All The Queen's Ladies [NaNoWriMo Project]

And Now The Men

But wait! Let us look elsewhere: away from the city with its lingering smells, its grey slush streets and red brick buildings, with the High Palace rising above it like a frosted thistle; away from communal bonfires and the sardonic, fluid, obscene drawl of the boatmen; away from brocade and silk linings and bright, light colours. Let us instead move north. Up the great road that even in the winter is choking with coaches and carriages, we pass over the traffic like birds; soaring on biting winds over the grassy plains of the lushlands, buffeted by the air passing over the hills and mountains that hide the western sea; the coaches leave the road and the tide of people turns downwards, men and women and children with their lives on their backs; grass turns to scrub and heather; towns and villages compress, huddle together, eventually becoming longhalls with smoke constantly curling from a hole in the roof. We are not only travelling along a road. We are going backwards through time. This is the kingdom some five hundred, six hundred years ago, before the Carrogans dragged it into the sun, before the Laiths cemented its place there. This is the kingdom of songs and magic and legends. This is the north.

For a place of magic, it is remarkably flat and marshy.

A camp. From a distance it looks like little more than a stain on the horizon, but here are several thousand men, on the highest bit of land they can find. It hardly even classifies as a hill. Tents flutter; occasionally one takes to the skies and a squabble of squires rushes after it, shrieking, while their lord or knight roars and his friends jeer and laugh. It is ankle-deep in snow, trodden into paths in places, melted into mud by the fires. Those on punishment dig out the trenches and claw ice from the defensive spikes, and there are always plenty of those. Cooped up, soldiers and squires get bored. Add in the cold, add in the snow, add in the bristling egos and the homesickness and the few camp followers to a few hundred men, and there will be fights aplenty.

Those who have been particularly problematic are summoned to the most central tent. It is the size of a small hut and is a patchy, mud brown colour, with wonky patching in a few places, more intimidating than it looks: the First Commander's tent. Right now there is a fire burning outside, with a cluster of squires around it, stamping their feet and complaining about the food and the cold. A swirl of smoke is whisked away from the central post. Inside, the fire pulls steam from the inhabitants' cloaks, of which there are many, standing around like their squires and staring down at a map unrolled on a table. A brick of a man looms over it, moving little figurines around, oblivious to anything else. The First Commander is speaking with the lords. Again.

"Here." His hand sweeps across the map, nearly dislodging several of the little stone pieces perched there, and his finger jabs at a spot that looks exactly like every other. "They'll be expecting us to try and force our way through here, so if we come here instead-"

"That's bog, Commander, at this time of year."

He scowls. "More bog. Passable?"

"Yes. But risky. If they saw us, they could launch an ambush fast."

"Not that, then." When he frowns, as he does now, his eyes all but disappear underneath rough, heavy brows. Another jab, this time landing on a rough sketch of a castle. "Here. This is Jorin Farworth's place, isn't it? Farhold? He should have those battlement repairs done by now, he's had three years. If not, we've got masons with us. Haven't we?" Nods of assent. "To Farhold, then. Get us a foothold on the other side of the Ragriver and a view over that bog, in case they want to try their luck. What's that, three days' march?" Someone suggests four; at the same time, another suggests two. Another lets out a brief burst of laughter, a slender man with a lean, wary face brushed with gingering stubble. The First Commander glares at them all, until silence falls again. "Three," he declares. "Three days, starting midday tomorrow. Unless there's any objections?"