They stopped talking now and made their way inside, conscious that other boys could hear their conversation. Someone told them Harold was in the Throne Room and Rashford muttered, “I’ll leave you to it.”
Harold was sitting on Thelonius’s throne. There was a chair next to it that hadn’t been there when March had last served Thelonius. It must be Edyon’s place. They’d been ruling together—Edyon’s dream had become a reality, for a few weeks.
“There you are, March.”
March stopped and bowed. “Congratulations on a great victory, Your Highness.”
Harold grinned. “The first of many.”
“The first of many,” March echoed, approaching Harold, wondering if he could attack him from behind while they were alone. “Is there anything you need, Your Highness?” he asked.
“Yes. Lots. Food. Immediately. And prepare my bed-chamber.”
March had no alternative but to turn round and go out. When Harold said immediately, he meant it.
March went to the kitchens and was sickened again by the sight of the bodies there, but relieved to see that the girl he’d given smoke to had gone. He collected as much food as he could carry and took it back up to the Throne Room, but Harold had already left. March took the supplies to Thelonius’s rooms, which he assumed Harold would want as his. Just like old times, March would sleep in his old, small chamber nearby. The perfect place from which to creep up on Harold. It would be much harder without smoke, but that was just one more excuse for inaction, and March had been excusing himself for long enough.
Perhaps I can do it tonight. Perhaps while he sleeps.
But Harold didn’t return for the food or even to sleep. He was in a state of euphoria. He’d had his first victory. He’d done what Aloysius had never managed, and done it quickly—absurdly easily. He’d taken Calia. He spent the day walking the city, with Sam and some of the other boys trailing after him. March joined them for a while but kept his distance. The celebrations were empty to him, he was exhausted, and he had no smoke to give him any strength.
The revelries were finally over by the time dawn came to March’s second day in Calia. The harsh light of day was not kind. Bodies lay in the streets, and gray smoke from numerous fires hung in the still, hot air. March wandered around the castle. He had no idea where Harold was. Or Sam. Or Rashford. People moved around and met in different rooms, sleeping on floors, eating what they could.
At midday riders arrived—Commander Pullman, one of Lord Thornlees’s senior officers, and ten men with him from the old man’s army. They were taken to the Throne Room, where they waited. Someone said that Harold had been sent for but finding him would be hard. Pullman paced around the room, looking at March, who shrugged. “He’s a prince. He’ll come when he likes.”
“He’s leading this campaign, and we’re at war. He’s al-ready messed up. The boys’ brigades were supposed to stay at the wall and help us hold it, and now Thelonius’s army is attacking our men.”
“They are?” March tried not to sound hopeful.
Just then Harold strode in, looking surprisingly smart and tidy, still in his armor, his hair a different style from the day before. He flung himself onto the throne and called out, “March, bring me my wine.”
Pullman bowed and stepped forward to speak.
Oh dear, no. That’s not the done thing, Pullman. You have to wait to be invited.
March could already see that the meeting would not go well. He could help smooth things over, but why should he? He poured Harold a large goblet of wine and stood by his shoulder.
“Your Highness. Lord Thornlees has sent me with—”
“Is someone speaking, March? Did you hear a noise?” Harold asked, taking his wine.
Pullman realized his error in speaking without invitation. He added to it by apologizing profusely.
“Still an awful noise. Do you hear it, March?”
“There was something, Your Highness.”
“Something rude and unpleasant hurting my ears.”
Pullman opened his mouth to object but apparently had second thoughts.
“Who’s that before me?” Harold asked.
March replied, “That is Commander Pullman, Your Highness. Sent with a message for you from Lord Thornlees. A message of congratulations on your famous victory, no doubt.”
“Let him speak, then.”
Pullman hesitated for a moment, glanced at March, and pulled a smile across his face, taking March’s words as his cue. “Congratulations, Your Highness, on your victory here in Calia. All of Brigant