by David Weber
She really did have beautiful eyes, Syngpu noticed, not for the first time, but something about them made him uneasy.
“No reason not to be clear,” he said.
“Oh?” She cocked her head. “I think there are quite a lot of things you don’t want to be clear about, Tangwyn.”
“Like what?” he asked defensively, and bit his own tongue as those eyes of hers narrowed.
“Like why you always change the subject if somebody points out all the things you’ve done for everyone here in the Valley,” she said. “Like why you’re always willing to listen to someone else’s problems and never want to talk about your own. Like why you’re so angry at yourself.”
He stared at her, feeling as if someone had just punched him in the belly.
“I don’t—I’m not—”
He felt himself floundering and tried to pull his arm away from her, but she wouldn’t let go. And somehow, despite the fact that he was nine inches taller than she and weighed twice as much, he couldn’t pull that arm out of her grasp.
“I’ve known you for two years now, Tangwyn,” she said. “And there’s one thing I still don’t understand. That I may understand even less now than I did the day we met. She looked at him very levelly. “Why can’t you let go of whatever it is that makes you so angry at yourself?”
“I’ve more than enough to be ‘angry’ over!” His voice was harder than it had been. He felt a different sort of anger—anger at her—rising and stamped on it hard. “Most people do, these days.”
“Bédard knows you do,” she said, her voice so quiet he could barely hear it against the dance barn’s noisy background. “Your family, what happened to Pauyin, everything you’ve seen. My God, Tangwyn! It would take a saint to not be angry about that! But that’s not what I’m talking about. Why are you so angry at you?”
“I’m not,” he said … and heard the lie in his own voice.
She only looked up at him, waiting. He stared back down at her, astounded by the depth of those eyes, trying to understand how the conversation had turned so suddenly.
“Maybe I am,” he admitted finally, defensively. “Maybe I’ve seen things—done things—these last nine years I’m not so very proud of. A man puts his hand to the plow, he’s answerable for what he sows behind it, come harvest time.”
“Surely you don’t think that makes you unique?” she demanded, and a strange thought went through him. Before they’d met, he wouldn’t have been all that sure what “unique” meant. Now he was. His brain started to follow the implications of that, but she went right on, giving him no opportunity for side excursions.
“Zhyungkwan was part of the Mighty Host, too,” she told him. “From the beginning—as long as you were, from the first levy through the fighting on the Sair River. And he wrote me letters, Tangwyn. Long letters. He was my best friend, not just my husband, and I knew him well enough to read even more out of those letters than he told me. He hated the Jihad.” Her voice was still soft, but it quivered with passion. “He hated what he had to do and he hated what that did to him. He wrote me about how the ‘Sword of Schueler’ had devastated Siddarmark, about how the people who’d survived it hated Mother Church … and why. He even wrote me about those horrible concentration camps, about the men and women—the children—he knew were dying there every day. It wasn’t him. There wasn’t anything he could have done about it. But he felt so dirty, so fouled, just being there. He was a good man, Tangwyn—just like you are—and that only made it so much worse.”
There were tears in her eyes now, and he realized he’d covered the hand on his arm with his own hand.
“And then you came home to this.” She waved her free hand to indicate not the dance barn around them, but the world outside the Valley. “Of course you’ve seen and done things you wish you hadn’t had to!”
“It’s not—” He paused. “It’s not that simple, that easy.” His voice had deepened. “I didn’t ‘come home to this.’ I started this.”
He stared down into her eyes, astonished to hear himself admit that bitter truth to her, to anyone. He tried to stop himself. He knew he had to stop, yet he couldn’t.
“You don’t know,” he told her, the words pouring out of him. “I started this. Zhouhan and me—we came home against orders. We found men who’d had a bellyful of lords and ladies, of the Church helping grind the heel into their faces. We found them, and we trained them. And we’re the ones—Zhouhan and me, we’re the ones—who stole the rifles they used to take Shang-mi. We were there for that, too, and I’m the butcher who started it all!”
He felt the tears, wet on his cheeks, felt himself leaning towards her.
“That’s what I’ve done. What I’ve done on top of anything I ever did in the Jihad. You think I’m angry at myself? Well that’s why!”
“Oh, Tangwyn,” she half whispered. That free hand reached up, touched the side of his face. “Oh, Tangwyn! You didn’t start this, you only led it. It would have happened anyway—it had to happen, after the Jihad, after the Emperor refused to let the Host even come home. Believe me, if he’d lived, Zhyungkwan would have been proud to stand beside you when you took those rifles! He came from the Valley, Tangwyn. He knew serfs were just as much the children of God as anyone else even before he joined the Host. And he saw how they changed, how they grew, how they learned to think of themselves when Earl Rainbow Waters and his officers treated them as men, not animals! He wrote me about how proud he was to serve someone like the Earl … and about how the Empire was going to have to change when the Host came home again!”
Her voice quivered with a passion he’d never heard from her, but her hand was moth wing gentle on his face.
“What happened to your family’s happened to God only knows how many other families over the years,” she said, “and nobody outside those families ever spoke for them, ever tried to stop it. But you did something about it. You said it had to stop, not just for your family, but for every family. You said it had to end. And there was no way it was ever going to end unless someone made it stop, whatever it cost. Nothing that vast, that evil, that had lasted so long, could have been stopped without violence. And all the bloodshed, and all the atrocities, and all the horror are because of that. Because it was the only way to stop it and because when men and women are treated like animals for their entire lives, some of them will believe it. When the chance comes, they’ll strike back like animals. They’ll do every hideous thing that was ever done to them to someone—anyone—else. And while they do, other men will see only the opportunity to be sure they’re the ones with a heel on someone else’s neck when the smoke clears.
“But you’re not an animal, Tangwyn Syngpu. You don’t want your heel on anyone’s neck, and you’ll die to keep anyone’s heel off the people you care about. You didn’t come home just for vengeance for what happened to your family. You came home to rescue Pauyin, and then you turned around to rescue everyone else in the Empire!” Her tone was fierce, her eyes shining with tears. “Don’t you dare call yourself a ‘butcher’ to me! Don’t you dare!”
She stopped, quivering, her eyes like wet fire, and he stared at her. Stared at her and realized he’d never truly seen her before this moment. That he hadn’t let himself see her.
He wiped tears from her cheek with his thumb and smiled crookedly at her.
“Well, all right then,” he said softly, “I won’t.”
“Good!” she said fiercely, shaking his arm. “Good.”
“Might be some other things I should be saying to you,” he went on, his smile more crooked even than before.
“There might,” she agreed with an answering smile.
“Got a temper for such a little bitty thing,” he observed. “Might get dangerous.”
“It might,” she agreed again.
“Not much in life worth having as is and just a little dangerous,” he said softly.
They stood for what seemed a very long time, looking at each other, alone in their hay-bale corner
of the world. They stood there until fiddles scraped and the band struck up a warning tune.
Syngpu raised his head, glanced over his shoulder, saw the couples beginning to form, and looked back down at Yanshwyn.
“Well, then!” he said more briskly.
“Well? What’s ‘well’?” she challenged.
“Well, they’re getting ready to dance,” he told her with a grin. “So I’m thinking it’s time somebody finally danced that old windbag out of wind, and I’m thinking that tonight, it might just be us!”
“It might,” she agreed for a third time, and laughed as they started for the dance floor.
AUGUST YEAR OF GOD 908
.I.
Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark, and City of Cherayth, Kingdom of Chisholm, Empire of Charis.
“You’re crazy!” The burly man’s tunic bore the shoulder badge of the Weaver’s Guild. “He’s ruining the Republic!”
“And you’re an idiot if you think that’s what he’s doing!” The taller young man’s hands were calloused, obviously from hard work, but his tunic showed no guild affiliation. “He’s just trying to make some progress possible. Yeah, and to look out for the people doing the real work! It’s people like you who’re ‘ruining’ the Republic.”
“The Shan-wei–damned bankers, you mean!” another man growled. His clothing was more finely cut than that of the other two, but it was shabby. Obviously, both he and it had seen better days.
“Well?” the first man demanded. “If the banks are the ones doing it, who the hell else am I supposed to blame for it? He was in charge of the treasury before they made him Lord Protector, wasn’t he? And he’s gone right on doing the same stupid shit since they did!”
“No one made him Lord Protector,” yet a fourth man joined in. “Well, maybe the bastard who assassinated Lord Protector Henrai did.”
“More power to him,” the third man, who hated bankers, growled.
“That’s enough of that!” The younger man turned on him. “I don’t care how much you disagreed with Lord Protector Henrai, that’s enough!”
“I only meant—”
“Don’t apologize!” the guildsman snapped. “Man was probably only trying to save the Republic! Might not be such a bad idea for his successor!”
The younger man wheeled to face him, his expression dangerous.
“That kind of talk can get a man in trouble,” he said ominously.
“Why?” the guildsman jeered. “Never encouraged anyone to do it. Just expressing an opinion. One of those ‘hypothetical thoughts’ the Bédardists talk about! Everybody’s got a right to an opinion, don’t they? You going to do something about it if you don’t like mine?”
“For half a counterfeit copper mark, I will!”
The younger man took a step towards the guildsman, then stopped as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
“None of that!” the city guardsman said warningly.
“But he said—”
“I heard what he said.” The guardsman turned to consider the guildsman. “Didn’t sound like just an ‘opinion,’ to me. Course I could be mistaken … or not. And if I’m not, I do believe that constitutes incitement to murder,” he added coldly, and the guildsman flushed. “Heard this other fellow, too.” The guardsman jerked a thumb at the shabbily dressed man. “And I didn’t much like his opinion either, myself. I’m not allowed to express my personal opinion on duty on election day, though. If I were, I imagine I’d have a word or two for both of ’em.” He gave them both a glare, then turned back to the younger man. “But you don’t want to be raising your hand to them, especially here.” He jabbed his nightstick at the polling sign over the tavern’s entrance. “That kind of thing on election day’ll get you at least a month turning big rocks into little ones.”
“Might be worth it,” the young man muttered.
“Maybe it would,” the guardsman agreed. “I’m not supposed to have an opinion on that on election day, either. But if you’re determined to do it, at least wait until all three of you’ve voted. Don’t want to be arrested before you’ve cast your ballot, do you?”
“No,” the youngster acknowledged.
“Good. So don’t you—don’t any of you—” he swept his nightstick in a gesture which included all of them “—make me talk to you again before you do. Because if you do, you’ll be talking to a magistrate, not a poll watcher, quicker ’n you can spit. Got it?”
Nods, some of them sullen, answered him, and he regarded them sternly for perhaps another ten econds. Then he stepped back to his position on the sidewalk, watching the long line that stretched down the street and around the corner.
* * *
“Langhorne!” Myltyn Fyshyr groaned, holding his right wrist as he flexed his ink-stained fingers.
He sat at a broad table, with a huge letter “B” on the wall behind him, and the line in front of him had halted for a few welcome moments while two of the registered poll watchers, each representing a different candidate, argued about whether or not the next man in line was entitled to vote in this precinct. He was grateful for the rest and the chance to work out some of the writer’s cramp, but it was stupid of them to waste time on the argument. The voter in question still had to show his certificate to Fyshyr, and Fyshyr still had to check his roll to find both his name and the certificate number, before he’d be allowed to vote. And the poll watchers would have the opportunity to cross-check Fyshyr’s records before his ballot was counted.
And there were going to be a lot of those ballots.
“How many of these people are there?” he demanded of no one in particular.
“More than there were last election day, less than there’ll be next election day,” Clareyk Zahmsyn said philosophically from the chair beside him. Fyshyr glared at him, and Zahmsyn shrugged. “You know it’s true. Unless the economy goes to crap again, anyway.”
Fyshyr’s glare intensified for a moment, but then he shrugged and nodded with a grimace. Lord Protector Greyghor had insisted, after the Jihad, that the constitutionally mandated property standards both to hold office and to vote had to be reduced to reflect the changes sweeping the Republic. He’d recognized those sorts of changes couldn’t happen overnight, however, so he and the Chamber of Delegates had provided a schedule for relaxing the standards gradually. That meant the pool of qualified voters would increase with each general election for four sequential election cycles. This was only the second since his death, and the campaign had been as ugly as any Fyshyr could remember.
Siddarmarkian political campaigns tended to be … obstreperous at the best of times. Vilification was the norm for broadsheets and newspapers everywhere and the otherwise strict libel laws of the Republic suddenly ceased to apply, especially right here in Siddar City. Political rallies were always well attended, and this year they’d been especially well attended by the city guard, which had spent quite a lot of time—and not a few bruised heads—keeping things from getting out of hand when rival rallies met.
They’d failed in that effort, a couple of times. And at one point, it had taken over two days to completely restore order.
The cleanup from that one had taken two five-days, and Fyshyr didn’t like to think about how many thousands of marks worth of damage it had done.
Even now, he could hear the chants of the opposing candidates’ supporters from out in the street. Siddarmarkian law prohibited anyone from blocking a polling place; no law said they couldn’t stand to either side, behind the city guard’s cordon, and call one another names, however.
They were doing a lot of that, he thought grumpily.
He finished flexing his fingers and looked up as the poll watchers stopped arguing and the voter who’d waited patiently stepped past them and extended his certificate.
“Your name?” Fyshyr asked pleasantly.
“Bahkmyn,” the man said. “Allyn Bahkmyn.”
The question had been a formality, since the certificate carried its bearer’s name, but Fyshyr always
asked anyway. Already today he’d tripped up three fraudulent voters who’d been too stupid to memorize the name on their forged or stolen certificates. There was always some of that, most often spontaneous, although there seemed to be more of it—and more of it that had been bought and paid for—this time around, and all three of them had been taken away by the guard to face a magistrate. They’d have the option of accepting the mandatory five months of jail time from magistrate’s court, or they could request a full jury trial. Of course, if a jury found them guilty, they’d serve a full year, not just half.
It was one way of sorting out the sheep and the goats quickly, since the “regulars” knew to take their five months and get it over with. There’d always be another election, after all.
He flipped through the pages of his portion of the roll for this precinct, found “Bahkmyn, Allyn” listed at 306 Blacksmith Lane, and checked the listed name, address, and certificate number against the one in his hand. Everything matched, and he handed the certificate back to Bahkmyn. Then he took the next printed ballot from the stack beside him, recorded the number next to Bahkmyn’s name on the roll, initialed the bottom of the card, tore it off at the perforated line and dropped it through the slot in the top of the locked box at his elbow, and handed the rest of the ballot to Bahkmyn.
“Through the arch,” he said—unnecessarily, he was sure—and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Thanks,” Bahkmyn grunted and headed in the indicated direction, ballot in hand.
He would mark the ballot, then drop it into one of the locked ballot boxes under the gimlet eye of yet another poll watcher. No one at the polling place would be allowed to actually look at his ballot—the Constitution guaranteed that—and his name would appear nowhere on it. The number from the ballot would be recorded when it was counted, however, as would the candidate for whom it had been cast. If Master Bahkmyn’s eligibility to vote was later questioned, or if it turned out that his certificate number had been used by more than one voter, the ballot could be identified by the number Fyshyr had recorded and subtracted from the total count. But those were the only circumstances under which the Republic was entitled to know how any individual voter had voted, and the process required the Keeper of the Seal to obtain a formal order from a senior judge.