She smiled sympathetically. “Family can be difficult.”

  “Aye,” he said with a noncommittal shrug. He met her eyes, and tired of answering questions, he posed his own. “How is it you are a teacher?”

  “My father was the grandmaster of the Academy of Wengorod. I grew up surrounded by scholarship. Then one day, the King requested a teacher for his daughters. My father suggested me for obvious reasons.”

  “Obvious reasons?” Cadoc repeated.

  “Yes,” she said, with a coy smile. “As you perhaps noticed, I lack that which fathers prefer were kept out of reach of their daughters.”

  Cadoc stared at her, befuddled by her obtuseness. “You what?”

  “I don’t have a cock.”

  Cadoc cheeks burned at her unexpected vulgarity, and he found himself grinning. “Got it. A man might leave a cuckoo’s egg in the king’s nest. Still, you’re a long way from Vengorod. What happened?”

  The woman sighed with a theatrical quality Cadoc found amusing. “Alas, the king died, and his son did not share his father’s tolerance for the Academy. Those were…difficult years in Vengorod. I thought it prudent to leave.”

  “Can’t say I blame you.”

  “Have you been to Vengorod?”

  Cadoc shook his head. “No, and I’ve no interest in going. Had my fill of travel.”

  She smiled. “I can sympathise. I’ve been on the road for years it seems. My heart of hearts desires nothing more than a simple place to call home where I can find steady patronage and live in peace to pursue my own whims and interests.”

  Cadoc nodded, weighing her words for several awkward moments. At length, he said, “A worthy ambition, my lady. I pray you find it in Kas Mendoc.”

  She inclined her head but kept her gaze upon him, studying him through her long, dark lashes with a demureness that made him squirm on his stool. “Thank you, Captain. As a wandering soul too long on the road, I see a kindred spirit, and it warms my heart.”

  Cadoc throat tightened as he considered the candour of her words. He was not accustomed to women speaking thus. “Peace is something I’ll not readily find, my lady.”

  “My name is Jewana, not my lady,” she said, “and may I ask why you feel that peace is so untenable?”

  “Jewana,” he said, testing the unfamiliar name with his tongue, and deciding he liked it. “There’s too much blood on my hands.”

  “Blood washes off with the right unguent.”

  “It might,” he said and lapsed into silence, staring into the glowing embers of the fire at his feet.

  Several moments went by before Jewana rose to her feet. “I thank you for our talk, Captain, but I too must bid you a good night.”

  He grunted in reply and nodded, watching as she turned and began making her way towards her coach.

  “My lady…Jewana.”

  Jewana stopped and turned. “Yes, Cadoc?”

  “I’ll keep an ear cocked. Should Albin force himself upon you, I’ll cut his bollocks off.”

  Jewana smiled and bowed her head. “Very kind of you, but do not trouble yourself. I have my own means of protection.”

  Cadoc grunted, and she turned and walked off. Cadoc was mesmerised by the sway of her hips before he realised what he was doing and dropped his gaze back to the fire at his feet.

  “Cadoc?”

  He looked up.

  “You’re a good man,” she said, then turned hurriedly and continued walking off.

  Cadoc felt his cheeks burning. He forced a smile, then turned back to stare at the fire, listening to the sounds of her footfalls as she departed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kas Mendoc

  THE CARAVAN RUMBLED into Kas Mendoc four days later. They entered via East Gate, greeted by the smell of the sea and rotting fish wafting from the estuary. Albin’s mood was as foul as the weather, and it got worse when the city’s guard exacted payment at the gate, citing some tax on imported goods. Cadoc mentally chalked it up as a bribe, but as they entered the city and rumbled towards the marketplace, he wasn’t so sure. In the year since he’d last set foot in the city, Kas Mendoc had suffered, and signs of hardship abounded. The streets were dirty, with refuse left uncollected in gutters, and lanterns were smashed while houses languished in ill-repair. There were more beggars than Cadoc remembered. Every other shop was boarded up, and when they reached the marketplace, they discovered it was devoid of stalls. Cadoc wondered how much profit the merchant would turn, and when he voiced his concerns, Albin swore bitterly. “Goddamned crusade has bled the place dry.”

  “Aye,” Cadoc agreed in a rumbling monotone. “I wonder why you bothered after Pontoloc.”

  Albin scowled. “Because I have a contract with the duke’s household, and besides, I take the chance to buy furs while I’m here to sell back east.”

  This piqued Cadoc’s interest; he sniffed and swallowed. “Should have told me you buy furs. Most of what’s sold here usually come from my homeland.”

  Albin’s gaze swept the empty marketplace. “Well, your kin had a poor year by the looks of things.”

  Cadoc rubbed his beard, not quite sure what to make of it. By rights, the marketplace should have been filled with traders and other vendors, selling goods from the Cae and Mendoc valleys. Not just furs and hides, but honey, metals, timber, ironmongery and even precious amber. If money had dried up in Kas Mendoc, perhaps the traders had taken their business elsewhere. “What will do you?”

  Albin sighed and shrugged his shoulder. “Not your problem, Captain. We part ways here unless I can convince you and your men to escort me back to Skelgard.”

  Cadoc shook his head. “No, but my thanks for the offer.”

  Albin eyed him a moment. “You certain? You’re a decent man, Cadoc, and a good soldier. Not many have the stones to speak their mind in front of me. I’d make you my personal guard and see you well provisioned.”

  Cadoc shook his head, but less emphatically this time. “I need to get my men home.”

  “And afterwards?”

  Cadoc shrugged. “My brother will find some use for me.”

  Albin hiked a thumb behind him. “Well, if you won’t accept my offer, at least take the bloody shrew off my hands?”

  Cadoc snorted. “You mean Jewana.”

  “Aye, I’ve had my fill of the bitch.”

  Cadoc’s brow knotted. “I’d doubt she’ll bother you again. She’s taking service with the duke’s household.”

  “She told you that?” asked Albin.

  “You didn’t ask?”

  Albin shrugged. “I didn’t care enough to bother. I’m surprised you did.”

  Cadoc saw the lie for what it was. “We talked a few nights ago, what of it?”

  Albin waved the comment away but hid his annoyance poorly. “Well, my offer stands,” he said, his tone haughty. “Should you find yourself looking for work, you know where to find me.” He offered his hand and Cadoc shook it. “Think on it?”

  “I will,” Cadoc replied, surprising himself by the honesty of his tone. His opinion of Albin hadn’t changed much, he was an arsehole, but he wasn’t the worst man Cadoc had ever met. The offer had a certain appeal, but it was still soldiering for hire, and Cadoc wanted no more of it. He broke the handshake. “May the gods protect you and yours.”

  Albin walked off. Cadoc didn’t spare him a second thought as he turned and rounded up his company, the men piling into their lone wagon. When they were all accounted for, he climbed into the driver's seat where Fersin waited for him, holding the reins, his hands resting on his knees. “Home?” asked the sergeant.

  Cadoc shook his head and pointed towards the castle on the city’s western fringe. “The fortress.”

  Fersin didn’t question the order, flicking the reins. The mules twitched and set off, the wagon rumbling over the deserted marketplace.

  An hour later they presented themselves at the duke’s garrison, where Cadoc had first led his men a year earlier. Cadoc introduced himself at the gate, and they were admitted soon after and told to wait in the muster yard. As they waited, Cadoc studied the yard, noting how few soldiers were present to man the battlements.

  Fersin echoed his thoughts. “Place is half abandoned.”

  Cadoc’s brow knitted as he scanned the patrolling soldiers. “More men sent off to the crusade.”

  Fersin said, “I heard one of Albin’s men say the prince-bishop had been stripping the west of soldiers. Didn’t quite believe it.”

  Cadoc said, “He didn’t send them our way.”

  “No,” said Fersin, his tone in agreement. He pointed a finger at the northern battlement. “If the Prince of Langorn ever gets word, that madman will be down here like a sailor in a whorehouse.”

  Cadoc shook his head. “I don’t even think the Prince-Bishop is stupid enough to let that happen.” He glanced around the courtyard and saw a figure approaching from the keep. “No, I reckon the Gwylim’s Wall’s is still well defended, least at Merthon.”

  The approaching figure drew closer. Cadoc studied him, recognition dawning as the man’s appearance came into focus. He was a tall, lanky officer with salt-pepper hair tied back into a tail, and a drooping moustache that grew almost to his chin. He marched with long-legged strides, hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Stay here,” said Cadoc, and he jumped down and began walking towards the approaching soldier.

  “So it is you, you heathen bastard,” said Pietrov, captain of the duke’s household guard. He wore a broad, friendly smile, his cheeks ruddy with his quick march across the yard. “I had to see for myself before I believed it.”

  Cadoc nodded, forcing himself to return the smile. “Aye, it’s me. A year older and a lot sorrier. Lucky I’m here in one piece.”

  Pietrov sighed, nodding solemnly. “I heard it was some bad fighting.”

  Cadoc grimaced. “You don’t know the half of it, man.”

  Pietrov extended his hand and Cadoc shook it firmly. The officer steered him away from the wagon. They walked out into the centre of the parade ground, and when beyond earshot of the barracks and Cadoc’s men, the officer continued in a hushed tone. “I’m hoping you’ve news of His Grace.”

  Cadoc’s jaw tightened; he didn’t answer at first.

  Pietrov closed his eyes and sighed. “I feared as much.” He swore, opened his eyes and kicked at the gravel underfoot. “Fucking war’s bled us dry, and now this.” He dug his hands beneath his tabard.

  Cadoc found his voice, clearing his throat. “I never said he was dead, there’s a small chance he escaped.”

  Pietrov looked up, his eyes were bright. “You’re certain?”

  Cadoc shrugged, and the glimmer of hope on Pietrov’s face fell as quickly as it had arisen. “Nothing is certain in war — but if any man could do, he could.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Cadoc narrated the final day of the fall of Antios. He told how Duke Artur conceived his bold plan to sneak on board one of the Oskoi warships blockading the harbour. It would have worked, but the Oskoi breeched the northern walls of the city faster than anyone could have imagined, pouring into the city.

  “It was a good plan until we were attacked from the rear,” Cadoc said. “I still don’t know how they got to the docks that fast.”

  “Traitors?”

  Cadoc shrugged. “Maybe. By the end, the whole fucking city was against us. I reckon, the Oskoi managed to breach two walls.”

  Pietrov winced. “They flooded in?”

  Cadoc nodded. “Like a swarm of rats. They could taste victory. Our backs were against a wall.”

  “But you got out?”

  Cadoc gave Pietrov a hard stare. “Barely. The bastards almost shaved the hair off my arse, and I lost a lot of good men.”

  Pietrov spread his palms “I was only asking. I’m your friend, Cadoc. I just want to know what happened to my duke.”

  Cadoc blew air through his lips. “For reasons known only to him and his God, he went back into the fray with a handful of men.”

  Pietrov’s brow furrowed into the beginnings of a scowl. “You didn’t go to his aid?”

  Cadoc shook his head. “His orders were plain. I was tasked with taking one of the Oskoi ships — I had a lot of men to save.”

  Pietrov sighed. “I cast no blame, my friend. Still, your tale leaves little hope.”

  Cadoc said, “We took two ships in that harbour. The other remained for Artur and his men. If through chance or skill he reached it…”

  Pietrov cupped a hand over his mouth and rubbed his gaunt, stubbled chin. “A glimmer then, however thin the thread. What in God’s name did he go back for?”

  Cadoc gave a helpless shrug. “As I said, I know not. What will you do?”

  Pietrov filled his lungs, harrumphing as he said, “What can I do but wait. If what you say is true, what’s left of our men will make their way home with God’s mercy. I’ll confer your news to her ladyship with as much hope as I can muster.”

  “Would you like me there? I’m known to her through her brother, the Prince of Langorn. She might welcome a fellow countryman.”

  Pietrov eyed him a long moment, then he slowly shook his head. “No, she would only press you for details, and I do not want her upset with the telling.”

  “I don’t envy your duty, but my offer stands,” said Cadoc.

  Pietrov clapped him on the shoulder, his smile forced and soon faded. “My thanks. Now, what of you?”

  Cadoc said, “Home as soon as I may.”

  Pietrov frowned. “You sure? I’d welcome you and your command here should you want to swear fealty. Our garrison is short-manned as you can see.”

  Cadoc snorted with laughter. Pietrov frowned, his back stiffening. “You think I’m joking? Look around. I'm deadly serious.”

  Cadoc shook his head. “My apologies. It’s the second time today someone has tried to deter me with offers of service.”

  “Who?”

  Cadoc told him.

  Pietrov made a face. “I know of him. He’s a pig, but I can’t blame him for trying, any more than you can blame me. Good soldiers are few and far between.”

  “And my soldiering is done,” Cadoc said, adamantly. “I must see my men home to their families and make peace with my brother, gods willing.”

  Pietrov nodded solemnly, then looked up, eyes wide and he smiled. “Your gods aren’t as forgiving as mine, heathen. I could make you commander of Abercrav. You’d be but a few days ride from Skeinhold.”

  Cadoc gave a tired laugh. Pietrov’s persistence was irritating but flattering. “I’ll think about it,” he replied with as much sincerity as he could muster. He grinned suddenly. “Might be coming back if my brother’s not in a forgiving mood.”

  Pietrov tried to look sympathetic but failed. “His loss would be our gain. Surely he’s forgiven you by now.”

  Cadoc made a face somewhere between exasperation and doubt. “A man can hope, but he’s a stubborn bastard, and I did him wrong.”

  Pietrov clapped his shoulder. “Change your mind, old man, and the commission is yours.”

  Cadoc grunted with laughter. “Old man?”

  Pietrov smirked. “You’ve aged, and that scar on your cheek is horrible.”

  Cadoc grimaced, the words cutting deeper than he realised. He and Pietrov were of a similar age, but Cadoc’s year in Oskana felt like ten, and now he felt every bit of his forty-one years like a weight around his neck. His own father had not lived to his fortieth birthday, so that was something at least. He looked up and saw Pietrov watching him, his face apologetic as though reading Cadoc’s expression as one of hurt.

  “I’m tired,” said Cadoc at length. “We’ve not stopped since Antios.”

  Pietrov glanced over Cadoc’s shoulder, for a moment his gaze was fixed on the barracks. “Take your time. The least I can do is give you and your men a warm bed and hot food behind solid walls.”

  Cadoc gave a wearied smile, but this time his expression was genuine. His shoulders drooped as his body eased into a slouch. “My thanks.”

  Pietrov flashed a rakish grin and offered his hand. Cadoc grasped it in his meaty paw and gave it a solid shake.

  * * *

  THEY STAYED THREE days in Kas Mendoc and rested. Cadoc saw to it that they remained aloof from the duke’s garrison. Fersin mused it was like ‘licking wounds without licking Venyk arses.’ Cadoc knew the real reason, however, and by agreement with Pietrov, he kept them apart lest one of his men talk about what happened in Antios.

  Yet, they weren’t completely isolated, and Pietrov visited when news arrived as it slowly trickled into the city. Ships carrying survivors from Antios were landing almost daily now. Most made port at Skelgard and the other towns on the island’s eastern coast, but they began hearing reports some had made landfall along the south, including one wrecked in a storm.

  Riders from Skelgard were despatched the length and breadth of the principality and rumour followed in their wake, inflating with each telling. On the same day, they received conflicting stories of Duke Artur — one said he’d died at the walls of Antios, which Cadoc immediately dismissed, the other, said he was sighted on the mainland, weeks after, among the wounded. Either way, Cadoc counselled Pietrov to keep his fears and optimism in check.

  On the fourth day, an emissary from Skelgard arrived at the palace. In the uproar that ensued, Cadoc and his men made their departure, slipping from the castle’s grounds with only a brief farewell to Captain Pietrov to mark their passing. As a parting gift, the captain gave them a second wagon well-stocked with victuals for the road.

  “You’ll not take my offer then?” Pietrov asked as he bid them farewell.

  The wagons were already rumbling over the bridge. Cadoc lingered. He gave Pietrov a thin smile. “I said I’ll think about it.”

  Pietrov replied in kind, his expression as fleeting as Cadoc's. There was no anger in his eyes, only disappointment. He reached into his tunic and removed a letter, sealed with the wax imprint of the ducal crest. He held it out to Cadoc. “Would you deliver this for me to Abercrav?”

  Cadoc eyed the letter. “Not my commission is it?”

 

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