Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11)

Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11) Page 228

A thick snake of men ten and twelve abreast spanned the Queen’s Plaza, now, stretching out of sight in both directions, horsemen in helmets and breastplates alternating with men in every sort of helmet imaginable carrying shouldered halberds, most wearing mail shirts or jerkins sewn with steel discs and only rarely a breastplate, each group large or small headed by the banner of its House. Or the banner of a mercenary company. The sell-swords would have too many watchers to try slacking off today. Minus the crossbowmen and archers, there would be close on twelve thousand men in that column, two thirds of them mounted. How many would be dead before noon? She pushed that thought out of her mind. She needed every one of them to convince the Sea Folk. Any man who died today could die as easily on the wall tomorrow. Every man of them had come to Caemlyn prepared to die for Elayne.

At the head of the column were better than a thousand Guardsmen, helmets and breastplates gleaming in the sun, steel-tipped lances slanted precisely, the first of them waiting behind the banner of Andor, the rearing White Lion on a field of scarlet, and Elayne’s banner, the Golden Lily on blue, at the edge of one of Caemlyn’s many parks. It had been a park, anyway, but oaks hundreds of years old had been cut down and hauled away along with all the other trees and the flowering bushes, their roots dug out to clear a smooth space a hundred paces wide. The graveled paths and grassy ground had long since been trampled to mud by hooves and boots. Three other parks around the palace had received the same treatment, to make places for weaving gateways.

Guybon and Dyelin were already there, along with all the lords and ladies who had answered Elayne’s call, from young Perival Mantear to Brannin Marfan and his wife, all mounted. Perival wore helmet and breastplate like every other male present. Brannin’s were plain and dull and slightly dented where the armorer’s hammer had failed its task, tools of his trade as surely as the plain-hiked sword scabbarded at his side. Perival’s were as gilded as Conail’s and Branlet’s, worked with the silver Anvil of Mantear where theirs were lacquered with Northan’s Black Eagles and Gilyard’s Red Leopards. Pretty armor, for being seen in. Birgitte hoped the women had sense enough to keep those boys out of any fighting. Looking at some of those women’s faces, grim and determined, she hoped they had sense enough to stay clear themselves. At least none was wearing a sword. The simple truth was, a woman had to be more skilled than a man to face him with a sword. Stronger arms made too much difference, otherwise. Much better to use a bow.

The Windfinders were grimacing as they shifted their bare feet uneasily on ground still muddy from yesterday’s downpour. Wet, they were more than accustomed to, but not mud.

“This man will not tell me where the gateway is to reach,” Chanelle said furiously, pointing to Guybon as Birgitte dismounted. “I want to be done so I can wash my feet.”

“My Lady!” a woman’s voice called from back down the street. “My Lady Birgitte!” Reene Harfor came running up the line of Guardsmen, her red skirts held high, exposing her stockinged legs to the knee. Birgitte did not think she had ever seen the woman so much as trot. Mistress Harfor was one of those women who always did everything perfectly. Every time they met she made Birgitte conscious of every last mistake she herself had ever made. Two men in red-and-white livery were running behind her, carrying a litter between them. When they came closer, Birgitte saw that it held a lanky, helmetless Guardsman with an arrow piercing his right arm and another jutting from his right thigh. Blood trickled down both shafts, so he left a thin trail of drops on the paving stones. “He insisted on being brought to you or Captain Guybon immediately, my Lady,” Mistress Harfor said breathlessly, fanning herself with one hand.

The young Guardsman struggled to sit up until Birgitte pressed him back down. “Three or four companies of mercenaries are attacking the Far Madding Gate, my Lady,” he said, pain wracking his face and tinging his voice. “From inside the city, I mean. They placed archers to shoot anyone who tried to wave the signal flags for help, but I managed to get away, and my horse lasted just long enough.”

Birgitte growled an oath. Cordwyn. Gomaisen and Bakuvun would be among them, she was ready to wager. She should have pressed Elayne to put them out of the city as soon as they made their demands. She did not realize she had spoken aloud until the wounded Guardsman spoke up.

“No, my Lady. Leastwise, not Bakuvun. Him and a dozen or so of his men dropped by to toss . . . uh, to pass the time, and the lieutenant figures they’re the only reason we’ve managed to hold on. If they are still holding. They were using battering rams on the tower doors when I looked back. But there’s more, my Lady. There’s men massing in Low Caemlyn outside the gates. Ten thousand, maybe twice that. Hard to tell, the way those streets twist.”

Birgitte winced. Ten thousand men would be enough to carry an assault from the outside whether or not the mercenaries were held off unless she sent everything, and she could not. What in the Light was she to do? Burn her, she could plan a raid to rescue someone from a fortress or scout in country held by the enemy with confidence that she knew what she was doing, but this was a battle, with the fate of Caemlyn and maybe the throne in the balance. Still, she had it to do. “Mistress Harfor, take this man back to the palace and see his wounds tended, please.” There was no point in asking the Windfinders for Healing. They had already made it clear that was taking part in the war, in their view. “Dyelin, leave me all of the horse and a thousand halberdmen. You take the rest and all of the crossbowmen and archers available. And every man you can scrape together who can hold a sword. If the gate is still holding when the Kinswomen get you there, make sure it continues to hold. If it’s fallen, take it back. And hold that bloody wall till I can get there.”

“Very well,” Dyelin said as if those were the easiest orders in the world to carry out. “Conail, Catalyn, Branlet, Perival, you come with me. Your foot will fight better with you there.” Conail looked disappointed, no doubt seeing himself riding in a gallant charge, but he gathered his reins and whispered something that made the two younger boys chuckle.

“So will my horse fight better,” Catalyn protested. “I want to help rescue Elayne.”

“You came to help her secure the throne,” Dyelin said sharply, “and you’ll go where you’re needed to see to that, or you and I will have another talk later.” Whatever that meant, Catalyn’s plump face reddened, but she sullenly followed Dyelin and the o