Veil of the Deserters

by Jeff Salyards

  Skeelana didn’t reply right away, and I was afraid I’d overstepped, but she didn’t curse me or so many of the things everyone else seemed inclined to do when I started asking questions, so I took that as a good sign. Finally, after looking around to be sure no one had crept up on us in the dark, she said, “Not like this. Not exactly. But we have discovered weapons of a similar nature before. Only they didn’t quite… work.”

  “Work? You mean, they weren’t cursed?”

  “I’m not sure cursed is the right word. My sense—and I fully admit, I could be wrong—but I think Bloodsounder does exactly what it was intended to. Only we don’t understand what that is. But I’m not sure inflicting damage on the wielder, or punishing him, or cursing him, is any part of it. I just think we don’t know exactly what it does, or why. But it does function. It does work. And that we haven’t seen before. Not like this.”

  I recalled the edge in Soffjian’s voice as she asked her questions, quickly, but precisely too. It wasn’t anxiety. It was excitement. “She wants to study it, doesn’t she?”

  “Of course she does. Why wouldn’t she? This is the first weapon we’ve seen that actually bonded.”

  “Well,” I replied, framing my words carefully, “I can see that, from your perspective, this would be a find of some kind. But I suspect the captain doesn’t particularly welcome the idea of being studied or experimented on.”

  Skeelana seemed genuinely surprised. “Perhaps not. But cursed or not, it grieves him, and might be doing far worse. I went in to do one thing, which I did. Mulldoos looked really eager to chop someone in half with that cleaver of his. So I got in and out. But if we can unravel how it works, we can probably show him how to use Bloodsounder, rather than the other way around. At least, there’s a chance we could. But we would need to study it.”

  “And him.”

  “And him. The bond. Yes.”

  I leaned against a gate that seemed unlikely to support my weight for long. “You mentioned Bloodsounder had awareness of a kind. And hostility. You said it would have rebuffed you if it could. What if it doesn’t particularly welcome any attempts at unraveling?”

  She gave that thought and replied, “Aware or not, it is an object. And it can be manipulated. All objects can be manipulated. This might just be trickier, is all.”

  “Perhaps. But the captain? He is not likely to sit still for any manipulation, no matter what kind of rhetoric you couch it in.”

  She nodded slowly. Then, either tired or sad or both, she replied, “He might not have much choice.”

  I thought about that. And the night suddenly got much colder.

  Skeelana seemed to feel it as well, and hugged herself. “You should get some rest, Arki. We’ll be leaving early, I imagine. Captain Killcoin might begrudge us helping him, but I’d wager he feels better now than he has since he first picked Bloodsounder up. Night.”

  She turned and headed back toward the house I assumed she was sharing with Soffjian. I wanted to call out something as well, but the moment was past, and she was swallowed up in the night.

  I headed back toward the inn, wondering at the wisdom of mentioning Soffjian to Braylar’s men, encouraging them to solicit her aid. Skeelana had doubtless helped him, maybe even saved him. And probably more cleanly than Lloi had ever managed.

  But calculating the cost was something else altogether.

  As Skeelana predicted, Braylar didn’t waste any time the next morning rousing his troops before dawn. It felt like I’d barely closed my eyes, and every muscle seemed stiff. Even the bowed and beaten beds in most road inns were preferable to the cold ground. But I wasn’t about to stumble about in the dark and check rooms for occupants. And there was something that just seemed more… plaguish… about a bed in this village. So uncomfortable floor it was.

  I rinsed my face in water, rubbed my eyes, grabbed the nuts and dried fruit that was offered, and followed the other Syldoon out, noting that they were grumbling a bit as well, even as inured to such things as they were. That helped. A little.

  The wagons had already been brought out of the barns, and no one risked a sharp rebuke from a commanding officer by dawdling. Horses were saddled immediately, and it didn’t take long before our small company was on the move again, me sitting in the wagon, Braylar on the bench at the front, and the rest of the Syldoon riding.

  I lifted the canvas flap and looked out the back as the village behind us was suddenly completely deserted again. While I’d never considered myself bound to one spot, I’d done more traveling in the last two tendays than I had in most of my life prior. Even leaving a plague-ridden dead village gave me a slight pang.

  As the wagon jostled over the rutted and uneven road, pots and pans and tools and every other thing that could possibly swing from a hook oscillating wildly, I was about to find the spot where I was least likely to get banged in the head from something when Braylar called me to the front of the wagon.

  I made my way forward, arms up to ward off blows, and still managed to slam my shin into a crate as I pulled the canvas flap back and awkwardly dropped myself onto the front bench.

  The captain didn’t speak right away. I wondered if one of his men had told him I suggested Soffjian tend to him, or that I met her in private (well, got cornered with no one around at least), and fully expected him to verbally or physically assault me in either case. Hazarding a look in his direction, I was almost shocked to see just how calm he was. And not like he had been as he receded from himself in the steppe, growing more and more distant, a forced placidity that left him essentially a husk. This was something else. I’d seen him appear bitter, angry, measuring, enraged, witnessed him issue hard orders and biting rejoinders, and sarcastic assessments, all with an excess of vigor and indulgence. But now, he looked… thoughtful. I’d only met one or two men who might have been smarter in my life—instructors at university—but while Braylar did a great deal of thinking, it still always seemed to be pulsing with intense and critical energy, calculation just preceding violence of some kind. Or crafty consideration before delivering a charade any playhouse actor would be proud of.

  But not meditative thought. And certainly not after returning to the land of the living the night before to discover that a Memoridon had been walking in his skull. The unwound quiet was more disturbing than any tempestuous rampage would have been.

  I broke the silence. “Are you feeling well, Captain?”

  He didn’t respond immediately. I was about to ask again, wondering if maybe I’d been wrong and he was in danger of slipping into himself when he said, “I’ve had another person moving about inside me, who I didn’t trust in the slightest, in league with the person I might trust the least, and with no permission granted from me, either expressly or even obliquely. How do you imagine I feel?”

  The tone didn’t dovetail with the language at all. Any other time, this would have been delivered with a hint of rancor and ridicule. But it was still eerily calm.

  “I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel, Captain. I suppose that’s why I asked.”

  I cursed myself the moment the words were out. But he turned his head my way and replied, “You do have the right of it. You couldn’t fathom it. Betrayed and violated, not only with my men’s knowledge, but their provocation and approval. And yours, of course. Don’t think for a moment I’m not aware of the part you played.”

  The urge to look away was strong—at the horses’ asses, my feet, the woods on either side of the track—anywhere or at anything besides my accuser’s face. But that would only compound whatever guilt he was assigning. “Captain, it was the only recourse we—”

  “No, no. There are always options, Arki. Sometimes the choice is between two equally detestable options, but there is never only one recourse.”

  “Very well. In that case, there wasn’t enough time to find another Lloi. The choice was let you rot or invite your sister into the room.”

  “It was not simply my life hanging in the balance, scribe.” Bra
ylar lifted his hand, and drummed one finger on his temple as he looked at me. “There is information here—that I don’t expect you to be aware of—that could damn not only me and my men should it fall into the wrong hands, but our entire Tower. And more besides. There is more at stake than my sanity or even life.” He looked back to the road. Well, the Syldoon riding on it ahead of us, more precisely. “Never fear, I don’t blame you. Much. As I said, you couldn’t be expected to know just what a terribly incriminating and costly move it could be inviting a Memoridon to tromp around in my memories, yes? But Mulldoos? Hewspear? Vendurro?” Still very calm, he shook his head. “They put everything at risk. Everything we hold dear and fight for, at least.”

  I tried to find a compelling rebuttal and opted for the most direct one. “They saved your life.”

  “Yes. Yes, they did. For the moment. But they could have signed all of our death decrees in the process.”

  “Would you rather we’d let you wither and die?”

  I expected masterful obfuscating or an abrupt change in topics, but instead he replied, “No. Far too much was risked, and very possibly for naught if we are all hung without reprieve when we return to the capital. But in truth, I am not ready to die yet. A coward’s confession, but there it is.” He still possessed the strange calm. Which was nearly as disquieting as his bald honesty.

  Figuring I had only a moment or two before he recovered and assumed his normal slippery mantle, I asked, “After Skeelana was done, and your sister confronted you, what was she talking about?”

  He didn’t respond right away and I sat there mute as we rolled along. But he still seemed placid, which was peculiar, and the silence wasn’t as oppressive as it had been in the past. I thought about a different line of questioning, but waited. Braylar looked up and watched some squirrels chittering on the branches above us, not happy to have whatever squirrelly business they were on interrupted by a small caravan. Braylar pointed out a black squirrel. “My tribe. The Vorlu. They put a great deal of stock in omens, believing the natural world will give you signs if you are smart enough to pay attention. Observing a black squirrel, for instance, was supposed to portend good luck. And like most superstitious primitives, they were sorely mistaken.”

  Braylar paused, and I thought maybe that was designed to dry up conversation, but then he sighed deep and long and said, “I was a boy, and had seen twelve winters. Ice cracked, spring rains came, and with spring, the Syldoon returned to the tribelands. Every three years, they came to our islands, and the tribes sent some of their children willingly with the Syldoon. Hewspear has gone on at interminable length about this Syldoon tradition, yes?”

  I nodded and he continued, “On our island, the Syldoon arrived in the spring, a few weeks after thaw. They sent word to our tribe, as well as the Zundovu, the Bandovar, and others in the area, and we were invited to Sanctuary.”

  “Hewspear mentioned this. What is that exactly?”

  “A very pedestrian and unoriginal name for the meeting between the Syldoon and the tribes. Any hostilities between the tribes—and there was always some, as we were constantly raiding each other’s lands—the hostilities were called off with a temporary truce. The meeting took place at a camp in neutral territory, where everyone would consort, trade goods, reintroduce themselves.”

  I said, “Something of a fair, then?”

  “On a very modest scale, yes. The site was between villages, so nothing like the festivals you see in places like Alespell. No jugglers or stilt-walkers, menageries or rippers. No huge crowds. Mostly, Sanctuary was designed to foster good relations between the Syldoon and the tribals. Which it did, for the most part.”

  I thought back about the piecemeal information I’d gleaned when they were talking the night before—really, all I knew was that his father was murdered somehow. “So, even though the tribes you mentioned fought constantly—”

  “Frequently.”

  “Frequently, then. Even with the warring going on, or raiding, they honored the truce? Did fighting ever break out at Sanctuary?”

  Braylar was still looking up at the trees. “On rare occasion. While we would steal each other’s sheep and murder anyone who tried to stop us, there was still some etiquette observed. Sanctuary was sanctuary.”

  “So,” I tried to imagine all these barbarians agreeing not to massacre each other for a day, “did all the tribes attend unarmed then? I’m assuming the Syldoon didn’t?”

  “Tribal warriors were allowed to bear one weapon only—we would sooner cut our cocks off than be completely disarmed—but they had to be bound by a peace cord.”

  “A what?”

  He glanced at me and smiled, devoid of derision and remarkably free of twitches. “I do forget sometimes where you come from. It is a leather thong on a scabbard that was looped around the hilt. A peace cord hinders the drawing of a blade, especially in a moment of anger. It was used during tribal weddings, funerals, treaties, surrenders. And Sanctuary. That was my first one. My father took us. Soff and me. It would be my last as well.”

  I hesitated to ask the next question, but seeing how generous he was with information, I pressed on. “So your father was a warrior?”

  “Ha! No. Not even reluctantly.” Braylar took a deep breath, released it out his nose. He looked pensive, but still not as irritated as I expected. “I don’t know if any of us know our fathers well. We often see them as less or more than they really are. I knew he was fat. I knew he was soft in our discipline, often deferring to our mother. He liked bees and honey. He was a good breeder of sheep, and could play the flute with moderate success. He brewed very fine mead, but rarely drank, despite the often-flushed face and broken blood vessels in his nose.

  “And I knew he would rather do anything but fight. This last colored everything else in my eyes. The Vorlu is a warrior culture. A man is judged on how well he wields a sword or a spear, how many raids he has been on. A man who does these things well is glorified in song and poem, his exploits recorded to be celebrated, and a man who does them exceptionally well is remembered in exceptional songs that are sung for eternity. A man who fights poorly might still be valued in the tribe for his husbandry, craftsmanship, knowledge of the law, what have you. But he’ll never be glorified, and even if he’s gifted beyond measure at what he strives at, he’ll be forgotten. Quickly.”

  “Your father, then?” I asked.

  “In my eyes, my father was a weak man, a frightened man. I didn’t value him. He taught us how to swing a sword or strike with a spear, but with little enthusiasm and less skill. I was embarrassed for my father. And for myself. And so, being a foolish boy who failed to appreciate what he had, I routinely mocked him, and did everything to incur his wrath, which rarely showed, despite my best efforts.

  “Still,” he said, with a sweep of his hand, as if wiping away an unpleasant memory, “I was excited to be going to a Sanctuary with him. And when I saw a black squirrel on the way there and pointed it out, my father laughed and said the day promised good things indeed. The morning was cold, the ground colder, but the sun was out, and many of the Vorlu attended, eager to see what goods the foreigners brought this year, glad to be able to venture out after huddling around fires for so many months. The camp was small—several pavilions, a few wagons, little else. But it wasn’t the size that made an impression, it was the inhabitants. For most tribals, their birthplace is their death place, their lives lived and lost in a ten mile radius. But at Sanctuary, we were exposed to grand foreigners, soldiers who had once been as we were, tribals, but who now traveled across seas, roamed over continents, conquering and trading and exerting their influence in countries far and wide in ways we could not possibly imagine.”

  “Were they so very different in appearance?”

  “Oh, yes. Some fair skinned, with ruddy cheeks and beards like bird nests, who shaved their heads from the crown back but braided the front down along their ears. Men with skin like dark clay who pierced their faces and carved runes into their cheeks. A few
who shaved their entire bodies, arms, head, eyebrows, and dyed their ears yellow.”

  I thought about the Syldoon in his company, a mixed group to be sure, but without any wild flourishes. “But your own crew—?”

  “Ahh, yes, picked in part to appear innocuous, yes? These Syldoon at Sanctuary were chosen to awe with the wild diversity.”

  “You’d seen them before though? The Syldoon?”

  “As I said, they came every three years. But they never failed to impress. Many of the Syldoon were similar to my own people, swarthy and dark-haired like the Vorlu, but others clearly hailed from distant lands and climes, with a wild variety of skin tones, physiques, and features. In that respect, it was the greatest menagerie in the world. And my first Sanctuary was the first opportunity to see them up close.

  “Our father pointed out the Syldoon commander, a small man with gray eyes and cropped hair. He was squatting in front of a map and glanced up as the tribes filed into the encampment, but made no other sign of recognition.

  “Tables and benches were laid out with Syldoon wares on top of them. Wineskins and fantastic bottles made of colored glass—blue, brown, green, red. I had never seen the like before. Bolts of cloth as strange and foreign as the races that wove them. Stirrups. Sharp fruit that looked like misshapen purple stars. Pungent spices in tiny bleached boxes. All things from lands we had never seen before, designed to awe and amaze. Which they did, provincial barbarians that we were.”

  I asked, “Did the tribes bring their own wares?”