Cashel was glad to close the courtyard gate behind him and Tilphosa, but Leemay had already stopped screaming.
“Ready?” said Carus, hunching in the shadow of the boats.
“Yes,” said Sharina. She grinned. “And honored to accompany such a distinguished young officer as yourself.”
Sharina felt as though she was racing down a steep hill. If she ever paused, she’d stumble and maybe break her neck, but for now it felt exhilarating. Running had always been a talent and a delight for her, so the emotions that came with the fancy were good ones.
Carus chuckled, though tightly. His mind would view this risky piece of acting in terms of battle, not of a race. He might laugh in the midst of slaughter, but it wouldn’t be the same carefree humor as Sharina’s when she ran.
Carus donned the bronze helmet he’d carried in his bundle. He’d clipped on a crest of feathers dyed red and white, the colors of Blaise.
“Let’s go,” he said, rising to his feet with a smooth motion. His left hand rested on the pommel of his long sword to keep it from swinging as he walked. He strode out of the scatter of boats and up the beach. Sharina, covered head to ankles with a caped cloak of blue silk, matched the king stride for stride on his left.
Sharina expected a shout, but nobody noticed them appear. The moon lit only one side of a figure, and beyond a short distance firelight glittered from fittings and equipment rather than illuminating the whole person. Two paces on from where they’d hidden, she and Carus were part of the confusion of a military camp in darkness.
“Watch out!” Carus said as his heel brushed a sagging guy rope that he hadn’t noticed till he touched it. “I swear I’m tempted to launch a night attack after all. If nothing else, half these idiots’ll break their necks running around the mare’s nest they call a camp!”
He chuckled at the thought. Sharina smiled also, though she was glad the king hadn’t burst into caroling laughter that would’ve drawn the attention their appearance did not. She’d never met anyone else who laughed with full-throated humor the way Carus did—except for her brother, even before Garric began sharing his mind with his ancient ancestor.
They tramped on, making their way through the litter and filth. Count Lerdoc’s forces hadn’t bothered to dig latrines, let alone garbage pits.
“Not here a day and look at the state of this pigsty!” Carus fumed. He wasn’t shouting, but neither did it seem to Sharina that he was aware—or that he cared—that they were in the middle of a hostile army. “If I threw siege lines around them, they’d be dying of disease inside a week…”
He sighed. “Which would spread to our troops,” he added. “And anyway, we’re not going to do it that way.”
The mess disturbed Sharina in a different way. Where she grew up, organic waste was composted to become next year’s fertilizer. The Blaise camp’s disregard for any future beyond the next moment was a metaphor for war itself.
She smiled faintly, wondering if the Old Kingdom historian Tincer had said something like that. It would fit his tersely judgmental prose well enough. If she’d really been with her brother, she’d have asked if he remembered the line; but King Carus hadn’t had the time or the inclination for scholarship.
They passed close to a fire. The men drinking around it hunched away from Carus’ presence and averted their eyes.
When he was a few steps beyond, Carus murmured in an amused tone, “They think I’m one of their officers, all right. Every common soldier learns that his own officers are going to give him more trouble most of the time than the enemy ever thought of doing.”
Besides the helmet, the king wore a waist-length red cloak and a molded cuirass with silver-filled engraving. The cuirass, borrowed from a subcaptain in a regiment of heavy infantry, didn’t quite fit him—he’d had to replace the original side laces with longer ones—but junior officers often made do with hand-me-downs. The king’s tunic was of good quality wool, and on his feet were an infantryman’s heavy sandals instead of high cavalry boots.
They were nearing the camp’s central gate. The Blaise forces hadn’t thrown up a proper rampart and fighting step the way the royal army had, but a combination of ditches, stockades made from farm buildings and fences, and piled baggage, formed a boundary to the camp. The entrances were angled passages closed with looted carts tilted up on end. It struck Sharina that Count Lerdoc’s troops were doing about as much damage to the local countryside as the royal forces were.
A detachment of heavy infantry guarded the entrance. The men didn’t seem especially alert, but they were wearing sword belts and full armor; they’d tilted their eight-foot spears against the wall beside them.
“Ready?” Carus said, but it was a warning rather than a question. He strode forward, just as he would’ve done had Sharina cried, “No!” instead of murmuring, “Ready,” as she did.
“Officer of the Guard!” Carus said, not shouting but with a whipcrack in his voice. A youth Garric’s age was already rising from the section of tree trunk where he’d sat beneath the lantern.
“Just who are you?” the youth said, trying to sound belligerent. His voice broke on the second syllable.
His men watched without concern. Sharina noticed that most of the interest was for her rather than Carus. She’d have grinned, but that would be out of character; instead she threw her head slightly back so that she could look down her nose.
One of the soldiers, a grizzled fellow with dragons tattooed the length of both forearms, put his fists on his hips and laughed at her. The young officer gave him an angry glance but didn’t try to push his authority.
“Carus bor-Rasial,” Carus said briskly. “I’m part of the Haft contingent. I’m supposed to escort this lady back to Donelle and return, but that means I’ll need the password and countersign to get back through. What is it tonight?”
“Well, I don’t know if I should….” said the officer, blurting the truth because he couldn’t invent a statement that would make his confusion look any better.
“What’s she going to Donelle for?” the grizzled soldier asked. “The king’s got siege lines around the city, right?”
“The business of a Child of the Mistress is not your business, soldier,” Sharina said. In a more appraising tone she added, “If you wish to learn the Moon Wisdom, I can arrange for you to be taught. The Mistress has uses for strong backs.”
Unexpectedly the soldier turned his head away and muttered a prayer to the Shepherd. The Blaise army had heard things about Moon Wisdom also, and they must not like the rumors any better than the royal forces did.
“Yes, all right,” the officer said. He was standing straighter and speaking in a firm voice after seeing Sharina cow his subordinate. “The password is ‘moon’ and the countersign is ‘stars.’ Got that?”
“Right,” Carus said, giving a hitch to his sword belt. “Well, I’ll be back—”
“Lord Carus,” Sharina said, picking up her cue. “I have to return to the count at once.”
“What?” said Carus in feigned surprise. “Look, if we don’t start now, there isn’t going to be enough time for me to get you into Donelle and come back before dawn!”
“Then you’ll have to stay in Donelle, won’t you?” Sharina said, mimicking an upper-class sneer. It wasn’t hard to do: her mother Lora had the temperament—if not the breeding—of the aristocrats she’d once served in the palace at Carcosa.
She turned on her heel, and added, “Come along, sir!”
Carus grimaced. “Yes, milady,” he muttered. He followed Sharina toward the heart of the camp, lengthening his stride to catch up. Sharina expected to hear laughter from the guards, but none came. What did they know of Moon Wisdom?