by Bell, Hilari
He hesitated to do that if he didn’t have to—the wider the word of his interest spread, the more likely that the Hrum would hear of it too. If they did, the number of guards in that camp would double, despite the shortage of troops. Yes, he needed to talk to Soraya first, and his desire to set about it made him wonder if the Hrum’s fast courier had taken root somewhere.
At least the delay had let him go into Setesafon and spend some time with Nadi, Hama, and Sim. Kavi wanted to make sure that they’d convinced Ludo that the conversation he’d overheard had to do with something else, and that they had no interest in Hrum documents.
Still, Kavi was more than ready as he accompanied Patrius to the governor’s quarters that evening—though he was always careful in Garren’s presence. No one took that man for a fool.
Dozens of other officers had assembled as well. Kavi couldn’t be sure, but he thought there was a tense, resentful air about them—like a staff of journeymen and apprentices who expect to be rebuked for some failure in the shop, which might or might not have been their fault. Sign of a bad master, that. But Garren had always struck Kavi as a very bad master indeed.
The governor entered abruptly from the door to his private room and looked around till he found Patrius.
“You first, Tactimian,” he said. “Let them know how I learned of an attack on a unit of this army.”
His voice sent a chill down Kavi’s spine. Garren might not lash out in anger, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.
“This man is a peddler,” said Patrius in Faran, “who sometimes brings us news. He came to me some days ago, to report a rumor he had heard.”
He gestured to Kavi, who drew a breath and stepped forward. “I heard in the countryside that someone had poisoned the army besieging Mazad.” He spoke in Faran too, since he wasn’t supposed to know Hrum. Though he thought that by this time several of the men present suspected that he understood some of the language, at least, and Patrius knew he did. “Rumor claims that someone then drove a shipment of food into the city, though reports vary widely concerning how many wagons there were.”
He nodded humbly and stepped back. There. Clear, concise, and true—for he saw no need to enflame Garren’s temper by mentioning either Sorahb’s name, or how heartily the country folk had laughed.
“This,” said Garren into the silence that followed. “This is how the Hrum high command learned of the attack—from rumors spread by peasants, days after the fact. Which is why I’m ordering Substrategus Arus’ return. He can take a few deci and chase after those bandits in the swamp. If he captures them, he may redeem himself in my eyes. If not . . .” He shrugged, and several officers winced.
No one in the room, Kavi noted, seemed particularly disturbed by Arus’ fall from grace.
A red-bearded substrategus whom he’d noticed before stirred. “If you want Arus to bring any of his men back, you’d better give him a few centris, instead of a few deci. Besides, it’s time we did something about those bandits.”
Garren’s lips tightened, but he nodded assent.
Kavi wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not. Arus was fairly incompetent, which had been good for Mazad. On the other hand those Dugaz cutthroats would run rings around him, which might also be good. But best of all, Garren showed no sign of ordering Kavi out of the room now that his part was done. Kavi tried very hard to become invisible.
“I’m sending Tactimian Laon to replace him,” Garren went on. “At least until we’re ready for our assault.”
By the sour look on Patrius’ face, Laon was no improvement on Arus, but . . . Ready for our assault? Did that mean, when the siege towers were complete? Was there any chance the man would announce a date?
“Sir, might I ask what happened at Mazad?” The man who spoke sounded a bit more timid than a substrategus should, in Kavi’s opinion.
“What happened at Mazad?” Garren’s mouth tightened. “A patrol confiscated five wagonloads of beer that turned out to contain some strong emetic, which afflicted a large portion of the camp. In the resulting confusion, the Farsalans who drove the wagons disguised themselves as Hrum soldiers, loaded their wagons with our supplies, and drove straight through Mazad’s front gates. So even if Mazad had been starving, it wouldn’t be now.”
“But it wasn’t poison—or at least, not strong enough to kill?” another officer asked. “The garrison survived?”
“No one was killed,” Garren confirmed. “At least, according to that . . . to Substrategus Arus.”
“Didn’t their ordnancer check the casks?” a female officer asked. “I thought all purchases from local merchants were supposed to be carefully examined, and tested if necessary, to prevent this kind of thing.”
Kavi barely controlled a start of surprise. This was the first he’d heard of that. His whole plan would have toppled like a pile of blocks if—
“Sometimes those precautions aren’t taken,” another man admitted reluctantly, “as a matter of common sense. If grain is drawn from a bin, for instance, when the merchant had no way to suspect we were about to make a purchase. Or if it’s a merchant we’ve dealt with often, who’s proved reliable.”
Garren’s brows rose. “That’s interesting,” he said mildly. “Arus’ ordnancer offered similar excuses. The mark on the casks was familiar to him, though close examination proved it a forgery. And since the load was confiscated, he assumed there was no reason to test it for poison. But neither of those excuses stopped me from ordering the man flogged for his negligence. So I advise you, Ordnancer Reevus, to start obeying our policies, which were instituted for a reason, and to send out an order for other ordnancers to do the same.”
Kavi winced. Was this his fault? Garren’s? Both?
Patrius’ spine straightened, and he drew a breath. “Sir, isn’t that . . . extreme? If the forgery was a good one, and especially since the load was confiscated, the ordnancer had no reason to be suspicious.”
Garren looked steadily at the tactimian. “Do you question my right to discipline this army as I see fit?”
Several officers stiffened at the words, though Kavi didn’t know why. “No, sir,” said Patrius stubbornly. “But surely—”
The officer who stood behind him reached out and gripped his elbow, hard. Patrius paused, then drew another breath. “No, sir.”
“Good.” Garren’s voice was very soft, but Kavi wasn’t the only one who shivered. “Substrategus Arus, his ordnancer, his whole command, are really guilty of the same error, when you come to the root of it: They underestimated the enemy. We’ve all been guilty of that, gentlemen, even me. And in time of war, that’s the most dangerous, most fatal mistake an officer can make.”
His gaze moved over the room, meeting men’s eyes. Kavi looked down. He wouldn’t draw Garren’s attention now for a whole right hand, and the secret of watersteel thrown into the bargain.
“That stops here,” Garren went on. “Work on the siege towers is behind schedule, for they haven’t enough men, so every tactimian in the army will order twenty of their carpenters to report to that project. What goes undone because of their absence goes undone. I realize that most of the soldiers’ cabins are still unfinished, but Hrum armies have wintered in tents before, and can do so again. When the towers are completed, the assault on Mazad will begin—and I have no doubt of its success.”
If Governor Nehar’s men opened the gates for them, Kavi didn’t doubt it either. Even if the governor was taken out of the game, those siege towers might do the job on their own. Kavi considered following the carpenters to the hidden camp, but the odds that he could remain undetected, day after day, were low. If he had to, he could probably follow their route by asking in the towns and villages if they’d passed through, and in which direction they’d departed. He wouldn’t know where they’d gone after they left the road, but once he was in the vicinity of the hidden camp, the local people could probably help him find it.
“We might also consider sending more men to Mazad,” said Red-beard. “
Siege towers still need men to man them, and if Sorahb continues to attack the garrison . . . If they’d been ruthless enough to use real poison, there would no longer be a siege at Mazad. And I don’t understand why they didn’t attack the camp while the majority of the men were ill. It would have given them a powerful advantage.”
There hadn’t been real poison, or an attack, because Kavi didn’t want more deaths on his conscience—he was still trying to redeem himself for the last lot!
“They may have planned just that,” said Garren. “But the centrimaster who took charge when Arus was incapacitated had the good sense to recall the night patrols to defend the camp. Because they were on duty, they hadn’t drunk the poisoned beer, and they probably returned too swiftly for Sorahb to take advantage of the situation. But that brings me to the final thing we must accomplish.” Garren’s voice was hard. “I’ve heard some say that Sorahb is no more than a nuisance to us, but it’s a nuisance I will tolerate no longer.”
His gaze swept the crowd again, and settled on Patrius. “Tactimian Patrius, how many centris are left in your tacti?”
“Only four, Governor.” If Patrius resented it, it didn’t show in his voice, but Kavi blinked. He’d known Garren was splitting units off from the tacti for different duties, but over half of Patrius’ command was gone.
“Hmm,” said Garren. “Still, it should be enough to handle this. In fact, a small, elite strike force might be better.”
Might. Kavi felt a pang of pity for his friend.
“Your task, Tactimian, is to hunt down Sorahb. Capture him if you can, but kill him if it’s necessary.”
You will criticize the governor in public meetings.
Patrius had too much discipline to flinch. “May I recall at least part of my tacti, sir? I know the estimates of the force that first attacked the garrison at Mazad weren’t reliable, but their best guess was that Sorahb had almost a full tacti himself.”
“Yes, but they were also pathetically unskilled fighters,” said Garren. “With the result that the garrison, though badly outnumbered, killed or captured almost two hundred of them. Are your men less well-trained than those of Substrategus Arus?”
“No, sir, but I’m not sure it’s safe to assume that Sorahb hasn’t done any training, or replaced those men in the last three months. I would not wish to underestimate my enemy.”
Kavi wasn’t the only one who winced, but Garren only scowled.
“Very well, you may recall two centris. That should be more than enough to take care of this amateur army . . . when you find them.”
The question of how Patrius was to do that seemed to hang in the air, almost visible, but Patrius only nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
He likely could do it, Kavi thought grimly. The croft was well hidden, and the folk who knew of it had kept the secret, but too many knew of it. One of them was bound to get greedy. Young Commander Jiaan would have to be warned.
Kavi felt a flash of guilt at the idea of betraying Patrius to Jiaan, for Patrius had dealt fairly with him. Treated him better, and more kindly, than the deghan’s bastard had. On the other hand, there was a limit to how often a man could change sides, and Kavi had likely surpassed it already. Jiaan must be warned.
Even if it meant Patrius’ death?
But perhaps Kavi could prevent that somehow. After all, Jiaan would owe him for the warning, for his help with the siege towers, and for freeing his half sister—though when Kavi had seen them together, they didn’t seem to be close.
Should he take the girl with him, as a character witness, when he approached the new commander of the Farsalan army? Jiaan couldn’t know what he’d been up to . . . unless he was in closer contact with Mazad than Kavi thought he was.
Garren had gone on to discuss some situation with supplies, leaving him free to think.
Yes, he needed a character witness. The girl had seen him trading with the Hrum. If Jiaan accused him, he could say that it was known that he traded with the army, and that those who resented folk who sold to the enemy had blown everything out of proportion—not knowing that he only did it so he could spy on the Hrum! Yes, that would do. There was still some risk, but not much, and he would need both Jiaan and Soraya’s help to find the hidden camp and take out the siege towers. He would set out for the Suud’s desert tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SORAYA
MAOK POKED HER HEAD into Soraya’s hutch shortly after sundown. “That peddler who brought you here wants to see you. He’s set himself at the bottom of the twisted trail, and he’s waiting, meek as a hopping mouse. Wake up, girl! Anyone would think you were a day dweller.”
Soraya turned a yawn into a grimace, and rubbed her eyes. She’d only been living with Proud Walking clan for a few weeks, and making the transition to sleeping days and waking nights took a while.
She still wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused that in all the time she’d spent with them last winter, the clan hadn’t told her their name. Maok said it was because they weren’t sure she’d come back. But now that she had, they had told her—making her part of the clan in a way she hadn’t been before, no matter how well treated she’d been as a guest.
But if she was now part of the clan, what about Sudaba and Merdas? No, Soraya wasn’t here to stay this time either, no matter how welcome she felt, or how glad she was to be with them. She could discard the trappings of a deghass, but the core of it, her duty to her family, to Farsala itself, couldn’t be cut off like excess hair. But right now, there was a peddler to attend to.
“Did he say what he wanted?” she asked. “Could the watchers understand him?”
The Suud tried to make sure that at least one of the watchers they posted spoke at least some Faran, but not many tribe members did, so it wasn’t always possible. And they didn’t speak a word of Hrum.
The chill that swept over Soraya at that thought had nothing to do with the cool night. When she first heard that the Farsalan army intended to hide in the desert, she’d been angry at Jiaan for endangering the Suud. Then she’d heard Maok’s reasons for agreeing, and anger gave way to fear, and a furious resolve.
She would not let the Hrum come here. They had done damage enough in Farsala, where the people had a roughly equivalent level of mechanical sophistication. The Suud, fighting with wooden spears against those accursed, watersteel swords, would be destroyed.
Thinking of watersteel reminded her of something else. “This is the man I told you about,” said Soraya. “The one who spoke to the shilshadu of the watersteel.”
It had been so startling—for a moment, brushing his hand, she had tapped into the open channel between his spirit and the steel. But unlike the peddler, she knew how to follow that channel, to wholly sense the steel’s crystalline song.
Yet when she held the fragment herself, its shilshadu was closed to her. Soraya thought she might have found it, if she went into a full trance and searched for a month, or two, or three. And she might not find it either. Yet she knew that the peddler, who could open that channel without even realizing he’d done it, hadn’t sensed nearly as much as she had.
“I thought you wanted to talk to him,” she added.
“Of course I want to talk to him.” Maok came into the hutch and sat beside Soraya’s bedroll. “Since we teach our own people to search for the shilshadu of things from the time they’re children, we seldom get the chance to meet someone who does it instinctively. Naturals, they’re called. It was people like them, people who were particularly attuned to some creature or element, who eventually became the first Speakers! There are dozens of questions I’d like to ask. But I can’t ask them without telling him about our magic, and that’s always dangerous. Especially now, when your people are groping so desperately for weapons.”
“You’re probably right.” Soraya sighed. “But I owe him a lot. Giving him magic would be a fitting repayment.” She knew she could never repay Maok for giving it to her. Her teacher had been startled by how much her control had improve
d in just one summer, and even more surprised at the way her shilshadu had opened to people, which Maok said usually came upon Speakers only after many years of study. She then discussed with Soraya a long list of rules about its use, and its abuse, and started teaching her how to suppress the sensing unless she consciously chose to use it. Soraya sighed again. She hadn’t thought of her ability to read the feelings of those around her as an invasion of their privacy, but she knew she wouldn’t want someone looking into her shilshadu without permission.
“Maybe after this war ends, things will change,” said Maok consolingly. “Naturals aren’t that rare, though mostly it takes the form of openness to a particular species’ shilshadu. Generally it’s horses with you people, but once I met a hunter who was open to the shilshadu of all kinds of animals. He had no idea why he was so successful, why he always knew what direction a startled gazelle would jump, or where to place his snares.”
“Didn’t you want to tell him?” Soraya asked. “To help him open his shilshadu fully to his creatures? To teach him to Speak to other things as well?”
“A part of me wanted to,” said Maok. “But his life was already set. Magic might have been an intrusion—or even destroyed it! He made his living as a huntsman. What would become of him if he opened his spirit so fully to the spirits of his creatures that he could no longer kill them?”
Soraya knew that this was why the Suud, also hunters, so seldom spoke to the shilshadu of animals.
“The peddler,” she said slowly. “He told me he was a smith once. Is that why he has an affinity for steel?”
“Very likely,” said Maok. “Or perhaps that affinity is why he became a smith in the first place. That’s one of the things I’d like to ask him. But why is he a peddler now?”
“Something happened to his hand,” said Soraya. “There’s a scar on his palm, and it’s not very strong. He never said so, but I think that’s what stopped him from being a smith.”