Tales of Noon - Baroness Velsina

1.1 The Baroness

The mercenary camp was a brownish stain against the snow. The tents stood in evenly spaced rows, following the scheme of an ancient Tifernian castra. A wooden palisade protected the camp from attacks and the icy winds blowing from the Cimmerean Mountains. On the south side, temporary stables had been built for horses, mules and Cardargs. Not far away, a long leather tent had been raised with smoking camp ovens. The captain's tent was in the centre, recognisable rather by its size than a banner. There were no visible trenches to the naked eye, but these should have been covered by braided branches, dirt, and the latest snowfall.

"Stay on the road," the woman ordered in a stentorian voice, pressing her heels into the mare's sides.

As she got closer, she appreciated what she was seeing. Guards flanked the entrances to the camp, or surveyed the surroundings from atop wooden turrets four by four. Two groups of mercenaries faced each other just outside the palisade, while another handful practised Dalibaïan martial movements, so coordinated that they resembled a dance.

The Chaldean Falcons were lightly armed for mobility, and their foot soldiers were the best that gold could buy. In a pitched battle they needed the support of close-order infantry, of course, but their skill in small-scale warfare had earned them the nickname "Horseflies". This was only possible thanks to the strict discipline imposed by their founder and captain, Elgen Arnot.

Many considered him little more than a bastard, given the caste disparity between his father and mother, a Dalibaïan woman who was married morganatically during his two years of exile in a foreign land. The young Elgen Arnot had received an excellent education, albeit focused on the profession of arms. At the age of fourteen he entered the service of Gione the Malaspina and distinguished himself in the third battle of Gerasene. After the end of the War of the Seven Pretenders, Elgen Arnot and a few companions sought their fortune in Bal'avash, Dalibaï and Dwerissi. The report was vague about the time spent in foreign lands, but it was undeniable that they had been formative years for the future condottiere. He returned to Vernolia following the death of his paternal uncle, securing his half-brother's victory in the fight for the succession. According to the report, the new Duke of Griewiel did not appreciate the debt of honour owed to his half-brother.

"Halt! Who goes there?!" Someone shouted from a turret.

The knight on the woman's right stood up. "The Baroness of Volshi requests to meet your captain!"

Beyond the palisade, someone ordered to alert the captain at once. Shortly after, the Baroness entered the camp, watching without turning her head. The mercenaries looked at her with curiosity, some making an awkward bow, others standing proud and defiant as she passed. They were not dirty and did not seem in poor health. Many had the savage roughness of a peasant who had lost everything but the will to survive; others had noble features beaten down by the discipline and rigour of their profession.

They stopped in front of the captain's tent, and the Baroness did not wait for him to come out or for her knights to help her. The agility with which she dismounted her horse sparked new murmurs that added to those due to her riding like a man.

"Her Grace, the Baroness of Volshi!" the knight announced, pulling back the flaps of the tent to let her in.

"One moment—"

The Baroness turned her head to one side to give the captain the requisite privacy to fasten his breeches.

A chessboard sat on the table, a game still in progress. She recognised the De Bello Agaranico by Numna Aclinus, one of the greatest Tifernian generals. The eight books were flanked by rolls of parchment, from which hung wooden labels with Dalibaïan characters. A salamander dozed in an earthenware tripod, its heat warming a black metal pot.

"I apologise for the state of my attire, Your Grace," the Captain said, his voice deep and stentorian, albeit tinged with embarrassment.

His stance was straight; his shoulders were broad and even. The sclera of his eyes looked uniformly white, as was the dark brown of his hair, short but thick at the temples. The lips were a shade rosier than the skin; the neck was strong but not thick. The damp shirt revealed the rippling muscles of his torso and abdomen, and the hairless chest in the manner of eunuchs or Bal'avashi warriors. If the Baroness had to find one flaw in Captain Elgen Arnot's appearance, it was the lack of smallpox scars.

"It is I who ought to apologise for this unannounced visit," the Baroness replied graciously. "It seemed fitting to thank you in person for the help you gave to the inhabitants of Tolera."

The thanks were an unexpected excuse to visit the camp unannounced. She intended to see for herself whether the report on Elgen Arnot and his Falcons was true. Time was running out and she could not afford to make a mistake again.

"We have only complied with The Baron your father's conditions imparted to us; may he enjoy Elanne's resplendent image." The Captain barely bowed his head in devotion to the Saint and respect for the deceased. Then he added, pointing to a camp chair. "May I be so bold as to beg the honour to be my guest, Your Grace?"

The Baroness tightened her lips. The days were still short and if she overstayed her welcome at the camp, she would return to Esètra after dark. A still steaming tub behind him, half-hidden by a curtain, was an excuse not to impose herself further. She pointed at it with her chin.

"I wouldn't want you to get sick from a cold bath," she said.

The Captain's laugh wasn't raucous, vulgar or mocking, but had a pleasant sound that encouraged people to smile.

"I was almost done. Even so, Chinjüü would have heated the water again." He added a sentence in Dalibaïan, in a coddling voice, smiling at the salamander who replied with a little blaze.

The Baroness shifted her weight from one foot to the other. If her time was short, she also had to give her men enough time to observe and gather information in the camp. She thanked the Captain and sat down, expecting a steward to be called to bring some refreshments. Instead, the Captain took off the pot lid and poured some milk from the height of two good spans in it. He added white sugar—a luxury, probably, to please her--and finally poured the drink into two bowls.

The Baroness thanked him and took the bowl with both hands, imitating the captain's gestures.

The tannic bitterness of the boiled tea was tempered by the creamy smoothness of the milk, but the saltiness of the drink took her by surprise. She did her best to swallow her drink out of politeness, without coughing or showing disgust. Captain Arnot, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy every sip - 'there's no arguing with taste', to quote a Tifernian proverb. The Baroness placed the bowl on the desk, hoping that one sip would be enough not to offend her host.

The Captain tightened his lips into a smile. "You are not the only one in Vernolia who do not like Suute Tsai. Still, it only requires getting used to it."

"As with Cardarg blood sausage: many are disgusted by its appearance," she replied, nodding and glad to find understanding.

For a moment, she wondered if she had made the mistake of letting the conversation stall. Captain Arnot stood up and took from a nearby trunk a bottle and goblet of brown glass, and a lacquered wooden box.

"These should fit your taste," he said, pouring her some fortified wine and handing her some spiced sweetmeats.

The Baroness forced herself to sip the wine and take only one pastry, though the desire to cleanse her mouth was great.

"What can I do for you, Your Grace?"