The Black Hawks. David Wragg
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Ahead of them, down the curve of the dusty road as it wound its way into the river valley, the bright walls of Omundi shone in the evening sun.
Spread like a dark blanket pocked with campfires before the walls, the armies of the Glorious League lay camped, the Church-blessed alliance of great Names and small, the crown-led instrument of divine unification. Siege engines stood idle in their earthworks, just out of bowshot, and Chel noted with distaste the rocky dam that had diverted the river’s flow away from the city and down deep-cut channels in the earth. Little seemed to be happening.
Highest of all the pennants that fluttered at the centre of the camp was the white lion of Merimonsun, and Tarfel squealed with glee at its sight. ‘Go there, go there!’ Chel geed the mule down the slope toward the camp.
***
Whether or not the pickets at the camp’s edge believed that the mule cart was an official royal conveyance, Tarfel’s shrieking, princely entitlement and signet-waving had them escorted to the camp’s centre in short order by nervous men-at-arms. An equally sceptical vizier bade them wait, still guarded, at the edge of a wide earth circle, ringed by the exotic tents of the great and good of the royal forces. Lions, pictorially speaking, were everywhere.
Overhead, a host of messenger-birds, doves and pigeons, seemed in constant circulation, teeming from the cotes stacked beside the grandest pavilion, coming and going in a ceaseless flutter of feathers. Panting foot messengers with grime-streaked faces came pelting past at regular intervals. All activity seemed centred on the pavilion, the hub for messages from hand and wing, a commotion of traffic in each direction at its entrance. Chel guessed that the news from Denirnas must have reached them by now. Beside the pavilion’s flap, watching every item in and out, stood a tall, hooded figure, robed in white and vermilion and dusted with travel-muck.
Chel’s heart thudded once and stopped, his pulse replaced with a sudden flooding lightness that spread over his skin. How had Vashenda got here ahead of them? His mouth was dry, tongue thick. Then his brain registered the difference of stance, of height, the curved sword belted beneath the robes, and he felt his heartbeat restart. It was not Vashenda. Another senior prelate, but not one who’d ordered him adjusted.
‘Bear?’ He was jolted out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. ‘Bear, is that you?’
‘Five bastard hells, it can’t be,’ he whispered.
***
Chel and the prince turned to find a young woman standing behind them, excitement and trepidation surging over her face. Her straight hair was bound and shrouded in the fashion of the Star Court, and she gazed at them with eyes as grey as Chel’s own.
Her face split in a wide grin and she threw her arms around him. ‘I knew it was you!’
‘Sab?’ Chel reeled, carried backward by her momentum. ‘How are you here? What are the chances? You look …’
She released him from her crushing grip. ‘Taller? More dynamic? Matured like fine spiced wine?’
‘Different.’
‘It’s been three years, Bear, near as matters. I wasn’t going to stay small and grotty. You look the same, if dirtier. But what are you doing here?’
‘I should ask likewise. Why aren’t you at home?’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Why’d you think, Bear-of-Mine?’
Tarfel cleared his throat with a frown, and the girl grinned again. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’
Chel sighed. ‘May I present Sabina Chel of Barva, my little sister.’
Tarfel inclined his head, looking Sabina up and down. ‘Not so little any more, eh?’
Frowning, Chel continued. ‘Sab, this is His Royal Highness Tarfel Merimonsun, prince of the realm, youngest son of King Lubel.’
She’d already begun a bow of her own and she staggered at his words. ‘You’re friends with a fucking prince?’ she hissed, head bent.
‘Well, not friends exactly,’ he said, experiencing several different flavours of mortification.
‘Your brother was good enough to escort me here from Denirnas,’ Tarfel said haughtily. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ He extended a grubby hand for her to kiss. To Chel, he murmured, ‘Bear? You’re not very bear-like, Chel.’
‘It’s, ah, a family thing.’
The sneering vizier reappeared, informing them that negotiations with the city had paused, if not concluded, and Prince Mendel had a moment for an audience with his brother. Tarfel swanned off after the man and into the grand pavilion. The robed prelate lingered outside, her hooded gaze swinging back across the Chel siblings, black eyes glittering within. Chel felt an unpleasant tingling as it swept over him, then the figure ducked beneath the flaps and was gone.
‘Who is that? That prelate?’
Sab sniffed. ‘Ah, Balise da Loran: “Lo Vassad’s clenched fist”. She’s the Star’s chief minister and a double-bastard.’
‘Chief minister? She’s a Church prelate!’
‘She’s also first sworn to Prince Thick, you know, after he had to start afresh. Many feathers in that cap.’
‘Prince Thick?’
She gestured toward the pavilion. ‘Mendel, the crown prince. Your new chum’s big bro. The man’s a haircut in boots. Pretty, though, even with the scars.’
He shook his head, baffled. ‘So who’s left at home, if you’re here? Has everyone been sent away?’
‘The twins are still there, Bear. They’re too young to go anywhere yet.’ She offered a sad smile. ‘They’ll look after Mum.’
‘But why are you here? I mean, here, at Omundi?’
‘You know, bit of this, bit of that. Making friends, keeping my eyes open.’
‘Sab.’
‘I’m travelling with the court. Can’t you tell?’ She twirled in her formal garb.
‘As what?’
‘As a lady-in-waiting, seconded to the entourage of our crown prince’s intended. The Lady Latifah has about three dozen of us, so I just slot into the mass. Five hells, is that girl stupid: people call her Latifah the Dim, sometimes to her face, poor lamb. That was Prince Dunce’s pick from the nobility’s nubility. Shepherd’s tits, imagine their children! They’ll need breathing lessons!’
‘How long in service? And when did you start cursing like a sergeant?’
‘Are you interrogating me, Bear? Since the spring. Amiran thought it was time I made my way.’
‘Of course he bloody did. You’re far too young to be fending for yourself at court!’
‘I’m not a duckling, Bear. I’m the same age you were when you set off on your travels. Speaking of which, where’s Uncle Hanush? Is he with you?’
‘Don’t call him that. And no, he’s not.’ His cheeks coloured at the thought of Lord Sokol, and his clothes felt suddenly hot.
Sab narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s going on? How did you come to be escorting the little prince? Your last letter said you were spending the year burning farmers up north.’
‘We did. Not burning farmers – well, some of them might have been. We were suppressing insurrections in the northeast all summer. Then Sokol decided we’d be wintering with Grand Duke Reysel at the winter palace in Denirnas, where they don’t so much have winter as a cool spell between summers. Mostly we just seemed to chase people away from places.’
‘And did you do much fighting? Are you a deadly swordsman yet? The finest blade in the provinces, slaying brigands and setting the ladies’ hearts a-flutter?’ She made swooning motions.