Free The Two of Swords: Part 5 by K. J. Parker Page A

horse and followed the road, the last leg of the intolerable journey. Against regulations for the commander-in-chief to go wandering off without a half-company of cavalry at the very least, but he was sick to death of soldiers. Besides, if he brought them home with him, he’d have to feed them and find them beds, and that sort of thing quickly ran into money. He could picture her face as he told her that she had thirty men and thirty-six horses to cater for. He grinned. Screw regulations.
    From the Joy to Chastel, four hours, or three if you thrash it. He made it in just over two. That was, after all, the Belot way – get there fast and unexpected, get in and do the job. Well, quite.
    Just starting to get dark as he rode through the main gate. The hedges were badly overgrown, and there were clumps of shoulder-high nettles on either side of the drive. A few sheep in the park; the grass had been grazed away to nothing, but he wasn’t sure if that was all right with sheep. He smiled. She wanted him to be a farmer when he was at home, and he’d tried, but it was no good, it just wouldn’t stick. The rails beside the track needed patching up, he noticed. You turn your back for five minutes and the place goes all to hell.
    There was a lamp in the stables, so he called out as he dismounted. The door opened and a groom he knew by sight came out and stared at him. “Flying visit,” he said, handing over the reins. The groom looked at him as though God had manifested Himself in the stable yard and was expecting him to work overtime. He turned and walked across the yard to the back door, three days of ridiculously fast riding catching up with him in a matter of seconds. Damn, he thought, I’m going to creak about like an old man. How attractive is that?
    The back door was unlocked, which annoyed him. He lifted the latch, taking care not to make any noise, swung the door slowly open and slid inside. Just the one oil lamp glowing in the kitchen passage, bless her economical heart. He walked on the sides of his feet, as if he was stalking deer in a forest. At this time of day, where would she be?
    “Hello, Forza,” she said. “Had a good time at the war?”
    He spun round. She must’ve come out of the small pantry (but the door had been closed and there was no light showing under it). She was wearing one of those godawful tent-like nightdresses and carrying a candle in a plain pottery holder. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m home.”
    One brief, crisp kiss; that was the rule. She swept past him, down the passage and into the small parlour, where four of the sixteen candles were lit and a fire was burning in the hearth. He sat down in the larger of the two chairs, the ornate monstrosity his father had given them as a wedding present. It looked awful, but it was profoundly comfortable. She poured water from the kettle simmering on the hearth into a blue porcelain teapot, then turned to look at him. Her eyes were shining. “Well?” she said.
    He allowed himself a pause, then a slow grin. “You’ll never guess,” he said.
    With an incredibly swift movement – that knack she had of sort of flowing, like a liquid – she sat on his knees and kissed him till his head began to swim. Then she said, “
Well?
”
    “Meet the new commander-in-chief of the Blemyan army,” he said. “Well,” he added, “one of them, anyway.”
    It was worth all of it just to see the look on her face. “You’re joking.”
    “I’m not.” He darted a kiss at her, but she was too quick for him. “It’s all official,” he said. “Me and one other.”
    He was looking at her mouth. Usually when he did that, she’d say “Stop it” with a mock scowl. “Not—”
    “Oh yes.” He loved it when he was able to surprise her. “It’s going to be interesting,” he said.
    She slipped out of his lap, stood up, crossed to the fireplace and threw on another log. He didn’t mind that; it gave him a chance to look at her properly. He loved