The Dog of the North (19 page)

‘Serjeant, do you remember when you saved Oricien?’ he asked. ‘Ouch!’

‘Sorry,’ said Fleuraume unapologetically. ‘Hold still one moment. Which occasion do you refer to?’

‘At the end, when he tripped and his helmet came off.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Guigot could have saved him, but he didn’t. He just stood and watched.’

With his head held still for the stitching, he could not see Fleuraume’s face. Eventually Fleuraume said: ‘It can be hard to tell on the battlefield. Sometimes a man’s
attention is elsewhere.’

‘You told us to look after each other.’

Fleuraume stood back from Arren’s face to examine the stitches. ‘You should be careful what you say, Arren. Guigot will be an important man: do not traduce him unless you can prove
it.’

‘You saw what happened. So did Oricien.’

‘Oricien was lying on his front. He saw nothing. Me, I just saw that one of my men needed succour.’

You won’t do anything about it?’

‘What happens on the battlefield stays there. If you want me to tell Lord Thaume that Guigot tried to get Oricien killed, I won’t do it. There are other interpretations of what
happened.’

‘Such as?’

‘When you’ve been in the battles I’ve been in, you realize things are often not as they seem.’

Arren thanked Fleuraume for his attentions and wandered back over to the main camp. Guigot was explaining to anyone who would listen the range of strokes he had employed and his estimate of the
number of foes he had killed. Oricien was sitting with a half-smile away to the side of the squadron. Arren went and sat beside him.

You did well today, Oricien.’

‘I survived, and I did not run away,’ he said. ‘But good Sir Artingaume is dead, a man who gave brave and honest service to my father.’

‘Croad is safe,’ said Arren. ‘Tardolio will think twice before coming back.’

Oricien gave a strained laugh. ‘By the time they return, I myself may be Lord of Croad. You fought well today; I hope one day you will succeed your father as Captain of the
Guard.’

‘The walls of Croad are strong,’ said Arren. ‘If Duke Panarre had sent troops and supplies instead of fine words, we need never have left the city. When you are Lord of Croad,
it is more important to have powerful friends than good troops.’

Oricien looked at him. ‘That is an unorthodox view.’

‘I do not claim to have originated it. I heard it first from Master Pinch, but it is good sense.’

Oricien pursed his lips. ‘It is of a piece with Pinch’s charlatanry. Why do magic when you can perform a sleight? Why fight when someone else can do it for you? Why summon a powerful
dimon when you can use a pitiful dimonetto?’

A soft voice from behind them said: ‘An interesting perspective, young Oricien.’

‘Master Pinch!’

Pinch sat down beside them with an inscrutable smile.

‘Your father has secured a great victory today, Oricien. Indeed, more comprehensive than he might have expected. But look around you at the corpses on the field. Look over there –
they are breaking up their pikes. Do you know why?’

‘No, Master Pinch.’

‘There is no wood on the steppes. They are turning their pikes into firewood for Sir Artingaume’s funeral pyre.’

Oricien looked at the ground.

‘I would not criticize Lord Thaume in any way. He has proven himself an excellent battlefield commander, and he inspires great loyalty in his subjects and his troops.’

‘But?’ asked Arren.

‘He will wonder as he lies in his tent tonight whether he might have spent time in the past showing greater friendship to Duke Panarre. King Arren and Emmen are far away. Thaume is an
intelligent man. He will not make the same mistake twice.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Oricien.

‘If I were your sister, I would be turning my attention immediately to the customs of the court of Duke Panarre at Glount. She is yet young for marriage, but not for betrothal.’

‘Siedra cannot go to Glount! She is but a girl.’

‘She is fifteen years old, and has already flowered, if the rumours are to be believed. I can assure you that your father will already have scrutinized the Register of Nobility.’

Oricien was pensive. ‘Things are changing. Sir Artingaume dead, me a warrior, Siedra betrothed. I do not know what is to come.’

Master Pinch looked at Oricien, not unkindly. ‘Human affairs are fragile, mutable. You have become a man today, Oricien. Not because you killed others on the battlefield: that was merely
the press of circumstance. You are a man because you realize that things do not stay the same. To the child’s mind, the world is unchanging. It is a sobering moment to learn that certainty is
an illusion.’

Pinch got up and walked over to where the soldiers were building Sir Artingaume’s funeral pyre. Oricien stayed staring into the fire and did not notice when Arren rose and went to look for
his father.

1

One morning Beauceron received an invitation from Cosetta to join him for lunch at her apartments, as if she were the great lady of the city and he the impecunious
hostage. He admired her spirit, and sent an immediate acceptance.

He looked out of his window onto the aquavia to assess the weather. There was a brave winter sunshine, enough to light the city, if not to bring warmth. Icicles hung from the eaves of the houses
across the aquavia and sparkled in the sunlight. Soon it would be spring, he thought with a frown: once King Tardolio reascended the throne, six months would be wasted until Fanrolio once again
held power.

He put the thought to the back of his mind and selected an outfit appropriate to lunch at a respectable salon. His breeches were umber, fitted at the calf, his shirt a jaunty cerulean. His dark
blue cloak was fringed with battlecat fur. The only elements of his outfit which did not bespeak the man about town were his supple and well-worn winter boots and the dull handle of his rapier. He
remembered one young buck who had commissioned a rapier with a jewelled hilt and a blade chased with gold. It had been made by a jeweller rather than a swordsmith, and had snapped clean in two
during the first pass. Beauceron, who had happened to be his opponent, had merely sliced the waistband of the young man’s trousers, glad that it had not been a duel to the death: it would not
have helped his reputation to have been forced to kill an unarmed man. Beauceron was sure that the dandy would never again confuse decoration and utility.

It was not a long walk to Cosetta’s apartments, and Beauceron enjoyed the clear crisp conditions as he stepped along the paths and bridges leading him to his destination. He was
immediately ushered into Cosetta’s reception chamber.

‘Lady Cosetta! You look as beautiful as ever.’

Cosetta inclined her head. ‘We have an adage in Sey: “Silver tongue, iron heart.” I am sure it is inapplicable here.’

‘You are a tyrant, my lady, to array yourself in such finery and then disdain the compliments you must inevitably attract.’

Her dress of deep burgundy trimmed with rich orange was of the finest velvet, and revealed a wide expanse of skin around her collarbone. This was not intended – at least not primarily
– to titillate: rather, a dress which exposed flesh in the winter was advertising that its wearer was affluent enough to be able to afford the warmth of a dimonetto. Prince Brissio was a
generous patron – or an infatuated one.

‘A woman is allowed such inconsistency,’ said Cosetta, her cheeks dimpling. ‘Laria, some tea please,’ she called, and a young maid appeared.

Your establishment has expanded,’ said Beauceron. ‘Not just a dimonetto, but a maid.’

‘It is so difficult to entertain without someone like Laria to help me,’ she said. ‘And Brissio recognizes that a woman brought up in Sey has little tolerance for this cold. A
dimonetto is a necessity.’

Beauceron walked over to the hearth where the dimonetto sat, tangible heat issuing through the wrought vents.

‘I have always been tempted to take the apparatus apart,’ said Beauceron, ‘to see if there really is a dimonetto within. It would be an expensive experiment to buy my own, and
I have never dared make the attempt at the Occonero.’

‘So you propose to dismantle my dimonetto?’ said Cosetta. ‘Quite aside from how I should explain matters to Prince Brissio, I value the warmth. Your curiosity must wait for
another day. Besides, if there is not a dimonetto inside, from where does the heat arrive?’

Beauceron nodded at the justice of the observation. ‘I am at a loss for any more compelling explanation. They say that the dimonettoes are unwilling to come forth from the Unseen
Dimensions.’

‘Naturally,’ said Cosetta with a hint of sharpness. ‘Which of us likes captivity?’

Beauceron contented himself with a half-smile.

Cosetta continued. ‘My wonder has always been reserved for the thaumaturges who summon the dimonettoes. To have such power, and to use it for such a trivial purpose.’

‘My understanding is that the difficulty of summoning dimons increases proportionately to their size. The thaumaturge who can call forth a dimonetto suitable for furnishing domestic heat
commands no great power; he may enjoy the acclaim that comes from mastering such a glamorous skill.’

‘I had no idea you were so learned in thaumaturgy, Beauceron. I am coming to think you are not the rude brigand of Isola’s invective. Next time Fanrolio decrees a summoning, perhaps
we shall attend together.’

Beauceron sipped at the tea Laria had brought. ‘In my position I find it helpful to cultivate an air of mystery. If you wish to consider me a great scholar – perhaps even a
clandestine thaumaturge – in secret, it does me no harm for you to do so.’

‘Your lieutenant is called Monetto. I take it that the name is assumed,’ said Cosetta as she sipped her own tea.

Beauceron laughed. ‘Of course. There is no great wit to it – it is simply the result of his red hair: it’s short for “dimon-etto”. He did not choose the name; it
was bestowed upon him.’

‘By you?’

‘No, indeed. He once served another captain. “Brigands”, as you characterize them, are fluid in their allegiances.’

‘I take it that all men, when they come north from the Emmenrule or Garganet or Gammerling, take a new name.’

‘It is not obligatory, but it is customary. Most such folk are driven north unwillingly, and have reason to begin anew. Some have more sinister reasons for concealing their
identities.’

Cosetta set her cup down. ‘What of the name Beauceron?’

‘It is not the name I came north with. In the old language of Mettingloom it means literally “Dog of the North”.’

‘I wonder at your real identity. When you wish, you display a certain refinement.’

‘If I use a name I was not born with, there is a reason,’ said Beauceron. ‘Naturally I do not intend to hark back to the past now.’

‘Your obsession with Croad is not the attitude of a man who thinks only of the future.’

‘We all have our dreams, Lady Cosetta. It would be impertinent of me to grub yours out in conversation, and I am sure you would show no less respect for mine.’

At this point Laria stepped into the room. ‘Madam, Sir Goccio is here and wishes to know if you are in residence.’

‘Of course, Laria, send him up!’

Cosetta turned to Beauceron with a smile. ‘I am popular today. Have you met Sir Goccio?’

‘I am acquainted with him by reputation,’ said Beauceron. ‘We could scarcely expect to be intimates, since he is a liegeman of King Tardolio.’

‘Fah! All the while I maintain my own salon I will have no truck with such folderol.’

‘I wonder how Prince Brissio would view your stance.’

‘I have never asked his opinion on the matter, and I do not intend to do so now.’

Into the room stepped a tall, slender man attired all in black. He bowed low to Cosetta, and more modestly to Beauceron. ‘Lady Cosetta! I am delighted to find you at home.’

Cosetta inclined her head. ‘You are always welcome, Sir Goccio. I am fortunate to entertain two such noble paladins in my apartments. Laria, more tea, on the instant! Please allow me to
present the famed captain, Beauceron.’

Sir Goccio came forward and shook hands. ‘I am honoured to meet you, sir. And indeed there are matters I would discuss with you. Your daring exploits are well-known, even in
Tardolio’s court. And of course, every gentlemen of Mettingloom is in your debt for bringing the lovely Lady Cosetta to the city.’

Silver tongue, iron heart, thought Beauceron, although Cosetta forbore from making the remark this time.

‘Your own prowess is well-known, Sir Goccio. Did you not take service for a season with King Ingomer?’

‘You are too kind, sir. In truth, I found myself embarrassed by creditors, and found it expedient to spend a while in Gammerling. I was favourably impressed with both realm and
King.’

‘Yes, King Ingomer is held to be more subtle and flexible than his father, not that this would prove difficult. I trust your difficulties are now over.’

Sir Goccio dismissed them with a wave of his hand. ‘They were trivial in nature. I had managed to secure some valuables from the Emmenrule, and they became ensnared in the maze of the
Pellagiers’ bureaucracy. As a result I found myself short of ready cash. I thought it best to leave the scene for a period.’

Beauceron nodded. ‘The Pellagiers can be obstructive if one does not know how to deal with them. I am fortunate in that my use to Under-Chamberlain Davanzato induces him to speed matters
along.’

‘Ah, Davanzato. Tardolio’s Chamberlain Urbizzo is perhaps less flexible.’

‘Sir Goccio, Beauceron, I did not invite you here to discuss the Pellagiers,’ said Cosetta, her reproof tempered by a twinkling of the eyes.

Beauceron bowed. ‘My apologies, Lady Cosetta. We forget that plunder is not an endlessly fascinating subject.’

‘Sir Goccio, you will of course stay to lunch?’ said Cosetta.

‘I should be delighted. I would stay if only to enjoy the warmth of your dimonetto and your person.’

Beauceron found such compliments over-studied, but Sir Goccio was a knight of some renown, and no doubt understood the form of such things better than he.