Rufio ran a finger along the side of his jowl. “Are you saying that my staff officers and I are no longer able to command? If so, our resignations will be swift in coming to the Privy Council for acceptance.” In demeanour he remained aloof but inside, Aladdin could tell, the soldier was really steaming.
“Your resignation won’t be necessary,” said Damian, interjecting his presence between the antagonists. “You surely know how much we need you, Commander. And don’t forget that you, as well as the others, agreed to Shaman’s gamble. Now that it has borne fruit, we shouldn’t be bickering among ourselves. It seems this should be a time for cohesion, no? A new unity — ”
Rufio calmed down. “Surface warfare is different from ours,” he said. “Twenty centuries of history have proved time and time again that our own methods are the best and only way to deal with invaders.” His chest swelled appropriately with the thought of his personal victories against all odds, as well as the glories of his long line of honoured predecessors.
“No one is trying to undermine you, man,” said Damian, showing a hint of annoyance. He sighed, rubbing the side of his head with his palm. “But we are at a dangerous crossroad. Certainly the arrival of our surface visitors is welcome.” He placed a hand on Rufio’s shoulder. “They are to be adjuncts to our forces. Advisors — no more than that. As always, the Supreme Command retains full authority over military decisions — ”
“With only the Privy Council at our backs,” the soldier replied, somewhat frustrated. “By the gods, had you given me the freedom to act five years ago, this entire emergency might have been avoided!”
“Yes,” said Shaman. “And Cinnabar would have been left defenceless while your armies trekked beyond the Two Plates in search of a horde of Amphibs you still haven’t been able to track.”
“Your doing, not mine,” barked Rufio, his hackles up. He pounded a fist against his thigh. “Damn you — and damn the Privy Council.”
Damian turned pale. “Gentlemen! I won’t tolerate these outbursts.” He turned to his guests, Aladdin and Christóbal, standing mute on the side-lines, listening, learning for the first time of the deep chasms that existed within the dreamlike world beneath the sea.
“Forgive this display of bad manners,” the lord told his visitors. “As you can see, we are a democratic people, with each faction free — often too free — to speak its mind.”
“We understand,” said Aladdin, nodding. But, he thought to himself, this is a free people badly divided.
“I should think that our new arrivals must be exhausted from their journey,” Damian added tactfully. He clapped his hands and a servant came scurrying into the chamber. “Take our guests to their sleeping quarters,” he said. Then he smiled at Aladdin. “Every available comfort has been provided. I hope neither of you will be disappointed. If there is anything at all you desire, you have only to send a glowbeam. The Pavilion staff is at your disposal.”
Aladdin lowered his head respectfully. “Thank you. We are tired, my lord. More so perhaps than we realised. But neither Christóbal nor I yet understand what our purpose here is to be. Nor who we are to fight and why.”
“Your concern is understandable.” Damian looked over at the Legion Commander who stood erectly at attention. “Rufio, I’m putting our visitors in your charge for now. Can you arrange a debriefing for them at the crack of whitetime tomorrow?”
The soldier saluted. “An introductory meeting at the War Room of Supreme Command has already been scheduled, my lord. My personal adjutant will call for them. Now, if that is all, I have many other matters to take care of.”
“Of course, Commander. You are excused.”
Rufio turned stiffly to leave; the jester continued to prance around him, dodging just in time the soldier’s intended kick in the backside.
Chapter Thirteen
“I trust you had a pleasant sleep, gentlemen?” The head poking inside the door was cheerful and cherubic; a round young face, ruddy complexioned and pimply, topped by a shock of sandy light hair.
Aladdin roused himself from the huge bed, still groggy, but feeling that he’d slept better than at any time since he left Basra. His hand groped under the pillows for the prism and, finding the princess safe, left it where it was.
“Who — Who are you?” he stammered.
The pimply face grinned from ear to ear. “Crispin, they call me,” he said merrily. “Temporarily assigned to Supreme, formerly aide-de-camp to General Flavius but now adjutant to the big boy himself.” He winked.
“You mean Rufio?”
“Wouldn’t go round calling him by his familiar name, old boy,” Crispin said. “Our Legion Commander is a stickler for regulation and procedure. My orders were to rouse you before whitetime, so, as soon as you’re ready — ” He stepped gingerly into the chamber, glancing in awe around the luxuriant quarters shared by the strangers which made his own officer’s billet seem like a meagre hovel. The burly youth sighed with envy, mumbling something about grand style and going all-out to leave a good impression, which was mostly lost on Aladdin as he got up.
Crispin pulled back the plush curtains and a suffusion of magenta light spilled inside the tower room. Then he walked to the glowing globe perched beside Aladdin’s bed and passed his hand over it. The light went out.
Aladdin looked at him in amazement. “Is that how you turn that thing off?”
“Of course, old boy. Any glowlight — ” He paused, chuckled. “Never mind. I forget that surface ways are different from ours. Here, let me show you.” This time he passed his hand beneath the circular lamp. Magically, it turned itself on, shining brightly. Then he repeated the procedure by moving his palm over the top and the glow-light turned off again. “Never mind, old boy. You’ll become acquainted with our ways soon enough.”
Tiny bells were tinkling, as cool air from ducts hidden in the ceiling filled the room, making a soft but distinct whooshing sound.
“That’s our filtration system,” Crispin went on matter-of-factly. “The entire Pavilion is kept at a steady temperature, which keeps the politicos from growing too hot under the collar during debates, I suppose.” He chuckled again. “Ah, dear me, you really are lucky fellows, you know.”
Aladdin dressed slowly as Christóbal stirred, with a gaping yawn, in the opposite bed. “How so?” Aladdin asked.
“Nothing personal, old boy, but it isn’t very often you find anyone receiving such special privilege these days. Rationing, you know. Whole city’s on quarter power.” He shook his head as the burly Spaniard got off the bed and tottered sleepily to the wash basin. “You two really
must be a prize for old Shaman, all right. Wheezing old snoot!”
Aladdin regarded the cheerful youth without expression. “Sounds like you don’t approve of the counsel very much.”
“Oh, it isn’t that,” replied Crispin with a wave of his hand. “He’s tackled some hard jobs in his day; give credit where it’s due. But he’s a cunning old devil, that one. Thwarting Supreme with impunity as he does, meddling constantly in affairs that aren’t his business, thinking he can give and countermand proper military directives at whim — and then toss the blame into someone else’s lap when things go wrong. Yes, a clever old bugger, Shaman is. Why one time — ” The soldier pursed his lips, shrugged and smiled. “But why am I bothering you with these gripes, eh? I suppose that, with what you’re being paid, you couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about our petty squabbles. Can’t even say that I blame you, either.”
Aladdin said nothing; Crispin seemed an open enough fellow, one from whom he might be able to learn quite a bit about Cinnabar. If yesterday he had been surprised by the display of open antagonisms, now his conversation with the young adjutant only solidified his belief that this was a society racked by disunity. Mistrust between politicians and military men was an old story; but somehow, he had the feeling that in this ancient civilisation the mistrust ran far deeper, being rooted in centuries of endless struggle he still didn’t understand.
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“I say, we’d better get cracking,” Crispin said, pulling Aladdin from his thoughts. “We’re running behind schedule.”
Christóbal combed his woolly hair and adjusted his stocking cap. The Spaniard scratched his growling belly, ready to go at last. “What about breakfast?”
Crispin grinned as he opened the door to the corridor and gestured for the adventurers to step out first. “Time enough for that after the debriefing, old boy,” he said. “But now we’d better hurry. Staff is already gathering, and our Legion Commander becomes surly when people keep him waiting.”
*
The War Room of Supreme Command buzzed with activity in the small hours before whitetime. The general staff went about its assignments with quiet military efficiency. Runners with folders scurried up and down the multilevel catwalks and corridors, delivering documents speedily to any of the dozen trained specialists who would study them. The folders contained everything from basic logistical requisitions to the most highly classified documents, to be amended, rejected, or countersigned.
Supreme was housed in a low stone structure adjoining the southern face of the Pavilion. Its labyrinth of tunnels and chambers ran beneath the ground, so that Crispin and his guests did not have to leave the Pavilion to reach its innermost sanctum. Supreme received few non-military visitors. A pass bearing the seal of the Privy Council was required by the guards at the entrance, and then it was checked no less than three additional times before entry into the secret heart of the complex, the War Room, was gained. Aladdin and Christóbal walked briskly at Crispin’s heels as he led them along the grey corridors. Both could only marvel at the atmosphere of crisp efficiency all around, as staff members went about their duties tirelessly, without so much as glancing at the unknown visitors.
“You have quite an operation down here,” Aladdin remarked as they crossed a spacious chamber cluttered with avenues of desks, behind which sat serious-faced, uniformed men.
“Need it, old boy,” answered the adjutant. “We’ve been at this messy business for a long time. But I admit that sometimes it does get to be a bit much. All requisitions coming in are required in triplicate; field reports, in quadruplicate. Staff reads every damn thing. Then, depending on the proper degree of classification, we stamp them again and again before the big boys ever get a look at the most important.” And as if to stress his point, they passed a desk where the clerk sat pounding a “red alert secret” seal atop mountains of papers.
“A matter of security, you see,” Crispin added as they wound their way through the aisles. “Staff meetings are held promptly before whitetime at 0500 hours to analyse the performance of each sector. We probe into bottlenecks and failures in communication; criticise weaknesses; examine new information, and then execute new orders of the day. Analysis and resolution is the business of Supreme. The only business. It helps ensure the highest possible level of preparedness. Actually, we’re very proud of this drab place, but I suppose a man like you is familiar enough with this sort of thing.”
Not like this, Aladdin wasn’t. Not that he hadn’t been in command posts in his time; but never one so brilliantly organized. Truly, Cinnabar’s military structure far surpassed anything, anywhere. Its size alone made him wonder why such a well-organised society would need men like him and Christóbal. The armies of the surface world — even the most highly regarded and sophisticated — would seem, indeed, to be poorly run at best, and barbaric at worst in comparison.
They reached the far end of the wide room, where a sentry dressed in a grey tunic snapped to attention, barring the way into the next chamber. Crispin returned a salute, then handed the guard the special admittance pass issued by Rufio himself. He stood back aloofly as the soldier examined it and nodded, occasionally lifting his head to look more carefully at the strangers.
“Meeting’s already underway, sir,” said the guard, giving back the green-coloured pass. “You’re all expected.”
“This way, gentlemen,” said Crispin with a big smile as he waited for the guard to stand aside. Aladdin and the Spaniard crossed the threshold and entered the most highly secret War Room chamber, the tactical nerve centre, in which all decisions were made.
It was a huge rectangular room with dull green walls, plastered everywhere with maps and grid charts. Across the foreground hung an enormous coloured relief map detailing each sector of the underworld. Aladdin was instantly able to identify one pale area as the barren Outland, which Shaman had taken them across. On either side of that were the Two Plates, and areas he couldn’t recognise. Surrounding land mass were strokes of blue, representing the ocean. Specific spots here and there were pinned with tiny flags of various colours, apparently representing areas under close observation.
Rufio, his back to the door, stood in quiet conversation with several austere staff officers. Of high rank, all were garbed in black tunics, their chests bedecked with ribbons and medals of valour, their shoulders and buttoned collars threaded with epaulets.
“Ahem,” said Crispin, clicking the heels of his boots together as he drew briskly to attention and saluted.
Rufio turned, returned the salute. “You’re late,” he said dryly.
The officers flanking the Legion Commander stood at ease, staring unabashedly at the two foreigners from the surface. One was squat and totally bald; the other was marked by wrinkled old age and carried a walking stick. Both were characteristically grey-eyed and small-statured.
“These,” said Rufio, gesturing, “are the men whom our counsel has brought back from the surface.” He introduced them in clipped fashion, without showing his true feelings. Then he introduced the officers to the adventurers. The bald one was called Eleazer, the old one, General Flavius, Crispin’s former commander.
Flavius was the only one who smiled. “So,” he said, tapping his walking stick against the instep of his shined boot, “you are the ones Shaman has put so much stock in.”
Aladdin felt uncomfortable beneath the old man’s scrutiny. He was a lithe, spare man, clearly a devoted soldier all of his life. No flab, no pot belly or any other physical signs of late middle age. He carried himself well, despite the walking stick, giving the impression of a man used to giving orders and expecting them to be carried out without hesitation — expecting no less from his men than he himself was willing to give, rewarding loyalty with loyalty, accepting no excuses and giving none. In short, the kind of soldier universally admired. And although he felt himself being measured by the old man’s gaze, Aladdin perceived a certain sympathy, a certain bond of character that transcended the different worlds from which they came. He felt an instant liking for the weathered soldier who, perhaps like himself, had seen too much hatred and death.
“I compliment you on how well you have withstood the rigors of Passage and your journey here,” Flavius told the adventurers. “But I still reserve judgment as to the wisdom of your decision to come.” If there was an attempt at humour in the remark, it was well masked by his bromidic tone of voice.
“Shaman’s report speaks most highly,” added Eleazer. The squat, hairless soldier folded his arms and looked at Christóbal from head to toe. “He says you’ve been involved in more campaigns than most mercenaries see in a lifetime.”
“We are soldiers, the same as you,” said the Spaniard. “We wear no uniform, nor do we owe allegiance to a single flag; nevertheless, we dislike being referred to as mercenaries.”
“Ah, I see,” said Flavius. “Forgive the poor choice of words, then. Soldiers everywhere share a similar philosophy, and I hope you will have no difficulty in coming to terms with ours.”
Rufio frowned. “They came not of their free will,” he pointed out. “Our wise counsel — er — coerced them to make the voyage.”
Flavius arched his white brows. “Indeed?” His eyes flickered with disappointment. “So it seems we have an unexpected qualification thrown into the bargain.”
“I’ll be frank,” said Aladdin. “The terms of my agreement with Shaman call for o
ne year of loyal service. We are men of our word, General, and we are committed for that time to aid you in any way we can. One year; no more, no less. So you needn’t have any fear of our ‘coming to terms’ with you or your struggle.”
“He speaks like a politician,” mumbled Eleazer.
Aladdin shot him a sharp glance. “That, you may believe, we are not.”
General Flavius chuckled. “Then we already have a common ground on which to form our relationship.” He stood before Aladdin and extended his slim but firm hand. “You will find that we are also men of honour, even if at times we have our disagreements.” They shook hands warmly.
“Perhaps now we can get down to the day’s business?” asked Rufio.
“Our Legion Commander spares little time for small talk,” Flavius said, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “Come, gentlemen, take seats. Ask questions. That’s why we’re here. Perhaps we’ll soon be able to explain enough for you to know whether or not you can be of service.”
While Rufio leaned against the side of his imposing desk, Aladdin and Christóbal allowed Crispin to usher them into the comfortable seats placed in a semicircle around it. The young adjutant sat himself at Aladdin’s side. Eleazer settled into the chair next to Christóbal. Flavius declined to sit, preferring instead to remain standing.
“I trust you have a rudimentary knowledge about Cinnabar and its problems,” Rufio began, leaning forward, his hands clasped. The huge map hung like a tapestry behind him.
“I’m afraid Christóbal and I know almost nothing,” said Aladdin. “You see, our relations with Shaman have been distant at best since we set sail from Basra. Occasionally we were able to glean a few pieces of information along the way, but basically we know about as much about Cinnabar as the day we departed from the sultan’s court.”
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 89
