The wind was icy on his bare hide. Fallow had encouraged toughness, but running around naked in winter was a little more stringent than cold baths. Lemodwall shone with fresh snow. The peaks to the north looked higher than any he had yet seen on Nextdoor. Those to the south were lower, but behind them lay Thargvale.
Kolgan's rumored pass to Nagvale might not exist; it might be already blocked; it certainly could not be attempted without warm clothes and stout boots. The Nagians were doomed unless their madcap leader could deliver on his boast. Probably the Joalians were too.
As he neared the edge of the camp, he sensed that he was being followed. It was Dosh Houseboy, of course, now formally Dosh Envoy, although no one but Edward ever used that name. Edward waved for him to come closer, and then walked on. In a moment the youth was pacing at his side, decently dressed in a blue Joalian tunic, yellow breeches, and a stout pair of boots. Where or how he had acquired those was a mystery. He might have stolen them. If he had bought them, Edward preferred not to know what price he had paid.
Except when running errands, Dosh clung to Edward like a shadow. None of the warriors would have anything to do with him, lest their friends suspect them of unmanly desires. He could not even find a meal or a place at a fire unless he was with the hordeleader. The Nagians left him alone because D'ward had commanded them to, but he had been punched up by Joalian troublemakers at least twice. Perhaps Dosh's life had never been easy. At the moment it was certainly not, but he never complained.
He might be years older than he looked. He refused to give his age, or say much about himself at all. He was short and slight, had fairish curls, and his face had been childishly pretty until Tarion took a knife to it. Now it was scrolled with crosshatched red lines that bore a bizarre resemblance to railway tracks on Ordnance Survey maps, although only one man in this army would ever notice the resemblance. He had let his downy beard grow in since his promotion to messenger, but it was invisible at a distance. At close quarters it made him seem like a boy playing at dressing up. He could be mawkish or servile or acidly witty as circumstances required. And underneath the professional softness, he was as hard and bitter as a harlot—at least, Edward assumed a harlot would be like that, having never met one. He felt sure that sweet little Dosh was as tough as any bruiser in the army and much less trustworthy than the average tarantula.
"How long would you need to round up all the troopleaders for a council?” Edward asked.
"An hour. Half that if you'll let me delegate some to fetch others."
"Have the forager leaders returned?"
"No. You want substitutes?"
"Yes. Stay with me awhile, though. I have a problem."
They came to the lowest point of the neck, flanked by the river on either hand and barely above its level. Beyond them the land rose steeply to the gates. Joalian soldiers were working on breastworks and siege engines just out of bowshot of the defenders. Edward stopped and stared at the activity without going any closer.
If he were defending the city, he would be about ready to make another sortie and burn those scaffolds. He wondered if they were dry enough for the attempt to come tonight. Probably not. It would take many fortnights for the earthworks to reach the gate. Winter was at hand. Tomorrow Kolgan was pulling out.
He turned his attention to the city itself, the high wall and the tall buildings within. The toothed battlements went all the way around, which seemed unnecessary—why build walls on the edge of vertical cliffs? Was there some reason to expect attack from the flanks, or was that merely an artistic conceit?
The cliffs were not perfectly sheer, and the plateau was irregular. In places the ground projected out beyond the walls, although those salients had mostly been beveled away to steep slopes. Between them, where the ground dipped, the walls were necessarily higher. An army could not march around the city, but possibly an active man could work his way along there, if he had time and was sufficiently suicidal. A squad of sappers might find a place to undermine the foundations, but how could they possibly do so undetected? The defenders would drop rocks on them. Still, there were spots where a man might stand back a short distance from the wall, so that he would not be looking straight up at it. Or shooting straight up it? Or?...
He felt that there was an idea there somewhere, but he could not find an end to tug on. Many generals much wiser than he must have considered all these possibilities in the past. Lemod had never been taken by storm.
"It should be possible to walk right around the base of the walls,” he said, shivering.
"If they didn't see you. A couple of the Rareby kids claim to have done it."
Edward glanced down at the guileless blue eyes in their long golden lashes. “How do you know that?"
"Eavesdropping."
Obviously. Nobody spoke to Dosh unless it was absolutely necessary.
"Bring them to the meeting too."
"Want me to ask if any others have done it?"
"No.” Edward chuckled. “Did you speak to Tarion this way?"
"What way?"
"All terse and efficient and military."
"No."
"How did you speak to him?"
Dosh looked away for a moment, then turned back to Edward with tears glistening. “I love you,” he said with a break in his voice. “I will do anything for you, anything to make you happy.” He seemed completely sincere. “I love you for your smile, for the touch of your—"
"That's enough, thank you! I get the gist."
"You asked."
"And I should not have. I didn't mean to humiliate you."
"How could you humiliate me? You don't know what humiliation is."
"No, I suppose I don't. I am truly sorry."
"Don't be,” Dosh said. “Sorry is a waste of time. The Green Scriptures, Canto 474."
"Really?"
"Who knows? Who ever reads that junk?” He smiled ruefully at Edward's laughter. “What's your problem?"
"Can I trust you?"
"If you mean will I tell anyone in the camp what you say to me, the answer is no. Who would listen?"
"Can you talk to anyone outside the camp?"
Dosh flinched. “Of course not!” he snapped.
Which confirmed what Edward had suspected for some time. The wind was gnawing through to his bones now and he was probably turning bright blue, but this was important.
"You were spying on Tarion, weren't you? Who for?"
"I won't answer that."
"You can't answer that! And you couldn't tell him, either! That's why he cut up your face!"
"You calling me a hero?"
"No, I'm not. You're not spying for a mortal, are you?"
A spasm that might have been pain twisted the red scars beside Dosh's eyes. “Can't answer that,” he mumbled.
"Then you needn't try. If I name a name, can you—"
"Don't, sir! Please?"
"All right,” Edward said, still uncertain how much of this performance was real. “If you get the chance, will you stick a knife in my back?"
Dosh curled his cherubic lip in contempt. “You would be well rotted by now."
"Yes. I see. Thank you.” Not Zath, then. “Did you ever wear a gold rose in your hair?"
Dosh stared at him, then nodded. A boyish blush spread around his scars. What did it take to make a harlot blush?
But the answer to the real question was obviously Tion. “Just snooping?"
"Just snooping. Now, what's the problem?"
He was a born spy, curious as a cat about everything. Even little Eleal had been no nosier than Dosh. Edward did not like to think about Eleal.
He hugged himself, hunching against the wind. “I told the new battlemaster that I would take the city for him tonight, and I don't know how. Haven't the foggiest."