In the Eye of Heaven (45 page)

"Set up camp
," Coensar said, and the same fools who had dropped the warhorse went to oversee the establishment of their encampment below High Ashes, Guthred looking on with a skeptical eye.

Durand trailed in their wake, feeling trapped.

Berchard led their straggling line past wrestling peasants, men lifting great round stones, and a group casting spears to arrive at a space of empty pasture. High Ashes was a fairground sort of place that day.

"Well," Berchard said, finally, "this looks as good a place as any. Few stones, thick turf." He hopped up and down on his toes. "It's likely a better bed than they'll have up in the castle."

It could not have mattered less to Durand, and none of the others bothered to argue. Guthred tramped past, squinting at the ground, getting set to issue orders. With all the fairground activity, none of them had noticed the strange gang of workmen digging nearby. Abruptly, one rangy villager in a dark cap hopped off his riverside seat and strolled over. He left a half-dozen of his fellows standing with shovels and mattocks on some sort of ridge.

"I wouldn't pitch that here, Your Lordships, not if I were you."

Berchard thrust out his bearded chin. "Would you not?" "I would not, and that's a fact," the rangy villager affirmed. Berchard nodded:
fair enough.
Somewhere wrestlers were shouting. Or the men heaving the great stones.

"And why would you avoid this spot, then, if you were we?"

"Well. All through here? It's about to go under."

Berchard paused. "Under?"

"Aye."

Ouen lowered a long arm across Badan's chest; the bald knight had already started to snarl.

"For the big tussle in the morning," the raw-boned villager explained.

"Friend," said Berchard. "I'm afraid I've lost you."

"We're setting the river back. Shifting it off the old island."

Now, Ouen had a firm hold of Badan.

Berchard patted the air. "Wait a moment now, I think I'm starting to see. Darkly, mind you, so go slow."

"The river," said the villager. 'The Glass?" Berchard nodded helpfully. "It's meant to run round this way." The man, turning to face the castle hill, waved his arms, showing a channel swinging around the old fort on the north side. "But they dammed it off so it cuts this way, back down an old oxbow."

"An oxbow. I see." Berchard nodded. "So. Where, then, would you establish your encampment, were you all of us?"

"I'm sure it ain't my place to say, Lordship."

"Of course not," Berchard agreed. "Foolish of me. We'll find our own patch. Just you make sure to tell us if you plan to dump a river down it, right?"

"As you wish, Lordship."

"As I wish," Berchard said and turned to the others. "What about up there, then?" he suggested, gesturing vaguely, and they were off to high ground on the castle's flank.

Heremund was sitting there already, scratching his neck and muttering.

Durand threw himself
into the numbing work of heaping barrels and unrolling tents, using his back like a mute beast. All the while, he was conscious of the castle's stockade wall.

Shouts drew Durand's attention to the dam. While the peasants must have been digging for long hours to cut their black notch in the berm, the river had suddenly outdone them. Durand glanced in time to see the peasants high-stepping like herons as the water lipped over the dam and poured into the deep pasture where Lamoric's men might have pitched their tents.

Finally, when the last stake was driven and the last pole raised, Durand joined the others where they gathered round a fire. Beyond, the dark water poured into the turf, filling the earth to send a gleaming edge spreading across the lawn, clear as the glass for which the river was named.

The cooks of High Ashes were roasting meat in the castle yard, and an agony of crackling odors boiled over the wall to torment the men.

Badan shook his head as if to dislodge the smell. "Where's this fight to be?" he asked. "What did he say?"

"In the river by the sounds of it," Berchard said.

Heremund was nodding. He had the look of a man working on some riddle. "This business with the island. I wonder."

"What
do you wonder, skald?" Badan griped.

"Islands under rivers. There was a king, once. One of the Atthians; one of the Voyager's get. They turned a river over his bones."

"Ach. Whatever it is," said Badan, "it had better be a dry and windy night if they expect us to ride horses on this island of theirs in the morning."

"I expect we'll fight on foot," said Berchard.

Ouen grimaced. "Or the island's stone. I got in a scrape once. Argued with a man. He had us run out into the yard and do it right there."

There were lewd groans.

"You're a bunch of sick whoresons, you are. We lined up right in the courtyard. Horses on the cobblestones." The man thumbed his gilded teeth. "Lotht these whed the little bathtard knocked me off."

Lamoric and Coensar joined them, Lamoric's face still hidden by his helm.

"Gentlemen," said Lamoric.

"You still wearing that thing, Lordship?" asked Ouen. Lamoric tipped the heavy bucket back far enough that he could grimace out from under the lip.

"Blast that Moryn calling us in. How was I to manage that? It's all family in there, nearly. Half of Duke Severin's men stood by me in Evensands for my wedding. That's only the Weaning Moon. They're not deaf, and they're not daft."

Durand nodded along with the others.

"The man wanted me to sit at the table like a fool, my head in this bucket all night while his father's court jabbers and stares and dines on heron and pheasant, and I'm stuck there like some leering madman. May the Eye turn from him, the bugger knew I had to turn him down. And turn his Grace down. He knew it."

There was nothing for a man to do but nod and look at the ground between his feet. Up near the gates, a wrestler was thrown hard. They heard the grunt, and the hollering of the crowd.

"Well," said Lamoric. "It'll all be over soon, one way or the other." Reseating his helm, he started for the tents.

"Evening gentlemen," said Coensar, and the company was left alone.

"Well, call me simple, but I don't understand," said Berchard.

"Ah," said Ouen. "He's got to hide his face. There's family and strangers about. Maybe after dark—"

"Host of Heaven," sighed Berchard, "not the Red Knight business here and now; the Red Knight business altogether— what's it mean?"

Suddenly, Ouen looked as though he had something caught between his back teeth.

"And what's this between Moryn and Lamoric?" Berchard pressed.

Heremund was worrying at whatever plagued him, but it was he who answered. "Could it be that? It couldn't, surely."

Berchard rounded on the little man. "How about you tell me and I'll decide."

"Huh. Gireth and Mornaway. They're loyal men. Mornaway has a daughter. Gireth's got a son. It's an alliance. Lamoric's been a might high-spirited. Better known in alehouses than court or sanctuary."

"Good lad," sneered Badan.

Heremund waved a hand, like a man batting at a fly. "But it's to be an alliance. And it's the Weaning Moon and the flowers are blowing. And so old Duke Abravanal—he'd been poorly, I reckon." The little man winced into the sky a moment, unsatisfied.

The whole lot of them had leaned forward by now, Durand included, and they watched as the little man grimaced and dug a finger in his ear.

"Skald!" Berchard prompted, and Heremund blinked back at his circle of listeners.

"Ah. So Abravanal casts his net out wide and hauls his boy in from wherever he's haring, and they all troop down to Morn-away for a high sanctuary wedding in Evensands.

"Now, as they're polishing the plate and stringing up flowers at the high sanctuary, there's dark news on the roads."

"That'll be Borogyn," ventured Berchard.

"Mad Borogyn's got them rising up in the Heithan Marches."

"I see you're listening," chided Berchard, but Heremund only rattled on.

"The old Prince of the Marches, his sons have thrown their lot in with Borogyn. King Ragnal's calling up the war host of Errest the Old. Every duke's bound to bring his men."

"Aye ..." agreed Berchard.

"Duke Abravanal was too ill to march, and he reckoned his eldest must stick by his side, so he gives the host of Gireth to Lamoric. An honor."

"Now, back to the wedding," Berchard prompted.

"Hmm," Heremund said. "So, riders tore home through Mornaway and Yrlac to bang on the door of every Baron of Gireth. But the wedding's underway. There's a little feast Husband and wife-to-be and their families. What with wedding and war on the morrow, there's butterflies in the guts of young and old. But all go to bed safe."

"It's a harrowing tale so far, skald," Berchard said.

"Ah. All
...
but our Lamoric. I reckon some of his cronies must've made the trek to Evensands, but what happened that night's all a bit clouded." There were brothels and alehouses enough in most towns to shine a light in those clouds. "I do know, though, that there was trouble at the sanctuary the next morning. At First Twilight, there was no sign of him for the vigil, and that sent big brother hunting."

Berchard was shaking his head. "I hope he hasn't got inlaws like mine."

"Guthred could tell a sight more, I'd wager, but it all ended with bride and family and half of Evensands sat in the sanctuary as the Eye of Heaven peered down the river without a groom. But then there's raised voices outside, and Lamoric's there. His brother's found him. They've brushed most of the straw from his surcoat.

"After that, Abravanal gave Gireth's war host to one of his barons—Swanskin, I think—and not his son."

"Redemption,"
declared Berchard. Durand looked up at the stockade walls of High Ashes, almost marveling. All the lords of Mornaway were inside. "A summer of hard fighting, and now he's up against it. All them ghosts and butterflies. Now's the test. All the in-laws staring on. I wonder how—"

"Hang on," rumbled Ouen. "His Lordship hired me on for a simple trick: We're bound for Tern Gyre, if we can get there. We'll fight before the prince and the barons. They all think they know our man up there. His shield's been on the tournament roll since he mumbled his first word." The big man did not mention Lamoric's reputation as a wastrel and a fool. "But we're going to ride through like heroes, and, when we've bested every whoreson who rides out against us and they're looking to name our Red Knight commander first of equals and hero of heroes, and every green eye is on him, he'll pop off that red helm, and show them who he really is." He poked Berchard once in the surcoat, giving them a great slanted flash of his golden teeth. "It'll be the greatest trick played in a hundred years. His Lordship will be marked out for great things, and we'll all be there with him, finished with grubbing for pennies forever."

"And so here we are, starving in a cow field," Badan sneered.

"Better than the river," Berchard offered.

Heremund was back to shaking his head and muttering.

"I wonder what went on as the boy's brother dragged him to the sanctuary," pondered Berchard. "I might pry a word or two from Guthred after—"

Just then, Guthred appeared at their fireside.

"If you're through with this philosophizing, I've got tidings for you. Coensar's taking mercy on us lot with the feast on upstairs. Any who want can go."

Men grinned and backs straightened. Durand started to lean onto his feet, pleased to have a chance to get inside.

"Anyone who wants to leave his betters out here in the weather can head right in." Guthred grinned. "That's the word you'll get from me."

Badan was on his feet before Berchard caught his cloak.

"You're a cruel man, Guthred, my boy," said Berchard. "Plain cruel."

Guthred paused to give them a grimace, then continued on his way.

With evening coming
on, Durand glanced up to find Heremund staring at him. He looked away.

Cool shadows had filled the valley by then, but the murderous scents boiling over the stockade seemed to fill the whole world. Pork and mutton and beef and goose and venison curled in the air.