Part 31 (1/2)

268.

Itfitfey Otto dared not hold his gaze; he looked down. ”Yes, sir.”

”I overlook the first instance as inexperienced enthusiasm. There will be no second.”

Otto was on probation, was what the Marshal was say-big, Ottaviano thought. ”Yes, sir,” he said.

”A further word, Baron.”

”Sir.”

”Lady Miranda was dead ere she left Prince Golias's tent: the men taken with her were disposing of the body. Know'st thou aught of this?”

”No, sir,” whispered Otto, looking up swiftly to meet Gaston's eyes. His hands went damp with sweat at what he saw there: for an instant, the Well burned in those eyes. Ottaviano was very pleased to have been able to answer truthfully. He hoped the truth would suffice.

”She was badly used before her death. Know'st thou aught of this?”

”No, sir.”

”Thou wert with him that morning, in his tent: what didst thou see of her?”

”Nothing, sir. Nothing. I had never heard of her.”

”Dismissed,” said the Fireduke curtly, and he looked over to his squire, who approached, ending the interview.

Dry-mouthed, Otto bowed and went through the camp to his quarters, near Golias's, where the men of Lys and Asco-let were getting into marching order. He wished he had not stopped at Golias's tent that morning; Golias had been in a rare high mood and had made some coa.r.s.e remarks about Lunete (about whom he could know nothing), and Otto had left quickly. But not quickly enough, it seemed, for he'd been seen and now he was a.s.sociated with Golias even more strongly.

Visiting Lunete had been the best reason he could think of for taking leave. That Gaston had denied it rankled, but he also had to admit that the Prince Marshal's reasons were uncontestable and that the request had been, under the circ.u.mstances, not only a long shot but a foolish one.

He would just have to wait.

Dear Lunete, A Sorcerer and a gentleman 269.

began Otto that evening, and stopped, pen in midair. There were so many things he did not dare convey to her thus. . . .

Dear Lunete, Much has happened since my last letter. We have won this lap of the war. Prospero was taken in bat lie a couple of days ago and escaped the same night, but his army remains prisoner and so for the moment he is toothless-until he gets another army. That could take a few days or a few years; we don't know where most of this lot came from. The Fireduke is holding all in readiness for another a.s.sault any moment, and he has denied my request for a leave. I will not be home this winter, I fear; the war will not be over until Prospero is taken and brought before the Emperor and put to death or imprisoned.

Dewar aided Prospero in his escape, but it is unclear to me whether or not his help was compelled in some way. It's certainly possible, for Prospero had talked to him before the battle and could have laid a geas on him then or subverted his will, but I do not know, for Dewar is gone with him and none knows where. Sorcerers cannot be fathomed. Yet Dewar was of great help to us in Lys and Ascolet and has-been useful here, and on his side it must be admitted that since the Emperor refused to make a formal agreement securing his aid he was free to do as he wished when he wished, and he never promised more than he has delivered. Still it is infuriating to have had the real end of the war postponed by his actions.

I cannot write more, the courier is ready to leave and so I fill the rest of the letter with love and thoughts of you. Ottaviano.

He sealed and addressed the letter and gave it to the courier riding to the Palace with accounts and other mail. Lunete might get it in half a month, likely longer. Ottaviano 270.

wished he had taken the opportunity of his recent unauthorized leave to visit her, but he had not thought of it and now he could not go.

But Lunete had been prepared for a long separation. She had spoken of it as a disagreeable inevitability when they had talked of it first, planning the war in Ascolet, and when that had come to a quick end, she had accepted his going away with Gaston with stoic grace. He knew she didn't like it, but there was nothing to be done about it. She would wait for him; she was firmly in love with him and her future lay entirely with Ottaviano.

24.DEWAR WOKE MOANING.

There were so many pains in his body that he could not tell one from another in the dazing ache of cold.

His eyes were stuck shut. He wiped at them clumsily with a numb hand and brushed grit and ice from the lids. Biearily he blinked at whiteness. It was snow, tiny unmelting stars on his hand where it had fallen in front of his blurred eyes. He held his breath, studying perfect hexagons, and then exhaled. The snow melted reluctantly on his wax-white skin.

He tried lifting himself on the hand that had rubbed his eyes clear, and the arm would not hold him. Broken bone grated and he fell back, grunting.

Where was he? He couldn't remember.

Dewar swallowed, thirsty, and moved his head to lick at the snow. It had not yet begun snowing when he had . . . when he had fled with Prospero. What was he doing here? He remembered riding pillion behind the Prince on his horse Hurricane. What had happened?

He supposed Prospero must have dumped him, trying to distract Prince Herae from the pursuit.

Herne evidently hadn't taken the bait, though he had never hidden his dislike of Dewar.

”Snumabish,” he mumbled, or tried to mumble.

Sorcerer and a QentUman 271.

A high-pitched kee-aaaaa cry rang off the snow. The world dimmed and brightened, a flickering. The snow blew about in an eddy of wind. Dewar tried lifting himself on his other arm, but it didn't obey his commands-at least, it didn't seem to be, but he felt himself tumble over onto his back, and he cried wordlessly as fresh pain surged through arms, legs, back, and body.

His mouth wouldn't work properly. Turning his head, he licked at the snow again. His face hurt.

”Hey!” shouted someone above him.

Rescue! They must have been out all night looking for him. He'd have a hard time explaining this to Gaston. At least they'd feed and bandage him.

”Hey!” came the shout again, high and thin, and thudding and scrambling accompanied the cautious descent of a young man in brown leather clothes, m.u.f.fled and gloved, fleece showing at his cuffs and collar. Unfamiliar uniform. Not one of the Emperor's men.

”Ungh,” Dewar said, smiling weakly, and then recalled the local custom of killing and robbing the wounded. The man brushed at the snow on Dewar.

”You are alive. I thought not,” the leather man said, a lilting accent marring the words. He turned and floundered back up in the snow, which was much deeper than Dewar had a.s.sumed.

The leather man returned with an a.s.sortment of things hung off him. He had a wineskin, and he raised Dewar's head and poured heavy, cold red wine into his mouth until Dewar coughed.

”More?”

”More,” Dewar whispered, swallowing the first deluge.

”Here.” He managed the flow better this time, and Dewar swallowed. ”What's wrong with you?”

”Broke arm,” Dewar wheezed.

”I can see that. There now. You lie back. So. I have to figure out how to get you out of here. Did you fall?”

”Don't know.” Dewar tried to grab the other's shoulder, to rise.

”Don't do that! You've broken your right leg, I think. It's 272.

'EdzaBeth 'Wittey bent wrong. I wouldn't be surprised if you cracked a few ribs too. One of the, the Emperor's men, aren't you?”

Dewar wasn't sure what to answer.