The air greeting us on the Duke’s Perch had the edge of late autumn wind to it, making me wrap my cloak about my shoulders. A few sentries lined the battlement but they all strode swiftly out of earshot in response to the duchess’s dismissive wave. I followed her to the bulky, weathered crenelations, looking down at the sprawl of Ambriside and the forest beyond, the thick blanket of treetops dappled in silver by a full moon.

  “Cutting Erchel’s balls off in Callintor,” I replied, seeing little point in concealing the truth.

  “So, it truly wasn’t you after all.” A faint grin played over Lorine’s lips as she spared me a sidelong glance. “I remember when I heard about Erchel’s fate. Seemed a little extravagant for our Alwyn. ‘The lad’s a killer but only when he needs to be,’ Deckin used to say. ‘Need to temper him a good deal if he’s to lead this band one day.’ I reasoned that years in the Pit Mines had done more tempering than he ever could.”

  “That they did, but they didn’t temper a liking for torment, even for Erchel, though the vicious little weasel surely deserved the end she gave him. As with many in the Covenant Company, Ayin is more than she appears.”

  “Mad singing girls, disgraced turncoat nobles, outlaw scribes.” Lorine laughed shortly. “Your Risen Martyr shows a fondness for those with scant place in the world.” All humour slipped away as she stood a little closer, eyes narrowing. When she spoke next, I heard an unwelcome judgement in her voice, one rich in maternal disapproval. “You’re fucking her, aren’t you?”

  I said nothing, stiffening in annoyed discomfort. I couldn’t decide if I was irked more by her insight or her censorious tone.

  “At least you didn’t insult me with a denial,” Lorine muttered, resting her arms on the stone and shaking her head. “You and women, Alwyn. It was never a good mix. Gerthe, Martyrs preserve her soul, used to laugh about the ease of robbing you blind. Now you choose to sully the precious flesh of the Anointed Lady herself, Risen Martyr and divine servant of the Seraphile. A most base and carnal sin, committed by a notorious outlaw, no less.”

  “I’m a lord now,” I muttered back, which earned me a waspish, snorting laugh.

  “Let me tell you something, oh my wayward cub.” Her voice became an urgent hiss as she leaned closer. “The sum of what I’ve learned about lords, ladies, and all others who claim nobility in this realm: it’s all shit, and they know it. Titles mean nothing. Blood and kinship mean nothing. There are three things that matter in this realm: coin, land, and the ability to summon soldiers to fight those who would seek to take the first two from you. Everything else is a farce played by folk born into their role or come late to the stage, like me and you. Your divinely ordained bitch may have the most complex role of all. But it’s still just that, Alwyn, an act, even if she doesn’t know she’s playing.”

  “I’ve seen things,” I said, for some reason finding it hard to meet her eye. “Travelled far and witnessed much that shouldn’t be, but is. In the Fjord Geld and the Caerith Wastes I saw enough to convince me that what she says is true. The Scourge actually happened, and when she tells me another is coming, I believe her, for her insight is real, divine or not.”

  I risked a glance at her features, finding a yet greater depth of disparagement in her glare. “Do I need to tell you who you sound like?” she asked.

  “Hostler was mad. I am not.”

  “But she is. And don’t pretend you don’t see it. Madness in those we love can be a snare, one that can bind you just as much as it does them.” She paused, features softening into sorrowful introspection. “I once told you I knew of Deckin’s madness, but I followed him for the sake of the love we shared. And you know how that ended. What end will you follow your mad love to, I wonder?”

  “The throne,” I stated in bald honesty, knowing carefully phrased allusion would avail me nothing. “Before the year is out Evadine Courlain will be crowned the Ascendant Queen of Albermaine. When that happens, and harbour no doubt that it will, she will forget neither friend nor enemy.”

  “That woman has no friends, only those she’ll use to serve her deluded mission, and that includes you. A woman like that doesn’t love, she possesses. Willing or not, you’ve made yourself her slave and the only rewards a slave can expect for his labour are torment and death.”

  The flat certainty with which she spoke heralded an angry silence as I clenched my jaw to cage unwise words. At the time I told myself this rage came from Lorine’s pig-headed, prejudiced folly. Now I know it to be the natural response of a fool hearing unwanted truth.

  “If you want no part of her cause,” I managed to grate out after a prolonged pause, “why bother receiving us at all?”

  A gust of wind blew a tangle of copper curls into Lorine’s eyes as she gazed out at the view, looking deep into the forest. “Last week I received a missive from our dear princess regent. It was a fine letter, neatly inscribed and carefully phrased. Princess Leannor thanked me for my loyal service at the Battle of the Vale and promised funds to succour the families of those who had lost folk in the fighting. She also avowed particular concern for my son and the need to ensure his proper schooling, given he will one day be duke of these Marches. The princess feels that the royal court would be the best place for such schooling, an education she expects to last several years.”

  “It’s the Algathinet way,” I said. “Build allegiance through a mix of kindness and threat. They’ll seek to make Bryndon one of them, probably betroth him to a cousin of suitable age and station. All the while he remains in their clutches thereby ensuring his mother’s continued loyalty. Rest assured, Duchess, the Ascendant Queen would never sunder a child from his mother so cruelly.”

  Lorine turned to face me, face pale save for the scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Even after all these years the combination gave her a girlish appearance, although when she spoke her voice was that of an outlaw hardened by grim experience. “If you win,” she said, “I had no hand in it, but I’ll bend the knee to your mad Martyr all the same. If you lose, I had no hand in it and I’ll cheer along with the mob when they hang her. I trust this is understood.”

  I inclined my head. “Of course, my lady.”

  She gave the smallest of nods. “You can have Captain Dervan and his Chosen Company for your war against the heretics in Athiltor. Any churls within the Shavine Marches who wish to march under the Anointed Lady’s banner are also free to depart their lands, not that I’d be able to stop them in any case.”

  “And after that?”

  “If war with the Algathinets ensues, it’s your war, Alwyn. Until such time as I can gauge the winner, that is, whereupon you may well find yourself facing Dervan as an enemy rather than an ally. Don’t look at me like that. You know how this game must be played. Still, if you’re right, it won’t come to that, will it? Which brings us to another matter.”

  So here it was, the culmination of this dark bargain. I remained silent, merely inclining my head in invitation. Stating a price for goods you’ve yet to purchase is never a good tactic.

  “By my reckoning,” Lorine said, “close to one-third of all farmland in the Shavine Marches is owned by the Covenant. Perhaps your Anointed Lady, in her wisdom, will share my belief that such a state of affairs is in need of rectification.”

  “That depends on how much rectification would be required.”

  “All of it. Plus the rents for the last two years. I’ve little doubt the Covenant’s coffers are deep enough to cover it.”

  Promise her whatever is needed, Evadine had said but I held off on stating my agreement. Lorine would suspect a trap if I agreed without haggling. Besides, doing so chafed my outlaw’s instincts. “One year of rents,” I said. “And half the land.”

  “Two-thirds,” she countered. Smiling, she extended her hand for me to kiss. “And I’ll throw in the minstrel, since he accompanies your little bird so very well.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Quintrell was Lorine’s spy, of that I had no doubt at all. A minstrel who couldn’t sing most likely had to supplement his income by means beyond music. Besides, he had the mostly silent manner and careful eyes of a soul for whom observing while remaining unobserved was second nature. I didn’t blame Lorine for placing an agent in our midst, she had an investment to protect after all. Nor did I doubt the minstrel knew I divined his true role within moments of him reporting to me the following morning. Even my relatively short tenure as Evadine’s spymaster had taught me that a surprisingly large portion of this strange game is played out in the open.

  “Minstrels are often widely travelled, are they not?” I asked him. He had presented himself at the stables where the Mounted and Scout companies were preparing to march out. He wore plain garb today rather than the motley silks of the previous night, his mandolin consigned to a waxed bundle and slung over his shoulder. I saw no weapon on his belt but felt there must surely be at least one hidden knife somewhere about his person.

  “That they are, my lord,” he agreed, an affable smile on his lips. He was not a particularly handsome specimen, but well groomed, his beard and moustache trimmed short and oiled into spear points. He also had an accent I couldn’t place, mixing inflections from all duchies while being too rough for a noble and too refined for a commoner. “I’ve played from one end of the realm to the other, although never had a warmer welcome than in Duchess Lorine’s house.”

  “Ever venture further? Across the sea, or the southern mountains? I’ve use for folk who can converse in other tongues.”

  “Sadly, our own tongue is the only one I know.” He was a good liar, but I saw it in the fractional hesitation before he gilded the untruth with another bow. “Though I’ve memorised a few Ascarlian phrases thanks to my time in the Fjord Geld.”

  I grunted and heaved my saddle on to Blackfoot’s back. “Do you know letters?”

  This time he chose not to lie, perhaps warned by Lorine that too much falsehood would surely gain my notice. “I do, my lord. A fair hand, so I’m told, though not as fair as yours, I’m sure.”

  “So am I.” I turned to Ayin who stood regarding the conversation with an unusual tension, arms crossed and head half lowered. “What do you think, Trooper Ayin?” I asked her. “Happy to teach this one your songs?”

  “Only if he teaches me to play,” she said, the words a rapid tumble, and I saw how she darted a glance at the mandolin on the minstrel’s back. It occurred to me that she rarely expressed a desire for anything and found the act of doing so uncomfortable. I guessed it to be yet another legacy of her dread mother; Ayin had learned at an early age that asking for things brought only punishment.

  “How about it, Master Quintrell?” I asked the minstrel. “Ever take a student?”

  “A few.” He inclined his head at Ayin who, I saw with a spasm of astonishment, actually blushed. “Though none with so fine a voice. It shall be my pleasure to teach you the ways of the mandolin, my dear.”

  “Very well,” I said, reaching for the saddle’s straps. “Mount up, I assume the duchess was kind enough to provide you a horse. We ride within the hour.”

  “I shall, my lord.” Quintrell bowed again then gave a hesitant glance over his shoulder. “But, if I may first crave another indulgence.” He beckoned to a figure standing in the shadowed lee of the doorway. The youth who stepped into the light did so at such a crouch I at first thought him the victim of some deformity. As he came closer, still huddled, I recognised the clumsy juggler from the feast. Unlike Quintrell, this one was almost jarringly handsome, although the pleasing, square-jawed arrangement of his features was marred by the livid bruise on his cheek.

  “I present Adlar Spinner, my lord,” the minstrel said. “With your permission, he should like to accompany us.”

  “As your servant?”

  “As a soldier,” the juggler said, raising his head for the first time. He spoke with a forceful note but blanched and lowered his face once again upon meeting my eye. “If it please your lordship.”

  Another spy? I immediately discounted the thought upon noting the youth’s evident fear, something punctuated by the nervous squeal of his guts. Such things were very hard to fake.

  “Straighten up,” I snapped. Adlar Spinner gave another shudder then complied, losing his crouch to stand a few inches shorter than I. His frame had a sturdy, honed look to it that told of constant exercise but, save for the bruise on his cheek, no evidence he had known a day’s violence in his life.

  “Your father give you that?” I asked, pointing to the bruise.

  “I fell, my lord.”

  “Balls you did. Here’s a word of advice for you, lad: don’t lie to a man when you’re seeking his favour, you’ve no skill for it. So, was it your father?”

  The juggler blinked and fidgeted, shooting a glance at Ayin before answering. “My mother, my lord,” he said then forced a smile. “Gets a temper on her when our performances don’t go so well.”

  I had expected a shamefaced confession as to his father’s violent, possibly drunken ways. It would have given me the opportunity to ask Adlar if he had returned the blow in kind then dismiss him when he said no. Come back when you lay the bastard out, boy. No use for milksops in this company. Taking a punch from his mother put a different complexion on things.

  “Can you ride?” I asked him, staring into his eyes to ensure he remembered my injunction against lying.

  “In truth, no, my lord.”

  “Know how to wield a halberd?”

  Swallowing, he shook his head.

  “Sword? Bow?”

  Another shake of his head.

  “War’s coming fast upon us.” I turned away to finish saddling Blackfoot. “And I’ve no time to play the tutor to a clumsy jackanapes. If you’re so keen on marching under the Lady’s banner, pick up a pitchfork and fall in step with the churls.”

  “Adlar,” Quintrell said. “Show Lord Alwyn what you can do.”

  The quiet assurance in the minstrel’s tone caused me to look again at Adlar, finding the lad had resumed his fidgeting.

  “If you’ve a skill to sell,” I said, “let’s see it.”

  “I’ll need a knife,” he said. “Mother sold all of mine back in Farinsahl.”

  “Here,” Ayin said, plucking one of her blades from its sheath at the small of her back. Twirling it, she stepped forward to offer it to Adlar.

  “And,” the juggler coughed, “a playing card, or piece of parchment, if it please you.”

  “The Anointed Lady doesn’t allow games of chance in her company,” I said.

  “Not to worry.” Quintrell gave Adlar a reassuring wink and produced a deck from the satchel at his side. “These are a mite tattered, but will serve, I think.” He plucked one of the cards from the deck, holding it up. “The Green Lady? She’s always been lucky for me.”

  Adlar adjusted his grip on the knife then nodded to the minstrel. Quintrell flicked his hand and the card spun into the air for the smallest fraction of a second before Adlar’s arm blurred and Ayin’s knife flashed, too fast to see. However, I did hear the thud of it striking the stable’s timber wall, my eyes snapping to the sight of the handle shuddering, the blade skewered precisely through the Green Lady’s head.

  “A pleasing trick,” I said, recalling an outlaw from Deckin’s band who could perform a similar feat. A Cordwainer fleeing the rope in his homeland, the fellow had too wayward a tongue to last long enough to demonstrate the practical use of his skill. Myself and the other cubs had tried to emulate the man’s ability only to earn a cuffing from Lorine when we lost a knife attempting to sink it into a broad oak from ten paces.

  “But just a trick,” I added. “Can you do anything else?”

  The youth lowered his head again, fumbling for words so Quintrell spoke for him. “You said you had a use for those who speak other tongues, my lord. Adlar speaks four.”

  “Really?” I kept my gaze on the juggler, receiving a nod in response. “What are they?”

  “Ascarlian, my lord. Also, Etriskan, as spoken beyond the southern seas, Ishtan, the most common language of the east, and Vergundian, at least the dialect spoken in the central plains.”

  This gave me pause. What little I had heard of the plainsmen’s tongue was a meaningless babble and they were notorious for their insularity, meaning few outsiders could speak their language. “How do you come to know Vergundian?”

  “My mother is half-Vergundian, my lord. She taught me.”

  That explains the temper. “Say something, then,” I told him. “Something in the savages’ tongue.”

  This was a calculated barb, intended to nudge him to anger, but he merely blinked and spoke a short phrase. “Trekash iret mekrova. ‘Arrows are truth.’ The creed of my mother’s clan.” He fell silent, looking at me in expectation. “Did I… say it correctly, my lord?”

  “How the fuck should I know? There are Vergundian mercenaries at Athiltor, perhaps some are even your kin. Think you can sink a knife into them if need be?”

  He forced some additional straightness into his spine, meeting my eye. “I’ll do what’s required of a soldier in the Lady’s service, my lord.”

  “You’d better. Death by flogging is an unpleasant fate.” I turned to Ayin. “Give him Woodsman’s horse and enter his name in the ledger, Scout Company. Half pay until he’s trained. And,” I added, glancing at her knife still pinning the Green Lady to the wall, “find him some knives.”

  It is my experience that those who gain a taste of war soon lose their appetite for more. When steel clashes and the bolts and arrows fly it’s not long before would-be heroes and braggarts discover unforeseen depths of cowardice. Similarly, ardent believers, finding themselves faced with unvarnished evidence of mortality, will often transform into philosophising doubters keen to find a quiet, peaceful corner to continue their meditations.

  So I will confess a measure of surprise at the willingness of the common folk of the Shavine Marches to once again flock to the Anointed Lady’s banner. I glimpsed a few familiar faces among the gathering throng as we began the march to Athiltor, the fervent devotees who had followed Evadine’s first progress to the holy city. Denied battle then, it was apparent they hungered for one now. I saw features hardened with determination, some bearing the scars of their previous service. Others were the guileless, wide-eyed, open-mouthed sheep swept up in the fervour and excitement of an encounter with history. These, I knew, were the most likely to melt away at the first clash, but their numbers remained impressive.