by Simon Brown
A pang of jealousy fired in him. He did not have a way with women that attracted them to his bed. He had tried as a young man, but had always been outmanoeuvred by better-looking and more silver-tongued companions. Most soldiers frequented whorehouses, and as an officer he made sure whenever he was responsible for billeting his troops there were brothels nearby with plenty of workers, male as well as female. He never used whores himself; not for any religious reason or moral objection, but because Maddyn had not wanted his staff to mutter military secrets in their sleep to strangers sharing their beds. It was a habit he had kept up, but not entirely without regret.
There had been women he had been interested in on the frontier, and back in Omeralt, women he had tried to woo with all the success of a leper with bad breath. He had not the way, or the charm, or the determination . . . and now there was Galys Valera, which was odd, because initially he had been attracted to Kitayra Albyn, which complicated everything, and he and Kitayra had not really seen eye-to-eye, and Galys and Kitayra were a pair, and . . .
And what could he do about it, anyway, even now that Galys was alone? And why her, anyway? She was not attractive, and she did not have a figure that today’s fashion would consider feminine, and as far as Gos knew she was not remotely interested in men. But she was smart, and she was brave, and she was good.
Overused word, that, Gos thought. Saying that Galys was good was not the same as saying that he had enjoyed a good sleep or a good meal or a good ride. She was good in the real sense of the word, in that she thought about her friends and community before herself; she was capable of caring about people she did not know simply because they belonged in her world and somehow that made her responsible for them.
He was about to resume the climb up to his own room when another moan escaped from Velan’s room. This time he heard it clearly, and it definitely did not come from someone enjoying himself with a companion. There was real pain and even fear in the sound. He hesitated, not sure what to do.
Be like Galys, he told himself, and knocked on the door.
‘Are you all right? Hey, Velan Lymok?’
No answer.
Now what?
Another sound, drawn out and climbing.
‘Right, that’s it,’ Gos said aloud, grabbing the handle of the door and pushing in with his shoulder at the same time to get through the lock.
The door was not locked, and Gos hurtled in, almost tripping, the door slamming against the wall.
Velan Lymok shot upright in his bed, his eyes wide, his skin covered in sweat, his mouth open wide in a scream that did not come. The only sound he could make was a hoarse whisper. ‘The longgons!’
Gos, breathing heavily from a mixture of surprise and embarrassment, regarded him cautiously. ‘Velan?’
Velan swallowed, closed his eyes then opened them almost straightaway. He focused on Gos. ‘It was the longgons,’ he said, subdued. Then, ‘What are you doing here?’
Gos was not sure what to say. Velan Lymok had been having a nightmare, that was all. He used his hands to indicate he had been outside, then used them again to indicate he had come in, realised how totally meaningless all that was to Velan, and shrugged. ‘I thought you were in trouble,’ he said weakly.
‘I was dreaming.’ Velan’s eyes were glazing over again, as if he was watching something unfold a million miles away and a thousand years ago.
‘Some dream.’
‘When we attacked Kydan . . . when the Kevleren and I attacked Kydan . . . I was leading the assault from the east.’
‘I know all this –’
‘And just as we came up to the walls, the longgons in the Citadel fired. I had never seen any in action before.’ Velan returned once more to the present. He stared at Gos with an almost pleading look. ‘By the Sefid, what they did to my men . . . it was horrible, like an invisible hand tearing them apart, ripping off their heads and arms and legs . . .’ He swung his legs out of the bed and used the corner of one of the sheets to wipe his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled into his hands, his voice changing to its usual light tone, but sounding forced. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’
Gos felt he should leave, return some privacy to the man, but his legs would not move. In that moment he understood what Velan Lymok had gone through, how as a commander he had seen men he was responsible for, whom he had trained and led all the way from Sayenna, torn apart by the terrible round shot fired by the longgons in Kydan’s Citadel.
‘They were from our ships,’ Gos told him, desperate to say something. He wanted to tell Velan Lymok that he understood, but the words would not come out. ‘The longgons, I mean.’
Velan nodded, not really listening. ‘It was just a dream. Nothing else. Thank you.’
Gos found he could move. He softly closed the door behind him as he left, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that the two of them had more in common than not.
*
Velan did not go back to sleep. He felt more exposed and vulnerable than he had since he had first met Numoya Kevleren in this very keep and had been subject to that terrible man’s blind gaze. A surge of indignation made him pace angrily up and down his room. What would Gos Linsedd think of him now? What chance of being given any command or position that would allow him some self-respect? Trapped by history and circumstance, revealed for the weakling he was by a nightmare that came unbidden . . .
He put on his pants and boots and left his room, hurried down out of the keep and strode towards the harbour, trying to work off some of his frustration. The night air was cool and the sky filled with the light of a waxing moon. Distantly he heard seagulls disturbed by some hopeful cat or a gannet winging in from a day spent over the sea. He smelled the clean ocean and the weedy shoreline, the bilge oiling around the wooden piers underneath the dock and the slightly musty furs stored in some nearby warehouse. A snatch of conversation in a house he passed by, not in his tongue, a song from old Rivald, and waves slapping the hulls of fishing boats.
He made it to the end of the dock, wished it went on straight out to sea until there was nothing left but the wooden slats beneath his feet and nothing but water under that, no memories or history or a past, a blank world where he could start all over again, make his own life without sidestepping the trajectories of Kevlerens and Axkevlerens and Gos Linsedds.
Under the bright moon it was hard to make out where exactly the horizon lay; sea and sky were a velvety purple, like a giant backcloth, light shimmering and stars above reflected in the ocean below.
Except that was no star. He stared south, out of the shallow smiling bay of Sayenna. A quite sharp white light matched by a red one not far from it. And then another pair just like the first. He waited a few minutes, and saw a third pair, then a fourth, and finally a fifth. He tested the air for the strength of the onshore breeze and realised the ships, for that was what they must be, were too far away to reach Sayenna before dawn. If they were from Rivald, the town would have enough time to prepare at least some defence.
He ran all the way back to the keep to warn Commander Gos Linsedd, and did not think until he was climbing the stone stairs that he was hurrying to warn his keeper about a possible threat from a nation that had, until recently, been his own. But he did not pause, he did not think to turn back. If he had nothing else in this world, he had Sayenna. The town might not yet be his home, but in a sense he had fought for it once already and had trained its soldiers. He had a duty now and it filled him with a sense of purpose, and he was determined to see it through.
*
It was not, Avier realised, until all five ships of his flotilla were in the bay that he actually noticed anyone moving in the town. Until then, Sayenna had looked completely deserted, as if everyone had been whisked away during the night. Then he noticed that those he did see were all soldiers, and all armed to the teeth, although none of them looked particularly anxious or aggressive. As the anchor dropped on Annglaf he watched the first of the shallow-drafted grain ships, the Laxton, manoeuvre against
the dock with the help of sweeps and a longboat pulling on her bow. He ordered his own longboat to take him, Arden and Quenion Axkevleren ashore, and the trio were met by Commander Gos Linsedd himself, wearing the biggest grin Avier had ever seen on the soldier’s face. Beside him, looking decidedly sheepish, was Velan Lymok, who refused to meet anyone’s gaze and only greeted them with a muttered. ‘Ships should have had flags.’
‘We have all the necessary signal flags hoisted,’ Avier commented, a little puzzled. ‘But Kydan doesn’t have a national flag as such. Never needed one, and I won’t let Annglaf wear Hamilay’s jack anymore, unless we sail into empire waters. Wouldn’t seem right somehow.’ Avier noticed again the number of soldiers about the harbour, and the lack of stevedores and other civilians. Then he twigged.
‘By the Sefid, you thought we were invading you!’
Gos laughed, his head right back, and Velan blushed crimson.
‘I saw your navigation lights at night, and thought . . . well . . . that you might be from Rivald,’ he said timorously.
‘Oh, lad, if I was invading you I’d have no lights on. You would never have seen us coming. I’d even keep the sails furled in case they caught the moonlight, and rely on the sweeps to see us into the bay. I daresay Rivald’s captains would have done the same.’
‘I’m a soldier, not a sailor,’ Velan said a little stiffly.
‘Just as well,’ Avier said, smiling, and patted him on the shoulder.
‘But he makes a good soldier,’ Gos said when he stopped laughing.
Avier saw Velan blush even deeper then, and realised the officer had not expected a compliment from the commander.
‘Well, here’s my most precious cargo,’ Avier said, waving at Arden and Quenion. ‘I’ll let them explain what they’re doing here.’
Arden stepped forward and offered his hand to Gos. Obviously surprised, Gos hesitated at first, but took it then and shook it well enough.
‘The prefect has assigned me governor of this place,’ Arden said matter-of-factly. ‘You’re to return overland to Kydan as soon as you are able.’
*
Gos was still digesting the news when Arden passed him a formal-looking parchment as they walked up to the keep. ‘This is my warrant,’ Arden said, ‘and here are your instructions, direct from the prefect.’ He now passed on a sealed envelope.
‘Instructing me to return,’ Gos said flatly.
‘I assume so. I do not know if anything else is included in the letter.’
Gos sniffed as he looked over the package.
‘Is something wrong, Commander?’ Arden asked.
‘Not at all,’ Gos replied, but at the same time was thinking with some wonder, I’m jealous! It’s ridiculous. I never considered seeking the governorship. I don’t like Sayenna. I hate the sea. What am I feeling so upset about? And then he remembered that only recently he had felt jealous about Velan as well. But at least Velan had been a fellow officer.
Perhaps that is the problem, Gos thought. Not only was Arden not an officer, he wasn’t even part of the colony’s original command structure.
Confused, irritated by his own worst nature, Gos tried to shrug off any doubts about Arden. After all, he and Heriot Fleetwood had effectively organised a colonists’ guild, valiantly helped defend Kydan in two attacks, and supervised the construction of housing, streets and protective walls on Karhay. Arden had shown he could command, showed he was owed respect.
But why not me? Poloma and the others weren’t to know I didn’t want to be governor. I would have refused it, I know, but the offer would have been sweet.
Gos asked Velan to take the others into the keep and see that they were given refreshments. ‘I will join you shortly,’ he said. He waited until they were inside, then found a deserted corner in the courtyard and opened the letter. He read it through once, hurriedly, then again more slowly.
Commander Gos Linsedd, this letter will be brought you by the new governor of Sayenna, Arden Axkevleren. The fact that he, like Kadburn, once belonged to the Kevlerens may come as a revelation to you as indeed it did for me. It was one of the factors that helped me decide he was the best choice for this position of command, that and the qualities he had already demonstrated in the defence of our city.
I would like you to know that I seriously considered two others for the task, yourself and Kadburn. Initially in consultation with Strategos Galys Valera, and later with Kadburn himself, the choice was eventually between you and Arden. The final decision was mine alone, for I know I will need you here in Kydan.
The future is uncertain, and I want us to be prepared for the worst as well as the best. With that in mind, I ask you to return to our city to help train the militia, and initiate a program for more horse troops, both cavalry and dragoons, as well as other projects I am interested in pursuing.
Please return directly. Your journey will have to be overland, since Commodore Avier is under instruction to proceed to the empire. It is our opinion that Velan Lymok would best serve everyone’s interests by remaining in Sayenna, but since you have spent some time closely observing him we will leave in your hands the decision whether to leave him where he is or bring him back with you to Kydan.
*
It was as if Poloma had foreseen Gos’s reaction to Arden’s posting and written exactly the letter to quell his jealousy by reassuring him he was respected and needed. In the end, Gos realised with some shame, it was all his jealousy had ever been about. He remembered how he had almost lost his chance to come to the New Land in the first place, when Maddyn offered him the opportunity, because he thought the prince was taking him for granted. He had been behaving like a child, constantly in need of reassurance of how much he was valued.
He folded the letter and put it inside his jacket. He heard the others inside, toasting the new governor. It was high time he joined in the celebrations.
*
Quenion tried to join in. It was not a celebration as such – she could not imagine someone like Arden celebrating his own wedding let alone a mere governorship – but there was a sense of occasion, an event that had to be noted. When the one called Gos Linsedd joined them again, food was brought in and they sat down to eat together. Avier was called upon to give all his news, and Gos and Velan between them told the newcomers about what had happened since their arrival at Sayenna.
At that point Quenion felt not left out, but completely detached from the rest. She was not a newcomer. Sayenna was her home, and had been since soon after she had first arrived many years ago, a simple Axkevleren in the service of Numoya Kevleren. Sayenna had become her ideal, the place in which she wished she had been born and raised.
She excused herself and slowly made her way to the top of the keep, running one hand along the wall as she went, reclaiming her territory, saying hello to stone and mortar.
When she got to the top and looked out over Sayenna and its wonderful bay and the long flat plains behind with the running Wash, she first thought something was missing. For a long time she could not put her finger on it, then realised it was nothing she could see – everything was there as she had left it – but rather something inside her. She was no longer listening out for the call of her master, no longer seeing the view by borrowing time from Numoya Kevleren’s service. In a sense, for the very first time, Quenion was seeing Sayenna completely on her own.
It was wonderful.
*
Later that morning, Arden, with the help of Cos, Velan and Quenion, familiarised himself with the town. They walked all its streets, ending at the harbour with its one great dock, where Avier was busy supervising the unloading of Laxton.
‘Some trade goods from Kydan that Poloma thought might find a market here,’ Avier said. ‘Not much, but a start perhaps of something more regular.’ He turned to Gos. ‘Does Sayenna have anything it wants to take to the old world or Kydan? I go to Somah next, then back to Kydan, although I do not return there until after winter.’
Gos could only shrug. He look
ed to Velan for help, but he admitted he had no idea.
‘We have not yet busied ourselves with the merchants,’ Gos said apologetically, ‘other than allowing the overland trade routes to reopen. It was something I was reluctant to deal with until I knew our situation here . . .’ His words trailed off for a moment, and then he added, weakly, ‘Trade and business are not something I pretend to understand.’
‘I can deal with this,’ Quenion said levelly. ‘I used to supervise trade for my Kevleren. I was responsible for managing the merchants, the harbour workers, the warehouses, the markets, and trade negotiations with villages and tribes further inland. I can do so again.’
Arden, with some relief, said, ‘I will be grateful. Like Gos, I have no experience with trade.’
‘Then I must immediately consult with the local traders to see what they have in store, and get it down here as soon as possible.’ She turned to Avier. ‘How much space do you have, and when must you leave?’
‘I will leave tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And Laxton and Grayling have some space.’
‘Then I will organise the stevedores into shifts as well,’ Quenion said, then glanced at Arden. ‘With your permission.’
‘If you are agreeable, I will give you back your old responsibilities, and happily,’ Arden said.
Quenion nodded, her lips lifting slightly, and left to do her work.
‘Was that a smile?’Avier said.
‘I would swear it was,’ Gos replied.
‘It was a smile,’ Velan told them. ‘Even when I knew her from before, they were as rare as full moons. You are honoured, Governor Arden.’
Arden blinked. The honorific did not sound right without a last name. But he would not call himself Axkevleren anymore. He thought for a long moment, then said, ‘Hassouly. Governor Arden Hassouly.’
Gos stared at him, obviously perplexed.
