The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen's War 3)

“We should . . . spend some time, talk, do whatever it—” Another cough. “Whatever it is we’re supposed to do. My mother . . . well, you know her, she wasn’t so good at that part of things. I always said I’d do better. But when Nia died . . .”

“You’re drunk,” I told him, finding my throat tight. I went to the door, opened it. Somehow I couldn’t just leave—the words wouldn’t go with me, I had to leave them in the room. “When you’re better. We’ll talk then. Get drunk together, properly. Cardinal and son.”

Two days later the Red Queen led the Army of the South out of Vermillion, their columns ten thousand strong marching down the broad avenues of the Piatzo toward Victory Gate. Grandmother was astride a vast red stallion, her platemail gothic and enamelled in crimson as if she’d been freshly dipped in blood. I’d witnessed the Red Queen earning her name and had little doubt that she would soon be wearing a more practical armour and still be prepared to personally drench it in the real thing if need be. She paid the crowd no heed, her stare fixed on the tomorrows ahead. Her hair, rust and iron, scraped back beneath a circle of gold. A more scary old woman I’d yet to see—and I’d seen a few.

Behind the queen came the remnants of our once-proud cavalry, dropping a goodly tonnage of dung for the footmen to trudge through. Start as you mean to go on, I say.

I stood beside Martus, and on my other side, Darin, returned from his love nest in the country. He’d brought Micha back with him to Roma Hall, apparently with a baby, though all I saw was a basket hung with silver chains and loaded with lace. Darin kept threatening to introduce me to my new niece, but so far I’d avoided the meeting. I’m not partial to babies. They tend to vomit on me, or failing that, to vent from the other end.

“Hurrah . . . a parade . . .” The autumn sun beat down on us while we cheered and waved from the royal stand. The watching crowds had been issued with bright flags, the colours of the South, and many waved the Red March standard, divided diagonally, red above for the blood spilled on the march, black below for the hearts of our enemy. Martus bemoaned the state of the cavalry and the fact he’d been left behind. Darin observed that winter in Slov could be an ugly thing and he hoped the troops were equipped for it.

“They’ll be back in a month, you fool.” Martus offered us both a look of scorn as if I’d had something to do with the suggestion.

“Experience teaches that armies often get bogged down—no matter how dry the weather,” Darin said.

“Experience? What experience have you had, little brother?” A full Martus sneer now.

“History,” Darin said. “You can find it in books.”

“Pah. All history has taught us is we don’t learn from history.”

I let their argument flow over me and watched the infantry march by, spears across their shoulders, shields on their arms. Veterans or not few of them looked older than Martus and some looked younger than me.

Ten thousand men seemed a small force to challenge the might of Slov, though to be fair an army of well-trained and well-equipped regulars like the South can send five times its number of peasant conscripts running for their fields. Given Grandmother’s objective ten thousand seemed sufficient. Enough for a thrust, enough to secure the target area, and enough, when the Lady Blue was brought to ruin, to fight a retreat to defensible borders.

I wished them joy of it. My main priority remained unchanged. The pursuit of leisure—by definition a languid sort of a chase. I wanted to relax back into Vermillion and my newfound financial freedom, free from the threat of Maeres Allus and all those tiresome debts.

“Prince Jalan.” One of Grandmother’s elite guardsmen stood beside me, gleaming irritatingly. “The steward requires your presence.”

“The steward?” I glanced round at Martus and Darin who gave exaggerated shrugs, as interested as me in the answer.

The guard answered by pointing to the Victory Gate and raising his finger. There on the wall, directly above the gate, a palanquin, ornate and curtained, two teams of four men at the carrying bars to either side, guardsmen flanking them. Grandmother’s own.

“Who—”

But the guard had already led off. I swallowed my curiosity and hurried after him. We threaded a path behind the crowd to one of the stairs leading up the inside of the city wall. After climbing to the parapet we made our way to the palanquin where the men ushered me along the treacherously narrow strip of walkway not occupied by the steward’s box. Drawing level with the curtains I ducked through, not waiting for an invitation.