Guns of the Dawn (67 page)

Do not do anything rash.

‘Strange. Sounds like he’s telling fortunes now,’ Penny said. The tension between them was lost on her.

‘You can go now, Penny. Thank you for doing your duty,’ Emily told her.

‘Will there be any reply?’

‘No.’ Emily said it with an air of finality.

*

They commandeered the drawing room, herself, Tubal and Brocky, and tried to devise a way to release their friend. At first they considered peaceful solutions, and then stealthy
ones – but in the end they were three soldiers, and violence was always fated to intrude on the conversation.

‘How many guns do we have, do you reckon?’ Tubal voiced the common thought.

And after that they knew that, if it was to be done, it would be done in blood, and tomorrow.

They had been conspiring for some time when Alice let herself into the room.

‘Emily, so there you are—’

‘Alice, this is not a good time,’ Emily said. ‘We . . . cannot be distracted.’

Alice sniffed. ‘Well, I suppose you don’t want your message, then.’

‘What message?’

‘That was left under the door. If you don’t want it, why ask for it?’ Alice made as if to go.

‘Alice, I’m not in the mood for this just now. Give me the message and go.’

Alice’s eyes went wide. ‘Emily—’

‘Alice!’
Emily stood, for a moment every bit the officer facing insubordination. She put a hand out for the message, and her expression had no hint of sisterhood in it.
Alice handed the paper over with trembling fingers and fled, and they heard her running all the way up the stairs to complain to Mary.

‘More from your Mr Northway?’ Brocky asked.

‘More of the same, most likely,’ agreed Tubal.

Emily looked at the message and shook her head, seeing first and foremost that it was simply not of the grade of paper that Mr Northway would use. When she cracked it open, the writing inside
was neat but strange to her.

‘Well?’ Tubal prompted.

She looked it over a second time, before passing it to him wordlessly.

‘Unsigned,’ Brocky noted. ‘They’re not fools.’

‘A trap?’ Tubal wondered. ‘The Denlanders, wanting to see if you’ll bite?’

‘Anything is possible.’ Emily accepted the letter back and perused the lines again. ‘And it’s not as though I want to stir up revolution. All the things that Provost
Gottred said to me are true . . . surely true?’

‘But . . . ?’ said Brocky.

Long live the King.
‘I feel as though I had more control over my destiny when I was still in the army,’ she said. ‘Since I came back to Grammaine, I’ve been
every man’s puppet. Every malcontent sees me as a saviour. Doctor Lam thinks I’m a firm hand on the rudder. Mr Northway . . .’

‘Quite,’ Tubal agreed.

‘And now they want to make me queen of the rebellion. And what would happen then, when the Denland army arrives here
in force
, rather than just some four score guardsmen? When
they burn down Grammaine because it was mine, and they take Mary and Alice because they are family? When they shoot you, Tubal, because of who you are, and take your infant son away in case he
leads a revolution from his crib? What the devil happens then – when their damned traction-guns are buckling Chalcaster’s streets? Will the people rise up? And what will they rise up
with? Pitchforks? Staves? Grandfather’s antique matchlock? Can you imagine what the barricade would have been like, if not one of our men had been taught to fight?’

‘And yet . . .’ Brocky scratched at his belly. ‘And yet . . .’

‘And yet,’ Emily agreed, knowing that the situation was slipping beyond her even as she said the words. She felt she had fallen into a river and was being drawn under by the current,
her hands clutching at the grasses of the bank but sliding, always sliding away.

‘These rebels might free Scavian.’ Tubal finished the thought for her. ‘You could convince them to help. They will have the weapons – some at least – and the
manpower.’

‘If it isn’t a trap,’ Brocky reminded them.

‘If it’s a trap, let them take me,’ Emily decided. ‘I will go. Not for love of rebellion and not for love of Lascanne, but for Giles Scavian I will go.’

He came after nightfall, as promised, slipping into the yard of Grammaine alone with the deepening dusk.

Emily had been waiting in the kitchen, feeling thoroughly on edge. Was this a Denlander trap? What on earth would she be led into? Across the kitchen table she played cards with Tubal and
Brocky, in remembrance of old times.

She had decided this would be a night for symbols. If she needed to raise a mob to save Scavian, she would require symbols. She had told Jenna to lay out her uniform in all its battered glory,
and now she felt the comfortable wear and tear of it as the cloth found its long-accustomed folds. The pistol was in her belt, her sabre hanging from the back of her chair by its baldric. Her helm
sat atop the table.

‘Are you sure you don’t want someone to come with you? Or you could ask Grant to follow you. They’d not see him,’ Tubal asked, for the hundredth time.

‘I’ll risk nobody on this but myself,’ Emily assured him. ‘I am the one they sent for. Why? God knows. You were in command.’

‘A pretty face makes a better figurehead than a cripple,’ Tubal said without rancour.

‘Just you be careful, woman,’ Brocky told her gruffly. ‘No call to get yourself killed. And if it’s a trap . . .’

‘Then I’ll be on horseback, at night. Even their rifles can’t make a man see in the dark.’

And there came a knock, almost a scratching, at the door.

Emily stood up, heels sharply together, military fashion, and clasped her helm under her arm before walking to the door.

There, out in the dark, was a small man whose clothes of hardwearing cloth and leather were threadbare, even a little ragged. His thin face flinched back from her, as though this scene of house,
cards, friends and uniform was too glaring to look at directly.

‘You’re the Marshwic. I know you,’ he said softly, appraising her in his sidelong fashion. ‘You’re a picture, and no mistake. I can see why there’s all the
talk about you. You really fought, did you, at the Levant?’

‘Do you doubt it?’

He shrugged with first one shoulder, then the other. ‘Oh, you know. Precious few of the posh families sent their own out to fight, but I reckon
you
went. I believe it now.
You’re to come with me, Lieutenant, if you will.’

Emily glanced back at the others and saw Tubal spread his hands.
What else can I do?
she reflected.
I am committed now.

‘Your name?’ she asked the little man.

‘Soldier-at-Arms Derry Balfor. I fought in the Couchant, Lieutenant. I saw what those devils did there.’

‘And you’re not ready to give up the fight?’ she said.

‘Got nothing else, Lieutenant. They hauled me out of the jails to fight that war. If’n we’d won I’d be a hero, no more hard times, but we didn’t. We lost, and so
what’s for me now? It’s the army or the cells again, sooner or later. So I ain’t giving up nothing.’

‘You’re a credit to your King,’ remarked Emily drily. ‘I suppose you’d better lead the way, Soldier Balfor.’

‘That I shall, Lieutenant.’ The little man scuttled out into the yard, where the light from the kitchen door was catching the first few raindrops. He vaulted easily on to a tall
horse that was of far finer quality than Emily would have expected for such a man, and she fetched from the stables the mount she had instructed Grant to saddle.

Balfor was already riding out of the yard and, from his ease in the saddle, she guessed he might have been jailed for horse theft, and that perhaps he was still keeping his hand in.

What else is there?
she asked herself. And then:
How could it come to this?
No answers were to be had, so she swung herself up into the saddle and nudged her horse to follow
Balfor’s mount.

It was a slow progress in the dark, even though Balfor obviously knew his way well enough. Oddly, Emily felt she knew it too, for the path that Balfor took seemed familiar even
in the darkness. He had turned off into the woods as soon as he could, lighting up a lantern which he held out to one side for her to follow, changing arms every ten minutes or so. The lamp
guttered erratically and there was little cheer in it. All around them the rain pattered down on the summer woodland canopy, drops pooling together above to drip down onto them, whilst the horses
made patient and cautious progress over ground that was laced with roots. To Emily it was all a minor hindrance. Who could curse the tame forests of Lascanne after enduring the swampy jungles of
the Levant.

‘How did you serve at the Couchant, Balfor?’ she asked.

His reply drifted back to her. ‘They had me loading the artillery, Lieutenant. That’s why I reckon I’m still here. Where the horses got cut to bits, us artillery lads knew it
was a bad job and most of us pulled out before their bloody muskets got us within good range.’

‘I’ve heard about what happened at the Couchant.’

‘Sure you have, Lieutenant, but, if you don’t mind me saying it, there’s no way you can imagine it unless you was there.’

And, as he led her deeper into the woods, she caught hold of the familiarity that had been dogging her. She had ridden a very similar course to this one, so long ago. Had it only been last year,
when the Ghyer was on her doorstep with poor fool Alice in his clutches? She and Grant had taken this path, and she shuddered now to think about the blind risk they had both taken, not knowing a
thing about their enemy. Grant was wise enough to have avoided that risk, she guessed, but he had gone along with her when she asked, though. He was more loyal than she deserved.

With all that she now knew, she would be more careful in future about putting others in danger to further her own goals. And, yet, was that not what she was here for? Some band of patriots,
desperate and well-meaning, would be waiting for her word, and her word would be,
Rescue Scavian.
Did she imagine that none of them would die for that peculiarly personal goal of hers?

They make demands of me, I will demand back.
How equitable that sounded!

There was a light ahead, even a campfire. She guessed at the distance they had travelled, and thought that she now knew where they were. The Ghyer had chosen this same place. Was it just
coincidence? Was there some great attraction in this site that she could not see? Were they aware that Mr Northway knew of this place? He would find them, would be not? Root them out?

It was not her concern. If they joined with her, she would tell them to move camp. If not . . .

If not, to hell with them. I have no time for wooing them.

There were perhaps a dozen men in the clearing, cloaks tugged up against the lightly spotting rain and hands held out towards the fire. She recalled ever more strongly the Ghyer’s sad
little band, all he had managed to gather. She had to hope now that there were more in the woods, or in Chalcaster, that would rally to any summons she gave.

She slipped off her horse, as Balfor went out to stand before them.

‘This is her. This is the Marshwic. Not bad, eh? Not a bad show, don’t you think?’

Most of them stood up, pulling back hoods to see her clearly. She looked from face to face: lean men, tough men, desperate men. Most were unshaven, a few scarred. She guessed some as old
soldiers, others as court hangers-on who were coping with such deprivation only with difficulty. About half just looked like ruffians to her, the sort that any jail could offer up given the chance.
Of course, the jails had been emptied for the war. They could be soldiers too, like Balfor.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ she asked them. ‘You, Balfor?’

‘Oh, not me, Lieutenant. A follower is what I am. He’s on his way. He likes his entrance, he does.’

She looked about her, feeling tense, wanting to get things over with. The nascent rebels looked at her hungrily: her clean, pressed uniform, the shine on her sabre scabbard and the helm she had
draped over her saddle pommel. She must look to them like a ghost more than a woman: the very fighting spirit of Lascanne military might before it all went sour.

One of the still-seated men rose, then, and approached her, flipping back his hood.

‘You’re the leader?’ she asked him, and he shook his head.

‘Just another follower, Miss Marshwic. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me.’

She frowned at him. ‘Not that I . . .’ But she
did
know him. She had seen him before. Not at the front – she did not have the sense of a comrade here. Almost the
opposite . . .

‘You were . . . you couldn’t have been with the Ghyer?’ she breathed.

‘The name’s Griff, Miss Marshwic. I gave it you once before.’ He grinned insolently at her. If he had chosen now to ask her to give his regards to her sister, she would have
struck him.

‘This man is a brigand,’ she told the others. ‘He didn’t even fight in the war. What’s he doing among you?’

They did not show any surprise at her news. Some of them shrugged.

‘Leave a man out for that, and you condemn a fair few willing to rise to the cause now,’ Griff explained. ‘Denlanders are a nosy bunch. That’s bad for everybody’s
business. Strange that we should have a common cause now, Miss Marshwic. Who’d have thought it, really?’