The Gathering Storm
Page 43

“Yes, my lord prince.”
“I want to go see the palace tomorrow with you, Papa!”
“No. You’ll stay with the army.”
“I don’t want to stay! I want to go!” The girl grabbed the railing ready to fling herself over the side and swim for shore.
“No.”
The confinement of a sea voyage had not improved Sanglant’s temper, nor had a day cooling his heels in the harbor made him patient. When he grabbed his daughter’s arm, the girl whimpered.
“I will.” Her mouth quivered, but her gaze remained defiant.
“You will not.” The prince turned to Anna. “You’ll go, Anna, to set up camp for your mistress. And take—” his gaze flicked to Matto and Thiemo, pushed to the back during the day’s negotiations. “Lord Thiemo, you’ll go as well.”
“I want to go!” Blessing tried to wriggle out of her father’s unforgiving grasp.
“If you give me any trouble tonight, Blessing,” her father added softly, “you won’t even be allowed off this ship tomorrow when the troops disembark. You’ll stay here locked in the cabin until we leave this port. Is that understood?”
Fighting back tears, she nodded but did not resist when Sanglant thrust her into Matto’s care. Yet Matto’s furious expression could have wilted flowers as he watched Anna. She felt his gaze like the prick of an arrow on her back as she descended the gangplank. Although she stood on solid earth, the ground still moved and it was difficult to keep her feet under her. With Matto and Blessing both so angry, she dared not look back as they marched away. The unsteady ground made her a little nauseated, and the flap of canvas from the rolled-up tent she was carrying that got loose from the ropes and flipped over her eyes only made the dizziness worse. She staggered as they ascended a broad avenue through the town. With the canvas obscuring her vision she could only see her feet, garbage, and an occasional pile of dog shit. The town stank in a way the ship had not; there wasn’t enough wind to chase out the smell. Voices rang all around her—the streets were crowded—but she heard not a single recognizable word.
How had she ever come so far from Gent? What if she died here in this land of barbarians and foreigners? Was this God’s punishment upon her for her sins? Tears welled in her eyes, but she bit her lip hard until the pain calmed her down. Crying never did any good.
Yet it seemed a long and lonely walk out to the fort. Sunset washed the land with pale gold when she finally negotiated a narrow plank bridge over a steep-sided ditch, a yawning abyss that made her tremble, and found herself in the fort. She allowed the rolled-up canvas to slide down onto the ground. Her shoulders ached, but at least the ground had stopped swaying. It was good to be back on dirt.
As she stretched the knots out of her shoulders, she examined the empty fort. A wall built of stamped clay surrounded the interior buildings, which resembled a bee’s hive, a series of cell-like rooms built haphazardly in sprawling units. A number of soldiers wandered out to explore. She followed them.
“Those infidels lived like pigs,” observed Lewenhardt as he retreated from yet another chamber filled with mounds of rubbish and dried excrement.
“Or else they kept their animals stabled here,” said Den.
“Don’t look like cow shit to me,” said Surly.
“What do you think, Brother Zacharias?” asked Chustaffus. “Do infidel kings stable their soldiers like beasts? Is there no hall for the men to eat together with their lord?”
Zacharias shaded a hand against the sun. “I don’t know the customs of the Jinna, but I see no hall, only these small rooms.”
“This one is empty!” shouted Lewenhardt, who had gone on to the next. The majority of the little chambers lay empty, each one just big enough to sleep four men, but no more than that, more like stone tents than proper barracks.
“Enough of that!” called Sergeant Cobbo. “Get to work. We’ll need tents set up, and you lot haul whatever you can find over to that gate to build a barrier.”
Anna was helping Den post rope lines to keep horses from straying into the tented area when the last of the advance force arrived: a dozen horsemen who had to dismount by the gate in order to lead their horses across the plank bridge over the pit. It wasn’t precisely a true gate. The old gates had long since fallen down and, evidently, been carted away, and only the deep ditch protected the entrance, although a fair bit of debris—posts, planks, discarded wheels—had been dragged over to form a makeshift wall on the inner side of the pit.