by Tim Pratt
Temple sighed. “I suppose I should have left copies under your pillows if I wanted you to pay attention. Fine. Zumani’s book is the usual sort of revolutionary fare, with a local emphasis. Seventy years ago, Nirmathas didn’t exist—the country was just part of Molthune. Not a very well-loved part, either—widely considered a backwater full of ignorant provincials, of value chiefly because they occupied the Southern Fangwood, and had all the very valuable lumber there. The people in Molthune’s capital weren’t very kind to their northern countrymen, and governed with, shall we say, a heavy hand. After wriggling under the boot of their southron masters for too many years, the brave people of northern Molthune finally rose up and seized their own destiny, rebelling and declaring their independence. Thus, Nirmathas was born.
“Zumani grew up in the midst of that revolutionary zeal, and his book adds more fuel to the fire. Zumani does his best to remind his countrymen that they are the vanguard of a great human experiment in self-government, free from the prejudice and nepotism and small-minded short-sightedness of the Molthuni government. The people of the nascent nation of Nirmathas—that’s poetic, isn’t it? It’s Zumani’s phrase—must never stop fighting, never stop resisting, never stop battling the rapacious selfish monstrosity that is Molthune. The book is written with great flair, mostly in a vernacular the average citizen of Nirmathas can easily understand, and the literate ones read it aloud to their less educated friends and family at meetings in the forest and under canvas tents and in rude wooden halls.” She smiled to herself. “His words fill his countrymen with the will to fight on, against difficult odds. Zumani has really done great work for us.”
Merihim sat up in the armchair. “I’m sorry. Are you saying Lastwall employs revolutionaries from Nirmathas?”
Temple seesawed her hand. “Not so much Lastwall in general as the Bastion of Justice, and the odd high-ranking officer among the crusaders who recognizes the importance of our work, and can be trusted not to get bogged down in the tedious particulars of how our work gets done.” Temple took out a wooden pipe and began to fill it, paying careful attention to packing in the herb as she spoke. “Molthune is an ambitious country, you see. They have territorial desires, very profound ones, but the countries around them are mostly too powerful to be gobbled up. They find this very frustrating. More than a hundred years ago, it became apparent that Molthune was looking to Lastwall as a possible conquest.”
“That’s insane,” Rodrick said. “You’re a country made up almost entirely of hardened veterans of assorted wars against unspeakable monsters. You’re a—I don’t know, a paladin-ocracy. How could Molthune hope to conquer you?”
“Because we’re a nation of divided attention, Rodrick. We formed to watch the remnants of the Whispering Tyrant’s empire. That might seem like a ceremonial duty to you, like sentries watching over a graveyard, but let me assure you, there are still very real and present dangers in the ruins of that old regime. There are forces at work inside those blasted, blighted lands, and there are outsiders who seek to rekindle those terrible flames.” Did Temple glance at Merihim then? For just an instant? Rodrick couldn’t be sure. “The bulk of our forces, though, are focused on the Hold of Belkzen, and the orc hordes there who want to trample all over the lands of the Inner Sea, pillaging and looting as they go.”
“Orc culture is unfairly maligned,” the Specialist said in a musing tone. “They are widely perceived as bestial monsters, but they have a complex and beautiful culture based on honor, family, and obligation. Oh, from the outside, I’ll grant you, some of their traditions seems a bit, er, rustic, but—”
“They are our greatest living enemy.” Temple stared the Specialist into silence. “So you see, our attention is split between the orcs to the west and the legacy of the Whispering Tyrant to the north. If Molthune chose to attack from the south … let’s just say it’s our least-well-protected border. The Molthuni could at the very least manage to seize some of our border villages, and use that as a foothold to annex us further, or force us to divide our attention, leaving us vulnerable to the depredations of the orcs or even a resurgence of the undead and evil forces in the Hungry Mountains. So when, many decades ago, the oppressed Molthuni of the Southern Fangwood decided to rise up against their masters in the capital, the powers that be in Lastwall weren’t entirely displeased. In general, we frown on chaos and instability, but I have no doubt many in the government were quietly wishing the great freedom fighter Irgal Nirmath luck in his noble struggle.”
“Ah,” Rodrick said. “Nirmath. Like Nirmathas.”
“You’re so observant,” Merihim said. “Truly, your mind is a thing of wonder.”
“Yes, well,” Temple said. “Nirmath’s forces did well during the Freedom War. Alas, Nirmath himself was slain by an assassin, and the fledgling country that took his name has been looking for comparable leadership ever since, without notable success. Even without a strong hand to guide them, though, Nirmathas has proven an admirable buffer zone between Molthune and Lastwall. Molthune can hardly contemplate attacking us when they have those rebellious former territories standing between us. They can’t possibly threaten Lastwall until they get Nirmathas under control, and that country has been independent for sixty years now—Nirmathas has been its own nation for longer than it was part of Molthune at this point, though that hasn’t stopped Molthune from trying bring the lost sheep back into the fold. There are always new, fiercely independent rabble-rousers rising up to make sure Nirmathas fights the good fight and resists Molthune’s ongoing territorial aggression.” She gave a small cough. “I have taken it upon myself to assist some of those freedom fighters, here and there, in my own small way, to make sure the instability in Nirmathas continues to protect Lastwall.”
“Remarkable.” Merihim whistled in appreciation. “So you’re covertly funding fighters in a neighboring nation to protect your own interests.”
“Everything is politics,” the Specialist murmured. “Sometimes writ large.”
Temple puffed her pipe. “You’re all so cynical. I shouldn’t be surprised, since the whole reason you’re valuable to me is because of your naked self-interest, but I work for the greater good. Lastwall exists to protect the entire world—including those childish, squabbling nations to our south—from threats too dire for most mortals to contemplate. If aiding unrest in Nirmathas spares the entire Inner Sea from being overrun by orc hordes, I can do it without so much as a twinge of conscience.”
Merihim snorted. “Do you think the Watcher-Lord would agree?”
Rodrick’s grasp of local government was hazy, but as he understood it the Watcher-Lord was the crusader-in-chief.
Temple sighed. “Naturally, some of my superiors have a more black-and-white view of the world, but the Bastion is given a degree of independence precisely to deal with situations like this. The generals are good men and women, clever tacticians, indescribably brave … but they don’t all have the subtlety of mind necessary to handle problems that can’t be solved by hitting someone over the head with a warhammer. For that, they need the Bastion, and I am honored to serve.”
“This Zumani, then,” Merihim said. “He’s the Bastion’s latest puppet in Nirmathas?”
“He is a man of deeply held convictions,” Bannerman said. “Who is always happy to accept large sacks of gold from anonymous benefactors. He’s a pretty decent field commander, too, and he’s been instrumental in keeping Molthune busy, pushing back their attempts to reclaim territory in Nirmathas. We’ve urged him to take more of a supervisory role, but he has the true courage of his convictions, and believes in fighting on the front lines with his people.”
“Aha,” Merihim said. “He got himself captured, didn’t he?”
Bannerman nodded. “That he did, just a few days ago. He’s been taken to a prison in Molthune. They probably think he’s a common soldier, but it won’t take long before someone mentions that he’s one of the leaders of the revolutionary forces. Once the Molthuni realize he’s a man who m
atters, they’ll start to work on him, and try to find out his secrets. He’s strong, he’s brave, he’s even a zealot … but everyone breaks eventually.”
“Oh no,” Eldra said. “He doesn’t know the government of Lastwall was paying him, does he?”
Temple took her pipe out of her mouth, looked at it for a moment, then sighed. “We kept it secret for a while, with Bannerman approaching him covertly, hiding his connection to the government … but Zumani is a smart man, and eventually one of his operatives managed to track Bannerman back to the Bastion after a meeting.”
“I am very good at skulking around,” Bannerman said. “But even I can’t compete with some of these trackers in Nirmathas. Their founder was a woodsman, and the true patriots try to follow in his footsteps. They can slink unseen across a freshly burned field. They can hide in a rock crevice almost as well as Prinn here does.”
Temple puffed contentedly at her pipe, smiling as if reminiscing about a pleasant vacation. “Zumani let Bannerman know he knew the Bastion was secretly supporting him. He threatened to expose our involvement to Molthune, to let them know we were meddling in their sovereign affairs. We thought he was going to make some outrageous, impossible demand, and that we’d have to assassinate him.”
“But after all that threat and bluster, all he demanded was more swords, and better armor, and alchemical explosives.” Bannerman shook his head. “We would have given him those things anyway. That’s patriots for you. I got the sense he didn’t like being used … but he liked having access to our resources too much to stop, so he wanted to give himself the illusion of control.”
“But now he’s been captured,” Merihim said. “So you need us to go assassinate him after all, before he can tell his captors he’s an agent of Lastwall.”
12
A VOYAGE TO TAMRAN
“Ha.” Temple shook her head. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A simple little murder. No, we don’t want you to kill him. He’s valuable to us. We want you to break him out of prison and bring him back here. Think how his legend will grow, when word arrives that he escaped from a prison in the very heart of Molthune! With a little care, we could have another Nirmath on our hands.”
“I hope not,” Eldra said. “If he’s too effective, there might be some risk of him turning Nirmathas from a chaotic mess into a fully functioning country, and then you’d have to assassinate him—just like you did Nirmath.”
“That is a scandalous accusation.” Temple’s bland voice gave nothing of her thoughts away. “But if you want to believe we killed Nirmath in order to keep his fledgling nation from growing too strong and stable, please do. I support anything that makes you respect and fear my office.”
“Another retrieval,” Merihim said. “At least we’ve got some practice, and this target won’t try to stab us with shit-covered spikes.”
“True, but the entire nation of Molthune, or at least those portions you encounter, will be against you,” Bannerman said. “Still, it shouldn’t be too difficult for people with your resources.”
“What do we know about his situation?” Merihim said. “I’d rather not charge in blind.”
Temple shrugged. “We have some sources in Molthune, though none in a position to help us directly. We know Zumani is being held in a prison not far from the border with Nirmathas. It’s basically a fort, but it’s a convenient place to hold captured Nirmathi for interrogation and execution.”
“So we’re supposed to break into a prison and mount a daring rescue?” Rodrick said.
“I don’t care how you get him out. Loud or quiet, it’s your choice, as long as the operation can’t be traced back to Lastwall. We can’t be seen to take sides, or Molthune will try to attack us—they’re a prideful bunch. If you can get Zumani out of Molthune, Bannerman has some contacts who are less motivated by zeal and more motivated by gold who’ll help you on the journey back.”
“A jailbreak and then babysitting. Delightful.” Merihim tapped a fingertip against her pursed lips for a moment. “We could ask Zumani a few pointed questions, you know—find out if the Molthuni got anything out of him. There’s no need to drag him all the way back here.”
Temple raised an eyebrow. “How thoughtful of you. I prefer to handle discussions with my agents personally. Even if I were to delegate the responsibility, you aren’t the person I’d choose to speak for me, Merihim.”
The devilkin sighed. “Fine. It doesn’t matter how you choose to use my year of service, though I’m wasted on trivialities likes this. All right. It’s a journey of, what, two hundred miles?”
“A bit more,” Temple said. “Bannerman will take you. He’ll also send me regular updates. You should have plenty of time to plan your plans and plot your plots before the time for action arrives. Let Bannerman know if you need anything in particular before you go.” She gathered her files and strolled out.
Bannerman smiled at them toothily, peering at each of them in turn from beneath his lank hair. “It should be a relatively peaceful journey, at least until we get close to the border with Molthune. We’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Can we take some liquor on the trip?” Rodrick said. “If it’s going to be peaceful anyway, we should be able to drink.”
Bannerman ignored him. “We’re going to travel fast, because time is limited. They’ve only had Zumani captive for a few days, and he was taken with a number of other fighters, so with luck the Molthuni have no idea yet that he’s a man of importance. That’s one advantage to the … informal fighting style … the Nirmathi use. No one down there wears rank insignia, so it’s possible for leaders to remain anonymous. We want to get there before they realize what they have and move him to a more secure location, or put in better safeguards. We’re in a hurry, so I’m requisitioning a longship with a crew of rowers. Be glad you lot have skills that Temple considers worth using—less useful prisoners will be heaving the oars on our trip. I do reserve the right to chain any of you down in the galley if you misbehave, though. Any questions?”
Merihim held up a finger. “Not so much a question as a demand. The Specialist will need access to alchemical supplies. If we’re going to break someone out of jail, we need to be able to blow things up. Prinn might also need some items—amulets and such—I’ll have him draw up a list. Eldra? Rodrick? Any requests?”
“The aforementioned liquor.”
“I could use new shoes. My best pair got ruined in the Fangwood.”
“Gold,” Hrym said. “Not that anyone asked me.”
Bannerman grunted. “I’ll provide anything that seems plausible. We sail in the morning. I’ll be around to collect you a bit before dawn.”
* * *
“I’m beginning to develop an aversion to travel by water.” On their last day aboard ship, Rodrick stood in the bow, leaning on the rail, the wind blowing into his face, hair streaming from his brow. It was an impressive pose, and Eldra seemed duly impressed, standing close to him, her head resting on his shoulder as they watched the waters of the lake shimmer in the sunlight. There were fishing boats off in the distance, and birds flying low, and all in all, it was an idyllic scene. You’d never know they were sailing through war-torn Nirmathas, gliding smoothly across the water, their ship driven alternately by the rowers below and the odd favorable wind billowing the sails and giving the prisoners in the galley a rest.
Eldra traced her fingertip in a small circle on his forearm. “Why’s that? I like the air and the breeze.”
Hrym spoke up, voice muffled in the sheath at Rodrick’s hip. “Last time we were on a ship, we were sailing away from trouble. It’s not the water’s fault.”
Rodrick shook his head. “Let’s just say I’ve had some bad experiences in lakes. I spent some weeks living on an island in one, doing hard manual labor every day.”
“That explains these.” She gave his bicep a squeeze. “The result of good honest labor.”
“Ha!” Hrym said. “A phrase to make Rodrick tremble.”
He sighed. “I w
ish I were stupid enough to believe you felt genuine affection for me, Eldra.”
“Mmm. I’d assure you it is genuine, but you wouldn’t believe me.” She went up on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek. “Such a shame, to see such cynicism in one so young.”
Rodrick leaned away and looked into her entirely open and guileless face. “Young? Eldra, you’re probably a decade younger than I am. If I were even a few years older, I suspect I’d have fatherly impulses instead of … the impulses I actually have.”
She chuckled. “It’s possible I’m older than I look.”
“I’ve seen the magic women can do with a bit of paint and powder, and a judicious understanding of where to stand in relation to light sources. But I’ve also seen you just awake, sleeping in the dirt in a forest, and you didn’t look noticeably older then.”
“There’s the magic of cosmetics, Rodrick, and there’s actual magic.” She leaned her head back against him. “Would you like to know a secret about me? One almost no one knows? Apart from Temple, who dragged it out of me with spells that compelled truth. And Bannerman, I suppose.”
“You want to take me into your confidence in order to strengthen our bond and enhance the likelihood that I’ll step in front of a spearpoint to save you at some point?”
“No, silly. I just like to brag. The other things are just happy side effects.”
“By all means, do go on.”
“I must swear you to secrecy. And you, too, Hrym. There are those who hold terrible grudges, you know, and I’d rather they didn’t hear about my current name and location, even third- or fourth-hand.”
“I promise not to tell unless I’m offered enough money to overcome that promise,” Rodrick said. “But it would take a lot of money, and no one has any reason to ask me, so I think you’re safe.”
“What he said,” Hrym added.
“Who would have expected an honest oath from a thief? Good enough.” She took a breath. “I am, as of my last birthday, eighty-eight years old.”