For some reason, Cleaver insisted that Lord Fortinbrass be included in the meeting.
It was obvious Yorrin couldn’t fathom it. Lord Fattenbrass, he called him, despite Aleksandr’s quiet reprimands.
Truth be told, Prudence couldn’t fathom it either. It was clear that Vernon Cleaver had some loyalty to—and fondness for—his lord. But Fortinbrass did not appear to have the cunning or courage to deal with a situation of this magnitude.
“We’ve always been friends to Yerevan,” Fortinbrass whined. “I just don’t understand why they would do this.”
The lord was dressed in a loose-fitting sleeping gown. He sat at one of the tables in his great hall, Cleaver on his right. Aleksandr, Yorrin, Dylan, and Prudence were seated at the table with them. Yorrin had told her to join them—she may not be a commander within Steelshod, but Yorrin knew her worth in planning a clandestine operation.
“The Svards—” Aleksandr began to reply, but Fortinbrass bowled over him.
“Yes, yes, you’ve already explained,” Fortinbrass said. He waved a dismissive hand, his fingers wiggling like short, fat sausages. “Magic. An easy enough excuse, young master Kerensky. But I can’t just take such a claim on your word, now can I? Vernon, what do you think?”
“I have occasionally heard stories of the blood-priests of Vlar, my lord,” Cleaver said, obviously choosing his words carefully. “The most common tale being that a blood-priest, after slaying a foe in battle, can call upon his dark god to strike fear into the hearts of his foes. Such tales are… difficult to either verify or disprove, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” Fortinbrass said, nodding. “I imagine the sight of your enemy soaked in the blood of your friends might strike fear into anyone’s heart! Terrible, terrible business. It’s striking fear into mine already!” His jowls quivered as he shuddered. “But you’ve not seen anything about them controlling men in the manner Kerensky describes?”
“No, my lord.”
“That doesn’t mean it can’t exist,” Dylan pointed out. “Svarden is pretty far away, I bet there’s lots about it you don’t know.”
“One of our number, Gunnar, is himself Svardic,” Aleksandr said. “He told us of this himself. Perhaps it is not a story that has made it to Torva.”
Aleksandr was eyeing Cleaver carefully. We all know Cleaver is more than just Fortinbrass’s seneschal, Prudence thought. He’s some sort of spy, a power behind the lord. If his intel hasn’t told him of this before, it’ll be hard to convince him otherwise.
“Pardon,” she interjected. “Whether the story is true or not—whether our story is true or not—there’s a more urgent matter to deal with.”
“Quite,” Yorrin said. “Whether you believe us about the magic or not, Cleaver, the facts are the same: we’ve got the Ruskies on the north side willing to stand down. We need to make contact with the other two now. Kamarsky, right?” He glanced at Aleksandr, who nodded. “And the other one. Ver—whatever.”
“Verchenko,” Cleaver said.
“Right. The reserve. We need to get to them, so that Aleksandr can talk them down. We could use your help, Cleaver.”
Yorrin’s just talking straight to Cleaver. He isn’t even pretending that Fortinbrass has anything of use to add here. Prudence couldn’t really blame him, but he was being painfully obvious. She was a little surprised that Fortinbrass hadn’t noticed, hadn’t objected at least for appearances sake. Maybe Fortinbrass is a little sharper than Yorrin thinks—at least sharp enough to know his place, which can’t be said for every figurehead.
“Yes,” Cleaver said. “I suppose you could. I believe our last conversation mentioned boats?”
Yorrin nodded. “If you haven’t got the balls to sortie out, I figured you could at least lend us something we could use to do it for you.”
“Hmph,” Fortinbrass grumbled. “That’s no way to speak to us, young fellow!” he said. “Torva is a trading city, and most of our troops have been mustered out to Lord Marshal’s armies. Vernon was right to suggest that we focus on defense, and not antagonize the Yerevani by attacking them.”
“Our apologies, Lord Fortinbrass,” Aleksandr said. “Yorrin did not mean offense. He is simply eager for us to settle this.”
Fortinbrass rubbed his multitude of chins thoughtfully. “Yes, yes, I can see that. Apology accepted. What do you say, Vernon? We’ve got some vessels that should be appropriate to their needs, haven’t we?”
“Certainly, my lord,” Cleaver said.
“Excellent! You wish to go now, then, do you?” Fortinbrass asked Aleksandr. “Approach this Verchenko chap under the cover of darkness?”
“His force is both smaller, and perhaps more essential, than Bayard Kamarsky’s,” Aleksandr said.
That makes sense, Prudence agreed. If Verchenko’s the one with the ships, the reserve where resupply from Yerevan is going, then when we take that we’ll cut Kamarsky’s army off completely.
“Good, good,” said Fortinbrass. He waved at Cleaver. “Show them to the ship, then, Vernon. I sent someone to fetch Milton already, he should meet you there.”
Milton?
“Milton?” Yorrin echoed Prudence’s thoughts.
“My harbormaster,” Fortinbrass said. “Good man.”
Do we need to wake up the harbormaster just to take out a boat? Prudence wasn’t sure why Fortinbrass would have woken the poor man. Maybe he’s just trying to be proactive.
“Thank you, my lord,” Cleaver said. He glanced at Aleksandr and Yorrin. “Gather your men, I will take you to his lordship’s private jetty.”
Aleksandr nodded. As everyone began to rise, Fortinbrass spoke.
“Sir Kerensky,” he said.
Aleksandr paused halfway out of his seat. “Lord Fortinbrass?”
“I should thank you. What you’re doing for Torva, it’s a noble thing..”
“It is no problem, my lord,” Aleksandr said. “We have hired on to work with Caedia. We—”
“This isn’t a job assigned to you by the Marshal, Sir Kerensky,” Fortinbrass said. “Nor, I think, young Sir Cox at Northwatch. He might have sent you to check on us, but there’s no chance he’d expect you to intervene with such a small company. You’re doing this on your own, aren’t you?”
Aleksandr finished standing. He gave a single jerk of his head in agreement. “Da,” he said.
Fortinbrass nodded, still stroking his flabby neck and chin—there’s little to distinguish one from the other—in apparent thoughtfulness. He reached out and grabbed at a goblet on the table, and took a sip. “Well,” he said. “It’s very good of you, young sir. Don’t think I’ll forget it. When all this is done, we’ll throw you a feast as thanks.”
Alesandr smiled thinly. “Da, Lord Fortinbrass. As you like. We are happy to help.”
They all stood, leaving Fortinbrass alone at his table. A few of his knights were scattered around the hall nearby, but they all gave their lord some space.
The sight felt pitiable to Prudence: the prodigiously fat lord slumped alone at table, while better men—more competent men—did for his city what he could not. She pitied Fortinbrass, and in his own way he was a likable fellow, so that made the pity a sad and uncomfortable feeling.
He’s a ruler for a different time, she decided. Torva is a trading hub. Perhaps he’s got a good head for commerce. He’s certainly fond of feasting guests. A good man to rule in peace and plenty, but worthless in times of war and death.
They left Fortinbrass alone to drink in his hall. They made their way out of the great hall and into the courtyard. They were on the fortified island in the middle of the Ironblood, the craggy island that rose high above the water and was defended with twin barbicans at each arched Cassaline bridge. Cleaver summoned a sentry with a lantern to join them as he led them out of the citadel via a small postern gate. He led them down a narrow switchback trail that wound its way down the cliffs towards the water, eventually reaching a small, manned gatehouse.
Past the gatehouse Cleaver brought them to the Lord’s jetty: it was a smallish dock, certainly tiny compared to the sprawling harbors on either side of the Ironblood. It seemed to be built in a partially enclosed cove, and heavy chains closed off the mouth as well. Prudence saw several small vessels tied up at the piers: assorted skiffs and boats, and a single mid-sized cog.
A couple of sentries from the gatehouse were posted up near the chains, probably preparing to lower them. The only other figure Prudence saw on the docks was a single man standing on one of the piers. He held a lantern, its light low, leaving most of him in shadow.
Cleaver led them straight to him. Prudence stayed on Aleksandr and Yorrin’s heels as they followed. The man turned to face them as they got close. He looked to be fairly young, no older than thirty, with smooth shaven cheeks. He was slim and neither tall nor short. His clothes were well-tailored, and he wore his dark hair cropped close to his scalp.
“Cleaver,” he said.
“Deadman,” Cleaver said. He gestured to Aleksandr. “Aleksandr Kerensky, Milton Deadman. Torva’s harbormaster. Deadman, this is Kerensky.”
Deadman stepped forward and shook Aleksandr’s hand firmly.
If that’s a harbormaster, I’m a princess, Prudence decided. There was a faint imprint under Deadman’s shirt, where she knew he had a weapon tucked away. His lanternlight was low—just enough to see by, without making him night-blind. Even the way he moved, the way he shook Aleksandr’s hand, spoke of a man that could handle himself. Just like Cleaver.
“A pleasure,” Deadman said. “I understand you’re hoping to get to the Ruskan camp? Bayard Verchenko’s?”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. Prudence didn’t miss the hesitation in his voice. “You knew this already?”
Deadman shrugged. “It was obvious.” He gestured to the nearest vessels tied up to the pier. They were sturdy-looking skiffs, each with a single small mast and a couple pairs of oars. “These should get us to Verchenko’s camp unnoticed. No more than four of your men can come with us, unless you’ve got someone comfortable enough to take the lead in the second one.”
“Us?” Yorrin challenged. “You going with us, Deadman? And you, Cleaver?”
“I must remain here,” Cleaver said. “His lordship relies upon my advice—it would be reckless to venture out personally. But Deadman will go with you, yes.”
“I know the Ironblood,” Deadman said. “I can get us to Verchenko’s camp, that much I promise you.”
“What the hell kind of harbormaster are you?” Dylan asked.
Deadman gave Dylan a level gaze, his expression blank.
“Deadman was carefully selected for his post by Lord Fortinbrass himself,” Cleaver said. “He’s charged with ensuring all trade passing through Torva’s ports is legitimate, and all tariffs and taxes are exacted. And as he said, he knows the waters around here quite well. I’d suggest you thank him for his assistance.”
Dylan frowned. Aleksandr sighed. “Da, of course,” he said. “Thank you. Dylan meant no offense… Milton, da?”
Deadman nodded. “No offense taken,” he said. “But we should get moving. Cleaver.”
Deadman gave a farewell nod to Cleaver, and Torva’s seneschal took his leave of them.
“Gunnar,” Aleksandr turned, scanning the row of Steelshod faces. Gunnar stepped forward. “You can handle this boat, da?” Aleksandr gestured to one of the skiffs.
Gunnar snorted. “You joke?” When Aleksandr did not smile, Gunnar continued quickly. “Ja, of course I can. Will not be a problem.”
“Good. Dylan, Prudence. You go with Gunnar. Yorrin, you are with Milton and me.” Aleksandr glanced through the others again. “Four more volunteers—two with each boat.”
Most of Steelshod stepped forward instantly. In the end, Perrin and one of the Spatalians—Carlito, he’s the one that speaks Middish—joined Prudence’s boat. Aleksandr picked Orson and Levin for his own group, and Prudence just smiled at the look of annoyance on Yorrin’s face when “Lemon” stepped up to join them.
“Follow us as closely as you dare,” Deadman told Gunnar. “No lanterns, we navigate by moonlight. We’ll be fighting the current in small vessels, so be careful not to underestimate the river.”
“Ja,” Gunnar said, nodding. “Ironblood is a river all reavers know to respect.”
It’s never a good idea to remind folk that you’re a Svardic raider, Prudence thought.
To her surprise, Deadman just chuckled. “Good,” he said. To everyone else, he added “Once we’re on the open water, stay alert and stay quiet. You can whisper, but voices carry on the water. We are to be as ghosts. Understood?”
“We’ll be fine, Milton,” Yorrin said. “Let’s get a move on.”
In short order, they boarded the two skiffs and made their way out of the cove. The heavy chains were lowered and soon they cut through the open water of the Ironblood.
The half moon was lightly occluded by clouds, but even so a pale light glimmered white and silver on the surface of the river. Prudence saw the scattered fires on the south shore that had to be Kamarsky’s camp. She saw faint lights flickering a great distance further out, that she assumed must be Verchenko’s camp. Gunnar controlled the sails, and he whispered directions to the others as they rowed.
“Something’s off about that man,” Dylan muttered quietly.
“Who?” Perrin whispered. “Deadman?”
Dylan nodded. “What kind of harbormaster volunteers to lead a team to a hostile army camp under cover of darkness?”
“No como parece, si? He is not as he seems.” Carlito said.
“Neither is Cleaver, obviously,” whispered Prudence. “But we should keep our curiosity to ourselves. Like he said, voices carry on the water.”
Still, she pondered the same issues as they made their way in silence. Cleaver was a subtle man, the power behind Torva, and Deadman was clearly some sort of hatchet man for him.
Fortinbrass didn’t hand-pick Deadman for his post. Cleaver did. He must have. Prudence didn’t let the thoughts trouble her. She could respect Cleaver’s cunning a lot more than his lord’s gullible hospitality. So long as Cleaver remained their ally, she had no quarrel with him.
It didn’t take too long for them to reach the area claimed by Verchenko’s army. Firelight dotted the banks of the river, and at least a dozen relatively large cogs bobbed in the water or wallowed in the muddy sand. It appeared the Ruskans had claimed some sort of small inlet, where a stream fed the Ironblood and made a shallow beach.
Prudence saw a scattering of small fishing huts on the shore—clearly, the Ruskans had claimed an existing hamlet of some kind. She could only hope that the fishermen had already fled their homes to evade the Svards. If they hadn’t, she didn’t expect the Ruskans would have had any reason to keep them alive.
Deadman led them into a section of the beach that looked much less welcoming. Trees grew all the way up to the water’s edge, and the ground looked rocky and rough. Branches jutted out in such quantity that it looked like it would be impossible not to get them tangled up with the skiff’s sails.
But appearances were deceptive. Deadman’s vessel almost seemed to vanish right in front of them as it slipped between the trees and into a hidden cove. Gunnar fearlessly led them in right behind Deadman, and he steered them through without so much as a rustle of branches against their hull or sail.
They beached the skiffs on a rocky shore. They disembarked, and Deadman gave them a steady look and a nod.
“This is as far as I go,” he said. “I’ll watch the boats and await your return. Good luck and God’s favor go with you… Torva is counting on it.”
A sweet enough sentiment. Aleksandr thanked him for it, and he led his people out. The hidden cove was surrounded by a dense copse, but it didn’t take long to break through the dense undergrowth and into relatively open ground. The Ruskan camp had seemed close in the water, but it was still a good distance ahead of them on foot.
“Anything I should be worried about?” Perrin asked quietly. Prudence had heard him approach, of course. She glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Deadman, I mean. Can we trust him? The way you were talking—”
“He’s not a harbormaster,” Prudence said. “Or, not just one. He and Cleaver are cohorts of some kind.”
“Cohorts?” Perrin frowned.
Prudence glanced pointedly at Yorrin, who was murmuring quietly to Aleksandr a few paces ahead of them. Then she looked back to Perrin. His brow furrowed in the way it did when he was puzzling something out. Finally, he smiled as understanding dawned on him.
“The way you and Yorrin are cohorts,” he clarified.
He’s not savvy, but damn if he isn’t adorable, Prudence thought. His smile made her stomach flutter like she was back on the boat in choppy weather. “Yeah,” she confirmed.
“Right. Shady, but not—uh, not our problem, I guess,” Perrin said.
Prudence nodded. Whatever their motives, I don’t doubt that these men are fully with us, she reaffirmed to herself. Surnames like Cleaver and Deadman—they’re both lowborn yeomen. I think they’ve worked their asses off to get their claws into a jewel like Torva, and they’ll do anything to keep it out of Ruskan hands.
As they walked, Yorrin disengaged from Aleksandr. He sidled up beside her, opposite Perrin. She glanced at him, wordlessly inquiring what he needed.
“This Verchenko chap,” Yorrin said. “Aleksandr says he’s known as a businessman, like Naksava. Trade and commerce along the Ironblood is what his house does best. War, less so.”
“So it should go smoothly,” Prudence said.
“It should,” Yorrin agreed. “Aleksandr wants me to join him in the meeting.”
So it’ll be my job to slip in and watch your backs, Prudence read Yorrin’s intent easily. Cause a distraction if you need a quick getaway.
She nodded. Yorrin jerked his chin down in a curt reply, and then he made his way back over to Aleksandr.
Prudence reached out to Perrin and found his hand with hers. His cheeks might be soft and youthful, but his hands were rough with calluses. She squeezed, and he squeezed back.
Prudence slipped away after that. She let the rest of them approach the perimeter of Verchenko’s camp openly, and cut away at an angle. The ground here wasn’t densely forested, but there were plenty of hedges and thickets to break sightlines. She crept as close as she dared, and waited for the dim lanterns Steelshod carried to finally draw the attention of the Ruskan sentries.
Once the sentries called an alarm and moved to encircle Steelshod, it was easy enough to slip past their perimeter. She didn’t go too far at first, instead just ducking under an empty cart and watching as Aleksandr talked his way inside. She carefully drew out her small crossbow and lined up a shot on the lead sentry.
Just in case.
It was a considerable distance, but Prudence was confident she could manage it.
The little crossbow Giancarlo had given her—or rather, given Yorrin—was truly a marvel. It packed a hell of a lot of force into a small frame, able to punch right through Svardic mail at thirty paces and still quite accurate out past ten times that distance. It had some sort of crank mechanism to reset the tension, and it operated smooth as butter even for someone as small as Prudence.
Luckily, she had no cause to test the crossbow. Soon enough, the sentries seemed to reluctantly fall in around Steelshod and escorted them inside. Prudence shadowed them, keeping her distance. Eventually, she spotted what looked like some kind of supply tent, and she took a brief moment to slip inside. She found a Ruskan tabard and oversized iron helmet and threw them on, so that even if someone did spot her they might dismiss her as a fellow soldier out for a piss.
She caught up with them before they reached their destination. She skirted the group and hurried her pace, trying to survey the area ahead of them in case they were to be led into a trap. She heaved an internal sigh of relief when she saw what had to be Verchenko’s pavilion. An orange glow emanated from the gaps in the tent, and there were only a couple of guards outside. She crept around the back of the tent until she found a spot with good coverage from nearby tents, and she listened.
She heard a deep voice grumply within, and an apologetic one responding. It sounded a lot more like a lord annoyed at being woken by a sentry, and not at all like a dozen druzhniks tensely waiting to ambush anyone. Even so, Prudence drew a slender knife from her belt. She worked it very carefully into the thick cloth of the pavilion, slowly sawing her way into it until she’d cut a hole no wider than a single finger joint.
She hunkered down and peered within. A lord sat at a table in nightwear, growling at one of his men. He looked older, balding, with long mustaches and a thin chin beard that reached his breast. He scolded his man in rapid, slurred Ruskan. He sounded like he’d gone to bed with more than a few drinks in him. Prudence only understood every fifth word, but she was confident he was simply dressing the man down for waking him.
A few moments later Aleksandr and Yorrin were admitted, flanked by four more sentries. She heard the rest of Steelshod get stopped outside the pavilion on the opposite side.
These are fine odds, even if things turn south, she decided. Even so, she expanded the hole just enough that she felt she could sight and shoot her crossbow through it, if she really had to.
Then she waited.
Aleksandr and Verchenko spoke in a mix of Ruskan and Middish. Prudence listened as Aleksandr ran through a litany of reasonable arguments against the invasion. Verchenko seemed to listen, but he also seemed annoyed. Impatient. He said that the Tsar would expect resuts. Boris Bogdanov’s plan could still work.
Aleksandr stopped trying to persuade him of the right or wrong of the war. Instead, he convinced Verchenko to touch his sword.
The man looked obviously skeptical, but he reached out and touched his hand to the hilt with an impatient shrug. Prudence saw the orange shimmer as the runes on the blade began to glow with heat. Verchenko howled, pulling his hand back and recoiling. His guards surged forward, shouting in Ruskan and roughly grabbing Aleksandr and Yorrin by the arms.
The fog’s lifted, right? Prudence thought as she fixed her attention on Verchenko. Her hand found the crossbow’s trigger. Wise up old man. Don’t make me give your men a much bigger problem to worry about.
Verchenko growled a string of Ruskan, and his men seemed to calm down. The hesitation was obvious in their body language, but they stopped shouting.
“Bayard Verchenko,” Aleksandr said calmly. His arms were still held by the soldiers, and Verchenko was holding his sword. “My family blade. May I have it back?”
Verchenko took a deep breath. “Da,” he said. “Here.” He added something in Ruskan, and his men let go of Aleksandr. The sword exchanged hands again, and Aleksandr slid it into his belt.
“I suppose,” Verchenko said slowly. “We may have some business to discuss after all.”
After that, it was just haggling.