by David Weber
“Thousand,” he said, saluting briskly, and Gahnyr nodded back with rather less formality.
“Five Hundred,” he responded, and accepted Neshok’s gestured invitation to seat himself in the chair floating in front of the desk.
Neshok dismissed Porath with a flick of his head, then resumed his own chair and leaned back in it ever so slightly, regarding Gahnyr with an attentive expression.
“How can I help you, Sir?” he inquired as the door closed behind Porath.
“I’m on my way to a meeting with Two Thousand Harshu and Thousand Toralk,” Gahnyr said. “It’s mostly just a routine base-touching, but I wondered if you’d had time to go over those dispatches from Thousand Carthos? If you’ve turned up anything new, I thought I’d take it along with me.”
“Of course, Sir.” Neshok’s reply was as crisp as the nod which accompanied it, despite a fresh stab of resentment. Of course Gahnyr would “take it along” with him. It wouldn’t do to have Alivar Neshok’s pariah presence cast its shadow across Commander of Two Thousand Harshu’s latest meeting, would it? Why, if that happened, somebody might actually think Harshu had authorized Neshok’s actions!
“There isn’t really anything new—certainly not anything earthshaking—in Thousand Carthos’ reports, Sir,” he continued. “I could wish there were more prisoner interrogations”—his opaque eyes flicked up to meet Gahnyr’s briefly—“since that’s proven our best source of intelligence, but apparently not many prisoners were actually taken. On the other hand, he’d only gotten about halfway across Resym before he was recalled to join us here, and aside from the fort at the Nairsom-Resym portal, he hadn’t encountered anything remotely like resistance, so he probably had less opportunity to secure prisoners than we’ve had.”
“Probably not,” Gahnyr agreed in a neutral tone.
The infantry thousand wasn’t as imaginative as Klayrman Toralk, his Air Force counterpart, but he couldn’t have missed the implication of Neshok’s remarks, and the intelligence officer felt a flicker of satisfaction. They’d find it a bit more difficult to dodge the crap Carthos’ lack of prisoners was going to splash all over everyone in sight. None of Carthos’ reports said so in so many words, but it was obvious he hadn’t bothered to take any prisoners, and it was difficult to believe every single Sharonian he’d encountered had died fighting.
Not going to be able to sweep that under the rug, are you? the five hundred thought coldly. And Carthos is a regular Infantry officer, not one of those Office of Intelligence types you can shove all your own responsibility off onto, isn’t he?
Indeed Carthos was, and—like Neshok—he enjoyed the protection of no less a patron than Two Thousand mul Gurthak, himself. That was a reflection which brought Neshok quite a lot of comfort upon occasion. Harshu and Toralk might think they’d be able to use him as the sacrificial goat if the time came that some bleeding heart from the Commandery or Inspector General’s Office decided to look into any irregularities where the Kerellian Accords were concerned. In fact, he was quite sure now that Harshu had had that in mind from the beginning. He’d throw up his hands in horror when the investigators arrived and tell the multiverse he’d had no idea what his “out of control” subordinates were doing. Of course he hadn’t! But, after all, what could anyone have expected? It wasn’t as if the Office of Army Intelligence was one of the combat arms with a properly developed sense of honor, was it?
But that wasn’t going to fly when Neshok and Carthos testified under truth spell that their actions been authorized every step of the way. Especially not when their testimony would implicate not simply Harshu but also mul Gurthak, who was a far larger and more influential fish.
“As for the other material in the Thousand’s reports,” the five hundred continued after a moment, “his reconnaissance gryphons and dragon overflights have confirmed what we were able to deduce from the captured Sharonian maps, at least as far as everything within a thousand miles or so of the Nairsom-Resym portal is concerned. There’s virtually no sign of human inhabitants and the only ‘roads’ are little more than dirt trails hacked out of the undergrowth. There’s no way anyone without dragons could operate in that sort of terrain.”
“Good,” Gahnyr said. “Can you shoot a summary of his reports to my PC before supper?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“Then I think that’s about everything.” The infantry thousand stood: he did not, Neshok noticed, offer to clasp forearms with him. “I’d best be going if I’m going to make that meeting on time. Thank you, Five Hundred.”
“You’re welcome, Sir,” Neshok replied pleasantly, and came to his feet respectfully as Gahnyr nodded, turned, and left the office.
Oh, you’re very welcome, the five hundred thought as the door closed. And I’ll be sure to emphasize all those little…irregularities Thousand Carthos has been up to. You and Two Thousand Harshu may think you can feed me to the dragon without getting your lily-white hands dirty, but it’s not going to be that easy. I may be a stinking little intelligence puke, not a proper combat officer, but you’re playing on my turf when it comes to information control. By the time I’m done, there’s going to be enough evidence tucked away in official records and documentation to lead any IG investigators straight to all of the rest of you, too.
It might not be enough to save his neck, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of taking all the others down with him.
And the thought of all those smoking dragons hidden away in the files ought to help motivate Two Thousand mul Gurthak to keep his promises about protection and promotion, as well. Because if he doesn’t, I’m godsdamned sure I won’t be going down alone.
* * *
“You realize Thalmayr would send us both to the dragon if he realized what you and I were talking about,” Commander of Fifty Jaralt Sarma observed almost whimsically, arms crossed over his broad chest as he tipped back in his chair and balanced on its rear legs. He was a relatively short, stocky, heavyset young man with unruly brown hair and dark eyes which Therman Ulthar suspected had gotten a lot harder in the last couple of weeks.
“Probably,” Ulthar agreed after a moment. “Assuming he didn’t just throw us into a cell along with the Sharonians and beat the hells out of us every other day along with them.”
Sarma’s lips tightened, but he didn’t disagree. In his own considered opinion, Hadrign Thalmayr was a sociopath. Whether he’d always been one or whether it was a recent development, following his catastrophic showing at the Mahritha portal, was more than the fifty was prepared to say, but it didn’t really matter. Regulations, the Articles of War, and the Kerellian Accords were very, very clear and explicit about the proper treatment of POWs. And even if they hadn’t been, there were some things Jaralt Sarma wasn’t prepared to stomach.
“Actually,” Ulthar went on, “if he threw us into a cell with Regiment-Captain Velvelig, he wouldn’t get an opportunity to beat the shit out of us. Velvelig would do it for him. In fact, he’d probably reach right down our throats and rip out our hearts with his bare hands.” The wiry, red-haired fifty shook his head, his expression even grimmer than Sarma’s. “That’s a hard man, Jaralt, and I’ve been watching him. Anyone who can drop a dozen gryphons all by himself—and put a bullet into the last one’s eye after he was down with an arbalest bolt in a shattered hip—is not someone I want pissed at me. He’s already decided what he’s going to do. He’s just waiting until he has the best chance to take some of us with him before he tries it.”
Sarma nodded. He hadn’t spent as much time as Ulthar had in Fort Ghartoun’s brig—whether as a prisoner himself or since the survivors of the fort’s Sharonian garrison had been imprisoned there—for several reasons. The most important of them was his lack of desire to draw Thalmayr’s attention to himself, but his own sense of shame was high on the list, as well. On the other hand, he’d never been Velvelig’s prisoner. He didn’t have the personal, searing sense of obligation Ulthar felt. No, his shame was for the way in which Thalmayr degrade
d and dishonored the entire Andaran officer corps by his actions. Not that Thalmayr was alone in that…which presented its own thorny problem.
“The question before the house is what we do about all of this,” he said. “We’re very junior officers, Therman. Whatever we do is probably going to put us over our heads in dragon shit by the time it all hits the wall.”
“I’d already be there if you hadn’t stopped me,” Ulthar replied. “In case I didn’t already say it, thanks.”
He looked across at the shorter man, his eyes level and his tone somber, and Sarma unfolded his arms to wave one hand in a brushing away gesture.
“Couldn’t let you get yourself killed before I had a chance to come along with you,” he responded, and the lightness of his own tone fooled neither of them. If he hadn’t intercepted Ulthar on his way towards the fort’s office block, Commander of One Hundred Hadrign Thalmayr or Therman Ulthar—or both—would be dead by now.
“Maybe you couldn’t,” Ulthar said, “but this is a lot more on me than it is on you. The bastard’s my company commander, and I’m the one Velvelig and his healers did their dead level best to take care of. That makes it personal, Jaralt.”
“I know that. But you won’t do anyone any good if you try to storm his office. While I’ll agree Thalmayr’s dumber than a rock, there’s a reason he’s doubled the sentries on the HQ block. And if I had to guess, I’d guess that reason is named Therman Ulthar.”
“Probably,” Ulthar agreed.
“No ‘probably’ about it. You have noticed none of those sentries are Scouts, didn’t you?”
“Of course I have.”
Ulthar sounded irritated, although Sarma knew the irritation wasn’t directed at him. Ulthar and Thalmayr were both officers in the 2nd Andaran Scouts, one of the Union of Arcana’s elite units. The 2nd Andarans were famous for their high standards, proficiency, discipline…and unit loyalty, and Hadrign Thalmayr had been a member of the 2nd Andarans for less than a month before he got two of its platoons blown into dog meat by the Sharonians. Worse yet, he’d accomplished that by systematically rejecting the advice of Hundred Olderhan, who’d commanded C Company for the better part of two years and whose father happened to be the 2nd Andarans’ hereditary commander. There couldn’t be much love for Thalmayr among the unit’s survivors, and an outfit with the 2nd Andarans’ élan and history—with their battle honors and their sense of who and what they were—wasn’t going to take well to the dishonor they knew his actions were heaping upon them.
And they’re a lot more likely to back someone like Therman Ulthar then they are to obey Thalmayr, if it comes down to it, Sarma thought grimly. Unfortunately, there’re only five of them—six, counting Therman—and Thalmayr’s got most of a company of regulars under his command.
Regulars who didn’t have the personal investment of the 2nd Andarans…and who still believed the lies they’d been fed by their own intelligence officers.
“If we were closer to home, we could go to the JAG,” he said out loud.
“And if crocodiles had wings they’d be dragons,” Ulthar replied sourly. “I’d rather go through channels myself, but from what Iftar said, ‘channels’ wouldn’t give a rat’s arse.”
“Not anyone we could reach, at least.” Sarma puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. “You’re brother-in-law’s right about that, I’m afraid. I told you what happened when I tried to report Neshok’s violation of the Accords to Thousand Carthos.”
Ulthar grunted unhappily. The Kerellian Accords were the bedrock of the Andaran Army’s honor, deep in the bone and sinew of what made Andara Andara. Violating them was a capital offense, but if Sarma and his own brother-in-law, Iftar Halesak, were right, Hadrign Thalmayr wasn’t the only one ignoring them. In fact, Ulthar doubted Thalmayr would have had the courage to violate them if they weren’t already being violated with the connivance—or at least the knowledge—of officers far senior to himself. No. Thalmayr was a carrion eater, a jackal gorging on the stinking leftovers of someone else’s kill. And given the lies the Expeditionary Force had been told—the lies about who’d shot first not just at Toppled Timber but at the Mahritha portal, and, far worse, the lie about Magister Halathyn’s death—that someone else was very highly placed.
Under normal circumstances, it was an officer’s duty to report any evidence of a violation of the Kerellian Accords to the Judge Advocate General’s office. He had no choice about that, and the Articles of War specifically protected him against retaliation even if his suspicions were later deemed unfounded. Of course, what the Articles promised and what practice delivered weren’t always the same thing, but at least Sarma and Ulthar could have expected their allegations to be rigorously investigated and that anyone who was the subject of that investigation would be very careful to avoid any open appearance of retaliation afterward.
Under normal circumstances. Under these circumstances it was entirely possible that a pair of nosy, holier-than-thou junior officers who dared to rock their superiors’ boat might simply disappear. It sickened Ulthar to even think such a thing, but if Thousand Carthos, Two Thousand Harshu’s senior infantry officer, and Five Hundred Neshok, who reported directly to the two thousand, were guilty of violating the Accords, why should they hesitate over a few more murders simply because the victims wore the same uniform they’d already befouled? And if those violations were being winked at in the field, and if there was anything to Iftar’s belief that the lies the AEF had been told were part of a deliberate disinformation policy designed to whip up the troops’ fury, they had to assume Harshu’s immediate superiors knew about it, too. So any attempt to report their suspicions up-chain to Two Thousand mul Gurthak or his superiors was likely to be…poorly received, as well.
“I think,” Sarma said slowly, “that whichever way we jump, there’s going to be hell to pay. If you or I try to…relieve Thalmayr, you know damned well he’s going to call it mutiny. Probably mutiny in the face of the enemy, given everything that’s going on. And if he does, and if someone farther up the food chain”—even here, and even to Ulthar, he carefully didn’t mention any names like “Harshu” or “mul Gurthak” out loud—“really is involved, we could end up looking at a field court-martial.”
A field court-martial, he did not point out, whose sentence would almost certainly be death.
“I know.” Ulthar’s face might have been beaten iron for all the expression it showed, and his voice was colder and even harder. “But if we don’t do something, if we don’t at least try to stop the rot, then we’re complicit in it. I don’t know about you, Jaralt, but I can’t let that happen. I just can’t.”
“Well, in that case, I don’t suppose we have a lot of choice.” To his own surprise, Sarma actually smiled ever so slightly. “On the other hand, I hope you won’t object to trying to at least do something effective about it. If we’re going up against the dragon with a slingshot, I’d at least like to do it in a way bastards like Thalmayr and Neshok can’t just sweep under the carpet afterward.”
“Oh, I think I can promise you that much, whatever happens,” Ulthar said grimly. “I’ve already sent an outside-channels message home that nobody’s going to be able to ignore when it arrives.”
“You have?” Sarma let the front legs of his chair thump back to the floor and leaned forward, eyes narrow. “How?”
Ulthar smiled crookedly and shook his head.
“It wasn’t that hard, really. Thalmayr wasn’t with the Company long enough to figure out that Valnar Rohsahk isn’t just our platoon RC specialist; he’s also our hacker. He didn’t even work up a sweat hacking Fifty Wentys’ spellware.”
“You had him hack the censor’s spellware?” Sarma asked very carefully.
“Of course I did.” Ulthar’s smile was considerably broader than it had been. “It’s a pity Thalmayr lost the Company files when the Sharonians kicked our arse. If he hadn’t, he might know Valnar was honor graduate in the Garth Showma Institute’s counter-spellware course. If he’d been w
illing to transfer to one of the regular regiments, they’d have made him a sword or even a senior sword in their recon section on the spot. Wentys never had a chance after I turned him loose.”
Sarma just looked at him for several seconds while his own mind raced. He’d seen Shield Valnar Rohsahk here at Fort Ghartoun, but he hadn’t paid him much attention. Rohsahk was probably a year or two younger even than Sarma, with light brown hair and unremarkable features. Like Ulthar, he’d been severely wounded in the Sharonian attack on the Mahritha portal. That was true of all the 2nd Andarans here at Fort Ghartoun; they’d been left by their captors to spare them the additional pain of being transported across such rough terrain by someone who didn’t have dragons. He seemed to keep to himself quite a bit, but now that Sarma thought about it, the shield always seemed to have a game or some other app running on his personal crystal. Or at least that was what Sarma had assumed Rohsahk was up to…
“And just what, if I might ask, did Shield Rohsahk do to Fifty Wentys’ spellware?” he asked with a certain trepidation.
“He just hid a file in the letter I sent my wife to tell her I was alive after all,” Ulthar said. “It’s keyed to the standard extraction code Arylis uses to unpack all my letters, but it won’t activate until it hears the code in her voice.” He shook his head. “If Wentys could find his arse with both hands we’d have had to think up something a lot more sophisticated.”
“What if someone farther up-chain is better at his job than Wentys is?”
“They could hardly be worse at it,” Ulthar pointed out. “I mean, do you really think Five Hundred Isrian left his best commo officer here in Thermyn with the gods only know what waiting for the AEF when it finally hits a Sharonian position that’s too tough to take?”
That was a valid point, the other fifty reflected. Commander of Fifty Tohlmah Wentys was a Chalaran who’d somehow ended up in the Army instead of the Navy, and he was unlikely to rise much above his present rank. He was a stolid sort—an officer who did what was required of him without imagination, drive, or ambition. He was sufficiently Gifted to perform adequately as a communications specialist in peacetime, but as Ulthar had just suggested, he was hardly the pick of the litter.