The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,172

Pike, Tunny, Teufel and Hoff, stay. The rest of you out.” He would not have minded ejecting a couple of those named, but he supposed he needed all the help he could get. “Gorst, make sure we are not disturbed.”

“Buth—” muttered Hildi around a cord she was gripping in her teeth while she tried to tie two others together.

“You, too. Out!”

Hildi shrugged, let go of the ropes, and with a gentle flutter one wall of the tent billowed out and slowly collapsed to the ground. A fitting metaphor for Orso’s campaign so far, he rather thought. He spoke through gritted teeth.

“Let us take one thing at a time. Your Eminence, is there any sign of the rebels?”

“No reliable sightings so far, Your Majesty,” said Pike, “but we have eyes on every beach, bay and wharf. If Lord Heugen told us the truth, we expect them to land tomorrow.”

“Any trouble from the Breakers? Move now and they catch us with our trousers well and truly down.”

Pike glanced over at Vick, standing with arms tightly folded. She shook her head. “All quiet, Your Majesty,” said Pike. “We struck them a blow at Valbeck from which they have yet to recover.”

“I wish I believed it,” said Orso, “but I have a feeling that blow only made them angrier. What about our own forces, Forest?”

“We have about nine thousand, including the resurrected Crown Prince’s Division.”

“An excellent decision to raise troops in secret, Your Majesty,” broke in Hoff. “It may have saved the Union!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Orso.

“There will be members of the Open Council who have stayed loyal, I’m sure of it! I have sent letters demanding their support.”

“I doubt they’ll be falling over each other to help.”

“I may have implied that the rebels’ estates would be redistributed to loyalists…”

Orso raised his brows. “Maybe they’ll fall over each other after all.”

“The King’s Own are converging from all across Midderland.” Forest retrieved one of the maps and spread it out upon the righted table. “We should link up with two regiments of foot tomorrow. Then Lord Marshal Rucksted is bringing four of horse from Keln, but there’s no saying whether they’ll reach us in time.”

“That cavalry could make all the difference…”

“We need to prepare, Your Majesty,” said Hoff. “Tread carefully. Play for time. Gather all the troops we can.”

“But the best moment to strike would be soonest,” growled Forest, tracing the wiggly line that was Midderland’s north coast with a thick fingertip. “Before they get a foothold. Best we can tell, they’ll be picking up allies of their own.”

“So we need to delay,” said Tunny, “but also move at once.”

There was a pause while they all considered that. Orso snorted. “Anything else?”

“The erstwhile Lord Marshal Brint,” said Pike in an emotionless drone. “He refuses to corporate.”

Orso shook his head. “It’s always the last one you expect. I thought the man was a rock! Imaginative as a rock, but reliable as one, too. He and my father were old friends.”

“Nonetheless, he is a traitor. It might be useful to demonstrate our resolve—”

“I bloody hate hangings,” snapped Orso. “Maybe we should demonstrate mercy for once.”

“He has been passing secrets to your enemies for months—”

“Then he should carry on,” said Vick.

Orso frowned at her. “He’s under lock and key in the House of Questions. Isn’t he?”

“Awaiting the king’s justice,” grated out Pike.

Vick shrugged. “Brock doesn’t know that. I could take him a message.”

“A message saying what?” asked Hoff.

“Saying the Closed Council have turned against each other. Saying the King’s Own are scattered and distracted and there’ll be no opposition. Saying His Majesty has fled for Gurkhul with only his standard bearer for company.”

“His standard bearer’s got better sense,” muttered Tunny.

“Saying whatever you please.”

Orso considered that idea, and a rare smile began to spread across his face. “You know, Inquisitor, I’m beginning to like you a great deal.”

Forest cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, if that’s all, we really should…” And he nodded towards the theoretical entrance to the tent, where Gorst was holding back a sweaty, panicky, impatient crush of messengers.

Orso sighed. “Very well. Open the floodgates.”

As the boat’s keel ground against gravel, Leo leaped into the surf. Sloshing through a few dozen strides of icy water probably wasn’t the best thing for his leg, but he was burning to be first ashore. He’d been kept a prisoner behind a desk far too long, caged in ballrooms and council chambers, chained by manners and rules. Now was the time for action. And what was the point