I turned to Kerral. “Look out for stragglers, I'm riding ahead for a while. Rastrian, would you join me?”
Together we rode out.
“Where did you find him?”
“Dubaku? A few years ago I was in the army of the King of Gherkellik, he was tired of pirates coming across the Prian Straits so he hired mercenaries and sent us and his own troops over the sea to take a piece of their lands. Dubaku joined us there after convincing me of his usefulness.”
“Whose side was he on?”
Rastrian shrugged. “His own. I think he still is. Still, it's a free company and as long as he obeys orders he will do for me.”
“As long as he doesn't try and convert anyone.”
“He won't. He says his teachings are secrets for his son.”
That struck me as sensible even as another aspect of it struck me as odd. “Where is this son he is supposed to be teaching his secrets to?”
Rastrian shrugged. “I guess he has children somewhere, and grandchildren, and great grandchildren. He says he's a hundred and thirty years old but I'm guessing he lost count.”
Magic could be used to extend life. The head of the healer's guild had two hundred years under his belt. But that was sorcery. What could a spirit do to extend life? I assumed he was lying for effect or using a different counting system.
We were riding beyond the ditch at the side of the road. Small bunches of trees had begun to spring up here and there on the otherwise bare terrain. A line of hills was angling toward the road, and ahead I could see a farm close to the road. We were entering the province of Lirria. Soon enough we would pass the town of Huprew. I decided I wanted to talk to Tul and ordered Rastrian back to my troop. They were still mine, at least for now. The earlier meeting with Tul had gone well enough for me. He had made it clear that as there was no proof either way he was going to let it pass, but that it or anything like it had better not happen again. He was staring at his errant aide when he said this so I knew that he was sure in his own mind that I was innocent of blame. He had given me the hundred crossbowmen to command on the basis that “someone has to command them and no one else is free” but I suspected it was a reward for handling things well enough. We were cousins and under normal circumstances he would favor me heavily as family and a natural ally. My reputation had scotched that but I was repairing things as fast as I could.
I caught up with the head of the army a few minutes later and pulled up near enough to Tul that he could choose to acknowledge or ignore me as he chose. He decided on the former and I asked if I could speak with him. After a moment he nodded, commanded his people to keep the pace, and pulled his horse off the road. We sat for just a moment watching the army pass us by.
“If I might ask, why the increase in pace?”
“Maybe I'm just getting your crossbowmen fit.”
“Possible, but I don't think so.”
He watched me for a while, obviously considering. “Keep it to yourself. The Prashuli and Orduli are rising. There have been deaths among the merchants who have had free passage until now. The Ensibi have lost a town in the north of their territories. Orthand is in a fury. He can see his client people slipping through his fingers and they are worth a good income to him. He has sent back to his family and friends to raise forces and send them north.”
“So we are not just going to hurt the Alendi and leave.”
“No. I'm guessing that Orthand means to pacify the whole region as far as the mountains. Might take a year.”
Or more. There are other tribes that might get involved, they doubtless also have alliances and blood ties. I worried it over for a moment then told him what I had sent Sheo north to do.
He glared at me. Then laughed out loud, suddenly good-natured. “I should have guessed you would not sit back and take orders. Any news on how he is doing?”
I shamefacedly admitted that I had not instructed him to send messages.
“He will anyway. Wouldn't you?”
I nodded. “What about the crossbowmen?”
“Keep them. You and I will both be under Orthand as overall commander in any case. He has the biggest unit and the most seniority. Unless the assembly of patrons sends a consul or something drastic.”
“Peshna Itherian has his four legions busy in the east.”
“Yes, greedy bastard.”
The senior consul gets four legions paid for by the state. Then he goes and fights a war somewhere and makes a fortune. Everyone did it. Over the last seven hundred years we have conquered and either lost, sold or given up territories a thousand miles away and more as families rise and fall, as some sons are more industrious than others. A client state gives the best reward for the least administrative effort. Often we will trade freely with kingdoms we have once held, yet sometimes they will turn on us and have to be dealt with again. I couldn't remember what the situation was in the east.
“Will I get away with it?”
“You will now, I'm betting. Orthand can't take them off you, assuming Sheo has done his job and I'm sure he will. A magistrate could but Orthand isn't holding office at the moment, just dealing with his own problem.”
“Let's hope that's the way it stays.”
Tul snorted in derision. “Of course it will. When was the last time the state was at war?”
“A hundred and seventy two years ago.”
“Exactly.” He made no move to leave so I let him be for a while, eventually he changed the subject. “I'm not going to offer you joint command but if you join with my troops I'll let you have second and autonomous command of your own cohort so long as you obey my orders.”
I didn't say anything.
“I'll include you in my letter of authority to raise troops, loan your man my white rod. But keep it to yourself for now.”
“Agreed, cousin.” I didn't not see fit to tell him that Sheo already had a white rod of his own.
16
I worried about Sheo, now. It had only been a few days but I hadn't heard anything and it bothered me. Tul was right, Sheo would send me a message. I stepped over to my desk, which now had a few papers on it. A hundred men, and the healers and battle mages. And my original six. The demands of command were increasing. There was also a satchel containing scrip, promises that the war chest of Tulian Dural Verrans would pay cash to whoever presented it to him. The responsibilities of command.
Looking down at the letter that Sapphire had delivered to my tent an hour ago, my initial anger flooded back.
I had taken the letter warily. “My father sent a letter for me to you?”
Sapphire had shrugged and said nothing, his cold blue eyes unwavering.
“Get out.”
When he'd gone I opened the letter and read it. It didn't take long.
I understand that you have not disgraced yourself. I am relieved.
That was it. Bastard.
17
I had written the letter to the head of Tahal's family, offering my assistance in the rescue of their son should it become possible. I resolved to put it with the official dispatches in the morning. I was still curious about what, if anything, the Samant family were doing to come to the aid of their son, Tahal. They appeared to be doing nothing, and that was not right. True, they were a small family and no longer wealthy. I could not remember the last time a Samant had been consul, for example, but it was impossible that they be doing nothing. Could they be so poor that they could not raise any troops at all? I tried to remember the family members but could not. Was Tahal the only man left of the line? Was Irian Samant recently dead and I hadn't heard? Were his female relatives reliant on friends and blood ties? Orelia had asked me to intervene because her family would not, on the premise that Tahal was merely her betrothed and not her husband, but what were his own family doing? Well, the letter was written and they might confide in me.
Meran cleared his throat and then stepped inside the tent. “Larner Harrat wants you to join him for the evening meal. He has that shaman with him.”
I gave a nod. “You met him? Strange isn't he?”
“His eyes. Yes. Reminds me of how my people describe the druids.”
“Druids?” I was a moment remembering the word.
“Your people killed them all centuries ago, but our stories persist.”
Priests. I remembered the word now, druid was just another word for shaman or priest. Though I now knew what Dubaku would say to that.
“What stories?”
“Stories of what they could do, what powers the spirits gave them. How they looked as though they saw another world than the one we do.”
Maybe that was it. Maybe his expressionless eyes looked into another world.
“Hmmm. Sapphire?”
“He has weird eyes too.”
He did actually. Cold and indifferent. But that isn't what I'd meant. “What has he been up to?”
“Putting himself about. Talking to people. Nothing I could hear and I can hardly ask.”
“Talking to whom?”
“Everyone. Healers, battle mages, your men, although I can tell from watching that they don't talk back. Tonight he's getting cozy with your mercenaries.”
“Thanks,” I said distractedly.
He looked just surprised enough that I noticed. “You're welcome, master.”
“I don't reward you enough, Meran. When this campaign is over I will.”
He actually bowed, perhaps a little ironically, then asked if there was anything else. When I indicated not, he left without another word. I knew he would be close by, on hand if I should need anything and for the most part anticipating my needs before I voiced them. He was a good slave. Familiar to the point of rudeness, but I'd never minded that as long as he took care of the things I didn't want to waste time on.
I realized I was standing there doing nothing and left to join the battle mages for dinner. I was tired. It had been a long day in the saddle and my body ached like hell, but not as much as the day before. My trousers were a little looser and soon I'd have to get a new belt, and maybe a new wardrobe. Maybe I should give Meran some cash and send him ahead to attend to that. But then, he had the money and maybe he already had. It wouldn't surprise me, and I decided to wait and find out.
Dubaku was already installed when I arrived, and eating like he had been fasting. I gave a greeting, and took the spare seat around the small fire that served mainly as centerpiece.
“What do the spirits tell you?” Abrat said.
I raised an eyebrow, but assumed that this was half way through a conversation I'd missed. The question seemed a bit pointed to me.
“I cannot understand them.”
“They don't speak your language?!”
Dubaku looked at him, and Abrat seemed to quail slightly.
“They use the words we have but mean different things. They do not see the world as we see it.”
“Without eyes, I'm not surprised!”
I expected Dubaku to be sharp and was wrong.
“Exactly.”
Larner leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Their understanding of the world is not ours. They are looking at it from a different place. What they know they cannot tell.”
“Why not?”
Dubaku was silent for a moment. “The world is made up of small things, smaller than the smallest thing you can image, so many that even in a grain of sand there are more parts than there are grains of sand on a beach.”
Larner and Hettar exchanged a significant glance and I was suddenly attentive.
“Even water is made up of these things. Now imagine you stand on such a small thing. It is on a ripple in a puddle of rainwater and it is the world. And you ask an ancient spirit, 'What is the universe?' How would the spirit answer?”
“It is a puddle of water?” I asked
Dubaku was no longer looking at Abrat. “It is a ripple on a puddle of water. And you would ask?”
I answered. “What is a puddle, what is a ripple, what is water?”
“And the spirit might say water is made up of the world you stand on, many the same and a ripple is caused by rain falling into the puddle and a puddle is where water collects in a depression.”
“And I would say, what is rain, what is a depression?”
Dubaku nodded. “Just so, and be none the wiser when he answered.”
“That's just a metaphor,” Abrat scorned.
“A metaphor may be a lie,” Larner said thoughtfully, “but it can also be a useful lie.”
“One day we will see things as they see them and know what they know. Until then there is nothing to be learned from spirits.”
“Life is for the living,” Larner said.
It was a city saying.
I doubted Dubaku told the whole truth. Surely a spirit must have memory of life? There would be things to learn from them. Perhaps much more than Dubaku was intimating. Perhaps he wanted to disarm these sorcerers, make himself seem nonthreatening.
“How do spirits do what they do? Affect the world.” Larner sounded genuinely interested, and for that reason so was I.
“They say the universe is empty. I do not know what that means.”
Unfortunately neither did I.
Larner also looked a little disappointed. “Empty? But they also say that everything is made up of particles?”
“Yes. You see? They contradict each other and themselves. I long since gave up trying to understand the how and contented myself that they could come to my aid if they chose.”
Particles. I kept my face absolutely neutral and reached casually for a drink. Larner had used the word naturally. He had already known about the 'small things that everything was made up of' and he called them particles. That mattered. Sorcerers manipulated particles. I sipped my drink and leaned back, focusing my memory on what small magics I knew and how they worked. Shapes and movements were what a spell most resembled when you thought of it, or shapes in movement overlaying the place you wanted the thing to happen. If I could see particles would I recognize something of those shapes and movements? The patterns are non-intuitive. Were the patterns and movements so non-intuitive because we couldn't see what they related to? Because the things they related to were very small?
I resolved to find a lens maker as soon as I had enough money and the time.
“You are thoughtful, Sumto. What are you thinking about?”
“I was wondering if what we do as sorcerers, pardon the presumption, might be similar in any way to what spirits do to perform their effects.”
All four sorcerers laughed. But I noticed that Dubaku did not.
18
When I got back to my tent from the morning staff meeting (Geranium) it was to find Pakat and Geheran either side of a somewhat smaller man, each holding one arm. Kerral stood to one side in conversation with Rastrian. Nobody looked happy, least of all the guy under guard. He looked sullen and angry, maybe it was a talent.
“Report!”
Kerral turned to me and saluted. “One of the men caught pilfering, sir.”
The standard punishment is ten lashes for a first offense. “Witnesses?”
Kerral indicated the two men who held the prisoner.
“Muster the men to parade. Ten lashes. Rastrian, choose a man to administer the punishment.” I stepped into my tent. There was nothing else to say and no one I cared to say it to. Everything I'd read made it clear. Discipline means just that. No exceptions, no arguments. Men under arms have to be in a certain frame of mind; they expect rewards, and they have to hate the enemy to some extent. The opposite of a reward is a punishment and all punishments have to come from the commander. And all rewards. They must see you like a father. Well, not my father obviously. I hadn't seen him for years.
Meran was inside my tent, packing for the day's march. He'd got it off to a fine art, learning from a standing start.
Rastrian was right behind me. “I'd rather make the decisions concerning my own men.”
He hadn't saluted, addres
sed me by title, or even been civil.
“You and your men are under discipline, there is nothing to discuss. I admit a degree of culpability as I should have addressed the men as soon as they came under my command and made things clear to them.”
“Ten lashes is excessive.”
“Your man will be laying them on, don't let him pull the blows too much or I'll have the man he tried to steal from do it again.”
“Alleged to have tried to steal from.”
“This isn't up for discussion. I know my men. They caught him red handed. Let it go. As I said, your man is laying on the strokes. Don't let him pull them much. And remember, you and your men are under discipline and under my authority. I could have had him strangled.”
He didn't like it but it was true. After a moment he nodded acceptance. He had no choice, really.
After he had left I turned back, trying to remember what I had come in here for, then realized that it was instinct. Give the order and go away. No conversation. Not quite like a father, then. I must have sighed out loud.
“Well done,” Meran muttered.
“You think?”
“Spank them then give them a hug. Fighting men are like children.”
“You were reading my mind.”
“Actually I have been reading your books. Little else to do sitting in a wagon all day.”
I hadn't given his days a thought. “Ichmedrial's Practical Considerations of Command, I assume.”
“The one you brought with you, yes. I hadn't time before this to sit around and read.”
“Making up for it now?”
“I should have let you bring more books.”
“I told you that.”
“You here for a reason?”
“Just thought I'd stand around and get in the way for a bit.”
“Perfect,” he muttered and got on with his job, working around me without further comment.
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