by David Weber
Shelthara laughed. “Now you know what we little office workers suffer through all the time. Women at the bars offering to hold our mugs for us ’cause our toothpick arms look too scrawny to lift ’em.”
“Right.” The stationmaster shook his head. Shelthara had a natural charm and never seemed to lack for female companionship. It was a source of continual amazement to the stevedore crews that the freight manager managed to do so well for himself with such a thin physique. “And excellent taste in trail food had nothing to do with the simian ambassador’s charm did it?”
“Hey now.” Dolphar objected. “He didn’t try to give us liquor like the more mercantilist types do. That chan Rahool’s a working man. He understood all about regs, and staying clearheaded while working the track. In fact he’s a veteran too! Might even be returning to active service with the war, for all you know.”
“Doubt it,” said Shelthara. “Looked too old to me.”
The three men exchanged a moment of understanding that cut across their work divisions. All of them were too old for enlistment, though Shelthara might be able to get in with the help of a recruitment officer’s blind eye, so Shelthara was the one who volunteered the next tidbit.
“The guy said he wasn’t much of a Voice, if you can believe it. Darn fortunate to be able to communicate across species lines and happy to have the simian ambassadorship, he said.” Shelthara nodded to Dolphar. “Did he warn you he thought chimps would want to help with loading?”
“He might of said something like that. I sent him off with one of my loading crews. Said he spent the day with ’em lifting as much as anybody and asking questions the whole while. He’s a quick study. He’ll do plenty fine.”
“You can’t draft an ambassador.” Torrash glared warningly at his senior day shift stevedore. “Don’t even try.”
Dolphar laughed. “Don’t worry, Bossman. I won’t try to impress anyone who can hold his own with gorillas. I know my limits.”
The glint in the man’s eyes hinted to Torrash and Shelthara both that Dolphar knew no such thing, but that at least his efforts to recruit the simian ambassador when next he came through wouldn’t be physical. Rumor had it that the stevedores had already taken the ambassador out drinking after shift in an effort to get him to join the crews and found his tolerance far exceeded their own.
“Did your boys talk to the cetacean ambassador too?”
“Yup,” said Dolphar. “That job’s going to be tough. The port haulers are doing most of the work setting up the aquarium cars for us. Talked to my cousin at Port-of-Larakesh about that, but the lady’d already worked it out with him. Very efficient. Not so friendly as the simian, but I figure she’s got her reasons to be glum.”
They nodded. Everyone knew the story of Shaylar Nargra-Kolmayr, and while they didn’t all know Cetacean Ambassador Shalassar Brintal-Kolmayr, no one had failed to make the connection once they’d heard her full name and seen the family resemblance.
A triumphant train whistle cut through their conversation, and they all paused a moment to savor it. It was 3:05 pm, and that was the steam blast of a Paladin—the mammoth workhorse engine of the TTE—set to begin her straight transit from Larakesh through the New Sharona portals direct to the Haysam coast city of Cejyo. She’d reach the enormous seaport in eighteen hours and twenty minutes, arriving at 9:25 am on the dot. Trains were a beautiful thing.
When the whistle from the departing ten thousand-ton haul cut off at the portal boundary, Torrash turned back to the two men.
“Think this Parliament will be a help for the war? That they’ll actually do anything that makes sense or that it’ll just be people making decisions about stuff they don’t really understand?”
“Can’t say. But I hope they know what they’re doing,” Dolphar said, grimly.
Shelthara puffed up his chest. “We’ve got Darcel Kinlafia in office. He’s not a railroad man, but he’s been out as far as the lines go. He’ll make sure they don’t go making decisions in Parliament that are better made at the railhead—or the trailhead for that matter. I bet you he backs TTE on everything we need and pushes the rest of the reps to get the Army what it needs. We’ll be winning those lost universes back in no time once we get enough troops and guns down-chain.”
“Everything’s pretty hard to muster. We need some more signalmen further down track. And lay crews—lots of lay crews from what I hear.” Torrash mused.
“Figure TTE’s asking them for everything we need?” Dolphar asked.
“I imagine so, but who’s to say.” Shelthara looked questioningly at Torrash.
“The Director’s on it. Don’t worry that the Emperor isn’t being asked. Might not prioritize us as high as we’d like, but you can be sure Director Tyamish’s talking to the Privy Council regular and probably even plans on meeting with the Parliament as soon as they sort themselves out in committees and all.”
“News says some of the representatives are forming advisory staffs. You interested, Boss?” Shelthara asked, “Wanna go meet your Parliamentary Representative?”
“Not one bit, Fadar. We’ve got too much work to do here. Tell you what though, you slot in the cetaceans and the simians like I said, and send off to the ambassadors so they know when to have their cars ready. The bit the Cetacean Ambassador included about feed cars is a real good idea. You might drop a note about that to the big guy with the gorillas. I imagine a gorilla’s going to want to eat more than the dining cars usually stock. And warn the stations down-chain about all the unusuals coming. Especially the portal junctions near the ocean need to be warned about the cetaceans. They don’t all have rails that go all the way to the ports. I’m not sure what the whales are planning on and I don’t want any cetaceans dying on our watch.”
“Sure it won’t come to that, Boss,” Shelthara said.
“You’re damn right it won’t, and that’s ’cause we aren’t going to let it.”
“Do you think we need to report to somebody about the military trains that’ve been coming in light?”
“Already wrote it up for Director Tyamish, but you go ahead and write to Parliament about it, if you like. This isn’t proprietary or anything you need to keep quiet on noticing.”
“Good,” said Dolphar, who’d been listening quietly for the last few minutes. “I’d wondered about that Windlord. My sister’s boys signed up. I don’t want their commanders finding out the reinforcements’re light only when the trains arrive.”
“Right.” The stationmaster acknowledged the stevedore and with a furrowed brow added, “And Fadar?”
“Yes, Boss?
“Better tell the Voice to make sure he passes it along in the next transmission window, too. Hadn’t thought to tell the down-chain military channels about it. Gotta remember to do that now, too, along with updating the stationmasters. Remind me.”
“Will do, Boss. Will do.”
* * *
The Seneschal of Othmaliz took the election, the war effort, and the entire mess of recent events less well than the men at the Larakesh TTE office. His Eminence considered the entirety of it a bitter draught to be endured while he worked to put in motion all the events his pride demanded for a proper resolution to the situation in Tajvana.
A middle-aged Bergahldian lay brother had managed to win election to a seat in the region of Othmaliz immediately outside Tajvana, but that was the extent of their electoral success. Too many of the locals were besotted with the Ternathian prince’s sacrifice and the old pageantry of the Calirath family’s return to their ancestral seat.
The print news was even calling the Crown Princess Andrin a beautiful bride—a depiction Faroayn Raynarg found personally offensive. He preferred his women small and delicate. The princess’s sheer height appalled and repelled him, although it would never do to admit that was because she also intimidated him. Andrin was irritatingly mannish in appearance, he’d decided. The new Crown Prince Consort Howan Fai, all dressed up and looking absolutely delighted with her, in spite of standin
g significantly shorter than Raynarg, made it even worse. The Seneschal despised them all.
That creepy bird she insisted on bringing everywhere, and the wedding! The disgraceful demand for his services with no notice and no consideration for his status! The Caliraths were beyond vulgar. It was settled.
But his spies were doing good work. A lot of the information was actually coming from his new dear friend, Chava Busar, but Raynarg didn’t let that concern him. Uromathia was far away; the Caliraths—curse them—were right here. Ternathia had owned Tajvana before and unless he struck soon, the Caliraths might very well rule his capital again.
Chava’s tendency to tell him what to do and how to use the Order of Bergahl annoyed him, but Raynarg only needed his help to get rid of the Ternathian Emperor. After that, he could have his palace back and return everything to the status quo he’d enjoyed before the Caliraths’ arrival.
He did acknowledge that Chava was right on one point. It was important to choose his target carefully and then focus his resources to accomplish a proper terror-inducing, successful strike. Then the crowds would be remember who the true power in Tajvana was. And that, Raynarg knew from old experience, would make the second, third, and fifteenth strike so much more successful. But Chava didn’t appreciate the true nature of the threat…or the proper way to deal with it. No, he was positively obsessed with Zindel, Zindel, Zindel—as if there weren’t another Calirath in the entire multiverse!
The hints, oh so many hints! Chava made Raynarg’s head throb with his endlessly repeated hints, his focus on one hard and fast attack on Zindel. He never actually said it in so many words, of course…just as he never admitted his insistence stemmed from fear. He wanted to destroy their opposition in a single strike, before Zindel could see it coming, because he was afraid of what Zindel might do if he somehow survived that strike. A part of the Seneschal could recognize the Uromathian’s logic, but however reasonable Chava’s caution might sound in the palace, in his own temples, it tasted excessive.
Well, the emperor could drop all the hints he liked; the Seneschal had his own choices to make. He agreed that his true enemy was Emperor Zindel. But he wanted the man to suffer.
Zindel couldn’t die until he was broken. The Seneschal wouldn’t allow it. He’d seen the arrogance of Ternathia drain right out of the Winged Crown with the news of Prince Janaki’s death was confirmed and he was determined to see it again. And again and again and again. That, and only that, was the price he would exact for Zindel’s sins against Tajvana.
He would have preferred to start with little Anbessa and slit the throats of each Calirath, from youngest to oldest. Unfortunately, the two younger grand princesses rarely left the palace. That made reaching them…difficult, and Janaki was already dead. Raynarg regretted that. Satisfying as Zindel’s reaction to his son’s death had been, that reaction hadn’t come from the Seneschal’s own hand. That would have been so much better! And since he couldn’t have that, he longed to embrace the pattern, instead, and kill each heir, one by one. He allowed himself a delightful moment imagining the horror in Emperor Zindel’s eyes when his youngest daughter was finally made crown princess after losing all three of her older siblings.
But there were limits in all things, he reminded himself, and the Caliraths’ security was too tight for the sweet, extended revenge he craved. And he didn’t truly need it, when all was said. It was all to probable that he’d have to restrict himself to a single attack, yet one would be enough if it was executed properly. Even if it fell somewhat short of his heart’s true desire, it would be enough to send them packing. After all, the Caliraths had left Tajvana once before. If they left again, Chava Busar could see to the rest of the Calirath brats elsewhere. The Seneschal would wish him success, and perhaps he’d loan the Uromathian some muscle, just as Chava had done for him.
When it came down to it, the Seneschal considered himself a reasonable man. He only wanted back his palace, his city, and the adulation he deserved from the people of Tajvana.
* * *
“Show me.”
Acolyte Raka pointed at the muddy, pier-spined inlet. The Ylani Strait running through the center of Tajvana had many of these side waterways, and Drindel Usar knew what the Bergahldian wanted.
He’d been Calling for hours to get his creatures in range, yet these weren’t their normal waters. The temperature wasn’t completely horrible, but it should have been much warmed and there were nowhere near enough fish.
Another Uromathian padded along beside Raka’s group of Bergahldian toughs. Drindel didn’t recognize his countryman, but he knew from the man’s stance that this was another Talent trained up for Service, and he refocused on Calling, lest he make a bad impression on a likely senior.
He got a very small toothy shark pup to come to the surface. It wanted to be a man-eater one day, but it was only about three feet long so far. And from its starved length, it would never grow to four feet. The creature would die within the week unless someone fed it, and Drindel didn’t have access to enough raw meat or fish to make a difference. At least the cold would dull its senses somewhat.
Raka grunted and led the group mercifully back away from the water.
That night Drindel took a risk and contacted his assigned handler with a simple coded message. He wanted to say, “This place is colder than a cutcha’s privates, with less fish than a desert stream. I’m a Talent, not Arcunas. Send me home and let’s do this in the summer, when there’s enough warmth for algae to bloom, fish to school, and sharks to fill the whole Ylani with shore-to-shore fins!” But he only had code, so all he could send was: “Now. Water cold. Few shark. Small shark. Hungry. Give three month. Many shark. Big shark.”
The answer came back. “Understood. Stop contact. Will inform if directions change.”
Drindel was relieved. Sometimes his handlers were less than understanding about the physical limits of nature. It was good to have a reasonable one; his fellow Talent must have made a good report on him. They were finally taking the details of the Calling Talent seriously!
In a ledger in a small room deep inside Uromathia, Drindel Usar’s name had a small mark added next to it. At the bottom of the page, that mark had a notation: “Weak Talent. Expendable.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
January 24
Commander of One Thousand Tayrgal Carthos snarled behind his goggles as his command dragon spiraled earthward. The pilot was too busy looking down to notice Carthos’ expression and there were no other passengers to see it, since he’d deliberately flown ahead of the main body of his once independent command. His subordinates could oversee the rest of the movement, and he’d decided it would be better for him to meet Mayrkos Harshu with as few witnesses as possible. He doubted the upcoming interview would do anything to improve his relations with the AEF’s commander, whatever happened, and it might be wise to not have any of his subordinates or aides where they might inadvertently offer…unfortunate responses to questions. Better to get the lay of the land so he could brief them on how best to characterize their independent operations in the Nairsom-Kelsayr chain.
Their abortive independent operations, he thought bitterly. He remained far from certain why Harshu had diverted him to that long, roundabout advance, but however hard he’d tried, he’d been unable to think of a single good reason for it. There’d never been any real point from a strategic perspective, even if he’d managed to secure every universe from Nairsom to Kelsayr, given the water gap in Traisum itself. Without ships, getting across the Treybus Ocean—especially in winter!—would have been flatly impossible, even assuming they had managed to take the entire chain and been able to maintain a supply line through it. That had been obvious to Carthos from the moment he’d received his orders.
But it had to have been equally evident to Harshu before the two thousand sent him off anyway, and he’d never provided the support a serious advance through four universes would have required. In fact, he’d proceeded to starve Carthos of even minimal suppl
ies on the pretext that his own advance required everything the AATC could haul. If not that excuse, he would’ve found another, Carthos thought with a fresh surge of anger. He was sure of it, the only question in his mind was why Harshu had shoved him down a useless rathole and then jammed a cork into it behind him.
They’d never liked each other, but this went further than that. He’d pushed Carthos aside, cut him out of any hope for glory, and picked that Air Force prick Toralk to share the spotlight with him. And there’d been something else, something in Harshu’s manner that went beyond anything so simple as dislike. It got a lot closer to scorn, possibly even contempt, and Carthos had found himself wondering if Harshu had somehow discovered the financial transactions between himself and the Mythalan banking interests. The ones Nith mul Gurthak had helped arrange.
It wasn’t as if Tayrgal Carthos were the only Army officer to have skated around the edges of legally allowable loan agreements, but he’d dipped far deeper into those prohibited waters than the majority of his fellows. Worse, the fact that he had gave mul Gurthak a degree of leverage that was…unfortunate. Carthos would have shed no tears over any unpleasantness which befell these Sharonian bastards under any circumstances, but mul Gurthak had made it clear he wanted the gloves to come completely off from the very beginning. Carthos knew the same suggestions had been made to Harshu himself, but mul Gurthak had been more subtle—or perhaps cautious—in the way he’d approached his fellow two thousand. In many ways, Carthos had enjoyed watching the Mythalan manipulate Harshu, maneuver him into deciding on his own to give Alivar Neshok his head. However little Carthos might like dancing to mul Gurthak’s tune himself, seeing a man he detested—and who he knew detested him in return—abandon his high and mighty principles and unknowingly put his entire career into the hands of someone like mul Gurthak had been gratifying.