A palace courtier entered, interrupting Lofantyr’s rosy predictions of Merduk disaster. He bent and whispered in the King’s ear, and his sovereign shot up out of his seat, an outraged look on his face. “Tell her-” he began, but the doors of the chamber were thrown open, and the Queen Dowager entered with two of her ladies-in-waiting. Every man present bowed deeply, save for her son, who was furious.
“Lady, it is not appropriate that you be present here at this time,” he grated.
“Nonsense, Lofantyr,” his mother said with a winning smile, waving a folded fan. “I’ve sat in on meetings of the High Command all my life. Is that not true, General Menin?”
Menin bowed again and murmured something incomprehensible.
“In any case, Lofantyr, you left something behind when you visited me in my apartments the other day. I wished to make sure you received it.” She held out a scroll heavy with the scarlet wax of the Royal seal.
Lofantyr took it as gingerly as if he expected it to bite him. His eyes were narrow with suspicion. As he opened and read the document his face flushed red.
“From whence did this come?”
“Come now, my sovereign, it bears your own seal-one which I no longer possess. Pray read it out to this august company. I’m sure they are with child to hear the good news it contains.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Read it!” Her voice cracked like a gunshot, the authority in it making every man there wince. Lofantyr seemed to shrink.
“It… it is a general’s commission, for one Corfe Cear-Inaf, confirming him second-in-command of Martellus’s army or, if Martellus no longer lives, he is appointed sole commander.”
Andruw thumped his gauntleted fist into his palm with delight, and behind him several of the junior officers cried “Bravo!” as if they were watching a play. The Queen Dowager glided over to Colonel Aras, who looked as though he had just swallowed a bolus of foul-tasting medicine. “I hope you are not too disappointed, Colonel. I know how much you looked forward to commanding those red-clad barbarians.”
“No… no, not at all. Delighted, happy to…” He trailed off in confusion. Odelia’s concentrated regard was hard to bear.
“This is a mistake,” King Lofantyr managed, regaining his poise. “I sealed no such orders.”
“And yet they exist. Countermanding them is tantamount to breaking one’s word, my son. You are a busy man-you have merely misremembered that you issued them. I am sure the recollection will come to you. In time. Gentlemen, I will leave you to your high strategies. I, a poor, incompetent woman, am obviously out of my arena here. Haptman Cear-Adurhal, pray stop by my chambers before you return to your command.”
Andruw bowed wordlessly, his face shining. The other men there followed suit as the poor, incompetent woman made a regal exit.
FOURTEEN
They met him with a salvo of guns, Torunn’s walls erupting in smoke and flame as the army came into view over the horizon. The exhausted men lifted their heads at the sound, and saw a thousand-strong guard of honour in rank on rank waiting to welcome them into the city. Corfe reined in, bemused, to regard the spectacle as his enlarged command continued to trudge past him. Torunnan sword-and-buckler men, arquebusiers and Fimbrian pikemen. His own Cathed-rallers out on the wings and bringing up the rear.
Marsch and Ebro joined him.
“Why do they fire guns at us?” Marsch wanted to know. “Is it a warning?”
“It’s a salute,” Ebro informed him. “They’re honouring us.”
“About time someone did,” another voice said as a fourth horseman joined them. This was Colonel Ranafast, the only officer of any rank to have survived from the dyke garrison. He was an emaciated-looking hawkish man who had commanded the dyke’s cavalry, only a score of which were now left to him. He had known Corfe as an obscure ensign, Martellus’s aide, but he showed no resentment at his former subordinate’s elevation.
The streets of the capital were lined with people. Corfe could hear their cheers from here, a mile away. They had turned out the populace to welcome his men. For their sake, he was glad of it-their morale needed the boost-but for himself, he would sooner have curled up in a cloak and stolen some sleep out here in the mud. He knew that the pantomimes would begin again the moment he was in the capital, and his soul was sick at the thought.
“Riders approaching,” Marsch said. “It is Andruw, I think. Yes, that is him. I know that smile of his.”
Andruw halted before them, breathing hard, and threw Corfe a salute.
“Greetings, General. I have orders to show you and your officers to a special set of quarters in the palace. There’s to be a banquet tonight in your honour.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Andruw?” Corfe demanded. “And what is this general horseshit?”
“It’s not a jest, Corfe. The Queen Dowager swung it for you. You’re now commander of this lot.” Andruw gestured at the long muddy column of men that was marching past. “She’s a wonder, that woman. Remind me never to cross her. Bearded Lofantyr in his own council chamber, bold as you please. What a king she’d have made, had she been born a man!”
General. He had not really believed she would do it. General of a half-wrecked army. He could take little joy in it. A certain grim satisfaction perhaps, but that was all.
The Fimbrians were marching past now, and one detached himself to salute the group of riders.
“Colonel Corfe?” Formio, the Fimbrian adjutant, asked.
“General now, by the Saint!” Andruw chortled.
“Shut up, Andruw. Yes?”
“Are we to enter the city with your men? I shall understand if political ramifications dictate otherwise.”
“What? No, by God, you’ll march in along with the rest of us. I’ll find quarters for every last one of you, in the palace itself if needs be. And if they refuse us, I’ll damn well sack the place.”
The men around Corfe fell silent. His anger subdued them. He had been like this ever since the battle.
“My thanks, General. And my congratulations on your promotion.”
“What do you intend to do, Formio? You and your men.”
“That is for you to decide.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“The marshal’s last order was to put ourselves at your disposal. Until I hear differently from the electorates, we are under your personal orders, not those of the Torunnan Crown. Good day, General.” And the Fimbrian resumed his place in the long disciplined column of pikemen.
“A good man,” Marsch said approvingly. “These Fimbrians know their trade. It will be a fine thing to fight beside them again. They are strangely ignorant of horses, however.”
“Corfe,” Andruw said, “they’re waiting for you down there. The Queen Dowager set this up: the salute, the triumphal entry, everything. If the population get behind you, then the King himself cannot touch you. It’s all part of the game.”
Corfe smiled at last. “A great game. Is that what it is? All right, Andruw, lead on. I’ll wave and grin and look general-like, but at the end of it I want a bath, a flagon of good wine and a bed.”
“Preferably with something in it,” Ranafast said, with feeling.
At that, the group crackled with laughter, and they followed the marching line of their army down to the cheering crowds that awaited them.
The celebratory nature of it stuck in Corfe’s throat, though. The banquet that evening was attended by a mere six hundred guests-officers of the Torunnan army and their ladies, the nobility, rich men of no rank but with bottomless purses. It swept over him in a haze of candlelight and laughter. The wine was running freely, and the courses came and went in a blur of liveried attendants and silver trays. His own stomach was closed, and he was desperately tired, so he drank glass after glass of wine-the finest Gaderian-and sat in his court dress with the new silver general’s braid at his shoulders.