“Finishing touches only, Highness,” he assured her with a weary bow, turning and extending a hand to the new-born ship. “I give you the Realm’s Pride, one hundred and sixty feet long, forty-five at the beam, a draught of twenty-three and capable of carrying five hundred fully armed Realm Guard the breadth of any ocean.”
“And,” Alornis added in a prim voice, “constructed in only twenty days by less than a hundred men.”
“So,” Lyrna said to Davern. “It worked.”
“Indeed, Highness.” He inclined his head at Alornis. “My initial skepticism seems to have been unfounded.”
Lyrna moved closer to the ship, pausing to take Alornis’s hand, squeezing it tight. “Thank you, my lady. I hereby name you the Queen’s Artificer. Now the ship is done I would ask you turn your mind to the prosecution of the war. We will face great numbers in Volaria, I should be grateful for any devices you can conceive that might even the odds somewhat.”
She felt Alornis’s hand twitch in her grip. “I . . . know little of weapons, Highness.”
“You knew little of ships yet that seemed to be of scant matter. I await your designs with interest.” She released her hand and turned to Davern. “When does she launch?”
“The evening-tide, Highness. The masts should be fitted within two days.”
“Have copies of the plans sent to the yards in Warnsclave and South Tower. No other design is to be followed from this day on.”
“Yes, Highness.”
Her eyes picked out the lettering on the hull. The Realm’s Pride. Fitting but hardly inspiring. “And change the name,” she added, turning to go. “She’s to be called the King Malcius. I shall provide a list of titles for her sisters.”
• • •
The Dead Company was obliged to encamp beyond the city walls. Count Marven had given them a watchtower on the northern headland to guard, a decent remove from many veteran Realm Guard and former slaves keen to settle old scores. She found Al Hestian training his men with customary gentility.
“Get up you worthless shit-eater!” he growled at a prostrate youth, clutching his belly where the Lord Marshal had delivered a blow with the butt of his halberd. “Guts enough to steal but not enough to fight, eh? Let yourself be beaten down by a crippled old man.” He delivered a vicious kick at the boy’s legs as he continued to cower. “Up! Or it’s a flogging!”
Al Hestian straightened as Lyrna guided Arrow closer, ignoring his bow and looking down at the cringing youth. He stared up at her with bright appeal, tears swelling in his eyes. Little more than a boy, she realised. “Your Lord Marshal gave you an order,” she told him quietly, returning his stare and knowing he saw no kindness in her gaze.
The boy got to his feet, fighting tears and sketching a bow. “Sergeant!” Al Hestian barked and a broad-shouldered man came running to his side, saluting smartly. Lyrna recognised him as the knight from the dungeons, the one who had cried when she gave them their lives. “Run this coward until he drops,” Al Hestian told him. “No rum for a week.”
“This one would do well among the Lonakhim,” Davoka commented at Lyrna’s side.
Al Hestian came forward to hold Lyrna’s reins as she dismounted. She could see a new vitality in him, the defeated man from the Traitor’s Nook seemingly replaced by the epitome of a Realm Guard Lord Marshal, which, she reminded herself, he once had been. However, his straightened back and perfect uniform couldn’t mask his eyes; they still told of a man in the midst of grief.
“My lord,” she said, gesturing at the bluffs where Orena and Murel were laying out a table and chairs. “I come to watch my new ship’s first voyage. Would you care to join me?”
He had his men light lanterns and hang them from poles along the cliff-top, sitting stiffly opposite her as the sun faded and a harsh seaward breeze drew a whisper from the grass. “How do you find your new command, my lord?” Lyrna asked him, accepting a cup of wine from Orena.
“A mixed bag, Highness. Knights seeking to reclaim their honour serving alongside the scum of the Realm. My Blackhawks could have slaughtered them all in a day.”
“Yes, had they not been wiped out of course.” She looked at the wine in her cup, a dark Cumbraelin red, the scent sweet, holding a tinge of mint and blackberry. “Any desertions?”
“Two, Highness. They were recent recruits, witless outlaws in truth, with little notion of how to evade capture. They were easily returned.”
“And flogged, I presume?”
“Hanged, Highness, in front of the whole regiment.” He nodded his thanks at Orena as she poured his wine. “Examples must be set.”
“Quite so. I would prefer not to drink with you,” she added as he made to sip the wine. He hesitated a moment then laid down his cup, his face betraying no sign of offence.
Benten turned back from the cliff-top, pointing towards the harbour. “My Queen.”
Lyrna rose, beckoning Al Hestian to join her. The headland offered an excellent view of the docks where many torches glimmered as people crowded the wharf to watch the birth of the queen’s mighty ship. The Forge had been built with a slipway jutting out into the harbour, the interior glowing bright and bathing the waters in a yellow glow. Even from this distance she could hear the sound of multiple mallets pounding the blocks that held the vessel in place, fading abruptly to be replaced by a huge cheer from the wharf as the great hull slid down the slipway and into the water, her wake shimmering like gold in the torchlight.
“She makes a fine sight, don’t you think?” Lyrna asked Al Hestian, gesturing for Orena to bring more wine.
He watched the ship for a moment, his sunken eyes brightening only a fraction. “An impressive vessel, Highness.”
“Yes. I must confess I have misled you somewhat, Lord Marshal. My mission here tonight was not to show you my ship.”
She saw him tense, glancing at Iltis and Benten who stood a little way off on either side, eyes hard and hands resting on their sword hilts. “It was not, Highness?”
“No.” Lyrna turned as Orena approached, meeting her gaze and tipping her wine onto the grass. “It was to show you the face of our enemy.”
Orena froze, all expression draining from her features, but her eyes flicked across them all with an unnatural speed.
“Lord Vaelin noticed,” Lyrna told her. “You saw the boy who can’t be seen, unless by another Gifted. That was foolish.”
Orena didn’t move, her eyes settling on Lyrna as Benten and Iltis closed in on either side, swords drawn and levelled, Davoka moving behind her with spear poised.
“Orena Vardrian,” Lyrna continued. “Family names follow the female line among the farming folk of Asrael. Brother Harlick has memorised every census ever taken in this Realm so it was an easy task to discern that you and Lord Vaelin are cousins, sharing a grandmother, one who no doubt passed her Gifted blood to both daughters. Maternal blood carries the Dark but the nature of the gifts can vary between generations. What is hers?”
Orena’s features spasmed, a variety of expression marring her mask-like visage, malice, fear and amusement all flickering across her face before settling on the most unexpected; sadness, her brow softening and mouth forming a slight grimace. When she spoke her voice was flat, though Lyrna found the cadence horribly familiar. “She can place her thoughts in the heads of others. A difficult gift to master and one she rarely used, being so terrified of discovery, knowing her own people would deliver her to the Fourth Order should it become known. Little wonder she determined to escape the farm and marry a rich husband, she made great use of her gift during the courtship.”
“And to tell your fellow creature and his pet priest where to find me that night at Alltor.”
Iltis bared his teeth, sword quivering a little as he fought his rage, though she was gratified by the discipline he displayed in not surrendering to it.
“A task I was forced to,” Orena said. “Like countless others.”
“More than once, no doubt. I assume our enemies are fully aware of our preparations.”
“They know all I know.”
“So why risk discovery tonight? Lady Davoka has kept careful watch on you since Lord Vaelin imparted his suspicions. Why choose tonight to poison my wine?”
Orena said nothing though Lyrna saw her eyes flick in Al Hestian’s direction.
“It seems our enemy fears you also, my lord,” Lyrna told the Lord Marshal. “I find myself suddenly glad I didn’t execute you.” She levelled her gaze at Orena once more. “Why does the Ally want his death?”
“He has a genius for command. One that will be of great use when you reach Volaria.”
“We have met before, have we not? In the mountains.”
“It matters not.” The woman’s voice grew yet more devoid of emotion, her gaze losing focus, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Nothing matters. Build your fleet, gather your army, sail them to their deaths. We are all but pieces on his board and if the game goes awry, he’ll start another. I have died a hundred times and woken in shell after shell, each time praying that this time he will leave me be. When I first awoke in this one I heard no whisper of his voice and I thought . . .” She fell silent, head lowering as she hugged herself.