But the tenth did not stir. Would never stir again.
Still, a cheer went up from the Syldoon who made up the bulk of the audience, and several ran forward to pull their comrades out of the dirt and embrace them. Two Syldoon carried the dead body away from the platform, and I realized that when I first started watching, I expected them all to die, and when they were cut down in turn, I had assumed that they would all be spared. Somehow, seeing the tenth strangle to death was just as awful as if I had seen the lot of them.
Soffjian shook her head sadly, though I suspected she was more upset about the Memoridon’s failure than the man dying. “Too plaguing slow.” She turned her horse and said, “Seen enough, brother? I’m sure your commander will be delighted to welcome you home, and the Emperor will doubtless be thrilled to hear that the final operatives in the field have returned as bidden. Albeit much tardier than expected.” Both Memoridons rode off. I was both thrilled and irritated that Skeelana looked over her shoulder at me before disappearing around the corner of a building.
The captain got the team moving again, the wagon creaking back into motion, and the other riders and the wagon behind us as well, as he took a side street toward the Avenue of Towers.
I waited, on the off chance that someone would volunteer the explanation, and when it was clear I would keep waiting until I ran out of breath myself, I asked, loudly enough for anyone to hear, to improve my chances of actually receiving an answer. “What did the Memoridons do? And why is that called the rite of manumission?”
Everyone seemed pensive and lost in their thoughts, but Hewspear was the quickest to respond. “When a Syldoon slave has completed his training, after a tenyear, he is given a choice—walk out of Sunwrack and all the lands of the empire, never to return again. Back to their original homelands, or go where they will, so long as they depart. Or stay and undergo the rite.”
“How would anyone know that they didn’t belong, that they were exiled?”
“Instead of receiving a tattoo, they would be branded on the side of their necks, and given a scroll that specified the allotted time that they could journey, depending on where they were headed.”
“And if they lost the document?”
“Any branded former Syldoon without a document is hung or otherwise executed, this time without a reprieve.”
I took one last look at the gallows before it disappeared behind us. “And if they choose to stay, to do the rite we just witnessed. What happens to them? What were the Memoridons doing to them?”
“Bonding with them,” Hewspear replied.
“Bewitching them,” Mulldoos countered. “Unless the bitches can’t get the job done, and good men die for no plaguing good reason.”
I opted to respond to Hewspear. “Bonding? How, and why?”
“A Memoridon can slide into nearly any man’s mind, given enough time and opportunity, but never so easily as when he is at his most helpless. It’s difficult to be more helpless than dangling at the end of a noose. The Memoridons take that moment to form an intimate bond, unlike any other.”
“If by ‘bond,’” Mulldoos said, “you mean getting raped in the ass, then yeah, the pair get bonded right good.”
Hewspear ignored him. “As you saw, a man can only hang for so long, so the Memoridons have to be quick. Soffjian did have the right of it. And sometimes, men panic.”
“Yeah,” Mulldoos said, “Choking to death does queer things to some folks. Hard to figure.”
Hewspear sounded a little irritated but pressed on. “Once the Memoridon establishes this bond, it is not easily broken. It can be strained with distance or time, so tenuous it is barely a vibration. But rarely sundered. Particularly if the Memoridon is skilled and strong. Unlike the skinny wretch who doomed the man on the gallows just now.”
Mulldoos spit into the street.
“To what end? Why is it necessary to form such a bond?” I asked.
Braylar replied, “How do you think my sweet sister was able to track us to the Grieving Dog in Alespell?”
“Soffjian was one of a pair that, uh, bonded with you? While you hung?”
“Not our whole party, but most, yes. You see, a Memoridon can only maintain so many such bonds at any given time. But Soffjian can manage more than most. She is a viciously talented girl.”
“So how does a Memoridon track you? Another Syldoon. Whoever.”
“Ordinarily, a Memoridon can only sift through someone’s memories if she is in very close proximity. But once she has formed the intense bond of the manumission rite, she can follow the memories, or at least what passes as the residue of them, and identify who they belong to.”
We were approaching the tall outer wall and the Avenue of Towers at its base. “Wait, I don’t understand. How is that possible? Memories are contained in a person. Aren’t they?”
“For the most part, you are correct. And not being a memory mage, I cannot pretend to understand how it works exactly. But I asked the same question you did. And the explanation I received was, when you walk through the world, you leave indentations. So, too, you do the same with your experiences and your memories of them. A Memoridon who shows talent at hounding is trained to sense them, identify them.
“The difference is, when you leave tracks in the earth, sand, snow, they eventually disappear. Sometimes immediately, washed away by the next wave or snowfall, and sometimes after time passes. But with the memory ‘divots’ or impressions, they last much, much longer. There are so many, in fact, that the bonding ceremony is necessary. To establish a connection so that the Memoridon can separate the trail from the thousands of other invisible impressions we all leave behind.”
I thought about that, and while it would have seemed the stuff of overheated story or overly wrought exaggeration only a short time ago, having seen Soffjian kill, drive someone mad, and blind a battalion of soldiers, it wasn’t so very difficult to believe. “But why go to such lengths at all? Why risk Syldoon lives to establish that connection?”
Braylar was turning the wagon onto the Avenue, and Hewspear took the opportunity to respond. “A Tower Commander always has a way of locating his soldiers. There are many occasions this proves useful. During conflicts, when war Memoridons are dispatched and need to find their unit. When Syldoon are captured by the enemy.”
Mulldoos finished the list. “And a big, fat deterrent. You see, a fool Syldoon gets the idea in his head he’s had enough, time to run for the hills. Well, no hills far enough. The Deserter Gods might have been able to throw up the Veil and keep people from following, but Syldoon deserters ain’t got such the same sorry luxury. They run, the Empire unleashes the hounds, and they’ll hunt them to the ends of the world and back.”
I wondered if that was why Mulldoos detested Soffjian so much, or if there was more to it. But I didn’t have long to consider, and wouldn’t have asked him even if I had.
The Memoridons were waiting in front of some stables, which were alongside some other two-story buildings at the foot of one of the massive octagonal great towers. I looked up and saw one of the banners unfurl a bit in the dry breeze. Three black jackal heads on a white band on top, with the lower half a deep red.
Soffjian said, “Consider yourselves delivered. At last. I imagine you have your reports to make, and I know we have ours.” And with that curt farewell, she disappeared inside the gloom of the stable, Skeelana following just behind.
Captain Killcoin’s lips seemed torn between a scowl, a twitch-smile, and something else, and his eyes were hard as he watched his sister go, but he forced a jovial tone as he said, “Lads… we are home.”
He hopped down off the wagon, stretched his back with his arms above his head, twisting and turning. As the other Syldoon dismounted, Braylar cupped his hands in front of his mouth and yelled, “Grooms! Attend quickly and earn your keep! Attend slowly and earn some stripes!”
After the grooms raced out, received their tongue-lashing from the captain, and took the horses and wagons and whatever gear t
he Syldoon handed them, our party headed toward Jackal Tower. I looked up as we approached the stone stairs—the tower from base to crenellations had to be one hundred feet tall, or close to it, and the four turrets at the top were nearly as large as normal towers along any other curtain wall in Anjuria. It was somewhat staggering, and I was clutching my satchel and writing case tight to my chest as we started up the stairs. They wound around the outside of the Tower, slowly spiraling up, and with no railing, I moved closer to the stones of the Tower, even though the stairs were close to ten feet wide. But I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one doing so. Even the Syldoon were being cautious, and High Priest Henlester was nearly pressed up against the stones and hugging himself besides. I wondered if he feared heights, and secretly hoped that he did. Very much.
The Tower entrance was about a quarter of the way up and next to the curtain wall. There were two guards posted, both in corselets with alternating red and white enameled scales, open helms with black horse-hair plumes draping down the back, and long spears and the peculiar shields with the embattled top and tapered bottom. One of them was young, not much older than me, and didn’t appear to recognize Braylar or his retinue at all. He saw the nooses, but treated the company as strangers, and possibly hostile ones at that. “State your business,” he said, mustering as much authority and gruffness as he could.
The older soldier elbowed him in the ribs. “You stupid whelp,” he said, and it was hard to tell if it was good-natured or not. “That’s Captain Killcoin you’re speaking to.”
After the younger guard looked at his elder blankly, the grizzled guard said, “Of our Tower.”
“I ain’t never seen him before,” the younger replied, sounding as if he suspected he was being made sport of or tested.
“Course you hadn’t. Captain’s been in the field for a few years now. How long since you been hung?”
The younger guard tried to stand a little taller. “A year. Going on a year.”
“Right. So quit flapping your yap then.”
Braylar took the last few stairs until he was on a level with the guards. “He is merely doing his duty. I expect nothing less.” He slapped the younger guard on the shoulder. “But the Commander is waiting on our arrival. And unless the years have softened him, I suspect impatiently.”
Both guards quickly saluted and stepped aside, allowing the party through the entrance. We stepped into a long hall, Braylar leading the way with his lieutenants on either side, Vendurro having Henlester by the arm immediately behind, with me and the remainder of his diminished company trailing, four of the Syldoon carrying the chests full of the documents I had been translating near the back. I had the protective urge to walk with them, but resisted.
The walls were bare, with the occasional small window to let in some dusty light. We passed a number of rooms with doors closed, with one open that showed an office filled with desks and chairs and Syldoon clerks scribbling away. I felt a wistful pang—that was the kind of task I would have been set to if I had walked a different path and been a Syldoon.
Of course, I never would have been chosen, of if I had, would have died during training or the hanging. But still, I felt a weird affinity any time I saw someone else with a quill and ink jar.
One thin man saw our group and walked toward us, fingers stained with ink, a smudge on his smooth cheek. What hair he had left was the color of milk, and while his face was deeply lined, furrowed even, there was a youthful vigor and energy about him. “Well, I must say, Captain, I was beginning to despair we might never have the pleasure of your company again. Welcome home.”
Braylar nodded. “It is good to be back, Vorris. Would you be so kind as to alert Commander Darzaak that we have returned?”
Vorris gave a wry smile. “I believe your sister did as much already, my lord.”
“Why, of course she did. Very well. Good to be back, just the same.”
The clerk smiled more broadly and headed back to the office or scriptorium.
We turned a corner, passed through another guarded door, and then down a hall I assumed was part of the barracks. I saw a room with bunks and low tables and benches, some chests, wooden lockers, and more Syldoon than I could count.
Here, all but the youngest of the men knew Braylar and his men instantly, and hailed them, clasping forearms, asking excited questions, making crude jokes, and each time it was left to Mulldoos or Braylar to close the conversation off and keep us moving. We were promised more drinks than any one tavern could possibly keep up with, and each time, after a few words we started forward again.
Out of earshot of the last group, Mulldoos said, “Told you the middle of the day was a mistake.”
Just then, a mammoth man filled a doorway on our left, and he had to duck and sidle sideways a bit as he stepped through. He was at least a foot taller than Hewspear, maybe more, with arms and legs tree trunks would have been jealous of, and a dark beard that seemed intent on covering every inch of his face. Somehow, Braylar didn’t see him, and for such a huge beast of a man, he moved quietly, and as he approached he lifted a finger the size of a bear sausage to his lips, or where I assumed his lips must have been under all that hair.
Then he wrapped his massive arms around Braylar and picked him up as if he were made of straw.
When he finally dropped him back on the floor, Braylar had gone red in the face. The huge man asked, “Not dead yet, eh?”
Braylar gave the most genuine (if tilted and cockeyed) smile I can remember seeing. “Not for lack of trying, but no, still living.”
The huge man’s beard parted just enough to reveal what looked suspiciously like a grin as well. “Pity. Still time. Glad you’re back, though. Tired of hearing the same old war stories again and again. Be good to find out what’s going on out there in the world.”
“No war to speak of. Not yet, anyway.”
“Pity there, too.” Then he turned and walked back through the door, eclipsing the room beyond as he did.
We kept walking, and I tapped Vendurro on the shoulder. “Who was that?”
“Azmorgon. Some would add ‘The Ogre,’ ‘The Giant,’ ‘The Owlbear’ or some such thing after.”
“He was imposing. What would you add?”
“’Azmorgon the Get-theFuck-Out-of-My-Way-or-I’ll-Knock-You-Down-Running.’ Did you see the size of that bastard? He could crush your skull with his thumb and forefinger if he had a mind.”
We reached the end of the hall and started up some spiral stairs, passing a number of other floors on the way to the top—some closed off by large doors, others open to allow a glimpse of more barracks or supply rooms, a great hall, and other spaces I couldn’t make sense of.
By the time we arrived at the Tower Commander’s residence, my legs and lungs were burning, and there were spots like dark moths at the edges of my vision. There was a much larger arched door on a landing, with two guards on either side. They didn’t move to stop us, so Vorris wasn’t wrong—we were expected.
We stepped into Commander Darzaak’s quarters. While hardly regal or extravagant, the main solar had far more flourishes than any room I had seen in the Tower so far. The ceilings were vaulted and painted with richly detailed scenes: a mounted hunting part pursuing a golden stag through a forest; two armies about to meet in a blighted battlefield under a large full silver moon; a griffin flying away from a farmstead with a large terrified cow in its claws, the farmer running after with pitchfork; and more besides.
There were small alcoves along the walls, each housing a different statue of filigreed metal sculpture.
A long wooden table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by several equally robust wood and leather chairs.
The commander himself was leaning against a windowsill, the horn shutters pushed out to let in the afternoon light. Shorter than Mulldoos and stockier besides, beyond middle years, a sharp widow’s peak the color of ash, the remainder of his hair charcoal, with prominent sideburns that ran down his cheeks and across half his chin
on either side. I wasn’t sure what I expected of a Tower Commander, but he was something of a lord, so I expected brocades or rings or richly embroidered hems, but his clothing, though nice enough cloth, was plain and unadorned, the one flourish being a red sash that broke up his gray and blue tunic, overcoat, and trousers.
He turned and looked Braylar and his men over, hands clasped behind his back. “Captain. You look like shit.”
Braylar saluted and replied, “I imagine I do, Commander. I would have chosen to bathe and to sleep for ten days, and I’m sure my men are of the same mind, but my sister was fairly insistent we report at once.”
“Emperor’s got a bee up his ass about something. You know he recalled the lot of you, and any other Tower operatives in the field?” Braylar nodded and Commander Darzaak said, “Poor maneuvering, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course, least of all that poncy bastard. But there it is. So, Soffjian said you met some trouble on the road.”
It was clearly both statement and question.
“We did.”
Clearly only statement and not an answer.
“I expect you have something to show for the dawdling then.” His eyes were already on Henlester. “Is this the High Priest?”
“It is.”
Commander Darzaak did not alter his stance, tone, or expression, but did switch to Anjurian that was near perfect. “And I expect you are wondering why my men hauled you from your homeland to have an audience with me. So am I.”
High Priest Henlester replied in Syldoonian, though slowly and with an undeniable accent. “They were quite…” he glanced Braylar’s way, “insistent.”
“Course they were, Henlester. But we’ll get to all that soon enough. For now, think of yourself as a very important guest, requiring many guards for protection and escort.”
Henlester showed what could only be called a vulpine smile. “Spare me your pleasantries, Black Noose. Call it what it is and be done with this farce.”
Darzaak said, “And spare me your haughty indignation, cleric. You want to spend the rest of your miserable life in a dark cell with moldy straw for a bed, eating pigshit? That can be arranged. You prefer to be put in a hole so deep you lose your wits and bite your wrists open to end it? We have plenty open at the moment. You like a quick hanging instead? Well, we do a lot of hanging hereabouts, so that’s easy enough to arrange.
Veil of the Deserters Page 45