by Allan Cole
My costume was an appropriate mix: military cloak and boots, civilian shirt and breeches, topped off by a battered bowman’s cap with a wide brim. I cast spells to make my sword and other weapons seem more like those of an ordinary sergeant. Besides sword and bow I had various knives and daggers stashed about me. And a good many other nasty surprises in my saddlebags and pack.
Keeping the riverbank on my left I rode for an hour or more with the road to myself.
I savored that short time. It was one of those rare moments in life when, amidst the greatest adversity, all your cares are suddenly swept away and you find peace.
I was riding under a warm Orissan sun with the smells of the familiar river wafting on the breeze. A few fishermen plied their nets in the middle and birds were circling, calling out to their brothers and sisters to come see this marvelous feast. On my right was field and forest and farmland. Small animals would dart from the brush, be startled by my presence and freeze for a moment, then dash back. Cattle moved close to the fences, lowing as I passed. The scent of olives and grapes and oranges mingled with the river wind to make that most unique of perfumes - the scent of home.
I basked in it all like a simple animal taking pleasure when and where she can get it.
Then I saw a farm cart coming toward me and the real world came crashing back.
But just before I reached the wagon I whispered to myself: “Welcome home, Rali.”
The heavily-laden cart was drawn by a resentful mule. A graybearded farmer walked beside it, tapping the mule behind the ear with a stick whenever the notion took him. The mule curled his lips each time he was tapped as if to bite. Which would make the old man mad and earn the mule another rap behind the ears. As I came close I could see both were near the end of their tempers.
“Good mornin’, Granddad,” I said.
The old man and the mule jolted up. They’d been so deep in their feud they hadn’t noticed me. Both gave me a wary look.
“Mornin’,” the farmer replied, abrupt.
“Is there a village near here, Granddad?” I asked. “A place where an old sergeant can rest her feet and work her parched throat, if you know what I mean?”
By now the farmer’d seen my battle scars and noted my military bearing. He grinned, suddenly friendly.
“There’s a right enough place about an hour on, sergeant,” he said. “But watch the innkeep’s pour. He’s tight-fisted with strangers.”
“He better not skin me short of a decent drunk,” I growled. “I’ve had enough of liars and cheats. May Te Date strike down all the fat-arsed bastards who rob poor soldiers of their due.”
“I know whatcha mean, sergeant,” the farmer said. “I was a soldier once. Just a lad then. And nothing so grand as bein’ a Guardswoman like yourself. But I did my part. Yes, indeedy I did. And all I got was grief when I mustered out.”
“Damned paymasters,” I snarled. “Cheatin’ me out of my proper pension, they are.” I indicated my stump. “Supposed to get extra for that,” I said. I touched my eyepatch. “And more for me ruined glim. Half blind I am, sir!
“Not that the pittance you get for missing parts can ever repay the loss, mind you. But it’s somthin’. If you can get it it’s somthin’, anyways.”
I snorted. “I’m off to Orissa to set one of them paymasters straight. And I got just enough in my purse to get me there and back. With maybe a drink or two to calm my nerves. So that innkeep better pour me a straight one. Because I’ll be thinkin’ about paymasters and missin’ pensions when I look at that drink. And I swear I won’t be responsible if he cheats me!”
“Can’t blame you, sergeant,” the farmer said. “Wish I could go along and see he gets it right.” He chuckled. “And maybe see what happens if he don’t.”
He had a jug hooked to his belt and he lifted it off, uncorked it, and handed it to me. “Here’s a trickle to wet your throat until you get there, sergeant,” he said.
I grinned thanks and took a long gurgling drink. Fire hit bottom and blasted back to the top of my skull.
“Whooee!” I said, my grin wider still. “My throat’s not wet, it’s on fire!”
The farmer laughed and I took another chug.
“That’s cider fit for the king of demons, himself,” I said. “Haven’t been bitten by its likes for many a long day.”
“Everyone says I jug a good cider,” he said.
“If they didn’t,” I said, “they’d be liars and they’d have to answer to me, sir. And I don’t take disagreement lightly.”
The farmer eyed me. He hesitated, then pushed past that hesitation.
“You be careful in Orissa, sergeant,” he said. “Things ain’t right, you know?”
“You mean because of that new batch of bastards they got runnin’ the place?” I said.
Although there was no one around for miles, the farmer reflexively looked over his shoulder.
Then he said, “Somethin’ like that, sergeant. Listen, you best not talk that way in Orissa. Callin’ the Powers That Be bastards and all.”
I snorted, but ducked my head as if chastened. “I’ll watch my big mouth, Granddad,” I said. “Although I don’t know what the world’s comin’ to when an honest soldier can’t complain. That’s our right, dammit!
“Not with this crew it ain’t,” the farmer said. He sighed. “I keep out of their way. Hide the crops and animals when the tax boys come. Pay ‘em for what they catch me with. And grin as big as I can when I do. ‘Cause these folks are serious about their money.
“Heard they took some farmers out and hung ‘em in the town squares so everybody’d get the point. Well, I got it right enough. Stay low. Pay what you have to and keep a buttoned lip.”
“I won’t run from a fight,” I said. “That paymaster’s gonna hear from me. Rope or no rope.”
“Just don’t call his bosses bastards when you do,” the farmer pleaded. “And when you come back this way I’d be pleased to buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it.”
I touched my hand to my hat brim in salute.
“Thank you for the warnin’, Granddad,” I said. “And thank you for the drink in my belly and the other you promised.”
I started to hand the jug back. He waved it away. “Keep it,” he said. “In case I miss your return. If I do I won’t have that promise on my conscience.”
I thanked him again and bid him adieu.
I was in a hurry so I passed by the inn he’d mentioned and was glad for the company of the jug. I definitely needed it when I came upon the first patrol.
Thankfully, I saw them in time and was able to get ready. The patrol cantered around a bend so sharp that the road seemed to disappear into the river. My first warning was the fluttering blue and gold banner of the Lyre Bird. Then I heard the clatter of armor and thunder of horses and the whole patrol came into view. I saw the man carrying the banner point in my direction and turn to shout over his shoulder.
The patrol quickened its pace and headed my way.
There were ten in all. Eight on horseback. Two on an open supply wagon crammed with the makings of a barricade. They were off to some crossroads, no doubt, to set up a guardpost.
Behind the standard bearer were the patrol leaders - a grizzled sergeant and a downy-cheeked Evocator.
I drew up as they approached, uncorked the jug and took a hefty swig. I weaved slightly in my saddle.
The sergeant barked a halt, then cantered forward with the Evocator to inspect me.
I fumbled a salute, weaving dangerously wide.
“Evenin’ sergeant,” I said. “I’m a sergeant myself, you know. So it’s pleased I am to make your acquaint... uh... acquaint... to meetcha.”
I burped, took another pull on the jug, which put me off balance and I had to wave my arms to get straight in the saddle again.
Then I pretended to notice the Evocator for the first time. I let my eyes widen and hiccupped in embarrassment. “‘Scuse me, Your Holiness,” I said. “Didn’t see ya right off.”<
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I touched my ruined eye. “What with me missin’ glim and all.”
The young Evocator had a milky complexion and mean, beady little eyes. He sneered as only the young and spoiled can sneer.
“Look at the jug she’s got clutched to her breast,” he said to the sergeant. “It’s plain she’s half blind... blind drunk, that is.” He laughed. It was a high braying sound - Hee Hee Hee.
The sergeant cringed as if he’d been forced to listen to that grating laughter until he could bear it no more.
“Her kind are a waste of the pensions we spend on them,” the Evocator said.
He deigned to look at me. I burped, tried to sit up straight and knocked my forehead trying to make a salute.
The Evocator made that whiny laugh again - Hee Hee Hee.
The sergeant shuddered, then quickly painted a weak smile on his lips and nodded agreement.
“That’s the way of her breed, Evocator Jhanns,” he said, “as you’ve been pointin’ out to us for nearly a month.” The young wizard frowned and the sergeant moved quickly on. “For our enlightenment, of course, Evocator Jhanns. And the lads are all touched you think so much of us. Repeatin’ that bit of enlightenment ever chance you get. So’s we don’t forget.”
The sergeant kicked his horse closer, barking, “What’s your business, sarn’t?” But the bark was show. I could read sympathy in his weary old noncom’s eyes.
“What he said,” I replied. Nodding at the Evocator and hiccupping.
The sergeant looked puzzled. “Gettin’ drunk, you mean?”
I shook my head hard, nearly losing my balance in the process. My horse blew a long shuddering blast and shifted to help me recover. The old mare was grumpy at my sudden change in behavior.
“No, the other thing,” I said. “‘Bout pensions and all. And a soldier gettin’ her fair share.”
Evocator Jhanns laughed, Hee Hee Hee. “Try to make sense out of that, sergeant,” he chortled.
I sat up straighter, drunken dignity offended. “It’sss ssssimple ‘nough,” I said. “I’m bein’ cheated. Outta me rightful pension. Gonna see the paymaster in Orissa get it shhh... shhh... shhh-straightened out!”
Jhanns snickered. “Drunken fool,” he said.
He turned serious. “It makes you see what a terrible burden our leaders carry. Director Kato and the Goddess Novari are the most generous of rulers. And people like this drunken soldier are the first to take advantage of such generosity.”
“You’ve said that before as well, Evocator Jhanns,” the sergeant said. “And those words are as wise now, sir, as they was the first time you said ‘em.”
Jhanns’ boyish face beamed pleasure at this. But I saw some of the troopers roll their eyes and hide grins, enjoying their sergeant’s hidden insult
“What about her, Evocator Jhanns?” the sergeant said. “Shall I let her pass? She may be drunk, but there’s no harm in her.”
The Evocator shrugged and started to turn his horse away. “I suppose you’re right, sergeant,” he said. “Until we get some stricter vagrancy laws I fear we’re stuck putting up with such riffraff on the Goddess Novari’s highways.”
I hid my relief. It was short-lived, for the Evocator hesitated and turned back. I felt a warning prickle of magic and knew he was considering sniffing about my person and belongings for sorcerous contraband.
“Perhaps I should, uh...” he was muttering... “... investigate first...”
I quickly made the contents of my saddlebags and pack seem like the vomit-soiled clothing of a committed drunk.
I felt him probe, hit the spell of disgust and quickly withdraw.
Evocator Jhanns face had the look of man who’d stuck his hand in a privy.
He glared at me. I met the glare with a wide grin of “who me?” innocence. Then I belched and he turned away, snapping, “Let her pass, sergeant!”
The sergeant pulled a dirty sheaf of passes from the bulging pocket inside his tunic. He peeled one off and handed it to me.
“This’ll get you where you’re goin’, sarn’t,” he said, low. “And good luck to ya!”
He motioned down the road to Orissa. “Better get a move on, sister,” he said. “Afore his freakin’ holiness changes his mind.”
I belched my thanks. Took a good hard pull on the jug and kicked the mare forward.
And off I went, weaving and drinking and roaring my old first mate’s favorite song.
“They sailed upon a boozy sea, my lads
At the Tavern By The Glade.
They danced and sang ‘til the kettles rang
Then diddled all the maids.
And diddled all the maids...”
Over the next few days I traded that pass for several others as I made my way to the city. The once free highways of my homeland were now guarded at every major crossroads. At each point you had to prove your purpose and present the pass that made it legal for you to travel into the area. That was stamped and you were handed another to be examined at the next checkpoint. So the sergeant’s gesture of sympathy proved of much more value than I originally thought.
Most of the checkpoint warders gave me only a perfunctory glance, impatient as I told them my drunken woes, bitterly cursing that bastard of a paymaster in Orissa. Some were not so easy. But with a bit of magic to aid my angry pensioner’s act I always finally passed muster and was waved on.
The closer I came to Orissa the more disheartening the surroundings.
In its whole history Orissa had never known the heel of an oppressor. Our enemies had come close to overwhelming us before but we’d always managed to turn the tide.
This time we’d not only lost but the defeat had come from within.
The scars of the civil war that’d been fought were everywhere. Ruined villages. Fields and forests destroyed in battle.
And the flag of the Lyre Bird flying from every official staff.
The most depressing thing of all was what the civil war had done to my people. Orissans are normally a warm and open people, noted for generosity to strangers. But now everyone scurried about, shoulders hunched in fear and suspicion in their every look. All conversation was guarded.
From the greedy eyes and twitching ears of the all the spies I saw at the markets and inns a set of locked lips was a prudent policy. I saw the corpses of men and women hanging from gibbets in public squares to prove it. Most appalling of all were the gangs of chained laborers working under the lash of Novari’s soldiers.
Slavery had been returned to Orissa with all the ugliness that implies. Under Novari and Kato loss of freedom was the most minor of all penalties for disobedience and from the number of slaves I saw those laws could be broken with tragic ease.
It seemed that not only had my family been wiped out but the contribution the Anteros prized above all others - the end of slavery as an institution in Orissa - had been expunged as well.
I heard no news of the fighting at Galana. It was a subject not even a village fool would raise. Especially to a stranger. So I had no idea whether the rumors I’d heard from Mother Hana were true. Had Quatervals’ soldiers and the remnants of the Maranon Guard really crumbled before Kato and Novari’s forces? Had Emilie been seized and killed? Or was she still alive? And was the fight still raging?
Palmeras, I recalled from Amalric’s journal, was not only a powerful Evocator but canny as they come. For all I knew he’d erected a sorcerous shield that’d kept Novari at bay.
It was impossible to learn the answers to those questions in the countryside.
They’d have to wait until I reached Orissa.
All the entrances were heavily guarded as I entered the city on market day, hidden by the crowds of farmers and villagers who flood into Orissa three times a week. I’d cached my horse and most of my belongings outside town so I was afoot and therefor even less noticeable.
It was a warm and sunny, but the sky was a dirty gray from the fetid mist rising off the river. It stank of garbage and overburdened sewers, a condi
tion no decent Orissan would tolerate in normal times. To soil the river would be the greatest of sacrileges. The streets were also filled with litter and pools of filth.
Yet another sign that the new government wasn’t doing well. Ragpickers and junkdealers and pigmen are licensed by the city to keep it clean. Filthy streets meant that even this simple, efficient arrangement had broken down.
The crowd was oddly subdued and spilled through the gates with heads down and conversation at a minimum. I quickly saw why when we passed between two enormous statues set on either side of the main market road.