Стивен Дональдсон - The Mirror of Her Dreams

The smile with which he regarded her would have curdled milk. Still addressing Geraden, he asked, “Do you know what I’m going to have to do now?”

“Yes, Castellan.” The Apt sighed as though he anticipated more abuse. “You’re going to have to face this whole siege with only the spring for water.”

“That’s right. We’ve doubled our population. That spring doesn’t give a tenth of what we need. We’re going to have to ration water severely. I’m going to have to put pregnant women and tired old men and children on rations that will make them ache with thirst. Because you thought it would be fun to be a hero for a change. And that’s not all.”

“No, it’s not.”

Regardless of what Geraden felt, he faced Lebbick without flinching. The Castellan liked that. Not so long ago, the Apt would have flinched.

“You’re also going to have to flush out the reservoir and all the pipes. If you don’t do it – and do it soon – people who get thirstier than they can stand are going to start sneaking drinks. If they’re weak enough, they’ll die.

“Flushing everything will use water, too. You won’t have much left to ration.”

The Castellan nodded. No matter how stupidly he behaved, the Apt wasn’t stupid. In fact, considering his obvious intelligence, it was amazing how consistently he managed to go wrong.

“Are you sure she poisoned the water?”

Geraden frowned. “Do you mean, am I sure she knew what she was doing? No. And I haven’t tested it. But whatever was in those sacks was a powder, and it was green. I only know one kind of green powder. It’s a tinct the Masters use. They call it ‘ortical’ – it was first mixed by an Imager named Ortic. There must be a hundredweight of it stored in the laborium.” He didn’t look away. “That stuff will make you sick if you just get too much of it on your hands.”

“Is there a counteragent?”

“Who knows? Imagers don’t eat tinct. And they don’t spend their time trying to cure people who do.”

“If I ask your Master Barsonage, will he be able to tell me if any ortical is missing?”

“No. Nobody supervises the Masters when they’re working. Quite a few of them still like to keep the ingredients they use secret. But one of the younger Apts might have noticed a sudden drop in the amount of ortical on the shelves.”

Again, the Castellan nodded. Without warning, he addressed Terisa for the first time. “How did you know what the lady Elega was going to do?”

In a small voice, she replied, “I guessed.”

“You guessed ?”

“I put together some things she said.” She became stronger as she spoke. “They weren’t even enough to be called hints. I put them together and just guessed.”

“My lady,” Castellan Lebbick announced in a contented tone, “I don’t believe that.” Then he dismissed her and Geraden.

He didn’t need to plan what had to be done. It was already clear to him, step by step. He was the Castellan of Orison; he knew how to serve his King. In the end, it made no difference what the odds were against him. How badly Orison was damaged. How much he was outmanned. How far King Joyse failed. Castellan Lebbick had made himself more like a sword than a man – and a sword knew nothing about surrender.

In the meantime, he had something to look forward to. That woman’s turn was coming.

***

Geraden took her back to the peacock suite, then went to his own rooms to try to get some sleep. But neither of them slept much.

No one in Orison slept much.

Of course, many of the castle’s inhabitants were awake because they were too tense to sleep. A large number of people didn’t have that problem, however. They were guards who were either too experienced or too tired to stay awake; parents whose over-excited children had worn them out; merchants who knew that their own survival – and even their profits – would probably be more rather than less valuable after the siege, regardless of who won. They were servants who were so badly overworked that they couldn’t afford sleeplessness; Masters who lacked imagination; lords who didn’t understand and ladies who were philosophical.

These people didn’t get much sleep because Castellan Lebbick and his men woke them up.

Despite his quickness, the Castellan was too late to save two old men who were accustomed to make several trips to the lavatory during the night, a handful of guards who came off watch and refreshed themselves before they were warned, and several children who roused their parents crying for water. But these unfortunate incidents at least served to confirm that Elega had poisoned the reservoir – that the harsh measures which Lebbick imposed on the castle were necessary. The children were desperately sick, but no one died except one of the old men.

And in the morning nearly everybody tried to crowd out onto the battlements or around a window to watch for the Alend army.

In that respect, Terisa and Geraden were fortunate. They had no trouble gaining access to the top of the tower that held her rooms.

During the night, the weather had turned cold again. A featureless gray cloud wrack had closed down over Mordant, turning the castle and the landscape the color of gloom; a chill wind blew like a scythe, reaping away every sign of an early spring. The nearby hills lost depth; the ones farther away looked higher, more dangerous. The black trees tossed their limbs as if they were writhing. Corrupt snow still clung to most of the slopes, making the bare ground appear unwell. At first, she could hardly see: the cold felt like a slap, and the wind in her face made her eyes tear. Gradually, however, her vision improved until she was able to scrutinize the horizons in the direction of Armigite and Alend just as the crowds on the lower battlements and the people on the other towers did.

There was nothing to see.

For a long time, there was nothing to see. By degrees, the crowds thinned. Twice, Terisa and Geraden broke their vigil and returned to her rooms to get warm.

“When are they coming?” she asked.

“How should I know?” he replied with uncharacteristic asperity. He was taking his failure to stop Elega hard.

She knew how he felt and didn’t blame him.

“Which direction are they going to come from?”

He repented his testiness. “Along the road. That’s longer, but it should be quicker. And it’s the only way they can bring their supplies. Or the ‘engines of war’ we keep hearing about.”

When they went back outside, she learned that he was right. Warned by an indefinable stiffening of attention around her, she peered harder into the harsh wind and saw the vanguard of the Alend army coming.

It was on the northwest road from the Care of Armigite.

The Alend Monarch’s flags flew in the hands of his standard-bearers. The gray light and the distance made them look black.

Slowly, the army marched toward Orison – a body of men that seemed huge beyond counting. Soldiers on horses. Soldiers on foot. Dozens of drivers goading the mules that dragged the supply wains. Swarms of transformed servants and impressed peasants who steered and tended the lumbering siege engines. And a second army of porters and camp followers.

All come to take Orison away from Mordant’s King.

Held by a kind of awe, she stared out from the tower and tried to imagine the amount of bloodshed King Joyse’s actions threatened to bring down on his people.

Perhaps he was imagining the same thing. Geraden nudged her and pointed toward the north tower. Squinting in that direction, she saw King Joyse standing before the parapets with Castellan Lebbick.

He looked small across the length of Orison, despite his heavy fur cloak. Both he and his Castellan studied the Alend advance without moving. Perhaps there was nothing they could do. The flags of Mordant had been raised over the battlements, but the King’s personal banner snapped painfully from the end of a pole on the tower where he stood. It was a plain purple swath that might have appeared jaunty and brave under bright sunlight. Now it looked as if it was about to be torn away by the wind.