by Dave Duncan
Hayklopevi knew what she was thinking. “So you shan’t escape,” it said. “Sadly, we have a long way to go before I can safely feast. I will carry you.”
“No!” she screamed as it stooped to lift her. “Don’t touch me!”
Podakan rammed the point of Silay’s sword into the Gren’s back in a mighty two-handed thrust that would have gone right through a man, killing him easily. The bronze blade caught in the scaly hide and snapped. Podakan cried out in dismay. The Beru roared and spun around. The boy leaped on it. Together they fell on Irona, with Podakan on top.
They did not land on her injured leg, but the jolt was enough to make her scream and see swirling darkness. Hayklopevi heaved Podakan off with no apparent effort and rolled free of Irona. She heard cloth rip and her son scream, but he still managed to roll his opponent back again, and this time Irona fainted.
Pain had taken her away, pain brought her back: steady, nauseating hammer blows of pain in her knee to warn her that she was still alive and capable of suffering. She seemed to be alone. Only silence, both inside and outside the hovel. The poles and thatch of the roof were above her, with no leering monster faces in the way.
Then she heard a sound of tearing cloth, and very carefully turned her head. The first thing she saw was the Gren, obviously dead, with a sword hilt jammed in its jaws and green blood everywhere. Her son was sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor beside it, apparently wearing nothing except the purple ribbon around his neck. His chest was caked in blood—red, black, and some green. He had what seemed to be the Gren’s gray robe spread over his lap. He raised it and ripped again. He saw that her eyes were open.
He smiled vaguely. “Oh, you’re alive?”
“You won!” That seemed unbelievable, as if she were hallucinating. A boy against that giant thing?
“Clever! You noticed. Had enough blade left to get to its brain, or whatever was inside its skull.”
“You killed Hayklopevi! Oh, Podakan, I can’t start to tell you how proud I am!”
“It ruined my smock.” Producing a brown-and-red bundle that must be all that was left of that garment, he dabbed cautiously at the six parallel scars on his chest. Then he inspected the cloth and frowned at the results. “Almost stopped bleeding.”
Joy and fear and pain all jangled together in her mind.
“Why didn’t those scratches kill you?”
He shrugged and winced as if that had not been a good idea. “Ran out of venom? Glad you aren’t. Dead either, I mean.” He sounded confused, understandably. She couldn’t be thinking very straight herself.
“The other boys? They’re dead?”
Podakan regarded the corpses for a moment. “They’re turning a sort of blue color. Phew! They stink worse than the lizard.” He ripped the gray cloth again. “Losers.”
“Your father would have been—”
“What happened to Vlyplatin?”
“What?”
“My father. What happened to him?”
“I’ve told you. Over and over, I’ve told you.”
“I’m grown up now. I want the truth.”
He didn’t sound grown up. He sounded like a bewildered child, except that he had inherited his father’s deep, melodic voice.
“I’ve never told you anything but the truth.” She needed Source Water to ease the pain. But the Source at Didicas was tiny, and there must be many wounded marines who needed succor more than she did. “He walked in his sleep and fell over the cliff.”
“Loser.”
“No! He was worried about me, and even more about you.” That wasn’t entirely a lie, for although Vly had never known that he had fathered a child, if he ever had come to his senses that terrible night, he would at once have been consumed with guilt for what he had done. He might have sleepwalked, as she had always insisted, or he might have fled from the cabin in horror and tripped over the parapet in the dark.
“Loser,” Podakan repeated, and wrenched at the tough cloth again. He held up a piece. “This should cover the essentials.”
Holding the gray cloth around himself, he struggled to his knees. He tied the ends and twisted the knot around to the back. He looked down at Irona.
“I’m not a loser.”
“No, son. You’re a hero. I’m proud of you!”
He grunted. “Wanna be feared, not admired. You ready to go?”
“I need a litter.” Her heart shriveled at the thought of being lifted onto it.
“Don’t have one. I’ll carry you.”
“No!” She smiled and calmed her voice. “Every move hurts.”
Wincing, he managed to stand up. “I’ll go, then. Need a woman.”
“You what?”
“Should have brought Tiatia.” He began stepping over the bodies. “Losers.”
“You will send help?”
He mumbled something that sounded like, “Later,” and went out, leaving the door open.
It was probably an hour before she heard voices outside and a marine peered in the door. He blasphemed loudly, then asked if she was hurt.
“No, just resting. I enjoy the stench of rotting bodies, you bonehead!”
He vanished. In a few minutes, a sergeant arrived with more men and a medical kit. He wet a bandage with Source Water and spread it over her grossly swollen knee. Then he gave her a bottle of something and told her not more than two swallows. She took three, and the world soon faded away.
Life and pain were still there in the morning, when Irona found herself abed, back in her headquarters in Didicas. Her leg was splinted, and two nurses flitted about, trying to be supportive. Her world had shrunk to this single, poky room and would probably remain so for weeks. The sun was warm, so the shutters were open, but most days it would be dark, and it still stank of the sulfur they had burned to fumigate it for her. She wondered if the stench had killed whatever spun the webs among the low rafters, or everything that inhabited the mattress.
The sick room was a strange place to receive a report of a glorious victory from a jubilant Dilivost 678. The battle had been truly historic. The human death toll was 802, less than the count of 1,324 dead lizards. Only 925 Gren corpses had been found, so it seemed that many must have escaped, but several witnesses insisted they had seen them vanish like bubbles on a stream. No one could be sure if they had all been real to start with.
“I’ve told the lads we’ll have them home in a month!” Dilivost laughed. “On the optimistic side, maybe, but it cheers them up.”
In some ways, Dilivost was an idiot.
“Of course, you can rest here for as long as you want, ma’am. I’ve ordered kegs of Source Water brought upstream for you alone. We’ll have you as good as new in no time.”
In most ways, Dilivost was an idiot.
“I am sure the Seventy will vote rewards for all the heroes,” he said. “Ten dolphins, maybe?”
“Considering that they may have saved the mainland Empire, I’d be more generous. And I’d pay the same to the families of the dead.”
He looked puzzled. “Corpses can’t spend it.” Imagination was not his forte.
“No, but it will motivate other men, next time. Where is my son, do you know?” Her heart sank when she saw the expression her question had provoked. “Tell me the worst.”
“There was trouble in the refugee camps, ma’am. The lads are not allowed in there, of course … Thirty-two men have been convicted of rape. There were more complaints, but we lack evidence on the rest.”
Oh, Vly, Vly, what would you have said to this?
“Sentence?”
“Under the circumstances, ma’am, the court-martial officers felt that ten lashes would be sufficient. Subject to your approval, of course. Thirty would be normal, but after such a victory …”
“I agree. Ten.”
“You confirm the sentence, ma�
�am? There may be some heroes in there who might be treated more leniently, pardoned even, under the—”
“No! Those women were under our protection, not defeated enemies.” Personally, she did not believe that even conquest excused rape, but war was no respecter of ethics. Podakan had practically told her what he was going to do when he left her.
Dilivost shook his head. “There are men there with open wounds, ma’am. It won’t look good to add more. At least let me reduce the lashes by the number of scars. In every case.”
She nodded reluctantly. “If they were strong enough to rape women, they should be strong enough to pay the penalty. But my son is not to be treated any less harshly than the others, you hear? If you try, he will probably refuse and make a scene. And mention no names!”
Dilivost 678 just shrugged. The news would get around. Everyone would hear of Irona the Terrible, who flogged her own hero son, right after he had won the war and saved her life.
The next day she was feeling better, but she could not have felt worse. The swelling had eased a little, so the splints were more comfortable, even if the pain was still bad. About midafternoon, when she was almost well enough to feel bored, she had her nurses prop her up on pillows and fetch Daun Bukit, so she could start dictating her report to the Seventy. She had hardly begun when the toothy gnome face of Sazen Hostin peered in around the door.
“A citizen downstairs, ma’am, says he has urgent business with you.”
“No!”
“Nis Puol Dvure, ma’am.”
“Goddess! The vultures are gathering already? Bring him up. Daun, you stay.”
Smirking, Sazen went off to fetch the vulture.
The years had done little to change Dvure. His hair was thinner, his neck fatter. His waist might have grown a little; his arrogance couldn’t. He and Irona were old partners now, veterans of many joint ventures to enrich the Dvures and profit the Republic. She was careful never to gain anything for herself, except a reputation for getting things done. Dvure’s motives were the exact reverse, but she usually kept his bloodsucking within reason. He provided good mercantile advice, and his wife threw wonderful parties.
He knelt and offered polite hopes for Irona’s speedy et cetera. He did not fit in a peasant cottage. His tunic was as finely cut as ever, his chin shaved as smooth as glass, his hair perfection. He had the sense not to sport much jewelry in a war zone: the army might decide to liberate it. She told Daun to bring the citizen a stool, offered wine, which he declined, then asked Nis what brought him to Didicas.
He smiled as if she ought to know, but what he said was, “Timber, ma’am. Or the lack of. Achelone was the city’s main supplier, as you know. What is the situation now in Achelone? The government was overthrown, of course, but have all the inhabitants fled? Are the Gren in control there now? Are they preparing another assault? Where else can Benign find its lumber? Are the old contracts still in force or void?”
Irona realized that she could not answer even one of those questions. It was typical of Nis Puol to arrive at the heart of the situation before anyone else even started.
“I regret that I cannot comment on such matters until I have reported to the Seventy, citizen. If you have any thoughts on the affair, I am sure they would be of value.”
Dvure smiled. He looked at Daun and Sazen. Then smiled again at Irona.
Irona nodded; the other two departed, closing the door.
“Talk,” she said. “And to the point. I am still too weak for chatter.”
“The rumor in Didicas is that you are going to send the army home. But Achelone has collapsed. The government there was always a rancid affair, and now there is none. March north, put Achelone under martial law, and turn it into a protectorate.”
“And loot it, of course?”
He shrugged. “You need to install a garrison sufficient to repel the Gren if they should try again. The people should pay for their own defense. Pay in timber, of course. The country will have to be reorganized.”
Meaning looted. What Dvure said was hypocritical, nauseating, and true. She should have seen this. In a protectorate, the people had no rights whatsoever. They were ruled by an overseer without even a council to temper his decisions. The Seventy often awarded the office to the highest bidder.
“You see yourself as autocrat?”
“I would be interested.”
Of course he would be. “I will mention your interest to Dilivost 678. As you say, he will be marching north to restore order. Forgive me if I cut our conversation short. Anything else?”
“Several allies were slow to answer the Empire’s call for troops and ships.”
“That is a matter for the full Seventy,” Irona said wearily. “It is not within my mandate.” It was certainly not something she would discuss with an outsider.
“If I may presume, ma’am … Don’t let them flood the market. Take them one at a time.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, and for once she didn’t.
“Too much art, too much gold, too many slaves … No matter what commodities Benign demands in penalty will drive down the price. Allow time for the markets to adjust. Take, say, Genodesa this year, Lenoch next year.” Nis Puol Dvure smiled, as well he might at such a prospect. “Not all at once.”
“Certainly not all at once.”
How could he have been so right about Achelone and be so terribly wrong about the missing allies? She sent him off with her thanks, and Daun must have shown him downstairs, because Sazen came in right away. His odious smirk showed that he had been eavesdropping.
“Tell Chosen Dilivost that I need to speak with him as soon as possible,” Irona said. The navy would have to descend the Visoke River and then row up the Huequi to Achelone. She must hurry back to Benign as fast as possible. If the Seventy’s thinking was anything like Nis Puol Dvure’s, then the Empire was in serious danger.
As Irona had feared, Podakan continued to make trouble. He refused to accept less than the full ten lashes, yelling insulting remarks about his mother so there could be no doubt of his identity. Even when the guards untied his wrists after four strokes, he would not leave the whipping post. When the onlookers began to cheer, the sergeant in charge told the marine with the knout to oblige him. He fainted on the ninth stroke, or pretended to.
Irona did not send for him, but left word that he was to be admitted if he came. He had not done so when she departed from Didicas. She was miserably aware that she was washing her hands of her only child, and that whatever success she might claim as a magistrate, she was admitting to utter failure as a mother.
She made a fast trip home, but even she could not triumph completely over human weakness. Attending meetings of the Seventy was still beyond her strength. In an unprecedented honor, the Seven assembled in her home to hail her triumph over the Gren.
Edziza, who had been Irona’s seneschal since the death of Velny Lavice, was a portly, dignified man, normally as imperturbable as a two-day corpse, but even he seemed impressed by the solemnity of this event. He announced each guest as if he wished he had drums and trumpets available. Irona received them in the ballroom, which Veer Machin had long since redecorated in inimitable style. There she sat in state on a couch, like some barbarian potentate, an effect ruined by the ugly plaster cast on her leg.
Viewing the current collection of jewels in the Empire’s crown for the first time in several months, Irona noticed how overripe most of them were. It was time to start bringing in fresh blood. As the youngest Seven and unquestioned leader of the younger Chosen, she ought to regard that as her responsibility. The next youngest, of course, was Ledacos 692, once her mentor, later a resentful protégé, and now unspoken rival. They tended to favor the same policies, so they were often partners in government business, but they both knew that one day they must be rivals for the top job, and they were close enough in age that only one of them was likel
y to serve as First. Not unexpectedly, Ledacos was the only visitor crass enough to ask how her hero son fared. She answered, truthfully, that she thought he was with the army, and if he had not yet reached legal manhood, he had certainly demonstrated enough of the real thing in practice. There was no possible reply to that except agreement.
The First was last to arrive, of course, so that everyone except Irona could rise and bow to him. Rudakov 670 had never been the most vigorous of men, and now, after her long absence, Irona noticed even more how he rambled and forgot things. That morning he did manage to mumble through the preliminaries without consulting notes. He announced that the only items on the agenda were to accept Irona 700’s excellent report on her campaign, to congratulate her on her historic victory, and to determine what monument should be raised in her honor.
A quick glance around the circle of faces confirmed Irona’s suspicion that there were some things they did not want to discuss in her presence.
She then listened politely to much the same words repeated over and over. Their congratulations seemed subdued, shadowed by her new reputation as the monster mother. At the end she thanked them for giving her the opportunity to serve the goddess, and the goddess for blessing the army’s efforts. All routine so far.
Rudakov asked her to choose a monument, mentioning that she had earned the right to a statue in the temple of Caprice. She suggested instead an aqueduct to deliver clean water from the Mountain to the southern outports as far as Brackish, replacing the local supply that had given the hamlet its name. But she insisted it be called the Didicas Aqueduct, to commemorate the battle, not named after her. They all seemed happy with that and agreed to call for design proposals.
Then the First began to show signs of announcing adjournment, for the meeting had achieved everything it intended. Irona had not, and Ledacos had given her the opening she needed.
“One detail remains, Your Reverence,” she said. “Honorable 692 referred in his remarks to your army having ‘some allied support’ and I dealt with the same matter in my report. In fact, a great many ‘allies’ failed to answer the Empire’s call. I believe this is relevant to today’s business?”
