Guardians Watch

by Eric T Knight

  “Do you believe him?” Tairus asked when he was finished.

  “I think I do. You didn’t see the look in his eyes. He’s scared.”

  “I’d bet a month’s pay this is all Lowellin’s doing,” Tairus said dourly. “I’ve never trusted him. Ever since he got here he’s had us chasing shadows this way and that.”

  “You may be right. I don’t know. Right now I just want to figure out what to do about Quyloc.”

  “He’ll figure it out on his own, Rome. He always does.”

  “He’s never had to figure out something like this though.”

  “What can you do anyway? Have you ever seen this Pente Akka place? Do you have any idea how to get there?” Rome slumped in his chair. “This isn’t something you can fight with steel,” Tairus continued. “You can’t do anything and neither can anyone else. I know you don’t want to hear this, I know you two go back a long way, but it really comes down to this: either Quyloc will figure this out on his own, or he won’t. Nothing you or I can do will change that.”

  Rome scrubbed his face with his hand. “I just feel so helpless. I hate this feeling.”

  “So get your mind off it. Focus on the things you can do something about. Why’d you call me up here? The messenger acted like it was something pretty important.”

  “It is.” Rome told him Perganon’s news. When he was done, Tairus shrugged.

  “So? Kasai may have a bigger army, but we have walls. And time to prepare. When he gets here, we’ll whip him and break his army.”

  “We’re not going to wait for him.” Tairus raised an eyebrow. Rome pointed to a spot on the map laid out on the table. “We’re going to meet him here, at Guardians Watch.”

  Tairus peered at the map, then looked at Rome dubiously. “It’s too far. There’s no way we can get there before him.”

  “We could if we left tomorrow.”

  “That’s impossible!” Tairus exploded. “Most of the new recruits are still useless. The soldiers from the other kingdoms still fight amongst themselves more than anything. And don’t get me started on the supplies we don’t have ready yet. It can’t be done. It will take a week at least.”

  “We travel light and we travel fast,” Rome said. “We load the soldiers with as much food as they can carry. We don’t wait for the supply train but leave it behind and let it follow as best it can.”

  “We’ll be out of food in four days.”

  “Not if we send riders ahead with coin. They buy up all the supplies they can find, cache them along our path.”

  “It’s still suicide. Even if we make it to the pass before Kasai does the men will be exhausted and who knows how many we’ll have lost along the way. We won’t stand a chance.”

  “I think we will,” Rome replied. “I talked it over with Perganon. He’s been there before, when he was a young man. He says it’s a narrow pass, and its spanned by an old stone wall, much of which is still standing. On top of that, he says the approach from the west is steep and rocky. Any army attacking up that slope will be vulnerable.”

  “When he was a young man? When was that, a hundred years ago? Things could have changed a lot since then. It makes no sense. Why would you leave the strength of these walls and risk everything out there in the open? You could lose everything in one day.”

  “Because if we sit here, we will lose everything. Kasai’s army is five times the size of ours. What’s to stop him from investing the city with half his force and then heading on down into the Gur al Krin with the other half?”

  Tairus scowled and crossed his arms, but made no reply.

  “We’re not going to win this war by being cautious, Tairus. We have to take risks. If this works, we’ll crush Kasai’s army before it ever becomes a real force. Then we can focus our attention on the prison and be waiting for Melekath when he gets out.”

  “There’s still the problem of Karthije,” Tairus pointed out. “Do you think Perthen is just going to let you march across his land?”

  “He surely knows about Kasai’s army. I’m hoping he’ll see where his best chance lies.”

  Tairus gave Rome an incredulous look. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Rome sighed. “Not really. I guess we’ll deal with him when we have to.”

  “What about the Tenders? Are you going to bring them?”

  “I think we have to.”

  “I don’t trust them any more than I do Lowellin.”

  “I’m not sure I do either, but we’re going to be outnumbered. We need all the help we can get and you’ve heard what they can do.”

  “If they don’t lose control. You know how it gets, once the screaming starts and people start dying. We don’t know if they’ll be able to handle it.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” Rome realized then that they were not alone. T’sim was standing against the wall by the door, his hands folded over his stomach.

  “T’sim!” Rome barked. “What are you doing in here? This is a secret meeting.”

  “My apologies, Macht,” T’sim said, bowing slightly. “I believed you would need my services.”

  “I don’t need your services! If I needed your services I’d let you know!”

  “Of course,” T’sim said smoothly. But he made no move to leave.

  “Get out!”

  T’sim bowed again and withdrew. Rome watched the door swing shut behind him. “How does he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Tairus replied. “I’ve given up trying to figure out anything anymore. I miss when things made sense.” He stood up. “Since you’ve given me an impossible task, I better get started on it.”

  When he was gone, Rome leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. What he could use right now was a mug of ale.

  There was a soft tap at the door. A moment later it opened and T’sim stood there, a silver serving tray balanced on one hand. On it stood a mug of ale. Rome sighed. Yet one more slice of weirdness in a world that was increasingly so.

  But he was grateful for the ale.

  Twenty-one

  Rome pushed open the heavy door into his royal quarters and went in, his mind filled with a thousand details that needed to be taken care of before they marched the next day. So absorbed was he that he didn’t at first notice T’sim standing just inside the room. When he did he jumped slightly in surprise.

  “What are you doing hiding in here?” he yelled.

  “I’m not hiding,” T’sim said mildly. “I came to offer you my services.”

  “Look, T’sim, the ale was good and I appreciate it, but I don’t need your help right now.”

  “Perhaps not now, but are you not marching to battle tomorrow?”

  “So you heard that. Well, everyone was going to find out soon anyway. Anyway, I won’t be needing you.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “We’ll be marching hard and fast. There’s no place for you.”

  “I’ll be no bother. You’ll see.”

  “You’re starting to anger me, T’sim.”

  “And I am very sorry for that, Macht,” he replied, but remained where he was. “I don’t wish to anger you.”

  “Then leave.”

  “But you will need my help packing.” It was clear that someone had already begun packing for Rome. A large number of clothes were laid out on the bed, there were toiletries on the long table before the wall mirror, and at least a dozen pairs of shoes set out by one of the wardrobes. Two half-filled chests sat on the floor.

  Rome looked at it all and groaned. “I should have never left the tower. Things were so much simpler there.”

  Opus bustled into the room right then, his arms loaded with fine clothes. Rome turned on him.

  “What is all this stuff, Opus?”

  “Your clothing for the march, Macht,” Opus said, laying the clothes he was carrying on the bed. “You’re leaving tomorrow. There’s no time to waste.”

  “How do you know that? I only just made the decision an hour ago!”
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  “It is my job to know these things, Macht.”

  “Were you listening at the door?” Rome growled.

  Opus shook his head emphatically. “I would never do such a thing, Macht, and if I did you could relieve me of my position immediately and it would be only just.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “When General Tairus left his meeting for you he gave orders to several of his aides, orders regarding the preparation of food, weapons, horses and other supplies armies require for marching. One of my staff overheard and informed me. I simply drew a conclusion from the available evidence.”

  “Huh,” Rome said. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

  “I will take that as a compliment, Sire.” He looked at T’sim. “May I ask who this man is?”

  T’sim bowed. “I am Macht Rome’s servant.”

  Opus shot Rome a flinty look. “You take on a servant and do not bother to inform your chief steward?” he said icily.

  “I did not take on a servant!” Rome protested. “He just follows me around and now he’s in my room. I don’t need a servant. Maybe you can find something for him to do.”

  “I have been with the macht since Veragin,” T’sim added. “My previous master no longer required my services.”

  “Do you have a letter from him recommending your services?” Opus asked.

  T’sim shook his head. “Sadly, he was unable to provide one on account of his untimely demise.”

  “Isn’t anyone listening to me?” Rome cried. “I don’t need a servant! I can do things for myself.”

  “But I believe my services to the macht since then speak for themselves,” T’sim added, ignoring Rome. “I am very good at what I do.”

  Opus appraised Rome with a critical eye. “There does seem to be rather less horse manure on his shirt than usual.”

  “That’s just because I haven’t been to the stables in the past couple days! T’sim has nothing to do with my clothes. He just brings me ale sometimes.”

  “Maybe you will have more success than I.” T’sim raised an eyebrow questioningly. Opus gestured at the clothes he’d just put down. “Do you know what his latest thing is? He takes the clothes he doesn’t like and he hides them. I found these behind a chest in a storeroom by the servants’ quarters.”

  “This is unfortunate,” T’sim agreed.

  “I don’t need a servant,” Rome repeated, though more quietly this time. Neither Opus nor T’sim paid any attention to him.

  “Perhaps you can help him to see that just because he is out running around with his soldiers there’s no reason he cannot demonstrate the majesty of his office. With a bit of effort, he might actually inspire the common man to greater heights.” As he spoke Opus was folding a black silk shirt from the pile.

  “Inspire who to what?” Rome asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “All that can be done, I shall endeavor to do,” T’sim said solemnly.

  “Then I would feel somewhat relieved,” Opus said. “Knowing he is in good hands.”

  T’sim bowed. “The best.”

  “I don’t need a servant.” This time Rome said it to the table. “Look at that. Same response.”

  At the door Opus turned back. “Doubtless it is far too much to ask, even for one as capable as you…”

  T’sim stopped in the process of folding a pair of pants.

  “It is his beard. He has ever refused, but if you managed to trim the worst, I would be forever beholden to you. There are scissors on top of that table there.”

  “You’re not touching my beard,” Rome said.

  “I will do my best,” T’sim told Opus.

  “That’s all any of us can do,” Opus replied, and left.

  “He gets worse when you humor him like that,” Rome told T’sim. “I know it doesn’t seem possible, but he does.”

  “So you would not like me to trim your beard then?”

  “Haven’t you heard anything I said? I don’t need a servant. I like that ale trick you do, but I don’t need anything else.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “But probably not. Look, whatever you think you know about wealthy people or nobility you can just forget. I’m not like that. I don’t need people dressing me or feeding me or trimming my beard. In other words, I don’t need a servant.”

  “At the very least I shall finish packing your clothes for the march.” He picked up a pile of shirts and put them in a chest that was lying open on the floor.

  “Still wrong. There’s nothing to pack. A soldier only needs two of everything. Two pairs of pants, two shirts. That’s so he can wear one while he washes the blood out of the other.”

  T’sim listened very seriously. “Is this true?”

  “It is. So if you want to do something helpful, put all this stuff away. Or throw it away. I don’t care. I don’t have time for this. I have things to do.” Rome walked over to the vanity table. He picked up a silver-handled hairbrush. “I won’t need this,” he announced, and tossed it back in the drawer. “Waste of space. I have to travel light.” He poked through the razors, combs, scented hair oils, jars with powder in them, then settled for just opening a drawer and sweeping the lot of it in. “There,” he said, satisfied. “That takes care of that.” He saw a pair of dainty scissors that he’d missed and picked them up. “These are never to come near my face, do you hear?” he said to T’sim. “I like my beard the way it is.”

  Before one wardrobe sat a row of shoes, some shiny, others with large, brassy buckles or bows on them. “Won’t need these either.” Rome grabbed them up in an armload and tossed them in the wardrobe. He glanced at the shelf with the wigs on it and shuddered. Hooking a thumb at them he turned on T’sim. “You weren’t thinking of bringing any of those, were you? It will be bad if you do.”

  T’sim shook his head. “It would not occur to me.”

  “Good.” Rome clapped T’sim on the shoulder. “That should do it. Look how much easier I made your job.”

  After he had left, T’sim started whistling softly, an unusual tune that spoke of high peaks and lost places, unlike anything played by man. Then he opened the drawer on the table before the mirror, pulled everything out and swiftly and neatly placed it in a small chest, including not one, but two pairs of scissors. For a while after that he folded clothes and placed them in the two large chests, filling them to the top, then sealing them. After that he packed all the shoes into yet another chest. When he was done he stood back and surveyed his work. Then an impish smile spread across his soft cheeks and he went into the next room. When he emerged he was carrying two boxes. He set them on the bed, went to the wardrobe and removed two of the wigs.

  Now Rome had everything he needed.

  Twenty-two

  Bonnie made her way through the tavern, two mugs of ale clenched in one fist. It was early in the evening and the traffic was still light, but people were starting to trickle in. She didn’t need to run drinks, not really, but she needed to do something. She couldn’t sit in her room all the time, no matter what Rome said. She was a people person, and she liked being around people, even if they were drunk and stupid. Besides, she picked up a few coppers along the way doing this and a woman never knew when she’d need some coin, even if her lover was the macht, whatever that was.

  As she pushed her way past a table crowded with six men, she felt a hand squeeze her backside, but she was ready for it. In the big pocket on her apron was a sewn leather bag, filled with lead shot and attached to a wooden handle. Without breaking stride, she seized it and gave the offender a quick slap on the side of his head.

  “Ow! Bonnie, why’d you have ta go and hit me so hard for!” the man squalled, nearly falling off his chair.

  “You know exactly why, Burk,” she called back over her shoulder. “I’d thought you woulda learned by now.”

  The other men were laughing and slapping their knees. Burk scowled and came partway to his feet, looking like he wanted to push it a little f
urther, but Gelbert coughed from his place behind the bar. He was a fat man, but there was still plenty of muscle under that fat and everyone who frequented the Grinning Pig Tavern knew that he could still club a man insensible with the best of them. Even if he couldn’t, there were still Arls and Terk, the door guards, to back him up, and they were even meaner than he was.

  So Burk sat back down, just as Bonnie knew he would, and even managed to force a smile onto his face. She also knew in an hour he’d have forgotten all about it.

  “Coulda broke my nose, a bit to the right,” he complained.

  “On the up side, it might’ve helped fix your face,” she retorted. She didn’t even look at him, instead fishing out a damp rag and wiping an empty table. Her comment elicited a fresh round of raucous laughter.

  “Nothing wrong with my face,” he whined.

  Bonnie stopped, put her hands on her ample hips, cocked her head and raised her eyebrows.

  The men around Burk roared and his expression darkened. Bonnie figured she’d smacked him—verbally and physically—enough for right now. She didn’t want him going off like a mad dog. “All in good fun, you know that, Burk. Just a little chivvying between old friends.” He’d been coming into the Pig almost as long as she’d been working there, and he wasn’t a bad sort, after all. Just lost his hold a bit when he drank too much.

  “At least you ain’t lost your touch,” he said, rubbing the side of his head, where a red spot was already darkening toward purple.

  “And I won’t, you can set your hat on that,” she replied, giving him a broad wink. He gave her a pretty sincere, if sheepish, grin and Bonnie went back to work. She knew how to handle these men. They were no more than big children, really. It wasn’t just smacking them either. Part of it was knowing how to get down in the gutter and give and take with them, the casual insults and mockery that made up the foolish male world. Part of it was knowing when to stop before they got their precious pride bruised and had no choice but to do something stupid. Bonnie knew how and where to draw the line and she knew how to make them respect it.