Soldier at the Door (Book 2 Forest at the Edge series)

by Trish Mercer

They say it’s the luck of the draw, but Shem Zenos never believed in luck. Or in coincidences. Everything happened for a purpose. So when he drew the ‘single rider’ straw, he knew exactly why.

  “Ooh, Zenos is riding alone tonight!” several soldiers sniggered.

  “What a waste,” a sergeant growled. “He doesn’t even have a girlfriend to make it interesting. Wanna trade?”

  Zenos shook his head. “Nope. I rather enjoy being the lone man. Gives me time to think, to ponder the weightier issues of life . . . such as Gizzada.”

  The other nineteen men going out on patrol with him laughed.

  Zenos really did enjoy being the lone rider. The men went out in groups of twos, threes, fours, and the random one, in order to confuse anyone who might be lurking in the forest. Because where there’s one, there’s always another close by, right? Some soldiers made other use of their time as the lone rider, the sergeant being one of the main offenders, and a few men were nervous about being out there by themselves for six hours.

  But not Zenos. He actually did ponder the weightier things of life, and not once did Gizzada ever cross his mind.

  But tonight something else would occupy him.

  It wasn’t until his second hour along the dark forest’s edge that he saw his opportunity. While no other soldiers were near, Zenos clucked his horse to the fresh spring and tied him securely behind a boulder and out of sight. Then he lined himself up with the boulder and marched twenty-seven paces, turned, went another thirteen paces, turned again, and continued on until he saw the steam rising and the man waiting.

  “What’re you doing here?” the startled man in green and brown mottled clothing asked Zenos. “Everything all right?”

  “Nope,” Shem said, noticing that a few more camouflaged men came out of the shadows to greet him. “General Shin came in with eight guards, and two of them aren’t right. One called himself Xat, and the other, Heth—Dormin’s brother.”

  The men looked at each other and nodded.

  “Heth?” one large man said. “Definitely trouble. But two of them?”

  Zenos sighed. “What should I do?”

  “We’ll get working on a plan. In the meantime, do your best to keep a close eye on them.”

  Zenos held out his hands, exasperated. “That’s it? Nothing else?”

  One of the men gestured back to him in the same way. “We’ll be working on it! Now get back on duty!”

  ---

  It was well after midnight when Corporal Zenos, fresh off his shift, made his way from the stables to his barracks. The long, low building was attached to the guest and officers’ quarters by a wide hallway. That hallway also connected to the surgery wing, the mess hall, the command tower, and supply buildings, so that in the cold snows of Raining Season no one needed to walk outside unnecessarily. Wet, cold soldiers, Major Shin and the surgeon believed, frequently became sick, useless soldiers.

  Slowly ambling to the barracks building, Shem was lost in thought—as he had been all evening—trying to understand how he would deal with the problem that two of High General Shin’s guards weren’t exactly there to guard him. How could he lure both of them to the forest, or away from the general?

  He couldn’t handle this alone, but for now he had no choice. Help wouldn’t be coming until tomorrow, if those in the forest came up with a solution.

  The towers were a bit bothersome.

  Shem always felt so brave up in the forest, but down here much of his resolve slipped away, because he was alone. He couldn’t reveal his concerns to anyone. Once he considered heading over to Major Shin’s home, but how do you wake someone up in the middle of the night to say you have a “gut instinct” about something? The lieutenants were officers, after all.

  So how in the world did Guarders infiltrate the Command School?

  Shem glanced up and was surprised to find himself heading toward the guest quarters instead of his barracks. He shook his head and turned to the left. Consumed again by worry, he wandered.

  He couldn’t let them succeed, at whatever—or whenever—it might be. He had to come up with plans himself, in case he didn’t have until tomorrow.

  After several minutes Shem again looked up and blinked, stunned to find himself in front of the hall to the guest quarters again. Somehow he’d walked in a circle.

  There are no coincidences.

  There was a reason for this.

  He swallowed and opened the door to the hallway of the guests’ quarters. He crept quietly into the dimly lit passage and shut the door noiselessly. Suddenly he felt an immense desire to get to another passage that intersected the main one. As he snuck down the corridor, he heard a slight sound coming from the hall he was approaching.

  He peered around the corner and saw two dark figures standing before a door, as if in intense, quiet conversation.

  Shem’s stomach twisted nauseatingly, but he also knew why he was there. He’d been directed. Reluctantly he felt for the hilt of his sword, but instead remembered Major Shin’s advice. He didn’t have to kill them, only give them something to remember him by.

  He’d never caused a death before. That was the real reason he hadn’t drawn his sword during the raid last season. He just couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.

  And he’d never tell anyone that. How could he be in his position and refuse to take a life?

  Actually, that was an inaccurate phrase—take a life. It’s not as if one claims it for himself. Rather, it should be end a life. Everyone loses. Shem wore the sword only for show. And most days, he never slipped the long knife into his boots. He’d rather lose his own life before ending someone else’s.

  But as his mouth went dry, he realized he might have to abandon his creed.

  Shem watched the two men in what seemed to be an earnest and hushed argument, and wondered what he could do. Then it came to him—a clear image in his mind of what needed to happen—and his stomach lurched.

  But before he could think his way out of it, before he could list all his arguments as to why he shouldn’t be doing it, he suddenly was.

  He ran down the hallway faster than during the Strongest Soldier Race. The two men—each holding his long knife and one of them with a hand on the guest bedroom door—couldn’t comprehend what was rushing at them until it was right on top of them.

  “You!” Lieutenant Heth whispered.

  Corporal Zenos saw the glint of the blade rising up as he caught the man’s arm. Instantly he twisted Heth’s arm and shoved the knife into his throat before he could speak again. Zenos then spun, caught Lieutenant Xat’s thrusting knife, and forced it into his chest, silencing him.

  In less than five seconds both men were on the floor, long knives protruding from their bodies, right outside of the High General and Mrs. Shin’s door.

  Shem gasped and fell to his knees. “Dear Creator, what have I done?!”

  His stomach churned violently as he stared at the still bodies. Only give them something to remember him by, right? That’s what the major told him. They could still be . . .

  In the clammy dark, he examined the lieutenants.

  He scrambled to his feet and took off running down the hall and back to the main corridor. He ran blindly, trying to keep the need to retch down in his belly, but knowing it was going to come up. He turned down another hall, and then another, and burst through the door of the surgery wing. There he vomited all over the floor of the reception area.

  The surgeon’s assistant on duty scowled. “We have buckets for that, Corporal!”

  Shem crumpled to the floor terrified, exhausted, and still nauseated. The assistant brought over a bucket and dropped it with an annoyed thud next to Shem, then retrieved cleaning supplies from a closet. Shem was only vaguely aware of another man in bedclothes coming up to him as he emptied he stomach again in the bucket.

  “Corporal Zenos, that doesn’t look pleasant,” the surgeon said in a bored manner. “Let’s get you to a cot.”

  S
hem nodded weakly as he struggled to his feet, the surgeon helping to pull him up. With his free hand the surgeon picked up the bucket and led Shem to the large treatment room lined with empty thirty beds.

  “Certainly hope this isn’t the beginnings of an outbreak,” the surgeon said as he lowered Shem onto a cot, and placed the bucket on the floor strategically by his head. “This room will be overflowing with all kinds of unpleasantness by morning if it’s the cook’s fault again” he murmured. “May need to find more buckets.”

  Shem shook his head. “I ate in the village today,” was all he could mumble. He did eat dinner at the fort, but everything in his mouth tasted of rancid peaches, and he knew he’d never again be able to stomach peach pie. And he certainly couldn’t tell the fort surgeon he was ill because he just stabbed Guarders in disguise. Instead he flopped his arm over his eyes and tried to calm his stomach, but it wouldn’t calm.

  He had just stabbed two Guarders in disguise!

  He could still see their bodies, patches of blood growing around them on the floor that some still-rational brain part of his brain steered him to carefully avoid as he inspected them—

  They might only be injured.

  As the rush of his horribly successful moment dissolved in his body, terror replaced it. Someone would figure it out soon. It was only a matter of minutes, surely. The other guards would arrive and . . .

  The thought made his stomach convulse again, but there was nothing left for the bucket. There were always the two guards stationed before the High General and Mrs. Shin’s guest room, and two additional guards making a wide sweep through the area. That Shem didn’t run into the other two guards as he dashed through the halls was extraordinary. But they’d be back in front of the guest quarters soon.

  And then what happened—what he did—would be known. He thrashed wearily to his side, tears of regret slipping out of his eyes. This isn’t what he wanted to do.

  Trained to do, yes.

  But wanted? Never.

  He always believed there were alternatives—no matter the person—that while blood may occasionally be shed, it didn’t have to be wasted. They’d told him that wouldn’t always be the case, that he had to be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice of ending a life and living with that knowledge. He’d said that he would, but he was lying. But by then he’d already been trained to lie so well that he was sure everyone believed him when he made the vow.

  Except that Hifadhi had looked at him in a way that only he could—right into the core of Shem’s being, into his transparent soul.

  The surgeon placed a cool wet cloth on Shem’s head. “That will help a little. The rest of it is waiting for it to work its way through your system. If you—”

  “SURGEON!” someone in the reception area shouted. “Two injured officers! Long knives!”

  The surgeon ran out of the treatment room.

  Shem took deep breaths as he heard shouts in the hallway. All he could do now was wait.

  It didn’t take long. It seemed to be only seconds, but must have been closer to five minutes. Through the treatment room doors four soldiers hurriedly barged in, carrying in the two limp bodies of the lieutenants.

  “On the other side of the room,” the surgeon ordered. “The corporal over there is already nauseated. And bring in more lanterns, so we can actually see something!”

  Through the slits of his nearly-shut eyes Shem saw the soldiers set the two officers on bunks on the opposite side of the room. Two more surgeons’ assistants, rubbing sleep out of their eyes, rushed in to start attending to one lieutenant while the surgeon examined the other, and a private hastily brought in extra lanterns in each hand.

  “He’s dead,” the surgeon said simply after only a moment of evaluation, not needing extra light to reach that conclusion.

  Shem gulped.

  High General Shin, who had rapidly dressed, judging by an unfastened button, a few skewed medals on his jacket and his lack of cap, strode into the treatment room.

  “Dear Creator!” he breathed as he saw Heth with the long knife protruding from his throat. He looked over to see Lieutenant Xat with the knife coming out of his heart.

  The assistants looked at him grimly and shook their heads.

  Shem squeezed his eyes shut tight. He’d been trained too well. He tried not to listen anymore, but the general’s voice could’ve probably penetrated even the Dark Deserts of Death.

  “Both dead! What happened?” Shem heard the general demand.

  “Sir, we’re unsure. We found them on the floor like this,” someone, likely one of his guards, said.

  “I think they had a fight,” another guard suggested. “I’ve heard words between them before, sir.”

  General Shin paused before he announced, “The only way this could have been the result of a fight was if they stabbed each other at precisely the same time, which is highly unlikely. Did anyone hear anything? Any arguing? Fighting?”

  Shem held his breath as someone else said, “We didn’t, but we sent Master Sergeant Neeks to see if anyone heard anything. We’ve also sent for Major Shin, sir, and Captain Karna is searching for witnesses.”

  The High General grumbled quietly, and Shem heard what sounded like someone stroking a chin ripe with stubble. “Right outside my door. Neither I nor Mrs. Shin heard anything. Why would they draw their knives—”

  A loud disturbance in the reception area halted General Shin’s musing.“I saw the blood on the floor, and I want to know why!”

  Shem peered his eyes open to see Joriana Shin burst through the treatment room door, a dressing gown wrapped around her bed clothes, and her brown hair in a long braid. She stopped when she saw the bloodied bodies of the lieutenants.

  “Joriana, I told you to wait in our quarters! Two guards were—”

  “—ineffective in keeping me there! Oh Relf, what happened?” she whimpered as her husband put a bracing arm around her. The guards assigned to her had followed her in and looked apologetically at the High General.

  “That’s what we’re trying to piece together. No one knows. Except . . .”

  Shem shut his eyes again in a vain attempt to control his breathing, so he didn’t notice that the High General had moved until he heard, “Zenos!”

  Shem’s entire body flinched. Panicked, he opened his eyes and thought he would retch again as he looked up into the hardened face of the High General looming over him. It was like seeing a gray rock falling slowly at him, and it was furious.

  “Sir?” he squeaked.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long, sir.”

  “He came in just before the officers were discovered, General,” the surgeon explained. “Vomited on the floor. I’d stay back a pace or two if I were you. Not sure yet what ails him.”

  The High General nodded once. “Came in just before . . . Corporal, did you hear or see or notice anything? Anything unusual, whatsoever?”

  Shem’s breathing became rapid. “Sir, all I noticed was the direction of the surgery. I just came off duty and was walking to my barracks when I could feel something was wrong in my belly.”

  “How many soldiers came off duty at the same time as you?”

  “Twenty, sir.”

  The High General clapped his hands. “Twenty potential witnesses! Where are they?” he asked the men behind him.

  “Likely drinking, sir,” Shem mumbled. “Usually head over to the tavern until it closes. No one’s coming back for another hour or so.”

  Half a dozen soldiers poured into the treatment room in a bit of a daze. One of them looked around, confused. “Captain told us that since we were awake we were supposed to—” He stopped when he saw the dead officers, and the expressions on his companions’ faces turned to mild panic as they took in the sight.

  General Shin pointed at them. “To the command tower—now! I’ll be questioning you myself. There have to be clues somewhere. I find it difficult to believe they killed each other simultaneously!”<
br />
  “Guarders do, sir,” someone in the group bravely muttered.

  In the shocked silence that followed the suggestion, everyone looked to the High General and breathlessly awaited his response. Shem was glad it wasn’t him who mentioned Guarders. Mrs. Shin whimpered briefly before putting a hand in front of her mouth to hold the rest in.

  “That’s true,” General Shin said firmly, not in the least bit shaken. “They do. But not like this!” He turned to his wife. “Joriana, go back to our quarters. I’ll send extra guards, but I assure you, you’ll be safe.”

  Mrs. Shin nodded anxiously and took the arm of one of the guards, just as Captain Karna came running into the treatment area.

  “Can’t find anyone else who would have been in the vicinity.” His eyes bulged as he saw the lieutenants.

  Shem closed his eyes and prayed Karna didn’t recognize him. A moment later he heard a cloth-like sound, as if the bodies were being covered by blankets, and Karna called for the soldiers to follow him to the command tower.

  After the sounds of soldiers scuffling away ended, a hush seemed to overcome the treatment room, dank and dark as a grave.

  Shem trembled on the cot, his head swirling and his stomach still spasming. Across the room lay two bodies, still and forevermore silent.

  Did he really do that?

  “Well, all’s quiet again.” Shem heard the surgeon’s impassive voice above him, and felt the damp cloth replaced on his head. “Not exactly the most calming atmosphere for someone with a queasy stomach, is it?”

  ---

  It was morning when Shem opened his eyes again. Somehow he’d fallen asleep, likely out of horrified fatigue. But his dreams were plagued with terrible images and sounds that, when he woke up, he realized were actually memories.

  The sun wasn’t up yet, but the area was slowly brightening. He looked to the other side of the room and saw that the two bodies had been moved. Maybe that meant they knew their deaths were his fault.

  Shem shook his head. That didn’t make any sense at all.

  Sometime during the night he came to some conclusions. At least two people were going to die last night, as if some being full of hatred and darkness had decreed it and nothing would prevent the loss of life.

  All Shem had done was made sure those less worthy of life were the ones who lost theirs. He didn’t start the chain of events, he merely redirected them to a more fitting end. In a small way, it made him feel a bit better—

  No, ‘better’ wasn’t the right word. He’d never be ‘better’ about this. But he did feel absolved.

  The treatment room door opened and Major Shin trudged in, his eyes red with exhaustion and his uniform untidy. “Doing all right, Shem?” he asked amiably. “You were sleeping when I came by earlier to look at—” He gestured to the empty bunks.

  Shem pushed himself up to a sitting position. “I’m sure you’re safe. My stomach feels calmer. Any luck finding out what happened last night?” He clenched every muscle in expectation.

  Major Shin sat down wearily on a bunk next to Shem’s and held his head in his hands. “No, nothing. No evidence, no clues, no witnesses—it’s maddening.”

  Shem sighed. He hoped his relief sounded like sympathy.

  Perrin rubbed his face. “Doesn’t make any sense. Something else is going on, and I’m afraid we’ll never find out what. I met them only yesterday, but I can’t help but think: what a waste. I remember being a lieutenant,” he said softly, looking out the window where the sunlight was slowly growing. “I had so many plans, so many dreams . . . I looked at their bodies and thought, ‘I wonder what dreams they had that will never come true?’ They spend years working and training for such an opportunity and suddenly . . . it’s all over. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “So tragic. Makes no sense.”

  Shem swallowed hard before saying, “Maybe the Creator knew their dreams, that they weren’t as noble as yours, Major. Maybe it’s better their lives were cut short.”

  Perrin turned to him. “What are you getting at?”

  “Sir, a couple of soldiers last night suggested that . . . they may have been Guarders.”

  Major Shin shook his head quickly. “No. Not at all. Not Guarders. We have records and histories of all officers—”

  “That could’ve been forged?”

  “No!” Perrin blurted. “That would mean Guarders are working within the army! That can’t be.”

  Shem had to let him know. At least get him thinking about it. “Sir, I know you don’t want it to be, but what we want rarely coincides with what we’re given. And it’s the given we have to deal with. Only consider for a moment: because of all your new measures, their only way into the villages and forts now would be going in as one of us, in disguise. If it were Guarders, maybe this was meant as a message to you, to prove they can still reach you and your family. Your parents seem to have been the target, sir.”

  Perrin covered his face again. “I must confess, when we lost Wiles—he was before your time—but when we lost Wiles, just vanished out of a coach, I had the thought of, ‘What if Guarders were among us, in blue uniforms?’”

  Shem cleared his throat gently.

  Perrin took his hands off his face to look at his favorite soldier.

  Shem shrugged his shoulders in a manner that said, Would it really be so difficult to imagine?

  “Oh, Shem,” Perrin sighed hopelessly, “then none of us has a prayer.”

  Shem shook his head. “We always have a prayer, sir. Maybe it was the last two Guarders in the army that killed each other last night, instead of killing your father and mother. Wouldn’t they send their best after the highest officer? Now they’re gone.”

  Major Shin seemed to have frozen in place. When he looked at Shem it was with an expression of misery mixed with hope. “Let’s pray that’s true, Shem.”

  “Already have been, sir.”

  A movement at the door drew Shem’s attention.

  “Perrin,” the High General said quietly as his large frame filled the doorway. “Go sit with your mother until Mahrree arrives. She’s not doing very well right now.”

  Perrin stood up immediately. “Yes, sir,” he said to his father. He winked good-bye at Shem and went out the door.

  General Shin closed the door behind him, but remained in the treatment area alone with the corporal.

  Shem tried to sit in some semblance of attention, realizing that the High General’s presence wasn’t a promising development. “Sir?”

  Slowly, with his boots thudding loudly on the wood floor, General Shin walked over to him. “Feeling better, Corporal?” The words were friendly, but the impatient tone made it clear this was merely obligatory small talk.

  “Yes, sir.” But Shem’s stomach started churning all over again. The High General usually wore a grave expression, but astonishingly his face was even harsher this morning.

  General Shin stopped at the foot of his cot and clasped his hands behind his back. “You’re an interesting young man, Shem Zenos,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve yet to figure you out. I’m considering transferring you to the garrison just so I can get you know you better.” He walked down one side of Shem’s cot, keeping his eyes on him.

  Shem had to crane his neck awkwardly to meet his hard gaze. He knew enough to realize the angle was intended to cause him pain, which would distract him from his concentration, which would then let the formidable officer see right through him. Shem ignored his discomfort.

  “Although I think my favorite major and his wife would be greatly displeased if I did,” General Shin added.

  Shem tried to keep his breathing steady as the general turned and slowly paced away. He stopped abruptly at the end of the cot, his dark eyes cold and his face as relenting as granite as he faced Shem again. Major Shin’s glare was nothing compared to his father’s, who had twenty more years to perfect it.

  “You seem so innocent, so boyish, so gentle,” General Shin said coolly. “But I’ve known man
y innocent-looking men who were foxes dressed up in feathers making themselves a nest in the henhouse. I have no evidence of you either way, Shem Zenos.”

  Shem couldn’t help but squirm. The way the general said his name made it sound filthy.

  “And so I look at you and wonder—are you really as good as my daughter-in-law claims? Or are you like my two lieutenants—biding their time and waiting for the opportune moment? The problem is, Shem Zenos, I have no way of knowing until it may be too late.”

  Shem feared he was going to retch again.

  The High General squinted as if reading his face. “You know what happened last night. I have no doubt. I can read the layers in men’s eyes, Zenos. In yours I see terror and worry, but underneath those layers I also see a wall of deceit. You’re hiding things, Corporal, but years ago my father put measures in the code of the army that prevents me from using more effective methods of discovering exactly what you’re hiding. Your deceit may be nothing more than the fact you are nowhere near the age of twenty-one that you claim to be. Or your deceit may be that you are nothing at all as you present yourself.”

  Shem kept his eyes on the general as he walked back up to his head. It was in moments like these that he was grateful for his training that conditioned him to go rigid until a threat had passed.

  General Shin bent down and picked up off the floor the damp cloth that had been on Shem’s head most of the night. Shem stopped breathing as the general’s hand went for Shem’s throat, but Shem didn’t think he could choke him with only one hand.

  But then again, he was the High General.

  The general only wiped the cloth under Shem’s chin and stood back up, examining it. “Know this, Zenos,” he said, staring at the cloth, “that I know. And when I have more evidence, I’ll be back for you.”

  He was about to say something else, but mercifully the treatment door swung open again. The general purposely dropped the cloth on Shem’s hand, and Shem’s fist enclosed it.

  “Oh, General! Are you all right?” Mahrree rushed over to her father-in-law as if she was going to embrace him, but she only gripped his arm. “I can’t believe no one told me until this morning! Perrin’s been gone half of the night, and only now did someone send for me. Where’s Mother Shin?”

  “In the guest quarters. I’ll take you to her, Mahrree.” The general nodded at the corporal and led Mahrree away.

  She sent a fleeting and confused glance to Shem, who still didn’t move.

  Only after they left the room did Shem relax, unclench his fist, and look at the cloth. “No!” he gasped.

  High General Shin had wiped off a minuscule drop of dried blood from under Shem’s chin. There it was, a small red smear revitalized by the dampness of the white cloth.

  He frantically wrenched off his jacket and inspected it in the growing morning light for blood splatters.

  Nothing.

  He glanced at his cap on the floor, but it, too, was clean. He stood up and hurriedly made his way to a mirror above a wash stand at the front of the treatment room. His face was completely clear. Nothing either in his hair, throat, or ears.

  High General Shin had noticed, in the dim morning light, the one bit of evidence that Shem had been near the lieutenants. And he’d given that evidence to the corporal.

  Shem sat down clumsily on a nearby cot. The only reason the general did that was because he was sure he would find something more compelling to accuse Shem with later.

  Then it would all be over.

  Shem would have saved the High General’s life, but also would have failed in saving them.

  Stay anonymous, keep a low profile, connect with no one . . . that’s what Tuma Hifadhi had told him to do. He had failed in all of that, too.

  He was definitely in over his head.

  ---

  “General,” said Mahrree circumspectly as they walked down the hall, “why were you speaking to Shem?”

  “Just asking questions, Mahrree. I’m full of questions today.”

  She firmed her grip on his arm. “Surely you don’t suspect that Shem—”

  “Right now I suspect everything and everyone. Even Perrin’s dog.”

  Well, that would’ve been too convenient, Mahrree considered briefly. “I realize you don’t know much about Shem beyond what we tell you, but you have to believe me—he’s innocent.”

  “And why should I believe that? Because he willingly changes the soiled cloths of your children? Because he has the face of a child himself? Because he goes with you to the congregational meetings? None of that means anything. He’s a skilled, strong young man. He was exceptional in the race I saw him run yesterday, and you told me yourself that he barely lost to Perrin last week. Only a man equal in power to Perrin could come that close to besting him. I’m telling you—he’s not what he seems.”

  Mahrree scoffed at that. “Why, he may be strong, but he barely touches his sword! Perrin’s still trying to get him comfortable with a blade. Shem Zenos is a sweet boy that’s no more capable of killing anyone than . . . than I am! And you know how squeamish I am. I pay the butcher extra to debone my chicken. Shem may be even worse.”

  “Which would explain why—had he killed two men—he was in the surgery wing vomiting last night,” the general said with a slight edge to his voice.

  Mahrree’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and she stopped walking until her father-in-law pulled her along.

  “Surely not, General! Why—why would he do it? No. Absolutely not. Ridiculous. I think the other story is more plausible. They got in an argument, and they both were deadly at the same time. It seems unlikely, I agree, but certainly not impossible. And there’s no evidence of bloody footsteps leaving the scene, according to what Grandpy Neeks told me. Perrin said only yesterday that four of your guards were new soldiers you don’t even know—”

  “And you don’t know Shem Zenos!” the general interrupted her sharply.

  But it wasn’t sharp enough to shut her up. “Sir, I know him better than you! Right now you’re grabbing at any possibility, which means you’ve lost your impartiality. You don’t want the truth. You only want convenient answers!”

  “Truth? I’ve lost MY impartiality!” he bellowed.

  Just as the general was about to round on Mahrree and let her know exactly what he thought, she stopped him with, “Did you trust Hogal Densal?”

  General Shin blinked, startled out of his fury by the odd question. “What?”

  “Hogal Densal—did you trust him?”

  The general sighed, slightly calmer. “I did. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on many things, but Hogal was an excellent judge of character and noticed things no one else could.”

  “Hogal trusted Shem,” Mahrree told him. “So do we. He told us repeatedly to keep Shem close to us, and said he was the finest young man he ever knew, after Perrin.”

  General Shin looked down at the ground for a moment. “Hogal said that?”

  Mahrree nodded. “High praise coming from him, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The general was quiet for half a minute, staring at the floor, and Mahrree shifted in worry for her favorite soldier.

  “Come, Mahrree,” the general eventually said. “Joriana needs a woman’s presence right now.”

  Mahrree smiled primly as the general led her to their guest room.

  Changing the subject was as close as the general would get to conceding defeat in anything.

  ---

  That afternoon a bleary-eyed Perrin came home and sat down at the table. Mahrree was glad the house was quiet, because he looked like he needed it. She’d sent her After School Care boys to join with another group for the day, just in case there were more surprises for the Shin family.

  That morning Mahrree had brought a fretful Joriana to their home—along with two guards who stationed themselves at either door—and shortly before midday meal Hycymum came over, curious as to why her daughter’s house was “soldiered.” Hycymum came up with the wonderful idea to dis
tract Joriana from the events of the night by taking her to the market so she could help her find the latest Idumea fashions, and Joriana decided her two grandchildren needed new clothes, too. The soldiers gave each other passing looks of dread as they followed the party of four to the markets. Mahrree couldn’t think of anything more distracting for Mother Shin than to try to shop with Hycymum and their two grandchildren.

  When she finally returned, she would need a very quiet place herself.

  Perrin supported his head in his hands and sighed as Mahrree vainly put a plate of late midday meal in front of him. He never ate when he was absorbed in a problem.

  “Anything new?” she asked.

  Perrin shook his head. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. All evidence—well, what there is of it—points to a fight between the two men. Maybe that’s all that happened.”

  Mahrree sat down across from him. “You don’t sound as if you believe that. Why?”

  His hands came off his face. “Shem was sick last night. I spoke with him for a few minutes this morning. He suggested the most extraordinary thing.”

  “What?”

  “That the lieutenants may have been Guarders, trying to kill my parents.”

  Mahrree gasped. “Why . . . why that’s . . . that’s . . .”

  “Pretty much my initial response too,” Perrin agreed with her stammering. “But all morning I’ve been thinking about it. And then my father revealed to me one detail.” He shook his head again. “Mahrree, when he opened his door to discover the two officers on the ground, the door handle had already been unlatched, as if someone was about to enter his room, but stopped.”

  “Meaning?” Mahrree breathed.

  “The lieutenants may have already had their knives drawn. Perhaps they were going into my parents’ room. Perhaps . . . someone stopped them from whatever they were planning.”

  Mahrree held her hand over her mouth. “But if someone stopped them, wouldn’t that person tell you what happened? He’d be quite the hero, you know. Recognizing a plot to assassinate the High General then stopping it—”

  “Unless,” Perrin whispered, “whoever saved the High General is not someone who enjoys attention.”

  Mahrree’s chest tightened. “Perrin, when I found your father, he was in the hospital interrogating Sh—”

  “Don’t say it, Mahrree,” he cut her off. “Don’t put his name with this.”

  That puzzled her. Normally Perrin would be the first to analyze every possibility. “But why not? Perrin, if he did do this, then—”

  “Mahrree, think it through,” he said steadily. “If it is who we suspect, then how would he have known they were Guarders?”

  Mahrree paled with realization. “No,” she said shortly, as everything she thought of her claimed little brother threatened to unravel in her head. Was Perrin actually hinting that a Guarder may have even infiltrated their family? “No. No way that he is. He’s not one of them, Perrin! I would never believe that. NO!”

  “Mahrree, Mahrree,” he reached over and patted her hand, “I agree. He’s not one of them, and that’s why I refuse to put his name with this. But Mahrree, for one moment, consider this question with me: if he did this, how did he know to do it?”

  “But he didn’t! He—”

  “The surgeon said only a very strong man could have plunged in those long knives up to their handles.”

  Tears filled Mahrree’s eyes. “Stop with this game and TELL me what you suspect about Shem Zenos!”

  “He did it, Mahrree,” Perrin whispered bleakly. “He saved my father and mother, and he doesn’t want anyone to know. Because he’s hiding something more from us.”

  Mahrree closed her eyes briefly and whimpered. “No.”

  “When I look into his eyes,” Perrin continued, his voice growing husky, “they’re like deep blue pools. But my father taught me how to read people. His ‘pools’ are very shallow. He blocks me, quite subtly. But Mahrree,” he said now with a more optimistic tone, “Shem is on our side. I’m sure of it. I don’t know where he came from, but he’s ours now. I still trust him, just like Hogal. And as Hogal said, we best keep him very close. He may be our only chance to survive.”

  “But we have to find out the truth of who he is,” Mahrree whispered.

  “Are you sure you want to know the truth?”

  “What kind of question is that?” she scoffed. “Of course I do!”

  “But Mahrree,” he said with sudden sharpness, “with truth comes responsibility, too. You can’t live in the existence you’ve crafted for yourself if the truth conflicts with it.”

  She recognized his debating voice, and she developed a dangerous gleam in her eye. “But if that existence is a lie, then isn’t it better to find the truth?”

  “I really don’t know,” he muttered, abruptly giving up. “This may sound juvenile, but I like the world we’ve created with our favorite soldier. I don’t want to lose any of that. Do you?”

  She lost her debating energy too. This wasn’t an academic argument; this was about their little brother.

  Then again . . .

  “Are you sure the truth would ruin it?” she whispered. “I’m not. We have to find out, Perrin!”

  “So what are you going to do?” he challenged. “Ask Shem Zenos who he really is? If he knows something more than he’s letting on to? My father’s interrogating him right now. If he endures that and comes out clean, there’s nothing more you’ll get out of him.”

  “I’ll just wait for the right moment,” she decided. “When his guard’s down. My little brother doesn’t keep secrets from me.”

  “What if he does to protect you, Mahrree?” he asked. “To protect all of us?”

  She pondered that for a moment. “Lies don’t protect,” she declared. “The truth is always better.”

  “Oh really?” Perrin raised an eyebrow. “Remember telling me that had you known the Guarders had you and Jaytsy marked almost two years ago, you probably would have been so terrified you might have birthed early and we wouldn’t have Peto now? My lie kept you and our son safe.” He folded his arms and waited for her retort.

  She pursed her lips. “You may have a point,” she had to admit. “But you didn’t keep that secret for long, and I also suspected something more was going on than simply a dare gone wrong. Shem’s smart, but not that clever. We would’ve caught him by now.”

  He sat back and studied her. “You’ve already made up your mind about him, haven’t you? Just listen to you. You’ve already decided he’s innocent.”

  “No, I haven’t,” she defended, her tone not nearly as convincing as her words. “And just listen to yourself. So have you!”

  “I didn’t say he was innocent, only that he’s . . . not . . . ” he fumbled for the right words, “only he’s not against us.” He shrugged hopelessly. “Oh, I don’t know. All I do know is that I want to follow my heart and believe Hogal and trust Shem, but my head keeps getting in the way with too many questions about his involvement. Or lack of.”

  He closed his tired eyes and rubbed them. “Just when I thought I was on top of everything again . . . Just yesterday, when I showed my father all our improvements, and watched him grin—I’ve never seen him so happy. So when I think I’ve got a handle on everything . . . suddenly I can’t seem to grip anything.”

  Mahrree reached across the table and squeezed his arm. “You’ve done remarkably well, Perrin,” she said earnestly. “You do have a handle on things. This was all completely unexpected. But think about this—if they were Guarders, just how desperate have you made them to try something so daring? You’ve got them on the run, Major Shin!”

  “Wonderful,” he said drearily. “My extreme measures have pushed them to insane measures, which means at some point they’re going to succeed insanely as well.”

  “No it doesn’t!” she insisted. “Because they’ve failed! And this failure’s going to hurt them—”

  “Or make them even angrier,” he countered. He massaged his e
yes again. “And how does a certain young soldier fit into all of this?”

  Mahrree exhaled and shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Math,” Perrin said dully.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “It’s like a complicated math problem,” he intoned. “When you have symbols instead of numbers and you have to figure out what numbers are supposed to be there.”

  “Oh, I hate those,” Mahrree mumbled.

  “I love them,” Perrin smiled feebly at her. “Still do. It’s a challenge, defying you to solve it while it keeps its secrets to itself. But you poke it and experiment until it begins to fall apart, and you get one number, and then another, and suddenly it all becomes yours. You know its secrets, and you’ve conquered it!”

  She looked at him appreciatively. “That’s how you see the world, isn’t it? As one big equation that you have to solve?”

  “Frequently. It used to even be fun,” he admitted, but then his smile faded. “Until recently. Until the equation eliminated Tabbit and Hogal, and tried to smudge out my parents. And now there’s a variable it’s tossing around named Shem Zenos, and I’m afraid to stick a number there in case I hate the way it all turns out. Ah, Mahrree,” he sighed as he stared at his untouched meal, “there are too many unknowns, too many variables, and this time . . . I’m afraid it’s beating me,” he confessed in a whisper.

  Mahrree was struck dumb. She hadn’t seen him so despondent since the Densals died. And he’d come so far, accomplished so much, struck a blow to the Guarders in so many ways, and now he feared—feared?—they were striking back. The world really was out to get them.

  She realized then, as he now held his head in his hands again, that she’d never before heard him use the word “afraid” to refer to himself, and it unsettled her.

  For a moment she glimpsed a solution to it all, but the High General Shin had already dismissed: Perrin had to go into the forest and find out, once and for all, just what all of this was about. There was simply no other way to end it.

  But, as she watched the man she adored, that nasty word starting with a c—and that word wasn’t cautious—popped into her head again. She clenched her fist in frustration, angry that the world, the Guarders, the events of the previous night, and even her favorite soldier were somehow conspiring to turn her husband into something less than he was.

  Even though by all accounts he was a successful commander, he was afraid, and he wore it miserably.

  ---

  Normally they would have been in a dark office of the unlit building.

  That’s where they began but, upon reading the urgent message from Edge about a bizarre incident that ended with two dead lieutenants, Mal found himself unable to speak. He also could no longer breathe regularly, but clutched his heart and began to sweat profusely.

  Brisack rushed him, with the help of two of his guards, to his immense bedroom formerly belonging to kings.

  “Get to my house!” he shouted at the guards. “My emergency bag. Tell my wife the heart one. Run!”

  It was fortunate for the Chairman that Dr. Brisack lived only three houses down, because the guards came running back with the correct bag in only minutes.

  “Empty the bag on the table,” Brisack ordered, still pushing rhythmically on Nicko Mal’s chest as he had ever since they left, “then retrieve two of my assistants.”

  The guards dumped the bag, spilling out bandages, small glass bottles of various colors and sizes, along with leaves and berries wrapped in white cloth, all of which disrupted the papers scattered over the bedside table. They left the room even faster, shutting the large double doors behind them.

  “Stupid, stupid man,” Brisack mumbled as he snatched up a smaller uncorked bottle rolling in a slow circle on the table, gripped the cork with his teeth, spat it out, and held the bottle to Mal’s gray lips. “Drink this—it’ll calm you. Of course, had you not pursued this course—which I TOLD you not to—you wouldn’t be needing this, now would you?”

  The weakened Mal dribbled some of the brownish liquid on his chin, but Brisack was satisfied enough went down his throat.

  He set down the bottle and tore open Mal’s ruffled white shirt. Brisack grabbed another larger bottle before it rolled off the table, uncorked it, and poured some of its contents on the gasping man’s chest. The thick brew which bubbled from the bottle packed with leaves, bark, and shriveled berries smelled simultaneously like an herb garden and a rotting forest.

  “And where’s Gadiman right now? Probably hiding in his office again with the doors locked? Is he here helping save your pitiful life? No, of course not! No one will see him for days, probably. The weasel hiding in his hole.”

  He straddled his patient and massaged the liquid into his chest over his heart while the old man gasped and perspired.

  “Lucky for you some late hawthorn berries are still on,” Brisack said, pulling some out of a white cloth. “Gives me an opportunity to test if the fresh ones applied topically will work in conjunction with the ones I just administered orally, although I don’t know if you deserve it.”

  He crushed the berries and plastered the juice and skins on Mal’s chest.

  “Three lieutenants gone in one season. Three!” he grumbled as he worked in the juices. “The next batch of officers won’t be ready for another two years. And now we can’t even use them because the army will realize Guarders have infiltrated Command School! Such a waste! So much gold!” he seethed as he massaged. “I could have told you this wouldn’t work. Oh, wait. I did. But you listened to Gadiman. So bent on getting what you want you’ll listen to any fool who tells you what you want to hear. You didn’t break the Shins, you’ve only made them more powerful. Why, look at what they’ve survived! Right now Relf and Perrin must think they’re invincible!”

  He continued to massage the berries and tonic over Mal’s heart, watching for when his lips would turn pink again. The good doctor complained loudly all the while since no one could interrupt him. “Everything we planned for using officers during the next five years is completely destroyed. Well done, Nicko. Brilliant.”

  With one hand he grasped the old man’s wrist and checked his pulse while he continued to massage with the other. After a minute the doctor sighed with exhaustion and slid off his patient and the bed. “Excellent work, Dr. Brisack. Your patient’s heart rate has stabilized and his color’s coming back, too. He’ll live.”

  He plopped into a chair, clearly not satisfied with the prognosis.

  “When my assistants arrive they can clean up this mess,” Brisack said, gesturing to the bottles, berries, and liquids spilled around the bed and side table. He started to wipe his wet hands on his red jacket, sighed in exasperation, and instead glared at the Chairman.

  Nicko Mal couldn’t say anything, far too frail to move. He only blinked at the doctor.

  “Things are going to change, Nicko,” Brisack said quietly. “You’ve ruined everything, a coffer of gold went to pay for Command School, and now we no longer even have those officers. Every two weeks our men wake up and find more slips of silver than their work should ever have earned them. They’ve been spoiled for only a few days’ work each season. But no more. Agreed? Blink once if you agree, twice if you don’t.”

  It took him a moment, but eventually Nicko Mal reluctantly—stubbornly—blinked once.

  Brisack nodded back. “Now then, here’s what we’re going to do: we stop paying them.”

  Mal blinked twice, then twice again.

  “Worried they’ll revolt, are you? But they can’t leave the service without their comrades killing them for breaking the oaths. So I propose we cut them off, like a parent cuts off a leeching child. Make them earn their own ways. With no options, I speculate they’ll become very inventive. And that will be fascinating to observe. As the saying goes, desperation drives discovery. What methods will they employ to discover new ways of funding themselves?”

  Mal opened his mouth to try to speak, but his lips only pa
rted slightly.

  “That’s the relaxant at work,” Brisack smiled slyly. “I recently added that to my heart tonic. You remain conscious but unable to do anything so that your body can rest and your heart can heal. One of my better concoctions, and I thank you for being one of my first human volunteers to test it. My wife’s dog just runs when she sees me approaching now. She must think I’m you. But think about my suggestion, Nicko. We test the testers. We continue to gain research and be entertained, but keep our remaining gold to ourselves until this situation stabilizes itself in five, maybe ten, years. I see it in your eyes. You’re seeing the wisdom in this, aren’t you? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  Again Mal was slow to respond, and it wasn’t because of the relaxant. Eventually he blinked once.

  Brisack gave him a half smile. “Didn’t you once study what happens to abandoned young of different species? Some grew exceptionally strong, others became depressed and died? You can do it again, but with humans. How will these sucking ‘children’ survive when we cut them loose and let them struggle on their own?”

  Mal blinked once, quite quickly. “All right,” he whispered.

  Brisack shook his head. “I didn’t give you enough. You shouldn’t be able to speak at all. Or maybe you’re just exceptionally stubborn.”

  Mal blinked once again.

  “And by the way,” Brisack said as he stood up to cork a bottle, “about saving your life? You’ll be getting my bill when it’s all over. Guess this proves you have a heart. And you’re welcome, you selfish son of a sow!”

  ---

  Administrator Gadiman sat at his desk, candles burning all around him, with the file in front of him.

  It was late again. The sun had set hours ago, but Gadiman still had work to do. He could work all night if necessary. And the next day. And the next, for however long he needed to be there. No one would bother him here. No one would dare.

  He tried to concentrate on the task before him but his anger boiled up inside again, threatening to froth out in another fit of temper. But he couldn’t let that happen again. It took him almost three hours to reorganize all the files. Yet as he gathered up the files he dumped furiously out of boxes, one had fallen open to reveal a page he knew he could work with. This was the way he could get his revenge and prove his worth.

  The file sat open in front of him now as a bright and redeeming light in contrast to a dark and stupid night.

  Those two lieutenants were ready, he knew it! Something went wrong in Edge, but it wasn’t his fault. Something—or someone—else interfered, and because of that Gadiman would be dropped from the inner circle before he even got a chance to be part of it.

  He took a few deep cleansing breaths, noticed that they didn’t cleanse anything, and grabbed the thick file. He flipped past the pages about the raid and improvements in Edge and stopped once when he came to Captain Karna’s daily reports. He moved those pages to the top.

  There it was, obvious for anyone to see, if they were willing to see: his salvation. He’d prove to Chairman Mal he was far more adept than that self-righteous doctor.

  He took another file with a yellow dot next to the name, opened it, and copied information from Captain Karna’s report for a second record that he alone kept. He closed the file and put a careful drop of orange paint on top of the yellow.

  He wouldn’t ignore it like everyone else. If they wanted Shin brought to his knees, Gadiman would find another way to do it—legally, publically, definitively. It might take some time, but knew he had all the time in the world.

  For disarming the entire army in front of her husband and with his reluctant approval, then sending the soldiers out in ‘casual’ uniform to the village—which Captain Karna claimed had “charming effects on the citizens,” but was a phrase that made Gadiman involuntarily shudder—Mrs. Shin’s new orange label meant Beyond Watched, but not yet Traitorous.

  No woman should have that kind of influence over an officer. Any more power and she’d be one of the most dangerous women in the world.

  And she was.

  Gadiman could see it in the four letters she sent. She had potential, this one, and she had the ear of the son of the most powerful officer in the world.

  She was a glorious disaster waiting to happen, and Gadiman would be the one to call their attention to it. He saw it, right from the beginning, and he would be there at the end when she destroyed herself and everyone else with the last name of Shin. They would all go down hard and loud and messy, and Gadiman would be there to sweep it all up, pour it into a bag, and hand it proudly to the Chairman.

  Then he’d set his eyes on the next target, the one file he kept even more heavily guarded than Mrs. Shin’s. In it was only one item of evidence so far, but it was most revealing. He would just wait for the right moment.

  Unable to stop himself, he slipped the file out from the secret drawer under his desk and opened it. There it was, still dark and crisp in the clear scrawl unique to doctors.

  Captain Shin, a dozen will be awaiting in the shadows to assist in the care of your wife and daughter.

  Gadiman was no doctor, but he was intelligent enough to know to send a copy of that message to the captain, and to keep the original—in Brisack’s own handwriting—for himself.

  He would be next, after Mrs. Shin.

  Gadiman painstakingly set a precise orange dot next to Brisack’s name, his only victory for the day.

  That very wrong, very stupid, very disastrous day.

  ---

  Dormin was ready, waiting in the dark in his room at Edge’s Inn. He paced nervously, knowing that the time had come, and now was past. Something must have happened—

  The door opened quietly and two figures slipped in.

  “Rector Yung? Why haven’t we left yet? Where are the others?” Dormin began to fumble with a match until he heard Rector Yung.

  “No light, son. We have to keep quiet for another few days yet, it seems.”

  “What?” Dormin exclaimed. “I thought there was this great rush—”

  “There is!” Mrs. Yung said, clearly exasperated. “But there’s been an incident at the fort, and now the patrols have doubled day and night. There will be no movement until things quiet down again. Probably four or five more days.”

  Dormin exhaled loudly. “But that’s—”

  “Hardly a worry for you!” Mrs. Yung snapped in an angry whisper.

  Dormin clamped his mouth shut. He’d never heard her so testy before.

  “Remember, Dormin,” Mrs. Yung said, trying to calm her voice, “this isn’t all about you. You can sit around here for weeks without a concern, but others are in far greater danger. I didn’t mean to get snippy with you,” she added apologetically. “It’s only that . . . oh, the timing just couldn’t be worse.” She took a chair at the small table and collapsed in it worriedly.

  Her husband stepped up behind her and massaged her shoulders. “We have to trust that the Creator knows our plight, my dearest. He will fix everything, somehow.”

  “I know, I know,” Mrs. Yung said impatiently. “It’s just that—”

  “The Creator knows our plight,” Rector Yung said again, still calm.

  Mrs. Yung exhaled loudly, partly in aggravation, partly in apology. “I know,” she said quieter. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  In the dark, Rector Yung seemed to smile at Dormin. “All will be well,” he said with such surety as if to guarantee it. “We’ve faced trickier situations—”

  A loud scoffing sound from his wife begged to differ with that assessment.

  “Dearest?” Rector Yung said in a remarkable blend of innocent questioning and firm admonishment.

  Mrs. Yung sighed again. “Sorry, sorry. I can’t help but get anxious at this point.”

  “And yet every time all goes well, doesn’t it?” her husband said with such sweetness that Dormin wondered if the man were half sugar.

  “Yes, you’re always right,” Mrs. Yung growled quietly. �
��And so is the Creator.”

  Rector Yung chuckled quietly and took a chair next to his wife.

  But Dormin clenched his hands into nervous fists. “So . . . what happened at the fort? Why is everyone more anxious than usual?”

  The Yungs looked steadily at each other before Rector Yung cleared his throat.

  “Dormin, sit down, son,” the rector said somberly. “There’s something you need to hear.”

  Chapter 21 ~ “I never once remember laughing in Idumea.”