by Bell, Hilari
They all knew him, of course, so there was no way to keep his name out of it—and Kavi knew that if he kept on with this to the point it started to cause the Hrum real problems, sooner or later, they’d come looking for the source. So when the peasants asked him who was behind all this—couldn’t be him, after all; a peasant just turned twenty?—he’d given them a name.
At first they laughed, then their faces turned thoughtful, and finally glowed with relief. Surely only a deghan would dare to claim that name. Kavi thought them insane, to actually want a deghan in command of this insanity. But if it made them feel better—and made him a bit safer!—let them think what they would. The cursed deghans had to be good for something.
The square to which Patrius led him was surrounded by wooden buildings now, though the common soldiers were still living in tents. Kavi was amused to see they’d laid out their new town in the same formation they’d laid out their camps.
“You people are being fond of squares, aren’t you?”
Patrius shrugged. “It works. Everyone knows where everything is. A messenger coming from another camp—from another army—even in the middle of the night, he doesn’t have to go wandering around looking for the strategus’ tent.”
He led the way into his quarters—floored, roofed, and walled in planks so new that beads of sap pooled on them. There was no door yet, nor shutters on the windows, but it was the same size and shape as the tent that had preceded it.
Kavi snorted. “What did you do, just build the walls up around the canvas? No, I know. It’s practical, and the furniture all fits. Why bother to build, if you don’t build better?”
Patrius smiled. “It is better; it’s cooler now that the sun’s getting hot, and will be warmer and drier in the winter. There’s always a substantial force gathered near an imperial capital, so buildings will be needed. Did you have any trouble getting in?”
The slight shift in his voice, from friend to officer, was subtle but clear. It always was.
“No trouble.” Kavi touched his shoulder. “This always gets me in. I came to tell you, I just paid a visit to Mazad. I thought you’d like to—”
“Mazad?” Patrius’ gaze sharpened. “Did anyone there see your tattoo?”
“No,” said Kavi. “How could they? I’m not exactly showing it off, you know. Someday, word of what those marks mean is going to get out.”
“It already has,” said Patrius. “In Mazad. They expelled our spies just a few weeks ago, and they found them all. Even a woman who’d spent years building her new identity. They examined everyone in town for that tattoo.”
Cold flooded Kavi’s veins. “That must have been just after I left.” Just after he’d brought them word that the Hrum army was only a four-day march down the road. If they’d seen the tattoo, known him for a Hrum spy, would they have believed him? Not likely. A vision touched him—the Hrum marching up the familiar road from the south, the only warning of their approach the dust cloud raised by their boots. The farm folk scurrying down the road before them; the suburban shopkeepers snatching up goods at random and streaming toward the gate, the only gate, where only a few could enter at a time. Screaming children pulled from their mother’s grip in the struggle, bodies going down amid the trampling feet. It could happen, if panic took a town.
But it hadn’t happened in Mazad. The warning, the summons to gather their possessions and come in, had gone out before he left. Kavi drew a deep breath. “How could they have learned what that mark means? You assured me it was a big, dark secret that no one could be getting at!”
If he went back to Mazad now, what would he face? He couldn’t return to his home . . .
“It is a secret,” said Patrius, “but it isn’t wholly unknown in imperial lands, and we aren’t the only ones with spies. I was hoping you could tell me how they found out.”
“If I knew that, I’d likely not be standing here now. Farsalan deghans hang spies. After they’ve told all they know.” Would even the villages, where they’d known Kavi for years, trust him when this news spread? Or . . . “In the villages, they’ll likely be stoning me,” he added. Unless he could talk to them, make them understand first.
“Well, our spies in Mazad weren’t hanged. Only expelled, as I said.”
“Expelled? They weren’t killed?”
“No. Not even harmed, most of them.”
“Hmm.” That had to be the guard commander. Tebin had said he was a sound man—peasant-born, and sensible with it. Tebin hadn’t said anything of the kind about Governor Nehar.
“We’ve had no indications that anyone has learned of it outside Mazad,” Patrius went on. “And with the city under siege, they won’t be able to spread the word. You should be all right. For a time.”
“And when that time ends, then what?”
“By then, if you’re lucky, this will be a settled imperial province,” said Patrius. “And those marks will be a badge of honor. Of service to the empire, just like our rank tattoos.” He touched his own arm, where the elaborate marks of a tactimian were hidden by the cloth of his sleeve. “If you’re discovered before things settle . . . You knew the risks when you took this on. But once Mazad falls, they’ll have other things to think about. You should be wary, of course, but I don’t think it will be a problem.”
“You’re sounding very certain. ‘Once Mazad falls.’ What I came to tell you is that Mazad is prepared for a siege. Stockpiled food, and the town guard armed and trained. Even the townsfolk have been instructed in their duties, formed up into fire brigades, and rescue squads, and whatnot. Mazad won’t be taken easily.”
How simple it was to sound helpful, reporting something that you knew they knew.
“We’ve already discovered that,” said Patrius.
“Already? You’ve attacked Mazad already?” His tone was a masterpiece—startled, but not too startled.
“Yes. I’m surprised you didn’t pass our army on the road.”
Was there a trace of suspicion in Patrius’ voice? “I went north after I left the city,” Kavi told him. “Visiting a couple of mining camps on my route. I hadn’t realized you’d be going in so fast.”
He had paid those camps a flying visit to warn them of the army’s approach and try to talk them into . . . Not refusing to sell to the Hrum—no, that would be a big mistake. But if the ore in this part of the mountains was of the poorest quality, well, that explained why there was so little to tax, now didn’t it?
“Ah. Well, we’ve sent two tacti to besiege Mazad, and they’ve fought off several attacks—and suffered some casualties, if I’m reading the substrategus’ . . . equivocations correctly. So I’m afraid your warning comes too late. I’ll see you’re paid something for it, though.”
You had to keep your spies motivated, after all.
“The Wheel always turns swifter than you think it will.” Kavi shook his head ruefully. “I thought sure I had time. But did you say two tacti? That’d be . . . a fifth of your army, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I don’t think that’s enough. Not with Mazad’s walls.”
“Ah, but Substrategus Arus swore on the iron crown that he could do it with just one tacti.” Patrius’ voice was rich with irony. “Who were we to say otherwise? Especially since . . . Never mind.”
“Since ‘we’ are already arguing with Strategus Garren in the first place?” Kavi guessed.
“Governor Garren,” said Patrius. “But they’ve cut off the city’s supplies and settled in to wait them out—which is just what they should have done three hundred-plus casualties ago.”
“Well, I’ve seen Mazad’s stockpiles,” said Kavi. “And they’re in for a long wait. I thought Garren—oh, all right, Governor Garren—wanted Mazad to fall fast, to please his father back in the senate.”
Patrius sighed. “Yes, but if he requests another five tacti, which is what . . . Well, it would be more impressive to the senate if he succeeded with the ten tacti he currently commands. And his father isn’t the only
one he needs to impress. Not if he wants to be governor.”
“I thought if you conquered the country, you got to be governor automatically,” said Kavi.
“You become governor automatically,” said Patrius. “To remain governor you have to govern reasonably well. Of course, only a handful of governors have ever been dismissed. On the other hand, many of the senators were . . . dubious when Substrategus Garren was given this command. So I understand why he wants to succeed swiftly, using minimal resources.”
“Conquer a country swiftly, and with minimal resources,” Kavi repeated. “I’m not being any kind of soldier, but isn’t that the equivalent of demanding the best possible blade, and wanting it tomorrow?”
“I’m not a weapon-smith,” said Patrius. “But I’ve heard that it takes weeks to make a really good blade.”
“And one made fast is almost certain to be flawed,” Kavi confirmed. “So . . . he’s spreading his troops thin, is he?”
Patrius’ lips tightened. He wasn’t supposed to criticize his superiors, after all. But Kavi had already noticed that, for all the business in the square, there weren’t many troops here. It might not be obvious to the folk of Setesafon, but Kavi had seen the Hrum army camp before—a man hadn’t been able to move without tripping over soldiers: drilling, practicing with weapons, polishing things, guarding things . . .
Had Garren kept his most disaffected officers under his eye and sent the ones who agreed with him—the incompetent ones—off to conquer the towns and subdue the countryside? Kavi suppressed a grin. He couldn’t have planned it better himself. And if Garren was skimping on Setesafon’s garrison, what else was he skimping on?
But the silence was stretching too long. “All right, whatever we do, let’s not be criticizing the governor. Although speaking of things you haven’t said, I still wish you’d told me that you’d be drafting peasants into this army of yours.”
Honest anger roughened his voice even now, and Patrius sighed.
“I told you about the draft several times. That all men fit to serve between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three must—”
“And I told you that peasants aren’t fit to fight!”
“Why not?” Patrius’ gaze was honestly puzzled. “I know it wasn’t your custom, but all a man needs to make himself a soldier is a healthy body, and the will for it.”
“Well, there you go—we haven’t the will.”
“You’ve been taught that you haven’t the will,” said Patrius. “But what I’ve seen in the early training, especially among the younger recruits, tells me otherwise.”
“But . . .” Kavi remembered Sim’s bright face. What could he say? But their mothers object?
“I know it seems strange,” said Patrius. “And harsh, perhaps, but—”
“It seems like another form of slavery,” said Kavi bitterly. “Your folk are being fond of that notion, aren’t they?”
Patrius’ brows rose, but his voice was mild. “A slave, even one of ours, would disagree with you. But slavery, and the draft, support the first and fourth principles of empire. They’re not going to change. And once you become accustomed to the idea, the draft has many advantages.”
“The principles of empire?” Kavi repeated curiously.
“Emperor Scandius’ five principles,” said Patrius. “He was—do you know anything about Hrum history?”
“No,” said Kavi. The words Why should I? hovered on his tongue, but he bit them back. Anything he could learn about the Hrum was to the good.
“Well, originally the empire wasn’t an empire, but five warring city-states. Though, sometimes one would conquer another for a time, or there would be some internal division and one state would become two. But mostly they fought each other—for centuries—until Strategus Agravius figured out that men who fight together, as a unit, are far more effective than people crashing about on their own.”
Like your deghans did. The unvoiced words filled the room for a moment, then Patrius went on. “Anyway, he created the basis for our army as it is today, and promptly conquered, and unified, all the original city-states. That’s why there are five points on the emperor’s crown.” He gestured at Kavi’s shoulder, at the tattoo that echoed that crown. “And because the city he originally served was Hrumana, he called the new kingdom Hrum.
“This may surprise you”—Patrius smiled—“but they enjoyed several generations of peace, under Agravius and his heirs, and came to value it highly. With peaceful trade, and the peaceful exchange of knowledge, the Hrum cities became very rich. Until one day a neighboring kingdom, the Sca, decided to do a bit of raiding, and promptly found themselves conquered, since Agravius’ heirs hadn’t forgotten how to fight. That kind of thing happened several times, until finally Emperor Scandius realized that every people we conquered added to our wealth and knowledge—and that the knowledge, which can only be gained from willing people, was the real source of the wealth. So he created five principles for transforming a motley conglomerate of conquered peoples into an empire.”
“And those would be?” Kavi tried to sound nonchalant, but it was hard. The empire Scandius’ principles had fostered had conquered half the known world—and it showed no sign of stopping.
“The first principle is to get rid of the old rulers entirely,” said Patrius. “That’s where slavery comes in. I know it seems barbaric, especially when we’re talking about children, but if you think of how other countries dispose of the governments they cast down . . . Well, I think you’ll agree that there are worse ways.”
Kavi’s eyes fell. The Farsalans had never conquered anyone, unless you counted the demons who were said to have dwelled in Farsala in the time of legends, but he’d listened to traders who had traveled in Kadesh, and in the savage lands beyond. There were indeed worse ways.
“The second principle is to levy taxes, but never so heavily that people will rebel. And even more important is that no part of the empire is ever forced to pay a higher percentage than the others. The third principle is to give people fair value in exchange for their taxes: just laws, roads, aqueducts, sewers, public baths . . . When people see what their taxes buy, the impulse to rebel usually dies. Though not the grumbling, I’m afraid.”
Patrius’ usually sober eyes danced, and Kavi laughed. “No, I expect folks will always grumble about taxes. I can guess at the next part—these roads, and baths, and whatnot are built by your army.”
“Which brings us to the fourth principle,” said Patrius. “The army comes first, always. All fit men give five years of their lives to it. It defends our borders, enforces law, builds public works—”
“And conquers the next nation down the road,” Kavi finished dryly.
“Yes, but that’s less important than the fifth principle,” said Patrius. “That there will be peace within the empire. And it’s army service, imposed on all the empire’s populations, that creates peace. Not enforces it—creates it. Your men will put on our tabards and march into other lands, and in their hearts, they’ll still be Farsalan peasants. But when they return five years later, they’ll be Hrum soldiers. And in just a few decades, in your people’s hearts as well as by force of arms, Farsala will be a part of the Iron Empire.”
“And when it happens in folks’ hearts,” said Kavi softly, “that’s what makes it real.”
He could see it clearly, in his imagination. Eager, bright-eyed boys like Sim, marched off into Kadesh, or even farther lands, where folks would look at their scarlet cloaks and see Hrum soldiers. Soon they would begin to think of themselves that way. Kavi had never before considered the unified might of a twenty-eight-nation empire, but now he did, and he shivered.
They could crush Mazad like a walnut, if they brought in enough troops. And there was nothing to stop them, except for Garren’s prideful foolishness.
On the other hand, as a peddler Kavi had found that foolishness and pride were two of the most powerful forces known to man. His job would be to stoke that pride, use the foolishness, and never ma
ke a move so bold it might pressure Garren into forgetting those things and bringing in a large army, as sensible men like Patrius were no doubt urging him to.
That shouldn’t be impossible. His folk might not be warriors, but that didn’t mean they weren’t effective. Kavi already had a few ideas.
THE YOUNG DEGHAN WENT FIRST to the mighty fortress of Mazad, for it was the only place in Farsala that might withstand the Hrum’s army.
Mazad’s governor had learned of the deghans’ fate, and he trembled with fear.
“Stand firm,” the youth told him. “Be strong. Mazad must hold while I build a new army.”
“Build an army from what?” the governor demanded. “From bones and dust? Our warriors are slain, and the wealth of Farsala taken. What is there left for us to do, except die?”
“Hold Mazad,” the young deghan repeated. “And I will build an army. Not of deghans—as you say, not enough survive—but of farmers, craftsmen, and merchants. I will take any man, regardless of rank or trade, who is strong of arm, stout of heart, and willing to fight for Farsala.”
“An army of peasants? Against the Hrum? Only Sorahb,” the governor scoffed, “could do such a thing.”
“Then call me Sorahb,” said the youth. “For I am going to do it.”
THUS IT WAS THAT SORAHB gathered a great army of farmers and carpenters, miners and merchants. He taught them to fight as he had been taught, with horse, sword, and lance. It was hard for those peasants, for they were not raised to fight, and were reluctant to abandon the old ways. But for Sorahb’s sake they did try, for they wished to defend Farsala, and they loved their young commander well.