“In this army?”
“Yeh.”
Sarovy grimaced. As if being surrounded by abominations was not enough. “In the slave camps, I imagine.”
Weshker nodded slowly. “I knew some there m’self. But she angry at me because I guess I’m supposed t’ be a spirit-speaker.” He patted his left upper arm, where his deactivated slave-brand would be. “Ain’t ever been trained though. There was jus’, um, some birds when that ropy thing, that sarisigi en-dalur—“
Whiteness filled Sarovy’s vision. He pressed it back, blinking rapidly, and saw Sanava straighten stiff as a rod as she hissed something at Weshker that included the phrase itself. Weshker nodded to her warily. For a moment, they were both very still.
Then the blades flashed out—hers from slits in her skirt, his from the crossed sheaths at the small of his back—and they would have been at each other’s throats had not Linciard grabbed the woman and flung her against the door. She rebounded off it and sat down hard, eyes wide, as if she had forgotten they were not alone.
“Weshker,” Sarovy snapped, and the Corvishman froze in mid-lunge. “Stand down.”
“She think I’m that thing,” Weshker growled.
“I’m quite certain you’re not.”
Linciard had the woman at swordpoint now, and she stayed on the floor, glaring at them each in turn. Weshker said something to her that included Trifolders, and Sarovy guessed that he was recounting his time in the infirmary. The woman scowled, but eventually hiked up the skirts of her dress and slid the blades into the sheaths on her thighs. Beside the belt and straps they hung from, she wore nothing underneath, and Sarovy averted his eyes from the patch of red fur.
Weshker sheathed his blades as well. He had better than those two, including a regulation sword, which made Sarovy think the attempted knife-fight had been some kind of Corvish cultural thing—some kind of challenge. He pressed fingertips to his brow and tried to quell his temper.
“Lieutenant, take her outside for a moment,” he said. Linciard hesitated, then nodded curtly and gestured with his sword, and Sanava rose with an angry toss of her hair. They stepped out, the door clicking shut behind them.
Sarovy took a deep breath, then said, “Weshker, I have an assignment for you. Get in that woman’s good graces.”
The blood drained from Weshker’s face. “She jes’—“
“I don’t care. You said you specialize in crows. She seems to know about it. Pursue it.”
“But—“
“It is not a request. Go escort her to her barrack, do what you must to arrange some kind of lessons, then return. We need to talk about that…thing.”
Weshker blanched, but nodded. “Yessir.”
“Dismissed.”
The Corvishman snapped a reasonable salute, then pulled the door open and slipped out. Sarovy heard discussion through the gap, then Linciard peeked in questioningly. “He has permission,” Sarovy said. The lieutenant ducked back out, and after another brief discussion, he heard a sword being sheathed, then footsteps moving away.
He retook his seat, considered the paperwork still stacked before him, and was about to call for someone to close the accursed door when Linciard slid in and shut it behind him. The lieutenant’s expression was strained, and he kept his eyes down as if afraid to meet Sarovy’s.
“Um, sir. I meant to tell you, as my superior,” he said.
“Tell me what?”
The lieutenant opened his mouth, then seemed to lose his nerve. The roil of emotions on his long face told Sarovy everything. With a sigh, Sarovy sat back in his camp-chair. “This is about the inoculation incident, yes?”
“Er…”
“How long have I been your superior, lieutenant?”
“Six years, sir. Since I joined the Crimson.”
“It took you six years and an encounter with a…’best man’ to think of mentioning it?”
Linciard winced.
Though he had more to say, Sarovy lapsed into silence, watching Linciard try not to fidget. It was cruel, but the lieutenant had brought it upon himself.
“Erolan,” he said finally, “it’s in your file.”
The lieutenant’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Your file. The one I’ve had access to since I became captain. I'm not a westerner, lieutenant; I don't consider your personal life my business. But for the record, your file commends your discretion.”
Linciard’s face went bright red. He made several useless sounds that might have been embarrassment or indignation, then closed his eyes and made a visible effort to compose himself. “I…see,” he said, his voice strangled. “And so you let me volunteer for the lagalaina’s inoculation.”
“It was a gamble, which succeeded. We now know that the lagalaina disdains you. Perhaps she cannot affect you at all.”
Linciard’s mouth twitched, and he nodded marginally. “Perhaps, though from what Sergeant Rallant was saying, his kind can influence everyone. Maybe hers can too. I just thought, you’re the commander. We can’t let anything happen to you. But then you let her bite you anyway.”
“I do not think I can back down in front of the specialists.”
“No, sir. Probably not.”
“Inform me immediately if you start feeling strange. I do not want secrets.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And watch yourself. You are an officer now. We have rules about fraternization.”
Linciard flushed and ducked his head. “Yes sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Good. Is that all?”
“Er… Well…” Linciard glanced at the door, then stepped toward the desk, lowering his voice as if suspecting an eavesdropper. “Are you sure about all this, sir? The Corvish and the biting and everything? Like the Scryer said, this could turn on us. Who knows what those monsters are thinking?”
Sarovy calmly flipped the top page of his work face-down and laced his hands over it. “This is the task we have been set,” he said, “and these are the tools we have been given. We will use them, lieutenant, for the good of the Crimson Claw, for that is our purpose.”
“But the Corvish—“
“Your concern is noted, but this is not up for discussion. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you are dismissed.”
Linciard drew up in salute and Sarovy returned it, then waited as the lieutenant made his exit. For a time afterward, he stared into space, the day’s events swimming restlessly in his head.
Then, finally, he turned the page face-up again, and looked down at the obsessive scrawl of sketches. The ropy, clay-fleshed creature in all its twisted poses—the thing that had plagued him since he had saved Weshker from it.
The sarisigi en-dalur.
He pressed fingertips to his brow and tried to tell himself that all was well.
*****
Weshker had often dreamed of this situation: walking a woman back to her place with the anticipation of more. He was even under orders to do what was necessary, and he could hardly contain his excitement.
The only damper on that was Sanava. She walked beside him calmly, her gaze fixed ahead with all the expression of a stone fox, and though he had gallantly offered his arm, her grip on him sank nails in even through his uniform coat. He tried not to wince, but all he could think was that he did not want to feel those nails elsewhere.
As he escorted her into the northern women’s area, he judged the possibilities of fun and of maiming to be approximately equal.
There were more than a thousand women in the Crimson camp, slave and free, separated into two areas surrounded by freesoldier barracks. The eastern area held mostly free women, who did kitchen and laundry duties and ran two of the four infirmaries, plus provided childcare for those that had been born on the campaign.
The northern women’s area was larger, mostly slave, and not nearly so benign. As Weshker and Sanava turned the corner, raucous laughter rang out, followed by the sound of a slap and a yelp.
> Trestle tables had been set up in the street between the barracks, and men in uniform filled the benches, taking advantage of the remaining light to get a drink and ogle the slave women who served them. All the slave women wore white dresses, some thin enough to be translucent in the sun, while in the doorways of the nearby bunkhouses, stony-faced matrons in red sashes and vests stood watch over the gathering and took coins as couples went in.
A few of the slave women flirted openly with the men, but most wore stiff smiles and did their best to avoid the hands as they poured drinks. The alcohol here was not on ration, unlike the rest of the camp—where the beer was thin and tasteless and used in place of water when the water ran foul. Here, the soldiers paid for it like they paid for the women, but there was plenty to go around. Coins changed hands, cards lay neglected on the tables, and a few women had already ensconced themselves in men’s laps though it was still broad daylight. Not that time mattered, with all the different shifts; Weshker had come here twice since being freed and the scene never really changed.
Only perception did.
That first evening he had found his way here, he had been awestruck. It had been years since he had been near a woman, so just seeing them in the lamplight, their white dresses aglow, was like watching fair spirits at play—if spirits knew how to do their hair fancily and paint their faces, and occasionally smacked people. But with no money, he could only gawk and had eventually been driven off by the matrons, who had no patience for men who were not customers.
The second time had been in daylight, and he had arrived with that first image glimmering in his head only to find a fight threatening. In the street, a handful of drunk soldiers had been shouting at each other, some with swords drawn, while a matron with a truncheon was being held back by three slave women, another slave—barely more than a girl—sobbing on the ground with a bloody nose and split lip. All the other slave women had retreated into the barracks except for the few held in place by their customers. After a standoff and some curt discussion, the soldiers had finally stood down.
Then one of them had grabbed the bleeding girl, hauled her up and flicked coins contemptuously at the truncheon-clutching matron before leading the girl into a barrack.
Weshker had not stuck around.
He hoped that someone had reported it to the General, but doubted it. No officers came here; they could get women sent straight to their offices. The military police were stationed close but spent most of their time policing the slave men, and though the matrons could threaten, most were slaves too. If they hurt a freesoldier, they could be executed.
Still, he could not help thinking about this place. He glanced sidelong to Sanava as they approached the barracks, wondering why she was here. Imagining her serving at a table with a false smile always ended with some foolish soldier getting his throat cut. No Imperial in his right mind would sleep with a Corvishwoman, and even most Corvishmen knew better.
That was the joke, anyway.
But when they approached the closest barrack, the matron on duty barely lifted a brow, only held her hand out to Weshker pointedly.
Weshker winced. He still had not been paid, and had yet to ask Sanava about any of the spirit things, too focused on figuring out how to hit on her without getting mangled. The matron stared down at him flatly, and he quailed. As he started to back away, though, Sanava’s grip tightened on him, and he looked at her in surprise.
“We go to talk,” she said, her dark eyes never moving from the matron. “No pay.”
“You’re not even on shift and you want to use a room?” said the matron, frowning. Sanava stared back with utter indifference, and after a moment the larger woman sighed and stepped aside, waving them in with a gruff, “Half a mark.”
Wordlessly, Sanava hauled Weshker inside.
As a work-slave, Weshker had built his share of these barracks, and they were really no more than a rectangle with small rooms at either end—for storage or offices or kitchens, whatever was needed. The rest of the space usually held bunk-beds.
In here, though, pastel lamplight and flowing curtains made the place ethereal and strange and relatively private, a realm of soft comforts that had no place for swords. At least, metal swords. The curtains cut the main space into a narrow corridor between flowing, shivering walls, and just the look of it made Weshker tense in anticipation. By the low sounds from further in, this place was already busy.
Sanava opened a door directly to the right of the entry and shoved Weshker through, away from the writhe of the curtains and into a tiny storage room that reeked of tea and perfume. Grabbing the lantern that hung outside the door, she closed them in together.
The light glinted evilly off her eyes. Weshker backed into a corner between a stack of crates and a low shelf and said, “Please dun kill me. I en’t done nothin’ to yeh.”
“Au kurthina, therkhael,” she said coolly, gliding closer. It took him a moment to switch his brain over to his native tongue and understand it as ‘I won’t kill you, for now.’
He grinned sheepishly and held his hands up, just so she would have no excuse for suddenly defending herself through repeated stabbings. His memory of his people’s language was rusty. Licking dry lips, he managed, “Reksirina vylire.” I want to learn.
“About what?” she said, keeping to Corvish.
“Spirits. Crow spirits.”
She eyed him for a moment, then threw her head back in a short, barking laugh. “I can’t speak with spirits,” she said. “You think I can teach you magic I can’t do?”
“Au,” he said, the word for ‘no’. His shoulders sank. Even though she thought him a traitor, she was the first of his people to not spit on him for not dying valiantly on the swords of his oppressors, the first Corvishwoman to last more than a month as a slave without slitting her own throat in defiance. Already he felt shamefully attached to her—and unworthy. Corvishfolk in captivity were fury made flesh, but he was a failed man, Imperialized into an Army pet.
Sanava punched him in the shoulder with a hard little fist, and he flinched back, realizing his mind had wandered. “Nin ha,” he said apologetically. I yield.
She stared up at him, dark eyes flinty. Though he was a handspan taller, what she lacked in height she made up for in disdain, and he swore he felt himself shriveling. “You need to remember you are Korvii,” she said curtly. “What is your true name?”
Weshker opened his mouth, then closed it. For eleven years—half his life—he had responded to his Imperialized name because there had been no other choice. Even Sanava had not asked before this. It felt strange to think of his birth-name now.
“Vesha,” he said finally. “Vesha Geiri en-Nent.”
She smiled dryly and set the lantern atop a crate, then stepped toward him. It took all his nerve to stand there as she touched his cheek and parted his lips with her thumb. “Sharp Tooth?” she purred as she moved even closer. “You lie. Your teeth aren’t sharp.”
He bit her thumb at the insult and suddenly she was pressed against him, mouth at his jaw, one hand fisted in his hair, and his hands were on her backside, helping her hook a leg around him through the side-slit in her dress. There was no fear now, only an overwhelming fire, and all he could think of as her nails clenched on the back of his neck was how inconvenient trousers were when his hands wanted to be properly occupied.
She was not helping, her tongue and teeth working along his neck while her hips pressed so tight against his that he could hardly slide a hand between. When he tried to separate she shoved him bodily into the shelves then re-adhered like glue despite the tea canisters falling around them. Frustrated, he grabbed her by the hair but she just hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him the same way he was pulling her.
Then her other hand found his crotch and for an instant he thought she would just rip the front from his trousers. Some sanity intervened though, and the next thing he knew, they were on the floor amid spilled tea and perfume, her legs locked around his waist, his hands clampe
d on her hips where the straps of her daggers cinched, his mind molten with joy—
And the door swung open, the matron staring at them balefully.
Even had he wanted to stop, he could not; Sanava’s grip was a vise and it had been so long that there was no stepping back. Sanava hooked arms around his neck, pulled his head down, and then there were stars bursting in the blackness, a universe of light.
Scant moments later, he staggered out of the barrack, skin humming and ears ringing from the shrieking fight between Sanava and the matron. Soldiers and slave women watched but he barely saw them, barely managed the coordination to walk and buckle his belt. Only when she shouted his name again did he turn and see her, tea leaves in her wild hair and fire in her eyes, as the matron dragged her back into the barrack.
“Kav si veitan!”
I will find you later.
Threat or promise, the words echoed in his head as he stumbled toward the Blaze Company area, wondering dazedly where all his uniform buttons had gone.
Chapter 11 – The Citadel at Valent
Warder Geraad Iskaen was painstakingly turning a page when the summons came.
He looked toward the door, frowning. On the other side of it, the faint scintillating tone of a messenger-elemental came again, and he reluctantly set the book aside and stood from the window seat. On the thick rug before him, the young goblin paused in his cheerful destruction of yet another mechanical toy.
It had been fifteen days since Geraad’s abrupt return to the Citadel at Valent, bruised and battered and with the goblin Rian clinging to him. His hands were still twisted into painful claws from the torture the Gold mages in Thynbell had meted out, and he did not know that he would retain the rank of Warder beyond the next examination. After all, he could not channel wards with broken fingers.
For now, he had been given a Master’s suite rather than the journeyman quarters he had shared with his fellows, not because the Silent Circle felt any kindness toward its crippled members but because he was the subject of litigation between the Citadel and the Hawk’s Pride. Though both were part of the Circle, the Hawk’s Pride—sometimes called the Citadel at Thynbell—was a military organization, composed entirely of Gold Army mages, and it had long chafed at being under the command of the non-military Valent Council.
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 28