Page 42 of Fate of the Argosi

‘Which one’s that?’ Arissa asked. Unlike the rest of us, she didn’t seem concerned one bit about the marshal or his guards. I was going to have to keep an eye on her; she’s got a nasty habit of provoking people in authority.

‘Arta tuco is how the Argosi refer to military tactics,’ Colfax replied.

Durral Brown wouldnothave liked the sound of that. ‘We prefer to think of it as subtlety,’ I said, a touch indignantly. My eyes caught those of Ala’tris. I needed her to make sure her people understood what was really happening here. ‘Marshal, you have no intention of killing those mages or even imprisoning them. You just want them to know that their spells won’t protect them here. But if something unexpected happens, say, if I make a move you haven’t planned for, all hells could break loose. Those fire lancers of yours? I’ll bet you’ve trained them to shoot the instant they see an ember or iron band flare. Which makes this one of those rare occasions when you really do want your enemy to know you’ve got snipers ready to fire.’

Arissa lifted her chin from my shoulder and pointed at Colfax, her finger dangerously close to his whiskers. ‘Then why didn’t Lord Marshal Grumpy Face here just show off his oh-so-scary snipers in the first place?’

Quit pushing him, girl, I thought, but didn’t bother trying to convey that message to Arissa, since it would only encourage her to be even more belligerent. She badly wanted to give Colfax a metaphorical slap for bullying us into submission. Since I couldn’t trust her to do that without setting off a firestorm, I had to do so on her behalf. ‘Pride,’ I replied. ‘The marshal didn’t want some eighteen-year-old Argosi knowing she made him nervous.’

The twelve runaways, who the guards were, with friendly politeness, keeping away from Arissa, the Jan’Tep and me, stared back and forth between me and the marshal, seemingly expecting one of us to lose our temper.

Colfax only chuckled though – not that there was any mirth in it. ‘Guess we know a little more about each other than either of us would prefer.’

I shot him Durral Brown’s most annoying, mostArgosismile – the one that’s perfectly friendly yet rises just high enough on the left side of the mouth to express a little good-natured mockery. ‘Speak for yourself, Lucallo. We Argosi love nothing better than wandering the wide world and learning from everyone we meet.’

That soured him good and proper. ‘You ever wonder why some of those folks you’re so fond of meeting dislike the Argosi so much?’

‘Is it because they all cheat at cards?’ Arissa asked excitedly. ‘Please, Rat Girl, tell me you at least cheat at cards a little. This goody-goody act of yours is starting to depress me.’

Neither Colfax nor I laughed. Our eyes were locked like the antlers of two stags. I let my smile drop and offered the marshal a good, clear look at who I was underneath the frontier drawl and sunny disposition that so irritated him. Without breaking our gaze, I pointed to the trees ahead of us, lush with deep foliage. ‘You didn’t stop us here by accident. I reckon past this last stretch of orchard we’re going to arrive at your fortress. Big place, right? High walls. Lots of guards armed with lots of weapons. By now, whoever you sent ahead has informed the Mahdek elders of our presence. They’re in some finely appointed chamber waiting to hear why a coven of Jan’Tep mages rescued their runaways and risked their own lives to gain an audience.’

‘Your maetri ever teach you it’s better to be wise and silent than blurt out every thought you ever have just to sound clever?’

Nowthatmade me laugh. ‘My maetri taught me to love the sound of my own voice, especially when I was using it to remind pompous bullies that their schemes aren’t nearly so cunning as they like to believe. That’s why I’d be powerful grateful if you could confirm for me that my estimation that where we’re standing is about two hundred yards from your fortress is correct, and that, counting the time it’ll take us to go inside, walk up a couple of sets of stairs and down a hallway or two, we’re about fifteen minutes from where you’re taking us?’

Had to give the ex-marshal credit: he was the very picture of unflappability. ‘Fifteen minutes sounds about right.’

I took a step closer to him, noticed in my periphery the swivelling of a dozen fire lances in my direction. I couldn’t hear Arissa snapping the extensible steel rod she’d stolen from me again to its full length, but I didn’t doubt she’d done so. Colfax had to be near sixty, tall and rangy rather than imposing. Still, from that close I had to crane my neck to look him in the eye. ‘That gives you sixteen minutes to untie those copper wires from my friends before you find outexactlywhy some folks dislike the Argosi so much.’

25

The Greeting Hall

Seventeen minutes.

I couldn’t be absolutely certain that exactly seventeen minutes had passed before Colfax finally ordered his guards to release Ala’tris and her coven from those copper-wire bindings, because I wasn’t carrying a pocket watch. Durral never was big on that particular Gitabrian invention.‘Time is the leash that yanks us all by the neck towards death,’he always says.

When I’d pointed out that sometimes it’s helpful to know what time it is, he’d gesture absently to the grandfather clock that Enna insisted on keeping in the entry hall of their cottage just to annoy him.‘Prove it,’he’d demand petulantly.

So I’d tell him it was two o’clock or seven minutes after midnight or whatever it was. He’d stab a finger at me and shout, ‘Hah! Wrong, kid!’ Then he’d find a bottle of something suitably unhealthy and say,‘It’s whisky time, that’s what time it is!’

Enna, thankfully for my sanity, would later explain that Durral’s point was that perpetually measuring time grants it sovereignty over our minds.‘Every hour, every minute, becomes something precious, to be hoarded all to ourselves or risk being stolen from us by others.’

Funny thing was, both Enna and Durral could tell you exactly what time it was with near-perfect accuracy without ever consulting a clock or pocket watch. She was right though: those who obsessed over their time often became equally determined to control that of others. That’s how I knew that Lucallo Colfax, who did indeed own a pocket watch and consulted it often, had kept track of how long it took us to arrive in the greeting hall of the massive country palace he’d turned into a fortress, and then made us wait exactly one minute longer before freeing the Jan’Tep.

‘You know,’ Arissa said, surreptitiously sliding another pocket watch – this one pilfered from one of Colfax’s young handsome guards during some rather shameless flirtation – into the pocket of my waistcoat, ‘I’m starting to think you and that marshal might be related, Rat Girl.’

By my count, the watch was the third item she’d pickpocketed during those seventeen minutes. I would’ve minded less were she not prone to hiding the evidence on me. ‘Those smoking reeds of yours addlin’ your wits, girl? He’s Daroman and I’m Mahdek. Besides, we don’t look a thing alike.’

She got serious a moment, which is rare for Arissa. ‘Neither of you is DaromanorMahdek. You’re both lawmen. Only difference is the set of rules you’re trying to enforce on everyone else. Besides, right here?’ Her fingertip traced the line of my jaw, which I’ll admit was clenched, then tapped my chin, which, sure,mighthave been jutting forward just a touch. ‘Spitting image of the marshal, if you ask me.’

I never got the chance to respond – or even reclaim the miniature brass spyglass she’d filched from another of my pockets while distracting me with that nonsense – because at that moment a gong sounded. That’s when I met the revered leaders of my people for the first time.

Whatever architect had designed the fortress greeting hall must’ve been inspired by a soldier’s fever dream of heaven. The vaulted alabaster expanse must’ve been a good seventy feet long and twenty-five feet wide. The floor was like an ocean of polished oak, interrupted here and there by islands of circular mosaics depicting Daroman military triumphs. Stern-faced generals with perfect hair, their cloaks billowing in an unseen wind, led small battalions of wounded yet strangely placid troops to victory against snarling enemy hordes. Lone cavalry officers atop defiant steeds charged jeering villains mounted on tigers, wolves and even dragons. For a nation that derides religion as weak-minded superstition, the Daroman nobility sure do love to mythologise their own past.

A hall like this one would typically end with a throne set on a dais where a chamberlain would grant audience to visiting aristocrats or foreign dignitaries while his lord gazed down from the gilded-oak balcony above. The throne of Colfax’s hall was long gone though; the gold fittings removed from the balcony railings. No doubt the dour ex-marshal had sold off such ostentatious furnishings shortly after being gifted the estate.

The dais remained though, as did a narrow gold-trimmed velvet carpet leading to it from the entrance. By custom, those seeking an audience were to remove their shoes by the arched double doors before approaching, their weapons stowed in the ornately carved mahogany racks overseen by stewards known ascustodir gladia.

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