Rumours

  Fenris Whiteeyes had held a bow, held a sword more than he had ever held the squirming, kicking thing before him. The man narrowed his eyes, colourless pupils disappearing under eyelids. Sceptical. Had he ever looked like such a little brat? Could barely remember childhood. Fenris’s thoughts were interrupted by an assault. The child he held at arm’s length blew raspberries, a hail of spittle pattering against his nose, the stubble on his chin. Thrashed and beaten men for spitting on him had Fenris Whiteeyes, but this boy? It made the warrior chuckle, rough and loud.

  “Getting to know one another, are we?” Alayna stepped through the partition of the tent. On the other side, mostly empty cots. The war hadn’t truly started yet, but even in camp, men died. He knew it well. Ralke Grey. The name, the lolling head and blood-wet neck flashed into his mind. But he hadn’t killed Ralke last night, wished he had, but felt cleaner sitting before Alayna because he hadn’t.

  Fenris put Edwin down, watched his hair bob as he scampered over to his mother. “Fenisss, feniss, feniss.” He said and hugged her leg. The whole thing was a scene of downright domesticity, another thing Fenris Whiteeyes had seldom known.

  “He’s a good lad,” he said.

  “I raised him myself.”

  “You’re a mother and a half.” Fenris paused, then, “The boy’s father?”

  “Dead.” Alayana’s response was immediate and final.

  They had known each other for a month now, met when the army had first been gathered for the siege of Lynetor, but it was enough time for Fenris to know that the physician wanted this line of questions to stop there. He obliged her.

  Alayna flicked her brown braid over her shoulder and sat next to Fenris on the cot. The little boy followed, pulling on the fingers of her right hand. “Does Edwin change anything?”

  He was frozen on that for a second, caught off-guard. But then the answer that he was at least half sure of came. “No. I suspected that you had… had something running around.”

  “Something running around, Fenris?” Alayna chuckled. “Most of us just call them children.”

  He went a little red, embarrassed, but also deeply attracted by the way that this woman could find his soft spots.

  “Not usually in my line of business.”

  “Good.” She leaned in, and Fenris slipped his hand around her waist. They kissed, but that’s as far as it went, with Edwin running around. It’d gone further before, would still go further in the future too, he hoped.

  “Where will I find you after the campaign is over?” Fenris surprised himself with the question, surprised by his own eagerness to continue what had started as something to do while he waited for the siege to end.

  “Highvale. We’ll be joining the garrison before the Kings Pass closes in the winter.”

  The warrior leaned in for another kiss. “It shouldn’t last that—”

  Someone cleared their throat. Alayana’s apprentice, Margot. She stood in the partition holding an incredibly large squash in her arms. There was a wary look in her eye that was always present when Fenris was around. “Lord Herik’s men have given us a gift.”

  “Taken from Lynetor’s gardens, no doubt, kind of them,” Fenris said.

  Alayna got up. “Pillaged or not, it brings great life with it. Put it at the foot of one of the stretchers.”

  Margot nodded. She turned, apron twirling, then over her shoulder, “And he has friends waiting outside.” Then she was back through the partition. She was barely a woman and already had an attitude and mistrust of men. It would serve her well, Fenris thought.

  “Thank you, Margot.” Alayna turned to Fenris. “Business calling?”

  “The feast.” He stood. “Herik wants to toast his victory.”

  “And you got invited?”

  Fenris smirked. Then, “Would you accompany me?”

  “A healer and a mercenary. Some people might think you’re taking advantage of me.”

  “Never,” Fenris said. “But I wouldn’t deny that free lox balm doesn’t come in awful handy from time to time.”

  “I’ll see you there then.”

  “I’m glad,” Fenris said. Then he kissed her on the hand and strode off through the healer’s tent.

  He passed Margot, the empty cots and the quietly groaning patient that now had a squash at the foot of his bed. Poor bastard, one of the first to be wounded while the siege was still vicious and raging, before they’d known that the Constable of Lynetor had no care for the succession of kings. He’d been fully intent on upholding his thirty days of stewardship and surrendered the castle on the thirty-first day of the siege. Gates had opened at sunrise. Smashednose would be there now.

  Fenris had done little fighting during that time, little warfighting anyway. The man had met the woman with a wound of his own. Another scar for his collection. He’d made shallow advances towards the healer, been gently rebuffed, but not altogether rejected. The weeks in camp had seen him act something approaching charming, even funny, apparently, though he’d no idea what jokes he’d told. Last night was the only night of the entire siege he’d spent in a brothel, and that had been without any paid company. Whatever this thing between them was becoming, it had been going well, but the siege was over now.

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  Karlin and Borke were waiting for Fenris when he left the tent. “How’s your arm doing?” the huge warrior said it with a wink.

  “Well enough,” Fenris gave Karlin a warning look. Truth be told, he trusted the man to keep his suspicions to himself, not that it would matter much when Fenris attended the feast with Alayna. But good business kept the two separated.

  “Smashednose is pissed,” Borke said.

  “Says who?” Fenris said.

  “Silker.”

  “If he was really pissed, the old man would have told me himself.” Fenris joined them, and they started walking down the lines of tents. The army was getting ready to move now that Lynetor Castle was a sure gem in Herik’s crown, or rather the crown he would hand to his nephew when he came of age. Hard to tell the difference between the two. Men moved and heaved and packed and swore, carts piled high rolling passed as the draft horses huffed. Fenris didn’t think he’d been in a camp so big before, and to think of all the places it would be in Baidon, land of his birth, not that he was much attached.

  “I’d remind the two of you,” Fenris lowered his voice so no one heard them, and it wasn’t hard to do amongst all the commotion, “that we didn’t even fucking kill anyone last night.”

  “Half true,” Karlin muttered.

  “We might as well have,” Borke said. “Plenty reckon that someone under Smashednose killed Ralke, and Smashenosed and the rest think it was you.”

  “And it should have been,” Fenris stopped, letting a cart roll past, before walking on. “Smashednose just worries about good business and making sure we covered our tracks. We’ve done that.”

  “Half true,” Karlin said again. He chuckled grimly.

  “Climb faster then, next time, you heavy bastard.” Fenris hit Karlin on the arm.

  “People want to know,” Borke said. “The lords and levies don’t likely give a beggar’s arse for it, but Ralke’s gang is furious, and the other mercenary companies have questions.”

  “So do I,” Fenris said. “Where in hell is Hessen?”

  ***

  The merchant’s camp, like the rest of the tent city, was coming apart like a dirt mound getting broken down by ants. The smaller vendors were still open, plying their trade, some even busier now that the soldiers were realising that it was their last chance to buy charms, fresh food, or simply a shag. Fenris didn’t hold it against them. He’d brought an oversized gord or two in his time when he wanted to ward away the Balance of death, some. Never sure that it did much, but at least you could eat them when you got hungry. The wooden walkway had gone first, and if it had been raining, the ground would have been churned into mud by now, but in the heat of summer, it was dirt and dried grass, long stalks crunched into flaky yellow pieces.

  Fenris stopped outside the drinking tent that they’d narrowed down to hosting Hessen. He looked at Karlin and Borke. “The three of us are going to be a crowd in there.”

  “Not to worry,” Karlin said. “I can find something to keep me busy.” The big man strode off into the thoroughfare without another word, his head visible above the throng until he went round a corner. That left Fenris and Borke.

  Borke hesitated, ran his fingers over his close-cut hair. “Just don’t…”

  “You’re a worrier, Borke,” Fenris said. “Get yourself a drink, but not in here.”

  “Don’t tell him anything that he doesn’t already know,” he said. “I think we’re in the clear for last night. We covered ourselves well, but that doesn’t mean we can’t undo it. They can make judgments on pretty thin evidence, you know. Maybe I should come—”

  “A drink, but not in here,” Fenris commanded, and that was the end of it.

  ***

  He walked into the drinking tent. Its tables were made of long boards, and the back wall was made of ale barrels where the publican was doing business at a rapid pace. This place would be the last to close. Most of the patrons were the hired soldiers. The regular army was packing up, but these men were more confident in their ability to break camp when the need arose. Too experienced in the waiting around that would come after the rush. Smashednose had his company packed especially light. The old man had been worrying the campaign would revolve around the Kings Pass, and didn’t want them hauling dead weight around the mountains, but with Lynetor captured, it didn’t look like it would get that far north.

  Hessen was at a table, rolling dice, looked to be winning by the expression under his rosy nose. Fenris caught his eyes, just visible between the heavy eyebrows above and the beard that came up from below. The man’s smile dimmed a little when Fenris motioned him over, but he excused himself from the game. They found a table in a quiet corner, sat and drank.

  “If this is how war is done in Baidon, it’s not so bad.” Hessen took a swig. He was drunk, probably not as much as he was pretending to be, but it made his Kostian accent even thicker. “Haven’t done an honest day of fighting all month. Haven’t done an honest day of work all my life.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Fenris took a gulp of ale. It was good, cool. “You’re finding the camp life well, then? Heard you were in Ralke Grey’s camp last night, making friends.”

  “Can’t make friends with the dead, Whiteeyes.” The feigned joviality that had risen when Fenris had got the man another drink vanished from Hessen immediately. Neither of them had much time for games, apparently.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Drinking, talking, doing much the same that I am doing now,” Hessen replied. “You know, I would think Lord Herik had better sense, but it seems that a lot of his army wants each other dead. Grudges run thick in the mercenary companies of Baidon.” Hessen drank to that, then, “They say Smashednose didn’t like Ralke. Heard you didn’t like him much either.”

  “That’s a good thing to know,” Fenris Whiteeyes said. “It means that you can keep yourself on the right side of camp in the future.”

  “Like you do?”

  Fenris leaned in, pissed. The accusation was fruitless. Even with the scuffle, his alibi was strong, but it didn’t do to have men going about saying things. “I was at this end of camp all night. I didn’t kill Ralke Grey.”

  “Neither did I.” Hessen leaned back, splayed his hands. “Look, if I had known the blood was that bad, I wouldn’t have been there.”

  “But you were.”

  “Why does it matter to you, Whiteeyes?”

  “Because if there’s a prick walking around camp killing people, I’d prefer it be me.”

  Hessen smiled at that. “Fair enough.”

  “What did you see while you were that end of camp, Hessen?” Fenris said. “What did you hear?”

  “Not much of anything, truth be told,” Hessen said. “But they were asking me about someone who’d been wandering around before I came. Don’t know who, but they were saying that they reckon it was one of our boys. Hence my suspicion of yourself.”

  “Well, shit.” Fenris washed down the information with his drink. He’d covered himself well. Karlin, Borke and he had slipped in and out of Ralke’s camp mostly undetected, definitely unidentified. Wasn’t bad considering that he’d only made plans when he’d realised that it would be one of their last days in camp, but someone else had realised the same thing, and they’d cocked it up a little. In the end, it didn’t matter. Suspicion was suspicion.

  “Breaking camp might be for the best. Get to the proper fighting before we kill too much of our own,” Hessen said dryly.

  Fenris shook his head. “I reckon you’ll be missing the petty murdering when we end up in a pitch battle getting killed row by row.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Hessen raised his mug. “To Lynetor, the warmest summer and the easiest siege a man could fight.”