Another cheer went up, mingled with angry shouts of "Let's raid the bastards!", "Blood and
Steel!", and "Lead on like you did today, Lieutenant, we'll follow!"
Beka eased herself down on a crate and motioned for silence. "It looks like two decuriae will have to do for now. Rhylin, I'm making you sergeant of Second Decuria. Who do you have left?"
Rhylin looked around. "Nikides, Syra, Kursin, Tealah, Jareel, and Tare."
"Braknil, what about First Decuria?"
The sergeant waved at the two exhausted young men beside him. "Just Arbelus and Gilly, so far."
"And us," called Steb, who'd just arrived with Kallas, Ariani, and Mirn.
"You're missing an eye!" Braknil said gruffly.
"I've still got one left," Steb replied, though it was clear he was in pain. "Come on, Sergeant. There aren't enough of us left to spare me. I can fight."
"All right, then," the sergeant said with a shrug.
"Corporal Kallas, you're still sound?"
Still deeply shaken by the death of his brother, Kallas nodded grimly.
"So that makes seven in each decuria so far," Beka observed, counting them up. "All of you who were with Sergeant Mercalle, step forward. Tobin, Barius, you go into Braknil's decuria. Marten, Kaylah, and Zir, you're with Rhylin. As soon as we've got horses and gear sorted out, we have orders to head up into those hills as scouts."
"We couldn't make a worse job of it than Eagle troop," Kaylah muttered. Others growled angry agreement.
"Never mind that. The Plenimarans pulled a good trick this morning, it's true. It's up to us to make sure they don't do it again. We're going to poke our nose down every gully and snake hole until we find out where they're hiding. They can't conceal that many men and horses for long now that we know what they're up to. Sergeants, see that everyone scrounges up a decent horse, patrol gear, and a week's rations. Stow your tabards again, too. Maybe we can pull a few surprises of our own, eh? We ride out at dusk."
Beka sat where she was for a moment, watching the remains of her command bustle about. Most were sporting minor wounds. It was probably a mistake to take
Steb, but as he'd pointed out, they couldn't afford to spare anyone who could still ride.
Twelve riders and two sergeants lost in a single day's fighting, she thought, and half of those dead.
It was a lucky thing they had a mission to take up their thoughts tonight.
35
A white linen pavilion had been erected for the Oreska dead. As Seregil and Micum passed by it the next morning, they heard soft chants and the weeping of those preparing the bodies for pyre or grave.
Farther on, the enemy corpses lay under the open sky. Judged by their clothing, they could have been laborers or thieves, but most of them had the build and scars of soldiers. A Scavenger cart stood ready nearby. Untended and unmourned, they would be hauled away and burnt without ceremony.
"Valerius said that after the attack was over, any of Mardus' men who weren't already dead just dropped in their tracks," Micum mused as he and Seregil walked around the bodies, seeking faces they'd seen with Mardus in Wolde all those months ago. "You figure the dyrmagnos did that?"
"Probably," Seregil said. He was still wearing his baggy borrowed clothes and looked as if he hadn't slept in a week. Micum knew for a fact that he'd sat awake with Nysander all night. They both had.
"But I doubt they killed all of their own people," Seregil went on, taking a closer look at a ragged, one-handed beggar. "Have you noticed that no one remembers seeing Mardus and the necromancers leave? Except Hwerlu, maybe. He said something about a huge dark shape rising over the House as he ran toward it. He didn't get there until it was over, so that may have been Mardus' exit. A dyrmagnos could have that kind of power."
Micum felt an unlucky chill go up his back.
"Let's hope we can stay clear of the thing, then. Anything that can lay Nysander low and then fly off like a bat is nothing I want to face down."
A swarthy man with a scar through his bottom lip caught his eye. "I know him. He's one of Captain Tildus' men," Micum said, pointing him out to Seregil. "I drank with him a few times at the Pony in Wolde. He's one of them who gave Alec a hard time."
"I see an old friend, too." Seregil stood looking down at a lanky, rawboned man dressed in a soiled leather jerkin. "Farm the Fish, a gaterunner who came up missing a month ago. Tym mentioned him to me just before he disappeared himself. I don't recognize any of the others. Probably all Plenimaran soldiers and spies brought in for the job." He tapped his chin with one long forefinger as he frowned down at the dead. "You remember I ran into a Juggler up in Asengai's dungeon, that night Alec and I first met?"
"The Plenimaran assassins guild, you mean?"
"Yes." Seregil jerked a thumb at die corpses. "What would you bet there's a guild mark on one or two of these fellows?"
Micum grimaced in distaste. "Guess there's wily one way to find out. What's it look like?"
"Three small blue dots tattooed to form a triangle. They're usually in the armpit,"
Seregil told him, adding with a wry grin, "At least this is better than going to the charnel houses."
Even in the scented coolness of the Oreska garden, however, it was not pleasant work.
Pulling at clothing and cold, stiff limbs, Micum found no tattoos, but two men did have suspicious scars about the size of a sester coin under their arms. The healed tissue was still pink and new.
"I think this might be something," he said.
Seregil came over for a look and nodded. "There are three more just like it over there. That scar isn't a burn or a puncture; the skin was sliced away on purpose. If it wasn't a Juggler's mark they cut out, then I'll wager it was something similar."
"That Mardus is a cagey bastard," Micum said with grudging admiration. "He wasn't taking any chances. Not that we can prove it now, though."
Seregil examined the scar. "You know, I've heard that these skin marks go deep. What do you think?"
Micum sighed. "It's worth a try, so long as no drysians catch us at it."
Slipping a tiny, razorlike blade from the seam of his belt, Seregil held the skin on either side of the mark taut with two fingers and sliced away the surface of the scar. When he'd pulled back the flap of skin, he and Micum inspected the livid flesh beneath.
"See anything?" asked Micum.
"No, they must've cut deep on this one. Let's try another."
Their second attempt was more successful. Scraping gently this time, Seregil uncovered the faint triangular imprint of the Juggler's guild mark still visible in the flesh.
Seregil rocked back on his heels with grim satisfaction. "That's proof enough for me."
"Maker's Mercy! What do you think you're doing?"
It was Darbia, the dark-haired drysian who'd been helping tend Nysander. Bristling with indignation, she strode up and made a quick blessing sign over the corpse.
"Enemy or not, I cannot condone such barbarous behavior," she snapped.
"It's not desecration," Micum assured her, getting to his feet. "This man and several others wear the mark of Plenimaran spies. The
Queen should be informed before any of these bodies are taken away."
The drysian crossed her arms, still scowling. "Very well then, I'll see to it."
"Did Valerius send you after us?" asked Seregil.
"Yes, Nysander is stirring a bit."
Without waiting to hear more, Seregil and Micum ran for the tower.