Home Ground (Darshian Tales #4)

by Ann Somerville

  “I’ll speak my mind in my submission, sir. You too.”

  “Oh, I plan to,” Wepizi said dryly. He planned to be very forthright indeed. “But for now, we better adjust to this as best we can. You can’t be tezrei in name only, so take charge, and tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Make it be this morning, if you can,” Tovoi muttered. “All right—do you think he’d object to you taking charge of the building site in my place?”

  “Oh probably, but I suggest you wait until he does so before you alter your plans again. After you, sir.”

  Tovoi didn’t look the least pleased at his promotion. Wepizi couldn’t blame him. No decent officer wanted to rise up the ranks through the downfall of a brother in arms. He was surprised how calm he felt, considering his career and his future most likely lay in ruins. Maybe he should have taken up Juimei’s offer—surprisingly generous since an honourable discharge was a very benign fate for a deserter—but Wepizi hadn’t been a civilian since he was sixteen, and was too old to learn that path now. He still felt he’d done the right thing, though perhaps he’d been a bit precipitate. If the prince had been less forbidding, Wepizi might have apologised and smoothed this over. But his highness was making it an issue of principle, and on such things, Wepizi never backed down. Unfortunately, it seemed, neither did the prince.

  What a pissing mess, as Romi might say. Lema, I’m almost glad you can’t see me like this. I wish I couldn’t either.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Alone, Juimei worked on his notes and reports and orders, and as he did, familiar, unwelcome pain mounted steadily in his head and his shoulders. He did what he could to ignore it, but as the light failed, and he could no longer hold the pencil because his hands shook, or see the paper because his vision blurred so much, he could go on no further, and finally he laid his head on his folded arms and prayed for something, anything—even death itself—to take away the raw agony. He had no sense of time passing, trapped like a fly in tree gum by the pounding pain in his skull.

  When someone spoke close by him, he jerked up in shock, nearly screaming at what it cost him. “What?” he slurred.

  “Your highness?” A soldier? He couldn’t tell—a blur with a lamp, something bright. “Are you unwell? Shall I call a medic?”

  “No....” He got his feet under him, tried to push up from the desk, then staggered from weakness and dizziness. A moment later, someone’s strong hand was under his arm. “ ‘m all ri’....”

  “You’re not,” the voice said, sharp with concern. “Benonti, get a couple of people, will you? And find a cart. Where’s that damn page of his?”

  Juimei wanted to protest the insult to Neime, but it was all he could do not to throw up. Closing his eyes helped, but he could only hang off the man’s arm like an autumn leaf, not sure if he should cling to the support or fall. “Your highness, you better sit. I’ll get a medic—”

  He grabbed at what he could reach, which was the soldier’s shirt. “No,” he said with as much force as he could, which wasn’t much. “ ‘m fine. Home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Eyes still closed, he nodded. “Jus’ headache. Home.” The medics were busy, the infirmary was crowded, and the thought of being poked and prodded right now was enough to make him want to vomit. Nearly everything made him want to vomit.

  “Water,” he whispered. There was some in the shop somewhere, but even for the chance of walking normally again, he couldn’t have got up to find it.

  The soldier moved away, and a few moments later, a mug was held to his lips. The water was warm, dusty, but a few sips helped wet his mouth at least. He pushed it away after that. “Thanks.”

  “Your highness, you really don’t look—”

  Juimei cut him off with an angry slash of his hand, because every sound the man made cut through his skull like a red-hot knife. “Home.”

  “Yes, your highness. We’re just getting you a cart.”

  Juimei thought he nodded, but couldn’t be sure. He was so dizzy and sick that his only refuge was to put his head back on his arms and concentrate on not heaving up the contents of his stomach.

  More indefinite time passed, and Juimei, having found a position which offered him some very slight relief, would have almost been content to sleep there. He just wanted everything and everyone to go away, he wanted this day not to have happened, he wanted...he wanted to go back to before he’d had Wepizi arrested, so he could....

  No, that was what he was trying not to want, even if just remembering the feel of those skilled, gentle hands on him, offered him the ghost of comfort now, even through all this agony. He could not want Wepizi to touch him. It was wrong and vile of him. At least he’d ended that possibility for ever, though he hadn’t wanted it to be this way.

  Someone touched his arm. “Your highness, we can leave now.”

  He let himself be hauled up, though he stumbled and wove about like a drunk, the powerful grip of two soldiers on either side of him the only thing stopping him from crashing to the ground in utter ignominy. He hoped none of the honest citizens of the town were about to see him being dragged around in this fashion—it was now completely dark, so most would be under shelter. What time was it? He honestly had no idea.

  Where was Neime? Where was Wep...? No...he’d sent Wepizi away. That was right—Wepizi broke the law.

  “Couldn’t stay,” he mumbled.

  “Your highness?”

  “Ne’er min’.”

  They made no attempt to put him in the driving seat, but laid him in the back of the cart like a corpse or a sack of beans. The jolting of the cart, the very noise of the doig hooves, was torture, and he wished desperately he would pass out from the pain.

  Dimly he could hear the soldiers whispering in agitation, saying they should have found a medic after all, but there was nothing that could be done. He just wanted to lie down in the dark and end this day.

  The jolting stopped, and there was a rush of excited worried, voices exclaiming, “Your highness!” and accusing the soldiers for not taking him to the infirmary. He was beyond being able to defend them to his people, but he struggled until he was sitting up.

  “E’ry one. Shu’. Up.” He still had to keep his eyes closed, and swallowed hard against his rising gorge. “Insi’.”

  More strong hands, half carrying him now, his feet hardly allowed to support him, as he was taken inside the residence.

  More worried voices—he wished people would be quiet. His head seemed to swell to twice normal size with every sharp sound—and then....

  “Jui! Benevolent god, what’s happened?”

  Neime.

  “He’p me,” he whispered, and that was the last thing he remembered.

  Home Ground: 21

  “Phew.” Wepizi stood up, cracked his back and wiped his forehead. The weather had turned very warm in the last two days, and though it meant they were unlikely to lose anyone to exposure, manual labour was just that little tougher in the heat and the rising dust. And he’d been struggling with this bloody post and posthole for nearly an hour. The dry-packed earth was singularly unpleasant to work with today.

  “Maybe we should take a break, sir?” Benonti said, wiping his own face with a grimy handkerchief. Dust got everywhere, and it was very difficult to get clean or stay that way.

  “Maybe a few minutes. Water would be good.”

  “I’ll get it, sir. You just take it easy.”

  “Thank you.” He collapsed gratefully onto the stacked pile of posts. The incongruity of a prisoner being called ‘sir’, and being waited on, had long ceased to bother him. In truth, no one took his ‘imprisonment’ or loss of rank at all seriously, and very little had changed. On duty, he was treated as a lep. Off duty, he’d never been one to claim officer privileges that much anyway, and since everyone from soldier to tezrei slept out in the open, regardless of seniority, it made no difference. He was treated with the same polite deference as any of the other officers in good standing, and on the on
ly occasion when a soldier had made a less than respectful remark about him and the situation, the man had been bundled off and given a stern talking to by his fellows.

  The incident had not been repeated, though he was the subject of a good deal of sympathy and outrage, as well as curiosity. He refused to talk about it except to Tovoi, and then only regarding the statements in support of his defence. He had no idea how this business would end, but so far as he was concerned, the real crisis was not his spat with their governor, but the restoration of the town. Once that was done, he would have the luxury of worry.

  “Wepizi? Oy!”

  Wepizi looked up and waved, smiling as Neime spotted him and picked his way across the building site, weaving carefully around the hurrying workers, and dodging holes, piles of rocks, barrows, and posts. He had Jozin and young Giwade with him, somewhat to his surprise. The Blessed had been very discreet indeed—no one was speculating about their presence, or commenting on their sudden arrival, which Wepizi put down to Tovoi’s common sense and careful handling of the situation. He wondered why Neime was breaking cover now, after a week of staying out of sight.

  “Hello, my friends. Welcome to the Palace of the Winds.”

  “Palace?” Jozin asked, frowning.

  “Winds?” Neime said.

  “Of course. You should be here when the breeze blows up.” Neime grinned a little at the joke. “Mind you, today I’m not complaining about any breeze. How are you, Giwade? How do you like it here?”

  “It’s good,” the youngster said quietly. “The big house is really nice. Except for Juimei.”

  Wepizi glanced quickly at Neime. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, not really—”

  “He’s very sad,” Giwade said, nodding at his own words. “He feels bad to me.”

  “Ah.” At least it wasn’t Juimei being actively unkind to them then. The two Blessed looked well enough, thin faces starting to fill a little, which made them look healthier. “Jozin, how is Laovei? And Nuveize? Is everyone settling in?”

  “Laovei is mending, so they say. She looks the same to me,” he said with a shrug. “Still really sick.”

  “She’s just got a lot of healing to do,” Neime said. “But there’s no infection. Having everyone around her helps. She’s still upset about Timinke.”

  “No doubt. And the others?” He’d been a little surprised Nuveize hadn’t spoken to him, but other than the first night they’d arrived, she’d not been in contact at all.

  “They love it,” Jozin said sourly.

  “Not you?”

  The boy stared off across Wepizi’s shoulder. “No. I’m just sitting around watching other people do stuff. And your Juimei hates me, I think.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Neime quickly corrected. “Jozin, he really doesn’t. He even said thank you for the mine rescue and everything. He thought that was wonderful.”

  “Then why is he so grumpy and rude?”

  “Perhaps he’s in a bad mood and he’s not being careful to hide it,” Wepizi said. “How is he, Neime? Recovered?”

  The news of the prince’s sudden illness had sent alarm through the entire population, but it seemed it had simply been a severe migraine, debilitating to be sure, but not something more serious. Tovoi was kept apprised of the situation, but Wepizi wasn’t part of those briefings, and thought it best not to ask. The prince was a delicate subject these days in the camp.

  “Better. Working, though in his own office, and resting on the healer’s orders.”

  Neime delivered the words in a neutral tone that indicated nothing of his private feelings. Wepizi badly wanted to know those, and more about this illness, but he didn’t want to discuss it out here, or in front of the youngsters.

  “Glad to hear it,” was all he said, in an equally noncommittal voice. Jozin was still out of sorts. “What would you like to be up and doing, Jozin?”

  The lad turned to him eagerly. Wepizi wondered if anyone had even asked this before.

  “Anything. I wasn’t brought up to be waited on. But everyone says I have to hide my powers, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in a town. I can hunt, find food, mend tools—tell me what needs doing, and I’ll do it. I could lift that boat out of the river everyone keeps talking about, if people weren’t so stupid about us.”

  He had a point, a very good point, and one which Wepizi knew would come up sometime. “This is something that needs to be carefully planned, son. I’ll ask tezrei Tovoi about it. He’ll probably want to speak to his highness first.”

  Jozin pointed a finger at him. “You said you were tezrei. You said you’d protect us. And now look what’s happened. I don’t like any of this. The others are happy, but I think this was a big mistake.”

  Neime looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Giwade had a faraway look in his eyes as if he wished he could be anywhere else but here. “It’s only been a week. I promise to speak to Tovoi, and see what can be done. Please be patient, my friend. It’s a time when we all need to do that.”

  Jozin snorted and stomped off. Wepizi nearly called out for him to be careful, but it would just call unnecessary attention to the lad, and Jozin was old enough to watch out for himself. He seemed to know where he was going, at least. He got a few curious looks from the soldiers, but no one challenged him.

  “I’m sorry, Neime. I know he must feel betrayed.”

  “He’s not the only one,” Neime muttered.

  “Ah...has he written to his majesty yet?”

  A dispatch rider was finally being sent north, the first since the quake, and would be given many, many reports to take to Visiqe. Among them, one presumed, would be a nastily worded complaint about a singularly disobedient officer.

  Neime looked shifty. “Yes. I’m trying to talk him out of it.”

  Wepizi held up his hand. “No, don’t. Better to get this cleared up.”

  “I don’t understand any of this. And he’s so upset about it too. The last time he had a migraine this bad, it was after Count Mikinze...I mean, when he....”

  “Broke their engagement?”

  Neime shook his head. “No, not then, though that was pretty bad. After the count...came in and they had this argument. Juimei was just trying to understand why and the count...I’ve never wanted to literally kill someone before, Wepizi, but I did that day. I still do. He was so incredibly cruel, and Juimei was sick for over a week after it. This was as bad as that.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s anything I can do. He doesn’t think I had any justification, and in the circumstances, an apology would make no difference.”

  “But....” Neime clenched his fists. “He was doing so well. I really thought...now he’s more unhappy than he was before you arrived. I even wonder....” He glanced at Giwade, who was being surprisingly adult in his tolerance of this conversation. “If he might...end things. He’s come close a time or two.”

  Wepizi was alarmed—and more disturbed than he would have credited—by this speculation. “I truly hope he won’t. Not over this, or me. But I really don’t know what I can do.”

  “Me neither. I just have to hope being there is enough.” Neime smiled creakily. “I’m not really supposed to be here, but Jozin wanted to see you. So did I. I miss you. I know Jui will be angry that I came here, but you’re still my friend.”

  “And you’re mine. The prince can’t alter that. Ah, but I don’t wish you to get into trouble as well, so maybe....”

  “Will you come visit us again?” Giwade asked, sounding hopeful.

  Wepizi smiled at the boy, and put his hand on his shoulder. It was good to see the colour in his cheeks, even if he was finding the residence less than happy. “I’ll certainly try, son, though it might not be easy. What are you doing with yourself these days?”

  “The prince said we could use the library. Nuveize’s teaching us our letters properly, so we can go to lessons with the other children. I’m not sure I’ll like that.”

  “I think you might find it inte
resting. You should try it at least once,” Wepizi said, wondering how a child with his Blessing would cope with the minds of so many others, so close at hand. “If you don’t like it, then we’ll try something else.”

  The boy nodded. “I’d like to try. Hel is really excited about it. She wants to meet all the other children soon.”

  “Then I hope she shall. But maybe you and Neime had better go and see where Jozin ran off to. You know where to find me if you have to.”

  “Uh huh. Neime?”

  Neime took his hand again. “Yes, we should go. Wepizi...are things all right here? You shouldn’t have lost your post.”

  “Everything is just fine,” he said firmly. He’d spied young Benonti making his way back to him, carrying a canteen of water, and didn’t want this discussion to rouse the soldier’s curiosity. “You better go. I’ll speak to the tezrei.”

  “Tovoi, you mean. You’re tezrei,” Neime said stubbornly.

  “Not right now, I’m not. I’m glad you came by, Neime. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you. Thank you. Now, Giwade, let’s find that grumpy old Jozin, shall we?”

  Benonti had hung back politely, but now approached as Neime and Giwade walked off. He offered the water bottle to Wepizi, who took a swig gratefully. His throat was a dust pit.

  “Everything all right, sir?” Benonti asked, accepting the bottle and taking a drink himself.

  “Pretty much. But I need to find the tezrei. Can you hold things down here for a bit?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s at the main barracks again—he came back from the camp an hour ago.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try not to leave you for too long.”

  The soldier dismissed his apology. “I should get someone else to do it—it’s a waste of an officer’s time.”

  Wepizi ignored the legal niceties. Benonti was one of his men from Tsikiugui and would always consider him an officer, whatever Juimei said or did. “We all have to pitch in. But I might have to send someone to help anyway, as I should really inspect those foundations before they start the new wall.”