Raj Ahten's answer was chilling. “We need leave no warriors to guard the Dedicates' Keep.”
“What?” Feykaald asked. “You practically beg Orden to attack. You'll get your Dedicates killed!”
“Of course,” Raj Ahten said. “But at least their deaths will serve some higher purpose.”
“Higher purpose? What higher purpose can their deaths serve?” Feykaald asked, wringing his hands, mystified.
But Jureem suddenly saw the plan in all its cruelty and magnificence: “Their murders shall nurture facetiousness,” Jureem reasoned. “For years, the Northern nations have united against us. But if Orden murders Sylvarresta's Dedicates, as he must, if he destroys his oldest and dearest friend, what will he win? He might weaken us for a few days, but he will weaken himself forever. Even if he should escape with the forcibles, the lords of the North will fear Orden. Some here in Heredon will revile him, perhaps even seek vengeance. All this shall work against House Orden, and destroying Orden is the key to taking the North.”
“You are most wise,” Feykaald whispered, glancing first at Raj Ahten, and then at Jureem, his voice filled with awe.
Yet such a waste saddened Jureem. So many men go through their lives content to do nothing, to be nothing. It was wise to harvest endowments from such men, put them to use. But wasting the lives of Dedicates this way—was a great shame.
Jureem and Feykaald shouted a few curt orders, and in moments the castle walls became alive as the troops prepared for the march. Men rushed to and fro.
Raj Ahten began heading along the narrow cobbled streets, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, walking past the King's stables—some fine new wooden buildings that stood two stories tall. The upper story held hay and grain. The lower stabled the horses.
His men rushed everywhere, claiming the first steeds they found, shouting orders to stablehands.
As he passed, Raj Ahten peered into several open doors. A few Dedicate horses were kept in stalls, many of them hanging from slings where stable-masters groomed and pampered the unfortunate beasts. Barn swallows darted in and out through the open doors, peeping in alarm.
The stables became tremendously busy. Not only were Sylvarresta's horses stabled here, but some of Raj Ahten's finer beasts had been brought last night, to be cared for by Raj Ahten's own stablemasters.
He had enough good warhorses to mount a decent cavalry.
Raj Ahten ducked into the last stable. The odor of dung and horse sweat clung in the air. Such stench irritated Raj Ahten, with his overdeveloped sense of smell. Raj Ahten's stablemaster washed the master's horses twice daily in lavender water and parsley, to diminish such offensive odors.
In the front of the stable, a boy with dark hair stood by a stall. He'd bridled a force horse—a good one by the number of runes on it—and stood grooming it, preparing it for the saddle. Several horses of equal merit stood by. The lad was too pale of face to be one of Raj Ahten's own stablehands, had to have been inherited from Sylvarresta.
The young man turned at the sound of Raj Ahten's entry, glanced nervously over his shoulder.
“Leave,” Raj Ahten told the boy. “Take the horses to the gates and hold them yourself. Reserve the best for Counselor Feykaald and Chancellor Jureem here—no other. Understand?” Raj Ahten pointed to Jureem, who stood just outside the door, and Jureem nodded curtly at the boy.
The young man nodded, threw a small hunting saddle over the horse's back, and hurried past Raj Ahten and his counselors, gawking, terrified.
Raj Ahten sometimes had that effect on people. It made him smile. From behind, the boy looked familiar. Yet Raj Ahten suddenly felt a certain muzziness, a cloudiness of thought as he tried to recall. Then he had it—he had seen the boy on the street, earlier this morning.
But no, he now remembered, it had not been the boy. Merely a statue that looked like him. The young man led the horse from the stable, began buckling and cinching the saddle, tying on saddlebags, just out of earshot.
Alone with his Days in the shadowed stable, Raj Ahten whirled and caught the Days by the throat. The man had been following two paces farther back than normal. Perhaps a sign of guilt, perhaps in fear.
“What do you know of this attack at Longmont?” Raj Ahten asked, lifting the Days from the ground. “Who betrayed me?”
“Not, aagh, me!” the Days responded. The man grabbed Raj Ahten's wrist with both hands, clung for dear life, trying to keep from strangling. Fear lined his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“I don't believe you,” Raj Ahten hissed. “Only you could have betrayed me—you or your kind.”
“No!” the Days gasped. “We, ugh, we take no sides in the affairs of state. This is...your affair.”
Raj Ahten looked in his face. The Days seemed terrified.
Raj Ahten held him, muscles strong as Northern steel, and considered breaking the man's neck. Perhaps the Days was telling the truth, but he was still dangerous. Raj Ahten longed to crush the fellow, to rid himself of this pest. But if he did, every Days across the world would unite, would reveal Raj Ahten's secrets to his enemies—the numbers of his armies, the locations of his hidden Dedicates.
Setting the Days down, Raj Ahten growled, “I am watching you.”
“Just as I watch you,” the Days said, rubbing his sore neck.
Raj Ahten turned, left the stable. The captain of his guard had said that Gaborn Val Orden had slain one of the Wolf Lord's scouts near here. The Prince would have left his scent behind.
Raj Ahten had endowments of scent from over a thousand men. Most of his scouts had taken endowments of scent from dogs, and hence feared the dogbane that the Prince carried.
“My lord, where are you going?” Jureem asked.
“To hunt Prince Orden,” Raj Ahten decided on impulse. His men would be long at work preparing for the march. With Raj Ahten's endowments of metabolism, he could spend time doing something of value, while others worked. “He may still be in the city. Some jobs you should not leave to lesser men.”
20
A Prince Unmasked
“Och, orders is orders! His Lor'ship tol' me to put the King and his girl on proper 'orses—even if I had to tie 'em in the saddle! The wagon's too slow on such a long march, thru them woods,” Gaborn said, affecting a Fleeds accent.
The finest horsemen came from Fleeds, and he wanted to play the part of a trusted stableboy.
Gaborn sat atop his stallion, gazing down at the captain in the Dedicates' Keep. The guards had raised the portcullis, and busily filled a great covered wain with Dedicates gained here at Castle Sylvarresta—those who acted as vectors for Raj Ahten, including King Sylvarresta.
“He say to me none of thees!” the captain said in his thick Taifan accent, glancing about nervously. His men had abandoned their posts to raid the kitchens for provisions. Some officers looted Sylvarresta's treasury, and others down on Market Street were breaking shopwindows. Every moment the captain spent talking to Gaborn meant the captain would have less time to stuff his own pockets.
“Aye, what do I know?” Gaborn asked.
Gaborn turned to leave, nudging his mount with his heels, pulling around the four horses he had on his lines. It was a delicate moment. Gaborn's mount grew skittish, laid its ears back, rolled its eyes. Several soldiers hurried into the Dedicates' Keep, to help loot the treasury. Gaborn's stallion flinched at each soldier who crowded past, ventured a small kick at one man. One of the tethered stallions responded to the sudden move by bucking. Gaborn whispered soothing words to keep the whole bunch from bolting.
In the last few minutes, the streets had suddenly come alive with people—a mob of Raj Ahten's men sprinted to the armory to grab supplies, weapons, horses; merchants rushed hither and thither to protect what they had from looters.