The Line don’t like it in principle. The Wapentake’s untroubled by the particulars. Even the three-days-of-spectral-screams particulars. If we’d stopped what ate Reems, there’d not have been much of us left. If we hadn’t, there’d be nothing at all. The First Commonweal always had another brigade to send until the hell-things kept coming through where the river shifted to flow around their corpses.
Acriasias keeps looking polite. Nought but polite.
“You must work with Glyph. You might work with Ongen.” There’s a list of everybody with a service oath. Glyph’s a complete fussbudget. Glyph’s a considerable namer talent. A fussbudget namer is just the person to manage what list the Shape regards. Glyph looks uneasy every time I hand them the attested list of those now warranted.
“Glyph is not — ” and Acriasias runs into the limits of politeness with a force that closes their jaw.
“Glyph doesn’t frighten you. That’s personal, that’s not policy.”
This is the wrong dress for large motions. It’s helping my temper.
“These … robust persons … do not frighten you?”
“Shadow — ” such a flinch — “taught one of Eirene’s children how to knit. They’re both left-handed.”
“Meaning I have less courage than a child?” Control over offence.
“Meaning you are so caught up in possibility as to forget the Power gives us what we believe.”
Implication’s not enough. “The Great Mother of Spiders’ material presence has found itself with the goddesses of Destruction, Victory, and Death as grandchildren. With another grandchild whose talent is rule, much as Halt’s. With the union of victory and rule presenting as something that passeth understanding, and with the whims of life made neither flesh nor mortal.” Pause, so Acriasias has time to start listening again. Could have said ‘fond of unicorns’. Wouldn’t help Acraisais. “We cannot compel them to be peaceful. We should be idiots to try.” As is factual of anyone.
“Cannot?”
Doesn’t know it.
“Peace is a choice; compel that choice, it’s conquest. Much as it must be Shadow to notice rule hath no place in the Peace, and make it fair beginnings. Compel the whole team, together in their wrath? Victory and Destruction are sisters, to be fought by thrice-regarded necessity sole of cause.” Destruction ate the thing that ate Reems, themself, without help. I wiggle my glass in the air. ‘Sober to secure’ is not tonight. “If the Wapentake had ten battalions and signas that wouldn’t melt, we could fight them even for Power.”
“This does not distress you.” It distresses Acraisais.
“They wish to be peaceful.” I put up a hand, because I will not have Acraisais say “But they’re sorcerers”. Given a moment, they realize, and the thought changes to one that’s not struggling for voice. “They wish to go on as they have been, our comrades, one shoulder-companion each among the din.”
Careful, Duckling.
“The Power compels you to exalt yourself. The Power does not abide disuse. The Power does not compel rule.” If it compelled rule, Laurel could not have walked away. “Name me any pre-eminent in the Bad Old Days who was trusted or loved. Name me another who was safe in their home.” I’m smiling a strange smile. Can’t do it with a mirror, but I know the strange smiles when they happen. “The Twelve, Laurel beat them and we bound them; Peace or death. Submission of the defeated is no new thing in the world. Pre-eminents in the mess line might be leadership. Pre-eminents disadvantaged for promotion?” and I stop, because Acraisais isn’t a full clerk. They’re looking overset.
My refill shows up. Acraisais gets up and comes back with a jug of water, arm much stiffer than the weight of the water requires. Stiffer pouring, too.
“Signaller,” and there’s a composing pause. “Do you mean to say there is no risk from having independents serve in the Line? ”
“You’re thinking they’re smarter than we are. You’re thinking there’s a cultural risk.” Saying “Anybody is a risk with a battle-standard” would be factual, not helpful.
Acraisais manages a polite nod before half their mug of water goes away in two swallows.
“Not Meek nor Brisket are particular-sharp. Sergeant-majors need be notable steady, and they’re both that. We trust their judgement of those with warrants of commission.” Attempt to make my tone more gentle. “Even about someone like Weasel, who is excessive-sharp.” Not too sharp to listen to Meek, or Half. You want a part-captain like that, for surprises. “Shadow measures their wits by Halt, and believes themself incapable.”
Shadow does as they’re told. It don’t extend outside the Line. An it did, we’d worry.
I drink my refill in no particular hurry. Past halfway when Acraisais’ face stops being trammelled by their thoughts.
“Why doesn’t an independent overwhelm the focus-mind?” Acraisais’ been rehearsing in their head.
“Most independents lack the strength.” To overwhelm by superiority of Power. Clarity of understanding anyone could have. “Someone like Captain Blossom’s not the whole. The whole and the focus multiplier’d melt the standard.” Experiment’s been avoided.
Avoid assumption sounds in my own voice. Used to be Radish. “Ever used a focus?”
“Infrequently.”
Never part of a team. “An active battalion focus approximates a person. Working focuses don’t.” Shrugging in this dress does things inappropriate to the present conversation. It’s going to have to cope. “That person’s not precisely a sorcerer, but full-mighty. Shadow was there themself so the First’s focus may have its judgement of Shadow.”
Startlement shines through Acraisais’ attempted composure. “Does such a judgement exist?”
I nod once.
Acraisais makes a plausibly decorous ‘and this judgement might be?’ hand motion.
“The Line’s judgement of those who serve in it is not provided to those who do not themselves so serve.”
“Should Parliament ask?”
“Parliament would know the precedent.” Parliament’s concern is the Peace. “Parliament might wish to make a law forbidding independents Line service.”
Acraisais looks suffused. “Parliament has recent example of exemplary service.”
“Blossom and Eugenia set lasting examples.” More flinching. Ought to care, but don’t. Offically-a-student Eugenia’s certain death, well, so is everyone’s, if you wait long enough. The Invasion of the Eastern Waste should have gone far worse than it did. Nobody in Parliament is going to vote to remove either of them from the Line. “The Line would prefer to regularize the positions of Fire and Shadow, who have undertaken a posture of defence.” Down the south end of the Second Valley, because we haven’t a battalion to send. Or an expectation that a battalion would be enough if the Sea People come that way. Halt’s there, Fire’s team’s there. Past enough for what came last time.
Won’t get anywhere if this half-clerk won’t think.
“Know the functional commonality of allergies?”
“Inappropriate immune response.” Acraisais’ face startles quietly.
“Think of the Line as skin. It’s there to get in the way.”
That could be thinking.
“You contend that Parliament has an allergy to independents?”
“The way wreaking teams are going, someone’s going to wind up ordered to make a metabolic transition.”
That’s thinking. More than I’d expected.
“I am doubtful of my recollection,” Acraisais says. “Does not the requirement rest on sanity?”
“How much time you spend using your immaterial mind.” Take a breath, say this calmly. “The armoury model’s spreading. Time was, a wreaking-team did every step. Half-day in a décade using the Power was a lot. Now there’s teams who perform a wreaking daily. There’s section leads on the East Bank Refinery main focus doing as much.”
Acraisais pours themselves another glass of water. “So much as that?” It’s something of a compose
d gesture. “There have been village sorcerers as long as there has been a Commonweal.”
“All charm workers.” Shouldn’t get a refill. Going to finish the glass; cider tastes better before being cruel. “For the ilk of Creeks, sustaining output near capacity means an external construction of the Power. Doesn’t matter if it’s a banner or a refinery section.”
The internal-style wreaking teams have restricted scope. Tankard gave Slow an analysis; Slow gave it to me to check as part of qualifying for a warrant of commission. Check and expand; Tankard didn’t take it past this year’s supply of pointy sticks.
Acraisais produces a whiff of something bitter and green and crushed, none material. Their voice only barely manages to be. “The Power seeks to exalt.”
Something of a rally. “Wouldn’t this happen with battle-standards?”
“It does. Sometimes a battalion has to kill somebody.” Their full-captain, often enough. Worsens the retirement odds.
That might be more sad than shocked. “How much of a risk is this?”
“Thinking about the Shot Shop?”
“Artillery capability generally.”
“The Shot Shop’s a collective considerable talent, certain to go for independents.” I can feel my strange smile. “We’ve run ‘what if the Shot Shop goes bad?’ exercises. There are other certain independents. Those on wreaking-teams who would not choose to be and some of the focus team leads; with present law it is a certainty they shall be required to undertake a metaphysic transition and submit to the Shape’s judgement. Same with the refinery.”
There’s a long pause, and Acraisais says “This reverses the precedent of Steam.”
“Steam’s a recent example. Same set of precedents. Anyone who thinks with a metaphysical substrate outside performing a specific working of the Power is obliged to qualify for an independent.”
“Signaller, have you ever participated in a sorcerous working?” Acraisais’ sense of duty can’t make a rude question come out without some vocal hesitation.
“Once.”
“Only once?”
“Halt’s howdah handing me different colours of chalk.” It comes out cranky. Not a favoured memory.
Find some focus, Duckling. “The law could be wise. It hasn’t been applied in centuries. Most don’t know it’s there.” Second refill’s still a bad idea. “The Line’s concerned for the consequences to supply.”
“Yet not with granting independents warrants of commission.” Grant that Acraisais honestly doesn’t understand.
“Focus team leads and wreaking team members amount to a quantity of folk. Just numbers make it complex. There’s nothing complex about Captain Blossom, Fire’s warrant of authority, or wanting to give Shadow warrants of authority and commission. Don’t make it complex.”
From their face, Acraisais’ thoughts have gone off to fight a close contest of several factions.
It’s a fine face. Firm hands, sound thews, Acraisais has other days than clerking. I’d like their voice saying different things.
Reason to avoid a third glass.
“I am unable to resolve this.” Displeased, but not with me. Slow wouldn’t have set me up for this. Meek would.
“Who does the Line fight?”
“Enemies of the Commonweal.”
“No.” Entirely no. Someone said that, the first year of the First. Got the attempted humane expression off the Captain’s face. “Those who seek to invade.”
‘Enemies’ is all those with Power outside the Peace. Much longer list.
It’s not a thought in Acraisais’ reach. You get to knowing the look from teaching signals geometry.
“In the early days, maybe one of the Twelve would invade if they could, would seek conquest. No matter where they might have been standing when they started.” That gets me a nod. It’s tentative; Acraisais never met Rust. “Can’t make society out of allergies. Can’t say ‘enemy’ as a possibility of fellow citizens.”
Acraisais makes little scrabbly hand-motions, trying to find words. Rot it. Saying things definite and gentle comes out strange. “Independents are fellow-citizens.”
“Strictly.” Acraisais’ face is just distress. All the rhetorical pain’s gone; sincere distress.
“More strict than me. I’ve been the will in a thing that could crush Rust.” It’d take a brigade of Regulars. One Creek heavy battalion’s plenty. Will be plenty political when Parliament notices.
“Rust.” Acraisais sounds sad, I’ll give them that. “You could not so contest Blossom, or Fire, or Shadow. All Halt’s choice of kinship.”
“A battery commander, the Wapentake Sergeant-Major, or a candidate ensign of robust service. The Line’s got unkind words for crushing those.” I’m smiling like it’s funny. Not trying to stop. “Keepers of the Shape of Peace are less than that for crushing.”
“Do we not come to depend on them? It is not the slow rise of servitude, too comfortable to regard?” Toughing out an admission fills Acraisais’ face.
“You don’t want the careful answer about focuses.” Artillery, shot, banners, battle-standards, it goes on before it ends in the Shape of Peace, a thing not made by hands.
“I do not.”
“What tale are they telling?”
“What tale are who telling?”
“Halt’s family.”
“Is not the difficulty that we cannot possibly tell?”
“In Five-Forty, some folks in Westcreek Town went out on the northern bridge over the West Wetcreek on midwinter midnight and sang the hymn to the local gods. Four years ago, they were all there when more folks than the first time went out to do it again. Fire lead the responses.” Halt sang in several voices, which ain’t the point. “Every year since. It’s got so the town puts on breakfast.” Two years ago, the First showed up whole and sang along from the East Bank. Wake came over the bridge and did the responses near us.
“Religious ritual.” Dead voice. Acraisais isn’t holding together so well.
“Commonweal’s materialistic. Going to tell me they’re not?”
I doubt Acraisais heard Perish in flames. Anybody this fussed can’t claim a lack of material concerns.
“Signaller, how can this possibly help?”
“Not enough to tell but the tale we were told, is it? New things will fit in, so pick. There’s Creek formations in the Regular Line; there’s a lot less Commonweal. We’ve got some old gods and some new ones for neighbours. They’re making a point of fitting themselves into our Peace, the story we’re telling ourselves.”
“You believe it our story?”
“They don’t know what’s going to happen. Sensitive dependence. Nobody knows what the weather’s going to be next Festival.”
Put up a hand. Acraisais’ got to looking death-seeking. “They’re subtle and they’re terrible. They’re going to a lot of trouble to be social. They listen.”
“Care does not speak to intent,” Acraisais says, and doesn’t start to cry. First time I’ve heard that tone without someone crying. Close, but not.
“Deeds, not intent.” Which is the responsive legal precedent to the much-quoted precedent Acraisais recited. Startlement, and it’s nothing to do with the dress deciding to slither a bit. “I’m an officer. We get to explain why the road-march melted what ought not be melted.” Trained in law, some. Slow’s uselessly terse, so I get to do it. Sometimes with Meek along, looking sincerely friendly. Adults take Meek’s best real friendly for uncertain threats of death and maiming.
“Hammer was an untaught considerable talent. So was Toby. The Line’s not got grounds to be troubled by a considerable talent. There’s a hell-thing seen for every person and each head of livestock in the Second Commonweal, by most hopeful tabulation. If you think we’ve seen all there are, I should be curious of your reasoning.”
“How much tradition can we abandon and remain the Commonweal? The Ur-law means as we give it meaning, it does not speak for itself.”
“Tradition has value from being obs
erved to work. Nothing we know is going to work this time.” The Captain teaches officer-voice so it’s without negative overtone. Mine comes out cheerful. Not actual-cheerful, but it fools Meek sometimes. Fools most people all the time.
Acraisais doesn’t do well with the cheer, or maybe knowledge of the statistics.
“It is not enough to succeed in the moment. It must be possible to plan the peaceful future.”
“For society? Of course. That the Peace behind us prosper.”
The knowledge that it cannot, that there aren’t enough of us, sits there, worse than a ghost at a funeral.
Let the ghost be named.
“The Peace needs more than there are to live; the Old Line would need more of us to die. It won’t work. We need something different than the tradition of human sacrifice.”
“The First Commonweal — ” and Acraisais has the manners to pause, because we don’t know it’s still there. Crow brought news of intent and the ward’s still up. It doesn’t mean the Sea People haven’t marched over the City of Peace, or that there was only one Thing That Ate Reems. Nothing says that there couldn’t have been another, come over Meadows Pass, and the First Commonweal has no Goddess of Destruction.
“For five hundred years, the Commonweal sent another brigade. We haven’t got another battalion.”
“Does the Line have a place for these militant goddesses?” ‘Goddesses’ comes out like it can’t be the correct word. Someone sent Acraisais to have this conversation. Have to wonder why.
“You’ve seen them.” There’s a little bit of a nod. “The regular people’s not an accident.” Rust smells of the ashes of screams. Might not be deliberate. Wouldn’t bet.
“They are not always regular people.”
“Acraisais. In the Fight Below the Edge, Thorn destroyed a Sea People force the size of a brigade. Slow said throw so the first thousand are Slow’s. Maybe another five hundred went to individual-rate sticks after we got the demons off the bubble. The rest of them I burnt to death.”
A Mist of Grit and Splinters Page 21