On the Black Wind to Baldairn Motte

Part 11.

The rain had ceased and the sun set, but the racket of camp activity still filled the air: fires popping, horses snorting, whores moaning, and soldiers laughing and yelling. Basilides sat alone in Toli Verk's pavilion in silent contemplation. He blocked out the surrounding din as he had been taught by the elders of Liraeus when he was a boy. His body was calm, his mind wholly focused inward. Yet, he was still aware of his surroundings and recognized the oncoming sound of the Earl coughing outside. Basilides rose and was at the ready when the Earl stumbled into the pavilion with the aid of his squire a moment later.

The Earl's face was white, and he wheezed horribly.

Basilides hurried to his medicine bag and grabbed a phial of dried mandragora root. "Have him lie down," he told the squire as he grabbed a steaming kettle from the brazier he'd prepared and filled a chalice. He crushed a section of the dried root with his fingers and sprinkled it into the vessel to steep in the hot water. "Sit up and blow away the steam, my lord, then drink down the entire draught." He placed the chalice in the Earl's right hand so that he could examine and probe the Earl's left hand. The Earl did as he was told, and though his breathing remained rapid and shallow for a few moments more, the coughing ceased.

"It's the campfires, my lord," Basilides said. "The smoke irritates your lungs and gets you to coughing."

The Earl shook his head and licked the foam from his mustache with his tongue. "No. I'll tell you what irritates me: that fool Galkmeer. And Salmund Palne—such a pompous ass I've never seen! Here I've come with an army larger than both of theirs combined, and more campaigns fought than either of them, and they mean to tell me what to do."

"Do not become overwrought or the coughing will return," Basilides warned him.

The Earl took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I stand for Galkmeer's insolence because he means to marry my daughter when he's king, but he forgets himself. Without me, he won't become king. And Palne, I don't even know what to make of him. Galkmeer's promised him something—I don't know what. The Lord Chancellor has sold out his entire kingdom before it's even his."

Basilides dug through his bag for another phial. "When you are ready to rest, my lord, let me know and I will give you something to ease your sleep."

"Not yet." The Earl got to his feet. "Fetch Bennson and all my bailiffs."

The squire bowed and scurried away, leaving the Earl to pace the pavilion. Basilides deemed it best to leave him be for the moment and returned to his corner to sit and meditate.

Chancellor Bennson arrived shortly, and the squire with the Earl's bailiffs soon afterward. They discussed their marching plans for the morning, how their lines would be ordered, who would be in charge of what contingent, how far they meant to march, what each soldier's rations would be, and dozens of other details that interested Basilides little. He ignored them and lost track of how long they continued talking. When a guard entered the tent near midnight and announced the Lord Chancellor had come to speak with the Earl, Basilides was caught as off guard as everyone else.

"Bailiffs, leave me," the Earl commanded. "You have your orders for the morning."

The bailiffs filed out. Chancellor Bennson and the Earl's squire moved to stand respectfully behind the Earl. Basilides looked to the Earl to see if he meant for him to leave too, but the Earl did not look his way.

When the bailiffs were all gone, Sturm Galkmeer, Lord Chancellor of Fairnlin, entered the pavilion. He was a tall man, with long blonde hair and angular features. His nose was sharp, his cheekbones high, and his lips slanted downward in a perpetual sneer. His thighs bulged within his trousers, and Basilides was reminded of how much lower body strength it took to command a horse while wielding a long-spear and shield. Sturm Galkmeer was a man who was built to be master of horses. He bowed his head to the Earl.