“That was me,” said Don. “But Blade asked, too. Anyone would. It was pretty queer.”
“You’re right,” said Derk. “It was pretty queer. Scales came and told me about it, and then we flew out to ask them some questions. Then we had to go back and send Elda and Callette to Mara. It’s been a busy night. Why isn’t Barnabas here? I thought he was supposed to be helping you.”
“We didn’t really tell him you were ill,” Shona confessed.
Blade simply stood there, grinning increasingly widely as he realized that Scales could not have eaten those dwarfs after all, not with Dad there. Derk looked at him, wondering why he was so quiet. “What happened to the dwarfs in the end?” Blade asked, to make absolutely sure.
Derk laughed. “We gave them a change of destination—Scales’s idea—and sent them to Derkholm. We told them, quite truthfully, that it’s the Dark Lord’s Citadel. They were quite pleased because it wasn’t nearly so far to go.” This more or less set Blade’s mind at rest, although he felt slightly dubious when Derk turned to Scales and said, “I suppose you’ll want to be off looking for the rest of the dwarfs with tribute now?”
“I shall help you get these murderers into their barracks first,” Scales replied. “I can’t see how you would get them there without a dragon to drive them.”
“I expect I’d have thought of something,” Derk said comfortably. “But I would be very grateful for your help.”
They got ready to march, accompanied now by the whole flock of geese and with the owls riding on the bundles piled on the spare horses. Shona willingly gave up riding Beauty. Beauty and Pretty were so pleased to see Derk again that they nuzzled around Derk and became quite a hindrance to him. “You wouldn’t be half so pleased if you knew my plans for you,” Derk told Pretty, rubbing Pretty’s forelock. “Your wings have grown, haven’t they?”
The trouble was that the new arrivals had left them one horse short and with three empty hampers to carry. Derk thought briefly and then told Blade to pack all the leftover bundles into the hampers and translocate to the next camp with them. It was one of those neat solutions Dad was so good at, Blade thought, ramming things into creaking wickerwork. And he was going to have a very boring day because of it, waiting about in the next camp for the rest of them to arrive.
On the other hand, he thought, as Scales thrust his great snout under the magic dome and drove the soldiers forth with his usual roar of “MARCH, SCUM!” it would be good to get away from those soldiers. As they came streaming out of the dome, Blade could feel them hating and fearing his father in a way that was beyond even the way they hated Kit. They were stark terrified of Scales, and a wizard who so cheerfully rode on Scales’s back they assumed to be even more horrifying than Scales himself. It was not pleasant to feel all those minds directing hate at Derk.
Blade laid himself facedown across the three hampers. Translocation might be the thing he was really good at, but he had to be touching everything he wanted to move. And as Kit had discovered by experimenting a year ago, if the thing Blade was touching was made of iron, then Blade could not move it or himself either. Blade was glad Kit had found this out. There were two spades among the bundles. Blade had made sure they were well wrapped up, right inside everything else, before he lay on the hampers.
He whisked himself onward and away. Scales’s roaring, Kit’s yells, and the sound of dogs, cows, and tramping feet stopped as if Blade had quite suddenly gone deaf. The sound that replaced them was that of water rushing a little way off. Blade looked up.
To his surprise, this was obviously the permanent barracks. It stood above him on top of a gray, shaly hill, a very much bigger misty dome than the ones he had so far seen. Below the hill, a wide gray river rushed in a shallow slaty bed. There were fir trees growing up the hillside beyond the river, and behind these Blade could see the mountains, still not very near. For a moment he wondered if he had made a mistake in translocating. But when he looked into that part of his mind that did magical things, he knew this was indeed the next camp on the line of march. So it had to be right. Well, Kit had the map, not Blade. Blade had not attended much to how far they had gone. He got off the hampers and went down to the river, where he stood for a while chucking stones into it with loud watery clunks and trying to work out how he felt now that Dad seemed to be in charge again.
In a way it was a great relief. Blade did not need to feel rushed and worried anymore. There was no need any longer to keep thinking of all the things that might go wrong. Derk could do that now. But Blade did not feel as carefree as he expected. The loose, easy feeling he had as he stood there throwing stones struck him as rather babyish. And Dad had made him feel even more babyish by ordering him off here with those hampers. Blade hated being pushed around. He found he wanted to think of things for himself, then do them. He wondered if Kit felt the same. Kit had been really subdued when they saw Derk coming.
Blade strolled back to the hampers with the flat river stones clacking under his feet. Then, because he could see a wide opening in the magic dome, he went crunching up the hill to the barracks. It was always a funny feeling inside the bubble of mist, warm and windless and cut off, and Blade found the place rather depressing with its rows of raw wooden huts, all empty. But there must be someone here. There was a horse tied to a railing outside the big hut in the distance, and Blade could hear another, irritably shifting its hooves somewhere at the back of things. One of the horses must belong to Barnabas.
Blade crunched over to the big hut—where the horse gave him a glum look—and put his head in through the open door. It was raw new mess in there. The place was clearly meant to be the cookhouse and eating hall, but the huge stove had its iron chimney leaning against it, not yet connected to the hole in the ceiling, and the tables and chairs were stacked like timber at one end of the room. In between, there were numbers of big packing cases, which Blade supposed must be full of cups, plates, or even food. The owner of the horse was sitting on one of these big wooden boxes eating breakfast, or possibly lunch, from a silk handkerchief spread on the knees of his green velvet trousers. He was a tall dark man, beautifully groomed, and a total stranger to Blade.
“Who are you?” Blade blurted.
The man looked up. “I return you the same question,” he said, in a calm, unfriendly way.
“I’m Derk’s son, Blade,” Blade told him.
“Conrad the Bard,” replied the man. “Does your presence mean that the Dark Lord has arrived?”
“They’ll be here this evening. And,” Blade told him, “you don’t want to be inside here when the soldiers come in. They’d kill you.”
“I am aware of that. My business is not with them,” Conrad said coldly. “What are you doing here yourself?”
“I’m looking for Wizard Barnabas,” Blade explained.
Conrad shrugged. “I know no such person. There’s a drunk in a hut at the back who might know. He seems to have been here for some time.”
“I’ll ask him then,” said Blade.
He turned to leave. The bard called after him, “This camp is in the wrong place. Did you know? It’s miles too far south. I had trouble finding it.”
“Nothing to do with me,” Blade answered. But that did explain why he had been so puzzled, he supposed. He crunched around to the back of the cooking hall.
The horse standing tied outside one of the row of small huts there looked utterly miserable. The hut was obviously meant to be a latrine, but when Blade opened its door, there was no hole dug in its floor or any other provision. Barnabas was lying snoring inside a sleeping bag on the ground. There was a barrel beside him which, when Blade rocked it, seemed to be empty. The inside of the small hut smelled like a brewery.
“Pooh!” Blade nudged Barnabas with his toe. It was almost a kick really. He had to do it several times more before Barnabas rolled over, sat up, and gazed vaguely at Blade. Barnabas’s curls and his beard looked wet. His eyes were red. His normal genial expression had turned into a senseless grin.
“Barnabas!” said Blade. “You’ve got to get up. The soldiers are coming, and this place isn’t more than half finished.”
“Buildings are up,” Barnabas replied cheerily. “Soldiers can do the rest.” He lay down, rolled over, and went to sleep again.
Cold water’s supposed to do it, Blade thought. But he doubted if there was any water nearer than the river. Still, there was one thing Blade was good at besides translocation. It was easier, too. He concentrated. Shortly Barnabas began to shiver in his sleep.
“Hey! Stop that!” he muttered.
Blade concentrated some more.
Barnabas abruptly rolled over and stared at Blade with his teeth chattering. His face was bluish, but this time his bloodshot eyes were looking properly into Blade’s.
“Barnabas,” Blade said, “how long has your horse been standing outside this hut?”
“Oh, ye gods!” said Barnabas. “Is the army here already? Tell your father—be a nice lad and explain to him, Blade!—I don’t normally binge like this when I’m working. The pressure just all got too much this time!”
“Dad won’t be here till this evening,” Blade told him. “You’ve got about six hours to get the camp finished in. You’d better get up and get going.”
“I had, hadn’t I?” Barnabas agreed readily. “If you’d stop freezing me to death, young Blade, I’ll get up and attend to everything. I promise.”
Blade did not believe him. It seemed hard not to trust a friend of Dad’s who had been like an uncle to you all your life, but Blade remembered that Barnabas had given them no help at all with the soldiers, even when he knew Derk was not with them, and he said sternly, “I’ll stop when you’re standing up.”
“Cruel brat!” Barnabas groaned, and scrambled out of the bag, shaking and shivering, and got to his feet by climbing up the splintery wall. “That suit you?”
“Walk outside,” said Blade.
Barnabas swayed and got himself through the doorway by pulling on the sides of it with both hands. He leaned against the outside of the hut, moaning. “You don’t understand, Blade. If you only knew how hard Mr. Chesney makes us work, you’d have some sympathy for—”
“I do know,” said Blade, “by now.” He took some of the coldness off, but not all of it. A sort of half chill might help Barnabas to get sober, he hoped. “There are no beds in the sleeping huts and no holes in these latrines,” he said, “and the cookhouse is only half finished. I’ll come and help you in a minute.” He untied the unfortunate horse and led it away toward the river. As he went, he realized that he was feeling rushed and worried again. He was so used to the feeling and so used by now to thinking of more things that could go wrong that he hardly checked in his stride when he came crunching out of the dome and saw a group of cloaked and plumed young warriors waiting beside the three hampers. Wow! he thought. They look smart! And crunched on toward the river with the horse.
“The Emperor of the South to speak with the Wizard Derk!” one of the warriors called out as soon as Blade was near enough.
First things first, Blade thought. Barnabas’s horse was half dead with thirst. Blade took it to the river and saw it start drinking before he turned and said, quite politely, “I’m afraid my father won’t get here until this evening.” By that time the warriors had unfurled the banner of the empire. It flapped on a pole beside the hampers, huge and official and purple and white. Blade thought, Wow! again, as he went toward the hampers. “Excuse me,” he said as politely as he could. “I need to get at a nose bag. The horse is starving. And do any of you happen to have any coffee? The wizard who’s supposed to be building this camp has gone and got drunk.”
They stared at him, nonplussed, but they moved aside from the hampers a little, shiny boots crunching in the shale. Golden breastplates flashed at the corner of Blade’s eye as he hauled out a nose bag. Since nobody seemed to be saying anything, Blade said nothing either. He took the nose bag back to the horse, dragged it out of the river before it drank too much, and hitched it into the nose bag. When it had settled down to eat, he turned around.
The youngest of the warriors, the one wrapped in the large purple cloak, was standing only a yard or so away. Blade and he looked at one another. Shona’s age, Blade thought. He looks rather nice.
“I—er—sent a runner for coffee,” said the warrior.
“Thank you,” Blade said, with true gratitude.
“Not a problem,” said the teenage warrior. “Our encampment’s only a mile away. Much too near really. Your drunk wizard seems to have put yours in the wrong place.”
“I thought something was wrong. It’s a bit late to move it now,” Blade said anxiously.
“I realize,” said the warrior. “But it makes it easier to confer about the battle plans. I don’t want your father to hit my legions too hard. They’re nearly all new men. Most of the veterans got killed in last year’s tours. I’m Titus—Emperor, you know.”
“I’m Blade,” said Blade, and was surprised to find himself shaking hands warmly with the Emperor of the South.
“I liked the way you saw to the horse first,” Titus told him.
“Barnabas must have had it tied up to that hut for days!” Blade said angrily. “I very nearly kicked him. I even sort of did. But he was so drunk he didn’t feel it.”
“I’m not sure I’d dare kick a wizard, even a drunk one,” said the Emperor.
“After this last week or so,” Blade answered, “I didn’t even think about it.” He and the Emperor went and sat on the hampers, while Blade described how the soldiers tried to escape and how Scales arrived in time to stop them (or most of them). The other warriors, after a nod from Titus, sat stiffly on the shale around them. They had had a difficult time, too, Titus said. The Imperial Legions had lost their way and spent most of two days in a marsh.
“And those marsh folk just stood around and laughed!” Titus was saying. “I thought they were supposed to be on our side, but—Oh, you have company.”
Blade looked around to find a small party of horsemen splashing across the river toward them. The tall, gloomy one in front he recognized from the time he and Dad had consulted the White Oracle. King Luther. Definitely. He got up. Everyone around him sprang up, too.
King Luther swung himself down from his tall, gloomy black horse and crunched over the stones toward them. “I wondered if I’d find you here, Titus,” he said genially. He and the Emperor bowed to one another like friends, but like kings with kingdoms, too, Blade saw, watching with interest. Then King Luther turned to him. “And don’t even think of putting the shivers on me this time, boy.” Blade saw Titus swallowing a laugh at this. “Where’s your father?” asked the king. “What’s he thinking of, putting this camp in the wrong place? My army’s not going to have time to get home between battles from here.”
“I’m afraid Barnabas got drunk and probably made a mistake,” Blade explained.
“Then what’s Derk doing trusting that drunk—?” King Luther began.
“Ah, here comes the coffee,” Titus interrupted.
It was in gilded picnic baskets slung on the sides of a horse and followed by a stately majordomo on another horse. There was a whole feast in there, Blade saw, when the majordomo grandly flipped the basket lids up.
“I suggest we all have some lunch,” Titus said graciously.
Blade took a gilded and steaming flask of coffee up to the camp first, where he found Barnabas shakily slogging away at conjuring bunks into the barrack sheds. “I shall have to give up drinking,” he told Blade dismally. “I’ve got the shivers really badly this time. Can’t seem to get warm. Is that coffee? Oh, good!”
Blade took pity on him and reduced the chill spell by half again. But he took care to fetch a chair out from the cookhouse into the open parade ground and make Barnabas sit on it before he handed him the coffee flask. He did not want Barnabas going to sleep again.
Barnabas took the flask and swigged eagerly. He puffed and wiped his mouth and swigged again. “That’s bette
r! There’s still a lot to do. And you’re not helping.”
“I know,” said Blade. “King Luther and Emperor Titus turned up.”
“Oh. Then I let you off,” said Barnabas. “Now leave them to be royal at one another or we’ll never get those latrines dug out.”
Blade was struck by an idea. “In a short while. I’ll see to the digging for you. You finish the beds and get the cookhouse straight.”
“There’s some toffee-nosed bard gone and parked himself inside there,” Barnabas complained. “What’s he supposed to be up to?”
“I haven’t a clue. Turn him out,” Blade said, and sped away out of the camp again.
Down near the river everyone was having a picnic, despite a few spits of rain falling. The majordomo bowed to Blade and handed him a gilded wooden plate heaped with smoked salmon, corn bread, and olives. “Thanks,” said Blade, at which the man looked startled, as if you were not supposed to thank him. Too bad. Blade took his plate to the hamper where the Emperor was sitting. “I say, can you spare a few legionaries to dig us some latrines?”
Titus grinned. “I don’t see why not. They’ve been doing it every day for a fortnight now. They should be rather good at it. And they’re only sitting about at the moment.” He said a word to one of his warriors, who commandeered the majordomo’s horse and rode off at a canter.
King Luther laughed so much at Blade’s idea that he nearly choked. Meanwhile Barnabas must have started work on the cookhouse. Conrad the Bard stalked loftily out of the dome and stood on the hill above them with his arms folded, looking considerably more kingly than the monarchs having lunch. Blade was wondering again why the man was here when Titus nudged him.
“More company for you. Here’s High Priest Umru now.”
Umru was coming along beside the river on an extremely sturdy white horse, which he was sitting on as if the horse were a bench, with his legs dangling off one side. With him rode numbers of other priests in variously colored robes. “Good day,” Umru called, and raised his hands in blessing. This seemed to be the priestly version of a bow. At any rate, Titus and Luther and their followers all bowed back, at which most of the other priests made blessing signs, too. Everyone bowed again. Umru beckoned Blade with a chubby finger. “A word with you, my boy.”