Veil of the Deserters

by Jeff Salyards

  Did the man always have to be so irascible? “I was just wondering, Captain, when we were going to reconnect with the wagons?”

  His hand dropped from Scorn’s neck and he finally turned and faced me. “Were you? And why were you wondering that, exactly?”

  “One thing in particular. Well, two really.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t three?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’d been thinking about the crate you have, that you showed me. With the scrolls.”

  He took two quick steps until our noses nearly touched. Braylar lowered his voice. “Now that I have shared the contents with you, all but two here know what lies inside. Can you hazard a guess as to the two ignorant parties?” He didn’t wait for a verbal answer, but continued when he must have seen it in my eyes. “I would like to keep it that way. Indefinitely. And before you insist on asking why, as I know you are wont to do, let me address that briefly: Do. Not. Ask. Now, the second particular thing? Provided it wasn’t connected with the first.”

  I lowered my voice. “Well, without discussing the specifics of any contents, I was wondering when it was my services could prove useful.”

  “When we reunite with the wagons, you shall have your opportunity to prove you are a better translator than sleuth. Though there is more than one crate to go through. Anything else? My horse is wandering.”

  I looked off into the grass, and he had sensed the beast shuffling away from the road, or heard its munching growing fainter. This time I looked around to be sure no one was listening. “You struck someone down. In Alespell.”

  Braylar’s eyes narrowed. “You do know what it means to actually ask a question, yes? Let me provide an example: are all learned boys so obtuse?”

  I tried again, speaking quickly, “Are you… are you well? Hewspear tried to save you from using…” I looked down at Bloodsounder. “Back there. But you did strike someone down with it, didn’t you? I ask because, well, it seems without Lloi, drink is the only thing that helps. And not especially well. And you can’t exactly captain the company drunk, can you? So, with that girl Junjee failing to work out, and no chance to find another, might you consider—” I looked around before spotting Soffjian pasturing her horse some distance away from the others. “—asking for assistance?”

  Braylar gave me a stare a ripper would have been proud of. “Several questions, at last, and yet each more ill-advised than the previous. Amazing. You truly should have stopped with the first unasked question I had to puzzle out myself. You’re the man who wins two coins at a gambling table, and then loses four more, never knowing when to walk away.” He shook his head in disgust and showed me how that was done, moving off quickly.

  That wasn’t an answer, or even a semblance of one, but pointing that out couldn’t have led to anything good. So I headed back to reclaim my own grazing horse. I still didn’t fully comprehend the dynamic that was at work between the Memoridons and Syldoon—and with the way information was parsed out, it could be some time before I did—but clearly now wasn’t the time to ask about it, and the captain surely was not the person to ask.

  I undid my writing case, sat in the grass, and proceeded to record everything as accurately as I could. Sometimes time passes slowly when writing, other times quickly, and this was certainly the latter. It felt as if I’d only settled down to record when Braylar gave the order to mount up again.

  There were a couple of occasions I made eye contact with Skeelana, wondering what her slant would be, or if she would be more forthcoming. In university, there was no shortage of texts concerning the Syldoon. Mostly written from the Anjurian perspective, or other similar peoples who had been pillaged, conquered, decimated, or absorbed by the Syldoon Empire, so hardly flattering. And suspect, as far as veracity went. But the documentation about the Memoridons was far less voluminous, and what existed much more sketchy.

  Who better to ask than a Memoridon herself, especially one that wasn’t openly hostile or capable of melting my mind into steam or mush or whatever it was Soffjian had done to the poor Hornman. Soffjian was probably a worse choice than her brother, but perhaps Skeelana, when I got the chance?

  Then again, maybe I was just trying to find an excuse to speak to her at all. She was easy to chat with, warm and playful, even as she teased me. The prospect of doing so again was somehow both exciting and daunting. But she was also a Memoridon. I had to remind myself of that. And she was probably only humoring me, besides.

  Braylar called out, “You are tarrying, scribe. You do not get paid to tarry. Mount up.”

  After packing my quills in haste, I snapped the case shut, slid it back into the leather harness on the side of the saddle, and climbed back up, the insides of my thighs chafed and sore already.

  I wondered if steady riding would result in calluses on my legs. I hoped not.

  The column rode in silence. I was the only one shifting and sitting the saddle so poorly—even Skeelana seemed a more competent and comfortable rider. I tried not to look behind, trusting that the two riders Braylar had screening would ride up and announce any sign of trouble or pursuit. Still, we had fled Alespell with countless dead Hornmen littering the street, a ripper running loose, and a baron who didn’t take kindly to being disobeyed. Surely, someone must have been hounding us by now.

  I fell back behind Vendurro, Mulldoos, Hewspear, and Braylar, not so close that I would intrude or crowd them (or draw more than the dark stare from Mulldoos), but near enough I’d be the first of the remaining men to know what was happening. Should anything noteworthy happen. Which of course it did, given who I was riding with.

  We approached Martyr’s Fork as one road veered almost due north, and the other branch continued into the west. While I fully expected us to head north, as that was the direction Sunwrack lay, we stayed west. Away from Thurvacia. Clearly I was missing something. Again.

  Soffjian rode past me, not tarrying in the least. I wasn’t sure if it was a cantor or a gallop, but it wasn’t slow. Skeelana followed, though not riding quite so hard, with the spare mounts behind her. I gave her a questioning look as she passed and she only raised her pierced eyebrows. I picked up the pace a bit as well, closing the distance between myself and the Syldoon officers, though as discretely as I could manage.

  Braylar’s sister passed him, wheeled her horse around with a whinnying protest and then stopped directly in his path. While he could have chosen to go around her—this was an open road, not an alley—he halted and waited her out.

  She seemed adept at masking her emotions when it suited her, perhaps no less so than Braylar, adopting expressions and demeanor for effect, but looked genuinely angry now. “I couldn’t help noticing you are no longer headed home, brother. It’s been some time—I do hope you haven’t forgotten the way?”

  Braylar met her stare. “Your heartfelt concern for my faculties is appreciated, as always, but—and I realize this might surprise you—I do in fact know where I am headed. Thank you for checking, just the same. Truly touching.”

  For the briefest moment, I thought I saw the anger flare up into a smoldering rage, but her usual mask slid into place so quickly, it might almost have been a trick of the shadow of a fast-moving cloud playing on her features. Almost. “While the Emperor and Commander Darzaak didn’t see fit to share the actual script, it was made very clear to me that you were to quit Alespell as soon as you were able and return to Sunwrack immediately. Was the message more muddled on the actual page? Some ambiguity there? Please, explain what I missed.”

  I nudged my horse forward a bit to better see his face. Yes, he was smiling. That didn’t bode well. “Oh, no, you are quite right. The mandate to return was spelled out explicitly. No uncertain terms. No room to misinterpret.”

  Soffjian laughed, which was as humorless a sound as I’d ever heard. “Truly? So, you’re simply disregarding an Imperial order?”

  “Our return to the capital will involve as much haste as we can muster. Exactly as instructed.”

  Soffjian
glared, the unfriendly smile still on her lips. “Oh? I remain mystified.”

  “The order allowed for us to complete whatever final action we deemed necessary here before quitting the territory and returning. That particular segment is open to interpretation.”

  Mulldoos broke in, smiling as well, though he seemed to actually be enjoying the confrontation. “Cynead ought to have buttoned that one down better. Cap has room to wiggle, you can be sure he’ll be using it.”

  Soffjian’s eyes never left her brother. “That’s Emperor Cynead, Syldoon. And I suspect the Emperor will not be amused at your delays.”

  Mulldoos didn’t back down either, which wasn’t shocking, but still spoke volumes about his bravery, stupidity, or indignation. “Guessing in all his imperialness, he forgot it was an imperial order sent us and every other squad into Anjuria in the first place. Emperors don’t like getting dirt or blood under their fingernails—that’s what grunts are for. None of us are here by our own volition, Memoridon.”

  Soffjian moved her horse forward, and part of me feared she would extend her splayed fingers and drop Mulldoos in the dirt. Another small part of me hoped to see it, at least if she only put him in his place instead of churning his brain like butter. But instead, she reined both her horse and herself in, voice level and cold. “Your political commentary isn’t particularly relevant or interesting to me. But perhaps the Emperor will be more intrigued—you will have ample opportunity to share your views back in Sunwrack.”

  If Soffjian was a potential lightning strike, Mulldoos was happy to hoist his sword in the air and march around in his armor. “Cynead’s a plaguing fool. Giving us marching orders home, when we were finally making some headway.” He spit in the dirt. “Emperor or no, man’s still a horsecunt and a half. That ain’t a view, it’s fact.”

  Given how much he’d argued with Braylar before on this very point, insisting the Syldoon needed to pull out, I was surprised to see Mulldoos taking essentially the opposite position now. But maybe Vendurro was right—the losses mounted up in ways you couldn’t calculate. Or maybe he just despised his emperor that much. Or enjoyed bating a Memoridon who could destroy him without a touch.

  Soffjian gave the pale man a flat, opaque look. “Your successes, failures, or losses are not my concern. My sole purpose here is to ensure you comply with Emperor Cynead’s mandate and Commander Darzaak’s directive and return in a timely fashion. Which it seems your captain intends to disobey, if not in the entirety, at least in spirit.”

  Mulldoos started to reply, but Braylar broke in. “The good lieutenant is in the right. We have lost men in this region at imperial behest, sweet sister, and we can never reclaim the fallen or our lost years. That is a soldier’s lot. We receive commands, we obey commands to the fullest of our abilities, and on rare occasions, we receive some commensurate reward. We accept this. And Cynead—” Soffjian started to interrupt but Braylar raised a hand and pressed on. “My apologies—Emperor Cynead has been absent from the front lines for so many years he might have forgotten what the common soldier risks and endures in a dangerous territory far from home. A forgivable lapse, perhaps. But given the cunning intrigues he plays at on a daily basis in his own courtyard, it is surprising he would insist his agents abandon their maneuvering on his behalf.”

  “Bray, you overstep—”

  “So, while he might have eaten some spoiled fruit, suffered a severe bellyache, and decided to suddenly reverse policy, threatening to undermine everything we have worked so hard to engineer here on his behalf, that is his fickle prerogative, yes? But I will be thrice damned if I will quit this region before doing something to guarantee all of the blood spilled here was not in vain. And I expect when he sees how conscientious we are in our withdrawal, he will appreciate the lengths we have gone to. All for the glory of Empire. And Emperor. Of course.”

  Soffjian moved her horse alongside the captain’s, and I thought Scorn was going to bite its face off. Or hers, if it got the chance. “You are involved in a very dangerous game, only you are merely pieces on a board. The only true player who matters is the one who ordered you to return. Promptly. And you can be sure he doesn’t appreciate his pieces suddenly declaring their autonomy or refusing his moves. You would do well to remember your position and role. Brother.”

  Braylar laughed, coughed, and rubbed his bruised throat. “Oh, I can tell you without flattering myself in the slightest that my memory is nearly as sharp as a Memoridon’s, Soffjian. You can be sure I have difficulty forgetting anything of import. So never fear. Our detour will not be long, and we’ll return to the road north soon enough. I have no intention of ignoring our mandate or running afoul of our overlord.”

  Skeelana watched, mostly with curiosity it seemed to me, as her fellow Memoridon spun her horse around again, laid her heels into its sides and rode off, heading west. And she had a small mischievous smile teetering on her face as she nodded in Braylar’s direction and said only, “Siblings,” before following Soffjian.

  Braylar and his lieutenants watched the pair ride ahead before Mulldoos offered, “Be nice if she was riding all the way back to Sunwrack. Only she’s going the wrong way. Same as us, only faster. I wasn’t about to take her side—”

  “Greatly appreciated, Mulldoos.”

  “And it pains me to admit it even without her here—”

  “Your angst is palpable.”

  “Seems to me she might be wrong on some score, but she got one thing right. Even if she’s an evil bitch in her delivery. Why are we going the wrong way here, Cap?”

  Braylar was still watching the dust settle after his sister’s departure. “We aren’t going the wrong way in the slightest, Lieutenant. While I might be suffering other ailments, my sense of direction is remarkably intact.”

  Hewspear said, “As much as it would pain me to side with my temperamental young cohort—”

  “You wrinkled cock,” Mulldoos interrupted, “only reason there’s two of us is so we can side together once in a while and talk sense into the man.”

  Hewspear ignored him. “But I can’t help wondering about the wisdom of this particular venture, Captain. We do risk the emperor’s wrath, even if we arrive only a few days later than expected. And as much as Mulldoos would like your sister to disappear over the horizon, she will be with us the entire journey home. And gods know you have no reason to suspect she will go out of her way to paint a favorable portrait of any of your decisions or actions, whether questioned by commander or emperor.”

  Braylar looked at his officers, clearly accustomed to their skepticism, though no less annoyed by it. “Insolence begets insolence. We still have an opportunity to seize High Priest Henlester, and we will explore it before quitting Anjuria.”

  Mulldoos and Hewspear gave each other a look, the pale boar clearly perplexed, and the older, darker man pensive. Mulldoos replied first, though more carefully than I would have expected. “I figured with the way we left Alespell, we were done with that business.”

  For the first time Braylar seemed to notice I was still present and his eyes were as hostile and piercing as spear points. “With the Hornmen driving us from our nest, we wouldn’t have had much longer to do anything in Anjuria as it was. Even if the Memoridons hadn’t arrived.”

  I tried very hard not to let my cheeks color, which probably made them flush darker, as he continued, “So, we go after Henlester, because there is no telling if or when we will return to this region. This is our best, and last, opportunity. This is not a discussion. I am sorry for your confusion if you mistook it for one.”

  Mulldoos looked at me, obviously not comfortable with me privy to this non-dialogic dialogue, but holding his tongue about it.

  Perhaps riding with the Syldoon predisposed me to always look for a hidden secondary or tertiary reason behind every little thing they did, but suddenly I was almost certain that capturing Henlester was more complicated. I said, “This isn’t about Baron Brune, or causing unrest in Anjuria, is it? Not now, not since yo
u’ve been recalled from Alespell. This has something to do with the scrolls you—” I nearly said “stole” and caught myself, “procured. Doesn’t it?”

  Hewspear smiled, his bare upper lip curling. “Congratulations, Arki—you are our first scribe to actually live long enough to divine our other purpose here.” He turned to Mulldoos. “See, I knew he was a good wager. I have a nose for these things.”

  “You have a nose for sticking in the dusty cracks of old crones. Plaguing goat.” Mulldoos looked at Braylar. “I’m guessing if the scribbler had broken into your chest, you would have brained him by now. Meaning, you must have told him what we were hauling around. Meaning, there’s one more thing I don’t fathom.”

  Braylar replied, “Arki would have discovered—needed to discover—the nature of our cargo eventually. We do need them translated, better sooner than later. Especially since we have been recalled.”

  His left hand drifted toward Bloodsounder’s chains, the tips of his fingers tracing their contours as he looked at me. “Yes, Arki, our pursuit of the nefarious high priest serves more than one end. Our operations in Anjuria might be over, for now anyway. But a hostage, particularly one so caught up in all kinds of blackmail, betrayal, and alleged assassination, well, he could prove quite useful, even sitting in a comfortable cell in Sunwrack.”

  That seemed plausible. But piecemeal. There was too much unsaid, as always. I was about to ask more when Vendurro rode up to our group. I expected him to ask why we hadn’t moved forward at all, or something else of import. But instead he said, “Anybody here ever taste copper?”

  Everyone looked at him, Braylar flatly, Hewspear with mild amusement, Mulldoos with the hints of exasperation already brewing. Vendurro continued, “Asking, on account of Yargos. See he got elbowed in the face back there in Alespell by one of the Horntoads. Lost a tooth. Bleeding like a stuck pig, he is. Still moaning about it like it’s going to make his plaguing mouth or our ears hurt less. Anyway, Yargos was going on about how blood tastes like metal. People always saying it tastes like metal. Copper usually. Heard that a lot. Everybody says it like it’s some kind of truth. But anybody here ever taste copper?”