The Narrow Path To War

by D L Frizzell

  In truth, he was a spy, trained to kill. Daigre served The Guile, the leader of the Jovian Nation, as a member of the garden keepers. Until recently, Daigre had taken his orders directly from The Guile and worked alone. Now he was charged with serving Benac, a disgraced nobleguard who was trying to win back The Guile’s favor. The Guile gave Benac a list of tasks he needed to complete if his trust was to be regained, and Daigre was commanded to serve him. It was a commission that Daigre did not relish, but was bound by honor to accept. Before they even made it past the ocean coast, Daigre knew he'd been reduced to a glorified bodyguard.

  It bothered Daigre that The Guile had entrusted only Benac with the mission details. As a garden keeper, he should have known everything. How else would the mission succeed without him knowing what to look for? Certainly, Benac would not find what he was looking for on his own. He was too self-important, and had lived too long in the lower half of the Nakajima. Benac had boasted his time there was spent recuperating from the wounds he received in honorable combat. In truth, anyone who was familiar with The Guile's floating palace would know it more closely resembled a dungeon. Those who served in the lower half were often put there because they failed The Guile in some manner. The fact that Benac survived there for years, and actually got fat during that time, suggested that he found a way to ascend to a position of authority in the dank, leaky hull of the city-ship that the Founders brought from the solar system five centuries ago.

  Never the trusting type, Daigre took it upon himself to investigate Benac discreetly before they left the Nakajima. It turned out that the nobleguard had commanded The Guile's Jugguard troops and repelled the Plainsman Invasion ten years earlier. Though the official story was that the plainsmen were defeated, Benac's time in the Nakajima's belly suggested that was not completely true. Or at least, he disgraced himself somehow on the path to victory. He had not disgraced The Guile personally, however. That much was obvious because Benac's hands were still attached to his arms. As revered as The Guile was, he was not known as a forgiving man.

  Finding that Benac was less than the leader he pretended to be made it difficult for Daigre to follow him. He suffered patiently as he did the fool's bidding. He was equally determined to achieve mission success and honor The Guile in his own actions. The first three weeks of their journey was spent finessing Benac at every turn, gleaning details about their mission through casual conversation and innocuous questions. In the end, he suspected Benac wanted him to know all, or at least most, of the mission goals anyway. It simply amused Benac to make Daigre jump through hoops for every scrap of information. Irritating those around him seemed to be another fringe benefit for the nobleguard, as he never missed an opportunity to hound Daigre for not knowing something. It also made him feel like he was in charge. Nonetheless, Daigre felt that he had gotten more information than Benac had intended to give.

  First, The Guile wanted them to investigate rumors of weapons being developed by the Plainsmen. Daigre knew The Guile desired vengeance for the plainsmen's failed invasion of the Jovian Nation a decade earlier. The Plainsmen were a cruel and vicious people. They were intelligent, but twisted. He had heard stories of their savage inventions, and personally saw the evidence of their use against fellow Jovians, the memory of which still haunted his dreams. Daigre suspected The Guile's likely reason for sending them into enemy territory was to look for evidence of a second invasion being planned, and to see if they had devised new ways to kill the innocent. Benac kept the exact details of this mission goal to himself, despite Daigre’s best efforts to uncover them.

  Second, they were commanded to find a deserter, a renowned garden keeper named Norio who had abandoned his lifelong pledge to act as The Guile’s personal advisor and protector. He had fled to surrender to the Plainsmen at the time of the invasion, and may have been the reason it almost succeeded. This was a matter Daigre took more seriously than any other duty he'd ever been given and swore to Benac that he would personally deliver Norio’s hands as proof of his defeat.

  Of The Guile’s expectations, only the last one confused Daigre - they were told to bring a live T’Neth to the Nakajima for questioning. This was a difficult task at best, and Daigre was perplexed when he was told that any T’Neth would suffice. Benac, in a rare moment of thoughtfulness, admitted that he did not understand why The Guile would expect this. He only supposed it was meant to increase the difficulty of the task, and thereby prove Benac worthier by simply accomplishing it.

  Daigre considered the mission goals. He thought they could all be related in some way, though it hardly seemed the type of mission to give someone like Benac. If he had learned anything from spending the last month with the bloated fool, it was that he was irredeemable. Of all the tasks they had to complete, it was Daigre that would do most of the work, while Benac would take credit for all of it upon returning home.

  Daigre raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun, and scanned the horizon. Benac was missing, as usual. It was one of the things that infuriated Daigre; Benac would assign him menial tasks, and then disappear with the vague instruction to wait for his return. At the moment, Daigre would have to make do, so he decided to eat something. He opened a travel bag and retrieved two vegetables. He gave one to his horse, then brushed the dust off the other one to eat himself.

  Daigre turned to check his camp. A small group of Jug mercenaries, whom Benac brought along for the mission, had gathered around the campwater to sharpen their parlo blades and talk quietly among themselves. Daigre did not find them to be complete savages, as Benac often referred to them. Yes, they were primitive. Yes, they had forsaken organized society after the Founding of Arion, but they thrived in the wilderness of The Schism Plate. As tough and barren as the Plate was, Daigre thought that had to count for something.

  Jugguards rarely traveled beyond their own homeland. They were simple hunters who wore clothes made from the hides of animals they killed. This was the only indicator Daigre could tell of their social status - The best hunters wore the best hides. Daigre remembered first being impressed with them when he saw one take down a giant mountain cat with nothing but a parlo blade, and did that without armor on. From that point on, he respected them and dealt with them honorably.

  Daigre waved to a Jug that was looking his direction and gave him the hand signal to eat. The Jug nodded, then spoke a word to his companions. Together, they pushed the tips of their parlo blades into the sand and bowed their heads to the lion-headed deity that each had carved into their hilts. When they finished their brief prayer, they pulled strips of dried meat out of their pockets and began to chew on them.

  Daigre settled to his knees on a small blanket on the hot sand. He angled his walking stick across his lap and felt the cracks in the wood. It was an unassuming accessory, and a most deadly weapon. He found the release button on the haft, rubbed it for luck, and then began eating.

  Daigre chewed slowly on the vegetable, a seasoned marshleek, and thought about home. For some reason, he reminisced about the flower clock he helped his father build. It was made with traditional construction, using cherry wood for the half-cupola, and chiseled stone for the turntable. He couldn't do much to help his father, as he was very young at the time, and was content to simply place the flower pots around the turntable. Pink on one side signified daytime hours, and purple on the other showed nighttime, put there to remind them of their origins on Earth. He recalled his father giving him permission to lower the waterwheel into the creek for the first time and start the clock.

  All the sights and smells were still vivid in Daigre’s memory; the fresh-cut wood, the flowers, the green grass bordering the stream, and the fresh, pure water as it babbled down the rocks beside their home. Seeing the waterwheel spin in the current below, pumping water up to the cupola, it quickly became Daigre's favorite spot to sit and dream. Even though, in reality, it took twenty-four hours for the turntable to make one rotation, it seemed to turn faster in his memory.

  Daigre stop
ped reminiscing when he detected a sulfuric odor drifting into the camp. Opening his eyes, he re-focused on the harsh, yellow sand stretching to the horizon in every direction. Celestial City was too far south to be the source of the smell, which meant someone was approaching. He stood and snapped his fingers to get the Jugs' attention. They stared at him momentarily, then also noticed the smell and rose to their feet.

  Daigre tied his walking stick to the sash around his waist and waited. Seconds later, he heard Benac's shrill voice carried to him by the breeze. He was berating the two Jugs who accompanied him. He often spoke this way to his underlings. This time he was louder and more long-winded than usual. When they finally reached the camp, Daigre had packed his belonging on his horse, and backed away so he could keep his distance from the man he was pledged to obey.

  Benac wore tarnished metal armor that was too small for him. Daigre guessed that he’d gotten the armor when he was a much younger man, and it probably fit better at that time. There was a scabbard strapped to his hip, which Daigre knew to hold a finely-sharpened sword. Benac strutted about pretentiously for everyone to see, though they showed little regard for him. Daigre watched cautiously, for he knew that Benac was not just a slob in faded armor. Despite his oily, sweaty appearance, he was a nobleguard, and had been trained to fight as a warrior-protector of the Jovian Nation.

  Benac crossed the sand to Daigre and flashed his crooked, stained teeth in a contemptuous smile. His lower lip wobbled dumbly, thanks to an old slashing wound that divided it down the middle to his gums. The wound had never been cared for properly, so there was a constant flow of spittle through the gap where there was once a complete lip.

  "Your men should keep silent, Benac," Daigre said, indicating the Jugs standing quietly around the fire. "They will attract attention."

  Benac's smile disappeared, then reappeared just as quickly. "Tell me, slave," Benac lisped slyly. "Have you found the traitor yet?"

  Daigre didn't answer. Silently, he wished the blowhard would draw his sword and see where it got him. He turned his back on Benac to adjust the saddle on his horse, alert for the telltale silence that indicated Benac was drawing his sword. All he heard was Benac’s heavy breath whistling through the gap where a lower tooth used to be. When the sound stopped a moment later, he spun around to see Benac covering his split lip with a finger, still smiling. Daigre took a step back and chastised himself for letting Benac get under his skin. Still, after weeks of playing nice, he couldn’t help himself.

  "Have you found your informant yet, Benac?" Daigre retorted.

  Benac sneered, "No, but..."

  Daigre realized too late that he fell into Benac's snare.

  "I have not had the time, seeing as I am so busy doing your job," Benac said wetly. He wiped spittle off his lip and flicked it onto the sand. "I found where this traitor of yours lives."

  Daigre suspected this was why Benac's men stank. It proved to him again that Benac was an oaf, a has-been with no business stumbling around enemy territory. If he had known anything about the traitor they were seeking, he would not have taken his men into Celestial City. If he was surprised by anything, it was that Benac did not stink like they did. After a moment, he decided it should not surprise him at all, since Benac’s command style was to send underlings into dangerous areas while he remained at a safe distance.

  Daigre held his anger in check and considered that, at least, Benac had brought some useful information. He recognized the smell the Jugs brought with them - cave bat musk. It was one of the strongest smells in the world, and one of the hardest to clean off. That suggested that Norio knew someone was watching him and had placed a trap to reveal their identity.

  "Tell me, Benac," Daigre asked coldly. "How did you manage to get out of the city without being noticed? Does everyone there smell so badly?"

  "One must use nature to cover his tracks," Benac boasted in a lofty tone. "The guster gave us the means to escape unnoticed. As the frightened plainsmen scurried for cover, we vaulted the wall and left with our heads held high."

  Daigre sighed, remembering that even fools get lucky sometimes. "Can you tell me what knowledge you gained from your adventure?" He did not believe they would have learned anything new or useful. Still, the question worth asking.

  "Nothing to tell," Benac said. "The traitor was not there, so we searched his house. These idiots," he pointed at two Jugs who sat away from the rest, ostracized because of the way they smelled, "found nothing. They spilled that liquid on themselves when they tripped over a table, so I told them we had to leave before anyone noticed them."

  "He knew you were coming," Daigre growled, unable to gloss over the obvious. "Are you so dull that you do not know you walked into his trap?"

  Benac seethed at Daigre's insolence. "If it was a trap, then your traitor is a farce. A genuine enemy would have devised a way to poison or impale us. As it is, he only made these idiots smell a little worse than they usually do." Benac ran his finger across his chin, then threw a worried glance at the two Jugs. "Could it be poison? Something that kills slowly?”

  Daigre stared at Benac. It was typically stupid of him to realize the possibility only after he had brought the two back to camp to mingle with the others. “No,” he answered.

  “Then this is no better than a childish prank. If he were as formidable as you say, why did he do this?” Benac asked.

  “To follow us,” Daigre said coldly. “As long as these men smell like that, he will know where we are.”

  "Can you clean them off? Answer truthfully, slave."

  "Maybe if I had access to the right herbs,” Daigre answered, trying to ignore the slight, “or some charcoal. It hardly matters, nobleguard. We would never find those things in this desert."

  "So be it," Benac huffed. He turned from Daigre and walked to the two stinking Jugs. "Daigre says he forgot to bring soap," he joked to them.

  They shrugged.

  Replacing the smile with a malevolent sneer, Benac added, "You can blame him for this."

  The two stared, not comprehending his meaning. That did not matter, though. A moment later, Benac spun on his heel, drawing his sword and extending it in a wide, circular arc. Few would guess a man of his physical appearance to be capable of such fluid motion, so the Jugs merely gaped in surprise. As he finished a complete turn, he came to a stop, wiped a red smear from the tip of his blade, and returned it to its sheath. The Jugs convulsed as blood spurted from open gashes in their windpipes. One grabbed his neck with both hands while the other inexplicably reached to Benac for help. Benac kicked him backwards, then watched as their severed arteries pumped blood onto the sand. The second Jug fell over moments later, just as fatally wounded. The others around the fire stopped talking. They looked between their dying comrades and Benac, who glared back at them. Without a word, they resumed eating.

  "You bury them," Benac spat at Daigre. “We ride in thirty minutes.”

  Chapter Six

  Alex climbed the stairs to the roof of the classical sciences building and found Norio standing on the far side of the observatory dome, looking beyond the city wall where irrigated farmlands made their stand against the arid desert to the north. Alex knew without asking that Norio was leaving the city. The middle-aged Jovian native was wearing his travelling clothes; a sand-colored cloak, a backpack, and a gnarled walking stick tied to his belt.

  "Norio?" Alex was confused. Norio had just gotten back from his last trip a few days earlier.

  "Come here, Alex," Norio called over his shoulder. "I want to get your impression of this."

  Alex walked over and stood next to his tutor. He looked at the building wall that dropped off before him, thinking Norio wanted his appraisal of its condition. There were cracks in the adobe, and some places looked brittle.

  "I don't know if I would climb here until the engineers have a chance to fix the damage," Alex said. "The guster might have loosened the handholds."

  "I am not talking about your climbing exercises," Norio said, h
is face hidden behind his hood. He seemed troubled. "Look at the farm and tell me what you see." He flexed his fingers within his ubiquitous elbow-length gloves as he waited for Alex’s reply.

  Alex focused where Norio indicated. There was a wind barrier that kept the farm’s precious topsoil from blowing away. Behind that was a split rail fence, wrapped with razorvines that protected the crops from animals that roamed the area. He remembered that Norio had been the one to suggest razorvines to the farmers as a deterrent to the more persistent nuisances. Since the fence often cut even the thickest hide, the city's food supply was better protected. Further out, windmills pumped a constant supply of groundwater to the city and fields.

  Then he saw, in the center of a potato field, a bug mule stumbling among the plants. The animal was still young, weighing only a few hundred kilos. With just half its mane grown in, it hadn't accumulated enough mud scales to form a protective shield, so its exposed grey skin glistened with water droplets. The bug mule moved hurriedly from plant to plant, uprooting potatoes and eating them. Every few steps it took, it would stumble in one direction or another. Alex watched as it flailed its twin trunks in the air to overcompensate for its lack of balance. It fell over once, then again when it tried to stand.

  Water shot up from a pipe fitting along the fence, a casualty of the bug mule's clumsiness. A trail of mud and potato leaves led straight to the animal.

  "Someone forgot to secure the gate when they left," Alex said, pointing to the entrance at the edge of the field. "The mule's been there a while," he judged. "With the damage it's caused and its erratic behavior, I'd say it's eaten enough potatoes to get extremely drunk."