Helm

by Steven Gould

  “Yes, sire,” Dulan said, lowering himself slowly into a chair. “We began picking the men last month. After all, you did tell me we’d have peace with Cotswold,” he added with a slight smile.

  Arthur nodded vigorously. “That’s right.” He drained his tea suddenly and reached for the pot before Dulan could move. “No, no. Don’t move. I’ll pour.”

  Dulan settled back and eased his left leg out straight.

  Arthur managed to fill both cups without spilling too much tea. “So, are you going to send the Falcons or the Lances?”

  “Neither, sire.”

  “Oh, a mixed contingent, eh? Some of both?”

  Dulan shook his head. “No, sire. We’ve formed a new unit.”

  “Who will command?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Dulan lied. “It will be one of my sons.”

  Arthur blinked. “Well. Can’t ask more than that, can I?”

  Dulan smiled and raised his cup in a small toast. I certainly hope not.

  The paper in front of Captain Koss read “Personnel File: Myron Gahnfeld.” He skimmed it, to see if his memory matched the facts recorded. It did. He sighed, then said in normal voice, “Orderly!”

  A soldier stepped through the open door into his office. “Sir!”

  “Is Coronet Gahnfeld out there yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send him in.” Koss leaned back and waited.

  Gahnfeld walked quietly into the room, stopped before Koss’s desk, and saluted. “Reporting as ordered, sir.” His feet were together, his back was straight, and his hands were at his sides. In short, he stood at attention, but not in the way that most people stood at attention. He stood there looking comfortable. Something about his way of standing looked as if he would fall asleep in that position in the next few moments.

  Damn it! People at attention are not supposed to look comfortable. Koss tried not let the irritation touch his face. He stared at Gahnfeld for another minute, looking for a hint of nervousness, but the coronet looked far from uneasy. In fact, he looked as if he could stand there under the captain’s gaze until moss started growing on him.

  “How long have you been a Falcon, Coronet Gahnfeld?” The tone of his voice was conversational.

  “Ten and a half years, sir.”

  Captain Koss nodded. “And how many times have you been a halvidar?”

  “Three times.”

  “Yes.” Captain Koss looked at the ceiling. “What the hell am I going to do with you, Gahnfeld? Maybe old Captain Martin made you halvidar too soon. And you did a good job, too. Decorated for that piece of action at Meldon Ford.” He paused, staring hard at Gahnfeld. “But on leave at Pottsville what happens? Two months in the guard house. Then back in the ranks as a basic foot soldier. For how long?”

  Gahnfeld’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Two years.”

  “Right. Then the Anvil Bandits. Promoted in the field when Marshall and Beckett died. You came out of that decorated, too.”

  Gahnfeld nodded slightly.

  “But you found a way to foul that up, too, didn’t you? What’s wrong with you boy? Maybe you don’t like being a halvidar?”

  He looked hard a Gahnfeld. “Well?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know? You don’t know!” He slammed his fist down on the desk.

  Gahnfeld blinked.

  “What’s the matter with your head? Isn’t it attached? Against my advice, Dulan promoted you last summer and decorated you again!

  “And then? Why did you do it?”

  He stared hard at Gahnfeld. When the coronet didn’t speak, Captain Koss said, “I am ordering you to tell me why you struck Captain de Laal last summer.”

  Gahnfeld closed his eyes for a moment. “Sir. I do not remember.”

  “Still? The harvest wine, no doubt.” Koss paused. “Last night you spent the banquet gorging yourself and drinking like a horse! Is that what you call bodyguarding? By rendering yourself unfit for duty?”

  Gahnfeld’s eyes widened. “Surely the captain is jesting?”

  “What do you mean?” snapped Koss.

  “I mean that I could have eaten twice as much and drunk four times as much before I was unfit. I may have had my past lapses, but never in the actual performance of my duties.”

  No, there’s always that, Koss thought as he glowered angrily. When you hit Ricard it was in a bar. “Maybe you should leave the service, Gahnfeld. You seem happiest when pursuing civilian activities.”

  “Sir! I am happy with the service.”

  “Oh? Even if I were to transfer you to the Pikes?” Gahnfeld said nothing.

  “I have the feeling that you find the thought of being under Captain de Laal less than appealing. Never forget that it’s in my power to do so.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Koss bent forward then and wrote something in the folder before him. “I am transferring you, though, but not to the Pikes. You better not screw this one up,” he said, still writing. He looked up. “Coronet Jeston will relieve you of the bodyguard duty shortly. You will take charge of the headquarters detachment of the new unit. You have a staff meeting to run immediately after dinner. The halvidars and coronets will meet with you in the staff lounge. As senior halvidar, I suggest you take charge early. You’ve got one reputation to disprove and another to live up to.”

  Gahnfeld stood there for a moment, blinking. “Yes, sir,” he finally said, and turned to go.

  Captain Koss spoke, and Gahnfeld paused to listen. “This is important, Myron.”

  Without turning, Gahnfeld said, “I understand, Uncle.” And then he walked on.

  Leland rode out at dawn escorted by four bodyguards. Two of the guards went ahead, their horses’ hooves kicking up faint traceries of dust to mix with the steam of exhaled breath. The wind was from the north—chill, giving a mild preview of the icy gales due in two months. Leland gathered the reins a little tighter as his horse danced sideways around a weed in the road.

  Malnutrition! He paid more attention to his riding. He’d ridden all his life, but nine months of manual labor, beatings, and the exercise in Red Rock had altered the way he sat in the saddle. It didn’t help that he’d grown five centimeters and gained fifteen kilograms in that period. On his own two feet he felt somewhat graceful. In the saddle, his new mass and height felt awkward.

  THINK OF IT LIKE UKEMI. STAY CONNECTED AND CONCENTRATE ON YOUR CENTER.

  That helped.

  They slowed to a trot at the town and then to a walk when they crossed the central market square. There were lots of people out, setting up their stalls. A few early shoppers were there, to pick the fruits and vegetables they wanted as they came off the carts. Several people nodded and raised a hand as Leland and the bodyguards rode past.

  The dojo was an outbuilding behind the bindery, but, because of the fine weather, the tatami mats had been moved out onto the courtyard formed by the bindery, the dojo, the Druza household, and the print shop.

  Jeston, the coronet now in charge of the bodyguard, put one of his men at the stables and the other two men on the street. He accompanied Leland into the courtyard. “Let me carry that bag,” he offered.

  Leland shook his head. “That’s all right.”

  One of the Druza daughters, dressed in a gi and hakama, led them to the changing room. Jeston preceded Leland in, one hand on his sword.

  Leland rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Jeston, I don’t want any talk of this. Period.” Leland started changing into his gi and hakama. “You can come inside, but leave the others on the perimeter and what happens in here is my business—understood?”

  Jeston hesitated. He hadn’t been told what they were doing here, and Leland could see his imagination run riot. “Yes, Warden. Your business.”

  HE PROBABLY THINKS YOU’RE HAVING AN AFFAIR.

  Ha!

  He found Jeston a bench at the back of the bindery, then bowed on to the mat and began stretching with the dozen people already ther
e.

  Charly taught the class using Leland as uke. They started with kotegaeshi, a wrist immobilization and throw requiring a break-fall. As Charly was applying the pin, Leland could see Jeston on his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword and his eyes very wide.

  Leland raised his free hand and Jeston subsided, licking his lips.

  HE THOUGHT SHE WAS KILLING YOU.

  Charly threw him again—hard. And she’s not?

  Jeston was a nervous wreck by the end of the class. Leland felt tired but invigorated.

  “Buy you breakfast, Charly?”

  “Hai.”

  The changing room was full and, to spare Jeston’s feelings of paranoia, Leland waited in the courtyard. “I’m going to take Guide Charlina to breakfast. The Blue Whale. Perhaps you could send one of your men over and get us a table.”

  Jeston frowned. “You’re going to eat in a public place, Warden?”

  “It happens all the time. Your man doesn’t have to say who the table is for.” The last person left the changing room and Leland turned to enter it. “Please ask the Druzas if you can leave the horses here.”

  “Warden, I really wish you’d reconsid-”

  “Coronet! Your job is to guard my body, not hide it.” He wished Coronet—no, Halvidar—Gahnfeld still had this detail. Or better yet, he wished the guard was dismissed, but when he’d tried to suggest as much to Captain Koss the night before, he’d been adamant. The guard would stay until his father deemed otherwise.

  On the short walk to the inn, Leland did his best to ignore them.

  Charly teased him about the guard. “So, what’s it like to have an entourage? I wonder if they can card wool?”

  “You want them? I’d give them to you in a second, if I could.”

  At the inn there was another argument and a delay while Jeston checked out the interior and the selected table. Leland swore under his breath. “I wanted to eat outside.”

  Charly laughed. “So does everybody else.” The long winters of Laal gave the locals an appreciation for sunshine. The outside tables of the inn were crowded.

  The landlord, a smiling man with thick forearms gnarled like tree branches, welcomed them warmly at the door. “You honor us, Warden.”

  “Honor? It’s simple greed. Do you still have migas on the menu?”

  “Certainly.”

  The interior was half full and Jeston’s head was swiveling back and forth like a weathervane.

  The landlord led them to a table in an alcove where one of the squad already stood. “Migas, then. And for you, my lady?”

  “I’ll try the migas. And I’m thirsty. Water would be welcome.”

  “Yes, water, please, and some tea?” Leland looked at Charly and she nodded.

  “Yes, tea.” He indicated Jeston and the other soldier with a tilt of his head. “For them, as well. Have you and your squad eaten yet, Jeston?”

  Jeston answered without taking his eyes off the crowd. “Yes, Warden, at dawn.”

  “Bring them tea, then, please. And if they get in the way of your staff, just beat them about the head and shoulders.”

  The landlord smiled and left. Jeston glared at Leland.

  Breakfast came with the flat bread called none. He took a bite and felt an odd overlay of recognition.

  NAAN, NOT ‘NONE.’ IT’S INDIAN.

  None. The child asked if there was any bread and his mother said “none.” When they looked, the fairies left this. It’s the kid’s story—my mother told it to me.

  OKAY—NONE AND NAAN.

  “What’s the matter?” Charly asked.

  “Do you ever talk to yourself?”

  “Sure,” she said, pouring tea.

  “Do you ever have arguments with yourself?”

  Charly stopped pouring and looked at him over the pot. “There are times I’m conflicted—is that what you mean?”

  “I suppose.” In a really extreme way. He changed the subject. “Do you suppose Druza Sensei would mind if I practiced with them after you’ve gone back to the city?”

  She put the teapot down and gave him an odd look. “She would be delighted—it’s been a long time since there’s been a shidoin here on a regular basis.”

  “Isn’t she?”

  “Fukushidoin—assistant instructor. We can’t all take nine months off to work with a shihan like Denesse Sensei.”

  MASTER.

  “How many shihans are there?”

  “Three. Denesse, here in Laal—eighth dan. Raloff, in Montrouge—eighth dan. Prokopczyk in Rio—seventh dan. Kroodsma, my old master in Noram, died two years ago. She was Doshu.”

  MASTER OF THE WAY.

  Charly looked sad for a moment and Leland asked softly, “What was her rank?”

  “Kroodsma’s? The Doshu is not ranked. She was eighth dan when she succeeded her father.”

  “So, who’s Doshu now?”

  “There isn’t one. Kroodsma’s two children died before her. I’m dojo cho—head of dojo in Noram, but that’s mostly an administrative thing. Eventually one of the shihans will become doshu. Kroodsma’s death was unexpected—she hadn’t selected a successor. None of the shihans felt ready. They’ll be meeting next year to discuss it again.”

  Leland heard the town bells ringing the quarter hour. “Damn. I’ve got to get going—my father wants me at his ten o’clock staff meeting.” He told Jeston to send one of his men for the horses, then signaled to the landlord.

  “Give him my regards,” said Charly.

  “My father? You’ve met him?”

  Charly laughed. “Yes. Many times.”

  Leland wanted to ask for more details, but the landlord arrived at their table.

  “Something else, Warden?”

  “Uh, I need to settle the bill.”

  “Certainly. Consider it settled.” He bent slightly at the waist.

  “No, really—what’s the reckoning?”

  The landlord straightened, seeming suddenly much taller. “I came here from Cotswold, lord, when I was seventeen. My father ran a restaurant in Montrouge, and if a member of the guardianship stopped to eat at his table, the guide expected to eat for free. And this was on top of the taxes. My father was a good cook—guides stopped there often. His restaurant and our home was confiscated to pay his back taxes. My father was hung.”

  Leland, a sober expression on his face, said, “This is not Cotswold.”

  “No, it’s not. If a patron, guide or otherwise, doesn’t pay his bill, I have many avenues to recover the damages. But mostly they pay promptly.

  “So, here in Laal, it’s my choice. And today my choice is that you eat free.” Leland was flustered. “I don’t know what to say, besides…thanks.” He stood and shook the man’s hand.

  When they were outside, Charly said, “What did you put under the plate?”

  Leland looked around for the horses and spotted them being led up the street from the Druzas’. “The price of our meal and a good tip. My father would be furious if he found any of his sons trading on our name.”

  “What about the landlord’s feelings?”

  “Then he can give the money away. Gotta run. Don’t want to be late for the meeting, and I want to get out of here before they clear the table.”

  He gave her a quick hug.

  “Class tomorrow morning? You can teach?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Sit,” Guide Dulan said as he entered the room.

  The assembled council obeyed. Martin and Bartholomew sat to the right of Guide Dulan’s chair. On the left sat Captain Koss and Captain Ricard de Laal. Farther down from the captains sat Anthony and Dexter with Dillan seated at the foot of the table. Leland took the remaining seat at Dillan’s left.

  For a moment, Dulan stood there his eyes looking past them, his hands resting on the back of his chair. Leland watched his father impassively, ignoring the stares from Anthony across the table. He’s old, Leland thought, surprised. The mental image he held of his father was different than this man with the
lined face and the gray hair. Then Guide Dulan spoke and Leland felt oddly comforted. The iron was still there, in the voice.

  “Facts and figures, gentlemen. It’s time for facts and figures.” He swung to the map on the wall, a chart of the occupied lands of Agatsu. “Fact number one: We have signed a nonaggression pact with Cotswold. Fact number two: Cotswold has ten thousand men-at-arms trained or in training. Fact number three: Our intelligence reports extensive stocking of Cotswold depot points here, here, and here.” He pointed at three towns within a day’s ride of the Cotswold/Laal border. “Fact number four: We are supporting at this time less than four thousand trained men with militia reserves of another three thousand.”

  He stopped then and pointed toward the right of the map, at the plains nation of Nullarbor and the Plain of the Founders. “High Steward de Noram has called on us to support him in his annual battle for the First Landing Site. We are sending him one-fifth of our active forces—eight hundred men. This reduces our active forces correspondingly, which means that Cotswold will outnumber us in this theater by almost four thousand men.”

  He paused, then said, “Comments?”

  Ricard de Laal spoke. “What of the treaty? Does Siegfried dare ignore the combined forces of Noramland? By arranging this agreement, High Steward de Noram has committed all of the Stewardships of Noram to our defense.”

  Guide Dulan nodded. “True in principle, if not in fact. It all depends how extensively Arthur commits himself against the Rootless. If his forces are tied up at the Plain of the Founders, Siegfried may have time to attack, eliminate all mobile resistance, isolate strong points in Laal proper, and race for the passes.” He pointed to the Cloud Scrapers and tapped the three passes that could be crossed in the fall and winter. “Here he can hold the might of Noramland with relatively small forces, leaving Arthur no option but to wait for spring and cross the high passes or fight his way around the east end of the Cloud Scrapers through this corner of Cotswold.” He pointed to where the Black River cut through the tip of the Cloud Scrapers in the Bauer Rent, an impassable canyon filled with thirty kilometers of rapids, then traced the route through Cotswold necessary to reach Laal.

  “Getting to Laal this way would take almost as long as waiting for the high passes to clear, and the fighting would cut his army to ribbons. In any case, Siegfried would have four months to finish the resistance in Laal, reinforce his army, and strip Laal bare. What is Arthur going to do with Siegfried then? Spend the entire summer digging him out of Laal while Roland of Nullarbor threatens his western border?”