by Trish Mercer
Offra stared at his commander. For the past few weeks he’d been far easier, but too often he had seen Shin suddenly turn like a rabid dog. “Yes, sir?”
Shin smiled at him with surprising softness in his eyes. “I wanted to thank you for acting as my shield this morning, getting me into the amphitheater. A little crowded, wasn’t it?” he chuckled tightly.
Offra dared to smile. A little. “Yes, sir. I don’t think anyone expected such a turnout.”
“Me most especially. I hadn’t realized before you’re my same height. We give the tailors a fit, don’t we?”
Offra swallowed, still not sure what any of this was about. “I suppose we do, sir?”
Shin looked him up and down. “But you’re not as bulky as I am. Rather on the lean side, Offra. You could become quite impressive with some extra muscle. Don’t enjoy the food here?”
Offra reddened. “No, the food’s just fine, sir. I’ve just . . . I’ve just not had much of an appetite, sir. Actually lost a little weight since I came here.”
Something in Shin’s eyes looked pained, as if he knew he was part of the cause of his officer’s anxiety. “I’m sorry to hear that, Offra,” he said quietly. “Truly.” He ran his hand over the horse again. “But I have a remedy for that. Like you, I’ve lost a bit of muscle this past year and I need to get it back. What I’m planning can get you bigger and stronger as well. What do you say?”
Offra cocked his head, unsure of the colonel’s direction. “Sir?”
“Want to be my training partner?” He leaned closer. “You see, Zenos used to be, but since he’s beaten me twice in that ridiculous Strongest Soldier Race he thinks he’s got me for good. I want to surprise him in six moons’ time at the next Harvest Season. But I need a partner to push me. So how about it? A half hour run before every midday meal, then a long run each week through Edge?”
Offra, completely taken aback, took another moment before he could respond with, “Sir, I’d be honored. Thank you.”
Shin grinned and slapped him on the back. “Good. Offra, how old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-five, sir.”
Shin nodded. “Twenty-five. Good age. We’re going to make it a great age. This will be at least one way you can get the upper hand over a lower man.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
Offra just looked at him blankly, knowing the colonel was trying to communicate something, but he had no idea how to read the man.
Shin inspected the horse’s leg, picked off an invisible speck, and said, “Hmm. A thorn. One of the Creator’s most irritating creations, wouldn’t you agree? Just gets under your skin and—” He twisted the invisible thorn in the air and made a face.
Offra caught on that time and smiled broadly. “Indeed I do, sir.”
Shin winked at him, completely throwing the poor lieutenant. “Then tomorrow, before midday meal. Leave your jacket in the office. And Lieutenant, I’m embarrassed to admit this, but . . .” The colonel looked down briefly, sincerely ashamed. “I don’t even know your first name. Usually I’m much better at these kinds of things.”
No one in the fort had ever asked his first name. “It’s Jon, sir. Jon Offra. My father pronounced it ‘Yon,’ but my mother thought that sounded like people were tired of me, so she and everyone else pronounced the j.”
The colonel smiled. “Unusual, but I like it. ‘Jon’ suits you. You’re definitely not tiring. Then again, depending on fast you run, maybe you are! Well, Jon, tomorrow then?”
“Absolutely, sir!”
---
Captain Thorne picked at his food in the mess hall, sitting next to Radan who eyed him.
“You’re a bit quiet today, sirrr,” said Radan, in his usual and ingratiating manner. “Jaw bothering you, I suspect? Rotten luck, getting hit in the same spot twice in one week. Up to going home tomorrow? The Dinner and all? I can’t wait until I get an invitation,” he hinted. “All those officers, all their experience . . . just to sit at the same table as them, soaking in their wisdom—”
“Marinating in their stale jokes,” Thorne intoned, “their same old stories, their exaggerations.” He dropped his fork in disgust. “Not what you think it is, Radan. I’m better off staying here.”
“Why, sirrr?” Radan asked. “I would think you’d be most eager to get back. Especially considering what happened this morning with the colonel.”
Thorne’s head snapped up. “What do you know about this morning with the colonel?”
Radan frowned. “What everyone knows, sirrr—the chant of General? I’m sure they heard it down in Idumea! If not, what a juicy bit of news you’ll be able to deliver.”
Thorne shoulder’s relaxed slightly. “Oh. Oh that. Yes. They won’t be too happy to hear about that, I assure you.” His shoulder twitched. “Along with a few other things,” he mumbled to himself.
“Such as?”
“None of your business!” Thorne snapped. “Slag, Radan—what do you want from me, anyway?”
The lieutenant rocked back in surprise. “I just want to help, sirrr. It’s you and me holding this fort together. Everyone knows that.”
Thorne drummed his fingers and looked out across the soldiers talking, laughing, and not interacting with him. They were afraid and unsure of what he meant to them, which meant he was becoming the perfect officer.
Until today. He’d noticed Shin changing some weeks ago. He was far more alert, no longer napped, but was walking and talking among his men, and even laughing with them.
And then, today. All of which was completely unexpected.
First was the message from his father that he anticipated hearing news about Lemuel’s engagement to the daughter of a certain colonel. Then there was the show of solidarity for Shin at the amphitheater, followed by the discussion in the command office . . .
Apparently some officers do believe their daughters.
Everything Lemuel had been doing was unraveling, and he’d have to report all of that to his father.
Edge was a far safer place than Idumea right now.
“No one appreciates what we do,” Thorne brooded. “But I’ll find out what we do next.”
There was nothing that he dreaded more than that.
Chapter 10 ~ “Tell me everything you know about Moorland.”
Two men sat in the dark office of an unlit building.
“Do you realize what this MEANS?” Mal shouted.
“Nicko, I think you may be overreact—”
“OVERREACTING? To thousands crying for General Shin? The chant’s being taken up all over the world! Keeping him confined to Edge hasn’t slowed support for him—it’s getting stronger!”
The good doctor held up his hand in a vain attempt to calm his companion whose veins bulged in six places. It was a good idea that Brisack brought his heart medications, because Mal’s would be bursting out of his chest in about five minutes. “Now, now, I think you’re reading far too much into this—”
“How can you be so relaxed?” Mal bellowed. “Don’t you see the pattern? What happened the last time the citizens became enthralled with a man they thought would deliver them to some different end?”
Brisack smiled cautiously. “They cleared the way for you to be installed, Nicko.”
“Precisely, Doctor! People are no better than sheep—they’ll follow anything that moves, despite the care given them for the past twenty years. They’re too stupid to realize what they dumbly follow. Well I’ll not have it! He will NOT steal my flock! I’ll not sit by while King Perrin builds himself a throne in Edge!”
“Flock of dumb sheep,” said Brisack thoughtfully. “Intriguing comparison, albeit inappropriate. I think you’re confusing sheep with ducklings. But I can’t help but wonder—why are they shifting their devotion?”
“Because he answered their inane little letters!” Mal snapped.
“He doesn’t have a Letter Skimmer service? Personalized attention?” Occasionally Brisack felt the need to practice his sarcasm.
Mal wa
sn’t impressed. “I’ve got proof,” he said, standing up. He made his way over to a desk and picked up a small piece of paper. “When I first heard that Shin was responding to regular people’s mail, I had one of the reception area recorders write him a letter. A couple of days ago, he received this.”
Brisack held the letter to catch the faint light coming from the stables. “Clever, Nicko. Information gathering from the very source. This doesn’t look like an adult’s handwriting.”
“It’s not,” Mal fumed. “It was written by his son! Horrible penmanship, too, considering his mother is a teacher.”
Brisack scoffed. “Penmanship has nothing to do with intelligence, and everything to do with conformity. The more complicit the hand, the more timid the mind. That’s why much of the younger generation writes identically. Let’s see . . . ‘Dear Merk: Because my Father is overwhelmed with letters, he’s dictating responses to me and my family’—Well, can’t excuse the atrocious grammar right there, especially for a boy of nearly fifteen. ‘My father thanks you for your concern for our family and wishes you well. He also offers this advice: You live in Idumea? Get out! Ha-ha.’”
Brisack pursed his lips in an effort to suppress his guffaw, but part of it leaked out anyway.
“Yes. Ha-ha,” Mal said flatly. “That’s why we don’t employ teenagers as letter skimmers.”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Brisack shrugged, his face still contorting, “certainly authentic. Seems he has quite a bit to say. ‘Just kidding, Merk. My father didn’t say to write that, but I’m certain he agrees. See the signature of his below? He put that there before I finished the letter. If he ever finds out what I’m writing, he won’t make that mistake again. I’m just now filling up extra space. Anyway, thanks for the letter! Perrin Shin. I’m working on imitating his signature. How does this look? Perrin Shin. Yeah, it still needs work before I can attempt to requisition anything from the garrison. Do you want anything? I can try to copy his signature to requisition you a nice horse so you escape from Idumea. Let me know. Peto Shin.’”
The good doctor rubbed his mouth vigorously with his hand, trying to eliminate the laugh.
“Go ahead,” Mal grumbled. “All the recorders laughed before I confiscated it. They thought the boy was both cocky and charming. No wonder everyone writes to his father. They want to see what he’ll let his bratty son get away with next.”
“He could deplete the garrison, requisition it all away!” Brisack couldn’t help but add with a chuckle. “Now I wished I’d spent a few moments speaking with the boy at The Dinner last year. Didn’t realize he was so . . . independent.”
“All of them are independent,” Mal seethed. “And that, my good doctor, is why they’re so dangerous! What about your project in the north? Is it ready? Because if it’s not, then we’re going back to my original plan of eliminating Mr. Independent!”
Brisack’s chuckle died. “It’s nearly ready. We should’ve recruited some men with minds a bit brighter than midnight, but if I go up there myself, I’m confident that I can refine the mixture in a matter of days. Don’t worry—all of this is still in our control.”
“You still believe that? It’s completely out of control!”
“No, no, Nicko. This is what politics is about, right? We help the people discover the threat to their security, then we provide them with a solution. Granted, in the past we created the threat that sent them scurrying to us for help, but I’m still convinced we can turn this to our advantage. Another threat has merely revealed itself all on its own. Now,” Brisack continued with a smile that tried to suggest confidence, “it’s a little early in the season for fishing, but then again, I suppose it’s always a good day to go fishing, and I haven’t yet taken Shin up on his offer to check the rivers in the north—”
“Brisack!”
He leaned over to Chairman Mal. “Relax, Nicko. When I’m finished no one will be chanting General Shin—or even thinking King Perrin—ever again.”
---
It was Sewzi Briter who first noticed the colonel approaching the house after dinner.
Her husband noticed next, because his wife was making a panicked gurgling noise. Cambozola rushed to her at the kitchen sink, then realized that it wasn’t a dried pea she was gagging on but her terror of the colonel who she spied in the gap between her yellow curtains.
Cambozola patted his wife. “He’s been a lot calmer lately. At the Remembrance Ceremony he was quite . . . impressive.”
“Yes,” his wife whimpered, eyeing the sword strapped to the colonel’s side. “I remember. What’s he doing?”
Cambozola tilted his head to better see the colonel in the gap, who had paused a few feet before their door. “Well, if I had to guess, I would say he’s . . . practicing smiling? Who practices smiling? Oh, there’s a different kind. And another one. How odd. What kind of man has different smiles? Oh, I do believe he’s settled on one. And now he’s got it pretty well fixed—”
His wife leaned away from the window. “We shouldn’t be watching him like this!”
“Why not?” Cambozola grinned. “He’s good entertainment.”
There was a loud knocking at the door.
Sewzi clenched her teeth.
“Remember, Sewzi, he’s Jaytsy’s father. He can’t be all bad. And he just figured out how to smile!”
Her husband’s reassurances didn’t help, and Sewzi anxiously twisted the dish rag in her hands.
Cambozola steeled himself and swung open the door. “Sir! Good to see you. Something I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes,” Colonel Shin said, still with his smile that tried to be friendly yet contrite. He aimed it straight at Sewzi.
She pursed her lips and nodded once at him, the best acknowledgement she could muster.
Shin turned to Cambozola. “Briter, I’m looking for some help. May I come in?” he asked, almost nervously.
“Of course! Of course!” Cambozola said, holding out his arm to the kitchen table. “We were just about to have some pie.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Shin said, sounding genuinely apologetic as he stepped into the house. The kitchen shrunk in proportion to his stature, and Sewzi fought the urge to scuttle back into a corner to be out of his way. “Especially pie. The best conversations happen around pie. Pie’s sacred.”
Sewzi looked into his dark eyes—just like Jaytsy’s—and something twinkled back at her.
Feeling a bit safer, Sewzi found her voice. “I think my husband was trying to offer you some, sir. If you’d like to join us?”
Shin’s smile changed yet again, becoming more gentle. “As I said, pie’s sacred, and I’ve done nothing to deserve pie. I made wrong assumptions about you when you first arrived, and my treatment of you this past year hasn’t exactly been pie-worthy. For that, I’m very sorry.”
Sewzi couldn’t help but smile in response.
Her husband chuckled softly. “Ah, but you have, Colonel. At the Remembrance Ceremony, the third name you read was my mother’s. Yenali Briter. No one here knew her, or her love of goats, or of knitting, or of knitting goat hair. Or her ability to make a most wonderful raspberry pie, for which you’ll have to wait for a few moons. But you, Colonel, were the first to speak her name in Edge. And that, sir, is pie-worthy.”
To the Briters’ surprise, the colonel’s eyes became shiny. “I just hope we didn’t miss anyone. I sent out inquiries and asked around about your mother. I will remember the name Yenali Briter as if she were my own family. And I also wish to thank you.”
Cambozola grinned magnanimously. “My goodness,” he said to his wife, “this evening is just filling with surprises—”
Sewzi tried to subtly smack his arm to shut him up, which, because the kitchen was small, was a rather obvious gesture.
But the colonel just continued to smile, and Sewzi thought she heard a low chuckle rumble up from some depth.
“I want to thank you,” he said, “for your care of my daughter the past few sea
sons. She’s loved being here, and your farm was a welcomed sanctuary when she couldn’t find any at home.”
Sewzi was still terrified of him—and she suspected she always would be—but the sincerity in his eyes and the growing emotion in his voice made her almost want to hug the man. Almost.
“Sir,” she said instead, “I love your daughter. She’s an excellent young woman, and her father definitely deserves a piece of pie.”
Colonel Shin grinned genuinely, and for the moment Sewzi understood what Mrs. Shin saw in him. He nodded and sat down at the table.
The Briters exchanged stunned expressions, and Cambozola sat down next to the colonel as Sewzi retrieved another plate.
“So,” Cambozola said grandly, as if entertaining Chairman Mal himself, “how do you think I can help you, Colonel?”
The colonel’s gaze sharpened and he leaned on the table. “Mr. Briter, tell me everything you remember about Moorland.
---
Lemuel left the black coach and strode smartly up the wide stone stairs of the High General’s mansion. His grandparents had wanted him there so they could have the honor of hosting him for his visit back to Idumea.
The soldier on duty at the large oak doors saluted before opening one. Lemuel almost smirked at the motion, enjoying that the soldier was a decade older than him, yet was his servant.
But the smirk died before it ever surfaced, because standing in the foy-yay of the Grand Hall of the mansion was General Thorne, waiting with his arms folded.
Lemuel hadn’t expected him. Surely there would have been something for him to be doing at the garrison at dinner time, then he should have traveled to his own stately home several blocks away.
Lemuel immediately came to attention, as he had learned to do when he was three years old.
Qayin Thorne nodded once. “Captain, you’re late.”
Lemuel swallowed and said, “Yes, sir. There were problems with some wagons above Pools. Seems a shipment was stolen so the wagons were scattered and burning, creating a delay.”