‘It was clan raiders?’ Tarasis lay in the foothills.
‘They pay raiders.’
‘They rode through the mountains?’
‘What does your master care for—this?’
‘He is trying to stop the man who attacked Tarasis.’
‘Is that what he told you? He’s lying. He’s Veretian. He will—use you for his own ends—as he uses you now, against your own people.’
The words were growing more laboured. Damen’s eyes passed over the haggard face, the sweat-drenched curls. He spoke in a different voice.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Naos.’
‘Naos, you fought under Makedon?’ For Naos wore the notched belt. ‘He used to buck even at the edicts of Theomedes. But he was always loyal to his people. He must have felt them badly wronged to break Kastor’s treaty.’
‘Kastor,’ said Naos, ‘the false king. Damianos—should have been our leader. He was the prince-killer. He understood what Veretians are. Liars. Deceivers. He would never have—climbed into their—beds as Kastor has done.’
‘You’re right,’ said Damen, after a long moment. ‘Well, Naos. Vere is rousing its troops. There is very little to stop the war you want.’
‘Let them come—Veretian cowards hide in their forts—afraid of an honest fight—let them step outside—and we will cut them down—as they deserve.’
Damen said nothing, he just thought of an unprotected village now turned to stillness and silence outside. He stayed by Naos until the rattle was quiet. Then he rose and went out of the hut, through the village, and back to the Veretian camp.
CHAPTER 12
Damen gave the story of Naos a stark, unadorned retelling. When it was finished Laurent said in an inflectionless voice, ‘The word of a dead Akielon, unfortunately, is worth nothing.’
‘You knew before you sent me in to question him that his answers would lead to the foothills. These attacks were timed to coincide with your arrival. You are being drawn away from Ravenel.’
Laurent gave Damen a long, pensive look and said, eventually, ‘Yes, the trap is closing and there is nothing else to be done.’
Outside Laurent’s tent, the grim clean up continued. On his way to saddle the horses, Damen came across Aimeric, dragging tent canvas that was slightly too heavy for him. Damen looked at Aimeric’s tired face and his dust-covered clothes. He was a long way from the luxuries of his birth. Damen wondered for the first time what it felt like to Aimeric to ally himself against his own father.
‘You’re leaving camp?’ said Aimeric, looking at the packs Damen held. ‘Where are you going?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ said Damen, ‘if I told you.’
* * *
It was a case where numbers were not helpful, only speed, stealth and knowledge of the territory. If you were going to spy for evidence of a strike force in the hills, you did not want the sound of pounding hooves and the flash of burnished helmets announcing your intentions.
The last time that Laurent had chosen to separate himself from the troop, Damen had argued against it. The easiest way for your uncle to get rid of you is to separate you from your men, and you know it, he’d said at Nesson. This time Damen didn’t put any of his arguments, though the ride Laurent was proposing this time was through one of the most heavily garrisoned regions on the border.
The route they would travel would take them a day’s ride south, then into the hills. They would seek out any obvious evidence of an encampment. Failing that, they would attempt to rendezvous with the local clans. They had two days.
An hour put several miles between them and the rest of Laurent’s men, and that was when Laurent pulled on a rein and circled his horse around Damen’s briefly; he was watching Damen as though he was waiting for something.
‘Think I’m going to sell you to the nearest Akielon troop?’ said Damen.
Laurent said, ‘I’m quite a good rider.’
Damen looked at the distance that separated his horse from Laurent’s—about three lengths. It was not much of a head start. They were now circling each other.
He was ready for the moment when Laurent put his heels into his horse. The ground flashed by and an interval passed breathlessly with some very fast riding.