by Trish Mercer
Because there were the nights where sleep came so deep and heavy that Perrin felt a glimmer of hope again. The gory images would be interrupted by a recurring dream of a young face looking up at him, leaning against his knee, while many others sat behind him, listening. He’s telling Perrin a story that makes him laugh.
That was the only time he ever laughed now. Those were the mornings he could talk to his family, and almost see clearly enough to realize that the captain was subtly undermining, that the soldiers were wary of both the captain and the colonel, and that old Beneff was about as useful as a third earlobe.
And then there were other nights, when the dreams would come too intensely for that little face to stop it all. Instead, he’d wake up to see the terrified expressions of his wife and children, and Shem.
It was always the day after those nights that Rector Yung stood at his front door, holding his battered hat in his hands, and smiling with tentative confidence that this time Perrin would let him in.
Like tonight.
There was knocking at the door, and Perrin knew the pattern: slightly hesitant yet completely optimistic.
Reluctantly, he stood up and opened the door for the tiny man. He knew the rector wanted to come in, but wouldn’t let him in. He couldn’t.
Something about Yung frightened him, as if the Creator himself stood at the door, wanting a reason for Perrin’s erratic behavior, wanting to know why he had no faith in Him.
Or maybe, Perrin was worried that Rector Yung was his last resort to dig out of the pit, but he wouldn’t have a solution. And if the rector couldn’t help, then there truly was no more hope—
“Colonel Shin! So good to see you again. May I have five minutes—”
It may have seemed illogical to slam the door in Yung’s face, but in the churning rationality of Perrin’s mind, it was the only reasonable thing to do.
He ignored Mahrree’s questioning look as she came out of the kitchen to see who was at the door. Instead he plopped down again on the sofa and stared into a corner.
He was trapped in that barn in Edge, without wings or a prayer.
---
The sergeant in charge of stables stopped abruptly on his way to the barns after midday meal. It wasn’t every day that each of his one hundred horses were outside the stables, instead of in them.
“What’s going on out here?” he demanded of the lines of sheepish privates holding multiple reins of horses.
“Rearrangements,” Captain Thorne’s voice startled him. “These creatures were placed in there willy-nilly—”
“Based on temperament!” the sergeant snapped.
“Now it’s based on color, size, and gender.”
“Why?!”
“Because it’s better.”
“But Karna—”
“Karna’s no longer here, Staff Sergeant. Oh, and I changed our feed supplier.”
The staff sergeant spluttered until he could spit out, “But sir, Karna and Shin worked out something with that old widower. He supplies us to help take care of his ill daughter.”
“Has anyone seen this ill daughter? That’s what I thought. We do things my way now. And I’m not Karna.”
As the captain strode away, the sergeant mumbled, “I see that.”
---
“Ah, Cook,” Captain Thorne said as he peered into the big pot. “Stew, is it? And I see I’m here in just in time.”
The cook eyed him warily, not used to seeing an officer in his kitchen. “Actually, it won’t be ready for several more hours—”
“Yes, I know. I mean that I’m here in time to order you to add mushrooms.”
“Mushrooms! That’s completely wrong—”
“Mushrooms are necessary, Cook. They spring from the ground, sturdy and pliant, and eating them will ensure the soldiers are too.”
“Actually, sir, mushrooms are rather delicate—Hey! You can’t put those in there—”
“I just did, Cook. I want to see mushrooms at every dinner.”
“Colonel Shin hates mushrooms!”
“And how often does he eat dinner here? That’s what I thought.”
---
Every afternoon Perrin sat at the command desk dully going through needless paperwork. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the pages when he heard a knock at the door. “Come in.”
The door quietly creaked open.
“Master Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
Shem held up a dark blue bag. “Mail. You look a bit rested after your nap, so . . . ready to go through it?”
Perrin sighed and sat back in his chair. “Will you take the Idumean rubbish today?”
Shem smiled. “Of course. Let’s see what’s been sent our way.” He set down the bag and pulled out a large bound set of papers. “Smells like manure, so it must be from Idumea. What have you got?” he asked as Perrin pull out several folded parchments.
Perrin frowned. “I don’t know. Seems to be . . . six of them, addressed to me.”
“Open one.”
Perrin swallowed and hesitated.
“Perrin,” Shem said quietly. He rarely used his first name in the tower, except for times like this. “I feel confident they are safe. If you want, I’ll open them first—”
“No,” the colonel cut him off with a rigid laugh. “Little bits of paper can’t do anything. Well now,” he said, breaking the plain seal, “what have we here?” He read quietly, aware that his friend was watching him.
“What is it?”
Perrin’s mouth went dry. “I’m not sure how to categorize it.”
“Read it to me.”
“It says, ‘Colonel Shin. You probably don’t remember me, but my father owns the Stables at Pools. I was very sorry to hear about the High General and Mrs. Shin. Your father came here frequently to choose horses, and was always very kind to me. He told me that he expected great things of me, and I’ve always taken that to heart. I was so sad to hear about their passing, and I feel really bad for you. I just wanted you to know that. I will miss them, and I hope you’ll be all right. Signed, Roak.’”
Shem smiled. “It’s a letter, Perrin. And a sweet one, at that. How old is he?”
Perrin shrugged. “Maybe late teens? I met him twice myself, a few years ago when my father sent me to Pools for training. Best horses in the world. Shem, what do I do with this?”
“You appreciate the sentiment. You accept the fact that someone else in the world feels for you. And, when you feel up to it, maybe send him a message back thanking him for his note.”
Perrin nodded at it. “I guess I could do that.”
“Open another one,” Shem urged.
Perrin did so. “It’s from a seamstress in Vines. Said she saw my mother once, and that she looked so beautiful. She’s sorry they’re gone. She just felt the need to tell me that.” He refolded the message. “I can’t . . . I can’t deal with this right now,” he whispered.
Shem took up another letter and smiled. “Perrin, look at the writing on this one. Gizzada! It has to be!”
Perrin took it out of his hands. “Gizzada?” He smiled faintly to see the large looping writing of his former master sergeant-turned-restaurant owner in Pools.
“You have to read that one. The man bought you a white fur coat with butterflies stitched on it, remember? Oh, how I wished I could’ve seen you in that.”
Perrin almost chuckled at the memory. Taking a slash to his back cut three of the poor innocent butterflies in half and soaked them in blood. His scar itched faintly as he opened the message. A moment later he closed his eyes and put it down.
“What does he say?” Shem asked gently.
Perrin handed over the note.
Shem read out loud. “‘Dear Colonel, for weeks I’ve been searching for the best words, but everything I write doesn’t convey how horribly I feel about what’s happened to your family, and now what they’ve done to you at the fort for your valiant effort to save Edge. This is wrong! You know that we sit and talk
in the back room of my restaurant, and every enlisted man in Pools and Idumea feels the same way. That’s several hundred soldiers, sir, who don’t think you deserve to be confined to Edge like a disobedient child. I thought you’d like to know that my back restaurant menu has changed. Men now proudly order the Shin Sandwich: General for a large, Colonel for the half, although I’m thinking maybe I should reverse that.’”
Shem smiled. “Leave it to Gizzada to express his feelings in food. Oh look, he goes on to describe a dessert called The Peto—”
Perrin shook his head. “They’ve hurt other people, Shem. Not just me and my family. Three more people in the world feel pain because of what the Guarders did to my parents.”
“Perrin,” Shem said steadily, “that’s not a reason for revenge, remember? Pain is part of the test of this life. How people handle it helps them grow. Look at these three—they’re handling their pain by wanting to take some of yours. They’ve likely been prompted to send you these messages. Gifts. Accept that, and be grateful.”
Perrin gestured to the other messages.“Probably the same things,” he sighed.
Shem gathered them up. “You’re going to hold on to these, my friend. Someday you’ll be ready to respond to them. I’ll bring them to Mahrree until then.”
Perrin pulled another message out of the pile that also had familiar writing on it. “Looks like this is from Brillen.”
Shem began to grin. “Open it.”
“Why?” Perrin asked, suspicious.
“Just open it!”
Perrin did so, and groaned a minute later. “He’s got the route for the next Strongest Soldier Race already plotted out?”
“Well, with his wedding next week, he was worried he’d be a bit distracted for a time, and he didn’t want to neglect it. Brillen wrote me a while ago asking if he could still come up to judge it.”
Perrin rubbed his forehead. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“No, it’s a great idea! Just what we need. Everyone. I have a feeling I’m going to beat you again this year, Colonel,” the master sergeant goaded, a bit early this year.
“How long have you two been planning this?”
“We do it every year, Colonel. Just because Karna is in Rivers doesn’t mean we can’t still run the Strongest Soldier Race. If you turn me down, I just may have to challenge mushroom pudding.” Shem winced slightly, their new code for Lemuel Thorne.
Perrin smiled ever so slightly. It was a great look. The wince expressed pain, disgust, and plotting all in one brief expression. “He’s actually earned that title of mushroom pudding, I hear. Would you make my apologies to the cook?”
“Already have,” Shem winked. “And I also told him that mushrooms every day would likely cause him to go over budget.”
“Mushroom pudding would likely find a supplier all on his own,” Perrin sighed.
“Maybe. And I really don’t want to race Mr. Pudding, Perrin,” Shem whispered earnestly. “The race has always been you against me. I think this will help. It won’t help, however, that you’ll likely lose to me again, but . . .”
Hearing the teasing challenge in his voice, Perrin actually smiled. “I may be getting older, but I’m still very quick.”
Shem leaned forward on the desk with that familiar spark in his eyes. “Not as quick as you like to think you are, grandpy.”
“Oh, don’t you dare start that again,” Perrin almost chuckled.
Shem waggled his eyebrows. “Come on, grandpy—ready to take me on again?”
For a tiny pause of time, everything was perfect again and Perrin was more than ready to begin another brag session with his favorite sparring partner.
But then the moment was gone. It seemed ridiculous to even worry about a race of egos when the world—at least Perrin’s world—was falling apart. It was a brief glimpse of joy, of what his life used to be. And the glimpse was agonizing. But duty was duty.
“I’ll do it,” he said listlessly. “The village looks forward to it. Hycymum makes all that cake. Who am I to break with tradition?” He tossed the message on the desk. “Answer him for me, will you? Tell him best wishes on the wedding. Wished we could be there.”
Shem gathered up the messages. The spark was fading in his eyes, too, and for once, Perrin noticed.
“Sure, Colonel. I’ll let Karna know,” Zenos said, his voice equally dull. “You know what? I’ll just take care of the rest of the bag today. If you need me, I’ll be out at the desk in the forward office.” He flashed Perrin a fake smile, picked up the bag, and left.
Alone, Perrin sat back in his chair and held his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
---
Two men sat in the dark office of an unlit building.
“Anything new?” Mal asked.
Brisack shook his head. “Still nothing from Mrs. Shin. Every week, I told her: I need a report. And what does she send me?”
“You really expected she’d let you in on their intimate details?” Mal chuckled. “My dear doctor, your naiveté amazes me.”
Brisack sighed. “I thought we’d established an understanding at The Dinner. And when she wrote to me about helping Perrin, you could see the desperation in her words—”
“I remember,” Mal cut him off before Brisack could wax worried again about another man’s wife. “You showed me the letter, several times. Next item—how’s Captain Thorne’s training coming?”
Brisack bristled at the abrupt change, but only for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure. He seems to have taken on a great deal of responsibility while the colonel is ailing, but as for our Quiet Man nudging him in the right directions?”
Mal pondered that. “The entire situation isn’t quite what we expected, but workable. I saw in Thorne’s last biweekly report that Zenos spends an inordinate amount of time at the Shins. Even all night, it seems.” He raised his eyebrows.
Brisack frowned. “Meaning what?”
Mal held up his hands. “Meaning . . . you’re the one who knows all things about family life. Figure it out.”
The good doctor folded his arms. “If anything, it means Zenos is aggravating the situation for us. Prolonging it. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Shin has been reluctant to write?” He scratched his chin. “Maybe she’s overwhelmed and even suspicious, but doesn’t know how to express any of that to me? Oh, so much that I could—”
“That you could what, Doctor?” Mal chuckled mirthlessly. “Listen to you, worried that your favorite woman might be suffering.”
“I was going to say,” it was Brisack’s turn to interrupt, “that there’s so much I could be learning from Perrin’s trauma. It’s been years that we’ve had such a vivid example of it. At least one that we can record. Other afflicted men leave the army right after the nightmares begin and eventually end up suicidal . . .” His voice diminished to nothing.
Mal leaned forward in his stuffed chair to see his companion more clearly in the dim light. “Yes, I do believe you’re concerned about that. Now, the researcher in me would suspect that you’re concerned because his ending may not be one that we planned for him. But the man in me thinks that you’re anxious about his widow, and maybe wondering if she’d be interested in a balding man in his late sixties, and if so, how you’d dispose of your own flitting wife.”
Brisack’s eyes flared. “After all these years you still know so little about me, Nicko.”
Mal sat back and chuckled. “No, what you’re worried about is that after all these years I know you too well.”
“Another question,” Brisack said confidently, knowing he would soon shift Mal off topic in a most uncomfortable way, “Thorne mentioned the two lieutenants and Beneff. Who, exactly, is Beneff?”
Mal rolled his eyes. “I wondered where he’d ended up. Initially we were going to send Shin those three lieutenants, if you recall. The obsequious one, the inconsequential one, and the belligerent one. I believe that last one came down with a fever just before he was to leave. The garrison put
in a substitute—old Beneff.”
“Thorne mentioned in his latest report that Beneff is the most doddering, useless soldier in the army,” Brisack said. “And considering some that we have in the army, that’s quite an accomplishment. Shouldn’t someone that old have been retired by now?”
Mal frowned. “Probably . . . I wonder who put him in, then?”
“I have a good idea,” Brisack offered.
“Who?”
“Gadiman.”
Mal went motionless, and Brisack smiled to himself. Oh, very uncomfortable indeed.
“So, Nicko, has anyone tried looking for Gadiman lately?”
“Well,” Mal said, uncharacteristically hesitant, “after the initial investigation . . . uh, no.”
“Not that anyone among the Administrators seem to care,” Brisack said, sounding almost amused, “but his assistants have been wondering what they should now. Genev, Gadiman’s top man, has been bringing me the reports Thorne’s been sending to their office. I find it interesting that in all this time, you haven’t once inquired how I’ve been getting Thorne’s loyalty reports.”
Mal worked his shoulders into the cushion behind him.
So Brisack continued. “I asked Genev to look up Beneff in Gadiman’s other files. Genev was surprised to discover those crates even existed under the floorboards of Gadiman’s desk, and seemed a bit reluctant to hand over such a find. However, all of Gadiman’s notes appear to be there, and as for Beneff, it seems he was one of the first, a long time ago. Even before Wiles, if you can believe that. He’s never been very effective, mind you, in anything except for maybe causing a bit of mischief here or there, mostly accidental.”
Still Mal said nothing.
“Gadiman had additional plans, before he vanished. Apparently he assigned Beneff even before we made our arrangements. And now, Gadiman has been missing for quite some time.”
Mal remained silent.
“When I spoke to Genev yesterday,” Brisack went on, enjoying not being interrupted, “I told him to continue as normal. Those three men did most of Gadiman’s sniffing around anyway, and they can just continue recording worrying instances of disloyalty in the world, although it seems now that no one cares.”