The War, page 19
They reached again the building that they had left behind weeks ago, with the training field behind and Mount Thiranu vividly green and high on the near horizon. If Braegon looked long enough, he could imagine that he saw the houses of the village mingling among the trees.
“Fair, is she not?” said Golin, standing beside him and looking at the furrowed slopes. “Not so grand as the Elerien Mountains, but more homelike.”
Braegon only nodded assent. There was a thickness in his throat too great for words.
~
“The city is now in your hands; send word to Mitheren at once if there is any sign of the enemy returning.”
“My general.” Captain Rhodes bowed. The formalities over, they stood without speaking for a time.
Captain Rhodes inquired at last. “Have you had further word from Mordred Kenhelm?”
“Indeed,” said the general. “He played a valuable and dangerous part during the siege of Mianu. However, he was found out several days ago. Nay, fear not, he escaped very quickly. Let me give you the account as Jedediah Crayes told it to me.”
And so he told Captain Rhodes all that Jedediah Crayes’ report had been, ending, “He has gone back now—in a different guise.”
Captain Rhodes’ mouth opened in perplexity and even disapproval. “My general, you would not send him back. Not after all he has done. He deserves a long rest.”
“I did not send him back,” said the general, and his voice was weary and sad. “He returned of his own choosing. He begged me to send him despite my urgings for him to stay.”
“My general, why?”
The general hesitated and answered with a certain deliberation, “He said that Jedediah Crayes was alone in the camp, without help, and would need him as assistant.”
“But, my lord, he must know that Jedediah Crayes is well able to handle the spy work on his own until we find a replacement—or even without one altogether.” Captain Rhodes looked at the general. “You said such to him.”
“He is running from something,” said the general softly; “I think he does not even know what himself.”
The younger man’s dark eyes flickered with curiosity. “Do you then know what this thing is, my general?”
The general was silent. “If I know,” he said at last, quietly, “it is not mine to speak or share.”
He did know; for it was bound up in a murder accusation, and a Delgrass Inspector, and a werevulture two months dead. But there was nothing he could do to ease the pain and the hate burning poisonously in the young man’s heart. And so he let him go.
CHAPTER 18
CERN DERSTURI, GENERAL OF THE Runnicoran forces, had called off his troops from Orden for the time being as he bethought himself of a new way to break her borders. Idle was the army, with little to entertain or do; and it was with interest that they passed along the growing word of a Rehirnish peddling merchant who was already making a name for himself among the soldiers.
Damachrus of Ralecurn was his name. Exactly when and where he had come to the army no-one seemed to know; but he had come up from the south, and was working his way through the Runnicoran lines ranged along Orden’s west border, going wherever he found room to sell his wares. He was of middle age, said the reports, tall but a little stooped in his walk, dark-bearded though his hair was grey. And he was a kindly man; among his merchandise were such things as headache tonics, and wound salves; and often he offered his services as assistant to the surgeons in the sick tents, without request of payment.
So the word spread of Damachrus, and he grew to be quite popular among the men, even in the places where only rumor of him had come. And it happened that one day he arrived in the area where the Paraki himself was camped: in the forested land between Mianu and the West Gate.
~
Mordred tugged carefully at the full, dark beard; the unusual sensation made him itch, even now after days. He peered into the still forest-pool, trying to see if his hair wanted any more white.
“If go you must,” the general had said, “you will need disguise. And good disguise at that; for do not think Cern Dersturi will be quick to forget your face. Also, when you go, circle around secretly and come up towards the leader from the south. It would sound questionable if anyone should realize you came out of Orden, and the further you backtrack, the less they will suspect.
“You will not be going as a soldier this time; your role should be something you know. What do you know?”
“I know Rehirne,” said Mordred. And the idea came to him, rapid and wonderful, and he told the general what he would need.
So when he had a horse and cart, and a load of supplies, and his disguise, he set out. The disguise was good indeed, but tricky nonetheless, mostly in the area of his hair, which needed the powder rubbed into it every few days. And he had constantly to remember to shuffle as he walked. It took more concentration than playing Richardson had, or even Sinethar. Yet he enjoyed it; for the first time he was acting a character who could be anything he pleased, any way that Mordred wanted him to be, and he was happy. He had grown to like Damachrus, the blunt, eccentric, gentle soul who doctored cuts and pains and offered trinkets “for the wives back home.”
But now he had reached the leader’s camp again; and Mordred was beginning to be afraid. Afraid that his disguise would not hold up. Afraid that he would be caught, tortured, and hanged.
With set jaw he turned away from the pool, gave a clap to his splotched mare, and strode beside her through the trees. After all, he need not see the leader much, if at all. Furthermore, being here meant that he would see Jedediah Crayes soon . . . very soon. A slight smile uptilted Mordred’s lips, and an anticipatory light began to dance in his eye.
He found Captain Alétun’s tent without difficulty again. Entering, he was immediately spotted by several soldiers who asked his business.
“Damachrus,” said Mordred easily. “Traveling pedlar. Salves, ointments, ink and parchment, twine, ribbons—and a couple razors and bars of lye soap. The cart’s outside; care to have a look?”
The spirit of the tent burst into life and the men eagerly followed him out. The sun was setting, and when the time of flocking around the wagon was over, they invited him into the tent to sup and talk with them.
Mordred regaled them with stories of what life was like in Rehirne, and things he had seen in his wandering life—the latter largely drawn from tales he had heard of other pedlars in his childhood, with his own fanciful additions and remnants of truth added in. But his eyes stirred away at odd moments to the man called Mog Dremmag, who was lounging near the rest and scowling at him intently. And in a slack moment, when the soldiers were laughing and talking amongst themselves, Mordred slipped up to him and murmured softly, “Don’t you know me yet?”
Jedediah Crayes’ eyes goggled. His mouth fell agape and he took a second look at Mordred, and a third. Then he regained control of himself, and did not even glance Mordred’s way again the rest of the evening.
But late that night, when Mordred went to their old meeting place, he was there—and his howl was one to wake the dead.
“What the blasted blithering blue blazes did you think you were doing? What makes you think this was a good idea? Was one brush with death not enough for you? No, you come prancing back into Cern Dersturi’s camp with an impossible background and alias, touting a false beard that’s probably going to fall off in a minute, and smirking at me like you think this was the most brilliant brainwave of the last century—”
Mordred tilted his head at him. “Aren’t you the least bit glad that I came back?”
Jedediah Crayes bestowed on him a glare of burning outrage. “No. I am most emphatically, thoroughly disgusted that you came back.”
“Did you recognize me before I spoke?” asked Mordred.
Jedediah Crayes’ glare deepened. “I knew there was something wrong about you. My instincts never fail me in that regard. I knew you were not who you pretended to be. But I did not know what you really were, and I fully intended to find out before you shocked me out of my wits like that.” He shook his head ferociously. “Scandalous. Idiot. I ought to send you home.”
“But you’re not going to, are you?” Mordred smiled impudently at him.
Jedediah Crayes heaved a breath which was probably meant to sound impressive and frustrated, and was actually neither. “Much as I hate to say it, you are, well, useful to have around. So no. I’m not going to send you back—this time. It had better not happen again!”
“What? Me being stupid?”
“So you admit it!” said Jedediah Crayes triumphantly.
“I admitted nothing,” returned Mordred, unruffled, “save what you clearly consider me.”
“Bah,” said Jedediah Crayes.
~
“Jedediah Crayes”—Mordred’s infuriating, teasing cheek was gone, his tone earnest and inquiring—“Did you manage to get suspicion off yourself after you helped me escape?”
Jedediah Crayes grinned. “Oh, I had to do a lot of talking. It was touch-and-go, but I’ve got a silver tongue in my doddering head yet—I am Jedediah Crayes, after all—and they eventually swallowed the idea that you had gone on an insane rampage, killed Lord Mirden and put the guards to sleep, and meanwhile I alone escaped and went after you. Of course I failed to catch you, but I did it with such bravery, and returned with such a convincing painful lump on my head, that they were compelled to acquit me. I was forced to sit through a long yowling lecture, however, concerning the need to go for help next time rather than trying to play the hero.”
Mordred laughed, that clear, alive sound. “They clearly don’t know you, do they?”
“Of course not!” Jedediah Crayes leaned back on his hands, pleased. “I was born to play the hero.”
The little fool was enjoying himself with this new disguise, quite plainly. Well, far be it from Jedediah Crayes to interfere with his fun. Fresh-faced boy—reckless brat—Jedediah Crayes’ mind enumerated self-righteously the various appropriate names for such a maddening, useful, useful, er, acquaintance.
Jedediah Crayes scowled to himself. Was the word “friend” acquiring a new tastefulness for him, somehow? Nonsense. He had no friends. People were potential criminals, attachment was ridiculous and perilous. And brats were annoying. Satisfied, Jedediah Crayes brushed the idea aside and stared smugly up at the moon.
“Jedediah Crayes.”
His keen ears caught the odd, too-careful steadiness in the tone, and as he looked down at the young man he saw the vulnerability trembling on his face. Only once before had he seen that look crack open the shield, when an inquiry about the Delgrass Inspector had birthed such drastic results.
“What is it?” he asked bluntly, without facade or sarcasm.
“Has a—a werevulture ever hated you before?”
Jedediah Crayes let out a bark of amused laughter. “Me? They all hate me. I’m Jedediah Crayes, a legend whose life is devoted to stamping out all the things they love best to propagate. Affiliated with the organization that is an abomination to them all. And as of a fortnight ago, I’m werevulture’s bane twice over, which is more than I daresay any man alive today can boast. Why do you ask?”
His eyes rested on Mordred, slowly appraising, sensing the pieces begin to fall together. The general’s recent absence from Orden. Rumors of a werevulture slain east of Delgrass. The Inspector Wilhelm Dickson whose name had meant so much desolated anger in the eyes of that proud, valiant-hearted young man beside him.
“Now why would a werevulture be pitting himself against a young Kenhelm living harmlessly in an Ordenian village?” he asked, not unkindly. It was clear the boy needed to talk about it.
Mordred’s hands clenched in the grass. His voice was tremoring slightly but almost toneless. “Thedral Kenhelm, who was my father’s brother, slew a werevulture. The cousin of the thing sought for his vengeance, and he found it in me. He sought to kill me indirectly at first, by conspiring to accuse me of a murder I did not do. He succeeded—almost. But when the general came and I was released from prison, he took me captive and held me for nine days.”
And the Inspector Dickson is the one who imprisoned him, Jedediah Crayes guessed shrewdly. But he did not ask it aloud. Best to let that matter lie for now. There was more, much more, beyond Mordred’s words that he was not telling, and Jedediah Crayes could only hazard vague amplification on it. In any case, capture by a werevulture was not something to be passed over lightly whatever the circumstances. Their vindictive cruelty toward all men was dark enough; a blood feud would make the matter that much worse.
“I am sorry to hear it,” he said quietly, and the words were not empty, though a little brusque. “There is much evil in the world, and more than a man ought to see without scarring. Only some of us were born to bear the face of evil with ease.”
Mordred shuddered, and drew in a breath. “Let us speak no more of it tonight,” he said.
~
Cern Dersturi cut through the camp, halting for no-one’s question or call. He scorned escorts and bodyguards, as was his wont; believing his own sword quite sufficient for protection, he complained that such men were more a hindrance than an aid.
He was making for the edge of the camp, where just within the skirt of the trees a small faded green tent was nestled beside a sturdy cart and a brown-and-white mare. There resided this traveling merchant, Damachrus . . . and Cern Dersturi had business with him tonight.
The man was bending over something when he came in, a tray suspended on a light wooden framework containing various small vials. He turned around, and Cern Dersturi saw in the wavering firelight a tall man, not long past middle age, for though he came towards him with a stoop and his hair was whitened, his beard was still dark. He met the leader’s gaze with keen, undimmed grey eyes, seeming surprised at the intrusion.
“You are Damachrus?” said Cern Dersturi curtly.
“I am. What does my lord desire?” He spoke in a faintly rasping tone, with an accent of Rehirne, but the leader thought there was something familiar in his voice—something that nagged at him until he brushed it aside, unsolved.
“I am Cern Dersturi, general of the army. An impediment has lain before me these past many days, as I searched for a path by which to penetrate the mountains of Orden. It has been a bitter gall in my mouth, and though I have diligently sought, closed were the answers to me. Yet now, it seems, a way has opened—or it shall, if you are not afraid of gold, and have as little love for Orden as you have shown thus far.”
“Explain yourself, my lord.”
“I understand that you claim to have traveled long and often in these parts. You know the land well.”
“Yes, my lord.” He sounded puzzled.
Cern Dersturi leaned forward, his tone grating like rock on rock. “The pass of Mirech. Is that name known to you?”
Damachrus blinked at him. “Aye, of course.”
“I am in great need of one who can lead my army in safety through the pass. You say you know it. Have you traveled it?”
“Aye.”
“Are you confident you can guide four thousand men through it surely and knowledgeably?”
There was silence for three counts. Then—“I can do that,” said Damachrus quietly.
The leader stood back. “Then you will be as my guide two days from now. It is a small thing I ask of you, Rehirnish-man; serve me well and you will be rewarded, to go on your peddling way a little richer than before.”
“Willingly, my lord. I thank you for requesting my assistance; it is a great honor.”
“Save your words of blandishment for after you have fulfilled the thing I exact from you,” returned Cern Dersturi coldly and left the tent.
~
“I hope you had a good reason for demanding a meeting tonight,” Jedediah Crayes grumbled as he heaved himself over a fallen tree with the light crackle of underbrush. A bat flew by in the soft moonless dark. “I was looking forward to some solid hours of sleep for once.”
“It’s urgent,” said Mordred.
”That’s what you’ll always say. ‘Jedediah Crayes, I got a thorn in my finger. It’s urgent.’ ‘Jedediah Crayes, I don’t know which outfit I should wear to my fancy dinner with Ahearn. It’s urgent.’”
Mordred stopped as they reached the little half-clearing and leaned against one large, seamed tree. “What is the pass of Mirech?”
“It means pass of danger. If you know the river Zarethir, that flows past Orden City and into the Dirion River. Well, in order to get to the Dirion River it’s got to cut through the mountains. Easy to get through by boat, if you’re a halfway decent sailor, but on foot—well, you’ve got to know your way to get there on foot. I’ve been through it myself; it’s a tricky mess, full of cliffs and rivulets of water and dozens of dead ends. You—” Jedediah Crayes stopped his rapid output of information and stared hard at Mordred.
“You can’t be saying that Cern Dersturi means to march his men through there. That would be practically suicide. Not that I’m opposed to slimming the size of his army, but good grief, I thought he was smarter than that! Surely he knows what a menace the pass is. He would need a guide, so unless he has one—”
“He does,” said Mordred. “I’m the guide.”
“What,” said Jedediah Crayes.
Mordred had never seen him so shocked.
After his first utterance he was perfectly speechless for at least a minute, only uttering half-articulated noises that attempted to express the depth of his wrath. Finally he exploded into a rant of pure indignation, railing at Mordred for his idiocy in every inventive way imaginable, demanding to know over and over again what he thought he was doing.
“Jedediah Crayes,” said Mordred calmly when he was done, “it’s the perfect way to spring a surprise trap on him. You would have said the same thing.”
“The difference,” said Jedediah Crayes, seething, “is that I know how to get through there!”
“And all you have to do is tell me how.”
“Easier said than done!” roared Jedediah Crayes.
“I’m sure you can manage it.” Mordred flashed him that teasing grin, knowing that he would flick on the raw of Jedediah Crayes’ vanity. “Don’t worry; I won’t get hurt.”
