Lavastine had been staring eastward, examining the city, which was now almost lost in a haze made of equal parts river mist and twilight. His smile was as thin as the gleam of the distant river. “You will attend the council as befits a young lord who will one day hold great responsibility as the Count of Lavas.” When he used this tone, Alain knew better than to argue.
They walked together back to the pavilion, where the captains of his army waited for him under the awning. Lavastine sat and motioned to Alain to sit in the camp chair at his right. Everyone else remained standing, even Lord Geoffrey, whose bland gaze made Alain nervous.
Alain studied the men and one woman ranged before them. Lavastine’s captain stood steady at the count’s left side, of course, a trustworthy man and a good soldier. Lord Geoffrey had acquitted himself honorably at his cousin’s side two years ago when they turned back the Eika threat on the northwest coast; surely he would do as much now, when the stakes were so high. Lord Wichman had months of experience fighting these Eika, but he was reckless and arrogant and chafed under Lavastine’s rule—and yet under Lavastine’s rule he remained. Biscop Constance’s captain, sent in her place, was a son of the Countess of Autun; Lord Dedi was a man near to Lavastine’s age, weary-looking, laconic, and with a sure hand over his soldiers. Duchess Liutgard of Fesse had sent a distant cousin with a troop of mounted cavalry; this young woman had a glance like the edge of a sword and had gotten in at least three fist-fights on the way here, once breaking the nose of a drunken young lord—one of Wichman’s retainers—who had asked her why she fought instead of bred. Alain suspected that Lord Wichman admired her, although of course he could not importune a noblewoman with as little thought for the consequences as he could a freeholder’s daughter.
Several sergeants who commanded units of milites, freeholders massed as infantry, stood in the background. One slapped at a fly.
Lavastine whistled, and the great black hounds padded forward. Old Terror draped himself over the count’s feet while Ardent, Bliss, Fear, and Steadfast thrust their muzzles into his hands seeking a pat on the head before they finally settled down. Sorrow and Rage sat on either side of Alain, and Good Cheer lay down heavily on Alain’s boots. Arrayed so, they presented a formidable entourage.
The count glanced at Alain, then set his hands on his mail-clad knees, silent for a moment as he met the gaze of each of the captains standing in his council. Stout-hearted, or at least foolhardy, none of them flinched from that gaze … only Alain.