‘Good lad. I thought you’d get there eventually. The moat flows in from the north and out at the south, but they stop the exit during these drier months to keep the level high, only letting water escape as they need to.’
Brann thought back to the towns of Konall’s and Hakon’s homeland, ingeniously designed to make an attack virtually a suicide mission. ‘Looks like they could give our friends in Halveka a run for their money in designing defences.’
Cannick grunted. ‘No one touches the Halvekans on that score, and certainly not here. When you get inside, you’ll see.’
Marlo reined up the horses in front of one of the guards, who had managed to rouse himself to confront them. The man looked sullenly around their company.
‘What’s this?’
Marlo cleared his throat hesitantly. ‘I am bringing produce intended for the merchant, Patrice, in the Third Quarter, sir.’
The guard grunted. ‘Don’t know your face. And it is not a face that was born anywhere near here.’
‘My family moved here from the Empire, good sir. I work for my uncle, who heard there was good work for carters here.’
Brann had already noticed that, while the second guard still lounged against the wall, his gaze had never stopped watching the riders, flicking from weapons to callouses on hands, from where they were looking to how they looked. These two maybe didn’t expect danger, but they were watching for it.
‘Why so many swords with you?’ the first man asked, with more curiosity in his tone than suspicion.
His eyes scanned the group once more. Hakon was trying to slouch himself into a diminished size, but was still hulking over the man from his mount. Several of the others were no less intimidating: Konall knew no other way to hold himself than with the casual arrogance of one with years of training and of being obeyed; Gerens had a stare that suggested he would cut your throat without a passing thought; Cannick had the scars and the carriage of an experienced campaigner; Grakk just looked downright fearsome; and Breta… when the man’s eyes alighted on her, he froze with a slight gasp. She treated the guard to what Brann knew she would be intending as a winning smile; the reaction from the man was a nervous swallow and a tightening of his fingers on his spear as he took a slight and involuntary step back.
Brann noticed he had not been one of those to elicit a response from the guard – he was happy for that to be the case. To be regarded as not a threat was to gain an advantage before the fight even started. The sentry steadied himself and glared at Marlo, seeming to be reassured by the fact that Marlo looked as nervous under his gaze as the man himself had done when noticing Breta’s intimidating appearance.
‘Pardon me, sir.’ The fact that the anxiety evident in Marlo’s voice was entirely natural was what had made him the obvious choice for the role. ‘Pardon me, but my uncle had heard there was good work for carters here, but also that there was an element of danger. He preferred to err on the side of caution, as far as security was concerned, until we better learnt the true nature of the peril, as he had heard say that there were parts of the route where transported goods attracted the attention of nefarious brigands.’
A rough laugh burst from the man at that. ‘Nefarious brigands? I have heard them called many things, but that is a new one on me. So tell me, well-guarded young carter: why does your uncle the carter not drive his cart?’
‘My uncle, sir, prefers to organise the business and to let his nephews carry out the simple task of driving the carts.’
‘Your uncle prefers to sit in the safety of his home and let his nephews face the dangers he sees in the shadows, more like.’
Marlo was proving so effective that Brann found himself hating the fictitious uncle and warming to the sentry.
The guard stepped to the side and flicked his head towards the gateway. ‘Typical Sagian. As if we don’t have enough of your lot here already. Better get yourself and your many helpers into the safety behind our walls then. On you go.’
Marlo flicked the reins. ‘Thank you, sir.’
They filed in after the cart. Breta winked at the guard, winning herself a flinch of fear. The young woman looked hurt.
Cannick had noticed as well. He slapped Breta heartily on the shoulder. ‘Would you help me, good lady, find a suitable inn for us? I don’t know about you, but I need an ale.’
Breta brightened immediately. ‘First decent suggestion I’ve heard all day. Hopefully there are some men in this town who are less scared of the fairer sex than that mouse at the gate.’
And hopefully, Brann thought, there were plenty of them willing to talk. They needed information, and they needed it fast.
The girl was still nervous in his presence. He liked that. It was a refreshing change from the confidence of the crone, and the fact that the old woman was usually right in what she said. But since the young one had started working for him, learning from him, striving to impress him, she had grown more adept at covering the nerves from all but eyes that sought it. He liked that more.
He did not look up from the fire. He also liked to maintain the nerves. And in the fire, he also saw welcome heat in the chill of the evening.
‘You have news?’
‘I expect you know I do, my lord.’
The nerves may still have been there, but had lessened sufficiently to allow room for boldness to creep in. Not a bad asset if she were to be effective for him, but he could not allow her to know he approved in even a small way where the boldness was directed at him.
He barked at her, his dry voice harsh. ‘You forget who you address, girl. You served the princess well, but she is here no more and you have but one master now, regardless of what the Steward of the Household Staff may think.’ His head snapped round, eyes boring into her. He could see from the slightest of flinches before she caught herself that his glare had retained its potency despite his years. Maybe the age added to it. There must be some few counter qualities to infirmity, surely.
She dropped her eyes. ‘Apologies, my lord. I do not forget your eminence, but do forget myself. Forgive me.’
If it was an act, it was the right act. He grunted and waved a hand dismissively, looking back at the fire. ‘Your news, now that you have remembered your manners?’
‘The boy and his companions. They were heading in the direction of a town called Belleville.’
‘I know it.’
‘You know a town in the north of the Vine Duchies?’ The surprise was clear in her voice. ‘I do remember who you are and who you were, my lord, but this town is not a part of Sagia. Not even close to the border.’
His voice grew softer – slightly – as his mind drifted decades into the past. ‘Sometimes to rule an empire, you must act outwith the empire. By accident or design, that town is located with great strategic advantage. There was no need to waste resources in a campaign against the Vine Dukes to