The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1) (62 page)

Dimly, he was aware Rodge, then Loren, had joined him.  He was face down with a vague
rapture in the dirt, so he didn’t really see them.  Dirt.  Not water, not even mud.  Just good, stable, dependable earth.  You could plant in dirt.  You could walk on it.  Run on it, ride horses, dance on it.  He sighed happily and, biting his lip against the blades of pain in his shoulders, laboriously rolled over.  Everyone had made it.  Some of them were squatting wearily, rifling through the dripping saddle bags for something to eat.  Dorian sat lithely on her haunches, fixing her glowing yellow hair with movements common to women everywhere.  It was so normal, so comfortable; he could have watched her for hours.

“Well,” Traive said conversationally, “I guess we didn
’t quite beat the monsoons.”

Rodge groaned.  “Don
’t even mention anything that has to do with rain.  Or water.  At least for a day,” he pleaded thickly.

“I can
’t believe it’s over,” Cerise said weakly.  “It’s enough to make you believe in Il.”  Which was such a novelty of phrasing that even Kai looked over at her.

Banion, the only one standing, was rubbing the back of his neck and wincing.  His hair was doing tremendous things all around his head, making him look wild and indestructible.  He rumbled sadly, “If someone handed me a beer, I
’d drink it.”

“Well,” a sprightly voice said, “we don
’t have any beer, but how about a nice draught of cool, fresh spring water?”

And there, unbelievably bright, refreshing, and gorgeously alive, were Brook and Adama with their horses.  Rodge lifted his head off the ground, gazing hazily at the two.  “I
’m dead,” he murmured with throbbing, weary joy.

“No, but you
’ll feel like you should be when you wake up tomorrow,” Brook told him.

They passed around fresh venison, still warm from some fireplace, and Ari devoured it.  He had never been so hungry in his life.  They guzzled water like they
’d been in the desert rather than drenched by rain for days on end.

“Let
’s move away from the Swamp,” Dorian said, eliciting something approaching enthusiasm.  “Camp’s set up just at the top of this hill.”

They should have realized the deception behind this when they were helped to mount up.  The ugly truth was that
‘the top of the hill’ was two hours’ steep ride.  But, then, all they had to do was sit there—except poor Kai—and most of them managed that without troubling too much about staying conscious.  There was no sign of the other Whiteblades.

It was evening when they walked into Camp, and what a beautiful camp it was.  There was lush, green grass, a warm, gentle wind blowing under a sky glowing with the rays of the setting sun, a cookfire over in one corner of the big meadow.  It held a simmering pot that was wafting delicious aromas their way, and a great, collective sigh consumed the group.  The days of darkness were over.  They
’d reached paradise.

Dorian paused as they all dismounted, saying clearly into the shimmering evening air, “Thank you, Lord Il, for Thy deliverance.  Ill we deserve it, lavishly you grant it.”  No one objected.

“Rest now,” she said, looking even more noble than usual in the vivid light.  “We’ll stay here a day.”

“I am glad,” Rodge said
thickly to her back as she walked away, “that you now realize there are things more important than time schedules.”

“The rush is over,” Traive said drolly.  “The deadline
’s been met—or missed, depending on your view of the past few days.”

Imperial General Androssan strode fiercely down the wide corridors of the Palace, his heels thundering as his knee-high boots consumed the marble flooring.  He was furious, guts churning with horror and anxiety, and, in a tiny little corner, a blossom of hope.  Terrible hope, for coming at such a price it could still easily amount to nothing.

             
He had been outfoxed at every turn by the Council.  It hadn’t taken them long once they got back from Crossing to ferret out that he was standing the Armies up.  It probably hadn’t helped that they had not been invited to partake of the process, and it was doubtless as much vengeance on Sable as anything that was making them so obstructive.  In the end, it hardly mattered why.  They could not countermand a direct order from the Queen, but they could refuse to pass the laws to supply, outfit, and house the Armies.  He could muster the men and order them to fight…but they’d be doing it on empty stomachs, naked, with no way to get out of the winter weather.

             
He’d been arguing for weeks now, calling in every favor he had in the wings and parching his throat pleading in the Council Chamber, but was making about as much headway as a skinny private arm-wrestling a Fleetman.  He just didn’t have enough political muscle to even get the attention of the Council.

             
And then…then this.  His stomach jumped again, nauseous with dread.  Yesterday, Lieutenant Waylan, whom he’d sent with the Queen’s entourage to the Ramparts to get a feel for the Aerach military, had returned.  He and a rillian, a captain in the Aerach cavalry, had made it to Archemounte from the Ramparts in three unbelievable weeks.  Even with a change of horses, that was so killing a pace as to border on the fantastic.  But even more so was the news they brought with them.

             
The Queen of the North had been taken.  Captured by the Enemy.  It was almost beyond comprehension.  The Rach had had tears in his eyes telling the Council, obviously as horrified as any of them.  It was an unimaginable political embarrassment to lose a visiting Monarch, but the youngster had had such a potent sorrow at the personal loss that Androssan found himself consoling
him
outside the Council Chamber.

             
There had been a night’s frantic discussion while the Council tried to figure out what to do.  The Rach, of course, had already sent out a search party, and Androssan privately doubted that the North could do anything more militarily effective than their Realmsmen on the Sheel.  But that was a private thought—he planned to make just the opposite opinion very, very public in a short time.

             
People had been scurrying out of his way ever since he entered the Palace, and now as he approached the Council Chamber, the two guards manning the big double doors took one look at his face and leapt to open them.  That made for a nice, theatrically bold entrance, to be able to stride at full speed right up to the Petitioner’s Stand.  He looked around, eagle-eyed, as he gained the Stand, and smiled grimly to himself.  Funny how politicians descried the military, belittling them as old-fashioned and unnecessary—until violence threatened or bold decisions needed to be made.

             
Unfortunately, this didn’t apply to all of them.  Most of the faces were pasty and worried, the eyes dilated and baggy from lack of sleep, but a few—including the Prime’s—were as sleek and controlled as ever.  It was hardly novel to have a Northern politician that would use virtually any situation for political gain, but it didn’t make Androssan despise them any less.

             
Channing, determined to take control of the discussion before Androssan could, banged his gavel importantly at his Prime Councilor seat at the head of the table.  “We are gathered here, General Androssan, to discuss the deeply disturbing tidings brought to us by the Rach yesterday,” he began in such affected, stentorian tones that Androssan wanted to stuff that gavel down his self-important throat.  As if perhaps the Imperial General was unaware they’d been in council almost without pause since the messenger had arrived, and had just sort of accidentally wandered into the Council chambers.

             
“There is nothing more to discuss,” Androssan said in his boldest parade-ground voice, neatly taking over.  “It is for us to decide now what to do with this grievous news.”  It was a measure of the rampant distress in the room that every face but Channing’s turned eagerly toward him.  The Prime narrowed his eyes, darting them around the table at this loss of attention.  “And now is the time to ready the Armies.”

             
There was no pleading here.  He set his voice on full command volume—this was the   only chance he might have, even if it was afforded by the worst possible circumstances.  “We will muster, arm, and supply the Forces, and will move south as soon as we can possibly be ready.  Hopefully,” he added for their sakes, entertaining no such idea, “this can be settled diplomatically.  If not, we will be there to
encourage
such resolution and to follow it up with whatever is necessary to return our Queen to her throne.”  His voice thundered through the big room and several councilmen nodded approvingly.  Even more of them looked relieved just to have a plan—any plan. 

             
For a moment, the thought hung in the air, then Channing spoke, cool and slimy as an eel, to Androssan’s ear.  “My dear General.  It is senseless to go rushing about putting Armies together and moving them all over the Empire without knowing what’s going on.  We need much more information before we can make a decision, especially one of that nature.  It is never effective to fight violence with violence.  We are not thoughtless savages to swing reflexively at a stray arrow.”

             
His eloquent, persuasive voice turned undecided heads back toward him and Androssan felt his guts clench with disgust.  If the Enemy were battering at the remnants of the Eastern Gate that man would prefer the Empire to be helpless so long as he could keep political control.  As long as he could convince people—

             
People.  The
people.
Androssan’s mind flung itself on a new thought, and he lasered his attention back to the table.  One Councilor was saying, a little wildly, “It is the Queen, Channing—we must do something.  To stand the Armies up is a sign of action, even if we do nothing with them.”

             
“I tell you,” the Prime said with a little laugh, as if soothing upset children, “it is undignified to hurry into preparations with no plan in front of us.  Do you not think the people will see these actions for what they are?  Blind panic!  How is that to send a message of comfort or competence?”

             
“But,” Androssan interrupted shrewdly, allowing his face to frown as if troubled, “We cannot crowd the people of Archemounte all winter with soldiers.”  Eyes bulged around the table; one Councilman grabbed the edge as if to steady himself.  Channing looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but it was the table-grabber that said, appalled, “You cannot billet the Army in Archemounte!”

             
Androssan looked confused.  “But if you are talking of ‘unhurried preparations’…why, that could mean months before the soldiers could be provided tents and food.  They can’t survive anywhere but in town.”  He shrugged helplessly, as if to say,
what’s a General to do?

             
The Prime’s face relaxed into a thinly hidden sneer.  He saw Androssan’s gambit now, and saw it as weak.  “We are talking,” he emphasized patronizingly, “of waiting to mobilize at all.  We shall certainly discuss that, in the months to come, as an option.”  He turned to the Council, as if Androssan was no longer part of the discussion and could excuse himself.  “What I propose,” he said with arrogant smoothness, “is that strict silence be kept on this subject.”

             
Several men started to object and he raised his elegant white hands.  “Yes, I know.  Such things will circulate rather irresponsibly around the public.  We will accept them, face them head on, for we have nothing to hide, and discount them as rumors.  The Queen, after all, might be returned at any moment.”

             
Revulsion rose in Androssan’s gorge like onion stew.  “The people,” he ground out, “might believe
me
if I tell them otherwise.”

             
Channing’s eyes, suddenly hard and ugly, whipped snakelike back to his.  “I am sure, General, you do not want to put yourself on the wrong side of the Council.”

             
“And I am sure,” Androssan answered, forcing his voice into neutrality, “that the Council will certainly not choose this as the best course of action.  After all, the power of rumor should not be underestimated.  And if the Archemountans have soldiers—who are beehives of rumors—billeted with them all winter, in addition to the inconvenience of the arrangement, they’ll be inundated with talk of the Imperial Army going after their Queen.  The Council will not want to be seen as not only doing nothing…but as denying there is anything to do.”

             
“He is right.  The Army must be outfitted and moved south.”  This was one of the Councilmen (Culian, who had three teenage daughters), speaking as determinedly as Channing.  Another voice rose in agreement.  Androssan had the power to move the Army into town—that fact worked nightmarishly on politicians thinking of all those enraged constituents that would never reelect Councilmen responsible for such a thing.

             
The General didn’t stay for the whole session.  Councils were not only frustrating, boring, and a venomous pit of personal ambition, but he had work to do. 

The Imperial Armies were moving south.