"I think not," Elayne said. No proposed conversation with a secretary produced those reactions. It seemed Sylvase had a hard core to her. "Naean and Elenia have published their support of Arymilla. They'll hardly destroy themselves by recanting." That truly would destroy them. Smaller Houses sworn to them would
begin falling away until their own House dwindled in importance. They themselves might not survive as High Seats much beyond announcing that they now stood for Trakand. And as for Arymilla. . . . Elayne would not allow Arymilla to change her tune. She would refuse the woman's support if it were offered!
Something grim entered Sylvase's gaze as she glanced at the three women. "They might, with the proper persuasion." Oh, yes; a very hard core. "But as you wish, Elayne. Be very careful of them, though. Treachery is in their blood and bones."
"Baryn stands for Trakand," Lir announced suddenly. "I, too, will publish it, Elayne."
"Anshar stands for Trakand," Karind said in firm tones. "I will send the proclamations out today."
"Traitors!" Arymilla cried. "I'll see you dead for this!" She fumbled at her belt, where a dagger's scabbard hung, jeweled and empty, as if she intended to see to the matter herself. Elenia began to laugh, but she did not sound amused. It sounded almost like weeping.
Elayne drew a deep breath. Now she had nine of the ten Houses needed. She was under no illusions. Whatever Sylvase's reasons, Lir and Karind were trying to salvage what they could by cutting themselves loose from a lost cause and hitching themselves to one that suddenly appeared to be rising. They would expect her to give them preferment for standing for her before she had the throne while forgetting that they had ever supported Arymilla. She would do neither. But neither could she reject them out of hand. "Trakand welcomes Baryn." Never warmly, though. Never that. "Trakand welcomes Anshar. Captain Guybon, get the prisoners into the city as soon as you can. Armsmen for Caeren, Baryn and Anshar will be restored their weapons and armor once the proclamations have been sent out, but they can have their banners back now." He saluted her and wheeled his bay, already shouting orders.
As she heeled the gray toward Dyelin, who was riding out of a side street followed by Catalyn and the three young fools in their gilded armor, Sylvase, Lir and Karind fell in behind her and Birgitte. She felt no disquiet having them at her back, not with a hundred Guardswomen at theirs. They would be watched very closely until those proclamations were sent. Including Sylvase. Elayne's mind was already casting itself ahead.
"You're awfully quiet," Birgitte said softly. "You've just won a great victory."
"And in a few hours," she replied, "I'll learn whether I have to win another."
CHAPTER 34 A Cup of Kaf
Furyk Karede pressed his gauntleted fist to his heart, returning the sentry's salute, and ignored the fact that the man spat as he rode past. He hoped the eighty men and twenty-one Ogier behind him ignored it, too. They had better, if they knew what was good for them. He was here for information, and a killing would make getting it more difficult. Since his manservant Ajimbura had planted his knife in a Standardbearer's heart over a perceived insult to his master— in truth, a real insult, but Ajimbura should have held his temper the way he himself had—since then, he had taken to leaving the wiry little hill-tribesman in the forest with the sul'dam and damane and some of the Guards to watch over the packhorses when he entered a camp. He had come a long way from Ebou Dar chasing the wind, almost four weeks of haring after rumors, until the news brought him here to this camp in east central Altara.
The neat rows of pale tents and horselines stood in a forest clearing large enough for raken to land, but there was no sign of raken or fliers, no ground company with its wagons and raken-grooms. But then, he had not seen a raken in the skies for some time now. Supposedly almost all had been sent west. Why, he did not know and did not care. The High Lady was his goal and his entire world. A tall thin message pole cast its long shadow in the early morning sun, though, so there must be raken somewhere about. He thought the camp might contain a thousand men, not counting farriers and cooks and the like. Interestingly, every last soldier he could see wore familiar armor from home rather than those solid breastplates and barred helmets. Practice was to pad out most forces with men from this side of the ocean. It was interesting that they were all armored, too. A rare commander kept his soldiers in armor unless he expected action soon. From the rumors he had picked up, that might be the case here.
Three flagstaffs marked the command tent, a tall, walled affair of pale canvas with air vents along the peak that doubled as smoke holes. No smoke issued from them now, for the morning was only a little cool, though the sun hung not far above the horizon. On one flagstaff the blue-bordered Imperial Banner hung in limp folds, hiding the spread-winged golden hawk clutching lightning in its talons. Some commanders hung it from a horizontal staff so it was always visible in full, but he thought that ostentatious. The other two banners, on shorter flanking staffs, would be of the regiments these men belonged to.
Karede dismounted in front of that tent and removed his helmet. Captain Musenge emulated him, revealing a grim expression on his weathered face. The other men climbed down too, to rest their horses, and stood by their animals. The Ogier Gardeners leaned on their long-hafted, black-tasseled axes. Everyone knew they would not be staying long.
"Keep the men out of trouble," he told Musenge. "If that means accepting insults, so be it."
"There'd be fewer insults if we killed a few of them," Musenge muttered. He had been in the Deathwatch Guards even longer than Karede, though his hair was unbroken black, and he would suffer insults to the Empress, might she live forever, as gladly as insults to the Guards.
Hartha scratched one of his long gray mustaches with a finger the size of a fat sausage. The First Gardener, commander of all the Ogier in the High Lady Tuon's bodyguard, was almost as tall as a man in the saddle, and wide with it. His red-and-green lacquered armor contained enough steel to make armor for three or four humans. His face was as dour as Musenge's, yet his booming voice was calm. Ogier were always calm except in battle. Then they were as cold as deep winter in Jeranem. "After we rescue the High Lady we can kill as many of them as need killing, Musenge."
Recalled to his duty, Musenge flushed for having allowed himself to stray. "After," he agreed.
Karede had schooled himself too hard over the years, had been schooled too hard by his trainers, to sigh, but had he been other than a Deathwatch Guard, he might have done so now. Not because Musenge wanted to kill someone and almost anyone would do. Rather it was because the insults he had walked away from these past weeks chafed him as much as they did Musenge and Hartha. But the Guards did whatever was necessary to carry out their assignments, and if that meant walking away from men who spat on the ground at the sight of armor in red and the dark green most called black, or dared to murmur about lowered eyes in his hearing, then walk away he must. Finding and rescuing the High Lady Tuon was all that mattered. Everything else was dross beside that.
Helmet under his arm, he ducked into the tent to find what must have been most of the camp's officers gathered around a large map spread out on a folding camp table. Half wore segmented breastplates lacquered in horizontal red and blue stripes, the other half red and yellow. They straightened and stared when he walked in: men from Khoweal or Dalenshar with skin blacker than charcoal, honey-brown men from N'Kon, fair-haired men from Mechoacan, pale-eyed men from Alqam, men from every part of the Empire. Their stares held not the wariness often tinged with admiration that he had always been used to, but very nearly challenges. It seemed everyone believed the filthy tale of Guards' involvement with a girl pretending to be the High Lady Tuon and extorting gold and jewels from merchants. Likely they believed that other, whispered tale about the girl, not merely vile but horrific. No. That the High Lady was in danger of her life from the Ever Victorious Army itself went beyond horrific. That was a world gone mad.
"Furyk Karede," he said coolly. His hand wanted to go to his sword hilt. Only discipline kept it at his side. Discipline and duty. He had accepted sword thrusts for duty. He could accept insults for it. "I wish to speak to the commander of this camp." For a long moment the silence stretched.
"Everybody out," a tall lean man barked at last in the sharp accents of Dalenshar. The others saluted, gathered their helmets from another table and filed out. Not one offered Karede a salute. His right hand twitched once, feeling a phantom hilt against his palm, and was still.
"Gamel Loune," the lean man introduced himself. Missing the top of his right ear, he had a slash of solid white there through his tight black curls and flecks of white elsewhere. "What do you want?" There was the barest touch of wariness in that. A hard man, and self-controlled. He would have had to be to earn the three red plumes decorating the helmet atop his sword-rack. Weak men without mastery of themselves did not rise to Banner-General. Karede suspected the only reason Loune was willing to talk to him was that his own helmet bore three black plumes.
"Not to interfere in your command." Loune had cause to fear that. Ranks in the Deathwatch Guard stood half a step higher than those outside. He could have co-opted the man's command had he needed to, though he would have been required to explain his reasons later. They would have had to be good reasons for him to avoid losing his head. "I understand there have been . . . difficulties in this part of Altara recently. I want to know what I am riding into."
Loune grunted. " 'Difficulties.' That's one word for it."
A stocky man in a plain brown coat, a narrow beard dangling from the point of his chin, entered the tent, carrying a heavily carved wooden tray with a silver pitcher and two sturdy white cups, the sort that would not break easily while being carried about in wagons. The scent of freshly brewed kaf began to suffuse the air.
"Your kaf, Banner-General." Setting the tray on the edge of table holding the map, he carefully filled one cup with the black liquid while watching Karede from the corner of his eye. Somewhere in his middle years, he wore a pair of long knives at his belt, and his hands had a knifeman's calluses. Karede sensed clo
se kin to Ajimbura, in spirit but not blood. Those dark brown eyes never came from the Kaensada Hills. "I waited till the others left since there's hardly enough for you any more. Don't know when I'm going to get more, I don't."
"Will you take kaf, Karede?" Loune's reluctance was obvious, but he could hardly fail to offer. For an insult that large, Karede would have been forced to kill him. Or so the man would think.