by Cook, Glen
I run the Old Crew, most of the time, because nobody else wants to bother.
* * *
We have established ourselves in an area of tall brick tenements close to the wall, southwest of the north gate, which is the only gate still fully functional. From the first hour of the siege we have been improving our position.
Mogaba thinks in terms of attack. He does not believe a war can be won from behind stone walls. He wants to meet the Shadowlanders on the wall, to throw them back, then to charge outside and stomp them. He launches spoiling raids and nuisance attacks to keep them wobbly. He won’t prepare for the possibility that they might get inside the city in significant numbers, although almost every attack puts Shadowlanders on our side of the wall before we can concentrate enough to push them back.
Someday, sometime, things won’t go Mogaba’s way. Someday Shadowspinner’s people are going to grab a gate. Someday we are going to see full-scale city war.
That is inevitable.
The Old Crew is ready, Mogaba. Are you?
We will become invisible, Your Arrogance. We have played this game before. We read the Annals. We will be the ghosts who kill.
We hope.
Shadows are the question. Shadows are the problem. What do they know? What will they be able to find?
Those villains have not been called Shadowmasters just because they love the darkness.
8
With the exceptions of three hidden doors, all entrances to the Company’s quarters have been bricked up. Likewise every window opening below third-floor levels. Alleys and breezeways are now a maze of deathtraps. The three usable entrances can be reached only by climbing outside stairways subject to missile fire their entire rise. Where we could manage we have fireproofed.
For the Black Company there is no inactivity during the days of siege. Even One-Eye works. When I can find him.
Every man stays too damned busy and too damned tired to dwell upon our situation.
After entering a concealed entrance known only to the brothers of the Old Crew, the crows and bats, the shadows, the Nyueng Bao watchers down the street and any Nar who care to keep track from the north barbican, I trundled down flight after flight of steps. I reached a basement where Big Bucket dozed beside a lonely, fitful little candle. Quiet though I was, he cracked an eyelid. He wasted no breath on a challenge. A ramshackle, twisted wardrobe tilted against the wall behind him, its door hanging crookedly on one damaged hinge. I pulled the door gently and eased inside.
Any outsider force reaching the cellar would find the wardrobe stuffed with desperately meager food stores.
The cabinet fronts a tunnel. Tunnels join all our buildings. Mogaba and anyone else interested might expect as much. If they got down into our cellars a little work would show them what they hoped to find.
That ought to satisfy them.
The tunnel entered another cellar. Several men were asleep there, amidst tremendous clutter and a smell like a bear’s den. I moved slowly until recognized.
Had I been an intruder I would not have been the first never to return from the underworld.
Now I entered the real secret places.
New Stormgard rose atop old Jaicur. Little effort was made to demolish the old town. Many of the earlier structures had been in excellent condition.
We have a bewildering maze dug out down where no one ought to think to look. It gets a tad bigger whenever a sack of earth goes to the wall or into one of our other projects. It is no cozy warren, though. It takes willpower to go down into those dank, dark places where the air hardly moves, candles never come wholly to life, and there is at least a chance that any shadow may harbor a screaming death.
And me, I have a thing about being buried alive.
It gets no easier with practice.
Hagop and Otto, Goblin and One-Eye and I went through this before, on the Plain of Fear, where for about five thousand years we lived like badgers in the ground.
“Cletus. Where’s Goblin?” Cletus is one of three brothers who serve as our engineers and master artillerymen.
“Around the corner. Next cellar.”
Cletus, Loftus and Longinus are geniuses. They figured out how to bring fresh air down the chimneys of existing structures up top, then into the deep tunnels, let it flow slowly through the complex, then send it up other chimneys. Plain engineering, but it seemed like sorcery to me. A flow of breathable air, though slow and never pure, serves us well enough.
It does nothing to lessen the damp and the smell.
I found Goblin. He was holding a candle for Longinus while the latter slapped wet mortar onto freshly scrubbed stonework about eye level. “What’s the problem, Goblin?”
“Rained like a bastard up there, eh?”
“Gods swiped a river somewhere and dropped it here. Why?”
“We’ve got a thousand leaks down here.”
“Big problem?”
“Could be later on. There’s no drainage. We’re as low as we can go unless the Twelve tunnel goes good.”
“Sounds like an engineering problem to me.”
“It is,” Longinus said, smoothing the mortar. “And Clete did anticipate it. We’ve waterproofed from the start. Trouble is, you can’t tell how you’re doing until you get a really nasty rain. We’re lucky it didn’t go on the way it does during the rainy season. Three days of that, we might’ve gotten flooded out.”
“Still sounds like an engineering problem. You can handle it, right?”
Longinus shrugged. “We’ll work on it. That’s all we can do, Croaker.”
Little dig there. Like telling me, let everybody do their own worrying.
“That’s why you wanted me?” It seemed a little weak, even for Goblin.
“No. Longo, you don’t hear anything.” The toad-faced man made a complex gesture with three fingers of his left hand as he said that. Some half-hinted glimmer trailed behind his fingers momentarily. Longinus went back to work like he was deaf.
“It’s so important you need to cut him out?”
“He talks. He don’t mean no harm but he can’t help repeating everything he hears.”
“And makes it better when he tells it. I know. All right. Tell me.”
“Something has happened with the Shadowmaster. He’s changed. Me and One-Eye only decided for sure about an hour ago but we think it’s been going on for a while. He’s just kept us from seeing it.”
“What?”
Goblin leaned closer, as though Longinus might yet eavesdrop. “He’s gotten well, Murgen. He’s just about back to normal. He’s been getting his feet under him before he comes down on us with them both at once. We also decided that he is hiding the change more from his buddy Longshadow than he is from us. We don’t scare him that much.”
I stiffened, recalling strange behavior on the encircling plain, going on right now. “Oh, shit!”
“What?”
“He’s going to come tonight. Real soon. They were moving into position when I came down. I thought it was just the usual.… We’d better go full alert.” I headed out of there with what energy I had, announcing the alert wherever I saw anybody.
9
Shadowspinner did not hurry. The Company took its positions on the wall. The Taglian rabble we led got as ready as they ever get. I sent warning to Mogaba and Speaker Ky Dam. Mogaba is a jerk and a lunatic but not a complete fool. He believes he keeps the job separate from personalities. If Goblin claimed we were in big trouble he would listen.
Alarms sounded everywhere. Shouts of anger at being anticipated rose outside the wall.
The civilian population began to respond. Fear swept the darkened streets. This felt bigger than usual. As always, the old-timers among the Jaicuri recalled the first coming of the Shadowmasters. Back then the enemy first wave consisted of deadly flickers of darkness.
“One-Eye. Any shadows out there?”
“Won’t be any of those, Murgen. They have to come up from Shadowcatch. Longshadow would have to be in on
it.”
“Good.” I’ve seen what the shadows can do, on a small scale. The Jaicuri were right to be scared.
“I promise you some sorcery, though. It’s already gathering.”
“I love how you can always cheer me up, runt.” I surveyed the walls beyond our section. Hard to see much but it looked like any assault would meet a ready defense.
Which meant nothing if Spinner was in good form.
“Murgen!”
“What?”
“Behind you.”
I looked.
Ky Dam, Speaker of the Nyueng Bao, accompanied by a son and some grandsons, by gesture asked if he could come up to the battlements. Only the son was armed. He was a squat, emotionless man rumored to be some kind of master swordsman. I nodded. “Welcome aboard.”
The Speaker looked like he was about a thousand years older than One-Eye but was spry enough to climb without help. He didn’t have a lot of himself to move around. His hair was evenly distributed around his head and face but very little of it remained. It consisted of white wisps. He was covered with liver spots. His skin color had faded. He was more pallid than some of us northerners.
He bowed slightly.
I responded in kind, trying to match his bow exactly. That would indicate an honor between equals, which ought to earn me some good guy points because, although junior in years, I was senior here because he was on Company ground and I was Company top dog.
Clever me, I make every effort to be polite to the Speaker. And I keep reminding the guys to be respectful and protective of all Nyueng Bao, even if provoked. I am trying to encourage the taking of a longer view than is usual with ordinary people.
We have no friends anywhere in these strange lands.
Ky Dam faced the darkened plain. His presence was strong. Many Jaicuri believe he is a sorcerer. Goblin and One-Eye say he can be called a wizard in the word’s most archaic sense, of wise man.
The old boy drew a breath that seemed to enhance his aura of strength. “It will be different tonight.” He spoke mainstream Taglian with no accent.
“Their master has recovered his powers.”
The Speaker glanced at me sharply, then at Goblin and One-Eye. “Ah. So.”
“Exactly.” I’ve always wanted to do that when some old fart made cryptic noises. I couldn’t help myself when the perfect opportunity arrived.
I eyeballed the Speaker’s escort. The swordmaster seemed too squat and bulky for his reputation. Such as it was. Not a lot crosses the cultural boundary.
The grandsons looked like most Nyueng Bao men in their prime. Like if they smiled, or showed any emotion whatsoever, they would forfeit their souls. Like they had cactus plugs up their butts, in Goblin’s words.
I went on with my work while Ky Dam considered the night. His escort stayed out of my way.
Big Bucket checked in. “All set, boss.”
And the Shadowmaster’s men sounded like they were ready to play. Their horns began calling like bulls in rut. I grumbled, “It won’t be long.” They could put it off for another twenty years, though. I wouldn’t mind. I was in no hurry.
A Taglian messenger stumbled up from the street, fought for breath, croaked out word that Mogaba wanted me.
“On my way. Less than five minutes,” I told him. I scanned the darkness. “Hold the fort, Bucket.”
“Just what this outfit needs. Another comedian.”
“Oh, I’ll slay them.”
Ky Dam said something. The swordmaster squinted at the night. For half a heartbeat there was a ghostly flicker in the hills. Star? Reflection of a star? No. The night was cool, wet and overcast.
The Speaker said, “There may be more happening than is immediately apparent, Bone Warrior.”
“Perhaps.” Bone Warrior? “But, unlike Nyueng Bao, we are not warriors. We are soldiers.”
The old man got his mind around that quickly. “As you will, Stone Soldier. All may not be as it seems.” Was he making these up as he went?
He did not seem pleased by his speculation. He turned, hastened down the stair. His grandsons had trouble keeping up.
“What was that about?” Bucket asked.
“I don’t have a clue. I’ve been summoned by His Holiness, the Prince of the Company.” As I stepped to the stair I glanced at One-Eye. The little wizard was staring toward the hills, about where Ky Dam had done the same. He seemed both puzzled and unhappy.
I didn’t have time to ask. Nor did I have much inclination.
I had had bad news enough already.
10
Mogaba stands six feet five. Any fat on him has to be between his ears because there isn’t an ounce anywhere else. All bone and muscle, he moves like a cat, his slightest twitch pure liquid grace. He works hard to stay hard but not to become overly muscled. He is very dark but a deep mahogany more than an ebony. He glows with conviction, an unshakable inner strength.
He has a ready wit but never smiles. When he does show humor it is entirely surface, for effect, an illusion spun for his audience. He doesn’t feel it and probably doesn’t understand it. He is as focused as any human being who ever lived. And that focus is the creation and maintenance of Mogaba, greatest warrior who ever lived.
He is almost as good as he wants to be. He might be as good as he thinks he is. I never saw anyone who could match his individual skills.
The other Nar are almost as good, almost as arrogantly self-confident.
Mogaba’s self-opinion is his big weakness but I don’t think anyone could get him to believe that. He and his reputation stand squarely at the center of his every consideration.
Sadly, self-indulgence and self-admiration aren’t always traits that will inspire soldiers to win battles.
There is no love lost between Mogaba and the rest of us. His rigidity split the Company into Old Crew and Nar factions. Mogaba envisions the Black Company as an ages-old holy crusade. Us Old Crew guys see it as a big unhappy family trying to survive in a world that really is out to get us.
The debate would be much more bitter were Shadowspinner not around to snap up the mantle of bigger common enemy.
Many of Mogaba’s own people are less than thrilled with the way his mind is working these days.
Something Croaker harped about, from the moment he first set quill to paper, is what might be called matters of form. It is not good form to bicker with your superiors, however wrong they may be and however one-sided their determination of their superiority is. I try to maintain good form.
Croaker quickly elevated Mogaba to third in the Company, after himself and Lady, because of his exceptional talents. But that did not automatically entitle Mogaba to assume command if Croaker and Lady were gone. New Captains are supposed to be elected. In a situation like the one here in Dejagore the custom is to poll the soldiers to see if they think an immediate election is necessary. If they think the old Captain has become mad, senile, dead, incompetent, or otherwise in need of permanent replacement then a election will be held.
I cannot recall any instance in the Annals when the senior candidate was rejected by the soldiers, but if an election were held today a precedent might be set. In a secret ballot even many of the Nar might declare no confidence in Mogaba.
There will be no vote while we are besieged. I will oppose any effort to hold one. Mogaba may be mad and I may not be able to go along with him in areas he considers religious, but only he has the will to control thousands of skittish Taglian legionnaires while keeping the Jaicuri in line. If he should fall his assistant Sindawe would step up, then Ochiba, and only then, maybe, if I can’t hide fast enough, me.
Soldiers and civilians both fear Mogaba more than they respect him after all this time besieged. And that troubles me. The Annals demonstrate over and over that fear is the most fertile soil for treachery.
11
Mogaba holds staff conferences in the citadel. There is a war room there, once the toy of the sorceress Stormshadow. Mogaba considers meeting there a great concession to the di
stances us underlings must hike. He does not like leaving his own part of the action. For that reason I could count on this being short.
He was polite enough, though it was a strained courtesy obvious to all. He said, “I received your message. It was not entirely clear.”
“I garbled it intentionally. I didn’t want the messenger telling everybody on his way to see you.”
“It is not good news, then, I assume.” He spoke the Jewel Cities dialect the Company picked up when it was in service to the Syndic of Beryl. Most of us used it only when we did not want the natives to understand what we were saying. Mogaba used it because he did not yet have enough Taglian to get by without interpreters. Even his Jewel Cities dialect was badly accented.
“Definitely not good news,” I said. Mogaba’s friend Sindawe translated for the Taglian officers present. I continued, “Goblin and One-Eye tell me Shadowspinner is completely healthy again and means tonight to be his big comeback show. So tonight won’t be just another raid, it will be a big punchout for the whole works.”
A dozen pairs of eyes stared, praying I was making the sort of bad joke Goblin and One-Eye would find hilarious. Mogaba’s own eyes were icy. He wanted to make me recant by sheer weight of his gaze.
Mogaba has no use for One-Eye or Goblin. They are one of the big sources of contention between him and the Old Crew. He is sure that real wizards, however puny, have no place among real warriors, who are supposed to rely on their strength, their wit, their will, and even maybe their superior steel—if they have it.
Goblin and One-Eye, besides being wizards, besides being sloppy and undisciplined and rowdy, worst of all fail to agree that Mogaba is the best thing that could have happened to the Black Company.
Mogaba hates Shadowspinner in part because he knows the Shadowmaster will never meet him in a trial by combat that can be sung about down through the ages.
Mogaba wants his place in the Annals. He lusts after a major place in the Annals. And he is going to get that, but not the way he wants.