Immediately after lunch, when the crowd in the common room had grown dense with muscle, he stood and thumped an empty tankard on the bar. When he had everyone’s attention, he stated in a voice that carried through the room, “All those who want to fight the heathens gather in the side yard now. Weapons training will commence in five minutes.”
While the gaggle of men filed eagerly out of the door, he gathered Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. “Knives-all sorts, but use the most basic moves. Once we see what they’re like, we’ll split them into groups.”
The others-all ex-army-nodded, and followed him out into the yard.
They put their recruits through their paces, much to the amusement of the crowd that gathered to watch and exclaim.
In short order, the activity turned into an event, with performers and an appreciative audience, many of whom were female. Initially the murmurs, giggles, and sly glances irritated Gareth, but then, passing before a knot of girls, he heard, “I must rush home and tell Hilda about this.”
After that, he watched the crowd more closely, and saw that girls were constantly coming and going. They couldn’t stay for long because they were expected home-but once at home, they would talk.
He couldn’t ask for a more certain way of spreading the news about the cultists. Once he realized that, he forgot about the crowd, and concentrated on drilling his inexperienced but enthusiastic troops.
The day ended with a flurry of ice and no cultists anywhere. Seated with the others in the common room, while they finished their dinner and Bister, Jimmy and Mullins entertained the table with tales of the new recruits and their varied skills, Gareth let the talk wash over him, and mentally ran through his preparations again.
The scroll holder-the item the cultists most wanted-was as safe as it could be. On the intial stages of their journey, Arnia had carried it, but in Alexandria, once he’d taken Watson’s measure, he’d spoken with him. Watson was steady, loyal and dependable, with a deep streak of integrity. He was also the oldest of their group, the least likely to be involved in physical heroics. From Alexandria on, Watson had carried the scroll holder-exactly where, even Gareth didn’t know.
If anything adverse were to happen to their party, Watson would take whatever survivors there were and make for England. He had money and letters of introduction and instructions from Gareth-and he had the scroll holder. No matter what, the scroll holder would reach England.
Gareth had also given Arnia money and letters of introduction. If the cult succeeded in breaking up their party, she would take Dorcas and head for England. Together, the women would manage, and the cult would ignore two women of lower caste.
The rest of them were potential targets. The cult would come for him and Emily, then, when they didn’t find the scroll holder, would go for Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. They might even consider Jimmy.
He was deep into trying to think like a cult commander, when Emily’s hand closed about his wrist and pulled him back to the present. Raising his eyes, he met hers.
She studied his face, her own expression serious. After a moment of searching his eyes, she murmured, “They’ll be plotting and planning, too, won’t they? Gathering their forces and organizing?”
The others, hearing her question, fell silent and waited for his reply. He glanced around the table, then returned his gaze to Emily’s face and nodded. “Even though Ferrar isn’t here-at least I think it highly unlikely he will be-there’ll be a commander of sorts in charge.”
He looked at the others, let his gaze rest on Bister and Jimmy. “In whatever’s coming, we shouldn’t imagine we’ll be facing any poorly disciplined group. The commander will almost certainly have brought assassins and some of the better-trained guards with him.”
His gaze moving to Mooktu and Mullins, he went on, “As for numbers, Ferrar would know that the easiest way to block our access to England would be to control the Channel ports. We’ve already heard there were watchers posted here, and Ferrar would have sent contingents of cultists to every port.”
“Now they know we’re here, they’ll draw those others in, have them join the group here.” Mullins made it a statement.
Gareth hesitated, then said, “I don’t know what route the other three couriers are taking, but unless one of the others is near-and I don’t think that’s likely-then yes, I imagine that when the fight comes, we’ll be facing a goodly number, not just ten or even twenty.”
Dorcas shivered and gathered her shawl closer.
Gareth seized the moment to marshal his words, then quietly went on, “We need to remember my orders.” In deference to all they’d been through together, he used the royal “we.” “I’m supposed to do all I can to engage and remove as many cultists as possible, especially here-and while I don’t know enough to appreciate why, we can trust absolutely that Wolverstone’s orders are sound.”
He met Bister’s eyes. “Which is why our ragtag recruits are a godsend. We need to do all we can to whip them into reasonable shape, to prepare them to engage and defeat the cultists.”
“One idea that occurs to me,” Mooktu said, “is that the cultists fight with blades only, all close quarters, hand-to-hand. Yet many of our recruits are sailors and farm workers-many have abilities with implements that strike from a greater distance.”
Mullins was nodding. “Like staffs, pitchforks, and the like-and slingshots, too.” He looked at Gareth. “Perhaps we should encourage them to work with those.”
“From what I saw, not many have any experience with swords.” Gareth considered, then nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll see what skills they do have, and work with those.”
Once again he glanced around the table. “Of one thing we can be absolutely sure. The Black Cobra will have given orders that we are to be stopped. Here, in Boulogne. So the cult will come for us, and they’ll come in force. For the cultists and their commander here, this will be their last stand.”
Huddled in his cloak, Uncle slowly turned, surveying the large chamber in the light of the lanterns two of his followers held high. Then he smiled. “This will do nicely.”
Looking at the young cultist who had come running to tell him of the tumbledown mansion hidden amid overgrown gardens not far from the town, Uncle raised his hand in blessing. “You have done well, my son.”
He looked inquringly as other cultists filed into the room.
One bowed. “We have searched, Excellency, but there is no one here. It is abandoned.”
“And big enough and sound enough for our headquarters?”
“It seems very appropriate, Uncle.”
“Excellent. Make arrangements to move all our baggage here, and summon all our fighters. This will henceforth be our headquarters.”
The men bowed.
Swift footsteps in the corridor outside had them all looking to the door.
Akbar appeared. He paused, taking in the ornate chamber-a drawing room, Uncle thought it would be called-then strode in. Pulling off his gloves, he met Uncle’s gaze, then bowed curtly.
“The men watching the inn report that the major has commenced drilling locals in the yard.”
Uncle frowned. “These are soldiers-militia?”
“No. Sailors, farmers-young men mostly, only a few older.”
Uncle’s expression turned contemptuous. “Lower orders.” He waved dismissively. “They are no threat to us. It is not in the nature of peasants to rise up against their betters.”
“But-”
“Doubtless the major thinks to distract us-to pretend he has large numbers of fighters. He does not.” Uncle met Akbar’s gaze, quietly stated, “He will not succeed in distracting us from the path we are destined to follow. That the Black Cobra has ordered us to follow.”