Davyon frowned. “You’ll need some of the Royal Guard to accompany you.”
“In my own army’s camp?”
“You’re the queen. There might be assassins,” Tanya muttered loudly, as only Tanya could. “And in case you’ve forgotten, there is definitely a hostile army just over that hillside.”
“Very well,” Catherine said. “Summon the Royal Guard.”
Davyon bowed. “I too will accompany you, Your Majesty.”
“Will you require your armor, Your Majesty?” asked Tanya.
“Why not?” Catherine sighed. “I’m sure the extra protection will please Davyon. Let’s dazzle.”
Though she felt not at all dazzling.
As the sun rose over the camp, Catherine, in a white dress under her shining armor, part of her hair plaited round her crown and the rest loose down her back, set out with Davyon (a fixed smile on his face), Tanya (dark-eyed, wearing a blue dress with a white fitted jacket that Catherine hadn’t seen before), and ten of the Royal Guard, all with dyed white hair.
Catherine felt her mood brighten as she greeted the guards by name and stopped to ask one, “How’s your brother, Gaspar?”
“Improving, Your Majesty. Thank you for sending the doctor to him.”
“I’m glad he was of help.”
Catherine hadn’t set foot outside the protected enclosure since the battle of Hawks Field. She’d been in meetings, nursing Tzsayn, or sleeping. Now, as she stepped out past the high wall of royal tents, she saw the Pitorian army. Her army.
The camp stretched as far as she could see, and although it hadn’t moved since the battle, it was completely unrecog-nizable. It had always been slightly haphazard, full of tents, horses, and people, even chickens and goats, but it had been set in pleasant, open fields of grass. Seven days of rain and thousands of pounding boots had changed all that. There was no grass to be seen, only thick mud interspersed with pools of brown water, above which clouds of tiny flies hung like smoke in the morning light.
“Midges,” Tanya complained, slapping her neck. “I got bitten all over my arm yesterday.”
Davyon picked a route through the camp that was as dry as possible, but as they moved among the tents, there was something else hanging in the air besides the midges: a smell—no, a stench—of human and animal waste.
Catherine put her hand over her face. “This aroma is rather overpowering.”
“I’ve been in farmyards that smell sweeter,” Tanya said.
Farther down the field, some of the tents were entirely waterlogged. Soldiers were walking ankle-deep in mud, clouds of midges around them.
“Why haven’t they moved their tents?” Catherine asked Davyon.
“They’re the king’s men. They need to be near the king.”
“They need to be dry.”
“We didn’t expect the rains to last so long, but the men are hardy. It’s only water, Your Majesty, and as you said yourself, the rains seem to have passed.”
Catherine splashed over to a group of soldiers standing on a small island of relatively dry ground, their boots thick with mud. The men saluted and smiled.
“How are you handling the rain?” she asked.
“We can handle anything, Your Majesty.”
“Well, I can feel the water soaking through my boots, and I’ve only been out here a short time. Aren’t your feet wet through?”
“Just a bit, Your Majesty,” one admitted.
But another, braver man added, “Sodden and have been for days. My boots are rotting, Josh’s feet have turned black, and Aryn’s got the red fever, so we might not see him again.”
Catherine turned to Davyon. “The red fever?”
Davyon grimaced. “It’s a sickness. The doctors are doing what they can.”
Catherine thanked the men for their honesty and set off again. When they were out of earshot of the soldiers, she hissed at Davyon.
“Men dying of fever? General, this isn’t what I expected from you. How many are sick?”
Davyon rarely showed emotion and his voice now was more tired than angry. “One man in ten is showing some signs. I didn’t want to trouble you with it.”
Catherine almost swore. “These are my men, my sol-diers. I want to know how they are. You should have informed me. You should have moved the camp. Do it today, General. We can’t assume the rains won’t return. And even if they don’t, this place is already a wasteland of flies and filth.”
Davyon bowed. “As soon as you’re safely back in the royal compound, I will begin the process—”
“You’ll begin the process now. I’ve got ten guards with me, Davyon; I don’t need you too. And it seems to me I’m more likely to die of drowning or fever than an assassin’s arrow.”