by Ian Irvine
‘He’s a warhorse,’ said Mounce. ‘He’s used to carrying a proper soldier and all his gear. A pipsqueak like you won’t trouble him.’
The insult was deliberate and Nish could not pretend he had not heard it. What was he to do?
THIRTY-THREE
Nish stopped dead and slowly turned around. It had to be done right away. ‘Sergeant Mounce, you are broken to the ranks for insolence. Hand me your badge and baton, if you please.’
Mounce looked as if he had run into a tree. His leathery skin went red, then purple. His mouth opened and closed like a fish trying to breathe out of water.
‘You – you can’t do that, surr,’ he choked.
‘As marshal, I believe I can.’ Nish held out his hand. It took an effort to stop it from shaking, for he was taking a monumental risk. If the soldier refused, Nish might as well go home, for he would never recover.
It was a contest of wills, one Nish had often fought with his father, who invariably won it. On the other hand, the trials of the past months had grown a few fibres in Nish’s soul. He had faced opponents more formidable than this one. The man was just a soldier, used to obeying orders no matter how stupid they might seem. The advantage was on Nish’s side.
Taking a step forward, Nish looked the man in the eye. This was a game he had learned from the scrutator, and one of the easiest paths to dominance, if you had the will for it. Nish screwed his down hard. Nothing is going to beat me. Nothing! As Troist has seized his chance, I will take mine. I’ve waited long enough for it.
He put that fire and fury into his eyes. The soldier held him for a minute, then his eyes slid away and Nish knew he had won. The man put out his hand. Nish took the badge and baton.
The former sergeant bowed his head. ‘You have broken me, surr. When I go back I will be finished. No soldier will ever respect me again.’
Nish was about to point out that it was on Mounce’s own head, until a sudden, rare feeling of empathy came over him. He had been just as low, more than once, and but for the generosity of the overseer one time, and Scrutator Flydd another, might now be a soldier in the front-lines. Or in the belly of a lyrinx.
‘You will have the chance to earn back your baton on this journey. Whether you do so is, of course, up to you.’
The soldier did not grovel, for which Nish was grateful, but he did bow. ‘Thank you, Marshal Cryl – Thank you, Nish.’
Nish bowed, the man turned away and they all went about their business.
After dinner Nish sat up talking to Ranii, who now tried to conceal her hostility. She briefed him on the character, the manners, the protocols and the Histories of the Aachim.
‘You must appreciate,’ she concluded, ‘that everything I have told you relates to the Aachim of Santhenar, who have dwelt here for four thousand years. A culture and a people can change immeasurably in that time, even one so self-contained as theirs. The Aachim of this world are, no doubt, more like us than these newcomers. You must be cautious; who knows what proprieties an innocent remark or gesture might infringe. And yet you must be bold, for they do not respect timidity. Above all else we must avoid the impression of weakness.’
‘Which is the true impression.’
‘Yes, and no. Militarily, we are weaker than we have been. The war has taken a toll. But we have endured it, and are tougher and more resilient because we have. And even if we are weak, we can act strong. We must, just as you faced down Mounce earlier. There are all kinds of strength, Marshal Hlar.’
‘I’m just beginning to realise it.’
‘The Aachim can be bluffed. The Histories tell us that. And they are at a disadvantage. Their constructs are more than the equal of our own machines, but they have no home base, no friendly lands to provide them with supplies, no safe place to send their wounded. They must carry everything with them and there are but one hundred and fifty thousand of them.’
‘Rulke took Aachan from them with a hundred Charon, so the Great Tales say.’
‘That was the boldest stroke of all time! But Santhenar is not Aachan and we old humans are not Aachim. We are lesser, yet greater, and we would never give up our world so easily. Besides, these Aachim do not know Santhenar, and that is the greatest disadvantage of all.’
‘Though one readily remedied with advisers and scouts from their own kind in Stassor.’
‘Stassor is a long way from here and accessible only on foot. Help could be months in coming. We must capitalise on their disadvantage so as to bring them to negotiate.’
‘What is our objective?’
‘To have them as allies against the lyrinx! Surely you realise that?’ She stared at him as if he was an idiot.
Nish flushed. ‘I asked Troist but he did not say.’
‘It’s so obvious I’m astounded you needed to ask.’
‘Well, I did.’
‘Whatever we do, we must avoid offending them, and from what I hear of Vithis, that will be difficult.’
Nish considered his approach as he bounced on his black and blue backside across the hard soil of Rencid. It would be his greatest test. He was not sure he was up to it.
As they drew near the Aachim camp, a triplet of constructs whined out to meet them. Nish drew level with Mounce and passed him the baton and badge. ‘I must have a sergeant while we are here; the toughest and most unflinching in the east. Are you up to pretending?’
‘Surr!’ Mounce touched his cap, spurred ahead and put up his pole. The blue truce flag cracked in the breeze of his passage. He pounded up to the clankers, wheeled around them in a circle, ignoring the spear-throwers trained on him, skidded to a stop and jammed the pole into the ground. Pulling back on the reins, he brought his horse up on its hind legs, danced all the way round the flag, then turned his back and trotted back to Nish.
Ranii was smiling. ‘I think that sets the right tone. The Aachim are not put off by arrogance, since it is one of their defining characteristics.’
‘What do we do now?’ whispered Nish. ‘Should I present my credentials?’
‘To a group of soldiers? Of course not!’
‘We must state our business, surely?’
‘Let’s see what they do first. Since they have not come down from their machines they may be an escort. We’ll go forward, mounted, and see if they challenge us.’
Nish gestured to Mounce, who fell in beside Tchlrrr. The pair rode forward in perfect formation. Nish followed several lengths back, Ranii at his side. When Mounce’s horse was a bare length from the leading construct, its hatch cracked open.
A tall dark woman cried, ‘Who are you who ride so recklessly into the Aachim camp? Name yourselves!’
As Nish opened his mouth, Ranii hissed, ‘Leave it to the sergeant, Marshal Hlar. Do not assume lackey’s duties or they will think you are one.’
Mounce called out their names and business, whereupon the tall woman said, ‘You are expected, Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar. Go ahead. Keep your hands away from your weapons.’
They rode down the rank upon rank of constructs, and even Nish was hard put not to gape like a village yokel. In Tirthrax he had seen the machines only from a distance. Up close, they outclassed the clankers he had worked on as a prince’s yacht surpasses a toy floating in the bathtub.
He forced himself to look impassive. Their marvels were no secret: the Aachim were the greatest engineers and designers in the Three Worlds. His horse was the best Troist had to offer, but it was not a construct.
They entered a heptagon of bare ground with the rows of constructs radiating away from it. At its centre was, clearly, the command tent. Mounce and the soldier moved to either side to allow Nish to pass through.
‘Ride to within ten lengths of the tent, then dismount,’ said Ranii in a low voice. ‘This time try not to fall off. Bow and introduce yourself. I will come behind with your credentials.’
She fell back and Nish walked the horse forward. He felt incredibly conspicuous. A wall of Aachim surrounded the open space. He rode the distance, stopped
and swung down. His knee wobbled as he struck the ground and for a horrified instant Nish thought that he was going to fall on his face. He steadied himself and waited.
The wait was a long one. As he was wondering why they did not come, the horse defecated noisily, splattering his left boot and lower leg. Nish tried to wipe it off with his other foot.
Three people emerged from the tent. The first was a very tall, haggard-looking fellow dressed in blue-black robes, his cheeks etched with creases and his mouth cast down in bitterness. He was followed by two others, a dark-skinned woman with black curling hair, handsome rather than beautiful, and another man whose close-cropped hair was iron-grey.
Nish bowed. ‘I am Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar; son of Scrutator Jal-Nish Hlar of Einunar Province; Envoy to General Troist.’
‘You are not the first, Marshal Hlar,’ said the haggard fellow, ‘though you are certainly the littlest. What do you want?’
Nish was taken aback by the affront. Having been told that the Aachim were a formal species, much taken up with ritual and protocol, he had expected the formalities to take hours. Moreover, he was paralysed by the thought that he was about to make a major blunder. He could not think of the right words to say, or how to say them.
He opened his mouth and closed it again, but before he could make a complete fool of himself the woman with the curly black hair moved out from behind Vithis. She wore a scarlet blouse, black pantaloons and long black boots.
‘Good day to you, Marshal Hlar,’ she said. ‘I am Tirior of Clan Nataz. Beside me stands Luxor of Clan Izmak. We are both of the Eleven Clans. Our leader, for the moment, is Vithis of Clan Inthis. We bid you welcome.’
‘Clan Inthis, First Clan!’ Vithis snapped.
There came a rebellious mutter from behind him. Others introduced themselves by their clan and given names, all being members of the Eleven Clans. At the end, a red-haired couple came forward. They were smaller of stature and paler of skin.
‘I am Zea,’ said the woman. ‘My partner is Yrael. We represent Clan Elienor and seek news of our Aachim brethren on Santhenar.’
‘Clan Elienor!’ sneered Vithis. ‘Least Clan, Last Clan. Not of the Eleven Clans nor ever will be.’ He stepped in front of them, dismissively.
Zea moved to one side. ‘We are one with the Aachim kind,’ she said gently. ‘All Aachim, not just the Eleven Clans, whose rivalry has ever held us back.’
Nish could see that rivalry in the body language of the leaders. Was that an advantage or a disadvantage? ‘Thank you, Tirior of Clan Nataz,’ he said faintly, perspiring in his uniform. ‘Good day to you, Vithis of Clan Inthis and Luxor of Clan Izmak.’ He bowed again. ‘Thank –’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Ranii said out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Come into the shade,’ said Luxor. ‘Will you take a glass of wine with us?’
Nish was prepared for this. Aachim wine was notoriously strong and he’d not had a drink in months. He might have begged for water on the grounds of a religious prohibition, which they must respect, but he’d made such a shaky start that Nish did not dare.
‘I would be glad to,’ he said.
Vithis grimaced, but stood back so that Nish and Ranii could follow Luxor and Tirior into the annexe of the tent. It was an enormous affair with five apexes held up by engraved poles and taut wires.
Tirior showed Nish to a chair and drew others up opposite. He tried to hide his stained boot and trousers, but was uncomfortably aware of the smell of manure. Refreshments were brought. Nish held his glass up to the light, as he knew the custom to be, and praised the colour for being as green as seawater. Vithis sneered. Evidently the comparison was infelicitous. They waited for him to take the first sip.
He did so. The wine was superb. Nish said so. Vithis smiled thinly.
Tirior chuckled. ‘It is from my own estate, held by many to be the finest on all Aachan.’
‘It may have been once,’ grated Vithis, ‘though Inthis would dispute that. But the vineyards of Izmak lie under a span and a half of ash and will never sprout again.’
‘Alas, true. And so we have come to Santhenar,’ said Tirior, ‘to make a new life, we few to have survived the calamity. I brought cuttings of the best vines and will plant them with my own hands.’
‘Where do you propose to do that?’ Nish asked.
‘Ah,’ said Luxor. ‘Wherever we are made welcome. Have you come to talk about that, Marshal Hlar.’
‘I have,’ said Nish, ‘or at least to open a dialogue. Those with the power to negotiate concessions will follow.’
‘Bah!’ said Vithis. ‘This little fellow isn’t even the watchdog, much less the master. He’s just a puppy and all he can do is piss on First Clan boots, as his horse craps on his. Go home, Marshal Hlar. If you are a marshal.’
‘I am duly appointed to negotiate with you,’ said Nish, signing for Ranii to pass forward his credentials. ‘These are my papers.’
Vithis gave them a perfunctory glance, then tossed them on the floor. ‘Any forger could have done better in a night and a day.’
Nish reached for them but Ranii shook her head. What was he supposed to do now? Pretend it had been an accident? ‘My papers,’ he said with an apologetic glance at Tirior. ‘Would you –’
Picking them up, she handed them to Ranii, inclining her head minutely. Vithis turned his back, which Nish knew to be an even greater insult. He struggled to maintain his temper, though he must at all costs. Surely even Vithis would not attack them under the blue truce flag. Maybe this was a test. Vithis must be baiting him, to test his mettle.
‘Let me be honest with you,’ he said, looking to each of the three in turn.
‘Meaning you weren’t honest before?’ said Vithis.
Nish took a deep breath. The man was impossible to deal with. ‘I will put our situation plainly. We have been at war with the lyrinx for seven generations. They have hurt us badly. We have lost Meldorin and some strategic cities on the east coast.’ Better not make themselves appear too weak. ‘Nonetheless, we are hardened by war and will never give up. We have made many breakthroughs lately: new weapons, and means of delivering them, that will win us the war.’
‘I see no sign of it,’ said Vithis, facing him again.
‘We will reveal our weapons in our own time,’ said Nish.
‘Time is what you do not have.’
‘We have enough. Even so, we would be glad of your aid. With Aachim help the war could be over within a year, and then …’
‘You ask for everything, yet offer nothing.’
‘You invaded our world, surr!’ Nish snapped. Realising that was undiplomatic, he added quickly, ‘I meant that you ask for the greatest prize of all, part of our world. We are listening. Be sure that we will be generous, once –’
‘In my experience, true generosity is unconditional.’
‘We are honourable people, surr,’ cried Nish, knowing that he was losing the struggle but not how he might recover. ‘I have come in good faith.’
‘That proves what a puppy you are,’ growled Vithis. ‘I have been reading your Histories since we came here. A more treacherous, lying and deceitful species than old humans has never existed in all the Three Worlds.’
‘Surr,’ said Nish, reining his temper in with the most tremendous effort, ‘I beg you, consider what I have come to say.’
‘I can read you like a book, Little Marshal. Old humans are weak. You are losing the war; I’d say you have already lost it. There’s no benefit for First Clan – you can never deliver on your promises. You would say anything to get the aid you need so desperately. And if we did win your war for you, you would betray us. There is no gratitude in humanity, only treachery.’
‘Clan Nataz have a different view,’ declared Tirior, pushing forward.
Vithis held out his arm, barring her way. ‘Clan Nataz do not lead. First Clan has that honour.’
‘I hardly think that the lyrinx –’ Nish began. His blood was boiling. He wanted to smash the
fellow in the face, though it would mean his doom, blue flag or not.
‘The lyrinx are beasts, but honourable ones for all that. They do not smile and make lying promises, like creeping, crawling, treacherous humanity. Go away, Little Marshal. You have nothing to offer us. Begone!’
Control yourself. Don’t react to the provocation. Nish did his almighty best but suddenly his rage exploded. ‘I am young, as you point out. Inexperienced too. But if I wanted lessons in treachery,’ he said savagely, ‘I could have come to no better place and no more experienced tutor!’ Behind him Ranii sucked in her breath. His career as a diplomat was finished, but in the glorious madness of the moment, that counted for naught.
Vithis raised a clenched fist. ‘How dare you come into my camp with such insults. I’ll –’
Nish stepped right up to the tall man. ‘I speak nothing but the truth and you know it, noble Vithis of Inthis First Clan. The evidence of your deceit and treachery lies all around you.’ Nish pointed to the constructs extending in every direction. ‘You lied to Tiaan. You used her innocence and her naïve love.’
A handsome young man ran forward, then stopped.
‘You must have been building constructs for twenty years before you contacted her,’ Nish went on. ‘How dare you accuse humanity of treachery when your own soul is as black as your machines? You are a stinking liar, surr.’
Vithis’s face went the colour of a leech’s intestines. The young man threw himself between them. His strong hands kept clenching and unclenching. ‘Foster-father …’
Vithis swung him out of the way. ‘No, Minis, and a thousand times no!’ He seized Nish by the front of the shirt, lifting him off the ground. ‘What do you know of Tiaan and the flying construct?’
Nish’s legs swung in the air. He restrained the urge to kick Vithis.
‘To lay hands on an envoy under the blue flag is an act of aggression, surr,’ said Ranii.
Vithis tossed Nish to the ground. ‘Well, worm?’
‘She met the Matah in Tirthrax,’ said Nish. ‘I don’t know anything about a flying construct.’
‘How do you know she met the Matah?’