The morning over Fontechiara brought no relief from the sun, but rather a low, freezing mist that rose from the river like a drowned man's breath. Lucius woke with his temples throbbing – a common punishment for those who surrender themselves to malt liquor without the temper of years. The boy discovered, through clenched teeth and muffled groans, that if dark ale tasted like horse piss on the first gulp, the following day brought a pain that felt like the blow of a blunt axe to the back of the skull. Alistair, used to waking up with a mouth tasting of ash and iron, merely laughed at his squire's misery, shoving him into the inn's courtyard with a piece of stale bread and a mug of dusty water.
The first part of Hector Duvall's work required the cunning of a moneylender and the patience of a monk. In the livestock and timber market of Fontechiara, where men sold their souls for a handful of oxidised copper coins, Alistair made the weight of his new apparatus count. The Ferralian steel, even under the grey sky, shone with an authority that made the plump merchants swallow their fattest lies.
Spending the silver and bronze from Hector's pouch with a parsimony that would make a royal treasurer envious, Alistair selected six draught horses – beasts with thick legs, broad rumps, and hooves like millstones, capable of dragging iron through the densest mud of Ponteverde. He also acquired four ash and oak wagons, with axles reinforced with iron bands and high sideboards, ideal for hiding whatever the Brigade needed to transport. When the last coin changed hands, Alistair knew that even Hector's dog-like temper would be placated by the deal; they had secured the best skeleton for the pack's supply train without leaving the pouch entirely empty.
With the wagons creaking behind him, Flea making his short leaps, and Sarcasm walking with his usual funeral slowness, the pair headed to the old docks, the foulest quarter of the village, where warehouses of rotten fish and dry willow huddled like decayed teeth in a beggar's mouth. Hector's contact awaited them by a wooden gate eaten away by saltpetre.
From a distance, the man looked like a gutter crow. He wore an oily leather doublet so covered in stains it was impossible to decipher its original colour, and a purple scar split his lower lip, giving him the appearance of someone who had spent his youth dodging daggers in dark alleys. Alistair rested his hand on the pommel of his bastard sword, expecting the usual spit, the harsh word, or the attempt at betrayal that defined men of that breed.
However, as they drew near, the man broke into a smile that revealed perfect, white teeth – a rarity in that den of misery – and his eyes gleamed with a vivacity so warm it seemed out of place in the middle of the fog.
– Ah, the Mad Dog's lads! – the man exclaimed, his voice clear and musical, throwing his arms out as if welcoming long-lost brothers. – Hector told me he'd sent his finest iron, but he didn't mention the iron came with the light of the moon! Come in, come in, before the cold bites your bones. My name is Barnaby, and what's mine is yours, on account of the old debt I owe your captain.
Alistair blinked, his suspicion battling that torrent of friendliness. It was easier to deal with a man who showed his teeth to bite than one who showed them to smile; the former was predictable, the latter always hid a trip-up.
Barnaby pulled a heavy iron key from his belt and pushed open the warehouse's double doors. The groan of the wood echoed through the vast, dark space. Alistair stepped forward, his chest full of expectation. He expected the smell of sulphur and saltpetre that accompanied black powder; he expected to see the dull glint of bronze from hand-cannons or the imposing silhouette of a bombard that would make Viscount Lorenzo's walls tremble. His soldier's heart beat faster at the prospect of possessing the fire that decided the fate of kingdoms.
But when his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom of the warehouse, bathed in the light filtering through the cracks in the roof, reality revealed itself in an entirely different form.
There were no powder barrels. There were no crates of bolts or cast-iron swords. In the centre of the floor, sitting on straw bales and empty crates, was a large group of women. There were about two dozen of them, all wearing cheap linen tunics in gaudy colours – faded crimson, saffron-yellow, and bottle-green – many of them with their faces painted with too much white powder and carmine on their lips to disguise the marks of time and a hard life. The air in the warehouse didn't smell of war, but rather of cheap lavender perfume, female sweat, and the sweet smoke of some herbs burning in a clay brazier.
Upon seeing Alistair enter, some let out shrill giggles, others sized up the breadth of his shoulders with experienced glances, and one of them, a red-haired woman with a scar across her cleavage, winked at him with a brazenness that would make a novice flee to the sept.
Alistair froze. His jaw dropped slightly, and the disappointment hit him with the force of a punch to the stomach. He looked at the wagons outside, then at the court of women, and finally at Barnaby, who was still grinning as if he'd presented the greatest treasure in the world.
– What the... – Alistair cleared his throat, trying to find the words and the dignity that his steel demanded. – What am I supposed to do with... them? Barnaby, Hector spoke of specialised cargo. Where are the war engines? Where is the fire the Brigade needs?
Barnaby let out a melodious laugh, giving Alistair's bracer a friendly pat, his eyes gleaming with a mocking amusement that made the mercenary grit his teeth.
– Oh, my dear swordsman, you look but you do not see – the contact said, leaning into Alistair as if sharing a state secret. – These are no ordinary dockside brothel women. No, no! What you have before you is the invisible vanguard of any campaign that intends to last more than a moon. They are specialists in male morale-raising, operating at all hours of the day and night to ensure the soldiers don't lose their edge, that the blood stays hot, and that homesickness doesn't weaken the arm holding the spear.
The man took a step toward the group, making a theatrical bow.
– An army without women is an army of sour men who end up biting each other like rabid dogs in a closed kennel, and Hector knows it. Lorenzo may have Solterra's gold, but we... we have the girls of Fontechiara. They wash the laundry, heal minor wounds with their salves, and ensure that, even on the eve of death, a man feels like a king for a copper coin. Pack them into your spacious wagons, Alistair, and you'll see that the Brigade's soldiers will march to the Underworld with smiles on their lips if they know what awaits them in camp when night falls.
The journey to the north of Campofiorito began with the heavy creaking of wooden axles and the murmur of two dozen female voices rising from the wagons like the chirping of birds in a dense forest. Alistair, mounted on Sarcasm with the rigidity of a man marching to his own execution, felt the weight of every gaze from the village folk who watched them pass. The steel of his shield, which once seemed a promise of glory and bards' songs, now served only to reflect his new and humiliating reality: the 'master of war' had turned into the dry-nurse of a travelling brothel, his face still flushed with a youth-like shame whenever a louder laugh echoed from the ash sideboards.
However, the road has its own way of wearing down pride and shaping flesh. As the alleys of Fontechiara were left behind, replaced by barley fields waving under the cold wind and a grey sky threatening rain, the tension began to dissipate like morning mist.
Alistair began to overhear the women's conversations, and what he heard changed the taste of the sour wine in his mouth. Those women, whom he had initially judged to be mere flesh for the soldiers' delight, carried scars that no armour could ever protect. There was the sad-eyed girl whose parents had been put to the sword by Solterran mercenaries; another who had fled a forced marriage to a violent tanner who had broken her teeth; and a third, older, whose children had been taken by the grey fever in a single moon, leaving her with nothing but the clothes on her back and the need to survive in a world that spits on the weak. They were stories of hunger, of iron, and of losses that would make the hardest of knights weep beneath his steel visor.
The women, for their part, didn't take long to see through the farce behind Alistair's apparatus. They were highly amused by his 'noble protector' posture, his chin held high and a poetic hand resting on the pommel of his sword. To them, this mercenary covered in a patchwork of polished metal and carrying a shield that shone like moonlight was an exotic creature – a ferocious bear trying to pretend he was a royal falcon. They spent their time weaving mocking praises to him, fixing the pleats of his filthy doublet with nimble fingers, and polishing his plates with mutton fat while sharing obscene jokes that nearly made Lucius fall out of his saddle.
The night began to stretch its mantle of shadows over the hills when the group halted the wagons by a row of ancient oaks to set up camp. The smell of woodsmoke and turnip stew began to drift through the freezing air.
Alistair was sitting on a fallen log, busy running a whetstone along the edge of his dagger, when three of the women approached with light steps. At the front was the redhead, whose green eyes gleamed with the malice of a fox in a henhouse, flanked by two girls in faded crimson tunics. They hemmed the mercenary in with a proximity that smelled of lavender and hot sweat, cutting off any line of escape.
The redhead leaned forward, her generous cleavage almost brushing Alistair's iron shoulder, and fixed her gaze on the warrior's face with an impudent curiosity that would make a general hesitate on the battlefield.
– Sir Knight – she began, her voice low and drawling like heather honey –, you have the brightest steel in the province and the bearing of a conqueror of cities, but the girls and I have a dispute that only a man of your breed can settle. It's the ultimate question of the road.
Alistair stopped the motion of the stone on the blade, feeling a familiar shiver down his spine.
– Speak up, then – he replied, trying to keep his voice deep like a man-at-arms. – If it's about the road north, I've already told you that...
– It's not about roads, my lord – the redhead interrupted with a smile that revealed the tip of her tongue between her teeth. – We want to know what kind of warrior you are when the iron falls. Tell us, Sir Knight: are you a man who prefers tits or arse?
The world seemed to stop for Alistair, who froze as if he'd been run through by an ice lance from the highest mountains of Ferralia. The dagger almost slipped from his calloused fingers. He looked at the three faces waiting for his answer with ruthless expectation, and then at Lucius, who was pretending to be very busy watering Flea, but whose shoulder was trembling with suppressed laughter.
Alistair cleared his throat, making a dry sound that felt like the creak of a rusty hinge. He looked at the dagger in his hand, then at the redhead's cleavage, and finally blurted out with the raw, forced honesty of a man confessing his sins on his deathbed:
– Tits – he muttered, his voice an octave lower than his usual battle roar.
The answer worked a miracle of merriment in the camp. The women erupted into crystalline laughter, clapping their hands with an enthusiasm that would make a troupe of court jugglers envious. The redhead let out a cheeky whistle and gave Alistair's burning cheek a fond pat before walking away with the others, sharing the verdict with the rest of the girls in the wagons.
– A man of classic tastes! – one of them shouted from the back, drawing more laughter from the convoy.
Alistair buried his head between his shoulders, staring hard at Sarcasm's hooves. On the other side of the brazier, sitting on a supply crate, Lucius watched his mentor's capitulation with a sly grin splitting his pale face. The boy wiped his mouth with the back of his hands, his eyes sparking with the boldness that the road and the previous night's ale had given him.
– Tell me, Alistair – Lucius threw out, his voice laden with a wicked innocence –, you talk with such authority... but have you ever actually seen a pair of tits? Or is it just another of those stories you make up for the bards?
The women went quiet for a moment, their glances jumping from the boy to the warrior. Alistair drew himself up in his imaginary saddle, his wounded dignity screaming louder than his shame.
– Of course I bloody have, you little bastard! – Alistair snarled, lunging his arm out with the speed of a striking viper and delivering a well-aimed flick to the boy's forehead. The snap echoed through the camp. – I've seen plenty of pairs! More than the teeth you've got in that wolf-mouth of yours. Lords' women, innkeepers' daughters, dancers from Solterra... my life wasn't just spent at the bottom of a mug or staring at iron, you hear?
Lucius put his hand to his forehead, where a red mark was beginning to rise, but the sting didn't wipe the mockery from his eyes. With the agility of someone who had learned to dodge blows in dark alleys, the boy stepped forward, stretched his fingers, and returned the favour with a sharp and surprisingly hard flick right in the middle of Alistair's forehead.
The mercenary blinked, surprise freezing his movements, while Lucius took a step back, baring his teeth in a triumphant laugh.
– Your mother's and your sister's tits don't count, Alistair! – the boy retorted, his voice echoing through the canopy of the oaks.
The camp exploded. The girls doubled over on the straw bales, clutching their bellies from laughing so hard, and even the red-haired woman had to lean against a trunk so she wouldn't fall into the mud, her tears of amusement wiping the white powder from her cheeks.
Alistair tried to straighten his doublet, crossing his arms over his cuirass with the solemnity of a dethroned king, but the patchwork of his armour now looked like nothing more than a jester's costume. He glanced sideways at Lucius, who was still laughing with his arms hanging loose, and then up at the sky where Aurelia's first stars were beginning to peek through the cold clouds.