More snickers. Shkai’ra grinned like a wolf. Megan peeked at the two Arkans, who looked as if they’d rather not hear this, more inclined to hide behind their tankards. The bard strummed a rich cord, and sang.
Pity the day when the Eagle of Arko
First cast its eye on Yeola-e’s plains.
When battle is finished twixt Eagle and Circle,
The world will count up the losses and gains.
Long long ago, a great sage of Yeola-e
Prophesied gravely, that this century,
His people, who’d lived so content in their borders
The conquerors of a great nation would be.
Now storming to Kaina, led hard by Chevenga,
They’d won to the edge of the lands bought so dear.
New risen from shackles, and calling for justice,
They cried to each other, “Why should we stop here?”
“We know what it is, to be conquered by Arko.
The world is not safe, while the Eagle still flies.
Now that it runs, we should chase it down flaming
For our land burned, our loves raped, our children’s death-cries.”
Debate raged like fire, all over Yeola-e
Until in Assembly, a Servant asked this:
“Our precious Chevenga, no one has worse suffered
By Arkans than you have. What is it you wish?”
“What wishes a demarch,” he said, “does not matter.”
Refusing to answer, though uproar they made.
E’en strode from Assembly, was dragged back and fin’ly
On pain of impeachment, replied, “To invade.”
So chalk went the vote, to strike down the great Eagle.
Four ten-thousands heed the Invincible’s call—
Eyes burning, the Circle comes threshing with longswords
To cut through the rot, and so Arko will fall.
Alas, oh, alas, for the Empire, and Kurkas,
Whose death-knell has tolled after so many years
The world’s heart will bleed as the City falls crashing
So loud our lamenting, so soulful our tears ...
The bard struck the chord with one hand, and with the other pulled out a large handkerchief of a scarlet color strikingly similar to Arkan warships’ sail-cloth, to dab his cheek with a loud sniffle.
Pity the day when the Eagle of Arko
First cast its eye on Yeola-e’s plains.
When the battle is finished twixt Eagle and Circle.
The world will count up the losses and gains.
Koru. Megan put her tankard down. No news had ever sobered her so quickly. Not only had they made it to the border, they’d decided to cross: Yeolis, who had a custom, held for centuries, against being the aggressor. This hot king with all his alliances and mercenaries was marching on Arko.
“Sheepshit,” Shkai’ra was yelling, “Sh’our chance!”
Megan calculated. They had maybe forty thousand, by Ivahn’s last estimate, and the song’s. The Arkans claimed they could field a rejin of rejins, a million. But she remembered a night at a river-port, Sarngeld speaking with some Aenir, a mercenary by his words. “There hasn’t been a rejin of rejins for a good hundred years. The story just sticks in people’s heads. The Arkans, Kurkas no less than his forebears, let things go, so now there’s maybe five hundred rejins, spread out all over.”
Five hundred thousand. How many were locked up fighting the Srians, the Kurkanians, guarding the northern border and patrolling the Mitvald, fighting the Lakans on their border, since King Astalaz of Laka had broken his peace-treaty with Arko, to ally with Yeola-e? There had been no word from Kurkania for a good two years, a good sign Arko was losing there. Say forty thousand against, at most, one hundred thousand, she thought. A little better, but ... Wait, I’m not counting those huge losses in the winter. Say forty thousand against sixty. And the forty thousand might not even be right anymore; Ivahn gave me that number a while back, and winning invading armies don’t shrink, but grow.
It was a chance. The eagle could be stung to death by the wasp, if the wasp flew quickly enough. If they had good generalling, damn good generalling, which supposedly they did.
Joyful stamping shook the floor. The bard had been lucky to be the first here with this; people were throwing him copper Claws. Everyone seemed happy except the Arkans, who looked like their dearest wish would be invisibility. One, a middle-aged fellow in Arkan issue armor that was obviously repainted, ground his face into the table in a most un-Arkan way.
People pelted the bard with questions as well as money.
“What happened in the last battle?”
“It was a rout, what else?”
“How many did the Arkans lose?”
“Thousands. The rest scattered, or got thumbed.”
“Had their sword-hand thumbs cut off,” Megan explained to Shkai’ra. “A quaint Yeoli custom.”
“What about Kranaj and Astalaz?” said someone else. “Are they going to invade too?”
“I haven’t heard.”
“So how big armies are they going to send?”
“I just told you, sparrow-brain, I haven’t heard!”
“Kranazzh and Aztalazzh?” Shkai’ra hissed over the din.
“Kings of Laka and Tor Ench, respectively,” Megan stage-whispered back.
“Are they still hiring mercenaries?” About ten people asked that, all at once, along with the rate of pay.
“Apply at the embassy,” the bard said. “You’d have to move it to catch up with the army from here, though. This news is a few days old now, and with Chevenga, fast-march is fast-march.” That army’s grown by about ten just here, tonight, Megan thought.
“Zhv’nghkua,” said Shkai’ra. “That’s the hot Yeoli king, hmm?”
“Dah. Fourth Shchevenga.” Ivahn’s letters had mentioned the name, with the formal number tacked on front and the impossible-to-remember-let-alone-pronounce surname and titles behind, but Megan’s eyes had skimmed over it.
Now it snagged her memory. “Wait a moment!” That name ... it had been in older news that had come up the river. “He’s dead.”
Fourth Chevenga was the Yeoli king who got captured by the Arkans, made to fight in their arena, and given some kind of circus execution, she thought. Yes, dammit, I’m not remembering wrong, it was Fourth, Fourth Chevenga. Fifty thousand people had witnessed his death.
“Fuckin’ lively corpse,” Shkai’ra said drily.
The Benai Saekrberk always made Megan feel calmer. Nobody ran or shouted or pushed her against the wall; the Fraousra, the monks, all looked as if they had something to do that made them, if not happy, at least at peace. There were more guard-monks down by the dock, though, five new galleys in the slipways, and she and Shkai’ra got an armed escort up to the hill. The Fraousra pruning the vines on the slopes stopped and waved; when they passed close, Megan heard them saying her name to each other, and pulled the floppy hat further down over her ears. The wind was from inland, full of marsh and plowed earth smells from the fields on the other side of the Benaiat, and a little salt from the Svartzee.
Ivahn’s secretary, Stevahn, white-haired but young, and her attendants came out to meet them at the gate. Their robes were crimson against the blue walls of the abbey, with the white domes above. A small image of the Divine Bear hung at Stevahn’s waist, clicking against the writing case next to it on her belt. “The Benaiat will meet you in the center court. He’s a little tired.” Her voice was low, as if the words were meant only for Megan.
They walked through the arcades to the courtyard gardens, simple stone and tile and fresh flowers; spring was well along here. Traveling south down the river was like leaving winter, cold and dark, to sail into summer; last time they had been here it had been fall, and they’d sailed into winter. Shkai’ra’s eyes appraised all. Still looking at everything as if she were about to sack and burn it, Megan thought. I’ll train her out of that yet.
Benaiat Ivahn was
leaning on the edge of one of the lesser pools; looking up, he rose to meet them, smiling. Stevahn’s right, Megan thought. He is looking tired. Nonsense, he’s looking the same as ever, three years older than the Goddess. Like a child when he smiles, except all wrinkles. The other monks withdrew.
“Megan Whitlock,” the old man said, clasping her hands, then Shkai’ra’s. “It was a grief to me that I could not attend your wedding. Your other wife and your husband are not with you on this journey?” They strolled along the colonnade, the pair matching their pace to the old man’s. He moved as smoothly as he ever did, but more slowly.
“No,” she answered. “But we drank some of that case of Saekrberk liqueur you sent. In the glass loving-cups.”
“They were beautiful,” Shkai’ra said. “They reminded me of this place.” Three years, we’ve been together, Megan thought, and she still surprises me.
No doubt Ivahn was surprised, too; but he’d had a great deal of practice in hiding what he thought. They came to the door of his office, ancient oak, almost black, hinges silent as it swung open. Benaiats from time out of mind had used this office. Strange to think of anyone but Ivahn being Benaiat; he has been since long before I was born. He was three times Megan’s age. Seventy-five. What will I be like at that age? Stupid question. If I keep using the manrauq as much as I have lately, I won’t die old. Shkai’ra isn’t likely to die old either, unless we really do settle down after this.
The office was in the outer part of the Benaiat; the view extended down to the docks and across the river to Brahvniki, back toward the woods and fields as well. The room was very plain, but not stark. Some monasteries of the Honey-Giving Bear seemed to worship austerity, but Ivahn had always said its purpose was to free one of distractions, not be held sacred for its own sake. He had bookshelves and desk and chairs, a row of large books on pegs; the symbol on the wall was his own handiwork, the colors still bright against whitewash. A warm breeze blew off the sea and in through the narrow windows. This summer is going to be very hot, droughts in some places.
As Megan and Ivahn gave each other the formal hug, she felt it: he was paper-thin, skin over ribs like tent-canvas, his grip more like a spider’s than a bear’s. He settled into his chair by the desk, sighing, motioned them to sit. His face had always been thin like a fox’s; now the fox was a starving one, hollow-cheeked. Was he ill? But he smiled again, making it all seem imaginary.
A monk brought a tray with a bottle of Saekrberk and glasses, setting them out on the desk with a bow. “Korukai,” Ivahn said, lifting his tiny glass. “To your health,” Megan said, hearing more meaning in it than she’d intended. He nodded, and the Saekrberk burned its way across her tongue.
“I share the salt,” he said, the ritual words signalling it was time to get down to business; they were too close to take any longer with small-talk. “And I with you,” she answered.
“Glad that’s over with, it’s stiff and stifling, like the robes,” he said. “Well, Megan. Just what sort of advice did you want?”
Megan put down her cup, met his eyes. “We’re considering joining the Yeoli army to get into Arko.”
“The Yeoli army, to get into Arko.” He didn’t have to ask why. He steepled his fingers, lined brows creasing. “Hmm.”
“We heard last night they crossed their border to march on Arko. What do you think of their chances?”
“Of conquering the Empire? Better than one would expect. Who would have thought they’d win back so far, when they had nothing left unoccupied but a few mountains? They have their alliances, with Astalaz of Laka, Kranaj of Tor Ench and Segiddis of Hyerne. When it becomes apparent, they’ll have every mercenary, loot-luster, and soul just plain angry at Arko that they care to join them. And they have Chevenga. When they advertise in town, it’s for half the pay they offered at first, and goes down every day. Soon people will join them for nothing but a prospect of Arkan city plunder.”
“It’s not the money I care about.”
“Oh, I didn’t think so, bylashka; I’m only making the point of their perceived chances, of which the price is an indicator.” Bylashka, she thought. Well, I guess I am a child, to him.
“‘And they have Chevenga,’ he said cryptically,” she mimicked. “I am rapidly getting the impression this person’s bottom is dipped in gold. You never praise anyone, Ivahn. All I knew before was, he was king of Yeola-e, and dead—”
“It’s not king, it’s se-ma-na-kra-se-ye ... if you’re going to deal with him, you ought to know that, they’re touchy about it.” A smile crept across the wrinkled face, wrinkled mostly with smiling. “He’s alive.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, as Shkai’ra chuckled. “I’d gathered that. But how good is he, really? Another Osgaerth, maybe, who the Thanish oligarchy kicked into war just to be rid of?”
“Somehow I can’t imagine Fourth Chevenga being kicked anywhere,” he said. “Though he has been. In all honesty, I should admit my bias: he’s a friend. I first met him when he was fifteen. Just between the three of us, I got him drunk and we went to the Knotted Worm in disguise, to hear about ourselves. Poor lad, I had to give him a dose of extract of Halya to get him through all his official functions the next day.
“The Great Bear knows how little I know of war; I’m not much of a judge of fighters or commanders. But all who are seem to agree he is brilliant as both. He even has manrauq; a sense for weapons, which has stood him in very good stead. If he has any fault it’s recklessness, but he’s willing to learn from his mistakes, and is a quick study. A sample of the epithets his army has given him: the Invincible (that’s the most common), the Immortal, the Infallible, the Imperturbable, another Curlion ...”
“Another Curlion?” Megan said, brows shooting up.
“What’s a Curlion?” asked Shkai’ra.
“Oh, just the man who carved out Iyesi, the first Empire after the Fire, merely the greatest general in history,” Megan answered. “I guess this one’s bottom really is dipped in gold.”
“I’ve never seen it,” Ivahn said, deadpan. “But to give you an idea, I can tell you what happened the first time Arko tried to take Haiu Menshir. They sent three ships, thinking an island of pacifists would be no trouble; he rousted a force up out of the harbor—where all the non-pacifists on Haiu Menshir stay, you understand—and defeated and captured the Arkan unit entire. With a handful of Yeoli elite, some Srian archers and a rabble of knife-wielding sailors, none of whom got so much as a scratch.
“In this war, the alliances, the hiring of mercenaries, have all been his work. He has a genius for persuasion, too. As soon as he was back in Yeola-e they stopped losing and started winning. Those who say he turned the tide single-handedly aren’t far wrong.”
“Hmmm,” said Shkai’ra. “I’d like to meet this person.” And lecture him on cavalry tactics, probably, Megan thought.
“Of course, there is the inherent danger,” Ivahn added, “of so much depending on one person. All would change were he to come to grief. And, though he’s managed to slip through them all so far—he has a tendency to miraculous recoveries when he messes up, too, a good thing in a leader—he takes great risks.”
“Well, now this brings me back to a previous enigma,” Megan said. “Six months ago my spies had it that he was executed with a lot of fanfare in Arko.”
The Benaiat smiled, and sipped his Saekrberk. “Being one of your spies, I will report: like many things done in Arko with a lot of fanfare, it was faked.”
“The only thing Arko hasn’t faked in a while, apparently, is losing,” Shkai’ra snorted.
“They gave him what they said was poison, in front of a sell-out crowd in the arena,” Ivahn continued. “Actually it was a drug that made him appear dead.”
“He must have been rather surprised,” Shkai’ra chortled, “when he woke up.”
“He must carry a large grudge against Arko.” Megan ran a fingertip over the lock of one of the books on the desk.
“Well,” Ivahn answered, “they ca
ptured him treacherously—he was on a peace mission, carrying Kurkas’s oath of safe conduct, as I can attest, having a copy here—invaded his homeland, killed his dearest friend in front of his eyes, and tortured him to madness—temporary madness, I should add, that’s why he was on Haiu Menshir. One might surmise he just may hold a slight grudge.” Megan chuckled and nodded.
“I suppose he was able to make all those alliances that the Yeolis didn’t make before, and get all those mercenaries, on the strength of his name?” asked Shkai’ra.
“And by renewing old friendships?” Megan added. “With people whose interests might be threatened by an Arkan conquest of Yeola-e, being near, and who have money in large enough amounts to pay for all those mercenaries he couldn’t possibly afford himself?” She tilted her head and winked at Ivann. “Wouldn’t you say?”
His smile widened, good to see on that gaunt face. “Great trouble I should have, hylashka, were the Arkans as perspicacious as you. Yes, their conquering Yeola-e would—did—put their border a day and a night’s sail from Brahvniki’s very walls. And they’ve had ambitions against us for centuries. So yes, I did float Chevenga a very substantial loan. And I was not the only Brahvnikian who did; I think he raised at least double that again among prominent citizens who shall remain nameless. I will guarantee you one thing about him, which will explain at least in part all this. If you meet him, which I suspect you will, you’ll like him, if not on first sight, on first word. Very few are those who don’t.”
Megan raised her eyebrows quizzically. “That’s a rare talent, to say the least—to make me like you on sight.”
“Oh, I know you better than that, hylashka,” the old man chuckled. “At any rate, I think you will: you’ll see.”
Megan got up and paced along the windowed west wall, catching glimpses of the river and Brahvniki out of the corner of her eye. “Do you know how the Yeolis, in general, treat Zak? I’ve dealt with one or two, but one isn’t likely to discuss pogrom over coffee.”
“There are a number of Zak living in Yeola-e proper, mostly in and around Selina. They mind their own business, and the Yeolis mind theirs. The curly-hairs tend not to have the sort of atavistic beliefs about witchcraft that make people want to destroy and drive it out in terror; they’d put it down to some strange face of the God-in-Ourselves they haven’t seen yet, not to demons or Halya-spawn or what-have-you. It’s true that they tend to think of the rest of the world as a slow child that they earnestly and generously hope will improve enough to come around to their way some day, but underneath that they are fairly broadminded about spiritual things.”
Shadow’s Son Page 4