Glorious Angels

by Justina Robson

  The reply didn’t even bob the line. ‘He is, as you suspected, taciturn to a fault. He fulfils his duties in training the men for combat. They respect him though I could not say they like him. He eats, he shits, he collects his money as the rest.’

  To his left, his adviser and second, Parillus Gau Tam, was relaxed and at ease. His mount was fatter than Fadurant’s, of more humble carting stock, and offered a broader seat and what looked like a much softer ride. Parillus steered it with a careless but steady yaw on the reins, taking them up the blessed final ramp towards the lower gates of the eastern wall. Over its high top they were able to see most of the capital’s sprawling hillsides climbing steadily towards the clustered citadels of the Terrace. From the Terrace’s heart a thick trunk of what appeared to be many fine crystal stems drew a straight line upward in shining facets of rose and turquoise. Ever-undulating internal lights seemed faint in this hot afternoon of glare and dust, the outer veils of this stem flickering and unreliable in auroras of changing hue. The Gleaming, its heavy flowerhead, was mostly lost in hazy cloud but occasional spires and towers of the Arrays far above them caught the light and glinted down. Where he had once felt awe at the sight of such power, majesty and scale, Fadurant now felt an uneasy apprehension and only a flicker of appreciation at being the child of such an important place. The world, he’d found, was full of important places.

  He gritted his jaw so as not to actively grind his teeth and pushed his arse back in the saddle pan, trying another angle. His horse was, thankfully, too weary after the long trek around from the nearest staging post to do any more of its irritating capering. Fadurant tried again. ‘You seem to be holding something back.’

  ‘Do I?’ Parillus was languid, savoring whatever it was.

  Fadurant waited him out, watching the guards on the gate towers move in a sudden burst of activity as they recognised the colours on the horses and his shield. A black line appeared in the gate itself and the two halves began to inch their way open. He could just hear the creak and grind of the old chain gears and imagined the oxen huffing out of a doze, crossly smacked with sticks on the backside in the stinking darkness of the gate chambers while the stick boys hollered in hoarse, ammonia-worn tones. It had been his job, once. He could never understand why it hadn’t been automated.

  At last Parillus drawled, ‘The University want to send a delegation.’

  Fadurant felt the first breath of a potential reprieve stealing through his bones. ‘Of course you said no.’

  ‘Yes, of course I did.’ Parillus ignored the stares of a small caravan of traders who had moved aside on the road so that he and the general were able to pass abreast of each other. What his horse lacked in appearances it made up in the finery that Parillus ensured it wore to mark his rank – all the paraphernalia of a jousting knight trailed from its harnesses, stained with sweat and road dust now, which made it look all the more extravagant. He knew the importance of impressing the population’s lower orders with this cartoonish nonsense to distract the gossip mongers from more sensitive business. He paused and flipped a few copper coins and bronze stravetti for the caravan’s children. Someone tsk-ed but he ignored that for the sake of enjoying General Fadurant’s rigid jaw and hawkish intensity as it hung on his next revelation, paralysed by manners and station and their long friendship from demanding instant satisfaction. He relented, slightly.

  ‘Soldiers heading for the front deserve the greatest privacy as they undergo the rigours of hard training. It is a matter of seriousness and dedication that cannot be thrown off course by such frivolities as an audience. It would be demeaning to the men’s honour to be treated as experimental subjects. Conscripts may soon be required, and we must be seen to be treating both our homegrown troops and our mercenaries with the utmost respect. After all, they are about to put their lives on the line for our safety and prosperity.’ He waved his hand idly as he mocked his own grave tones in repeating this propaganda. ‘But I did mention the training hours.’

  There was no hesitation in Fadurant’s grabbing the implications of this nugget. The game of catch was what made even a dull conversation enjoyable between them. ‘You will cram the yard gates with speculators, idiots, and gawpers then?’

  ‘Possibly quite cram them entirely,’ Parillus agreed and left a few seconds’ pause so that they could both build up the image of journalists and commentators being frustrated in crowds of go-sees and the vast entourage of vendors and petty thievery that would follow this pilgrimage – eminent distractions all, and good for morale though neither man had to say so. ‘Although some may be given special access privileges to spectate with the overseeing officers. May.’

  ‘Upon what determination?’

  ‘Whomever you see fit to entertain with the sight.’

  Fadurant narrowed his eyes even though they were within the wall’s shadow. ‘Is there some advantage within the University?’

  He had been so focused this last year on building up the front to resist the efforts of the Circle to repel Imperial presence from anywhere near their borders that he had ignored the city itself until his return a few weeks previously. He’d forgotten how annoying it could be when there were so many extramilitary factions to take into account. He left most of that to Parillus, whose well-bred upbringing and lengthy education had made him ever more the diplomat and less the soldier than Fadurant himself.

  The initial reply was lost in a hastily arranged fart of horns, which announced their arrival, from the nearing towers so that Parillus had to repeat himself. ‘The Sircene woman is among them.’

  A circle that had been wide open in Fadurant’s chest and mind closed neatly as he heard this – it was the same sensation he felt when he was able to see through the last few moves of a game or a battle plan to a clear victory position, even though he wasn’t able to explain exactly yet how it would work. He knew that things could be dovetailed and all that was required was his will to follow the sign and continue his efforts; the details would appear in due course and reveal what they had to reveal to him in the future, each step following the last. He need do no more than trust his instincts. Of course it was slightly galling to realise that Parillus’ facility with local intelligence had put him at the advantage and he, Fadurant, was merely being led by the nose at this stage, but he forgave it because he was sensible enough to know that one man’s attention would never be enough to maintain his position. Even so, their accord was a glad enough thing that it let him almost enjoy his last stretch of ride as they took the direct route towards the barracks.

  ‘Call her in,’ he said as they arrived in the yard, fanfared slightly better this time in a barrelling trumpet roll, with several cohorts of men managing to make themselves into orderly lines before they had turned the corner. The flags of the twenty-eight army legions snapped pleasantly in the fresh wind. A stink of sweating bodies and a whiff from the latrines greeted them. Fadurant felt light as he dismounted and handed his horse over, even giving it a pat on the neck. However poorly they may think of him and his position, he was always gladder to receive a woman, even spar with one verbally, than a man. Then he glanced to his left where Parillus was also looking.

  The Karoo was there. Head and shoulders taller than any Empire man with a muscular physique that was spare and clear-cut, he looked like a stone sculpture of some legendary fighter. That was where the extent of his resemblance to men of the Empire ended however. He was blue-grey and white, the colours marbled darkly on his back and the backs of his arms, light on his front and undersides. He was also as thickly maned as Parillus’ horse, with silvery white hair that surged not only off his head in great hanks but from his neck and along the length of his spine too, disappearing under his belt in finger-length tufts. To either side of this, tiger stripes of intense sunburnt orange spread out around his ribs and waist, feathered the edges of his neck and emerged either side of his head in triangular ears, their richly furred points tipped with lynxlike purple feather hair that flicked whenever the ears tur
ned – something they did independently of each other in a way Borze found disturbing. He wore nothing but tough trousers, panelled with leather reinforcements, and leather rolltop boots, all of these well-mended and old. His face, like the faces of the Empress’ favoured horses, was pale grey, marked along the length of his strong, straight nose, nostrils and lips with indigo stains like ink dropped on soft paper. In deep pits of this unnatural shade his orange, slitted eyes with their yellow iris-rims showed no white at all except at the very ends. Black lashes completed the shocking effect of the indigo. Across the sheer bony impact of his overly masculine features with their hard right angles this peculiar natural enhancement looked to Fadurant’s eyes like the makeup of a courtesan. He wondered if the Karoo knew that junior officers called him Tigerlady behind his back.

  If he did it wasn’t bothering him. The Karoo was completely at his ease where he leaned against a wooden column of the verandah that surrounded the yard on three sides, providing shade and access to the barrack houses. His relaxation was a stark contrast to the rigid attention of the soldiers in their rows in the sun. He made no sign of acknowledgement to Fadurant and Parillus except for the merest nod which managed not to lower the steady gaze of his offensive two-coloured eyes one bit. Fadurant envied such natural dominance even as he responded to it. It was an effort for him to do nothing but turn back and continue on his way. Beside him he felt Parillus brush his shoulder in an unconscious movement away from the alien man.

  Fadurant felt he could weather such minor slights. He accepted the fact that some people were just stronger than others, though he knew it might appear weak to some of his men. Parillus disliked nature’s quirks far more – he believed in self-determination over all things and suitable displays of subservience to higher ranks.

  ‘He ought to stand like the others,’ Parillus said as they turned the corner and went under the arch where the long building of the headquarters ran the length of the Fields Wall.

  ‘As I understand it, this has been suggested,’ Fadurant said. ‘But if the reporting corporal was correct then there is no way of making him do so, short of beating him to death, and at the moment he is a necessary device. Not to mention the fact that one does not wish to expose one’s seniors and ministers to displays of that nature quite so close to home.’

  ‘We should send him onward.’ Parillus was determined.

  ‘I don’t want to lose him yet.’ Fadurant scowled and speeded up his step on his way to his offices.

  He and Parillus had their differences but it was where they were similar that they were weak and they were similar in that they could both see the sophisticated side of things too easily. The Empire at Glimshard was a place of long-term social games of subtlety; it was easy to forget that other peoples didn’t pursue their lives this way.

  The Karoo was a windfall in truth, a strange kind of queen piece handed to Fadurant in a game that had few such things that could be turned in many directions. But he was also a rank outsider, a loner and a thorn in the sides of the training sergeants who themselves must keep to military discipline and ensure it among the men. He was a goat (a wolf was the first image that came to mind but it didn’t fit the metaphor any way that Fadurant liked) among what were essentially sheep, and they must not lose sight of that. As if that were not enough he was also a curio or living fossil that the University thought it might prise out of Fadurant’s grasp. And this was before Gleaming’s social hounds got wind of his presence and sniffed blood for the dancefloor. The only consolation was that the war itself was as yet unfelt except in the private pockets that paid the war tax and so Fadurant, as the only general in the province, need not do anything at great speed.

  That made it all the more difficult.

  He marched to his study, glanced over the day’s intelligences and the chalkboards where the country was mapped, ordered drinks for them both and took a damp towel offered by one of his attendants to briskly rub his face and hands clear of dust and the horse grease that blacked his knuckles. Reluctantly, he voiced his intention. ‘I think we should have a dinner,’ he said and massaged his sword hand where it had suddenly developed a pain in the joints. ‘Invite Tralane Huntingore and whoever her academic cronies are, and anyone you think ought to be indulged. The usual officers and staff to attend.’

  ‘Spouses and partners?’

  ‘Included. Everyone included that may be has some interest and sufficient standing. I leave the details to you. You’re better at these things.’ Fadurant was glad to. He had never enjoyed great events or the gathering of intelligence by other than straightforward means.

  Parillus grinned. ‘Real news is short here. We should make it a large affair. Returning injured heroes, a celebration of our… Well, our holding of our positions.’ He hesitated and the shift of subject came with a change of energy in the room from playful to cool. ‘The Karoo may bolt.’

  Fadurant unbuttoned his tunic and wrested open his shirt neck, turning to the ceiling fan and sighing as his attendant closed the door behind him. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

  ‘I didn’t plan to invite him. I think that so much attention near the yard may cause his departure. I’d no sooner summon him to a society event than I’d bring a hunting dog.’

  ‘He might take the scholars with him. Trail after him into the countryside and get lost.’

  ‘You won’t be so easily off the hook.’

  Fadurant snorted, knowing it was true. ‘Then we should post some men at the yard gates each day with orders to act as discouragement. Let him see some resistance to the rabble. And ensure he remains in his own quarters when he is not employed. Does he go out into the city proper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fucking, drinks, cards, smokes, enchantments?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And no more word on what his real reasons are for being here?’

  ‘No more than what he originally claimed.’

  ‘Hmm. Cash in exchange for services I quite understand. Mercenaries are ten for tuppence at the moment. But to be here, just now, after so long, when Karoo have never come south of Jiljarga in living memory… There has to be something else, Parillus.’

  ‘Maybe there is. But possibly it’s personal. I mean, he is the only one. No scouts in Jiljarga or even Tocastine say otherwise. I sent a man up north to go as far as he could and look for others but he has not reported.’ Parillus was already bored of this angle, his mind busy with the construction of the party. Fadurant could tell by the way he was staring out of the window.

  ‘Forget it for now then. Let’s see if we can worm something out of the Chancellors at this gathering. I would bet that crystallographs are not the only things that might be dusted out of the archives and made use of, given the right incentive.’ Fadurant was thinking of the seemingly unending parade of dreadful creatures that prowled the limits of the Circle’s lands; engineered beasts or found ones he knew not but they were often pressed into service by the Circle onslaught. Imperial cannon and gunshot, even their arcane artillery, failed to do more than stall their progress. The beasts in themselves terrified the soldiery facing them, a power no mechanical device could deflect. There was a primal horror about Circle warfare that he needed to find an antidote for, or at least an anaesthetic. Magic was truly the only recourse he could think of, though using it extensively for violence went against Imperial temperament, especially that of the scholars who bothered the Empress’ ears.

  ‘Yes,’ Parillus said, lost in thought, his gaze moving steadily upwards to the Gleaming. He glanced at Fadurant and they shared the concern before he moved smoothly along. ‘But don’t worry about that. The Ministry has the relics and the Library all in hand.’

  Fadurant gladly gave up responsibility at the mention. He joined Parillus in taking off his travelling uniform and exchanging it for more comfortable, clean versions. The drinks arrived and Parillus poured them both wine and cold water. He drank as he was handing Fadurant’s cup over to him and the general remembered
a time when they had been formal, distant, polite: an officer and his assigned subordinate, strangers. That path had a few more miles in it, he felt, with distaste. He turned to what he knew and summoned the officer in attendance.

  ‘I will inspect the recruits on the training field.’

  But before he was able to do so the door opened again without warning and admitted a slender teenage girl, bare of leg and arm, damp and panting with healthy exertion.

  The Empress’ colours of magenta and gold covered her athletic uniform of shorts and vest and shone in a halo of soft light from the diadem that held back her brassy hair. This charm would protect her from almost anything within the city, even the ire of interrupted officers who knew better than to try and harass one of the Empress’ runners, however impudent.

  The girl, flushed and bright eyed, sure of her position, announced with careless grace, ‘Her Majesty the divinely magnanimous Yaphantine Shamuit Torada wishes to enjoy your conversation at her gardens, Fadurant Borze.’ She beamed a smile of white teeth at him, at Parillus and at the sergeant in attendance before turning on her slender shoe and speeding out. A flourish of air swirled in her wake that smelled of dust and rain, floral shampoo and the tantalising hint of girl sweat on warm, bronzed and freckled skin.

  Fadurant noticed with amusement that none of them moved for a good two seconds after her departure.

  ‘If I could bottle that I’d rule the world,’ he murmured, not for the first time.

  The other men, well used to the Empress’ couriers, grinned wryly their old agreement and at a glance from Parillus the sergeant bit back whatever heartfelt crudery he had been going to share. Fadurant would rather he had said it to cut the air, but he’d learnt to live with manners.