The last scroll, addressed to Princess Valaran Mandes found most interesting, but it mentioned him not at all. He did not bother changing any of it. Instead he made a copy.
The caravan rolled out at sunrise. Tol saw it off. Egrin led the homeward-bound column on horseback. He saluted his former shield-bearer proudly, and Tol returned the gesture with enthusiasm. Egrin bared his dagger and raised it high, holding it there long after he’d passed Tol.
Behind Egrin came those riders going home to their families and farms. Most were from the Caergoth region. They raised four cheers for their valiant commander as they rode.
In their wake came the walking wounded. Weakened, they did not shout so lustily, but there was pride in their stride and gratitude in their eyes.
Lastly, a long, irregular parade of carts and wagons rolled by, filled with warriors too hurt to walk. Leading the line of wagons was a black coach drawn by four matched bay horses, once the property of a rich Tarsan merchant who spent some months each year in Old Port. Tol’s men had found the coach hidden away in a barn and liberated it for their commander’s use.
Mandes sat in the coach’s rear seat. The other places were taken by riders who’d lost limbs or sustained other grave injuries. The wizard did not wave as he passed, but did incline his head to the author of his new opportunity. – Tol called out, “Farewell, Mandes! When I return to Daltigoth, we’ll feast at Juramona House!”
He remained until the last cart in the long caravan was gone, then turned Cloud about and rode back to camp.
It was the middle day of autumn. Tol expected that once his letters were received, he would be recalled to the capital to confer with the crown prince and the highest warlords of the empire. Fresh hordes would be needed if Tarsan territory was to be invaded. Tol had fewer than seven thousand men, enough to defend Hylo but not enough to conquer the powerful city-state.
He knew no attack could be mounted until spring. Winter’s snow would close the roads and make troop movements laborious and expensive. Tarsis might launch coastal raids in the meantime, but the loss of a huge army and their best general had to give them pause. Time would tell how much.
Riding back into camp over ground crunchy with frost, Tol was stricken anew with longing for Valaran. She’d been much on his mind during the journey north, but once they encountered real danger, his mind had been fixed on the peril in front of him. His pent-up desire surfaced with a vengeance now. How long would it be until he saw her again? The letter he’d entrusted to Mandes begged her to write to him. Before, when he’d been on the move, there was no way for her letters to find him, but he would be in camp for some time now and regular correspondence was possible. He was lord of the northern hordes. The thought made him smile with pride.
A few flakes of snow drifted down, melting on Cloud’s gray hide and Tol’s bare hands.
It will not be long, Val, Tol vowed. Not long.
Snow was falling in Daltigoth. The sun shone warmly over the Inner City, as it always did thanks to the college of sorcerers, but the outer city lay muffled under a fresh mantle of white.
Treading carefully through the drifts came a man swathed in furs from head to heels. He made directly for the gate of a darkened villa sited in a cramped corner of the Old City. Stucco was peeling off the villa’s wall in wide patches, exposing red bricks underneath. Snow padded the spikes atop the wall.
Few people dared approach the crumbling mansion. It was inhabited by a gang of disreputable nobles, former members of the city Horse Guards, drunkards, wastrels, and thugs. They were called-though not to their faces-Nazramin’s Wolves, in honor of the prince who was their patron.
The gate was shut, so the fur-clad man tugged on the chain hanging nearby. A bronze bell tolled dully. The wicket opened.
“Who is it?” demanded a deep voice from within.
“A visitor to see your master.”
“Go away before I set the dogs on you.” The deep baying of hounds within proved the threat was not an idle one.
The wicket started to close. Quickly, the stranger held up his hand, palm out, and muttered a short cantrip. A brightly glowing ball of fire, no bigger than a hen’s egg, shot from his hand through the wicket.
Exclamations and curses from the other side told the visitor his credentials had been noted. The wicket widened, and a fiercely scowling face appeared.
“Why didn’t you just say who you were?”
The man’s clean-shaven face, lined by recent suffering, twitched into the faintest of smiles. “I just did.”
The old gate swung inward, scraping back a wedge of newly fallen snow. Seven hard-looking men, cloaked and hooded, stood on the other side. One jerked his head to indicate the visitor should proceed straight ahead to a columned porch and a great brass door much dulled with tarnish. The visitor strode on, only to be stopped by the point of a sword against his breastbone.
“Open your furs. I have to search you for arms.”
Wordlessly, the stranger allowed the guards to probe him for weapons. One of them noticed his left sleeve was pinned to the breast of his robe.
“What’s this?” he said, snatching the cylinder of cloth free. It swung limply by the man’s side.
“As you can see, I have no arms to hide,” said the stranger. The guards grunted, and sent him on his way.
The villa’s interior was almost as cold as the evening outside. Only every third wall sconce held a burning torch, giving the hall a dim and forbidding air. Suits of armor hung on stands along the walls, and racks of spears and swords were everywhere. The villa had more the air of a barracks than a fine old house.
A stooping servant, bearing a tray with a tall beaker on it, scurried down the stairs and entered the door at the far end of the hall. When the door opened, a blaze of heat and light washed out. The visitor followed the servant and stood, unannounced, in the open doorway.
The room beyond proved his host was not averse to comfort after all. It was well illuminated and heated by crackling fires in two large fireplaces. Between them was an enormous chair padded with leather. A table to one side was laden with food and drink, heavy plates and goblets wrought in bright gold. On the chair’s right was an identical table, covered with partially unrolled scrolls. Two wolfhounds lolled by the fire. They growled at the visitor.
“Come forward, Master Mandes,” beckoned Prince Nazramin. He set aside the document he was reading and leaned back in the leather chair.
Mandes pulled off his cape and let his robe hang open. Although he’d been cold before, the heat here was stifling.
The prince waved to the pile of parchment. “You bring amusing gifts. The peasant boy has been busy, hasn’t he?”
“Indeed he has, sire.”
Nazramin’s brown eyes narrowed. “I am not my brother,” he said slowly. “Do not call me ‘sire.’ ”
“Forgive me, Lord Prince. I am but lately come to Ergoth. My sojourn in the uncivilized wilds-”
“You altered these dispatches, wizard. What parts did you change?”
Sweat beaded on Mandes’s high forehead. “Only those portions that mentioned me, Lord Prince. Some I embellished to make more flattering; others I repaired because they were, ah, critical of my deeds in Hylo.”
“I see.” After a moment’s thoughtful pause, Nazramin added, “You left Lord Mudfield’s description of his own successes. Those will have to go. In fact, I intend to change them all. I know several expert forgers-though for this lout’s handwriting, a pig with a pen would suffice. When I’m done, no one will care a whit about farmer Lord Tolandruth!”