'I think he blames me for a sea change too,' Cyan said. 'But if he can't deal with it, it isn't my fault.'

'Maybe in twenty years I'll drop the s.h.i.+ft into the conversation and see if he responds.'

The Carniss troops filed in past us. Those on horseback were mainly women, with crossbows slung on both sides of their saddlestwo crossbows, to work in duo with their reloaders. They were pulling bolts from bandoliers around their bodies and slipping them point first into the depleted racks attached upright on their saddlebows.

The crossbow bolts' points gleamedhard steel moulded to soft iron sockets, which cus.h.i.+on the shaft so it doesn't split on impact with Insect sh.e.l.l but drives straight through.

Cyan stared at the division captain, who wore a rain-darkened leather ap.r.o.n over her lap on which a hook from her pulley belt rested. She had been spanning her crossbow in the skirmishes. Insect mandibles had slashed her boots and the metal toecaps shone brightly through the cut leather. Her sallet helmet was not as s.h.i.+ny; it had a golden-brown patina from being polished with sheep fat every night.

She bowed her head to me as she pa.s.sed. She trailed a leash from the saddle, attached to the muzzle of the division's mascot. It padded beside her on big paws like snowshoes, pasted with mud. Its deep, pure white fur was flattened by the rain, but its galena-grey eyes were keen.

'What's that?' said Cyan.

'A Darkling white wolf.'

Wrenn appeared beside us. 'Don't mind me standing here?' he asked, risking death by dirty look from Cyan. 'The others, they...Well, I just feel better to be around you two.'

I understood. He's only thirty, and the average age of our colleagues in the hall was about eight hundred.

'It's good to see Veery again now I'm Eszai,' he said. 'I gave him that scar but he seems OK about it.'

'After all, you did turn out to be Eszai-good,' I said.

He hopped from foot to foot. 'The Emperor, coming here! We're in for it, aren't we?'

I nodded. We stood there for a while, watching the seemingly endless procession. Sporadic hammering still echoed in the background; rain drove through the spotlights around the palisade. The carpenters, proficient Peregrine s.h.i.+pbuilders drafted to the fyrd, were continuing through the night.

Eventually Cyan said, 'That captain was a woman.'

'Yes,' I said.

'Not much older than me.'

'That's right. Come inside.'

'I want to watch.' She stood, stubbornly, and descended into her thoughts again.

I drew my wing closer around her. I don't know about her, or Wrenn, but I wished I was a very, very long way from here, sitting in a bar.

OUR BRAVE BOYS ARRIVE SAFELY.

The Hacilith General Fyrd began arriving at Slake Cross today. The pals from Galt and Old Town marched in with a smart step and big smiles, after 900 km by cart. The Captain of the Ninth Division, Connel, 22, said, 'We're raring to have a go at these flying bugs. The people have been great as we came through Awia. The Awians have a spotless record, but now the Hacilith lads are here those bugs haven't got a chance.'

They are the best that Morenzia has, strong, keen and selfless. We wish them the best!

Smatchet, with the troops at Slake Cross fort Hacilith Post 27.05.25

CHAPTER 16.

Lightning reluctantly agreed to let Cyan leave town. Since I was welcoming the governors and wardens while Lightning was holding Insects off from attacking the arriving troops, he asked me to look after her. I took her to the armoury and got her kitted up.

'Here's a brigandine jacket.' I pa.s.sed it to her and she let it drop dramatically almost to the floor. 'It's heavy!'

I helped her buckle it on. 'It fits very well, though. Here are some greaves for your legs, made for a woman about your size.' I showed her how to fasten them. Even if she was strong enough, I thought it too risky to give her plate armour made for another person, which wouldn't fit properly or might have unseen deterioration. The fyrd who wear the ma.s.s-produced stuff that comes in three sizes only do so because they can't afford better. I found her an open-faced sallet helmet with a tapered tail to protect the nape of her neck.

Then we went to the stables but Cyan didn't want to go in. 'I don't know...' she said. 'Since the...since the Gabbleratchet...I don't really like horses.'

It took me half an hour to convince her to enter the stables and she walked close behind me holding my hand. We pa.s.sed the stalls of a hundred other mounts until I found her an exceptional piebald palfrey that in no way resembled the horses of the Gabbleratchet.

Cyan examined its hooves uncertainly. She still needed some coaxing. 'The eternal hunt won't come here,' I said. 'The s.h.i.+ft is so big that the chances of it reaching our world are minute. To be honest I've always got the impression we're a bit of a backwater. Besides, those things weren't horses. You know that, Cyan; you've been riding since you could walk.'

'I couldn't control that black horse. It was the only time I've never been able to manage one.'

'Because it wasn't one. The Gabbleratchet is just itself. It's inexplicable but we left it behind.'

The stable boy brought me my sleek racehorse. Pangare b.u.t.ted her buff, suedy muzzle into my hands and shook her head, flopping the neat knots of her short, hogged mane from side to side.

'What a peculiar animal,' Cyan said. 'I didn't know you had a horse.'

'Well, now you do.' I held Pangare's halter. 'These Ghallain duns have unbelievable stamina. She might not be a thoroughbred but she can outlast anything your Awian stables have to offer.'

It always takes me a long time to find a mount who can both tolerate carrying a Rhydanne and is fast enough for me. I had heard of Pangare, a seventeen hands high courser winning every race on the Ghallain pampas, and she had cost the Castle a fortune.

While the boy fitted Pangare's bridle and buckled the wide strap of the saddle under her taut belly, I corded my satchel to the cantle through rough-cut holes and clipped my crossbow to it. 'Come on, then.'

Cyan swung up into her saddle, ducking under the beams. 'I'm brave, aren't I? I got back on.'

'Yes, you are very brave.'

'Just like that fyrd captain? I'm as brave as she is.'

'Of course, you could be.'

We walked our horses out of the stable and rode slowly through the commotion of the growing camp. Smoke from cooking fires rose into a pall above the lines of cream tents.

We rode off the roadit was completely packed with carts, horses, and men marching quicklynow that town was in sight they wanted to reach it as soon as possible. It was a river of humanity, and lancer escorts formed other streams on either side.

Cyan leant forward, sped to a gallop and hurtled past me. I gave Pangare rein; she loped exuberantly, kicking out with her forelegs, and caught up with the girl at once. 'Hey! What are you doing?'

'I'm just glad to be outside,' she said, free for the moment of her usual ennui. 'I've been cooped up since Hacilith. I think without a doubt this is the worst place I've ever been dragged to.'

'I'm inclined to agree. Where would you rather be?'

'In the city, of course. All the places I've lived are dreadful compared to Old Town. Where would you rather be?'

'Up there.' I pointed to where, far behind the town, the cliff-topped hills stretched along the horizon.

'In the mountains?'

'Those are just the foothills,' I said. 'You should see the high summitsthere are so many pinnacles and valleys that a hundred Rhydanne could live there for a hundred years and never meet each other.'

'Sounds awful.'

'Let me show you what Pangare can do. Come on!'

We galloped beside the road. In the fresh air, it was almost as fulfilling as flying. The sky was a uniform white, with blue-grey round the edges like milk in a dish. The sun, a burnished silver coin, blazed ineffectually at its zenith. An infuriating, unsettled breeze stirred the few gra.s.s stalks still upstanding between drying, churned-up clods of mud. Higher on the hillside, bunches of heather hooped and s.h.i.+vered, cl.u.s.tered around the white rocks that looked like the moors' uncovered bones.

Cyan kept looking down the road with a twinge of wanderl.u.s.t. I would have to watch her carefully or she would try to escape again.

'How many thousands of people?' she asked emphatically. 'Their line goes on into the distance.'

I checked my notebook. 'This is just the Cobalt baggage train. The Peregrine archers should be next.'

'Peregrine?' she said. 'You meanmy manor? I have fyrd?'

'Of course! When you come of age you'll have a fyrd of more than twenty thousand men. That's more than we can see to the horizon.'

'Like the Carniss men the other day?'

'Pah. Carniss only has one muster. Cobalt here, only has two: Cobalt and Gra.s.s Isle, and their governor is too old to lead them. You have four musters. The baggage train for Peregrine is twelve hundred wagons.'

'Can we see them?'

'If you want.'

We rode to the end of the Cobalt carts but there was still no sign of Peregrine's sleeping falcon standard. 'They're probably delayed by the traffic jam,' I said. 'We'll have to stop here. I don't want to take you too far from town.'

Cyan reined in her palfrey, halted and gazed at two standard bearers with vertical gonfalon pennants covered in knot-work. It was the Morenzian dexter red hand banner, rendered completely in interlaced lines. The standard bearers, riding wearing nothing but purple or grey singlets and breeches, were so covered in tattoos that their outlines looked blurred. The ingeniously entwined bands, alaunts biting their own legs, elongated horses and spiralling sea snakes in every colour covered them so confusingly that it was difficult to tell where their tattoos ended and their clothes and knot-work jewellery began. Old tattoos had been interlinked with new ones, storiated over their whole bodies apart from their faces.

The battalion they led marched to the beat of similarly decorated drums on their saddlebows. Thickly accented voices burred among them.

Cyan said, 'Wow. Who are they?'

'The first of the Litanee cavalry.'

'Such beautiful designs...They're so weird.'

'You'll have seen their designs on the pottery and gla.s.s Litanee exports. The Plainslands esteems their work highly. Well, these are the richer craftsmenmost of Litanee's battalions are infantry and they'll be coming in by s.h.i.+p. Let's have a closer look.'

We cantered to meet the head of the column and I greeted the warden and took his name. He let Cyan look at his panoply, all covered in knot-work; stencilled on his brigandine from Hacilith, his helmet adorned with twisting, intertwining Insects. Tooled on his saddlebag and belt, painted on the sides of their carts; every surface was filled with interwoven designs.

'To us they're just pictures,' I told Cyan. 'But the Litanee can read them like biographies. They encode the stories of their lives. He's covered in his memories, so to speak; no one from the Litanee region is ever short of a topic of conversation.'

'I've crossed the ca.n.a.l into Morenzia but I never saw anyone like this.'

'You probably didn't go far south enough. See the pictures of grey wolves, beavers and boars? They're extinct everywhere but the Morenzian forest. And the dogs on their muster flags? Their hunting hounds are considered the best. Your father loves them. Seethere's one.' A huge mastiff loped alongside one of the horses. 'Litanee brings them for guard dogs, but I've seen a pack take an Insect down.'

I was cut short by the rumble of hooves behind me. A shrill whistle made the nearest men stop abruptly, and those following stumbled into them. I looked around; a body of Awian lancers were bearing down on us. Metal strips like blunt fingers, riveted in splays to the backs of their saddles, screeched as they cut through the air.

The eagle banner unfurled above them; it was Queen Eleonora and her bodyguard.

The Litanee humans, most of whom had probably never seen such a behemoth of steel and horseflesh, slowed down to squint at the Awians' ostentatious armour.

The Queen raised her hand and the others, with their lances like semaph.o.r.e poles upright in their rests, slowed and spread out in a semicircle around us. She cantered up to us alone.

She had pulled the chrome tubes of her saddle back out of their housing and it projected higher than her shoulders, a padded support. The saddle's faring almost enclosed her legs; with her feet in long stirrups she was practically standing up in it. It provided cus.h.i.+oning against the impact when the speed and weight of her horse drove her lance through an Insect. It was splashed with haemolymph.

She tilted her helmet to the back of her head. 'Comet? What are you doing on the ground? Enjoying a good ride?'

I made the introductions: 'Your Highness, I present Lightning's daughter, Cyan Peregrine...Cyan, your Queen; Her Royal Highness Eleonora Tanager.'

'So this is Lightning's daughter. What a pretty girl.' She looked Cyan over, narrowed her eyes at me and said to her confidentially, 'I'd watch that one, if I were you. He moves faster than rumour in a morai.'

I said, 'Eleonora...'

Cyan closed her mouth and gulped. All the etiquette she had been taught didn't seem to fit this situation. She tried, 'I am at your command.'

'Of course you are.' Eleonora made her horse high-step sideways. She spread her long, aristocratic wings and gave me and the Litanee men a flap. 'Don't let him be a bad Rhydanne now.'

She wore the 1910 Sword, one of the cla.s.sic, bejewelled masterpieces made, about once a decade, by the Wrought blacksmiths. All the craftsmen must agree on whether a sword is good enough to be 'dated' and they sell at a very high price.

She put a hand on the hilt and tilted the sword back, pivoting where it hung at her waist, until the scabbard stuck up in front of her like an erect c.o.c.k. She grasped the hilt and drew the sword little by little, and its soft scabbard flopped flaccidly from the tip downwards. All the lancers guffawed loudly.

'You wicked b.i.t.c.h,' I muttered.

'You wicked b.i.t.c.h, Your Highness,' she corrected with a smile.

She turned, and all the lancers fell in behind her, wheeling away over the open land towards the Wall to resume their patrol.

'What was that about?' Cyan gaped.

'Nothing,' I said, and in silence we watched the Litanee men go by.

I remember Eleonora's costume masquerade in 2017 at Rachiswater Palace. I recall it with extreme clarity; it still sends a s.h.i.+ver through me. I was sitting on the high balcony that curved around the exterior of the circular, spotless hall. Below me, a servant carried a tray of sparkling wine out to the geometrical gardens. All was quiet, compared to the riotous clamour of Eleonora's birthday ball.

She had only recently been crowned, and to emphasise her reign this lavish party had drawn in all the n.o.bility. I had come as an Insect, having half-heartedly pierced holes in real sclerites and laced them over my usual clothes. I picked up my gla.s.s of wine and took a sip, sighed and lay back along the top of the bal.u.s.trade. My wife had a few moments ago taken Tornado's arm and walked him out to the spiral maze for a 'breath of fresh air'.

Music slid luminescent from the hall; I looked down into its white drum filled with laughing, cotillion-ing figures.

Eleonora stepped out onto the balcony, her bronze mask in front of her face. She pulled her metallic silk skirts away from the threshold and shut the cas.e.m.e.nt door. She tilted the mask away, raised her eyebrows and half-shrugged, meaning: What are we doing here, two sensible people like us?

I spidered a bow. 'Happy birthday, Your Highness. Looks like you've pa.s.sed me at last.'