by Angus Wells
Fallyn smiled and spat on his burning hands. Var only shook his head and motioned that Jaymes continue.
“I wasn’t good for much,” Jaymes said. “I’m surely not a farmer—not got the patience—nor the head to be a trader; or the money you need to set up as either. But I’d learned to shoot, an’ how to walk careful—the War taught me that—so I became a hunter.”
“But,” Var said, “you don’t like war.”
“No.” Jaymes laughed. “What I said was I didn’t like the War. There’s a difference, eh?”
Var said, “I don’t understand.”
“Ain’t that why you wonder about the settlers?” Jaymes asked; and laughed as Var shook his head. “Listen! I came out here to a free land. Most of them others did, too—the farmers, an’ the millers, the vintners; everyone—to a free land. You understand? Not what there is back in Evander, but a place that was all ours. Not Evander’s or the Autarchy’s, only ours, where we could live free without priests or Inquisitors or the Militia watchin’ us all the time. Can’t you understand that?”
Var hesitated before replying. The tone of this conversation veered perilously close to sedition, and he wondered if he—an officer in the God’s Militia—should take part, or bid Jaymes hold his tongue. Should Talle overhear … He glanced around, half expecting the Inquisitor to appear out of the shadows. But they sat alone; Talle was ensconced in the wagon he had commandeered, engaged in whatever arcane practices occupied him. Even so, Var doubted the wisdom of allowing the guide such latitude, and, conversely, felt he must grant that freedom—must understand the thinking of Salvation’s inhabitants if he was to properly dispense his duty. So he said, “To a point. But Salvation has a governor appointed by the Autarchy, and a garrison to enforce Evander’s will.”
Jaymes chuckled softly. “Salvation has a governor who sits safe behind Grostheim’s walls an’ doesn’t bother himself too much about the rest o’ the country. An’ you know by now how successful Spelt’s troops are—why else are you here? No, the truth of it is that Evander keeps a hold on this land through the indentured folk.”
“What do you say?” Var frowned. “You speak of living free, and then of dependence on branded exiles. They’re hardly free.”
“Indeed,” Jaymes agreed, “but they’re not citizens. The folk who own them are, and they consider themselves free folk. Listen, most o’ those settlers never had servants back home. But here? Well, here they get their pick o’ the exiles, an’ their choice o’ land—more land an’ more servants than they could ever dream of back in Evander. They become … gentlemen.” He invested the word with contemptuous relish. “An’ that’s what ties Salvation to Evander, not loyalty to the Autarchy.”
“But …” Var began, and fell silent as Jaymes grinned and raised a hand.
“There’s never been an Inquisitor set foot here before. The law’s pretty lax, an’ folk mostly go about their own business without much thought of Governor Wyme or Evander or the Autarchy.”
“Until they need us,” Var said.
“That’s true.” Jaymes ducked his head. “But when you’ve defeated the painted people an’ built your forts—what then? Shall you an’ the Inquisitor stay? Or go back to Evander?”
Var shrugged. “I don’t know. That will depend on what orders I receive.”
“Which’ll come by ship, no? Across the Sea of Sorrows, an’ you know how long that voyage takes. There’s naught but a handful o’ ships come an’ go each year—we’re isolated here. We’re an’ awful long way from Evander, on the far side o’ the world.”
Var began to see the direction of his thinking. Jaymes chuckled again and went on: “An’ year by year the farms prosper; an’ the indentured folk bear children. Think on it, Major: things go on as usual, an’ the time must come when Salvation won’t need Evander. There’s already food enough for all, an’ about enough branded folk to serve the farmers. In time, Salvation’ll be ready to stand on her own feet.”
“God!” Var gasped. “Are you talking about some declaration of independence?”
Jaymes spat a stream of liquid tobacco into the fire. It erupted sparks, stinking. “I’m just pointin’ out the obvious,” he said mildly. “You asked me about the settlers’ attitude, an’ I’m tellin’ you. Don’t you see it?”
“I think,” Var said slowly, nodding, “that I do. The settlers need us to defeat the hostiles; but they also fear that we shall bind them to Evander; that we shall be—what? Evander’s police?”
“Somethin’ like that,” Jaymes agreed. “They’re afraid o’ that, but they still need you. So they don’t rightly know how they feel about you. Neither them or Governor Wyme, I reckon.”
Var took a deep breath; released it noisily. For a while he stared into the flames, then raised his head to study Jaymes.
“You know that I should report all this. That I should advise the Inquisitor of everything you’ve said.”
“Yes.” Jaymes met Var’s eyes unafraid. “But I’ll take a wager you won’t.”
“You have,” Var said, “and likely the stake’s your life.”
“That’s not worth so much.” Jaymes cut a plug of tobacco and set it between his teeth, chewing loud. “An’ I know where my money’s placed.”
“You’ve great faith in me,” Var said.
Jaymes shrugged. “I trust you.”
There was a long silence. The fire crackled, sparks rising as if in forlorn hope of joining the stars in the wide sky above. All around were the noises of a night camp: the voices of the settlers and their children, the conversations of soldiers, the calling of the pickets, the snorting of the horses. Where Var sat with Jaymes and Fallyn there was only a pervading, thoughtful quiet.
Then Var said, not sure why he did, “I’ll not betray you.”
“Nor I,” added Fallyn.
Jaymes spat more tobacco. “Didn’t think you would,” he said calmly. “Else I’d not have told you.”
Var saw the settlers in a different light after that. He tried to put himself in their position, to think as they did—which was not so difficult, their situations being not so very different. Was he honest with himself, he could imagine his duty lasting the rest of his life, that Evander would order him to remain even after the hostiles were exterminated. Likely as military commander of all Salvation—which was such promotion as he would not have dreamed of a year or two ago—but …
It was as Abram Jaymes had said: Salvation lay a world apart from Evander, and when he thought on that, it did, indeed, seem an isolate land, vast for the exploring. Wyme’s maps had shown him that, for all its size, Salvation was but a little piece of an unknown immensity. What Evander knew of it ended at those sky-topping mountains that sprawled across the western horizon, at the Glory River to the north and the Hope River to the south. It was, out here where the grass ran seemingly limitless and the sky spread vast above, a jigsaw segment in a country huge beyond imagining. And, save for the hostiles, open for the settling. He began to see the forts he was commanded to build as the clenching fingers of Evander’s fist—which not long ago he would have applauded as defenders of the land—but now, with Jaymes’s words sinking in like seductive claws, he wondered if they were not to become barriers, containing the inhabitants of Salvation that the Autarchy not lose them.
And why? he began to wonder. After all, Salvation was on the far side of the world. It exported nothing to Evander, and apart from such luxuries as the privileged imported (he thought of Wyme’s furniture) and those metallic manufactures Salvation could not yet produce of itself, there was nothing Salvation could not make. And in time, surely, ore would be found, and metalworks begun, and then … Why then, Salvation might make her own guns, manufacture her own powder, and not need Evander.
Tomas Var wondered, as he delivered the reluctant settlers back to their farms and mills and vineyards, if he became a secessionist.
He told himself, No! That he was an officer of the God’s Militia, his duty clear: to render Salvation sa
fe for its Evanderan settlers. To secure the land for the Autarchy, whose servant he was. But he could not forget what Abram Jaymes had said that honest night, and when he saw Talle work his hexings on those reluctant to remain, he must bite his lip to not cry out in protest.
At least, when they came on farms burned down, he was able to persuade the Inquisitor it was in the best interests of Evander that they delay awhile, that the engineers and his own troops help rebuild the wreckage. And every holding, standing or new-built, was hexed by Talle, protection against attack. Sometimes the settlers even thanked him.
So Tomas Var saw his first duty done and set to the next. He swung his column around to find the treeline, the wilderness edge, where the Restitution River came out of the forest, and set building the first fort. It was by now midsummer and no hostiles had been sighted. Var wondered how long they would remain invisible.
11
The Owh’jika’s Warning
“Bluecoats, eh?” Chakthi’s kick took Owan Thirsk from his sad musings. “Tell me about them.”
“Marines.” Thirsk stirred warily on his tether. “Bluecoats are marines, Master.”
“What are … marines?” The Tachyn akaman clearly found the word hard to pronounce.
“Elite warriors,” Owan Thirsk said. “The chosen fighters of the Autarchy, the spearhead of the army.”
Chakthi could understand that. Thirsk was grateful: he’d not relish another kick, his ribs were sore enough.
“And they wear blue?”
Thirsk said, “Yes.”
“And the ones who wear green?”
“I think …” Thirsk paused, racking his mind, frightened. “Engineers, I think.”
“What are engineers?” Chakthi pronounced the word en-jin-ears. “What do they do?”
“Build,” Thirsk said quickly, anticipating punishment.
“Build what?” Chakthi flicked a rawhide strap across his face, as he often did when he could not comprehend.
Thirsk flinched. It was not a hard blow and he was thankful for that: his master was often unkinder. “Forts,” he said. “Like Grostheim—the city you attacked.”
The memory prompted another lashing and Thirsk cringed.
Chakthi asked, “Why?”
“I think,” Thirsk said, “that they bring a terrible power against you. I think the akaman in the city has sent word across the sea, to bring soldiers against you. To take this land from you.”
Chakthi nodded and asked, “Forts, are they all like the big wooden city?”
“No.” Thirsk shook his head. “They are like little cities: small, but filled with soldiers.”
“With muskets?”
Thirsk nodded eagerly. “And cannons.”
“Tell me again,” Chakthi said, “about cannons.”
Thirsk spoke, the words tumbling out, anxious to please that there be no more pain, telling Chakthi all he knew of cannon and forts and the soldiers of the God’s Militia. When he was done, Chakthi nodded and appeared too lost in thought to strike him again. Had Thirsk retained any belief in God, he would have given thanks for that, but his faith was lost with his tattered sanity and his only belief now was in survival. He was become something less than human, and so he smiled and gibbered his gratitude as Chakthi tossed him a gnawed bone and walked away.
The Tachyn akaman found Hadduth seated outside the wakanisha’s lodge, grinding pahé root.
“The owh’jika says they are building things called forts,” he announced, “that they will fill with their warriors. It says a thing called an army has been sent to drive us out.”
Hadduth ceased his pounding, set the pot and the pestle aside, and wiped his hands on his breeches. “What will you do?”
Chakthi squatted, staring past the wakanisha to the dense timber surrounding the camp. It was strange to live so enclosed, not out on the open grass, but Hadduth’s dreams had confirmed his own desire to stay close to the mountains, and in light of all he’d learned it seemed now a wise decision. He listened to the wind singing through the firs and watched the flickering of sunlight, aware that Hadduth waited on him to speak, not caring. Let the Dreamer wait: he had failed in his appointed task, and it amused Chakthi to see him squirm.
Finally the akaman said, “I am not sure yet. The scouts spoke of a great many warriors—both the bluecoats and the red—and they have the cannon.”
Hadduth nodded sagely. “The cannon are very dangerous.”
There was no need to elaborate. Both men knew the carnage the guns along the walls of the big fort had wreaked, and the Tachyn were not so many now.
“But if they build their forts and put the cannon in them …” Chakthi scowled, letting the sentence trail away.
Hadduth nodded again, thinking that it should be hard to conquer one, and if the strangers built a series.… He pushed the thought aside and held his tongue, waiting on Chakthi.
Who asked him bluntly, “What do you think? Have you dreamed of this?”
Hadduth swallowed. As he had told his akaman, his dreams had been few and difficult of interpretation since coming to this new land. Had he not turned his face away from the Maker he would have prayed to the deity—but that was not possible now, and could only invite punishment. Nor could he pray to the Breakers, who were, he supposed, left behind in Ket-Ta-Witko, frustrated by Morrhyn’s cursed magic. But Chakthi demanded an answer, and Hadduth knew it had best be one favorable to his akaman’s wishes. So he shrugged and composed a reply he hoped would please Chakthi.
“I have dreamed of a great river that comes from where the sun rises, only it is a river made not of water but of men. The men are all strangers, in the warriors’ coats, and the river washes all before it and spreads across the land. But …” He raised a nervous hand as Chakthi snarled. “The river comes against the forest and is stopped, and can go no farther.”
“What does it mean?” Chakthi demanded.
“That we are safe here,” Hadduth gestured at the enclosing timber, “and that the grass is dangerous.”
“So we do nothing?” Chakthi’s face darkened.
Hadduth shook a hurried head. “No—only be careful.” He thought quickly: it was not so hard to give Chakthi what he wanted. “We must strike against them when they least expect it. I think when they are building their forts, before they are finished.”
Chakthi ducked his head, the scowl becoming a smile. “Your dreams prove my wishes right.”
Hadduth returned an unctuous smile. “My akaman is a great leader.”
Var located the site of the first fort and saw his force bivouacked behind perimeter defenses. Trenches were hurriedly dug, the displaced soil thrown up in makeshift walls with the cannon set to command the approaches, the tents and livestock at the center of the square. Talle was impatient, but Var succeeded in impressing on the Inquisitor the need to establish a basic command post before work on the fort proper might safely commence.
“The wilderness is close,” he gestured at the blue-looming forest edge, “and is Abram Jaymes right, then the hostiles might well be watching us even now.”
“Then might we not attack them?” Talle stared malevolently at the woodland, as if he’d pierce the shadows with his gaze. “Might we not mount a preemptive expedition?”
“Better that we set up our defenses first.” Var spoke carefully, marveling the while at Talle’s apparent lack of understanding. “Are we to safely build all the planned forts, we shall need this one as a stronghold. And are we attacked whilst we build …” He paused, thinking that surely the Inquisitor must understand the importance of a basic command post.
But Talle only shook his lank-haired head and frowned a question. So Var continued: “We do not know the forest, Inquisitor; but the hostiles do—it’s their home—and were we to venture into those depths too soon, why, they might well deplete our force drastically enough we could not complete our task.”
Talle grunted, scratching at a nostril. “I must trust your judgment in military matters,” he said at
last. “But how long shall we delay here? I’d take the fight to the enemy.”
Var turned, indicating the men laboring in the trenches, those throwing up the earthworks. “It shall be some weeks, Inquisitor. We’ll need to enter the forest to fell timber, and that to be hewn to shape and raised for the walls. But we’ll see it done.”
“We’ll do our duty,” Talle returned. “And as quick as possible, eh?”
Var said, “Of course,” and watched the frock-coated little man stalk away with a sense of palpable relief.
“He getting impatient?”
Abram Jaymes came up to stand alongside Var, who grinned ruefully as he nodded. “He’d go out against them now.”
“They’ll come soon enough, I reckon,” Jaymes chuckled. “Maybe he’ll change his mind then.”
Var said, “I don’t think Inquisitor Talle admits to changing his mind.”
The owh’jika had said the blue-coated warriors were the finest, but Chakthi thought them blind as the others. Had he the men to match the numbers massed about the site of the fort, he would have risked a full-scale attack; but his clan was small now, and Hadduth had counseled against a frontal onslaught. Chakthi’s confidence in his Dreamer waned, but in this he must agree with the wakanisha. Indeed, he must agree that Hadduth’s suggestion seemed the most likely route to success. So he only watched the strangers, his warriors hidden in the long grass and the undergrowth, until he saw clearly what they did, and how.
Soon he saw that the fort would be like the big wooden camp at the mouth of the river—all built of timber. He saw that the green-coated ones planned it, whilst the redcoats labored alongside and the bluecoats played watchmen. As the owh’jika had promised, it would be smaller, but if it were finished, Chakthi could see that it would dominate the river and a wide area around. It came to him that if the strangers built such places all along the edgewoods, raiding out of the forest must prove very difficult. But to build the thing the strangers must have timber—and for that they must enter the forest.