“Captain, are you—?”
“Fine,” he said, eyes still closed. “I am fine.”
“Is it—?”
“Of course it is. Whatever else could it possibly be? The dreaded plague?” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed off the wall, took a hesitant step, shook his head once, and then kept walking.
A short time later we stopped in front of a nondescript timber building, the only one besides the manor house that was two stories. Unlike in a large city, every inhabitant in this small village had surely known what each and every building was, and any visitors from the main road would have had little chance of getting lost, so there was almost no signage. This building was the lone exception—it had a faded, warped sign hanging from one iron loop that had an image impossible to misinterpret: a flagon of ale.
Even though there were no wenches, pretty or ugly, no ale, fine or muddy, and no other attraction, overt or covert, the Syldoon seemed to have difficulty resisting the allure of a tavern or inn. But as I stopped at the door, it struck me that it might not just have been familiarity or affinity—the beds here had been home to countless people. The beds in the homes up in the village had only belonged to the dead or the heartbroken who’d left them behind. It was probably easier to bunk down in a place like this.
Of course, when you stopped to consider how many people had stayed a night here on the way to Alespell and carried the plague with them, it didn’t seem like such a safe place. But it was where we were staying, so again, there was little to be gained from mediating on it too long. For good or ill, we were in the village and in the inn, so there it was.
The place looked as it must have before the plague ravaged the village, generally undisturbed, trapped in time. While the innkeeper, if he survived, must have taken valuables and whatever he could carry to start over, the tables and chairs were still here, covered in a patina of dust, and several tables still had plates or cups strewn across them. There was a rag here, a spoon carved from horn there, a black iron poker hanging in front of the empty fireplace. Messy, yes, evacuated in some haste, but not looted or vandalized. Simply abandoned, like every other building in the hamlet.
I stood there watching the Syldoon make themselves at home, admiring the way they seemed mostly oblivious to the fact that they had killed so many Hornmen, and were now pushing benches and tables aside to bed down in a dead community. They seemed to focus on the immediate and the known and little else, trusting their captain and his lieutenants to make the decisions regarding anything beyond that. I wondered how they did it.
I saw Vendurro chatting with another soldier I only vaguely recognized, and Skeelana off to the side and watching it all, much like I was, and Mulldoos barking an order at a younger soldier, and tried to decide which direction I would head in or if I would find my own secluded spot. I had to admit, the largest part of me was drawn to approach Skeelana, but I wasn’t sure if that was because she was the most appealing or the least threatening. She was half as physically beautiful as Soffjian and twice as attractive. I felt myself warming to her whenever we spoke, even as she gently chided me.
Hewspear was sitting at a table by himself, away from the other others, back rigid, breathing shallowly, his brow deeply lines as he carved away at a flute with a very small blade.
For some reason, I decided to approach, hoping I wasn’t interrupting. Hewspear looked up at me, and then pointed to a spot on the bench. “Sit, Arki. If you are so inclined.”
Hewspear didn’t seem the kind of man to make his own space awkward by placating others, so I sat and looked closer at the flute. It was a little shorter than his forearm, and he’d made remarkable progress since I’d seen him start whittling several days back. Before, it was rough in shape and form and devoid of anything resembling a flourish, but now it was covered in intricate strands of vines, sharp-edged leaves, and delicate flowers scattered among them. It was quite fine, really, and the level of detail he’d achieved was far greater than I would have expected. I had no carving skills to speak of, so perhaps I was easier to impress than most, but I’d known a student at university who was exceptionally skilled, and Hewspear’s work was easily a match, possibly surpassing it.
He noticed me staring and smiled. “Not expecting a veteran killer to have a light touch, eh, Arki?”
“No,” I replied quickly. “That is, I mean, I don’t consider you a veteran killer.”
He went back to his fine work, still smiling. “You are as ingenuous as they come, young scribe. And if you aren’t yourself convinced of the lies you spin, you can be sure your audience will be equally skeptical.”
I started to respond, caught myself, and then started again, “Obviously you are a soldier. And clearly a seasoned one. No offense,” I hastily added.
“None taken,” he replied, smiling.
“And I know soldiering technically involves killing, but ‘veteran killer’ seems to imply… someone who commits the acts wantonly. Or with malice. Or enjoys them too much. I don’t see you like that.” I paused, and then asked, “Is that naïve?”
The tiny knife nicked away a thin curl of wood and he blew it off the blade, watched it float, undisturbed by any breeze, turning of its own accord, spinning gently to the floor. “Are not all the Syldoon bloodthirsty killers?”
I looked over at Mulldoos on the other side of the room. He had his arms folded behind his head, leaning his chair back against a post, calm, possibly asleep. And still somehow seeming like coiled danger. “No, I don’t think all. That is, for your cause, I don’t think you’d hesitate to use whatever means were necessary. But it seems more…”
I struggled to find the right word or phrase.
“Yes?” Hewspear blew another tiny shaving away, following its twirling path to the floor.
“Pragmatic, maybe?”
He looked up. “I wouldn’t argue that point. And while I wouldn’t presume to tell you what context means to you, or argue the semantics of the thing, all I’ll say is, I have killed men. Less than some, but more than many. On account of my advanced years and crafty nature.” He winked at me, but the good humor seemed to drain away as quickly as it appeared. “But a man who kills is a killer, no matter the cause or circumstance, regardless of whether it is a pitched battle among troops who are aware of the risks, or after too many ales in a tavern. So, a veteran killer is a veteran killer, no matter how you dress it up or embroider it.”
Hewspear held the flute up, blew down its length and dusted it off with his dark hand, before examining it closely by the light of a nearby lantern. While it wasn’t perfectly sanded or polished as yet, and he hadn’t finished his carving, the craftsmanship was exemplary. “Let me assure you, they were not all righteous kills that allow me to sleep like a babe.”
I was struck by the juxtaposition of his words with the wooden art he had worked so nicely in his hands. They seemed completely incongruous, and yet, somehow fitting. So very… Syldoonian.
“That is a beautiful flute.”
“Many thanks. It will probably sound like a strangled bird—I’m a far better woodworker than musician—but it is quite nice to look at, I will grant you that.”
“Who is it for?”
Hewspear’s face clouded over, but only for a moment. “For my grandson. Luhosiba.”
I waited, but that seemed the sum total of the answer. “I’m sure he’ll love it. It is a fine gift.”
Hewspear turned the flute over in his hands, still inspecting. “It will be, once it is finished and stained and lacquered. Assuming it plays. But I’m not sure I’ll have the chance to give it to him.”
Again, there was nothing to follow, though the silence was full of portent. Was Luhosiba sick? Was Hewspear worse off than he indicated—could he feel his lungs leaking blood into the cavities of his body? Was there something else, something worse?
I obviously didn’t know, and couldn’t guess… A little hesitantly, I asked, “Is Luhosiba… is he ill?”
Hewspear looked at me. “No
. No, nothing like that. At least, not that I know of. I haven’t seen the boy in several years now, but he was healthy enough when I left.”
Still half-fearing the answer, I pressed on. “Then, why are you worried you might not have opportunity to give it to him?”
Hewspear set the flute down on the table and slipped the small knife into an intricately worked leather case. “My son’s wife and I are what might charitably be called … estranged.”
“Do you mind if I ask why? If you do, I—”
“No,” he replied. “It is sad, but no secret. You see, for a Syldoon soldier everything is in the now, and the limited future. But especially the immediate. What we achieve in this lifetime is all that we achieve. It is a distinct difference between us and nearly every other kingdom. While we might accumulate wealth soldiering, establish a farm or a fishpond or a mill in our dotage, and can pass on money and some measure of security to our families, we do not pass on title or rank.”
“So, the offspring of a Syldoon doesn’t automatically become one?”
He held up a long finger. “Correction, Arki. Can never become one. It is one of our oldest traditions. What’s more, it is law.”
“But why? Wouldn’t that be easier to have someone join already familiar with the culture and its expectations, than having to recruit from far-flung villages on the edge of the Empire?”
“Easier, yes. More effective, no. You see, we recruit from the hinterlands because those people are hardy—they grow up in constant strife and warfare. Simply by virtue of surviving, they’ve proved they are as tough as they come. What’s more, their relative ignorance of how the Syldoon operate is one of the boons of the system. Can you imagine a pampered Syldoon child, having grown up in the privilege and culture of Sunwrack, being willing to submit to the intense and sometimes deadly rigors of the decade of enslavement? Or Syldoon parents allowing it?”
He answered his own question without waiting for mine, “No. The Syldoon are strong only so long as they have a steady influx of robust and resilient stock, hungry to prove themselves, to compete, to endure, to survive. That is what makes the Empire the most powerful in the world, and promises it shall remain so.”
It was a peculiar system, to be certain. “And so how did this lead to estrangement?”
Hewspear sighed, and leaned back. “My son, Vedmurrien, wanted to be Syldoon, burned for it in fact. He didn’t understand why he was forbidden when he was younger. It made him furious when he saw new Syldoon boys and a few girls come into Sunwrack his age, and I had to explain that they would be able to become Syldoon while he could not. I tried telling him he would be safer, and healthier, and likely live longer. Explained he could do anything else in the world he wanted. Become an artist, apprentice in a trade, manage a date farm,” he touched the flute. “Even a musician. But being denied this one thing, he became fixated.”
I wasn’t sure how long ago this was, and didn’t want to interrupt now that he was talking without pause. “Still, as years passed, Vedmurrien stopped asking about it. He’d see a new caravan of caged wagons full of recruits, or a manumission ceremony, and he’d silently fume, but he didn’t talk to me about it anymore. The law was the law. And frankly, I was glad of it. The soldiering life is a hard one. And while he was a good lad, he just wasn’t built for it. Sickly, not the strongest of limb. Poor eyes as well.
“And I made the mistake of thinking he had accepted it and moved on, that as he approached adulthood he would settle into some craft or other pursuit. He had other interests, girls among them, and I was hopeful he would find his own path. Be happy. And when he got married to Adjunna, I celebrated with him. But the very next day he announced he was joining the auxiliaries.”
“The auxiliaries? But I thought he couldn’t join the army?”
Hewspear sighed. “While the Syldoon are the core component, the largest and most prestigious, the Empire maintains a standing army, and even in times of relative peace, the Syldoon soldiers are not enough to man all fronts, provinces, and cities. The offspring of Syldoon can never be Syldoon proper; however they can sign up as clerks in the army, engineers, or auxiliary soldiers.”
“I take it from your tone you didn’t approve.”
He laid his head back and stared across the room, to the empty tables and benches that once were occupied by countless patrons. “No. I did not. As I said, he wasn’t cut out for it. And what’s more, his young wife Adjunna approved less. She hated the idea of her betrothed serving the Empire in any capacity, especially if he risked his life doing so.”
“Why? I mean, I can understand her fearing for his safety, but it sounds like there was more to it than that.”
Hewspear looked at me and then smiled. “Ahh, apologies. I forget—you might be educated, but that is a far cry from actually growing up in the Empire. It is an odd arrangement. Thurvacian citizens, even those born and raised in Sunwrack—perhaps especially those—have a mixture of reactions to the Syldoon ruling over them, of course. Fear, hatred, bitterness, apathy, and in the best and rarest of cases, mayhaps appreciation or respect. The Syldoon proper—those who survive their ten years of slavery and join a Tower—are outsiders, barbarians from far-flung lands. Rough, ill-mannered, illiterate when they arrive. And yet, after their own intense and somewhat brutal education, in time they all assume power in every corner of the Empire, and control the interests of all other members of the society.”
“So… Thurvacians are merely subjects?”
“They might occupy civil posts, and they keep the Empire running, but they will never rule themselves. So you can see why the indigenous citizens might not have a tremendous fondness for their overlords, especially those who rule with a cruel hand.”
I nodded. “So, Adjunna was Thurvacian, and she didn’t especially like you as a potential father-in-law anyway, but when she learned your son wanted to enlist in the army—”
“Livid doesn’t begin to do it justice. And, in what must have required a great deal of pride swallowing, she approached me privately and begged me to talk Vedmurrien out of joining.”
“But you probably had, hadn’t you? Tried to dissuade him, I mean.”
“Of course. Loudly. Often. Until veins nearly burst in my throat. But while the law prevented him from becoming a Syldoon proper, nothing would stop him from becoming a soldier, no matter how poorly he was suited for it. And now that he was married, the law also considered him a man, capable of charting his own course.”
Hewspear suddenly looked and sounded his years, face drawn, wrinkles deeper, the gray in his beard and hair grayer. “So Vedmurrien enlisted. I did what I could to fix it so he’d end up with the lightest duty possible. And that worked for a while. He and Adjunna had a son, and though she was always cool toward me—never forgiven me for ‘allowing’ him to enlist—I visited the three of them when I could while I was in Sunwrack. For a time, things were good. For a time.”
Even knowing the story was going nowhere pleasant, I asked, “Until?”
“There always seems to be an ‘until.’ That is one of life’s harsh lessons. We—that is, our company, the crossbow cavalry—we were making plans and preparations for coming here, to Anjuria. Not two weeks before, I received a letter. Vedmurrien’s unit had been sent to investigate a peasant uprising in Urglovia. It hadn’t sounded particularly dangerous—the sort of thing even auxiliary forces could reasonably be expected to put down easily enough—and my only worry before scanning that parchment was that he might not return in time for me to say my goodbyes.
“As it turned out, he did not return at all. He was cut down in a small skirmish. Only a few casualties. They routed the rebels. On a ledger, just another rousing success for the Syldoon Empire.” He closed his eyes. “Only a few casualties, after all.”
Hewspear didn’t continue, and for once I was in no mood to push the issue, as I had no idea what I could say to a man who’d lost his son. Had the body come home to Sunwrack? Had he had a chance to say goodbye?
We
sat there in silence for a time, me utterly regretting my line of questioning, him probably regretting answering. Hewspear lifted the flute very deliberately, examined it a final time. “So,” he said, still looking at it, “Adjunna refused to speak to me before we left on this campaign, blaming me, no doubt, for our shared loss. And she would not allow me to see my grandson. Denied every letter I’ve sent since.” He rolled the flute across the table, testing for warp. “I hope the boy is still fond of music. And I hope I get the chance to deliver this when we return. We shall see. I have my doubts. Three years might have lessened the pain, or hardened the heart. I have no wish to strip a mother of her child. Truly. But the boy is my blood as well, the last link to my son. And a man can be denied only so long. A Syldoon less so. There is a reason we are veteran killers, after all.”
He forced a pained smile and continued inspecting his flute, and there was little more I could add. I found the best reason I could to excuse myself without simply walking away. “I, uh, left my writing case behind in the wagon.”
As I left the inn and crossed the bridge, the sun was gone for good now, with the sky still holding onto some last vestige of the light, and I headed to the barn. I hadn’t thought to bring a lantern, so felt my way through the dark inside, listening to a horse snort in a stall nearby, my hand out in front of me in case I stumbled over something and started to fall. After reaching the wagon, I felt my way around it and climbed inside, eager to get my case and return to the inn as quickly as possible.
Careful to avoid all the objects hanging from the hooks, I hunchwalked as I cautiously made my way to the front, cursing myself for not walking around and entering from that side in the first place. I wondered if Braylar had ordered the cases with scrolls hauled inside, and hoped I would get a chance to start poring through the documents soon—even if I didn’t find what the captain was looking for, it would be a welcome diversion, and a chance to exercise skills I hadn’t used in some time. I found the cold brass lid and was picking my case up when the axle creaked.
Veil of the Deserters Page 21