“Oh no, thank you, Captain.”
“And your kind also does…inoculations?”
“Oh yes. To make you more resistant to our charms. Would you like me to give you one?”
“What does it entail?” Sarovy said, struggling against the magnetic need to look at her.
“Just a little bite,” she crooned.
“…Perhaps later.”
Closing his eyes, Sarovy urged his mind back on track. He did not feel physically influenced despite the strange magnetism, but Scryer Mako’s mental shield was still firm around him, perhaps blocking the brunt of Ilia’s power.
Though he understood the use of lagalaina and senvraka, he did not like it. Mind control tactics were dishonorable, distasteful—even if eminently practical—and this seemed little fairer than having a pack of mentalists at his command. Of course, it was hypocrisy to think such a thing with Mako in his head, but he did not enjoy that either.
But it made sense for the General to employ such tactics. The Crimson territory was large and fractious, the army spread thin, and if one agent could keep an entire city-state from boiling over by seducing its leader, then that was a worthwhile tactic. Since the General had placed the lagalaina and senvraka in his hands, Sarovy would swallow his dissent and put them to use.
“Corporal Coyle,” he said finally.
“Sir!” said the scout from the back. “My kind are technically called aenkelagi but we just go with bodythieves. We’re basically human, except we can, ah, move our personality to a different body. Take it over, become that person. All of us here are infiltrator-class, but there are assassin-class ones—they’re tougher, made to fight. Got some fancy tricks we don’t have.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Well, if we get killed, we’re not actually dead. We’re in the bracers. Take the bracers off and bring them to Colonel Wreth and he’ll get us new bodies.”
Wreth, thought Sarovy. So he is one of them. “And what else is out there?”
The lagalaina raised her hand. “Sir.”
“Specialist Ilia.”
“There are thiolgriin in the kennels. Dogmonsters, some of which Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek should command."
"Not around your humans," the Houndmaster interjected. "Not yet."
Sarovy frowned, but at Ilia's expectant look, he nodded for her to continue.
"Let's see. Also rovagi, ‘reapers’, but we don’t have any in the army because they’re difficult to disguise. The wings and all. And the sarisigi en-dalur, the—“
She kept speaking, but Sarovy did not hear. The ground swayed beneath his feet. His chest felt tight, and his eyes filled with visions—soundless flashes of white and gold, swords and faces, monsters and men, like a burst of confetti on the wind. Fragments of a memory. His head ached like it did when he tried to think of what the mentalists had redacted.
Scryer Mako’s mind-shield flinched and started to retract.
“Sir,” said Linciard, very close. He felt a hand on his arm, and his eyes snapped open. The platoon was staring at him. Even Vrallek was looking over his shoulder, ugly face creased with an unsettling mix of fear and hunger.
He shrugged Linciard’s hand off brusquely. The lieutenant backed away.
Everything was fine.
“Please repeat that, Specialist Ilia,” he said as the mind-shield reformed around him hesitantly. His head still ached and his whole body felt squeezed, but he could not show weakness here. They had already seen too much.
“Ah… The dogmonsters—“
“No. After the ‘reapers’.”
Though she stood at a distance from him, he saw her trepidation, echoed by more than a few of the specialists around her. Reflexively he scanned the crowd and saw Specialist Weshker white-faced, two of his fellow scouts propping him up as if he had almost fainted. A cold thought curdled in the back of his mind.
“Strike that,” he said. “Move on.”
“There— Oh. There are the ahergriin too, but you won’t see them here, sir,” Specialist Ilia said quickly. “They’re too large. And that’s all I know of, sir. The Maker always has projects but we haven’t had a new breed in a while.”
“The Maker?”
Specialist Ilia opened her mouth, but one of the other lagalaina elbowed her sharply, and she winced. “My apologies, sir. Above your clearance.”
Sarovy nodded slowly. The fact that they had a maker was enough for now. Looking over them, he had to wonder how many more were in the Armies—the Crimson, the Gold, the Sapphire, even the White Flame which guarded the Imperial Palace.
But it did not matter. His job was to lead Blaze Company, not to contemplate the disposition of the Empire’s soul.
His agenda for this meeting had fled his mind with the visions. Aware of their eyes on him, he struggled to remember it, and absently touched the winged star pendant under his uniform coat. All at once, the headache and the strange bodily sensations vanished, as neatly as Vrallek’s illusion had been snuffed in their stare-down. He blinked, but there was no time to contemplate it.
Second order of business: dominance.
“I have been told that normally you report through a hierarchy of your own kind,” he said briskly. “Now you report to Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek, who reports to me. I report directly to General Aradysson. Is there anyone here who considers that a problem?”
The crowd was silent.
“I intend to uphold all the laws of the standard army, up to and including punishment. I also have my own standards of behavior that I demand from all of you, the same as any soldier in my company. Is there anyone here who considers that a problem?”
One of the many ruengriin raised his hand. “So we’d get a whipping if we stole something, right sir? And in the jail if we hurt someone in a fight? And get sent to the Palace if we killed someone?”
The tone of the soldier’s voice was innocent, but the men in the front ranks were smothering smirks, and that sight put Sarovy’s hackles up. They had already told him they felt no pain, and apparently they knew something about the Palace punishments that he did not. “Because of your interesting circumstances, I will confer with the Houndmaster-Lieutenant and possibly the General should any of you do something foolish,” he said curtly. “I trust them to guide me to an appropriate punishment. Do not think that you will be slapped on the wrist. You may be stronger and more durable than human soldiers, but we will adjust for that. Do all of you understand?”
A lackluster wave of ‘yessirs’ rose from the crowd. Sarovy saw Vrallek bristle, then the Houndmaster-Lieutenant boomed, “Answer the captain, maggots!”
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Thank you, Houndmaster-Lieutenant. Any questions?”
Only Specialist Ilia raised her hand. “Would you like that inoculation now, sweet sir?”
“Just ‘sir’. Houndmaster-Lieutenant?”
“It’s safe enough,” Vrallek rumbled. “Wouldn’t be any use if it hurt you.”
Sarovy nodded, though he did not relish this. “Very well, Specialist Ilia, if you would.”
The lagalaina glided through the crowd, smiling, her figure all the more accentuated by the unsuitable uniform, and Sarovy found his gaze drawn inexorably to her chest. She had undone several buttons, and he could not blame her. They must have been tight.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Linciard. “Sir, I volunteer to go first. I insist.”
Sarovy wrenched his attention from the lagalaina to look to Linciard. Determination, fear and revulsion showed unequally on the lieutenant’s face. Though it went against Sarovy's personal grain to let one of his men take an assault meant for him, he knew it was practical at this moment—and might be informative.
“Very well, lieutenant,” he said.
The lagalaina pouted, but sidled up to Linciard, who had stepped protectively forward. From this close, Sarovy caught the scent of honey and wildflowers from the woman, and saw the soft radiance of her marbled skin, the gleam of her segment
ed eyes. It was incredibly difficult to look away, even with Scryer Mako’s shield of indifference in his head.
Specialist Ilia reached toward Linciard’s face, then halted with a curl of her lip, showing her little fangs. “This one’s for you, Rallant,” she called over her shoulder.
Sarovy quirked a brow.
“That’s Shield-Sergeant Rallant to you, whore!” the senvraka called back.
“Oh, whatever,” murmured the lagalaina, then she slid past Linciard and gave Sarovy a dazzling smile. Sarovy only half-noticed it; he was watching the back of Linciard’s neck, which had gone bright red. Though the lieutenant was physically protected, Magus Voorkei was not a mentalist; the wards he had layered over Linciard before the meeting would not guard his mind.
Then Specialist Ilia touched Sarovy’s face, and his eyes lanced to hers and refused to stray. Her fingertips felt like fire on his cheek.
“Inoculation means taking a little bit of the venom in order to develop a resistance to its effects. All it requires is a little bite,” she said, and leaned forward, drawing his face down. He did not resist. Her soft mouth met his, and a dizzy heat rushed through him, making his mind swim. His clothes, his very skin felt too tight, and his fingers twitched with the need to get it all off. To get hers off, too; to free that supple body from those ill-fitting garments and run his palms along her sweet, yielding softness while she twisted beneath him. It had been a long, long time.
Someone in the crowd wolf-whistled. He did not care.
Then her fangs punctured his lower lip in a small, swift pain, followed by an aching cold that washed away the heat. She released him and he stumbled back, the places where she had touched now numb. His head cleared, and abruptly the sexual magnetism that had hung between them was gone, banished not by the mental shield but by the venom. She had not changed—she was still a gorgeous, inhuman woman overflowing her uniform—but he could look away.
Not all of him had gotten the message yet, and as he straightened, he glimpsed the smirks of the specialists. He would have liked to send them all for a whipping.
“Thank you, Specialist Ilia,” he said hoarsely. “You may retake your position.”
With a flirty smile, the lagalaina turned away. Sarovy caught Magus Voorkei leering after her, the first sign of interest he had shown in the whole proceeding, while beside him Scryer Mako just wrinkled her snub nose in disgust.
To the other side, Shield-Sergeant Rallant and Lieutenant Linciard were occupied. Sarovy took a deep breath, then cleared his throat, then cleared it again more loudly—and then again, starting to get concerned.
Rallant finally let go, and Linciard wobbled on his feet, face crimson. When his clearing eyes met Sarovy’s, his expression twisted with mortification, and he looked away. Sarovy gave Rallant a cold look, and the senvraka, smiling, said, “Sir, my apologies, but I do like to be thorough.”
“Retake your position, Shield-Sergeant.”
“Yes sir.”
The senvraka sauntered off with the same gratingly casual attitude as Specialist Ilia, and Sarovy took a moment to glare a hole in Vrallek’s back for not warning him. The Houndmaster stood stiffly as ever, apparently not partaking in the amusement the troops showed.
We will discuss this later, Vrallek.
“If there are no other questions?” he said, staring out at the platoon. Under his stony gaze, smiles vanished and spines straightened. No one spoke.
“Good. Do not reveal yourselves until I instruct you to do so. Seducers, stay in your own bunks. We will discuss further inoculations at a later date. For all of you, remember that you will be punished if you disobey the laws, the same as any soldier under my command. You are dismissed.”
As a unit, the crowd raised their fists in salute. Sarovy returned it and watched the platoon break into unruly cliques: all the scouts together in a black mass, the three lagalaina drifting over to hiss at the senvraka, the ruengriin pulling their pendants on and moving out in clumps. He added a note about this lack of discipline to his list of discussions for Vrallek.
For now, he returned Vrallek’s salute as well and watched the Houndmaster-Lieutenant go, then looked to the mages. Scryer Mako’s shoulders sagged in relief, and she shook her head incredulously as her shields slipped from Sarovy’s mind. Pitching her voice low as the last specialists trickled from the warehouse, she said, “This isn’t wise. They’ll eat us alive.”
“They are soldiers,” Sarovy said. “They will answer to Vrallek, and as long as Vrallek is on my side, I believe they will answer to me.”
“Is funny,” said Magus Voorkei, watching the stragglers. “Never knew how corrufht the Enfhire truly vas.”
Sarovy gave Voorkei a sharp look, but since the Inquisitor Archmagus had assigned the ogrekin here with full company clearance, there was nothing he could do about the comment. Evidently the Archmagus was comfortable with a Gejaran liaison learning about the specialists.
“We don’t all have to get bitten, do we?” said Scryer Mako. “I don’t like it.”
“It seems tolerable,” said Sarovy. His physical discomfort had eased, and he could discern no lingering effects. In fact, he felt more alert than before, which made him wonder if the seducers were quietly influencing the whole camp. “If the lieutenant and I remain well for the next few days, I will recommend it for the rest of the company. Magi included. It would not do to have you influenced.”
Scryer Mako shuddered, but nodded. Beside her, Voorkei grinned tuskily.
With a sigh, Sarovy looked to Linciard. The lieutenant was still red-faced, his attention on the warehouse door, and when Sarovy cleared his throat the lieutenant’s attention leapt to him like an animal sighting a predator. Frowning, Sarovy said, “Lieutenant. Find Specialist Weshker and bring him to my office. We have things to discuss.”
“Yes sir.” The lieutenant drew up in a salute, and as soon as Sarovy returned the gesture, he headed for the door, his strides clipped and awkward.
“We should talk too, Captain,” said Scryer Mako. “You had some kind of neurological event. I really should—“
Sarovy waved her off. “I am not interested in mentalist probing. You are dismissed.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it and gave a mocking salute. “Sir, yes sir,” she said, then turned and stalked away, Voorkei at her heels.
He watched them go, then watched the mage-lights wink out one by one as they moved out of maintenance range. Soon all was dark in the warehouse, only a faint outline showing him the door.
He touched the winged pendant through his uniform jacket, but no visions revealed themselves. No memories. Finally, with the frustrating sense that he had missed something, he made his way to the door, out of the dark.
*****
Sarovy was in the middle of a sketch when the knock came. He glanced to his time-candle. Somewhat less than a mark had passed.
“Enter,” he said, and set his quill down.
The door opened and Lieutenant Linciard stepped in, looking quite a bit more composed. After him came Specialist Weshker. And after him…
Sarovy stood automatically as the Corvishwoman entered the room.
She was a tiny thing, scowling, in a slave-woman’s plain dress with her coppery hair bound in a loose tail. Her dark eyes swept Sarovy’s office then came to rest on him like the tips of two knives.
“Sir, I found them together in an alley,” said Linciard. “You said you wanted to speak with her, so—“
“Yes, lieutenant, very good,” said Sarovy. He gestured to the chair folded against the wall. “Sit, Miss…Sanava, was it?”
“Sanava en-Verosh,” the woman said curtly, and did not move. Linciard closed the door and took up a guard position beside it, arms crossed, while Weshker stared at the far wall like he wished he was on the other side of it.
“I am Captain Firkad Sarovy, commander of Blaze Company,” said Sarovy, undaunted. “I am aware that you have been observing Specialist Weshker, and that you were close to attem
pting to assassinate the Crimson General. I would like to understand why.”
He heard Linciard’s surprised inhale, but did not look away from the woman. Nor did she turn from him. Unblinking, she stared him down across his desk, upper lip flickering over her sharp little teeth.
“Why yeh care?” she said at last, her accent far thicker than Weshker’s.
“I do not think that you were interested in assassination, merely vengeance. You backed off when you saw that Weshker had been freed. I would know what you want with him.”
Sanava shot a hard look at Weshker and hissed, “E’sengategi.” Weshker stiffened. “Drak khresihn ran tel tioren kithe auseruen. Kav unkeinin. Kav—“
“Esholvekha!” Weshker snapped, baring his teeth at her.
She spat at him in response.
“Stop,” Sarovy barked as Weshker turned, his face clenched and his hand raised to smack her. He stared at the Corvishman until Weshker let his arm fall and looked away again.
“She said I joined the enemy,” Weshker muttered. “She was insultin’ me.”
“Yeh did,” the woman said harshly. “Isk viri, durnio vakyaeni—“
“Imperial. Speak Imperial,” said Sarovy.
“She dun speak it well,” said Weshker, glaring at the wall again. “She said our clothes is bloody. That’s what we call the Crimson Army, yeh know. Ilvargiten Vakyaeni. Bloody Army.”
Sarovy shook his head slowly, watching the woman. “I am not here to mediate between you two. I want to know her interest in you and what influence she has here.”
The woman stared at him flintily. After a moment, Weshker sighed and jabbered something at her in their language.
Sanava’s eyes narrowed, and she said, “Eyirra en-Zolvin T’okiel tivan. Kav drakvenvagi.”
“Tel ruenvyekh?”
“Gih Trifolders. Gih shaidaxruen. Vylina esvetagi. Ninnet koshdun.”
Sarovy looked to Weshker expectantly. For a moment the Corvishman just stared past him, expression a mix of unease and memory and plain fear. Then he mumbled, “Stuff about the spirits. The Old Crow. An’ she say she knows Trifolders an’ Shadow Folk an’ such. They’re everywhere.”
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 27