliar and second-hand coat of chain. “Marshal Palastinas sent me,” he said, speaking his easy Gostu. “He thought I might make myself useful.”
“Come then,” Tegestu said; he donned his helmet and led the party to the south gate of the camp, where he could see the regiments moving into position behind him: armored cavalry, spearmen, bowmen, heavily armored figures carrying rhomphia — Brodaini, Classani, mercenaries, and the men of Arrandal, all marshaled silently between the rows of tents. Each had two strips of white wrapped around their upper arms to aid in identification — Tegestu would have preferred the forehead, but Tastis might think to use that himself, and he didn’t want confusion. The soldiers had rehearsed this, yesterday in the late afternoon and again this morning: their officers should know their tasks by now.
Grendis saluted and departed, to join her squadrons, the light cavalry detailed for pursuit. Tegestu watched her go, sadness in his heart, breathing a prayer for her safety. He knew that her job exposed her to no great danger — she would only be employed when the battle was already won — but still Tegestu felt the tightness in his jaw and belly, his worry for her.
Tegestu gave a signal and the pioneers dashed out on fast horses to their marks, ready to guide the column. Then the long line of men moved out of the camp, guiding themselves by the winking shuttered lanterns of the pioneers, each of whom was standing by a stake that marked the line of march, a route carefully designed by the engineers to keep out of sight of any of Tastis’ columns. A messenger came to Tegestu as they marched.
“They’ve completed two bridges,” the young woman said, breathless from her ride. “They’ve got men across already, clearing brush for the others.”
“Very well,” Tegestu said. “Sit you down yonder, and rest your horse. Join us later.’’
The march went on. Tegestu and Palastinas had divided the army between them, Tegestu taking the mobile column on its night march, Palastinas holding the fortified camp. They would crush Tastis between them as the rebels marched, strung out across country, en route to their own surprise attack.
The last stage of Tegestu’s march was made dismounted, each trooper holding his horse’s bridle and moving slowly, careful to avoid any sound that might alert Tastis or his men, their hands ready to clamp on their horses’ muzzles in case a shifting wind brought them the scent of other horses and the beasts tried to call out in welcome.
Tegestu turned aside to a tall stone farmhouse, his new headquarters; the inhabitants— , landowners owing allegiance to a baron who theoretically owed his own obedience to Neda-Calacas— were roused out of their beds by Classani and shut up in the attic. The column flowed past, down into a shallow fold in the ground that would shelter them from Tastis’ eyes until the time was right. The others were disposed carefully in their own places of hiding, the pioneers leading them with colored lanterns, each lantern shuttered to beam its light only at the approaching troops.
A night attack, Tegestu knew, demanded uncommon planning; but his staff was practiced, and he himself had been over the ground yesterday and again today. He would not go out again tonight; there would be little point, and he would serve better remaining here at the headquarters where any message would reach him. And messengers began to trickle in, from the whelkrani and mercenary captains and the city soldiers, breathlessly informing him that the men were in place and ready.
“They have all reported, bro-demmin,” Acamantu reported, ticking off the last messenger on his list. He looked up at his father with satisfaction.
“Very well,” Tegestu said complacently. “Tell the runners to return and tell their captains there will be no action for the present. The soldiers may sleep on their arms.”
“Aye, bro-demmin.”
“And send one of our own runners to the Abessu-Denorru. Inform him that our force is in place and ready.” He might as well ease Necias’ anxiety if he could. He hoped the elderly, patient Palastinas would serve as an example for Necias; he was certain that, even if things went utterly wrong tonight, the Marshal would lean back, stroke his dainty white beard, and take it with what philosophy he could.
No more messengers would come for a while: he had no watchers near the bridges, not wanting Tastis to stumble across one of them and take alarm. Instead his scouts were disposed overlooking Tastis’ likely route of march, ready to inform him when the enemy started moving. That wouldn’t be for some hours yet.
For the present there was nothing to do; Tegestu asked Thesau to bring him tea and eyed a plush settee sitting comfortably in the next room. His Classani, used to his ways, brought the settee hastily forth, and he sat himself down, leaned against the pillows, closed his eyes, and awaited events.
He must have slept, for when he awakened the glass of tea that had been so carefully put by his hand was cold. One of Cascan’s spies, her body and head shrouded in midnight black, had come in to report. “Tastis is moving, bro-demmin,” she said with a bow. “My companions remain and are trying to estimate his numbers.”