Mulldoos shook his head. “Horsecunt.”
Vendurro looked confused. “Blood tastes like horsecunt? Or copper does? Or…?”
“You.”
“Thinking I don’t taste much like any of those things. Hope not, leastwise. Got some kind of problem if I do.”
Mulldoos looked at Hewspear. “We really got to talk to the recruiters about who we let in this outfit. Seems standards are slipping more every year.”
Vendurro smiled. Mulldoos shook his head and spat in the grass. Then he dismounted and walked his horse off.
Vendurro laughed and called after him, “You sure are the plaguing prickliest bastard I ever met. No question about that.” He looked at the rest of us, stopping at Braylar. “So…. looks like we’re stopping here, then?”
I laughed, and when everyone looked at me blankly, not knowing why I found this funny, I chose not to explain.
Braylar looked up the road where his sister had disappeared. “We could put a few more miles behind us today. But just now, I’m not feeling any urgency. We stop here.”
And so we did.
If the Syldoon were surprised we were stopping a little earlier than usual, they hid it well enough. Perhaps they were simply accustomed to their captain’s mercurial moods, or maybe they were glad not to be pushing too hard after a battle earlier that day. Or maybe they were wondering if Braylar was succumbing to the effects of Bloodsounder. They might not have all known the particulars, but there was no disguising the fact that he was afflicted by something unnatural. Which surely was disconcerting. Did they doubt the soundness of his judgment at all? While I understood why Hewspear and Mulldoos tried to prohibit the spread of information, not knowing all the details might have actually made it worse, leading his men to quietly conjecture more or question his fitness for command.
Then again, the Syldoon seemed more loyal to their superior officers and their Towermates, as Vendurro called them, than any men I’d ever met. Everyone else in the world, chief among them the Anjurians, considered the Syldoon as untrustworthy a people as ever walked the world, capable of any deception, scheme, or enterprise that was designed to ruin or cripple anyone outside the Empire’s borders. None of which was wanting for accuracy. And yet, to hear Braylar’s retinue tell it, the various Towers seemed just as intent on outmaneuvering each other, with only a modicum more restraint used in doing so. But to their own—their single faction, their Tower—these men were the staunchest, most stalwart allies imaginable.
They squabbled and bickered with passion, mocked and ridiculed each other with rare enthusiasm, and still, there was no denying they would defend their own against anything and anyone, without remorse or complaint. Which was amazing—I wanted to complain loudly and often. My thighs were chafed and raw, the muscles in my back sore, and it hadn’t even been a full day in the saddle. I cringed at the thought of how many more it would be.
The men unsaddled their horses and let them graze in the long grass on the right side of the road before leading them all off into a copse of trees that would provide some cover for the night. Most soldiers took the opportunity to check and perform minor repairs on their armor where they could, sharpen their blades, stuff some dried meat or fruit in their mouths.
I unloaded my writing case and set to recording, wanting to stay as current as possible.
Progress was slow and halting, as I nibbled on cheese and nuts and seemed unable to focus on capturing the recent conversations and revelations, my mind pulled back to Alespell and what I’d seen there. And done. Though I tried very hard not to travel far down that road.
Eventually finished, I closed my case and then closed my eyes, head against my saddle, a blanket pulled tight. I thought sleep would be a long time coming, given the events of the day and the vulnerable state we were in, hidden among some trees alongside a road that could be filled with Hornmen or Brunesmen at any moment.
Before I knew it, Vendurro was rousing me at dawn and it was time to mount up again. I felt anything but well rested.
We began putting more miles behind us, the sun rising higher, the chill of morning long gone, as the day would prove to be a hot one. I looked up at the endless sky. It seemed artificial, something painted on the interior of the largest dome in creation, the blue of the backdrop almost too brilliant, too pure, the numerous clouds almost perfect in their rendering, with ashy shading counterbalancing the stark whiteness, and of every size and shape imaginable, as if the artist had been charged with cataloguing clouds in all their infinite variety. They didn’t seem to drift in the slightest either, fixed there as if they’d remain until the paint chipped and cracked and fell down on every cloud-gazing fool. The air was hot and still, without even the slightest breeze, let alone anything to get those clouds moving again, and I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes.
But as usual, my curiosity wasn’t sated. I kept running over the conversation we had on the road the previous day, and still had more questions than answer.
When we stopped to rest the horses, I spotted the captain and his lieutenants off to one side, as usual, separated from the rest of the troops, but not distant.
Mulldoos was leaning against a tree, his eyes closed, Hewspear was working away at his flute, and Braylar was fiddling with his helmet strap.
Braylar looked up as I stopped in front of the trio. “You have that pensive look about you that always prefaces disquieting questions. Out with it.”
Well, directness did save me the trouble of trying to wheedle my way into a conversation before asking anything. I glanced around to be sure no one else was in earshot. “The scrolls you want me to translate? How is High Priest Henlester connected with those? You said they were from ancient collections and libraries.”
Mulldoos opened his eyes and sat up. Hewspear stopped working on the flute. I expected one or all three of the men to silence me, either with sharp rebukes, brutal mockery, clever evasion, or oppressive silence. But, after a moment when the lieutenants looked at their captain and he looked at each in turn, some strange unspoken thing must have happened. Captain Killcoin glanced up the road, as if to make sure Soffjian was not storming back down it, and then he turned to me. “You know the Syldoon Empire is comprised of factions, yes? Constantly maneuvering and politicking against the others, soldiers loyal to the Empire in theory, but only deeply loyal to the Tower they belong to. Well, the Memoridons are the same way—beholden to Towers. The Tower Commanders, in truth.”
“I know very little about what they can or can’t do. Only what I’ve read in university. Which is sparse and—”
“Total horseshit,” Mulldoos offered.
I couldn’t argue that point very well, so ignored it. “But I saw Soffjian, and Skeelana too, for that matter, in Alespell. They did things that were… amazing. How is it the Towers control them, keep them in check?”
Hewspear replied, “As the captain noted, they are fragmented, as we are. Memoridons from one Tower are secretive and competitive and reclusive—they don’t congress much with their sisters from other Towers. And there are other factors that keep them in check, as you say.”
Mulldoos said, “What the wrinkled cock here is getting at is, every Tower is different—some bigger or smaller, depending—but there’s only one Memoridon for every fifty Syldoon, at best. No Tower gets more, not even that prick Cynead’s. The ratio is the ratio. And they might be bitches and witches, but they ain’t all powerful.”
I considered that. “That makes sense. A cap on numbers certainly is a natural limiting factor. But what’s to prevent them from capturing your Tower Commanders or assassinating them? Or fleeing Sunwrack? They obviously don’t have the numbers to overwhelm you by sheer force, but that doesn’t seem to be their strength anyway. Well, with exceptions like the captain’s sister. So there must be something more, then?”
Mulldoos’s very pale brows closed ranks. “Figured that out all on your lonesome, did you? Must have missed the part when Hewspear said ‘factors,’ huh? Meaning plu
ral. Sure with your fancy education you know about plurality?”
I tried not to grit my teeth as I said, “That was my way of asking what the other factors were.”
“Maybe next time, how about you just say, ‘What are those other factors the old goat was going on about?’ See how that works? Real direct like. No confusion. Doesn’t invite nobody to question your intelligence at all. Stick with that. Lot safer for you, scribbler.”
I fought off the urge to engage him and turned instead to Hewspear. “I believe you mentioned something about other factors?”
“See, there you go!” Mulldoos said. “Though you forgot the goat part.”
Hewspear replied, “The Memoridons are bonded to the Tower Commander. It’s not a process most Syldoon are knowledgeable about, only those in the commander’s immediate circle. So I can’t reveal much. Only that the Tower Commanders do not practice memory magic themselves, so the bond is an unusual one. There is a construct involved. And the mechanism, the ritual, the binding, it not only protects the commander from any sorcery the Memoridons wield, but prohibits the witches from being away from the frame—” I started to ask a question but he anticipated it, “That is, the construct—for very long. Part of the reason they aren’t assigned to accompany units like ours for extended periods of time. This binding, and the relative scarcity of Memoridons, together ensure their compliance. Though our understanding of the process is limited. And I suspect even those intimately involved know less than they believe.”
Mulldoos chortled. “Wait, before that, did you just admit there was a topic known to all the tribes of the world that you weren’t some sort of expert on? Did you just say that? You said that, didn’t you? With witnesses and everything? Plague me, that’s a first.”
“Alright,” I said, excited to be getting some straight answers, but still floundering a bit in making sense of it all. “So what does this have to do with dusty tomes from other kingdoms? And Henlester?”
Mulldoos nodded in an exaggerated fashion. “See, real direct, boy. You’re learning. Slow, but you’re learning.” I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me. Well, of course he was, but it seemed slightly less biting than usual. That seemed like progress.
Hewspear answered, “The Syldoon are reviled for a number of reasons, as you well know, and employing the Memoridons while all other kingdoms hunt them to extinction certainly does us no favors. But the Empire is relatively young compared to most kingdoms. And the memory witches have been around for far longer, burnt and drowned and hated and feared. No one knows for sure where those powers come from. But some believe the Deserter Gods instilled it in men.”
Mulldoos said, “Before deciding they wanted nothing more to do with all these broken toys they were playing with and left us high and dry to fend for ourselves, that is.”
Hewspear gave Mulldoos a look that was equal parts paternal and pitying. “Such a shame to have such a narrow scope of imagination or appreciation.”
“Such a shame to be a prattling old windmill. But don’t let me interrupt your history lesson. Bleat on.”
Hewspear ignored him. “There are many regions who catalogued their experiences with hedge witches, for centuries. Mostly this consisted of anecdotes about what they were accused of, and how many were strung up or otherwise murdered and when, but some scholars in some parts of the world chose to actually investigate the witches. Compile accounts of their behavior, origins, descriptions of their unnatural abilities.”
It was my turn to interrupt. “Let me guess—you’ve discovered a higher concentration of them in Anjuria.”
Mulldoos whooped. Actually whooped. “There it is! All kinds of clever!”
I started to reply but thankfully Hewspear interceded. “That’s correct, Arki. The most useful of them are written in Old Anjurian, though some in Middle as well.”
“And you have reason to believe the Temple of Truth has such records, or something like that?”
“There you go, boy!” Mulldoos said. “Direct as a bolt to the face. Cleverer and cleverer.”
I forced myself to ignore him. “But why all this effort to obtain and translate these scrolls and reports in the first place? What could you hope to learn that you don’t already know? The Empire has used Memoridons for centuries now—certainly you have intimate and voluminous knowledge. You know far more than any peoples in the world about what the Memoridons are capable of.” Then I undermined the strength of the statement by asking, “Don’t you?”
Braylar nodded. “What they are capable of? Absolutely. But we are discussing origins. Original experiences and impressions of memory witches. And while most tried to destroy them, as Hew said, there were some very few who studied them. And the Syldoon are not the only ones to attempt to control them. Only the most systematic and successful. So, it is possible we might unearth some information that we don’t know, something ancient and buried and useful, some of those earliest efforts that might give us advantage now.”
“But… you already control them. Advantage how? Over whom? I don’t… I don’t understand.”
Mulldoos replied, and I expected him to belittle me, but he chose Hewspear as the target instead. “Not hard to see why. All that blathering puts me to sleep every time, too.”
Hewspear mostly ignored the jibe, saying only, “Limited,” before responding to me. “Each Tower controls its own Memoridons.”
I still must have looked painfully confused, as Braylar said, “What my circumspect lieutenant means is, we are trying to see if there is any way to gain control of those belonging to the other Towers. Not only controlling our own, but all of them. And the priests of Truth might prove useful in doing so. Or not. We speculate, based on limited information. But with any luck, your translations will push our examination of things in the right direction.”
I was about to say something else when I heard hoofbeats. We all looked up to see a rider coming down the road from the east. From the direction of Alespell. Not galloping, so if it was a Syldoon scout, it didn’t look like we were in danger. Not immediate, anyway.
Braylar and his officers stood and so I did as well as we waited for the rider to rein up. I wondered if the other soldiers begrudged me my position in the company. Until remembering that I was only a scribe, and likely barely registered in their field of view. Vendurro must have seen the rider as well, as he approached our group, burped, and announced, “What do you suppose, good word or bad?”
No one answered as we continued to wait.
The rider was one of the pair that had remained behind us. He halted his horse and saluted.
Braylar took a few steps forward. “Report, Syldoon.”
The scout pulled off his helm, face red and sweaty. “Our wagons made good time, Cap. Coming up behind us. Few miles back yet, but be here soon enough.” He looked around. “Didn’t expect to catch up to you so quick.”
Braylar twitch-smiled and replied, “One of the perks of being captain, soldier, is that you can occasionally goad a Memoridon without suffering severe repercussions. This is doubly true when the Memoridon in question is your sibling. Though sometimes half as true. But in either case, she provided me an excuse to slow down, appreciate the scenery a bit.” He extended a sweeping arm, taking in the generally unremarkable pines and uneven dirt road.
The scout didn’t quite seem to know what to do with that information. “Uh, just wanted to bring word to expect company soon, Cap.”
“Very good, soldier. Rest for as long as you need. Then return to the road and keep a vigil eye.”
“Aye, Cap.” He saluted again and rode off into the grass toward the other soldiers.
After he was out of hearing distance, Mulldoos did what he seemed to do better than anything besides killing people—questioning orders. “Cap, you know me. I got little love for any Memoridons.”
Braylar pivoted, clearly sensing what was to come. “Nor for crippled whores with Memoridon-like tendencies. Or reedy scribes. Or rusty mail. Or much of anything that does not involv
e ale, loose women, vulgarity, or the opportunity to carve up Anjurians. Go on.”
Mulldoos took that in stride. “But seeing as how she’s already likely to report you dawdling a fair bit, and parsing out an Imperial directive how you choose to, is it really smart to keep jabbing her with a sharp stick like you are? Maybe we ought to send a rider to let her know we’re waiting on the wagons, or—”
“Does my sister command this unit, Mulldoos?”
The lieutenant waved off a big bloated fly. “Course not, Cap. But—”
“Very good. So until I am forcibly relieved of duty, I will command as I see fit. And when our Memoridon escort storms off like a spoiled child, I am less inclined to do anything to appease, placate, or otherwise mollify her. We wait for the wagons. Here.”
Mulldoos looked at Hewspear, who sighed and grudgingly took the cue. “And like that, the escort returns.” We saw him looking down the road in the opposite direction, at two figures barely visible on a hilltop, leading some spare horses. “But might I suggest, Captain, that while feigned deference might be too difficult, cordiality might serve us well. In this instance. Given previous history and relations. Respectfully, Captain.”
“Your ‘respectfully’ is clearly feigned. You see, that is the difficulty with false pretense—it is so easy for a skilled and suspicious liar to see through. I will forge nothing false with my sister—that would serve only to heighten any hostilities and suspicions further. But your concern and suggestions are duly noted, the pair of you.”
Mulldoos laughed, nearly a snort. “Like to see this notebook with all the counsel he’s logged and ignored over the years. Thicker than my forearm, I’m guessing.”
Veil of the Deserters Page 17