I picked up a large hunk of dark bread that was surprisingly dense and heavy. “I would think the raw material is always, well, raw.”
“A wide difference between raw and impure. Ask any smith, Arki—when the iron ingots are poor quality, you might be able to hammer out a sickle, but you will never produce a fine fighting blade. It is the same with men. Which is why we only select the finest. Or used to.” He glared at the door as if he might still be able to cause the boy running down the hall to trip over his feet. “Bah. Perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I have simply been gone too long and soured. Or perhaps things are as bleak as they appear and we are all sliding toward a cliff. It remains to be seen.”
Braylar pushed his chair back and stood, steadily enough, but his red cheeks said he had been drinking for some time. “As you heard, we attend the Caucus in two days. Stay in this room until such time. Continue your translation, your recording, and enjoy the solitude.”
He started toward his bedchamber and I asked, more loudly than I intended, “Do you have any suspicions about what will happen?”
“Today? Tomorrow? Eternally?”
“At the Caucus.”
He looked over his shoulder, most of his face in shadow. “I always harbor suspicions, Arki. Always. You might think they would disappear back on familiar ground, among allies. And you would be an idiot for thinking so. The factions here revel in the opportunity to undermine and destroy one another, and alliances are forged of gossamer. The only thing you can depend on here is Tower. All else? The greatest suspicions imaginable. And never so legion as when an Emperor is pulling the strings. You can be sure he did not call a Caucus to hand out pretty doilies and candied eels.”
The captain walked out of the room, and nearly took my appetite with him.
But Vendurro’s logic suddenly seemed apt: do what you can do, and leave the rest to play itself out as it will.
I just wished I had his conviction in following it.
The next day I stayed sequestered in my room, happy to be translating in peace and quiet. But it was impossible not to be uneasy whenever I took a break or allowed my mind to drift. Braylar was correct—after reconciling myself to the fact that we were leaving Alespell and Anjuria, and surviving the various dangers on the road, I had made the mistake of thinking that Sunwrack would be a relatively safe, if alien, harbor. A respite from bloodletting and the threat of attack or ambush. But from everything I had heard, the thick stone walls, the thousands of loyal soldiers, the solidarity among them—they might as well have been paper and shadow for all the protection they seemed to afford. At least with the current emperor and Jackal Tower’s affiliations with the deposed emperor. Our position seemed worse than precarious, with the politics here being brutal and bloody even on the best of days.
It was better to struggle through passages written by men long dead than to meditate on the possibility of joining them.
But the second day, the room felt smaller, stuffier, and I was having serious trouble concentrating—words swam, thoughts evaded, and time seemed frozen in amber.
So I was surprised but grateful when Vendurro stopped by. I expected he would have been carousing with his Towermates, or sleeping off the same, but then remembered the excursion he had to have taken already. I was reluctant to pry, but equally reluctant to say nothing at all, since he had confided in me. So after a short exchange where he asked me about the dates and figs on my plate, and if I had eaten their like anywhere else, as he seemed to think the figs in particular had a unique flavor in this region, there was a pause. So I inquired, rather clumsily, “You saw her then? The widow?”
He scratched the back of his head, looked around the room, as if he had entered and forgotten exactly why, and said, “Ayyup. Went about as expected.”
“That well, eh?”
“Well, worse, truth be told. Mervulla went white the second she saw me. Alone, that is. Don’t know that she ever had seen me alone before—it was either with Gless or not at all. So she seen me standing in her door after three years, alone, and she knew straight away before I opened my mouth at all, started saying, ‘No, no’ over and over. Stepped away from the door, nearly tripped over her child. Been so long since I seen her, hardly recognized the little bugger at all. But the kid being there just made something awful something worse.
“Right about then, I hoped Mervulla might come at me like I thought, flailing and scratching, maybe even draw a blade and try to stick it in me—that I could have handled. But she just sat there, mouthing ‘no’ and not really saying it at all, tears rolling down her cheeks, her little one holding her skirts and legs tight, looking at me accusing like, wondering what I done to upset their world so much for no good plaguing reason, not recognizing me at all.
“And that was just about the saddest thing I could think of.”
“That she didn’t recognize you?”
“Nah. That it meant she probably wouldn’t have known her da, even if it had been him standing there at the door. And now she would never get the chance.”
I almost said that at least the child had gotten to know her father in some small measure, but bit my tongue. And the alternate point, also thankfully unspoken, was that it was better to not know a father at all than to realize he was lousy at the job. But neither point was fair or just. Glesswik might not have been a good father, but it’s said some grow into it. He might have.
Both comments were really more about me than this child I would never know, so I kept my mouth shut.
Vendurro spun a knife in a circle on the table, watching the blade catching the light. “I wanted to leave. Something fierce. Mervulla knew what had happened even without me uttering a word, and I figured anything I did say would only be sticking my thumb in the wound. But a man’s got a foul job to do, whether it’s shoveling shit or telling a woman her man got killed out in the middle of nowhere for no good plaguing reason anyone could put words to, well, best just to get to it and be done with it.
“We weren’t what anyone would have called close, so I had no plans to hug her or even so much as touch her. But when she dropped to her knees, I put my hand on her shoulder. She was shaking, staring at the floor, sobbing real quiet like, not even bothering to whisper ‘no’ anymore, one arm real loose about her kid’s waist, who was crying louder than she was, though couldn’t have uttered why.
“I said, ‘He went out fighting, just like you’d expect. Fought hard, to the end.’ It was a lie, of course, or might as well have been, as I was the last to know he was dead. Well, second, next to the sobbing widow there on the floor in front of me. But it was a good lie, just the same. ‘He wasn’t here like you would have liked, I know. Won’t pretend he was. But you ought to know, he was a good soldier. Did that as good as anybody I met.’ Another lie, of course, but no worse than the first. But that was about all I knew to say.
“She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, looked up at me. It was a long horsey face, and red-rimmed and snotty just then, but it struck me, like it had once or twice, that she was a handsome enough woman. No woman’s a pretty crier, but I’d seen worse. And once she stopped crying, she was hardly a hag. She could find herself another husband. The widowcoin would keep her out of Beggar’s Row or whorehouses, and she’d keep making some coin of her own out of their property. But I hoped she’d find someone else, not a Syldoon soldier. A man who wouldn’t be riding off anywhere to die. But I figured that would be sour consolation, so didn’t speak my mind on that count. That would have been the only true thing I said, but probably the worst of the lot.”
“Probably a good choice to leave that unsaid.”
“Aye. Instead, I fetched the bag of silver from my pouch, told her she could come by Jackal Tower every other month to collect more until it ran dry, or we could send a courier, if that was easier. Her eyes narrowed then, and the anger I had been steadied for finally showed itself—body tensed up, hands balled into fists, and she got off the floor, ignoring the whelp who was really starting to let loos
e now. Stared at me, looked at the bag as if it were full of scorpions, and I thought she was about to slap it into my face, or launch into an attack herself.
“But she reached out real slow, unballed a fist long enough to close it around the bag, and said, quiet like, ‘Widowcoin, is it?’
“I nodded and replied, ‘Captain Killcoin—you remember him, of course—he takes care of the fallen and those they leave behind. Glesswik’s share—’
“She stopped me then. Said, ‘That’s the first you’ve called him by name. Since you rapped on my door. You know that, Ven?’
“I shook my head, though I knew she was right. And she pushed her child back behind her leg, stood a little taller, and said, ‘That’s the last time, too. Never going to hear another Syldoon bastard name him again. Anyone names him now, it will be me, on my terms. You had the best of him, the lot of you. Had the best years, the best Gless there was, left me with the rind. The rind and some coins. Now you get out of here, you son of a whore, and you step inside my door again, you better believe you won’t be stepping out again.’”
“That is harsh.”
“But true enough. I started to say something else, no idea what, as there weren’t nothing else worth saying, but she stopped me anyway with a ‘Go on. Get. Show me your backside, Syldoon, then never show me anything again.’ She started crying again, but the controlled sort, jaw clenched, eyes as forgiving as wet stones.
“Never felt as low in my entire sorry life. Gless was like my big brother, and she had the right of it—I knew Gless better than her, would be like to mourn him harder, even. And that rankled her as bad as anything. She was right, we left her next to nothing, even with the coins.
“So I walked out. And if I ever see that horsey woman again, it will be too soon for both of us.”
I wished there was something I could have said or done to lessen his load, but both of us knew there wasn’t.
Vendurro seemed to sense what I was thinking, as he shrugged. “Anyway. Sorry for yammering on about it.”
I suppose being a sympathetic ear while he unburdened himself was meager balm, but better than none at all. Unless talking about it made it worse. “I’m sorry you had to be the one to deliver the news, is all. But as you said, at least you put it behind you now. If you ever want to talk about it, or Glesswik, I’m always happy to listen.”
He nodded and started to ask me something when Braylar, Hewspear, and Mulldoos came into the captain’s quarters.
Braylar said, “It is time. Come.”
I asked, “The Caucus?”
Mulldoos replied, “No. Time to dig a privy. I got your shovel, you skinny bastard.”
I stood, and Vendurro and I followed them out. I suspected digging a privy might have actually been a preferable way to spend the afternoon.
We took the more circuitous circuit around the outer wall of Sunwrack, passing Towers large and small. Our own small company was the Tower Commander, three key captains, and a small number of lieutenants. I wondered if Soffjian or any of the other Memoridons would be attending, but then guessed the Caucus must have only been for the Syldoon soldiers. Which made me feel even stranger to be the only non-Syldoon in the group. Each of them had the same charcoal-colored tunic with a badge of the Jackal Tower on the left breast, and trousers, with a wide sash the shade of wine around their waists. And of course belts. With weapons. They never seemed to go anywhere without those.
I was a little surprised by that. In Anjuria and most any other civilized place in the world, men did not bear weapons in the presence of the highest lords, in particular kings and high priests, and I would have assumed this held true for emperors.
Mulldoos was the closest to me, and while I would have preferred posing the question to someone else, anyone else, I asked him.
He looked down as if surprised that he had forgotten actually buckling the thing on that morning. He tapped his falchion hilt. “What, this? Never go anywhere without one.”
“But with so much bad blood between the various Towers, doesn’t that invite, well, bad blood in the streets?”
“Bloodshed comes whether she’s invited or no. Pushy entitled bitch, bloodshed.”
I watched the leaders of another nearby Tower filing out and took care to lower my voice a little. Their color and cut of costume were essentially identical, although the badges were obviously different, marking them as men of the Elk Tower. “But isn’t it more likely, with everyone armed all the time? And isn’t the Emperor worried?”
Vendurro overheard and replied, “Good thing to be worried, when you’re an emperor. Guessing the blades remind him to take care and not sit easy. And as to the likelihood,” he thumbed a leather cord that was looped over the pommel and hilt of his sword. “Like to be inspired from tribes like Cap’s over there, but we got the peace cords on. Now, they only slow you down a short bit if you got intent to draw and slaughter somebody, but someone with a cooler head will work some sense into you as you struggle to unknot the plaguing thing. Course, there’s a way to tie the lash so it looks like the weapon is snug and secure, only it takes a quick flick to actually release the thing.”
Mulldoos added, “Course, anyone sees you using a false knot on that string, especially if it’s two or more someones to your one, well, you won’t be worrying about tying anything anymore.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
Mulldoos wiggled his fingers. “On account of you needing these to tie anything. Or hold a sword. Or a spoon. You see any poor bastard with a club hand and no fingers to speak of, it’s a good bet he got caught using a false string.”
Vendurro said, “I always wondered why Lloi’s folk left her with the nubs at the bottom there. No better than no fingers at all.”
“Crueler, truth be told,” Mulldoos replied. “Taunts you into remembering the fingers you once had. Better to have nothing left at all.”
“You thinking that’s why they didn’t chop them off in the entirety?”
“How should I know?” Mulldoos replied. “I’m not a plaguing pagan savage who wipes his ass with grass.”
Vendurro nodded, and then asked, “Do they do that? Wipe their asses with grass?”
Mulldoos looked at the younger man, shook his head, and said, “You sure do ask some queer questions sometimes, boy.”
We continued walking, most of Jackal Tower quiet. The other Towers walking before or behind, keeping a respectful distance in each case, were equally somber. Tense. You might have thought we were attending a funeral or an execution. Though I supposed it was possible we were, peace strings or no. The tale Braylar told about his father being murdered did nothing to quiet those fears.
Even with each Tower limited in the number of men going to the Caucus, with so many filing out into the streets, it was still a sizable group heading through the city. Some chose to walk away from the Avenue and its massive wall, but most Tower Syldoon hugged the rim of the city, careful to allow plenty of distance between them.
As we walked, I moved to catch up to Hewspear and his long legs, wondering if his visit had gone any better than Vendurro’s. I was almost reluctant to ask, but as ever, my need to know overrode other considerations.
“So,” I said, “Did your grandson appreciate the flute you brought him?”
Hewspear looked down at me, his namesake spear left behind at the Tower, his flanged mace hanging on his hip. It also had a peace string, though knotted differently. “He did. Though I did not have much opportunity to see him enjoy it.” He sounded melancholy enough that I instantly regretted prying. No wonder Vendurro and I got on fairly well—neither one of us seemed to know when to keep our mouths shut.
“His mother?” I asked, knowing the answer, but compelled by the inevitability of it all.
Hewspear nodded. “I had hoped… well, it doesn’t much matter what I hoped. An old man’s hopes don’t matter a tremendous amount.” Then he stood taller, and there was steel in his voice. “And yet. My grandchild is my last link to my son, and I won’
t have it severed by the likes of her.”
That was unexpected, and although I suddenly felt like continuing this exchange could only end with me being saddened, disappointed, or horrified, I proceeded just the same. “What are you going to do?”
Hewspear kept his gaze ahead, steady, stern, suddenly not very grand-fatherly at all. “She will allow me to see my blood, and not poison him against me, or she will find herself driven from the city, never to return, leaving behind her child, her sister, her mother, and all that she holds dear. She will decide her own fate. I’d hoped to be less severe with her, but I have few enough years left, and my patience is not what is once was.”
After passing twenty or so of the prime Towers and all the barracks and granaries and stables between them, we left the wall and headed west, through residential districts, and then past Tanner’s Lane, with its overpowering stench of urine, feces, and decaying flesh, and I saw several children out already carrying bags, looking for shit in the streets and alleys. While tanners were often relegated to the outskirts of the cities because of the terrible smell and filth, with the Towers girding the entirety of Sunwrack, the best they could do was position them in the poorest district. A few blocks later we were free of the stench.
Everything had looked so orderly from high up in Jackal Tower, but on the ground it was chaos. The moneychanger’s lodge was full of people shouting and holding different currencies. Livestock was everywhere—oxen pulling cairns, goats with peculiar wavy horns, foraging pigs. Criers with staffs lined with bells marched among the Thurvacians, calling out something about this market or that bazaar. Girls and boys in simple shrifts carried trays and boxes of peaches, dates, and oranges to be had for pennies.
We crossed another plaza and round fountain, pigeons bursting up into the air at our approach and settling back to the ground after we passed. Some temporary tents and stalls sold merchandise, but the main attraction here was the halls where cloth and spices were sold, and the plaza was even more thick with colorful Thurvacians than pigeons, only they scattered more slowly.
Veil of the Deserters Page 48