assuming, of course, that they had money in excess of the sum banked there.
‘Red wax,’ mumbled Pooris. ‘May the Gods spare me! What colours are there to be had?’
‘Blue, sir. Or green.’
‘Then stamp them with blue. It is the seal, not the colour, which gives authority.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The young man backed away. Pooris stood and moved to his private office, where the stove fire had died and the room was cold. There was a jug of water on the desk. Pooris filled a goblet and sipped it.
The convoy of refugees would probably spread out over two miles or more. They would have to be guarded from robbers, and fed, and housed in tents on the journey. It was like equipping an army for a campaign, thought Pooris. Gazing up at the map on the wall, he studied the terrain. A swallow would cover 512 miles to Loretheli, but on foot the refugees would have to skirt the mountains, adding almost 200 miles, much of it across rough, cold country with little game and less shelter.
The Council at Hlobane had been instructed to send out food wagons to meet the convoy. These would most certainly be needed. According to Karis, the refugees would average around eight miles a day. All told, the full journey might take three months.
And still 14,000 wanted to try it, to face the perils of cold and hunger, robbers and thieves. Many of the richer refugees would also be obliged to leave their fortunes behind, never to be recovered. All for the distant prospect of a safe haven. Some would die on the journey; Karis estimated the number at around 2 per cent.
Three hundred people who would have lived longer had they remained in their own homes . . .
Pooris had been against the expedition from the start,
despite his love of logistics. But both the Duke and Karis had been against him.
‘You will not stop people deserting,’ said Karis. ‘If heroes came in great numbers we would not value them so highly. Most people have cowardly hearts.’
‘And if we force them to stay,’ put in Albreck, ‘there will be panic when the Daroth arrive. We cannot afford panic. Let it be known that a refugee column will leave the city in the last month of winter; it will be escorted to Hlobane.’
‘That will push up the numbers of those wishing to leave, my lord,’ said Karis.
‘I fear that is true, sir,’ added Pooris.
‘Let the faint-hearted fly where they will. I want only the strong. We will fight the Daroth – and we will beat him.’ The Duke gave a rare smile. ‘And if we do not, we will bloody him so badly that he will not have the strength to march on Hlobane. Is that not true, Karis?’
‘It is true, my lord.’
True or not, it did not help Pooris as he struggled to make the arrangements for the civilian withdrawal.
A knock came at the door. He called out to enter and Niro stepped inside.
‘Another problem?’ he asked the man. Niro gave a shrug.
‘Of course, sir. What else would you expect?’
Pooris gestured him to a seat. ‘I was scanning the list of refugees. You asked for them to be compiled as to occupation.’
‘Yes. And?’
‘Twelve of the city’s fifteen armourers have applied to leave. Not a good time, I would have thought, to run short of crossbow bolts and suchlike.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Curiously, only two of Corduin’s sixty-four bakers have applied to leave.’ Niro grinned. ‘Makers of bread are more courageous than makers of swords. Interesting, sir, don’t you think?’
‘I will raise the problem with the Duke. Well spotted, Niro. You have a keen eye. How many merchants on the list?’
‘None, sir. They all left soon after Lunder’s execution.’
‘Will you be leaving also?’ asked Pooris. ‘I understand that more than four-fifths of the city’s clerics have applied.’
‘No, sir. I am by nature an optimist. If we do survive and conquer, I should imagine the Duke would be most grateful to those who stood by his side.’
‘Pin not your hopes on the goodwill of rulers, Niro. My father once told me – and I have seen it to be true -that nothing is as long-lived as a monarch’s hatred, nor as short-lived as his gratitude.’