Ash: The Lost History Part 99

Oh, you're good. Ash met his keen, black gaze. He was not very many years older than her; a decade, perhaps.23 Lines cut down the skin at the sides of his mouth, put there both by authority and, more recently, she guessed, by pain.

"Your Grace, I'm a mercenary. If I think my men should leave, we will. This isn't our fight."

Charles said, "Therefore I intend to offer you a contract."

"Can't take it." She shook her head, her answer immediate.

" Why not?"

Ash spared a glance for the big archer behind the Duke, wondered momentarily how close-mouthed the man might be, and then mentally shrugged. The rumour-mill will have had everything around the city before s.e.xt,24 no matter what I say.

"For one thing - I signed my name on a contract with the Earl of Oxford," Ash said measuredly. "He's employing me right now. If I knew for certain where he was, your Grace, I'd feel obliged either to get his orders, or to take the company and leave to rejoin him. As it happens, I have no idea where he is, or even whether he's alive - from Carthage to the Bosphorus is a d.a.m.n long way, right now, through war and freezing winter, and who knows what mood the Sultan's in? I guess that my lord of Oxford may have a better idea where I am. He may get word to me here. He may not."

None of what she said appeared to come to the Duke as a surprise. At least his intelligence is reasonable.

"I wondered what you would finally say to me when I asked for your commitment."

So did I.

She became aware that her heartbeat increased.

"I kept you from Visigoth hands, Captain, last summer." Charles leaned forward in the bed, as if his back pained him. "You feel no obligation to me?"

"Personally, perhaps." Saying that, unsure, she decided to let it stand. "This is business. What happened in Basle to the contrary, I don't break contracts, your Grace. John de Vere is my employer."

"He may be lost. Imprisoned. Or dead these many weeks. Sit." The Duke pointed.

A three-legged stool stood not far from the ducal bed. Ash sat, carefully, balancing her weight in the brigandine; wis.h.i.+ng she could turn around and see people's expressions. It is not everybody who is invited to sit in the presence.

"Yes, your Grace?"

"You doubt my competence as a leader, now," Charles said.

It was a forthright statement, with no uncertainty about the uncomfortable fact; given with a kind of confidence nonetheless. Ash, startled, could think of nothing to say that would not get her into trouble. It's true. I do.

"You're wounded, your Grace," she said at last.

"Wounded, but not dead. I still command my officers and captains. I will continue to do so. If I fall, de la Marche, or my wife who commands in the north, are both perfectly capable of withstanding the invading army, and relieving the siege here."

Ash let no doubt show in her voice. "Yes, your Grace."

"I want you to fight for me," Charles said. "Not because towns and cities have been destroyed, and out there on the horizon the dark is closing in on us, and you have nowhere else to go. I want you to fight for me because you trust me to lead you, and win."

He continued to hold her gaze, where she sat. His voice became quieter: "When I first ordered you into my presence, this summer past, you were concerned that your own men might not follow you, you having been wounded at Basle. I think that you wondered, later, if they would have rescued you at Auxonne - if that wound, and their doubt of you, had not held them back. Then, when your men came to Carthage, it was not for you, but for the Stone Golem. You are still partly troubled over their loyalty, even if you do not express your concern." Charles gave a small smile. "Or do I read you wrong, Captain Ash?"

"s.h.i.+t." Ash stared blankly at him.

"I've been in the field since I was a boy. I read men." The Duke's smile faded. "And women, too. War makes nothing of that distinction."

How the f.u.c.k do you know what I've been thinking?

Ash shook her head, unaware that she did so; not so much a negative, as a rejection of the thoughts in herself.

"You're right, your Grace. I thought exactly that. Up to today. Now . . . I've just had a demonstration of- loyalty, I guess. That's even harder to cope with."

The Duke surveyed her for a long moment.

"You may sign a contract with me that leaves de Vere your master," he said, abruptly. "If orders come from him, or if you hear of his whereabouts, you and your men are free to go. Until then, remain here, fight for me. When you agree, I will have you fed along with my men, which is worth more than coin in this city now; and you and your officers will have a say in the defence of the city. As for the rest--"

Charles broke off again. One of the green-robed soeurs edged closer, glaring at Ash in unmistakable anger. Ash got to her feet, the previous night's exertions aching in her muscles.

"Your Grace, I'll retire until you're well."

"You will retire when you are given leave."

"Yes, sir," Ash said under her breath.

Her gaze weighed him, as she stood before him; a woman in man's demi-gown and hose, her own bodyguard holding her sword-belt and weapons six paces away.

Whatever wound he had taken at Auxonne, it still pained him. She looked away from his sallow face, caught by his gesture as he waved the nun away. His right hand was blotched, at the first knuckle of the middle finger, with black oak-gall ink.

He's still up to writing orders and ordinances, however sick he is.

That's a good sign.

He'll probably stand by his word, too, if the past's anything to go by.

That's a better one.

He's no John de Vere. On the other hand, he's certainly no Frederick of Hapsburg.

She remained silent, weighing him on the one hand with the English soldier-Earl, on the other with the political ac.u.men of the Holy Roman Emperor, realising without much surprise that - even with his little humour and less social grace - what she felt comfortable with was the soldier in him, rather than the Duke.

There's six thousand men and three hundred engines out there, minimum. Against some vague hope of a relieving force from Flanders. And the minute this guy keels over - the city goes.

And he has more than men for enemies.

"Follow me, and trust me," Charles said. He spoke with a brisk, awkward confidence, but nonetheless a confidence that was total. Looking at this man, even on his sick bed, Ash found she could not imagine him in defeat.

Dead, yes, but not defeated. That's good. If they're that confident, we might settle this before his death's an issue.

"You believe you're going to win, your Grace."

"I conquered Paris, and Lorraine." He spoke without boasting. "My army here, though much reduced, is better equipped, and made up of better men than the Visigoths. There is another army of mine in the north, under Margaret's command, in Bruges. She will come south soon. Yes, Captain, we shall win."

Whether you will, or whether you won't - right now, I can't feed my men without you.

She met his dark gaze. "Upon condition, I can sign a condotta that's limited to what you've just said, your Grace." And then, an irrepressible grin breaking out, born of relief at having taken any decision, no matter how temporary: "I guess we're with you for the moment!"

"I welcome that much trust. I shall ask you questions that you will not answer unless you trust me, Captain."

He gestured. She sat down again. He s.h.i.+fted on the hard bed, a grimace of pain twisting his features. One of the priests moved forward. Charles of Burgundy waved him back.

"Dijon is in danger because its Duke is here," he added reflectively. "This Goth crusade is determined to conquer Burgundy, and they know they cannot do it except by my death. Therefore the storm falls on the place I am."

"Fire magnet," Ash said absently. At his questioning look, she said, "As a lodestone draws iron, your Grace. The war follows you, wherever you are."

"Yes. A useful term. 'Fire magnet'."

"I learned it from my voice."

She rested her forearms on her thighs, supporting herself on the stool, and gave him a look that said pick the bones out of that! as clearly as if she had voiced it. Let's see how good your intelligence is.

He made as if to lay his shoulders back into the bolster, and stopped. No pain showed on his face, but visible droplets of sweat ran down his sallow, shaven cheeks; drenched the chopped-straight black hair that lay across his forehead. With illness and with the Valois features, nose and lip, he made a singularly ugly young man in some respects, Ash reflected.

As if it cost him nothing, the Duke s.h.i.+fted himself up into a sitting position.

"Your men are concerned that you will no longer consult with the machina rei militaris" he said. "It is said-"

"'My men'? Since when do you know about my men?"

He frowned at her bald interruption.

"If you would be treated with respect, behave as a commander does. Reports are made to me of rumours, tavern-talk. You are far too well known for them not to speculate about you, Captain Ash."

A little shaken, Ash said, "Sorry, your Grace."

He inclined his head slightly. "Their concerns are mine, to a degree, Captain. It seems to me that, even if this machina rei militaris is a tool of the Visigoths, there is nothing to stop you consulting it, perhaps learning of their tactics and plans, also. Knowledge would make our numbers seem greater. We would know where and when to strike."

His black stare challenged her.

Ash put her palms flat on her thighs, staring down at her gauntlets.

"You see Darkness when you look at the horizon, your Grace. Do you want to know what I see?" She raised her head. "I see pyramids, your Grace. Across the middle sea, I see the desert, and the light, and the Wild Machines. They're what I'd hear, if I spoke to the Stone Golem. And they'd hear me. And then I'd be dead." Irrespective of his sense of humour, Ash added, "You're not the only fire magnet in Dijon, your Grace."

He ignored her pleasantry. "These Wild Machines are not merely more Visigoth engines? Think. You could be mistaken."

"No. They're nothing made by any lord-amir."

"Might they have been destroyed, in the earthquake that destroyed Carthage?"

"No. They're still there. The rag-heads think they're a sign!" Ash, bleak, saw that her hands had made fists, without her intention. She unclenched her fingers. "Lord Duke, put yourself in my position. I hear a Visigoth tactics machine. By accident. And what I hear is itself a puppet. It isn't the King-Caliph who wanted war with Burgundy, your Grace. It isn't Lord-Amir Leofric who wanted to breed the Faris to talk to the Stone Golem. This is the Wild Machines' war."

Charles nodded absently. "Yet, now your sister knows you are here, she will communicate that fact to the machina rei militaris. So these greater machines will - overhear - that you are in Dijon. May already have heard."

A hot wire of fear twisted in her guts at the thought. "I know that, my lord."

Charles of Burgundy said firmly, "You are mine, for now, Commander. Speak to your voice. Let us learn what we can, while we can. The Visigoths may find some way to stop you from hearing the machina rei militaris, and then we have lost an advantage."

"If she's still using it ... This isn't my business! My business is to command my men in the field!"

"Not your business, perhaps, but your responsibility." The Duke leaned forward, black eyes feverish. Very deliberately, he said, "You visited your sister, under parley, to speak of this. She will look for answers, as you do. And she may move freely to seek them."

He held her gaze.

"You say this is the Wild Machines' war. You are all I have that will aid me in finding out what these Machines are, and why I am at war."

Charles's body s.h.i.+fted, on the hard bed; and he took more of his weight on his left arm, not leaning back at all.

He said, "We have no Faris, but we have you. And no great time to waste. I will not let Burgundy fall because of one woman's fear."

Ash looked from side to side. The white stone walls of the palace reflected back the day's grey light. The chamber seemed suddenly constricting. Dijon is a trap in more than one way.

Pages busily took wine around among the men behind her, near the hearth-fire. She heard the high-pitched yelp of one of the pups, seeking its b.i.t.c.h; and an urgent buzz of talk.

"Let me tell you something, your Grace." The urge to lie, to conceal, to prevaricate, all but overwhelmed her. "You made the worst mistake of your life before Auxonne."

An expression of affront crossed his face, gone almost before she could register it. Charles of Burgundy said, "You are blunt. Give me your reason for saying this."

"Two mistakes." Ash ticked them off on her gauntleted fingers: "First, you didn't finance my company to go south with Oxford, before Auxonne. If you'd supported the raid on Carthage, we might have taken out the Stone Golem months ago. Second, when you did let the Earl raid Carthage, you kept half my company back here. If we'd had more men, we might have broken House Leofric - high casualties, but we might just have done it. And we'd have broken the Stone Golem into rubble."

"When my lord of Oxford travelled to Africa, I spared him all the fighting men I could. The rest I needed to man the walls of Dijon. I grant you, a raid in force, beforehand, might have been better. In retrospect, I misjudged it."

Son of a b.i.t.c.h, Ash thought, looking at the man in the sick bed with a new respect.

Charles of Burgundy's voice went on steadily: "Denying the use of the machina rei militaris to their Faris would both weaken her, since I believe she relies upon it; and by morale, weaken her men. I cannot see, however, that failing to bring that about is the worst mistake of my life. Who knows but that may be yet to come?"

She met his fever-bright eyes, detecting a slight - a very slight - glint of humour. Behind her, she heard movement. The Duke of Burgundy signalled past her, to pages, who shepherded back the armed n.o.bles anxious to speak with him.

"I've had the Wild Machines in my head," she said, watching him steadily. "You haven't. They're louder than G.o.d, your Grace. I've had them turn me around and walk me towards them-"

He interrupted: "Possession by demons? I have seen you brave in the field, but, yes, any man would fear that."

Since he seemed entirely oblivious of that any man, Ash let it go. She leaned forward, speaking with intensity: "They're machines, stones that live; the ancient peoples made them first, I think, and then they grew of themselves." She held the Duke's gaze. "I do know, your Grace. I listened to them. I - think I made them tell me, all in a second. Maybe because they weren't expecting it, weren't expecting me. After that, I ran; I ran from Carthage, and the desert, and I kept on running. And I wish that was all-"

She reached for her sword's pommel; remembered it to be in Rochester's hands, further down the chamber; and clasped her fingers together again to stop them shaking. She could, for a moment, only try to quiet her rapid, shallow breathing.

"If it wasn't for my company, I wouldn't be in Dijon, I'd still be running!"

Confident, he reached to clasp her hands in his. "You are here, and will fight in whatever way you can. Even if it means talking to the machina rei militaris for me."

She took her hands away, bleak. "When I said that not destroying it was the worst mistake of your life, I meant it. The Wild Machines could speak to Gundobad because he was a Wonder-Worker, a miraculous prophet. And then - your Grace, then they spent centuries in silence until Friar Roger Bacon built a Brazen Head in Carthage, and House Leofric built the Stone Golem."

The Duke stared. Back down the chamber, a hooded hawk cried: brief, high, pained. As if it jolted him, he said, "They speak through the machina rei militaris."

"Only through it."

"You are certain of this?"