by Glen Cook
I found Goblin. He was holding a candle for Longinus while the latter slapped wet mortar onto freshly scrubbed stonework about eye level. “What’s the problem, Goblin?”
“Rained like a bastard up there, eh?”
“Gods swiped a river somewhere and dropped it here. Why?”
“We’ve got a thousand leaks down here.”
“Big problem?”
“Could be later on. There’s no drainage. We’re as low as we can go unless the Twelve tunnel goes good.”
“Sounds like an engineering problem to me.”
“It is,” Longinus said, smoothing the mortar. “And Clete did anticipate it. We’ve waterproofed from the start. Trouble is, you can’t tell how you’re doing until you get a really nasty rain. We’re lucky it didn’t go on the way it does during the rainy season. Three days of that, we might’ve gotten flooded out.”
“Still sounds like an engineering problem. You can handle it, right?”
Longinus shrugged. “We’ll work on it. That’s all we can do, Croaker.”
Little dig there. Like telling me, let everybody do their own worrying.
“That’s why you wanted me?” It seemed a little weak, even for Goblin.
“No. Longo, you don’t hear anything.” The toad-faced man made a complex gesture with three fingers of his left hand as he said that. Some half-hinted glimmer trailed behind his fingers momentarily. Longinus went back to work like he was deaf.
“It so important you need to cut him out?”
“He talks. He don’t mean no harm but he can’t help repeating everything he hears.”
“And makes it better when he tells it. I know. All right. Tell me.”
“Something has happened with the Shadowmaster. He’s changed. Me and One-Eye only decided for sure about an hour ago but we think it’s been going on for a while. He’s just kept us from seeing it.”
“What?”
Goblin leaned closer, as though Longinus might yet eavesdrop. “He’s gotten well, Murgen. He’s just about back to normal. He’s been getting his feet under him before he comes down on us with them both at once. We also decided that he is hiding the change more from his buddy Longshadow than he is from us. We don’t scare him that much.”
I stiffened, recalling strange behavior on the encircling plain, going on right now. “Oh, shit!”
“What?”
“He’s going to come tonight. Real soon. They were moving into position when I came down. I thought it was just the usual... We’d better go full alert.” I headed out of there with what energy I had, announcing the alert wherever I saw anybody.
9
Shadowspinner did not hurry. The Company took its positions on the wall. The Taglian rabble we led got as ready as they ever get. I sent warning to Mogaba and Speaker Ky Dam. Mogaba is a jerk and a lunatic but not a complete fool. He believes he keeps the job separate from personalities. If Goblin claimed we were in big trouble he would listen.
Alarms sounded everywhere. Shouts of anger at being anticipated rose outside the wall.
The civilian population began to respond. Fear swept the darkened streets. This felt bigger than usual. As always, the old-timers among the Jaicuri recalled the first coming of the Shadowmasters. Back then the enemy first wave consisted of deadly flickers of darkness.
“One-Eye. Any shadows out there?”
“Won’t be any of those, Murgen. They have to come up from Shadowcatch. Longshadow would have to be in on it.”
“Good.” I’ve seen what the shadows can do, on a small scale. The Jaicuri were right to be scared.
“I promise you some sorcery, though. It’s already gathering.”
“I love how you can always cheer me up, runt.” I surveyed the walls beyond our section. Hard to see much but it looked like any assault would meet a ready defense.
Which meant nothing if Spinner was in good form.
“Murgen!”
“What?”
“Behind you.”
I looked.
Ky Dam, Speaker of the Nyueng Bao, accompanied by a son and some grandsons, by gesture asked if he could come up to the battlements. Only the son was armed. He was a squat, emotionless man rumored to be some kind of master swordsman. I nodded. “Welcome aboard.”
The Speaker looked like he was about a thousand years older than One-Eye but was spry enough to climb without help. He didn’t have a lot of himself to move around. His hair was evenly distributed around his head and face but very little of it remained. It consisted of white wisps. He was covered with liver spots. His skin color had faded. He was more pallid than some of us northerners.
He bowed slightly.
I responded in kind, trying to match his bow exactly. That would indicate an honor between equals, which ought to earn me some good guy points because, although junior in years, I was senior here because he was on Company ground and I was Company top dog.
Clever me, I make every effort to be polite to the Speaker. And I keep reminding the guys to be respectful and protective of all Nyueng Bao, even if provoked. I am trying to encourage the taking of a longer view than is usual with ordinary people.
We have no friends anywhere in these strange lands.
Ky Dam faced the darkened plain. His presence was strong. Many Jaicuri believe he is a sorcerer. Goblin and One-Eye say he can be called a wizard in the word’s most archaic sense, of wise man.
The old boy drew a breath that seemed to enhance his aura of strength. “It will be different tonight.” He spoke mainstream Taglian with no accent.
“Their master has recovered his powers.”
The Speaker glanced at me sharply, then at Goblin and One-Eye. “Ah. So.”
“Exactly.” I’ve always wanted to do that when some old fart made cryptic noises. I couldn’t help myself when the perfect opportunity arrived.
I eyeballed the Speaker’s escort. The swordmaster seemed too squat and bulky for his reputation. Such as it was. Not a lot crosses the cultural boundary.
The grandsons looked like most Nyueng Bao men in their prime. Like if they smiled, or showed any emotion whatsoever, they would forfeit their souls. Like they had cactus plugs up their butts, in Goblin’s words.
I went on with my work while Ky Dam considered the night. His escort stayed out of my way.
Big Bucket checked in. “All set, boss.”
And the Shadowmaster’s men sounded like they were ready to play. Their horns began calling like bulls in rut. I grumbled, “It won’t be long.” They could put it off for another twenty years, though. I wouldn’t mind. I was in no hurry.
A Taglian messenger stumbled up from the street, fought for breath, croaked out word that Mogaba wanted me.
“On my way. Less than five minutes,” I told him. I scanned the darkness. “Hold the fort, Bucket.”
“Just what this outfit needs. Another comedian.”
“Oh, I’ll slay them.”
Ky Dam said something. The swordmaster squinted at the night. For half a heartbeat there was a ghostly flicker in the hills. Star? Reflection of a star? No. The night was cool, wet and overcast.
The Speaker said, “There may be more happening than is immediately apparent, Bone Warrior.”
“Perhaps.” Bone Warrior? “But, unlike Nyueng Bao, we are not warriors. We are soldiers.”
The old man got his mind around that quickly. “As you will, Stone Soldier. All may not be as it seems.” Was he making these up as he went?
He did not seem pleased by his speculation. He turned, hastened down the stair. His grandsons had trouble keeping up.
“What was that about?” Bucket asked.
“I don’t have a clue. I’ve been summoned by His Holiness, the Prince of the Company.” As I stepped to the stair I glanced at One-Eye. The little wizard was staring toward the hills, about where Ky Dam had done the same. He seemed both puzzled and unhappy.
I didn’t have time to ask. Nor did I have much inclination.
I had had bad news enough alr
eady.
10
Mogaba stands six feet five. Any fat on him has to be between his ears because there isn’t an ounce anywhere else. All bone and muscle, he moves like a cat, his slightest twitch pure liquid grace. He works hard to stay hard but not to become overly muscled. He is very dark but a deep mahogany more than an ebony. He glows with conviction, an unshakable inner strength.
He has a ready wit but never smiles. When he does show humor it is entirely surface, for effect, an illusion spun for his audience. He doesn’t feel it and probably doesn’t understand it. He is as focused as any human being who ever lived. And that focus is the creation and maintenance of Mogaba, greatest warrior who ever lived.
He is almost as good as he wants to be. He might be as good as he thinks he is. I never saw anyone who could match his individual skills.
The other Nar are almost as good, almost as arrogantly self-confident.
Mogaba’s self-opinion is his big weakness but I don’t think anyone could get him to believe that. He and his reputation stand squarely at the center of his every consideration.
Sadly, self-indulgence and self-admiration aren’t always traits that will inspire soldiers to win battles.
There is no love lost between Mogaba and the rest of us. His rigidity split the Company into Old Crew and Nar factions. Mogaba envisions the Black Company as an ages old holy crusade. Us Old Crew guys see it as a big unhappy family trying to survive in a world that really is out to get us.
The debate would be much more bitter were Shadowspinner not around to snap up the mantle of bigger common enemy.
Many of Mogaba’s own people are less than thrilled with the way his mind is working these days.
Something Croaker harped about, from the moment he first set quill to paper, is what might be called matters of form. It is not good form to bicker with your superiors, however wrong they may be and however one-sided their determination of their superiority is. I try to maintain good form.
Croaker quickly elevated Mogaba to third in the Company, after himself and Lady, because of his exceptional talents. But that did not automatically entitle Mogaba to assume command if Croaker and Lady were gone. New Captains are supposed to be elected. In a situation like the one here in Dejagore the custom is to poll the soldiers to see if they think an immediate election is necessary. If they think the old Captain has become mad, senile, dead, incompetent, or otherwise in need of permanent replacement then a election will be held.
I cannot recall any instance in the Annals when the senior candidate was rejected by the soldiers, but if an election were held today a precedent might be set. In a secret ballot even many of the Nar might declare no confidence in Mogaba.
There will be no vote while we are besieged. I will oppose any effort to hold one. Mogaba may be mad and I may not be able to go along with him in areas he considers religious, but only he has the will to control thousands of skittish Taglian legionnaires while keeping the Jaicuri in line. If he should fall his assistant Sindawe would step up, then Ochiba, and only then, maybe, if I can’t hide fast enough, me.
Soldiers and civilians both fear Mogaba more than they respect him after all this time besieged. And that troubles me. The Annals demonstrate over and over that fear is the most fertile soil for treachery.
11
Mogaba holds staff conferences in the citadel. There is a war room there, once the toy of the sorceress Stormshadow. Mogaba considers meeting there a great concession to the distances us underlings must hike. He does not like leaving his own part of the action. For that reason I could count on this being short.
He was polite enough, though it was a strained courtesy obvious to all. He said, “I received your message. It was not entirely clear.”
“I garbled it intentionally. I didn’t want the messenger telling everybody on his way to see you.”
“It is not good news, then, I assume.” He spoke the Jewel Cities dialect the Company picked up when it was in service to the Syndic of Beryl. Most of us used it only when we did not want the natives to understand what we were saying. Mogaba used it because he did not yet have enough Taglian to get by without interpreters. Even his Jewel Cities dialect was badly accented.
“Definitely not good news,” I said. Mogaba’s friend Sindawe translated for the Taglian officers present. I continued, “Goblin and One-Eye tell me Shadowspinner is completely healthy again and means tonight to be his big comeback show. So tonight won’t be just another raid, it will be a big punchout for the whole works.”
A dozen pairs of eyes stared, praying I was making the sort of bad joke Goblin and One-Eye would find hilarious. Mogaba’s own eyes were icy. He wanted to make me recant by sheer weight of his gaze.
Mogaba has no use for One-Eye or Goblin. They are one of the big sources of contention between him and the Old Crew. He is sure that real wizards, however puny, have no place among real warriors, who are supposed to rely on their strength, their wit, their will, and even maybe their superior steel if they have it.
Goblin and One-Eye, besides being wizards, besides being sloppy and undisciplined and rowdy, worst of all fail to agree that Mogaba is the best thing that could have happened to the Black Company.
Mogaba hates Shadowspinner in part because he knows the Shadowmaster will never meet him in a trial by combat that can be sung about down through the ages.
Mogaba wants his place in the Annals. He lusts after a major place in the Annals. And he is going to get that, but not the way he wants.
“Do you have a suggestion about how to deal with this threat?” Mogaba showed no emotion, though Shadowspinner getting well meant the date of our executions had been advanced.
I considered suggesting prayer but it was obvious Mogaba was not in the mood. “Afraid not.”
“There is nothing in your books?”
He meant the Annals. Croaker tried hard to get him to study them. Croaker was big on looking for, and deferring to, precedent mainly because he lacked much confidence in his mastery of strategy and leadership. On the other hand, Mogaba lacked no confidence whatsoever. He always had an excuse not to study Company history. Only recently had it occurred to me that he might not read or write. Those are skills considered unmanly in some places. Maybe that was true among the Nar of Gea-Xle, despite the fact that keeping the Annals was a holy duty of our Black Company forebrethren.
The Nar say very little about their beliefs. The rest of us are aware that they consider us heretics, though.
“Very little. The time-honored tactic is to attract the wizard’s attention to a secondary target where he will do less damage than he wants. You hold his attention there till he gets tired or until you sneak up and cut his throat. Sneakups aren’t practical here. This time Spinner will protect himself better. He might not even come out of his camp if we don’t make him.”
Mogaba nodded, unsurprised. “Sindawe?”
Sindawe is Mogaba’s oldest and closest friend. They go back to early childhood. Sindawe is now Mogaba’s second in command and leader of the Taglian First Legion, which is the best of the Taglian formations. And the oldest. Croaker put Mogaba in charge of training when first we arrived in Taglios and the First is the juggernaut Mogaba built.
Sindawe can pass as Mogaba’s brother. Sometimes he acts like Mogaba’s conscience. Mogaba values his good opinion possibly more than he should.
Sindawe said, “We could try to outrun them... Whoa, Ga! I’m joking.”
Mogaba didn’t get it. Or if he did he failed to see the humor.
I offered, “Use artillery to distract him, wherever he is. And if we do catch him in range we can hope we get lucky.”
We did that during the big battle that ended with us trapped. And it worked. We even got lucky, some, which was why we were alive to be in deep shit now. But we did not come near eliminating Shadowspinner.
“We will include motion in everything,” Mogaba decided. “Our artillerymen will shoot and run. Wherever the Shadowmaster attacks directly we will fade away in
stantly. We will cover with enfilading fire till his attention is drawn elsewhere. We will not look him in the eye.”
Mogaba looked me in the eye. He wanted help from Goblin and One-Eye but his pride would not let him ask. He is on record as saying he cannot abide sorcery, that sorcery has no place in the Black Company. It is wicked, dishonorable, the alternative of rogues. The man just cannot lay off the flattery. He spreads that stuff all over those two clowns every time he sees them, too. He has made them some big offers intended to get them to retire from “his” Company.
Help? Ain’t it funny how flexible you get when absolute destruction looks you right in the eye?
Sort of flexible. Mogaba never addressed the matter directly.
I did not twist his tail. I never do. And I hope that drives him crazy. I said, “We will all exercise all our talents to their limit. If we don’t get through this, our differences don’t mean shit.”
Mogaba winced. Among the many things a Nar warrior does not do is employ colorful language. Whatever language he uses.
Good thing we were using the Beryl dialect. Our discussion had gone on long enough that the Taglian officers were beginning to doubt Sindawe’s bland translations. We tried to show the outside world a single face. It was especially important to deceive our employers. In the tradition of these things they are, likely, already figuring out how to screw us as soon as we save their royal butts.
Counting sworn brothers taken in since our advent in this forsaken end of the world, the Nar and Old Crew factions together total sixty-nine men. Dejagore’s main defenders are ten thousand inadequately trained Taglian legionaires, some willing but ineffective former Shadowlander slaves, and some even less effective Jaicuri. Each day snaps our numbers. Old wounds and current diseases thin our ranks as swiftly as enemy attacks. Croaker tried to teach good field hygiene but it has not stuck anywhere outside the Company proper.
Mogaba awarded me a small bow, the way honors are paid in these parts. He would not thank me outright.
Sindawe and Ochiba now had their heads together over some unit reports that had just come in. Sindawe announced, “No time left for talk. They are about to attack.” He spoke Taglian. Unlike Mogaba, he made a grand effort to get beyond pidgin. He strove to understand the culture and thinking of the several Taglian peoples weird though they are.
