by Trish Mercer
In the middle of Harvest, Mahrree woke up with a smile, even though many of her muscles ached. It was Harvest Season, after all.
She and her family had been learning that in Salem, everyone brings in the harvest. Even General Shin, who, while hurrying to get all of the new towers constructed before the snows came, was tasked to carry pumpkins.
And while the Shins were initially worried, and admittedly a little put out that they were required to help harvest their neighbors’ gardens, they soon got over that.
Because in Salem, everybody worked. And when everybody worked, the task was finished in astonishing time.
They witnessed that with Jaytsy’s immense garden, which had flourished. Within a couple of hours, dozens of neighbors had congregated on her garden, harvested all of the potatoes and moved a few hundred pounds into her and the Shins’ cellars, then pulled up everything else and neatly organized the produce into baskets, most designated for their cellars, the surplus to go to the storehouse.
Rector Bustani was there, too, going over numbers and making recommendations. But the final decision, he told them, was theirs as to what they kept and what they donated.
At first Mahrree fretted with Jaytsy that maybe they were giving away too much, but when they saw the stacks of goods in the cellar, then saw a wagon come down the lane with bags of flour, oats, and even sugar intended to get them through the Snowing Season, they realized they had more than enough.
“But should you find yourself running out,” Rector Bustani told them as he checked off items on his extensive list, “let me know. We can get you more from the storehouse should you discover by the end of Snowing Season that you need something, like beans.”
Mahrree had chuckled at that. “It wouldn’t be beans we’d need,” she assured him. “Not in our house. But maybe bacon. We’re not quite ready to go meatless yet.”
Their rector had smiled. “That’s all right. Choices, always, in Salem. If you need more bacon, then let me know. We try to get every household well stocked in Harvest, so that we don’t have to drive the wagons through knee-deep snows. Ah, and here comes the first loads of Mr. Briter’s hay for his herd.”
Jaytsy and Mahrree had stared, openmouthed, as two massive wagons filled with hay rumbled to their drive on the way to the barn, where Deck was waving to give them directions.
They closed their mouths when the blowing straw began to fall onto them.
Without thinking, Jaytsy said, “But we can’t afford all of . . .” Then she remembered where she lived.
Bustani patted her on the shoulder. “You just donated about three hundred pounds of potatoes, along with onions, corn, and beans, and three head of beef. By the way, the cobbler will be by later to fit you all for new boots for the snow, and I’ve got you listed to receive new coats, additional blankets, scarves, and hats. You can submit your sizes and color preferences to my wife, and she’ll help you get fitted.”
Mahrree didn’t feel any hesitancy after that about laboring two days a week in neighboring farms, along with her husband and son. Never before had she so enjoyed digging for carrots in the dirt, or plucking tomatoes off of vines, because never before had she heard so much laughter in fields, or so many stories, or so much singing.
That was a little hard for Perrin to adjust to, as he hefted baskets of produce which his neighbors had filled, to load into wagons destined for other homes or the storehouses. Mahrree recognized his Dinner Smile as men put an arm around his shoulders and belted out little ditties about something Perrin found inane, like the joy of squirrels. They’d jostle him good-naturedly, wanting him to join in on the chorus, but he’d reply, with a pained smiled, “I don’t know the words.”
“I’ll teach you! You must have a great bass voice—”
“I don’t want to know the words. In the world, officers weren’t allowed to sing.”
Something in the way his smile turned brittle would finally nudge at the men that maybe General Shin really wasn’t the singing type, and that he should be allowed to move a few more bags of grain.
While the harvest required every Salemite’s labor, still it took only a few hours a day, and because of the rotation cycle, only a couple times a week. This afternoon, Peto would be working at a vineyard after his university classes in botany and geography, while Mahrree would take care of Salema so Jaytsy could be at Rector Yung’s daughter-in-law’s house learning how to make something called applesauce with the bruised apples from the rector’s orchard.
In the world, bruised apples were tossed to the pigs, or tossed in the river. In Salem, they were turned into a tasty preserve.
Everything in Salem, it seemed, was preserved. Nothing was thrown away.
It took Mahrree a few weeks to realize that there were no rubbish heaps in Salem, as there were on the fringes of villages in the world. Even broken bottles and dishes were reused, and a building in Salem, next to the largest storehouse, was filled with discarded items free for the taking by whomever wanted to tinker with them. The supply in there changed frequently, because Salemites enjoyed the challenge of turning something broken into something useful again.
Today Perrin wouldn’t be harvesting or shifting melons, because he was heading north to check on lumber supplies for his towers. But first, Mahrree had some business to conduct.
She rolled over and gently poked him awake. “We’re supposed to have a talk today.”
“Why,” he mumbled miserably into his pillow, “do you always do these things so early in the morning?”
“Because you’re supposed to be getting up early anyway, remember?”
“Hm?”
“Your tower construction? Up in Norden? Calla’s mother’s expecting you.”
Perrin groaned. “Oh, yeah. That’s one exuberant woman.”
“She’s just eager to please.”
“Sure.”
“I thought you’d be more worried about Mr. Trovato.”
“I don’t think he can have any more questions for me.”
“It’s been three moons since the wedding. I’m sure he has a new list.”
“And of course he would happen to be the best logger in the area.” Perrin sighed and rolled on to his back. “Maybe we should make the tower out of block instead.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be home late tonight. But you really could stay the night there. The Trovatos sent a message again last week reminding us they have plenty of room to house you.”
“No, thank you. Calla told me the whole family is invited for midday meal today. Her mother wanted to know my favorite foods.”
“Calla said my mother’s recipes reminded her of Mrs. Trovato’s cooking. Maybe she and my mother are distantly related.”
“You said we were supposed to have a talk this morning?” Perrin reminded her.
“Yes! It’s been one year.”
He frowned. “One year since what?”
“Since you looked into my eyes and asked me what I knew. Since I told you that I knew nothing. That I predicted a very dull year in our future with the only exciting thing happening was The Cat fathering a litter of kittens. The 48th Day of Harvest, 338.”
Perrin began to chuckle. “That’s right! I forgot all about that day when we both figured out Jaytsy was expecting. Well, you certainly didn’t predict that very dull year correctly, did you?”
“No, and I’m admitting that now.”
“Let’s see how much you got wrong,” Perrin said. “First, I’m no longer a colonel—”
“That’s right. You’re a general.”
He shrugged. “Merely a title, since I have no army.”
“But it’s also for the other side,” she pointed out, “so that’s quite an achievement.”
“Indeed,” Perrin nodded in amused thoughtfulness. “Our daughter is now a mother, making us grandparents. Ugh. That’s still an uncomfortable word. Anyway, we have a new house, they have a new house, we have new furniture—”
“New lives, just leave it at that,” Mahrree su
ggested.
“Shem was revealed to be a spy—”
“Who’s now married.”
“And Peto no longer kicks balls but studies trees and terrain at the university, is tending a young orchard in the back garden, and he and I have been on half a dozen camping trips so far looking for routes,” Perrin finished. “Did I miss anything?”
“The Cat fathered another batch of kittens,” Mahrree offered. “The family down the road now have five black and white kittens in their barn.”
“Well, that’s nothing new for him,” Perrin waved that off. “Ah, but you! You changed the world! Changed Idumea’s laws! And you teach the whole community now instead of the budding thieves of Edge.”
“Rather nice to lecture people each week who actually want to hear what I have to say, and not because they’re going to report it to Captain Thorne,” Mahrree smiled, ignoring the first two ‘accomplishments’ in Perrin’s list.
“And one more thing we forgot that changed over the past year.”
“Yes?” she asked.
“We all died.”
Mahrree burst out laughing. “How could I forget that?”
Perrin grinned. “Any new predictions for the next year? Perhaps I should write this down.”
“Actually, I do,” she smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair. He hadn’t cut it since his resignation nearly half a year ago, nor had Shem cut his. They were rebelling against their past lives of short hair and all the regimentation it stood for. Calla, when she noticed a few weeks ago that both men’s hair had similar waves probably inherited from their shared ancestors, declared that no man should have prettier hair than his wife.
The wives decided they could live with their husbands’ shaggier looks as long as neither of them grew their hair longer than their shoulders and kept their chins bare. Mahrree had grown used to a smoothly shaved face and told Perrin she would never kiss him again if let his beard grow. Calla didn’t have to make that threat because Shem couldn’t have grown a beard like many of the men in Salem sported anyway.
Mahrree twisted a curly lock behind Perrin’s ear that she wished Jaytsy could have inherited, instead of her mother’s blandly straight hair. But Salema’s tufty black hair already showed signs of curling. “First prediction: Shem and Calla will have a baby.”
“I can believe that,” Perrin nodded. “Guide Gleace told him that too. Although I don’t know if Shem’s face can take it. I swear he hasn’t quit grinning since their wedding. The man has bugs in his teeth.”
“He deserves to grin. My next prediction—Jaytsy and Deckett will be expecting again by this time next year.”
“Hmm. Maybe, maybe.”
“And here’s my big one. Are you ready? Peto will fall in love.”
“Ha!” Perrin barked. “Now that one I should write down, because that, Mrs. Shin, is the most ridiculous by far.”
“I didn’t say get married,” Mahrree clarified. “I just said ‘fall in love.’”
“Peto won’t stand for it.”
“He wants to, though.”
“How do you know?”
“Mother’s intuition.”
Perrin scoffed. “Mother’s intuition. Mother’s wishful thinking, maybe.”
“Do you have any predictions, Mr. Shin?”
“Yes. You’ll keep waking me up early for ridiculous conversations when I could be getting another five minutes’ sleep.”
“Just for that I’ll send a message ahead of you to Mrs. Trovato saying you will be staying the night so you can get some decent sleep.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would dare, but I don’t want to.”
“Good. I kind of like you. I’d miss you if I stayed away tonight.”
---
Shem came over as they were finishing breakfast to bring Perrin a report on tower completions in the south. Or so he said.
He sat down at the table in a slump and looked at nothing in particular.
Perrin pushed his plate away. “Well, this is different. Tired of bugs in your teeth?”
“What?”
Perrin pointed at his face. “The Shem Grin is missing this morning. Trouble in Paradise already? It’s been, what, ten weeks?”
“Thirteen,” Shem sighed.
“Thirteen. So you’re actually keeping count.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Not really. And now I’m wondering what else you’re keeping count about—”
Shem glanced over to the kitchen where he heard Mahrree moving some dishes. “Perrin, I’m a little worried.”
“About what?”
“Calla. She’s so . . . happy.”
“Happy? That’s a problem? Your wife’s happy.”
Shem sighed. “That’s not exactly what I mean.” He glanced at the kitchen door again to make sure it wasn’t opening. “I want her to be happy. I’m happy. It’s just that she’s not . . . she’s not . . .”
Perrin held up his hands, waiting for the rest.
“Sick,” Shem whispered.
“Sick?”
Shem gestured in emphasis. “Sick.”
Perrin sat back. “Ah, that kind of sick. It’s not that pleasant, trust me. The first time my bride was sick was when I came home from the first Guarder attack. Instead of greeting me with open arms and a passionate kiss, she gave me a mess all over the stairs.”
“That’s what I want!” Shem nearly cried before remembering he didn’t want Mahrree to hear him. “What I meant was—”
“I know, I know,” Perrin said. “But Shem, give it time. This is nature at work, and sometimes nature won’t be rushed. Didn’t one of your sisters wait nearly four years before her first sick?”
Shem leaned forward. “She was twenty when she married. She could afford for nature to be slow. Calla and I can’t! I’ve done the math. You and Mahrree must have already known Jaytsy was on her way by this point in your marriage. Calla’s close to the same age Mahrree was. And you had two children before your second anniversary.”
Perrin couldn’t hide his smile of pride, although he was working on that. “As fast as they came, had we lived in Salem we’d probably have eighteen children by now. Not sure what Mahrree would have thought about that—” He stopped when he saw Shem’s dejection.
“So Perrin, what are we doing wrong?”
Perrin didn’t have the opportunity to answer.
“Nothing, Shem!” Mahrree burst through the kitchen door and rushed over to him to give him a hug from behind.
Perrin cringed in sympathy as Shem went bright red.
“Mahrree, how long were you listening in?” Perrin demanded as Mahrree released Shem and sat down at the table next to him.
“Long enough. Shem, give it time. Why, there’s that couple in the congregation, the ones who lost their spouses and are now on their second marriages? That man just fathered a baby and he’s nearly sixty!”
Shem was still red. “I wasn’t exactly expecting you to hear any of this—”
“And his wife is forty-five,” Mahrree forged on, missing his chagrin. “You have time, Shem. Calla probably has fifteen years.”
Shem shielded his eyes in embarrassment, hiding from her sympathetic look. Nothing like the presence of a woman to kill awkward man-talk.
Perrin glared at his wife.
She gave him back a questioning look.
Perrin sighed and turned to Shem. “She has a point, Shem. Don’t put deadlines on nature. Just enjoy this time the two of you have together, alone. Once the children come, there goes the privacy. Mahrree and I are still waiting to get it back.”
Shem stared at Perrin’s empty dish. “But what if they never come?”
Understanding Shem’s real worry, Perrin said, “What do you remember of Hogal and Tabbit Densal?”
“The Densals?” Shem looked up. “I knew them only a year, but they were probably the best couple I ever met.”
“They were,” Perrin said. “They changed my life. They di
d a great deal of good for many people. They held Edge together. I can’t imagine a couple who would have been greater parents.”
Shem gazed blankly at the table again. “But they weren’t.”
Perrin shook his head. “Never were blessed with children. I was the closest thing they had to a son. Do you think they weren’t worthy to be parents? Do you think that was the Creator’s punishment?”
“To be stuck with Perrin?” Mahrree added.
Shem smiled briefly. “No. Not their punishment.”
“Just part of their test, Shem,” Perrin said.
Shem sighed. “I was just so sure, you know? Especially since Guide Gleace said I’d be facing my wife’s child birthing in a year.”
“Did he say that as the guide, or as Gleace?” Perrin asked. “Because I’ve seen his eyes when he’s the guide. There’s something different there. Most of the time he’s just Hew, isn’t he?”
Shem shrugged. “I was still thinking about his vision when he mentioned it. I just wonder if we’ve done anything wrong, if the Creator is displeased with us,” he ended in a whisper.
“If children come, they come,” Mahrree said. “If they don’t, you’re still two people who found each other when no one ever thought you would marry! Still miraculous.”
Shem reluctantly smiled. “Thanks.”
“Consider this,” Mahrree said. “If someone like Qayin Thorne can be allowed to reproduce and give the world Lemuel, doesn’t that tell you the Creator usually just lets nature follow its laws?”
Shem scoffed a sad laugh.
“I think the Creator started nature and stands back most of the time to let it run its course,” Mahrree said. “He intervenes when necessary, but otherwise . . . ah Shem! Just wait.”
“But I’ve already waited for so many years—” He stood up abruptly. “I need to be going. Calla asked me to do a few things before I go over to the guide’s. I just wanted to see you before you left, Perrin. Say hi to the Trovatos for us, will you?”
“Of course,” Perrin said.
Shem turned to Mahrree. “Thanks for your concern,” he said with soft eyes. But then they hardened as he pointed at her. “But if you say a word of this—or give any looks, any communication—to my sisters, I will never speak to you again!”
“Not a word, not a look, nothing.”
“And to think” Shem mumbled as he headed to the door, “that I was excited about all of us coming to live in Salem together.”
Mahrree smiled at the door after he shut it.
Perrin cleared his throat.
Mahrree turned to her husband.
“How could you?”
“How could I what?”
“Interfere! Didn’t you see how embarrassed he was?”
Mahrree smirked. “He’ll forgive me soon enough.”
“How do you know? Wait,” Perrin leaned toward her. “What do you know?”
She smiled smugly. “Remember my first prediction this morning? Calla’s so happy because she isn’t feeling the kind of sick Shem’s expecting. Not every woman conforms to your little list, Perrin. Shem will be grinning again soon enough.”
Perrin sat back. “Why didn’t you give him a hint? He’s miserable!”
“What, I’m supposed to tell him what his wife asked me about in confidence? ‘Guess what, Shem? I’m almost positive you’re going to be a father. From what Calla and I could figure out yesterday, in about thirty-two weeks!’ She came to speak to me since she doesn’t have a mother or mother-in-law in the area, and she really didn’t want to talk to any of Shem’s sisters about her suspicions. Believe it or not, I have learned how to keep my mouth shut sometimes.”
Perrin stared at her in wonder. “Salem really is a place of miracles, isn’t it?”
---
Lieutenant Radan glanced again at the note secreted in his gloved palm. The instructions had been specific, so even though he hadn’t been to the garrison in Idumea for a few years, he easily got around.
What confused him, however, was that the anonymous note had been delivered with the caution to not reveal his destination with anyone. He had no idea why he had to leave Scrub to go all the way to the garrison, and in the pouring rain, no less. His commandant didn’t seem surprised when he said he was ordered to go. Then again, the man had many friends in Idumea.
That filled Radan with both dread and hope. Dread that maybe he’d done something wrong; hope that maybe he’d done something right. Lately, he couldn’t tell which was which.
So he’d spent the last two frigid, wet days traveling, and this morning spent hours following clues sending him from one location to another. Each new slip of paper gave him another destination, and now he was no longer worried, but annoyed.
He trudged up the steps to the fourth floor of the garrison’s office building, where there were considerably fewer men in blue suits in the quiet halls. He still wore his overcoat—one of the requirements, to make sure his uniform’s label of RADAN was covered—and wished he could take it off since he was working up a sweat.
Down an empty corridor he walked, past rooms which may have been vacant, until he found the door with the correct number.
“This better be the end,” he said under his breath, and opened it.
He was startled to see Advising General Snyd seated at a desk in an otherwise empty room.
“I was beginning to think you’d never get here,” he growled. “Took you long enough. Shut the door.”
Radan obediently did so, but had to say, “Respectfully, sir, I would have gotten here a lot sooner had the original note just said, ‘Go to the fourth floor, room 18.’”
“I had to make sure you weren’t followed,” Snyd said, as if that were obvious. “And I had to take an even more circuitous route than you did, I assure you.”
“May I ask why, sir?”
Snyd gestured for him to take the empty chair in front of him. “Because,” he whispered, “Chairman Mal keeps a tight rope on all of us. I have to sign in and out of my own office. If I’m gone for more than an hour, someone comes looking for me as if I’m a teenager who can’t be trusted.”
Radan nearly mentioned that it was because the Advising General was sneaking around meeting officers on the sly that someone might think he wasn’t trustworthy, but he decided to let that go.
“And that’s why you’re here, Lieutenant, who, I’m sure, is tired of being merely a lieutenant?” Snyd raised his eyebrows.
“What can I help you with, sir?”
“You have information that no one else has, except for maybe another lieutenant who was also serving in Edge.”
“About . . . ?”
Snyd sat back. “I’ll be blunt. Everything went wrong as soon as they put Qayin Thorne in charge of the army. His arrogance lead to his incompetence, which lead to his own son’s failures, as well as Genev’s. Mal’s scared of everything right now, but most particularly Qayin Thorne. He needs him removed, if you get my meaning.”
“Why doesn’t the Chairman just eliminate him,” Radan said, “if you get my meaning?”
“Because Mal doesn’t just want him gone; he wants him humiliated and his reputation destroyed. Then with him deposed, it’ll be easier to reconstruct the army and government. All the blame for the increased controls, the commandants—everything can be set squarely on Qayin Thorne, who will then crumble and stink like a corpse.”
Radan chanced a smile. “And Mal still smells like a rose?”
Snyd scowled at the analogy. “Yes, something like that.”
Radan tried again. “And new High General Snyd, in charge of the army, will restore it to its former glory?”
That won him over, for the moment. “Something like that, yes. But I need evidence from people who really know. Not ‘know’ whatever Genev told you to tell everyone, but the real truth.”
Radan swallowed at that. The ‘real truth’ was rather squishy in his head. He’d have to remold it, and quick. “Does Chairman Mal know I’m here
?”
“No,” Snyd said, leaning forward on to the empty desk. “I’m hoping to present him with some favorable evidence. I do him a favor, then he does me a favor, then I do you a favor.” He couldn’t get any closer without laying on the desk. “So, what really happened in the forest above Edge that night the Shins went missing? Did you witness Lemuel Thorne beheading Shem Zenos?”
Radan hesitated. He hadn’t seen any of that, since he and most of his men had already left the forest.
But before he could think of how to phrase it, Snyd fished something out of his jacket, an official parchment. The general unfolded it, laid it on the desk, and slid it over to where Radan could read it.
To Whom it May Concern, Be it known that Lieutenant Radan is to be promoted immediately to the rank of major—
That was as far as Radan could read before the general whisked the parchment back into a pocket. “If that helps to jog your memory, that is. As soon as I have that favorable evidence I want, that document gets dated and sent to your commandant, along with transfer orders to anywhere you wish. So, what can you tell me about Zenos?”
Radan had an answer, and he tried not to salivate as he said, “Two of my men helped capture the man Thorne beheaded, and while he was strong, he wasn’t as large as Zenos, nor was he dressed like him. He was wearing green and brown mottled clothing.”
Snyd sat taller. “I knew it! And Perrin Shin—did you see him fall into the crevice?”
Radan had missed all of that, too, but he could honestly answer, “No, I didn’t see him fall. Nor Mahrree Shin.”
Snyd slapped the desk in glee, not caring that someone lost in the corridor might hear him. “Tell me about the Briters: did you see Mr. and Mrs. Briter?”
Radan hesitated, then said, “I saw someone who could have been Mr. Briter, but they used a decoy for Jaytsy Briter. Unless she sprouted a beard. I heard strange things can happen when a woman’s expecting—”
“So you did not see her?” Snyd was so eager he was nearly crawling onto the desk. “You didn’t see her die, right?”
“That’s correct, sir. A few men said—but they won’t remember this anymore—that Zenos, the Shins, and their son and son-in-law rode up the hillside and vanished.”
“I knew it!” Snyd screamed in a whisper, and did a wiggle dance in his chair that seemed more appropriate for a five-year-old rather than a fifty-year-old. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! And, more importantly, Lemuel Thorne knows it, too.”
Radan frowned. “Well, yes, he would. But . . . Genev’s been working on him for several moons now, sir. Don’t you think he might be . . . misremembering things?”
Snyd shook his head. “Lemuel’s still pining for Jaytsy. I know, because my wife has been trying to help my niece Druses win him over. Not that Druses is much to look at, but now neither is Lemuel Thorne. Who wants a cripple like that? But Qayin thinks matching them will create some kind of unity,” Snyd rolled his eyes. “And, frankly, it’d do both of us a favor. Since my brother and his wife died of the pox, Druses has been staying with us. It’s time she moved on. And Lemuel can’t be too picky anymore. But,” Snyd went on, “Druses and my wife returned from Edge last week quite disappointed. Lemuel can’t get over Jaytsy, and I think it’s because he knows she’s still out there somewhere,” he finished in a whisper. “Guess he thought she was rather beautiful, but I wasn’t too impressed when I met her. This is proof that the Thornes and Genev lied about what happened. And that scandal will be their ultimate downfall. So . . . will you help?”
Radan was surprised that more was required of him. “Yes, sir. Uh . . . how do I help?”
“You were in that forest, correct?”
Radan squirmed. “Yes.”
“You’ll go back.”
“What?!”
“Not alone. With someone else who was also in the forest that night.”
Radan’s alarm was exchanged for chagrin. “Sir, you’re not talking about Lieutenant Offra, are you?”
“Yes. I was going to send for him next—”
“Don’t,” Radan cut him off. “Offra’s weak. Genev really got to him, and I don’t think Offra could keep everything as well balanced as I can. We can surely use him in the forests—Offra loved Colonel Shin and would be happy to look for him—but don’t let Offra in on your intentions about using this information.”
Snyd smiled slyly and said, “You mean, don’t show him a parchment with his name on it also promoting him to major, correct?”
Radan bobbed his head. “Sirrr,” he didn’t realize he was slurring that word again, “however you wish to reward Offra for his service is wholly up to you, but you certainly don’t want to risk diminishing the honorable office of major by allowing just anyone to become one, correct?”
“I understand you, Lieutenant. Very well. Now then,” he said, all business, “this is certainly not the season to be traipsing around in the forest. Nor should the idea of an investigation seem to come from anyone but Lemuel Thorne.”
“Sir?” Radan raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
Snyd spread out his hands in front of him. “It’ll make the treachery of Qayin Thorne all the more delicious if it’s his son who accidentally betrays him, don’t you think? This all has to be Lemuel’s doing. Or undoing.”
Radan wasn’t entirely following it all, but slowly nodding his head gave the appearance that he was in agreement.
“The cat has to be punished, you understand,” Snyd whispered, “for letting the falcon fly out of the barn. The best way to punish him is by kitten ambush.”
Radan kept up the slow nodding, wondering if the Advising General had lost his mind for a moment, and hoping he’d soon change the subject. Fortunately, he did.
“So, Lieutenant, it is you who will plant the suggestion in Lemuel’s mind, then feed it over the next several moons.” The general was pulling a piece of paper from the desk, along with an ink well and quills. “Beginning today. You will write him a letter suggesting that you’ve heard rumors that the Shins are still alive, especially Jaytsy Briter, and that you’re worried those rumors may have reached him. You don’t want him to be disturbed by them, you see, since he’s still struggling with his health. But you wanted him to be aware that word was spreading, quietly, among the soldiers.”
Radan was already writing the words, and snickering. “This will drive him completely to distraction,” he chuckled. “If others think it’s possible they’re still alive, then—”
“—then so can he,” Snyd said. “You’re not as slow-witted as I worried you might be. We have to address this as something dull, and muck it up a bit. Genev’s reading everything interesting that goes through the mail service, so we have to make this uninteresting. Once you get a reply, let me know, and I’ll tell you what to write him next to get him planning.”
“Yes, sirrr,” Radan said, writing carefully. “Then I supposed when all of this Jaytsy nonsense is finally resolved, Lemuel will marry your niece?”
“Most likely,” Snyd said, sounding bored.
“Yes, sir. But sir,” Radan said as he signed the letter, “I have just one concern about all of this.”
“Yes?” Snyd took the letter and folded it.
“What if we find evidence that the Shins or Jaytsy Briter is indeed still alive?”
Snyd stopped in mid-fold and stared at Radan. “Alive? Where?” he scoffed. “No. No, they’re dead, I’m sure of it. But not because of anything the Thornes did. Because the Thornes let them escape, let them fall to some kind of terrible fate . . .” Snyd’s eyes bounced around the room, realizing that he’d never before entertained the thought they still could be living.
“So,” Radan began as segments of the story shifted rapidly in his mind, “the Shins and Briters were chased away by the Thornes, which then caused their tragic fate. Had the Thornes handled things better, we may still have Perrin Shin, and even his grandson, still with us?”
Half of Snyd’s face lifted into a relieved smile. “Yes, yes
something like that. Not bad. Not bad at all. With a bit of working.” He slipped the folded letter into his jacket pocket. “Write to me, Lieutenant,” Snyd said as he stood up. Extending his hand to shake Radan’s, he added, “Good to have this little chat. We here at the garrison like to make sure our junior officers are looking forward to promotion.”
Radan also got to his feet since the interview was clearly over. “Thank you for your concern, sir. And, if I may add, should the opportunity arise, I’d be happy to take over the command at Fort Shin in Edge. I understand they’re looking for a major to be in charge.” He blinked innocently.
Snyd smiled. “If all goes as it should, perhaps Fort Shin will be renamed Fort Radan, in honor of the officer who helped High General Snyd uncover the biggest scandal in the army’s history. Have a safe journey back to Scrub.”
---
Lemuel Thorne clenched the message in his fist and made his way through the snow to his horse’s private corral. In the shelter of his personal tackle shed, he unfolded the message, dropping it only twice, which was an improvement.
He smirked at the words on the outside, in a sloppy hand which read, “Further details as to saddling one’s horse with only one hand; revised and updated as per Captain Thorne’s requests.”
The message’s contents appeared so dull, and smelled so much like manure, with actual samples smeared across the back, that Genev didn’t even want to touch it. Instead, he flung the message in the direction of Lemuel. “Ask them to wash up before they send you any more advice!”
It was the fourth message from the Stables at Pools. They first started in Harvest, and now continued into Raining Season. Except that the message wasn’t from Pools. It was from Radan, who was proving to be far more clever than Lemuel had expected. Disguising his writing, scrawling nonsensically, and filling the pages with drawings of crude, and occasionally rude, horses had convinced Commandant Genev that Lemuel was receiving suggestions about how he could ride again, not how to plan a rescue of Jaytsy Shin.
But that’s what they were doing, with sentences buried in the scribbles. Radan had confirmed Lemuel’s greatest hopes: a few men had seen the Shins escape, but more importantly, a handful of silenced soldiers had seen Jaytsy getting away, alone. She’d found a cave, someone told Radan privately, and the soldiers lost her in it. But it was a secure cave, perfect for hiding in.
Lemuel had imagined that cave a thousand times in his mind. If she had a food supply and water, she could stay there for weeks, moons, even years. She and her son, awaiting rescue.
And Radan was willing to help. His message today said he’d requested three weeks off, and would be in Edge by the time the snows receded in Planting Season. But he would need a partner.
Lemuel nodded at that. He already knew who to ask: Lieutenant Offra. He’d loved the Shins so much that he’d be stupid enough to venture in the forest looking for them. While Lemuel doubted any of them were smart enough to survive, he was sure that his dear, beloved Jaytsy and her son were braving the wilds, holed up in that cave, keeping back the bears and wolves with sticks she sharpened and fires she made, clutching her baby and bravely stabbing at any creature that tried to harm them.
He sat down, again overwhelmed by the images. They were the most vivid during the hour after the surgeon gave him a vial. Not only did the new formula erase the pain, it heightened his thoughts, making them sharp and vibrant. Right now the effect was diminishing again, but still he could see her black ponytail, disheveled and messy; and her dress, tattered and ripped in interesting places; and her son, watching with dark brown eyes as he was pressed against her heaving bosom . . .
If only Lemuel could ride! If only he didn’t need the vials every four hours! He’d be there, at that cave, whisking her away from all of that, and embracing the baby, his son . . .
But he was doing the next best thing.
Carefully he pulled out the ink well from his pocket and set it on the tackle cabinet. Then the paper, and the quills, and set to writing as neatly as he could, a letter to Jon Offra.
Hopefully the man was smart enough to read between the lines.
Chapter 30--“Just when I thought Salem couldn’t surprise me with anything else.”