“It was Siniava’s camp, wasn’t it?” The Duke nodded, and sat abruptly on a stool beside the bed. Cal rolled his head sideways, and felt his hand lifted and held. A surgeon moved to the bed. Cal swallowed. “Sir—my lord—”
“Yes, Cal?”
“Please—don’t stay. Go—wait for my father.”
“What? Cal, I’ve seen wounds before; I won’t faint.”
Cal shook his head. “Please—don’t stay—”
“Cal—what is it?” He could not answer. The Duke met his eyes in a long silent look, and suddenly he saw the sense of what he could not say looking back at him. He saw tears fill the Duke’s eyes, saw them blinked back, saw the rage he had seen last fall return. When the Duke spoke, his voice held nothing of that, nothing but calm. “As you wish, Cal. If you want me, I’ll be in the front room.” He sighed, and released Cal’s hand; sighed again, and stood.
“My lord—”
“Yes?”
“If I could bear anyone—it would be you—”
The Duke nodded and withdrew. The surgeons unwrapped the cloak around him and set to work. Numbwine masked the physical pain for the next hour, but not the mental. Now that he was safe, now that he might have thought all was well—he told himself he should be glad of the children he already had, the campaigns he had already fought, the rank he had already won. But what he had lost intruded. How could he command a company, once it was known? He knew too well the ways of rumor to doubt that it would be known, and known widely.
He was still thinking this, gloomily, when his father arrived, bursting past the Duke with hardly a word and into the bedchamber. He saw at once that his father knew. The dark eyes were snapping, the beard bristling in all directions. Cal stared back at him.
“Well,” said his father gruffly. “Thank the gods they took the only thing you don’t need to be a commander—or my heir.” Cal wondered if he’d heard rightly; he knew his face must show his shock. A grim smile parted his father’s beard. “Hadn’t thought of it that way, had you? Arms and legs, Caclass="underline" brains, eyes, ears—oh, and a strong voice—that’s what you need. That you’ve got. Ask Aesil M’dierra if she ever needed balls to run a company—ask with a mile’s head start, and the fastest horse in my stable—you might make it home.” He sat down on the stool by the bed. “And thank the gods we didn’t give in to young Ali about coming this year. That would have been a real mess.” His face softened. “How much numbwine have you had?”
“Enough, sir.” Cal still felt faintly affronted.
“Good. Cal, I’m not ignoring your loss. I know—I do know—what it means. But I know what it doesn’t mean. You’ve got heirs of the body—more than our friend Kieri has. You’ve got everything else I need. I’m not going to lose a son, Cal, because you lost a few lumps of flesh—even those lumps.”
“I—I thought you would mind—”
“Mind! Of course I mind; I’ll serve you that bastard’s balls on toast, if you don’t get ’em first. But you’re a Halveric. My son. My commander and heir. You still have everything else, and it’s enough.”
“Yes, sir.” Cal felt better. A little better. “He—he said, sir, that he had agents north of the mountains. He said five sons might not be enough.”
Aliam Halveric snorted. “You must have been dazed, Cal, to worry about that. Didn’t you think I’d take precautions? And better, told your mother about it.” He chuckled, and Cal relaxed enough to smile. “I’d like to see anyone sneak past your mother—your wife, now, she’s a handful too, but Estil—” Cal thought of his tall mother, still hunting at her age with a bow many men could not bend. “Now. Did the surgeons say how long you’d be down?”
“No—not yet.”
“Hmmph. I need you up, and you need to be up. Did they try a potion?”
“No—I don’t think so. But—”
“Then I’ll ask. Cal, think of his face when he hears you’re back in command again. He’ll get no joy of his doings then! I’ll be back.” He rose.
“Sir?”
“What?”
“How did you—who told you?” His father grimaced.
“Oh, that. Well, that scum sent them. With the badge off your cloak, incidentally. Good gold, that. It’s as well he did, Caclass="underline" he has nothing to do magicks with, except some blood, and you’ve spilled blood all over the south. Now rest, and I’ll see what the surgeons say.” His father left; Cal found himself smiling.
From the front room came a murmur of voices. The surgeons would have no chance, Cal realized. Soon enough they came trooping back in, along with his father, a Captain of Falk, and the Duke’s mage.
“I don’t care,” his father was saying, “which of you does what, or in what order—but I want him up this day.”
“But, my lord—”
“Impossible. If he—”
“I can’t be expected to—”
“Silence!” That roar was the Duke, just inside the chamber. “Aliam, my surgeons are at your command. My mage has some constraints I don’t understand—but, Master Vetrifuge, I expect you’ll do what you can. I do suggest, Aliam, that as he got no sleep last night, you might let him rest today.”
“Kieri, he’ll sleep better when he’s healed—”
“Very well, then. As you will.” The Duke withdrew. The surgeons looked at each other and at the mage and cleric. The mage stared at the floor, and the cleric looked at his father.
“Get on with it,” snapped Aliam Halveric.
He woke, hungry and rested, in the long spring evening. His father sat beside him, and the Duke was sprawled in a seat at the end of the bed. They were talking strategy, low-voiced, until the Duke noticed his open eyes, and nodded to Aliam. Cal gave them a smile.
“I’m hungry.”
“Good. They said you would be.” The Duke sent his servant for food.
“I’ve got your clothes,” said his father. He gestured to them, hanging over a rack. “I brought mail, too—your old set. Come out when you’re dressed.”
“You ought to tell him,” said the Duke, “that while he slept the day away, we moved camp.” He grinned at Cal. “We loaded you in one of Vladi’s wagons, and you didn’t even murmur. The teamster said you didn’t rouse all day. We’d begun to wonder just how much numbwine you’d had.” He turned and went through the curtain into the front room.
“Come on,” said his father. “Don’t take forever.” And he, too, left Cal to stand and dress alone.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Paks snatched a few hours of sleep before they set off again, upstream along the river. She was still tired and sleepy, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. No one asked her any questions. They came to a shallow stony ford just as the Clart scouts discovered an enemy party guarding it, but the skirmish ended quickly.
“Well,” said Piter generally, “now we know we’re going the right way—”
“If those lights we saw last night were Siniava’s fires, we’ll have to turn back east,” said Vik.
“I’d like to find the Vonja militia,” said Devlin. “At least to know which side they’re on.” But they found nothing that day.
The next morning they found traces of a large camp. While looking for a clue to which army had used it, they found a refuse pit half-full of bodies. Here were the missing men: young Juris, and Sim, of Dorrin’s cohort, and old Harek. Harek was still alive, missing both hands, now, and with a festering wound in his belly. The other bodies bore evidence of the same bitter torment. Paks helped dig the graves; as they buried Sim and Juris, she glanced over at the Pliunis, massed across the clearing. They had said no more about deserters. Nothing could be done for Harek, but numbwine to ease his pain and a friend’s hand for comfort. When he died, they laid him in the grave they’d dug. Paks heard from Piter about his family.