Chapter 242: His Own Account (1) [BONUS]

The Order of the Silver Crane made camp at the ford below the Maren ridge, and it stayed there.

It was not a bad place for a camp. The river was shallow and slow, the ground was flat, and there was firewood in the alder thickets along the bank. Captain Hale had the tents raised in neat rows within an hour, and by evening the horse lines were in order, and the cook fires were burning.

From the camp, Tobin could still see the ridge.

He could see the smoke from the villages and the grey shape of the keep. And if he stood at the edge of the horse lines in the late afternoon, when the light came from the west, he could see the pale stone at the top. The masons were still working. Even from the ford, if the wind was right, he could hear the faint sound of their chisels.

He tried not to stand at the edge of the horse lines too often.

On the second evening, Sir Aldous sent for him.

The commander’s tent was the largest in the camp. It had a wooden floor in sections, a folding table, two chairs, a bed with a proper mattress, and a small iron brazier that kept the inside warm. Sir Aldous sat in one of the chairs with a cup of wine. He had taken off his boots, and his feet rested on a cushion.

Captain Hale stood near the entrance with his hands behind his back.

"Tobin," Sir Aldous said pleasantly. "Sit. Bring the good paper. You have a better hand than anyone else in this company, and this letter is going to the Crown."

Tobin fetched the writing case from the chest. He laid out three sheets of the heavy cream paper that Sir Aldous kept for important letters, and he filled the inkwell, and he cut a fresh nib.

Then he waited.

Sir Aldous drank some of his wine and looked at the roof of the tent.

"To the Office of His Imperial Majesty’s Council of War," he began. "From Sir Aldous Fenwright, Commander of the Order of the Silver Crane, in the field. Write the date."

Tobin wrote the date.

"Your Majesty’s servant has the honour to report that the Order reached the northern road as commanded, and proceeded with all possible speed toward the fortress known as the Wall."

Tobin’s pen stopped for half a breath.

All possible speed?

He thought of six days at Merrowford. He thought of the inn and the hot baths and the evenings of cards. He thought of three days at Harrowmere, where Sir Aldous’s cousin had kept a pack of fine hunting dogs.

Then he dipped the pen again and wrote the words.

"Upon arrival," Sir Aldous continued, "the Order found the fortress abandoned by its garrison. The garrison, together with a large number of convicts, labourers, and civilians, had withdrawn south of the Riven without the permission of the Crown."

He paused.

"Write ’without the knowledge or permission of the Crown.’ It sounds better."

Tobin wrote it.

"The Order further found these persons occupying lands of House Maren, under a private writ of the Duke of the North, and protected by armed men of two Gannon legions. One of these legions, the Fifth, had left its assigned post on the eastern front, also without permission."

Captain Hale shifted his weight by the tent flap. He did not say anything.

"When the Order attempted to take the convicts and deserters into lawful custody," Sir Aldous went on, "it was obstructed. Armed men were placed across the Crown’s road. The Order, wishing to avoid bloodshed between Your Majesty’s subjects, withdrew to the ford and awaits instruction."

Tobin wrote steadily. His hand did not shake. He was proud of that, a little, and ashamed of being proud.

"I must also report," Sir Aldous said, "that the Grand Magus was present among these persons. Write it carefully, Tobin. His great age and his recent exertions have left him unwell. He is not, at present, in a condition to judge matters of law."

"Yes, my lord."

"Good." Sir Aldous swirled his cup. "Now. The cause of all this. The Order has learned that the northern command had, in the year before its fall, granted a seat of authority to a person not listed in the Crown’s records. A so-called Strategist. This person is reported to be the disowned fourth son of the Duke of the North."

He smiled faintly.

"Under his direction, the Wall’s workshops built engines of war of a size and type that the frontier charter does not permit. The Order cannot yet say whether these engines contributed to the fortress’s fall. The Strategist is reported missing, and is believed to be dead."

Tobin wrote the word dead.

It looked very small on the page.

He thought of the boy in the road with the blue-glass lamp, standing with both hands around it. He thought of the girl with ink on her fingers, holding her ledger like a shield. Neither of them had looked like people who believed anyone was dead.

"My lord," Tobin said, before he could stop himself.

Sir Aldous lowered his cup.

"Yes?"

"Should I write the date we left Merrowford? For the Council of War. They might want to know how long the journey took."

The tent was very quiet. The brazier ticked.

Captain Hale looked at the floor.

Sir Aldous studied Tobin for a moment. His handsome face did not change at all, and his voice, when it came, was mild.

"The Crown does not need a diary, Tobin. It needs a report. A diary tells a man what you ate. A report tells him what he should do."

"Yes, my lord."

"Write the closing. ’Your Majesty’s faithful servant awaits Your Majesty’s command.’ Then bring it to me to sign."

Tobin wrote the closing.

He sanded the ink and blew on it gently and carried the three sheets to the table. Sir Aldous read them through, nodded twice, and signed his name in large, elegant letters. Then he pressed the silver crane seal into a pool of grey wax at the bottom.

"Excellent," he said. "Hale, have a rider take it south tonight. The fastest horse."

"Yes, my lord."

Hale took the letter and went out. As he passed Tobin, he did not look at him. But for a moment the captain’s hand touched Tobin’s shoulder, very lightly, the way a man might steady a cup that was about to tip over.

Then he was gone into the dark.

Sir Aldous picked up his wine again.

"You have a good hand," he said. "And a good memory. Those are useful things in a squire, Tobin. Do try not to make them inconvenient ones."

"Yes, my lord," Tobin said, and bowed, and left the tent.

Outside, the night was cold and clear. The cook fires had burned low.

Far above the ford, at the top of the ridge, a single lamp was burning beside the pale stone. Someone was still working on the names.

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