The Mansions of Idumea (Book 3 Forest at the Edge series)

by Trish Mercer

  “Margo will take your order and see to it that everything remains . . . fine. Now, I have to attend to some business up front, but I’ll be back later to check on you. And Peto—I’m expecting you to order a large sandwich, and I also expect you to finish it before your father.”

  Peto beamed. “You’ve got it, Zadda!”

  Gizzada turned to leave, but stopped and smiled warmly at the family. “So good to see you all again! Margo, I’ll be making their orders myself.” And with that, he hustled out the door.

  “Well,” Margo said in a shockingly deep voice, “what have we here?”

  Mahrree was about to explain who they were when she realized the brutish woman wasn’t looking at her, or even her children, but directly at her husband. Or rather, her husband’s muscled and defined torso, which stretched the white undershirt to its limits.

  Mahrree made a mental note to see if any shops in Idumea made baggier undershirts.

  “Some friends looking to eat, eh?” Margo said as she eyed the colonel. “Looks like you’ve done quite a bit of eating already, my dear man—”

  Peto and Jaytsy chortled loudly behind their hands, while Mahrree slowly began to fume. It wasn’t the enlisted men and their inappropriateness they needed to worry about; it was Margo.

  Perrin cleared his throat loudly, and the woman looked up into his eyes. She released a little whimper, and Mahrree wasn’t sure if she was about to swoon or challenge him to an arm wrestle.

  “Yes, thank you,” Perrin said loudly, and put his arm around Mahrree. “My wife, children and I would each like a Gizzada sandwich. Two small, two large. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Margo’s eyes traveled down to Mahrree, who put on a big smile and fluttered her eyelashes, hoping Margo would realize that Perrin preferred petite women whose meaty biceps didn’t rival his.

  Margo’s upper lip curled into a subtle snarl, and she snapped out of whatever daydream she’d fallen into. “Two large and two small. Coming up. Find yourself a seat anywhere.” She waved vaguely, and at the door that lead to the kitchen she hollered, “Two large, two small—Gizzada special.” She turned back to the family. “Means he makes it. Mead? Ale?”

  “Water, please,” Perrin said amiably. “Pools has the greatest water in the world, after all.”

  “To make ale with,” Margo mumbled as she headed to one of the counters to retrieve their drinks.

  Mahrree gestured to a table with free space at the end. “How about there?” she suggested. And, without any assistance from any men in black and white outfits, the family managed to sit down all by themselves, Perrin and Peto on one side of the well-worn wood table, Mahrree and Jaytsy across from them

  Laughter from behind Perrin erupted so loudly that Peto wiggled his ears. “Yow! The joke wasn’t even funny. All I heard was, ‘And then she said, That’s not a melon.’ I don’t get it.”

  But Perrin was rubbing his forehead vigorously and his ears were bright red. Mahrree was quite sure that, without even knowing the first part of the story, he did get it by the end.

  He leaned back, cleared his throat loudly, and said to the men behind him, “Women and children, or do I need to get Margo over here to remind you?”

  “Sorry, friend,” a man called over to him.

  Without turning around, Perrin raised his hand in a conciliatory manner. “Thank you.” To his family he opened his mouth, looked at his daughter and son, then shut it again. Eventually he said, “Just don’t listen too closely. They’ll forget again in about five minutes that we’re here, and, well, while it sounds like they’re talking about vegetables and fruit . . . they really aren’t.”

  Mahrree suppressed an uncomfortable smile and nodded, but Jaytsy said, “So what are they really talking about, then?”

  Now it was Mahrree’s turn to rub her head while her husband stared worriedly at his daughter. “You’ve heard Riplak and Kindiri talking about . . . sweet rolls, right?” Perrin ventured cautiously.

  Jaytsy blinked in innocence and nodded. So did Peto.

  Perrin swallowed hard and looked at his wife.

  Mahrree smiled at him. “Go on. You’re doing just fine.” Then, because she so enjoyed his extreme discomfort, she added, “So they’re not really talking about sweet rolls either?”

  Perrin sighed and turned back to his teenagers. “When Riplak says ‘sweet roll,’ and does that thing with his eyebrows, he’s actually . . .”

  His children looked at him earnestly, sitting at the edge of their benches.

  Mahrree shook her head at her husband and snorted.

  “You could offer some assistance here,” he murmured at her.

  “Sorry,” she batted her eyelashes. “I simply don’t know that much about soldiers and such, remember?”

  Perrin glared at her, then turned back to the questioning faces of his teenagers. “Let’s just say the men talk about food when they’re hungry.”

  Peto and Jaytsy looked at each other dubiously.

  Jaytsy turned back to Perrin. “Uh-huh. I am nearly fifteen, Father. I know that they’re talking about other things.” But something in her expression suggested that she wasn’t entirely sure what those other things were yet, either.

  Peto merely shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t find any of that interesting.”

  Perrin rubbed his face with both hands, not daring to ask exactly what Peto thought “that” was. “Our food should be here by now, shouldn’t it?” He looked at the door anxiously, while Mahrree giggled. She’d have another little talk with Jaytsy later, but Peto—he was all Perrin’s to deal with.

  Another door, connecting to the alley behind the building, banged open and several men in blue jackets poured in. Mahrree hadn’t noticed the door before, but it seemed to be the main access to the back restaurant. She wondered if Gizzada could even fit through the narrow opening, which probably looked like nothing interesting from the outside, and sure not to draw the attention of anyone in an officer’s uniform.

  “Margo!” one of the men called. “Brought some brassies for some scrubbed up dinner, but they’ll be waiting for hours. The boys here and I are starving, so we’ll want it all tonight. Meat of the day first, love.”

  As the six men filed happily in, and good-naturedly shoved some acquaintances further down the table behind Perrin to make room for themselves, Peto leaned over to his father.

  “Bunch of brassies? Are they talking about—”

  “Officers,” Perrin said quietly to his family. “Senior officers, to be specific. Brass buttons. That’s why mine are hidden under the table by your mother.”

  Jaytsy leaned forward. “They don’t seem to be too happy about ‘brassies’.”

  Perrin bobbed his head back and forth. “They’re not. Some of the officers treat the enlisted men more like servants than soldiers. These sergeants—they’re sergeants, right?”

  Mahrree glanced at their insignias and nodded. “Three are sergeants,” she whispered back, “Two of them staff, another a master, then two corporals, and a private.”

  “But it’s the sergeants making the most noise. That’s because they’ve been in the army long enough to develop an opinion, and to earn the right to express it,” Perrin told them quietly. Then he smiled. “My father would love this place. He always suspected the enlisted men gathered to gossip about the officers, but he never knew where or what they said. I almost feel like a spy. I bet Gizzada hears all kinds of things back here.”

  The kitchen door opened and in came a young woman with four enormous sandwiches, two twice as big as the others. “Order for . . .” Her face screwed up in confusion. “Be Discreet—”

  Perrin immediately stood up. “That’s for us,” he said, taking the platter of food before she could announce the name.

  Her eyes grew big as she stared at the colonel, but a narrowing of his eyes told her that she needn’t say anything else. She nodded before she hurried back to the kitchen.

  Mahrree exhaled as Perrin sat. “That was close. She near
ly exposed our spy ring.”

  “What’s wrong with people knowing our name?” Jaytsy asked as she nervously eyed the massive sandwich consisting of three kinds of breads, four kinds of meats, two kinds of cheeses, two kinds of sauces, and every vegetable that can be sliced thinly and stacked between everything else. “And does this look bigger than it used to?”

  “First, the name of Shin is associated primarily with one person—my father,” Perrin said softly, “so we really don’t need that kind of attention. Second, oh yes—this is even bigger than I remember. Peto, if you can finish that, I’ll buy you a horse with my pay increase.”

  “Very funny, Father,” Peto sneered. “The last thing I want is a horse, and you know it. But maybe he’s added horse meat to this.”

  Mahrree just shook her head at what sat in front of her, daring her to even find a way to bite it. “I don’t even know where to start.” She smashed it experimentally, flattening it to be narrow enough to fit into her mouth. “Ah, but I’ve missed Gizzada!”

  For the next ten minutes the Shin family did nothing but chew and sigh in pure satisfaction, until the weight of the food in their bellies, and the amount of what still remained on their plates, caused Mahrree and Jaytsy to admit defeat and take a rest.

  Perrin and Peto, however, watched each other’s bites to time who could down their food the fastest, but Mahrree fretted privately that the winner of the contest would be which male didn’t heave it all up later again.

  The table of enlisted men behind Perrin had also gone quiet as they dove into some kind of meat concoction with gravy and curls of something on top, and only as they started sucking on the bones did they began to talk loudly about brassies again.

  “I’ll tell you,” a staff sergeant began to his audience of still chewing men, “get the wrong kind of brassy in charge, and nothing gets done unless the sergeants step up and take over.”

  “Hear, hear!” another sergeant garbled with a mouthful. Two more men pounded the table in agreement.

  “Take the brassy I brung here tonight. Colonel Snyd just sits in his office giving commands then walks around with his hands behind his back as if he owns the place, while the rest of us run around doing the training, the orders, the everything! I’m telling you, brassies wouldn’t last a minute without all of us making them look good.”

  Mahrree looked over to Perrin to gauge his response. He was licking his fingers as some sauce dribbled out of his sandwich, and Mahrree realized, by the drippings on his white shirt, that Gizzada’s recommendation for him to remove his jacket was most timely. Perrin caught her eye and winked at her.

  She raised her eyebrows toward the conversation behind him, and he merely shrugged in agreement.

  “Snyd,” he mouthed and sneered. Not one of his favorite brassies, either.

  Mahrree smiled.

  “Still, he’s better than my brassy,” another sergeant spoke up. He downed his mug of mead, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and belched loudly. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” he nodded toward Mahrree, who nodded politely back. “But my brassy,” said the sergeant during another belch he didn’t seem to notice leaking out, “he’s that Thorne, and I’m telling you—he’s a mean one.”

  Mahrree again watched Perrin, who just subtly nodded and took another big bite, from which escaped a slice of something that landed smartly on his lap.

  Several of the men grumbled in agreement about Thorne this and Thorne that.

  “Gotta boy, too. Soon to be graduating. Pity the commander who gets stuck with that brat.”

  “Hey, every commander deserves that brat.”

  A few more men seconded the declaration, and Perrin chuckled quietly as he licked his fingers again. So he wasn’t the only one not overly impressed with Lieutenant Thorne.

  “At least Thorne promotes people,” the first staff sergeant complained. “I’ve been trying to get Snyd’s attention for years, but he doesn’t see anything past his own buttons.”

  Mahrree wondered how Perrin would react to the accusation of a commander not promoting his men.

  To her surprise, Perrin picked up a cloth and wiped off his fingers. He sent a wink to Mahrree, then leaned back to the table behind him. Without turning around, he addressed the sergeant.

  “Got an idea for you,” Perrin said. “I worked with Snyd some years back. He likes to hear about people suffering.”

  The sergeant scowled at the back of Perrin’s head. “That sounds about right, but how do I make that work for me?”

  Perrin turned part way to see the man. “Have to get it back to the colonel that men are complaining about you. That maybe you’re working them too hard, or something. Private,” Perrin gestured with his sandwich at a young man seated next to the staff sergeant, “you work under that man?”

  The private nodded. “Staff Sergeant’s the best, sir!” he barked loyally.

  “Good dog,” Perrin said, “but that’s not what Snyd needs to hear. You’re acting as footman tonight for his carriage, right?”

  The private nodded eagerly. Privates weren’t allowed to do anything more interesting than that, anyway.

  “When you’re helping Snyd out of the carriage, let something slip about the sergeant’s treatment of you tonight. Say that he, I don’t know—made you scrub the mud off the wheels because you were disrespectful, or that he made you braid the horses’ mane, then had you take it all out again because he didn’t like the effect. But you’ve got to say it in the right way.” Perrin turned more fully to the table that sat in rapt attention to this unknown insider’s suggestions. “Sound like you’re whining, it’ll hurt you, but say it in genuinely pained admiration, Snyd will remember it.”

  “Tell him what to say, friend,” another soldier encouraged.

  Perrin put on a thoughtful expression. “Snyd, sir,” he said in a passable imitation of the young private that made him turn red and the other soldiers snicker, “thank you for assigning me to this duty tonight. Staff Sergeant—” Perrin pointed to the man for his name.

  “Oblong.”

  Perrin blinked at that before he continued, “Staff Sergeant Oblong was most instructive tonight on the merits of keeping one’s carriage wheels spotless, and the finer points of horses’ mane presentation.”

  Half the men were already laughing, while the other half shushed them to hear the rest.

  “Sir, while I so appreciate this opportunity, may I instead respectfully request some other kind of duty in the future, such as . . . cleaning out the latrines?” Perrin finished in an innocent smile which made all of the men burst out laughing.

  “That just might work!” Oblong said. “Snyd would always assign the private to me as punishment—”

  The private grinned, because even eighteen-year-olds know that spending the evening eating was an unbeatable assignment.

  “—and Snyd will think me a most slagging son of a sow, and give me a promotion!”

  Perrin winced at the man’s rough language, but Mahrree just looked down at the table and shook her head slightly. He didn’t need to ruin the moment by reminding the men that women and children were present.

  “Glad to be of help,” Perrin said, and turned back to the second half of his sandwich.

  “When did you work for Snyd?” a soldier asked him.

  Without turning around, Perrin waved his hand. “About seven or eight years ago. When he was first installed as commander at Pools.”

  Mahrree finished the rest of it in her head. And I trained him in how to be a commander, but I promise I didn’t teach him how to be a narrow-sighted old goat.

  “Where are you serving now?” another man asked.

  Mahrree cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you realize my husband’s in the middle of a very important contest. You see, our son thinks he can finish his Large Gizzada before his father, and unfortunately he seems to be winning at the moment.”

  The soldiers nodded and grinned.

  “Gotta respect a man who brings his so
n here for a meal,” Oblong said. “Teach the boy what real eating is.”

  Mahrree smiled sweetly at Oblong and kicked Jaytsy under the table, who was trying to control her giggling.

  The discussion at the other table turned back to their brassies. “So Snyd and Thorne are here eating together?” asked the private.

  “Do so every moon or so,” a master sergeant said. “Suspect they’re feeling each other out. Both are eying the mansion of the High General. He retires in two years, you know. Good thing he survived that tremor, eh? But soon some younger man’s gotta take the spot. Cush is just too old.”

  Mahrree noticed Perrin had stopped chewing his sandwich, and had frozen in position.

  “Nah, they might put Cush in for a time. But I think Thorne will get it in the end.”

  Perrin’s eyes shifted to Mahrree, and she noticed a level of alarm in them. Naturally, he didn’t want the position, but maybe this was the first time it occurred to him that someone else—someone he thought less worthy—would take it instead.

  “I don’t know,” mused another sergeant. “While Thorne’s the commander of the garrison, Snyd’s been commanding his own fort for longer. I think that might edge him out as High General.”

  Perrin’s jaw clenched, and Mahrree mouthed to him, It has to be someone.

  “There are others,” another man offered. “What about that younger Shin? Isn’t he somewhere up in the north?”

  At that, even Peto paused his non-stop gulping and listened to the talk behind him.

  “Gizzada even worked with that Shin,” another man reminded them. “Said he was the most decent officer he’s ever known. Said he did the dangerous work in the forest, wouldn’t let anyone else do it.”

  Perrin stared at his sandwich, but a corner of his mouth went up.

  “Yeah, but he’s been quiet for a while. Probably turned into one of those daft people who actually likes the mountains,” another man said.

  Peto sneered and started to turn around to the table, until Perrin elbowed him.

  “He’s only a lieutenant colonel, anyway,” pointed out another voice.