Liath recognized him now—Duchess Rotrudis’ reckless son, who had harried Gent for months and taken Mistress Gisela’s poor niece into his bed against her will. Sanglant’s interference irritated her; did he think her helpless? Yet she did not know how to respond. She possessed no skill at crossing words like swords. She had power, but so did a spear—and it was the person who wielded it who gave it direction and aim.
She fumed as Wichman retreated, as the other captains and nobles came forward to greet Sanglant and exclaim over his return to strength. To meet her warily or pleasantly, depending on their nature. She had to learn who they were, but names and titles spat at her in such quick succession that while all the names stuck she could not recall which name matched which face.
“And this is Lady Bertha, my strong right hand,” Sanglant said last of all. “She is the second daughter of Margrave Judith.”
That caught Liath’s attention.
“You are Hugh’s sister,” she said, not having meant to speak any such words.
“So my mother told me.” Bertha looked nothing like Hugh, having no particular elegance and less beauty, but she appeared tough and competent. “So he claimed, since it gave him the advantage of our support when he needed it. I might have wished otherwise, since I always detested him.” She smiled mockingly as Liath schooled her expression, for she had never expected to hear Hugh spoken of so slightingly by his own kinfolk. “Have I offended you? Perhaps you held him in some affection.”
Sanglant glanced at her, but she shook her head, aware of the way his shoulders tensed as he waited for her reply.
“I did not. I am only surprised.”
“My mother spoiled him, and he only a bastard. Why should my sisters and I not resent him? Well, so be it. According to this good Eagle, he has earned his just reward and luxuriates in a position of great power and influence with many a noble lady begging for admittance to his holy bedchamber. It was ever so with him, and he always put them off, like dangling meat before a starving dog and then pulling it away before it could taste it. He liked them to beg. And they did,”
Sanglant was looking stormy, and while Bertha’s sentiments might appeal, Liath did not find the noblewoman’s manner particularly sympathetic. But she did not know how to change the subject.
Heribert stepped forward. “They are coming, my lord prince.”
Bertha looked past Liath, and laughed. “Not as many as you wished, eh?”
Sanglant seated himself in the chair. “That depends on what they have to say.” The others ranged around him, falling into obviously familiar patterns but leaving Liath unsure how to position herself. Where did she fit in?
She had felt so strong, walking the spheres, but there she had been acting alone. Here, maybe she would never fit into the tightly woven army that Sanglant led. She stared at the sun’s fiery trail, a golden-pink layer sprawled out along the western hills. Ai, God, how cleverly Sanglant had placed himself: it seemed as if the sun set in order to do him obeisance.
Gyasi appeared at the head of a score of riders who pointed at the hooded griffin, exclaiming among themselves. They bore two banners, one marked with three slashes and the other with a crescent moon. Sanglant shifted in his chair, hand restless on his hilt of his sword, as Gyasi dismounted and led six of the Quman forward: four winged warriors and two women wearing impossibly tall conical hats ornamented with beads and gold. The two barbarian women were burdened with more jewelry even than Sorgatani, as if the weight of their gold determined how important they were.
As they advanced, Liath slipped sideways, out of the crowd. Wichman glanced at her as she slid past him, and he recoiled, bumping into Brother Breschius, who constituted the other half of Sanglant’s schola.
“I pray you, Brother, attend me,” Liath said softly, and Breschius obediently walked with her a stone’s toss away from the rest. They halted near a group of soldiers come to stare and to keep their prince safe from the interlopers. “What do you know of these Quman?”
“Little enough.”
“What do those markings mean?”
“It is the mark of a snow leopard’s claw, the device of the Pechanek tribe. They are the ones who abandoned us the day we met the Horse people. The other—” He shrugged helplessly. “—I do not know. Brother Zacharias would have. He knew a great deal, for he had lived as a slave in the Pechanek tribe.”
“I know no Brother Zacharias. Where is he now?”
“He fled with Wolfhere when we were in Sordaia.”
“I heard a little of this tale. Is it certain that Wolfhere betrayed Prince Sanglant?”