‘Where did you learn all these commands?’ Gavin asked. His brother certainly didn’t seem drunk when he did speak.
‘There’s books,’ Gabriel said. He smiled at his brother. ‘I’ll share them if you like. The Imperial Library has – fifteen? twenty? – books on strategy and tactics.’
Ser Gavin laughed. ‘This is the new knighthood,’ he said. ‘We’ll all be scholars.’
His brother made a face, as if he smelled something bad. ‘Wait until we fight someone who hasn’t read the books,’ he said.
Meanwhile, Ser Thomas showed his surprise only in the fidgeting of his horse, and then the little army was wheeling from line into column, every company of fifty tracing a quarter of a circle and then stepping off by fours from the right – threes for the cavalry – so that the shield wall turned into a long snake with Vardariotes at its head and tail, and the snake wriggled off into the hills north and west of the city. It was mid-afternoon, and the Duke was marching the army towards Alba. Leaving the city empty.
Kronmir spread some coins out on the table. ‘I want complete reports on how he deploys his forces – in what order, who is in the centre – everything you see. Nianna, I would like the muster list of the local militia who are following his banner.’
The madam shook her head. ‘I might be able to get it, but if Duke Andronicus uses it to kill men then I’m dead too. I’m too exposed.’
One of the sellswords laughed at her unintended pun.
Kronmir glared at the man. Nianna was his best agent, and her other roles – as a woman, as a prostitute – were of no interest to Jules Kronmir whatsoever, except in the degree to which they made her more or less useful as a source.
‘If I swear that the information will never be used for a cleansing?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘I know who could provide it. What’s it worth?’
He sucked his front teeth. ‘Three hundred florins,’ he said.
She shrugged.
Kronmir hated having these conversations with multiple agents – hated the loss of compartmentalisation, hated that they’d even seen each other, much less that they might start something like collective bargaining. But the foreigner moved so quickly, and made so few mistakes, that he had to strike while the iron was hot.
‘You gentlemen – get in the saddle. Be wary – the Vardariotes are rumoured to be picking up every rider on the road. But bring me some information.’ Kronmir motioned to the door.
‘If’n the lady stands to earn three hundred florins,’ said a former soldier with an Alban accent, ‘Mayhap me and me mates might receive a slightly more marvellous remuneration, eh?’ He grinned a gap-toothed grin. ‘I have information to sell, too.’
Kronmir narrowed his eyes. ‘Well?’
The man shook his head. ‘Well,’ he said, suddenly unsure of himself. Something in Kronmir’s body language scared him. ‘Well – Ser Bescanon says the new Duke’s going to reinstate the Latinikon. Hire back all the mercenaries.’ He shrugged. ‘What’s that worth?’
Kronmir pursed his lips. ‘Ten ducats,’ he said, and counted them down.
‘Fuck that! She got three hundred florins.’ The Alban threw the coins into Kronmir’s face.
None struck him.
Kronmir was fussy and hated waste; but he was also a craftsman, and while he might make an error in haste, he usually retrieved it. He moved under the coins, flowed around the table between them, crossed the floor to the two sellswords, and killed them. His first dagger blow – from the sheath – went into the Alban’s throat, and his second blow, turning into his front leg, went into his partner’s head at the temple – two blows, and both corpses fell.
‘My mistake,’ he said to Nianna. ‘Their type is ten a florin, and I’ll get more. I wanted to save time with a single briefing, and instead I endangered the whole plan.’ He shook his head, cleaning his weapon on the Alban’s shirt even as his dead heels drummed on the floor.
Nianna paled and put a hand to her throat. ‘Blessed Virgin protect me,’ she said aloud. But she paused and spat on the Alban’s corpse.
In an hour he’d hired four men for less money – through a cut-out, of course – and dispatched them. He regretted his quick disposal of the Alban – the man had good skills and might have made a competent scout, with time. Kronmir was mentally penning a third letter requesting some Easterners from his master, who didn’t seem to read his reports.
Still, Nianna had committed to providing the list.
He stayed to write a report that included a small number of triumphs: poisonings, public outrages, two deserters suborned from the Nordikans who were even now reporting on military affairs in the palace.
‘At your command, I can snuff out the parvenu Duke,’ he finished. ‘In the meantime, he drills his troops . . .’ He raised his pen. He’d complete the thought when his agent returned with the reports of the four hirelings. Kronmir spent an hour in the early afternoon contemplating how much easier all this might be if he did everything himself. He didn’t mind taking risks. And the use of agents was painfully slow and the information second hand. And he wondered, as he had all his professional life, if the use of hermetical powers would help him. If only he could recruit an utterly reliable, skilled practitioner.
Except such men were too committed to other paths to power.
He shook his head. Spying was difficult enough.
The army turned onto the Alban road and marched at its fastest step, up into the hills. The Vardariotes swept the flanks like a curry brush on a dirty horse, making dust fly, and two of Kronmir’s hirelings watched the show from a high olive grove, lying on their stomachs at the edge of an ancient stone terrace, their horses hidden away among the trees.
‘He’s marching away,’ Antonio said.
‘Our employer will want to know that,’ said Alphonso.
‘Duke Andronicus, you mean,’ Antonio spat.
‘Must be,’ agreed the other. ‘Who else is in this game?’
The two men wriggled back from the edge of the terrace and ran for their horses.
Both were knocked to the ground and pinned with boots against their necks by Amy’s Hob and Dan Favour. Gelfred nodded to them.
‘You know the drill,’ he said. ‘Take your report to Ser Thomas.’
They were sellswords. They didn’t hesitate to talk but, as Gelfred quickly found, they had very little to say.
The Duke’s army marched north almost six leagues as the shadows grew longer.
‘Where the fuck are we going?’ Wilful Murder spat in the autumn dust.
Toby shrugged and pulled another biscuit from his saddle bags.
Bent leaned over his horse’s rump. ‘Not far,’ he said.
Wilful Murder glared at him.
‘No wagons, no food. And Ser Michael’s gettin’ wed tomorrow afternoon, eh? So we won’t go far.’ Bent took a pull from his canteen and offered it to Toby, who shook his head.
‘Fewkin’ bastard would love to use Ser Michael’s wedding to fool us and that fewkin’ Andronicus. We’ll have a battle – mark my words.’ Wilful Murder spat. ‘An’ we won’t get paid either.’ He took the flask and drank. ‘Mark my words.’
They halted in a valley between two steep ridges. There was talk all along the column – flankers went out, and the younger and faster men ran to the top of the hills.
As the church struck five, the advance guard of Vardariotes returned at a fast trot. With them came a long column of wagons and Ser Jehan with his twenty lances.
The army formed an open rectangle on the march and passed the defile at the end of the valley and then marched back towards the city. All could see what the wagons held.
It was full dark by the time the column passed the Vardariotes Gate, and the Eastern regiment dropped off on either side and saluted until the last company in the column passed them. Then, at a shrill whistle, they all dismounted together.
By then, the wagons were deep in the city, and their cargo was safe from attack or ambush.