said I thought like a footman. He would have been right, for
they were talking when I went to tend to the horses, most of
them wrapped in blankets and standing, sitting, lying
around the banked fires that spangled the dark inner
courtyards, a few others, the older veterans, crouched and
circled around Breca, who sat upon his helmet, cupping his
enormous red hands as he lit his pipe, the glow arising from
the bowl spreading over his face in a light both saintly and
violent.
I nodded to Breca, receiving a nod in return as he
singled me out from the darkness. He had what Heros called
THE INGRAINED POLITENESS TO HIS BETTERS, not as
common as you might imagine among footmen, but a
quality all were urged to adopt and cultivate. Still, I liked to
think – and DO think – this initial politeness to me was
something more, stood for something. After all, he
remembered the boots on the trail to the tower, and perhaps
in that soldier’s mind used to self-preservation and
necessity, small gestures of decency counted for more than
the horse and elaborate armor. Then again, he may have
thought only that I was foolish, or felt sorry for me because
of my youth, or he may have thought all of these things and
not have been wrong in the thinking.
His face glowed above the pipe like a signal fire, or it
could have been from the reflected light of his audience. For
there were twenty or thirty men around him, some of them
Lord Alfred’s age, several nearly as young as I, but most in
between – as I have said, the veterans. All of them were like
children in the presence of a storyteller, but instead of
awaiting the tales of high deeds and magic we heard and
you still hear in the spacious courts of Solamnia, they were
questioning, all questions amounting to one: WHAT
CHANCE DO WE HAVE TO HOLD THIS FORT?
Nor did he coddle them, assure them, as the storytellers do
at Mother’s – so IT IS ELVES YOU WANT, YOUNG
MASTER? THEN YOU SHALL HEAR OF ELVES. None of
that for footmen. Breca was honest, or pretended honesty in
a way that came closer to the truth than simple honesty,
which sometimes allows for dishonest imaginings.
I EXPECT, he said, THAT A CENTAUR DESIGNED
THIS TOWER. I EXPECT HE DONE SO AFTER A
CELEBRATION OF VICTORY, ON ACCOUNT OF THE
BUILDING SPEAKS MORE OF WINE THAN OF
TACTICS. I COUNT FOUR GATES IN THE FORTRESS,
WHICH IS THREE MORE THAN YOU NEED, FOUR
MORE THAN I’D FANCY NOW THAT WE’VE GOT
INSIDE.
AND WHAT IS WORSE THAN FOUR GATES I WILL
TELL YOU IS FOUR WIDE GATES, GATES WHERE A
HALF A DOZEN CENTAURS MIGHT GALLOP IN
ABREAST. THE DRAGONARMIES DON’T MIND
SPENDING MEN, AND EVEN SEEM TO FAVOR
SPENDING DRACONIANS, SEEING AS THEY HAVE SO
MANY OF THEM. WHAT IS MORE, THEY’RE LIABLE TO
SEND DRAGONS OR SOME TERRIBLE MACHINERY
RIGHT THROUGH OUR DOORS. And he sat back, the
smoke curling like snow or a morning fog, like the mist
from the horses, around his enormous, ragged head. The
footmen waited, not for the quick and easy answer, the
inspiring speech that would tell them that despite all these
things, we would win by tactics and by bravery, that one
man in the service of Solamnia could defeat a dozen
draconians. They awaited his judgment on the walls.
WHICH ARE NOT OF YOUR BEST MATERIAL OR
DESIGN. I AM NOT A STONE MASON, NOR AM I A
BETTING MAN – this last drawing laughter from some of
the older soldiers – BUT IF I WAS, I WOULD WAGER
THAT A FAT MAN AT A HEALTHY TROT COULD
CAUSE STRUCTURAL DAMAGE TO THIS MIGHTY
FORTRESS.
More laughter followed, and I drew nearer the group,
curry-comb in hand, the horses forgotten. If what he was
saying were indeed true – and I had no cause to doubt him –
we were cornered, backed into a shoddy and vulnerable
place where the walls stood not between us and the
dragonarmies, but between us and our own escape. And the