“The Eika?” Hathui asked. “They are barbarians. One chieftain might strike and lay waste along the coast, but I recall how Count Lavastine held them off with his local milites. A strong Wendish and Varren resistance will beat them back.”

“Perhaps,” said Sanglant. “It bears watching.”

“There is so much we do not know,” murmured Liath, “and it will be more difficult to learn now that we are blind.”

2

WHEN they stopped at nightfall, Hanna left her guards while they argued over whether or not to set up a tent for the night, and staggered over to a trickling stream. In the midst of a crowd of hot, thirsty, complaining Arethousan soldiers she splashed water on her face and slurped down as much as she could hold in her cupped hands. Soon the water became murky from so many stamping through the shallows. A man slammed into her shoulder as he pushed forward toward the stream. He muttered a curse, looked at her once, then a second time, and called to his fellows.

“The Wendish bitch! See here! She’s slipped her leash.”

All at once a half dozen of them pressed back from the water to encircle her. She had overreached because her thirst had driven her forward rashly. She turned her wrists in toward her body to grip the chain, ready to use it as a weapon.

Sergeant Bysantius appeared beside her with a quirt. “Back! Back!” he cried as he slashed left and right, driving the soldiers away from her.

Her heart was still racing, and her mouth had gone dry, so she pretended to a calmness she did not feel as she sat back on her heels and wiped her forehead as well as she could with her wrists manacled. “I thank you, Sergeant.”

He raised one eyebrow, then pointed behind her with the quirt. “I didn’t come for you. See, there. General Lord Alexandros waters his horses.”

They marched these days through dry, hilly countryside devoid of habitation. This stream poured out of a ravine. Except at this ford, its banks were too steep for horses to drink. Muttering, the soldiers headed back to camp.

“Up!” Sergeant Bysantius grabbed her elbow and pulled her upright. “Out of the way.”

She shook her arm out of his grasp before he could lead her away. The chain that bound her ankles allowed her to walk but not run, and she was unable to avoid the rush of horses brought to the stream by the general’s grooms. Alexandros himself rode a chestnut mare with a pale gold coat. His entire string had chestnut coats, most pale and a few richly dark in shade. He pulled up, dismounted, and tossed his reins to a groom before walking over to Sergeant Bysantius.

“Sergeant, bring the Eagle to me at my tent.”

“Yes, my lord general.”

He strode away with a dozen men swarming in attendance.

“He has no need to crawl for a taste of water as the rest of us do,” she said bitterly to the sergeant. “He has wine to drink while his soldiers go thirsty.”

Bysantius scratched his cheek. “He has earned his rank and his privileges. He’s no better born than half these men.”

She laughed. “How can that be? He is a lord.”

“A man who commands an army is likely to be addressed as ‘lord,’ I’m thinking. Even by those who were born under a canopy boasting the imperial star. Especially if they need the men and weapons he can bring to their cause.”

“The exalted Lady Eudokia needs him in order to raise her nephew to become emperor?”

He shrugged. “A strong hand rules where weaker hands sow only chaos. Come.”

She followed up along the dusty ground on the trail of the lord general, now vanished into the glut of wagons, horses, milling troops, and canvas tents that marked the camp. Every night the camp was set up in the exact same order, every tent sited in relation to the emperor’s tent according to its inhabitants’ rank, position, and importance to the royal child. This night, they had halted in the middle of what had once been a village.

Three brick hovels stood in the midst of a dozen ancient olive trees, but the tiny hamlet appeared abandoned, perhaps yesterday, perhaps one hundred years ago. In this dry country it was impossible to tell.

Bysantius paced himself so as not to get ahead of her. Over the last ten or so days she had accustomed herself to the chains so that she could walk without stumbling.

“I thank you,” she repeated.

“For what kindness?” he asked, almost laughing.

“For saving me from whatever unkindness I might have suffered from those soldiers.”

“The general wants you unharmed. You’re no use to him dead.”

She was, apparently, no use to him living, but she forbore to say it, knowing it foolish to remind her captors that they might be better off saving for their own men the bit of food they fed to her each day. “Is it true of all of you, that you serve the lord general and not the exalted lady?”