Trynne arrived at the captain’s pavilion and dismounted. One of the guards approached her.
“Orders?” he asked her, holding out his hand.
“Is Captain Staeli here?” she asked in a husky voice.
She was their lady, and yet no one recognized her. Just as her father had taught her, people were fooled by what they were conditioned to believe.
“Inside,” the guard said.
Trynne nodded and then followed him into the pavilion, not needing to duck her head at the flap because she was so short.
Staeli’s hauberk was dusty and travel-stained beneath his tunic. He wore a chain hood, as did she, and his beard was unkempt and scraggly. When he saw her, there was a little start of surprise, and then he dismissed the other soldiers in the tent.
After they were gone, he said, “I had a feeling I might see you today.”
“You know I couldn’t miss this,” she answered with a look of determination.
“It’s decent ground,” he agreed, smiling wryly. “They know we’re here, of course. They’ve waited patiently for us to arrive.” His emphasis on the word “patiently” made Trynne look at him warily. “Yes, they are waiting for us.”
“What do we know so far?” she asked. “Their ships are massive.”
“Aye. The cut of the sails is strange. I can’t imagine the speed they must get with so many masts. How they must ride the sea.”
“What else?”
Staeli folded his arms and started to pace. “Gahalatine surrounded his army with wagons. They put up the nets each evening while it’s still light.”
“Nets?” Trynne asked in confusion.
Staeli nodded. “Their army drags these spiked nets between the wagons and fastens them to the ground to impale anyone who tries to climb over. Gives them protection, you see. From a night raid. They’ve heard of Lord Owen. Their camp is disciplined. They’ve brought enough food to feed such an army. They’ve even brought docks with them! The ships come back and forth every day, rotating soldiers and bringing provisions. It’s highly organized. We’ve not seen anything like it.”
Trynne rubbed her mouth. “What about Gahalatine? Has he been seen?”
“Lady Morwenna is the only one who knows what he looks like. She’s been down in the camp and back. She says he’s there, not on the ships, but they haven’t started besieging the city yet either. After they set up camp, they’ve simply waited for us to arrive.”
That didn’t make any sense to her. “Besieging a city is no easy matter. They’ve blockaded the harbor, which prevents reinforcements from arriving by sea. I thought they would have tried to take the city before we arrived to have some defense against us.”
Staeli tapped his nose. “Lord Owen thinks they do this deliberately as a show of skill and cunning. They plan on sieging the city and attacking our army at the same time.”
The news filled her with apprehension.
“They’re going to attack us on a hill while starting a siege on Guilme?”
Staeli raised his hands. “It sounds foolhardy and a trifle overconfident, don’t you think? But it’s the only thing that makes sense. We don’t see any siege engines down in camp. No battering rams.”
“They have Wizrs,” Trynne reminded him grimly. “Many Wizrs.”
“Exactly,” Staeli said. “In other words . . . we don’t know what they are capable of. Lord Owen wants to test them, to attack them where they are instead of waiting for them to attack us. There is some secret strategy he’s betting on. He’s not telling anyone, even the king. All companies have been told to make ready at a moment’s notice. It may even happen tonight.”
Trynne squeezed her sword pommels tightly, her stomach bubbling with excitement.
Staeli continued, “I have a small tent ready for you, as you requested. I hope you’re well rested, because you probably won’t be getting much sleep. It’s up the hill but not all the way to the king’s camp at the summit. I’ll send a squire to bring you to your tent. He’ll wait on you. The lad’s name is Jerrison.”
Trynne thanked him, then couldn’t help but ask, “This hill is a really good vantage point. But why would Gahalatine have left it unprotected?”
Staeli shrugged. “We don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out soon.”
Dusk was falling as Trynne followed Jerrison up the path. The boy gripped the reins of her roan. He was about fourteen or fifteen, with sandy brown hair that was cropped close as a soldier’s. A lanky young man with smudges of dirt on his face, he chattered with her about Averanche and how much the city below reminded him of his home. He asked where she was from, but she evaded the question.