‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ Steven said, ‘it’s not your fault. Gilmour’s right: you and Kellin have done far more than Gita expected of you, of that, I’m certain. You belong with your comrades. Go to them.’
Garec had been staring out between the trees, watching the river wind its way towards Orindale. He looked over at Kellin; she avoided his gaze.
Gilmour broke the tension. ‘There is one more thing you can do for us, Brand.’
‘What’s that?’ Kellin was happy to have something to say.
‘Find us a farm. We can’t be carting this table back and forth across the valley. Ride ahead; watch for Malakasian scouts; I’m sure they’re out there.’
‘Unless it’s Mark travelling alone,’ Garec said.
‘Great gods, if you encounter him, don’t engage him, no matter what he might say or do, no matter how innocent he seems,’ Gilmour said in a rush. ‘Turn and flee; get back to us as quickly as you can – in fact, stay off this path. We’ll move into the forest as well. It’ll be more difficult, but riding along this river is inviting trouble.’
‘Very well,’ Brand said, looking at Kellin. The Falkan woman didn’t appear to share Brand’s enthusiasm for the assignment, but she nodded regardless. From what Steven had told her, coming close enough to hear what Mark might have to say, innocent or not, would mean death for them both.
‘Find us a farm,’ Gilmour said, ‘then ride for Capehill. You’ll be there in ten, maybe twelve, days with hard riding and a fair wind.’
‘This time of year you never can predict the storms across the plains; they can be merciless.’ Garec caught Kellin’s eye and blushed. He silently chided himself for a fool; this was no time for childhood crushes.
‘Can you give us a few days? Perhaps three or four?’ Brand asked. ‘Let us find a farm tomorrow, a suitable place for you to secrete the table until the path across the Fold is clear. Then, give us a couple days to ride; I’d like to be north of Wellham Ridge before you knock Stalwick senseless. Maybe if Gita is delayed, even a few days, and we ride hard, we can reach our lines before they engage at Capehill.’
‘I will wait until the day Steven, Garec and I plan to open the portal and escort the spell table into Colorado,’ Gilmour said. ‘That gives you six days. You understand that I don’t want to wait longer than that for fear that we may find ourselves across the Fold for more than just an aven or two.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Garec looked nervously back and forth between Steven and Gilmour. It was apparent that he had not considered making the trip.
‘Ah, Garec, you’ll love it,’ Steven said. ‘I’ll take you for Thai food.’
*
‘Thadrake?’ Jacrys wheezed. He blinked to clear his blurry vision, but it didn’t help. He rubbed his eyes, then closed them and pressed down hard; he saw bursts of yellow, red and gold. Afterward, he could see well enough to discern that night had fallen and someone was moving about in the corner of the room, maybe folding blankets. The master spy was afraid that in addition to stabbing him through the lung, barely missing his heart, Sallax, that horsecock from Estrad, had hit him hard enough to leave his vision permanently out of focus. Remembering the fight in Carpello’s warehouse, the way Brexan had distracted him while Sallax tried to crush his skull with a table leg, Jacrys seethed. ‘I’m glad you’re dead, you bastard rutter,’ he muttered.
‘I’m sorry, sir?’ The voice was male, a soldier, probably. Jacrys guessed he had been straightening up the room.
‘Where’s Thadrake?’
‘The captain, sir? Uh, he’s downstairs, sir, eating a bit of supper.’
Jacrys took a deep breath. It wasn’t much; he guessed something less than half his left lung inflated, and that was with painful effort. When he inhaled, his breath made a sound like air being blown through a hollow tree. Breathing out was even worse, wet and rattling, like wagon wheels rolling over loose gravel.
‘Get him now,’ he managed. Three words without panting. Gods…
‘Would you like some broth, sir? Maybe some soft bread?’
‘Wine or beer,’ Jacrys murmured, ‘I don’t care which.’
Jacrys let his body relax as the soldier hurried to do his bidding. He concentrated on his breathing – in through a hollow tree and out over loose gravel, hollow tree, loose gravel, again and again – until he fell asleep.
‘Sir?’ Captain Thadrake was young and trim and looked good in his uniform. He’d been ingratiating himself to Colonel Pace, perhaps even to General Oaklen – it wouldn’t be long before Captain Thadrake became Commander Thadrake, or even Major Thadrake. If he kept from making any big mistakes or from getting himself, or his company, into any trouble, he might end up serving Prince Malagon as an Eastland colonel. That’s a no-win appointment, Jacrys thought.
‘Wine?’ Jacrys licked his split and swollen lips.
The captain bent to help him drink. ‘Take your time, sir. I’ve got plenty.’
Jacrys drank, revelling in the familiar flavour. It wasn’t the best he’d ever tasted, but given the circumstances, it was a drink worthy of the gods. ‘Am I dying?’ he asked. He wasn’t one to hide from the bald truth. He stared up at the good-looking captain.
‘No sir; you’re a gods-rutting mess, sir, but you’ll live.’ He offered more wine, but Jacrys shook his head. ‘Two partisans broke in here, hoping to kill you,’ Thadrake continued. ‘They started a fire in the encampment, sneaked past the overnight watch, killed Hendrick, my assistant, and then stabbed you, sir. It was-’
‘Sallax and Brexan,’ Jacrys interrupted, wheezing. ‘I saw them here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘More, please.’
Thadrake was surprised to hear the Malakasian spy, usually a disagreeable bastard, say “please”. He held the goblet against Jacrys’ lips.
‘Malagon?’
‘No one has seen him, sir, not since the late-autumn Twinmoon. That’s about ninety days now, sir. There are all manner of rumours going about the city, but the only credible ones suggest that he’s gone into hiding, that he drowned on the Prince Marek the night it went down, or that he was blown up and the locals took his body as some kind of twisted prize. I don’t like thinking that one, sir, but it might have happened.’
Jacrys nodded. It would take too much effort to explain to the ambitious Captain Thadrake how little he cared.
‘And I’ve just heard from a lieutenant who supervises shipments down at the wharf that word is coming in that Bellan Whitward has gone missing as well.’
Jacrys breathed – hollow tree, loose gravel – and said, ‘So no one’s home at Welstar Palace? That’s interesting.’ His last words were lost behind an especially wet and noisy breath.
‘Correct, sir. There’s no one watching the store, so to speak.’
‘Oaklen?’
‘Gone east with the bulk of the division brought up here for the blockade. I think he’s going with them to Estrad, at least into Rona, to meet with the officers down there.’
‘And Pace?’ Jacrys was growing weary; even the few words he had managed were tiring him out.
‘The colonel was called away in a hurry, sir, some trouble in Wellham Ridge. One of his majors, Nell Tavon – do you know her, sir? She’s Malagon’s soldier to the core – has had some kind of breakdown. She’s run up into the hills with most of the Ridge battalion. Denne and Hershaw are the two captains. I don’t know much about Denne; he’s a bit older, but Hershaw and I trained together back in Averil Twinmoons ago. They managed to get a rider out with an urgent message to Colonel Pace. He mustered a guard and left as quickly as possible.’
Jacrys could not have cared less.
Thadrake held up the goblet. ‘More wine, sir?’
Jacrys nodded. Yes, Captain, keep it coming. I want to sleep tonight, not the drug-induced sleep of querlis, but the deep slumber of a good wine drunk. He swallowed deeply several times until Thadrake cut him off.
‘Whoa there, sir. This doesn’t mix well with the querlis.’ He set the goblet aside. ‘We’ll never get you up tomorrow.’