“No reliable sightings so far, Your Majesty,” said Pike, “but we have eyes on every beach, bay and wharf. If Lord Heugen told us the truth, we expect them to land tomorrow.”
“Any trouble from the Breakers? Move now and they catch us with our trousers well and truly down.”
Pike glanced over at Vick, standing with arms tightly folded. She shook her head. “All quiet, Your Majesty,” said Pike. “We struck them a blow at Valbeck from which they have yet to recover.”
“I wish I believed it,” said Orso, “but I have a feeling that blow only made them angrier. What about our own forces, Forest?”
“We have about nine thousand, including the resurrected Crown Prince’s Division.”
“An excellent decision to raise troops in secret, Your Majesty,” broke in Hoff. “It may have saved the Union!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Orso.
“There will be members of the Open Council who have stayed loyal, I’m sure of it! I have sent letters demanding their support.”
“I doubt they’ll be falling over each other to help.”
“I may have implied that the rebels’ estates would be redistributed to loyalists…”
Orso raised his brows. “Maybe they’ll fall over each other after all.”
“The King’s Own are converging from all across Midderland.” Forest retrieved one of the maps and spread it out upon the righted table. “We should link up with two regiments of foot tomorrow. Then Lord Marshal Rucksted is bringing four of horse from Keln, but there’s no saying whether they’ll reach us in time.”
“That cavalry could make all the difference…”
“We need to prepare, Your Majesty,” said Hoff. “Tread carefully. Play for time. Gather all the troops we can.”
“But the best moment to strike would be soonest,” growled Forest, tracing the wiggly line that was Midderland’s north coast with a thick fingertip. “Before they get a foothold. Best we can tell, they’ll be picking up allies of their own.”
“So we need to delay,” said Tunny, “but also move at once.”
There was a pause while they all considered that. Orso snorted. “Anything else?”
“The erstwhile Lord Marshal Brint,” said Pike in an emotionless drone. “He refuses to corporate.”
Orso shook his head. “It’s always the last one you expect. I thought the man was a rock! Imaginative as a rock, but reliable as one, too. He and my father were old friends.”
“Nonetheless, he is a traitor. It might be useful to demonstrate our resolve—”
“I bloody hate hangings,” snapped Orso. “Maybe we should demonstrate mercy for once.”
“He has been passing secrets to your enemies for months—”
“Then he should carry on,” said Vick.
Orso frowned at her. “He’s under lock and key in the House of Questions. Isn’t he?”
“Awaiting the king’s justice,” grated out Pike.
Vick shrugged. “Brock doesn’t know that. I could take him a message.”
“A message saying what?” asked Hoff.
“Saying the Closed Council have turned against each other. Saying the King’s Own are scattered and distracted and there’ll be no opposition. Saying His Majesty has fled for Gurkhul with only his standard bearer for company.”
“His standard bearer’s got better sense,” muttered Tunny.
“Saying whatever you please.”
Orso considered that idea, and a rare smile began to spread across his face. “You know, Inquisitor, I’m beginning to like you a great deal.”
Forest cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, if that’s all, we really should…” And he nodded towards the theoretical entrance to the tent, where Gorst was holding back a sweaty, panicky, impatient crush of messengers.
Orso sighed. “Very well. Open the floodgates.”
As the boat’s keel ground against gravel, Leo leaped into the surf. Sloshing through a few dozen strides of icy water probably wasn’t the best thing for his leg, but he was burning to be first ashore. He’d been kept a prisoner behind a desk far too long, caged in ballrooms and council chambers, chained by manners and rules. Now was the time for action. And what was the point of a leader, after all, if he didn’t actually lead? Directing things from a chair at the back was for King Orso and his like, not the Young Lion. Leo’s headquarters would be in the saddle. At the tip of the spear. Where the blood was shed and the glory won!
It wasn’t the most glorious stretch of shore, he had to admit, as his flooded boots finally crunched up onto the beach and he stood to rest his aching leg. A great grey curve of cold shingle, then a great yellow curve of wind-torn grass, then brown dunes and scrubby trees swept sideways, a few lonely birds hovering on the breeze the only sign of life. No cheering crowds waiting to celebrate their liberation from the tyranny of the Closed Council.
But Leo told himself that was a good thing. They were supposed to be landing in secret. No one in sight was a mark of success.
“Jin!” he called as the Northman jogged up onto the beach beside him. A solid presence, no one more reliable. “Set up some pickets while the men get ashore. Antaup?”
“Your Grace?” Antaup pushed that lock of hair from his face where the wind instantly flicked it back. A good friend, who Leo was absolutely sure liked women.
“Organise some scouting parties, fan out, see if you can make contact with Isher and the rest of the Open Council’s troops. Where’s Stour due to land?”
“If he has good luck with the weather, maybe a few miles that way?”
“And Rikke?”
Antaup puffed out his cheeks as though it was anyone’s guess. “The other way? Maybe?”
Jurand would’ve known exactly where and when they were all meant to arrive, would already have been snapping out orders, making sure everything was going to plan. But Jurand… that image floated up again, of him and Glaward, bent over the bed, their gasping faces pressed together—
Leo clenched his teeth. “We’ve got to link up with the others right away!” he snapped. “With numbers on our side we shouldn’t need to fight at all.”
“Right,” said Antaup. He took a step one way, froze, then turned back the other and hurried off up the beach.
Jin was grinning at Leo, red beard tugged by the wind. “By the dead, it’d be a shame to go home without a battle, though.”
Leo grinned back and clapped him on his mailed shoulder. “Maybe just a little one.”
Orders were being called now, boots splashing in the surf and scraping in the shingle, a reassuring clamour of activity as the men of Angland began to pour from the boats and onto the beach.
Leo’s standard was unfurled above him, the crossed hammers and the lion, holed and torn from victories in the North but never taken by an enemy. He smiled up as the sea wind made it flap and flutter, setting his doubts to rest and his heart leaping.
“At last,” he murmured.
PART VI
“No plan survives contact with the enemy.”