14th of Iam, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
“Why couldn’t we have done this, this morning?” Recha hissed under her breath, dabbing her forehead with a small handkerchief.
It was too small. The white linen was already turning yellow from her repeated attempts to keep some of her makeup from smudging away and revealing the bags under her eyes. She couldn’t afford to show an ounce of weakness to Borbin, including fatigue from sporadic naps while waiting for the parley to finally happen.
“If we’d have done it this morning,” Baltazar whispered beside her, “half of the Second Army would still be shaky on their feet.”
“So, instead, we’re all roasting and waiting,” Recha retorted, to which Baltazar chuckled.
Once again, the Easterly Sun brutally glared down on Recha and her army. Not a cloud hung in the sky to challenge its oppression. She sat on her horse behind the second battle line stretched across the plain.
The majority of the Second Army stood in two lines along the battle lines the Third Army had staked out yesterday. She and most of her command staff waited with the Second Army’s calleroses massed to their right and the Third Army’s calleroses to their left. Behind them, the infantry of the Third Army formed two more battle lines. Even without Hiraldo and the First Army absent, Recha and Baltazar agreed that they needed to make the biggest show of force possible.
A stray ray of sunlight reflected off a nearby soldier’s helmet and shined directly into her eyes. Squinting in frustration, she nudged her horse forward and angled the floppy brim of her velvet bonnet to block it out. She had left her parasol in her tent, wanting to keep her hands free.
“Don’t be hasty,” Baltazar warned.
Recha tilted her head to speak back at him. “I’m just keeping the sun out of my face. I’m not going to dash off and demand Borbin come out.”
“That’s comforting to hear.” Baltazar’s lips faintly curled under the tips of his mustache. Metal clicked against metal as he switched his horse’s reins from one gauntlet to another. He sat straight back, armored and uniformed pristinely, as if again he didn’t feel the heat or the sweat sprinkled across his exposed face between his helmet’s cheek guards. Ever the picture of military stoicism.
“They still don’t look like they’ve gotten their act together over there,” Narvae complained, followed by the sound of wet spit, behind them.
Recha frowned. As poorly mannered as his observation was, he was also right. Across the plain, the Orsembian battle line appeared to be a churning mess. What had started out as random infantry companies and pickets guarding their line that morning was now flowing with calleroses moving up and down the line.
There were over fifty individual banners the last she counted, from minor calleros companies to barony houses, each one more irrelevant than the other. There were only two banners Recha cared about—the White Sword’s and Borbin’s.
The White Sword’s banner, she easily spotted off to the left of center of the Orsembian line. While other calleroses and barons moved their horses about, the standard with a white sword against a black field sat motionless, like a waiting predator.
Borbin’s mellcresa skull, however, had yet to make an appearance. Regardless, there were over fifteen thousand calleroses milling about their line, and more gathering. A lot of horses. Annoyingly, their gathering, combined with the gradual slope, obscured the enormous amount of infantry undoubtedly forming up behind them.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful”—General Priet snickered—“if they all just charged onto our pikes and got it over with? All those bloviating barons right on our pikes. We could hold our shots until their line was impaled and turn their charge into a charnel house.”
“Just save some for my boys,” General Ros requested. “Some have scores to settle after what happened the other day.”
“You can leave whatever you two leave alive for me and the calleroses to mop up,” Marshal Olguer jumped in.
Agreeing hums, grunts, and chuckles broke out behind her among her commanders.
“Now’s not the time for wishful thinking,” Baltazar gently warned. He turned in his saddle, and Recha caught the hard stare he threw back over his shoulder. “Or overconfidence.”
Hesitant coughs and clearing throats followed. Leather squeaked from shifting rearends as the members of her command staff glanced off in odd directions like scolded boys.
Recha pursed her lips and leaned in closer to Baltazar. “It would be wonderful, though,” she whispered.
“Hmm,” Baltazar grunted, but his face gave away nothing.
Recha bit back a smile for him, having wished the same thing to happen the day before, and glanced over her shoulder. The quietness of the jovial moment made her realize something.
“Where’s Marshal Bisal?” she asked, not finding the tall, blusterous man.
“He and his best scouts are exploring that ravine,” Baltazar replied, gesturing to his left with a tilt of the head.
The northern ridge of sandstone cracked open with grassy mounds, leading into a narrow passage that wound up then turned sharply back behind the ridge.
“That wasn’t there before,” Recha commented, turning her memory over and over, but couldn’t remember it.
“You couldn’t see it from the height,” Baltazar corrected. The height being what he called the hill she had watched the battle the day before from. “I saw it when we marched through here but couldn’t do anything about. We needed to establish a perimeter first.”
“Are you seeing if it leads behind their lines?” Recha sat up straighter. “Planning to raid their rear once Hiraldo gets here?”
“Best we know the ground before we make any strategies. That’s one lesson I learned the other day.” His frown darkened to a scowl, directed across the field at the White Sword’s banner.
At least he’s speaking now.
Recha picked at her lavender skirts, fussing with them to ensure they obscured her riding boots while ignoring the urge to back away from him. The only thing Baltazar had said after returning from the field yesterday were orders. If anyone asked him anything other than a military question, they received a fiery glare.
“The skirmish wasn’t a defeat, Papa,” she whispered gently.
“Yes, it was,” Baltazar bluntly replied. “I underestimated Ribera. I took his reputation of that being a master tactician. A thoughtful marshal.” He snorted disdainfully. “I rode out as if I was going to play a game of jedraz with the man, but the White Sword doesn’t play games.
“No.” He shook his head. “Ribera is decisive action. He thinks about his decision, yes, but once he makes it, he follows through with it with all his might. That’s how he drove off my right flank and turned my trap against me. He holds nothing back, moves fast to gain ground, and leaves little room for counterattacks. That’s how he generals. Some might think it reckless, but when most commanders are barons or marquéses timidly wanting to avoid a battle, such tenacity can end a battle before it even begins.”
“I trust you have a strategy to counter him today,” Recha said. “In case this goes poorly, and we have to fight.”
She hadn’t been at the war council that morning. Cornelos had let her sleep after staying up later than she should have, mind swirling with competing ideas of what she was going to say to Borbin when they met.
She was surprised with herself. She had envisioned a version of this coming moment for three years. However, now with it staring her in the face, her mind warred with itself about her and her army’s current situation, what she needed to say, and what her heart desperately wanted to say.
“Hit them,” Baltazar replied. “Hard and straight. No tricks, traps, or gambits. We don’t have the numbers, and I’m not giving Ribera any openings. But, if you have your strategy worked out like I think you do”—his eyes slid across to her—“then we won’t have to worry about that.”
“You think I have all this planned out?” She nervously chuckled, but Baltazar didn’t join her. A few awkward moments passed for her to clear her throat and take a deep breath. “We need time.”
“As much as you can get for Hiraldo to arrive to the field,” Baltazar agreed.
“I’m going to stall any way I can,” she explained. “While I do, listen for anything he lets slip—how many forces he has, how desperate he sounds. Gage his state of mind.”
She twisted in her saddle to address the officers behind her. “No one else speaks but me,” she ordered. “I don’t care what insults they make, do not speak. We must show a united front, unlike Borbin who’s bringing”—she glanced back at all the different banners crammed together and fighting for space across the field—“an exorbitant number of barons.”
They all laughed in agreement at that. Cornelos, sitting behind her, grinned broadly.
Recha grinned back then turned forward. “And, as for Ribera,” she added for Baltazar, “maybe I can find an opening to let him know about his grandson.”
Baltazar hummed thoughtfully. “Just be careful on your wording. If I understand what you plan to do with Borbin’s son is any indication, Ribera may misunderstand your meaning if you aren’t precise.”
“I’ve had three years of practicing my wording with Orsembians,” Recha assured him. “If Borbin brings him, I’ll make sure he gets the message.”
A bugle blared from across the field. The mingling of horses and banners split apart in the center of their mass, allowing a procession of more riders through. The mellcresa skull banner of Borbin led it, three times the size of any other banner on the field, the orange cloth rippling back from the simple effort of carrying it forward.
In the center of the procession rode a man alone with a soldier carrying a large parasol spread out wide enough to shade the man and most of his horse from the Easterly Sun.
Borbin.
Recha squeezed her reins in her fists, and her body shook.
Borbin’s procession fanned out across the front of his line, the barons and calleroses filling in the gap behind him, jostling again for several minutes for positions before they finally got themselves in order.
Another bugle blast came.
The field went silent.
Recha stared. The field, the heat, the multitude of people and horses on it, they all seemed to fade away. The faint echo of heavy breathing grew in her ears. There was only that man across the field, sitting in his saddle as if he were lounging under the shade of the parasol.
“Recha!” Baltazar gripped her shoulder.
She gasped, her shoulders rising and falling as she breathed heavily. Baltazar kept hold of her, watching her worriedly.
“I’m fine,” she said, shrugging him off.
She straightened her lavender blouse and skirts to calm herself. She needed to make it obvious on sight that she was a regal marquesa, even in this blazing mountain plain. She had picked her clothes specifically to match her violet banners while also being light enough to wear.
She checked that the lace of her long sleeves were thin enough to let air seep through but not a wandering eye. She left her top collar button undone, refusing to be strangled in this heat. To pay for letting her neck breathe, she had pinned an oval, violet gem brooch on her blouse under her chin, centered on her collarbone.
Her finger lingered on the golden M engraved on the gem. The sight of Borbin waiting, finally in sight, reminded her of her small hand pistol, primed and loaded, nestled in her pocket.
“Papa,” she said darkly, “if this does go poorly . . . if I’m unable to . . . If you see me reach for my pocket, stop me. I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself.”
Baltazar pulled back, studying the Orsembians. “Sometimes in war, there are times where it is best not to outright kill your enemy,” he recited, causing Recha to relax. “Sometimes you must face him in the field and defeat him utterly. Decisive victories are necessary to make it absolutely clear to everyone that you defeated him.”
“Are you quoting yourself again?” she asked, crookedly smiling, her head tilted to listen to him recite.
“An ancient Desryol king,” Baltazar replied. “Morcourn Desryol, I think his name was.”
Recha frowned. “I don’t remember that one.”
“He’s from long ago, maybe over five hundred years or so. Not much is left from him, but I’ve always remembered that quote. It always let me focus on what’s required for a real victory, instead of”—he shook his head—“whatever small things everyone else was after.”
“Borbin doesn’t deserve to simply die,” Recha said, piecing together his meaning and coming to an agreement. “He deserves to be utterly defeated.”
The image of his entire army crushed and littering the field around him played in her mind. She envisioned Borbin kneeling in the middle of their bodies, looking up at her while she pressed her pistol to his forehead. It made her grin,.
Taking another deep, calming breath, she ordered, “Drums.”
“Drums!”
The drummers of the companies in front of them filled the air with a long, unyielding flurry.
Tap!
Tap!
Rap! Rap! Rap!
Officers of the four infantry companies in front of them on both battle lines shouted orders. As one, blocks of men stepped forward in time with drums. The companies marched forward until their formations had cleared the battle lines.
“Right face!” officers on the right yelled. “Quick! Turn!”
“Left face!” officers on the left yelled. “Quick! Turn!”
The companies in front of her turned as commanded and, like four great sliding doors, marched in opposite directions, opening a wide path for Recha and her command staff. The plain echoed with the sound of their matching footfalls and drum taps until they completely cleared the path.
“Companies! Halt!” the officers yelled, followed a second later with a combined last stomp of two hundred men.
“About face!”
The companies turned, facing out at the Orsembians. In unison, their heels stomped, the ends of their pikes slammed into the dirt, and their drummers made one last rap, reverberating a crescendo throughout the plain and off the ridges of sandstone surrounding them. An eerie silence followed.
“My compliments, General Priet,” General Ross whispered, ruining the stillness.
“My thanks,” General Priet replied, “General Ross.”
Recha pressed her lips together tightly until they started to burn, all to stop herself from turning around to glare at them.
Couldn’t either of you take in the moment and wait until we were moving to share compliments?
Not to disparage the men, all four companies marched superbly, and she hoped it had an intimidating effect on the Orsembians. She wanted to soak in the quiet for a little longer.
Baltazar raised his hand. On the signal, Recha’s standard-bearer rode before her, lining up beside a bugler and accompanied by her own guards, fully armored with black face visors closed.
“Bugler,” Baltazar ordered, “conversar!”
The bugler lifted his bugle. He played long, overly drawn-out notes, blaring them across the field. It was the most unfitting bugle call Recha had ever heard. The wailing call made it sound like someone’s joking attempt to make a ballad into a military call.
Although, it wasn’t a military call at all. The conversar was an invitation to talk, part of the Rules of Campaign. After ignoring them for so long, it was jarring having to go back to them. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from spitting at the sound of it and being neither ladylike nor distinguished as a marquesa should be.
A minute into his call, the bulger was answered by the receiving song across the field. The standard-bearer and his entire line nudged their horses into motion, and Recha followed with Baltazar, her command staff on their heels.
They casually walked their horses through the gap her infantry had lain open for them, and the Orsembians mirrored them. Borbin’s own standard-bearer walked out ahead of him as he leisurely guided his horse out in the middle of the plain, surrounded by his flocking entourage.
The infernal conversar played on well after Recha rode out into the field. She gritted her teeth at each wayward note and flat-blaring burst the buglers made from bouncing in their saddles. They were walking slow, but the ground was uneven, leading to plenty of bumpy, missed notes.
As if the call couldn’t get any worse! Her ears started to ring as the buglers blew harder, competing in who could play the loudest. I’m going to have that infernal call banned. Then completely forgotten!
The buglers played their clashing song until they were within ten feet of each other, and both lines reined their horses to halt. Guards, buglers, and standard-bearers stared at each other. The banners themselves hung limply without any wind. Although, because of its exaggerated size, Borbin’s fell over his standard-bear’s shoulders.
When both retinues finally gathered, both sides’ guards peeled off to the side, letting their rulers through.
Borbin sleeked forward. The metallic sheen of his horse’s white-gold coat made every horse around him look like a mule. His servant carrying the enormous parasol stepped lively to ensure his marqués never rode out into the sun.
Recha rode out to meet him with Baltazar trailing her. She had met Emaximo Borbin at a reception in Manosete a few years before becoming marquesa. It had been the first and only time they had been face to face and the beginning of her uncle’s imbecilic attempt to form an alliance with the man. She was loathed to admit that he didn’t live up to her odious expectations.
He rode comfortably in the saddle, leaning back but still sitting straight. His armor was more ornate than she would have preferred, with a golden mellcresa skull that had emerald eyes encrusted on his sleek breastplate. Armor covered him from neck to toe, a full suit, which was rare these days, but wearing it confirmed he was still fit for a man of his age. His long saber hung from his hip, its gold, ornate handguard matching the gold on his breastplate. A vibrant orange cape hung from clasps on his shoulder pauldrons, flowing neatly over the rump of his horse.
Despite the heat, Borbin wore a felt, red hat with golden tassels along its stiff, wide brim and one on the top. Black and gray curls of hair poked out from edges of the hat. His angular cheeks were free of fat, age spots, or deep wrinkles. His pointed nose made his smirk and pointed beard stand out more.
Recha bit her tongue to keep her features smooth and unrevealing as she caught him gazing at her up and down with amber eyes.
“La Dama Recha Mandas,” Borbin greeted, “how fortuitous to find you here, of all places. I expected you to remain in Zoragrin when this season started, like every year.”
“Like son, like father,” Recha said under her breath.
Borbin raised a thin eyebrow and tilted his head at her. “What was that?”
“Pardon me, Si Don Borbin”—Recha grinned, holding back a laugh—“but I’ve heard that same remark countless times for the past month. From Puerlato to Luente all the way up to Crudeas.” She threw her head back with a laugh, unable to hold it in any longer and letting everyone in Borbin’s entourage know where her army’s marched. “Everywhere we’ve gone, people were absolutely astounded to see us.”
The mob of barons and calleroses broke out in a plague of frowns and disgusted sneers. Yes, it was unwise to antagonize the other side in a negotiation, yet it was all too wonderful for Recha to stop herself.
All of you kept me waiting until the heat of the day to do this. Only serves you right that I get to gloat in your faces.
Borbin’s upturned face, however, never twitched a muscle. “Indeed,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve had yourself a grand adventure, like any young woman craves. However, I’m afraid the real challenges of campaign have caught up with you.”
“Oh really?” Recha feigned concern and fanned herself with her hand. “If you’re referring to the heat, none of us would have suffered so if you’d have risen earlier.”
The squeaks of over fifty rears rubbing against saddles ground over the field as calleroses shifted in their seats. Men cleared their throats but held their tongues. Everywhere Recha glanced, there were defiant Orsembian eyes staring back for her audacity.
“I would have thought a lady, especially a marquesa as young as yourself, would appreciate the comfort leisurely resting before facing a day as hot as this,” Borbin calmly replied.
Recha shook her head. “You needn’t have worried so, Si Don. After a month of blazing campaign, I can assure you that I’ve grown accustomed to placing army needs first. As any commander should.”
“But as a ruler of a marc, you must realize there are rules for these things.” Borbin’s nostrils twitched, and a faint snort escaped them. He worked his jaw, as if holding back a snide remark. He gave her an expecting look, leaning forward in his saddle. “Proprieties must be upheld.”
“But we have been upholding proprieties.” Recha raised her eyebrows coyly. “We played the conversar and now we’re conversing, aren’t we?”
Borbin stared blankly at her. “La Dama, by the Rules, as the aggressor, it is your obligation to introduce your delegation to the conversar first, and then the defender. While I don’t see any member of your delegation worthy of note.” He made a quick, dismissive scan of her general staff.
“That’s because I was rather hoping we could dispense with that formality, Si Don,” Recha replied through a strained smile. “It is so terribly hot, after all. But, if you’re calling my field marshal, Baltazar Vigodt”—she held her hand out, as if presenting him—“as someone unworthy of note, then I must admit you are a poorer judge of character than I thought.” And I never thought you were a good judge of anything, anyway. She held her tongue not to add that.
Borbin’s entourage grumbled to each other.
“Must we endure this upstart’s remarks, Uncle?” a young man behind him called, one of the few barons not in armor, wearing a bright, azure blue jacket, buttoned down his right breast with gold buttons and a similar hat as Borbin, save for it being blue, matching his jacket. “Tell this wench what she can do with her sharp tongue, or let her taste Orsembian steel.”
The man propped his fist on his hip as the men around him grunted and nodded in agreement. He smiled crookedly, making the thin lines of his mustache stand out even more under his large, pointed Borbin nose.
“Ah, ah, gentlemen!” Borbin shouted back, raising a hand to silence them. “The Rules must be given their due.”
He tilted his head at Recha. “You must pardon my nephew, La Dama,” he said cheerfully. “Timotio suffers from the overeagerness so prevalent with youth. I’m sure you understand. He meant no disrespect.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Recha said, narrowing a glare back at Borbin’s nephew. The smirk he returned her made her want to order Cornelos to strike it from his face, but she held her tongue.
Timotio was nothing more than Borbin’s hound. At least, that’s what Sevesco gathered. While Borbin doted on his son, grooming him to take his place, Timotio was always the one sent out to do the demanding, and sometimes dirty, work.
He could be a problem. If Borbin likes him just a little more than Givanzo, then . . .
“As for my retinue,” Borbin said, holding out his right arm, “may present—”
“No,” Recha whined, shaking her head. “By the Savior, please no.”
Borbin stared back her, wide-eyed and aghast. “La Dama, you forget yourself. The Rules—”
“It’s too hot! How many times do I have to say that? Besides, you don’t recognize any of my army commanders of note. I don’t recognize . . .” She sat up in her saddle, craning her neck to look over Borbin and at the barons lined up behind him, shaking her head at them one after the other. “No. No. Don’t know that one. Him, neither. Oh! Baron Irujo! Fancy meeting you here, scowling as always.”
Baron Valen Irujo was indeed scowling at her from under his helmet, his hooked nose sticking out between his cheek guards. The former ambassador probably felt personally perturbed from her lying to his face and now this engagement the only thing to save it.
Recha went on by him. “No. No. No, no, no, no. Nope. Wait!” She pointed sharply into the mangle of horses and armored riders. “There he is!”
She held her finger on an elderly man sitting two horses deep behind the front line of the Orsembian delegation. His tall, thin frame, even in armor, helped her spot him. His armor was simple, no ornamentation or designs upon it. However, the visible clothing underneath was shock-white, matching his mustache, wisps of hair sticking out from under his helmet, and sword on his hip. The sword’s hilt and scabbard were fashioned with white wood, as pale as bleached bone.
“Marshal Fuert Ribera,” she called, grinning at finally laying eyes on the White Sword, “well fought the other day, sir! You have our compliments. Until then, we hadn’t met an Orsembian force that could give us a proper battle.”
Her compliment didn’t help the sneers she was getting from the barons and other calleroses, which she was glad to see. She was also glad to see the sideways looks they were giving the White Sword and the frown on Borbin’s face.
That’s right, growl and frown. None of you like him. And if you remove him from command, then Baltazar can mop up the rest of you incompetent buffoons. Wishfully thinking, she knew. However, seeds had to be planted everywhere she could.
“Cal Ribera is merely the commander of my vanguard,” Borbin pointed out. “Think of what you received as merely a taste of what my entire army is capable of.”
Sneers turned to snarky grins and dark chuckles behind him. The Orsembians’ horses kicked at the dirt, feeling the aggression of their riders.
Recha raised an eyebrow. “Cal Ribera? You would demote one of your marc’s most renowned Heroes, Si Don?”
“Careful, La Dama. Your youthful ignorance is showing again.” Borbin snickered. “A true marqués must utilize all his resources for the good of the marc. A calleros who shows exceptionalism on the field mustn’t simply be elevated in rank but placed where their exceptionalism can continue to benefit the marc. Elevate them too highly or too often, and you risk losing their benefit.”
You mean risk them becoming more popular than you.
The hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Her uncle embraced the same logic in casting off Baltazar and putting her beloved in harm’s way. She wanted to call him out for his shallow selfishness and spit at his empty platitudes to make him seem grander in the eyes of his bootlicking entourage.
“I never took you for a philosopher, Si Don,” Recha said instead.
“The wisdom of experience, La Dama,” Borbin replied confidently. “That same wisdom, I’m sorry to inform you, says you are in a regrettable position.”
“I think my position isn’t as regrettable as you may think.” Recha held back from smirking, not wanting to boast or give too much away but also refusing to surrender the dominate position to their conversation entirely to him.
“La Dama, you are miles from home. Trespassing deep into my domain, and you’ve been caught!” Borbin pointed at her, his tone that of a lecturing parent. “Generations of chroniclers will mark this as the biggest campaign blunder in half a century. This and not being bold enough to face me at Compuert, at your supposed ally’s defense.”
“Caught? I wouldn’t say caught. I would say . . . bumped into you by surprise.”
“Don’t be coy with me, La Dama.” Borbin gave her a dry look. “I’m not another imbecilic ambassador you can wag your eyelashes at.”
The whispering and smirks on his men’s faces behind him told her plenty of them were thinking the opposite, if not with other obscene comments. Baron Irujo, however, remained scowling.
“I assure you, Si Don, you are the last man I’d ever wag my eyelashes at.” She dropped her smile and let her disdain shine. “Or be coy with.”
They stared each other down. Borbin squinted at her over his nose. Recha was amazed he could keep his head raised back like that. The back of her neck ached from looking at him.
“It seems we can dispense with pleasantries as well as the proprieties then,” he said, leaning back in his saddle. “If your army stands down, here and now, I will allow you to return to Lazorna with a third of your men. Your guard, staff, and servants included.”
“That almost sounds like you were demanding me to surrender,” Recha said.
“You are going to surrender, La Dama,” Borbin said, bored. “My offer is the only one where you surrender and save as much face as you can. If you force my hand, then I promise you, my terms will become less and less generous.”
“Si Don, you’ve been called many things, but never generous.” She worked her mouth, wanting to sneer. “You shouldn’t be so certain in war. Even as we speak, I have more troops arriving.”
She nudged over her shoulder. She could hear the drums beating to a steady rhythm men could march in formation to. Either they were the last of General Priet’s rear guard, moving up from spending their night in fissures, or some of General Ross’s men.
“La Dama,” Borbin sighed out, shaking his head tiredly, “because you are clearly new at this, allow me to explain a simple Rule of Campaign.” He sat up in his lecturing pose again. “You taunt that you have more troops arriving on the field, but it’s clear to me that I have more men and will continue to have more. By the Rules, I am the authority here. I have the larger army. I set the terms!”
Recha sniffed disdainfully. “Sounds like an obscene joke than an actual rule of war.”
Uncomfortable and shocked coughs burst around her, including behind her, likely from some of her guards and lower staff officers, stunned to hear their marquesa talk like that.
That may have been too much for them, she mused at the wary looks she was getting. It also might have been too much for this negotiation. She needed to stall for time, not completely throw Borbin over the edge.
“And besides, Si Don,” she said, “you forget what happened at the Márga’s ford. You outnumbered us four to one then, but after an entire week, not one Orsembian had crossed. Unless they were a corpse that had floated downstream and got caught on some driftwood.”
That was one of many memories of her first battle she could never forget. The Orsembians had been desperate to get across that ford after she had destroyed the other bridges across. After Baron Irujo had relieved Ribera, Recha had believed it became a point of pride of breaking them instead of building makeshift bridges around. There were still corpses littering the bottom of the Márga, both Orsembian and Lazornian.
Borbin took deep, long breaths. His shoulders rose and fell. He worked his jaw, moving his dimpled chin side to side, as if he were grinding his teeth. With one last, deep breath, he pulled his hat from his head, sending tuffs of sweaty, curly hair in all directions.
“Mandas,” he growled, straightening his hair, “you are an utter disappointment.”
“Excuse you,” Recha said, giving him a narrowed glare, “Borbin?”
“I thought you’d learned your place,” he replied, dropping his hand back into his lap, unfazed by her stare. “I admit, when I heard three years ago that you had killed your uncle, proclaimed yourself marquesa, and ordered your army south, I thought you were another brash, young child. Head too full of dreams of the world that she couldn’t wait to conquer. I planned to take all Lazorna then, before the others carved it up.
“But then”—he raised a finger—“then you surprised me. You held our advance. Then you held what you had left of your . . . speck of a marc together. And to top it off, when the conversar was called, you agreed to hold the lines as they were.
“I had to reconsider, ‘Maybe she understands. She’s nothing more than some hideaway between two mountain ranges and a few rivers, hardly to be considered an actual marc. She’ll understand her role from now on, unlike her idiot uncle who thought himself my equal.’ Your uncle, indeed, was an idiot, by the way.”
Recha’s mouth twisted. Not so much for her uncle—she’d killed him—just the way Borbin talked about her.
“I always thought you took advantage of my uncle,” she said. “Lured him into a false sense of security before humbling him. I never imaged you’d take Puerlato, too.”
“Puerlato was always going to be taken.” Borbin waved dismissively. “If not by me, then someday by Pamolid. I took it to teach your dimwitted uncle his place. In the months before our shared venture, he’d been sending ultimatums to Marqués Dion on how the campaign shares were to be split evenly between himself and me. Declaring we were equal partners and made demands in both of our names!” Spit flung from Borbin’s lips, and his eyes flashed. “No one is my partner! No one makes demands on what my claims will be!”
Recha’s glare turned to disgust. “That’s your reason? Not because my uncle . . .? You killed so many . . . for that? And you call me brash!”
“Because you are!” Borbin laughed. “Do you think I don’t know about your own petty oath, Recha Mandas? Do you think I don’t know why you’re really here? What was his name?”
The heat around her vanished, as if the Easterly Sun was no longer in the sky. Every muscle contracted, stiffening her in her saddle.
“Your son, was he not?” Borbin asked Baltazar.
“You don’t address my officers, Borbin!” Recha snapped, lifting herself up in the saddle to make herself as tall as possible. “You talk to me, and only me! I am here for Lazorna—”
“Don’t insult me,” Borbin scoffed. “If you had wanted to reclaim Puerlato, you could have by now. And I know that because I know the strength I left there. Or, I should say, the lack thereof, another testament to how I misjudged my recalculation of you knowing your place.”
“I will choose my own place, Borbin,” Recha hissed through clenched teeth.
“That’s where you’re wrong, child. For the last three years, we’ve all been humoring you. Me, Marqués Dion, Marqués Hyles, we’ve let you sit in your little corner without having to be any real fuss for any of us.
“Hyles saw you as a relief from having to deal with your uncle’s ridiculous ideas so he could tend to his own personal grudges eastward. Dion saw you as a suitable bargaining chip, patting you on the head with words of friendship in case I ever decided to finish what I started.” Borbin chuckled. “As if I’d ruin such a garden.”
Recha arched her brow. “Garden?”
“Yes.” Borbin fluffed out his hat and straightened it back on his head. “A quaint little garden, fit for young girl playing at being a marquesa. Where she can sit out her days and get over her youthful delusions before properly marrying. Because that is where you belong—safely nestled away and not being a nuisance.”
Recha snarled at the jeers and mocking chuckles from Borbin’s men. They added to her anger at the man himself.
“You dare think of Lazorna as your buffer state?”
“That’s what you are!” Borbin’s shout echoed across the field. “That’s what I made you three years ago! That’s what I made Saran last year and what I will make of Quezlo, either this year or the next! As marqués of Orsembar, this will be done!
“You”—he pointed at her again—“will stand down! You will lift your siege of Puerlato and sign a binding document relinquishing all claim to the city and lands I held! You will sign a binding document never to ally with Quezlo against me again! And you will return to Lazorna and stay there!”
Recha visualized his hand being cut off, his horse throwing him to the ground, and the last shocked look on his odious face as she—
Her hand clutched her pistol through the cloth of her skirts, her fingers wrapping around the natural feel of the grip and trigger.
“And if I refuse?” she hissed.
Borbin gave her a flat glare. “If you waste my time here any longer and force this issue, I will lay waste to your army, parade you through your former marc, before shipping you back to Manosete to live out the rest of your days as an example of what happens to those unfit to rule. Don’t be stupid, Mandas. Accept my terms and be grateful.”
Shoot him! the longing, bloodthirsty screech echoed in her mind, blocking everything else out. This bastard deserves it! Shoot him! For Sebastian! Shoot—
“La Dama.” Baltazar’s gentle voice cut through the screaming. He sat as firm as the rocks surrounding them, unmoved by Borbin’s threats and boasts. He merely glanced down at her hand and made a minuscule, barely a twitch, shake of his head.
He needs to be more than just killed, she recalled. He needs to be utterly destroyed.
She let go of her pistol to take hold of her saddle horn instead.
“I must say, Si Don,” she said coldly, “you are more competent than I originally thought.”
Borbin smiled and nodded his head.
“Of course”—she shrugged—“besides yourself and Fuert Ribera, there aren’t any other competent leaders in Orsembar.”
Borbin’s smile slipped. “Mandas, you’re making this worse for yourself. Accept—”
“This isn’t about me anymore! This is about incompetent leaders.” She peeked behind him at the barons and calleroses frowning and shaking their heads at each other, not sure if she meant them or not. “Do you have an eyeglass, Si Don? I can lend you mine if you—”
“I don’t need an eyeglass to see you don’t have the troops to face me.” Borbin waved dismissively.
Recha grinned. “It’s not my troops you should be looking for, Si Don, but rather someone you’ve misplaced.”
Borbin frowned and glanced over his shoulder.
“He’s not back there,” she teased. “But if you do have an eyeglass, look behind me, as far back as you can. I promise you, there’s someone waiting under a pair of trees who’s been missing his . . . papa.”
Multiple stunned uproars rippled through the entourage. Men shook their heads as they reached and pilfered through saddlebags for eyeglasses or demanded them from subordinates. Borbin held her with a fiery amber stare, unflinching.
“You lie,” he said.
Recha giggled, her cheeks hurting from how wide she grinned. “No, I don’t.”
“Uncle!” Timotio cried, peering through an eyeglass. He launched his horse forward the few feet separating them then jerked the poor animal to a halt beside Borbin, nearly trampling the servant holding the oversized parasol. “It’s true! Givanzo is up there!”
Borbin snatched the eyeglass away and cast his sight to the back of the plain. His jaw slowly opened as he took it in.
“And he’s not alone,” Recha continued. “We caught several barons trying to play calleros and failing miserably with him. And, as for calleroses, we captured plenty of them, too! Some fought, while others tried to flee or hold captives rather than fight like real soldiers! Those you’ll find joining Givanzo, where they belong. Those few who fought valiantly and yielded their swords with dignity have been given the honor they deserve and are now safely away from those cowards on the hill.”
She shot a look into the gathering of Orsembian calleroses, locking eyes with Fuert Ribera for only a second.
Please see it! We captured Crudeas and your grandson is safe! Please understand!
The look was all she was able to give before a hiss drew her back.
“You bitch!” Timotio spat. “You dare treat my cousin this way!” He reached for his sword, followed by everyone else.
Metal hissed against metal as blades inched out. Horses snorted at their riders’ hostility. Cornelos was at Recha’s side in an instant.
“Stop!” Borbin roared. He backhanded Timotio, cutting his nephew’s cheek with his gauntlet. “Stop! Sheathe your swords!”
Timotio clutched his face, his sword slapping back down into its sheathe. “Why, Si Don?” he cried.
“No one draws weapons at the conversar!” Borbin snapped.
“Especially when a marqués’s son is being guarded by the Viden de Verda,” Recha gloated.
Timotio’s face paled, save for the red streak of blood running down his cheek. Borbin’s face became stone, the eyeglass shaking in his hands.
“They make excellent sentries,” Recha explained. “Impervious to all promises of wealth or threats against family. They also make excellent questioners. So many truths to find. So many ways to find them.” She forced away her grin, making herself as cold as possible. “They are also very good at killing my enemies who I have no further use for.”
Borbin’s fingers squeaked against the eyeglass’s metal casing. The instrument groaned and trembled, as if about to spring apart. “Half of your army for—”
“I think we’ve talked enough for today.” Recha gathered up her reins, ignoring Borbin’s glare and Timotio gaping at her. “Any more would be pointless, and we both need time to think. You can send me a more sincere offer tomorrow. Preferably in the morning. I hate being kept waiting.”
Reins firmly in hand, she kicked her horse. He sprang into a gallop, and she turned him in time that his back hooves threw dirt and dust up at Timotio.
Cornelos and her guard were quick to follow and join in behind her. She left Baltazar and the other officers to return with her standard-bearer, but she wanted to be the first to return to her soldiers.
She raced back through her battle lines’ gap and ripped her hat off, sending her hair spilling out behind her.
“Stand firm, Lazornians!” she yelled. “Yell out! Let them hear you don’t give a damn about their numbers!”
A ripple of pikes slamming down into the ground flooded over the plain.
“Huzza! Mandas!” her soldiers roared. “Huzza!”
Recha galloped her horse in a circle, waving her hat and laughing as the men’s chant grew louder. Her heart boomed in her chest when she finally pulled her horse to a halt, in time to see Borbin withdrawing.
Baltazar and the rest of her retinue were returning, as well, much more orderly and professional in comparison to hers. The forward companies of infantry filled in the gap on the line behind them.
“That could have gone better,” Baltazar said lowly, frowning as he pulled up beside her.
Recha panted and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Her wet hair clung to the back of her hand. “Could it?” she gasped then laughed. “If I had to suffer through another minute of that, I was going to shot him. Or at least try.”
Baltazar looked over his shoulder at the withdrawing Orsembians. “Borbin’s not going to be in an open mood to negotiate long,” he said, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “We may only have two . . . three days at most before his patience runs out.”
Recha breathed deeper and slower. Her heart slowed. Her momentary rush of excitement faded, leaving her with a chill. “Then you best send word to Hiraldo to hurry.”