by Bunch, Chris
• • •
We stopped on the far side of the Anker, in a great meadow, to rebuild and rest, for ahead were the feared Kiot Marshes. I’d just finished sacrificing in Manych’s name, praying to Saionji to grant him a good next life, for he’d been a good warrior, when Yonge came with an idea.
I cursed for not seeing what he had, and told Yonge we must take this to the emperor at once. Yonge didn’t have a ready speech — he was a fighter, not a diplomat. Nor was he a theoretician like Mercia Petre. But his enthusiasm flamed high as he spoke. He became so aroused that, without permission, he took a glass from a table, poured himself a brandy from the emperor’s own decanter, and chased it with another glass.
The emperor should declare all Maisirians free. Free the peasant from his land-slavery to his lord, free the aristocrat from his generations-old debts to his king. Give them the right to become Numantians, to own their own land, to leave the land for the cities if they wished. Let them take up any trade they wished. Tell the women they didn’t have to stay in a marriage unless they wanted to. Proclaim that no one had any privilege other than that granted by his new lord, the Emperor Laish Tenedos.
“That’ll bring them in,” Yonge said. “Then let them join the army. Hells, even levy them in. Bairan does that, so they’re used to it and won’t object much. That’ll help get rid of those gods-damned bandits that are eating our ass alive, and build up our forces as well. We can go after the partisans that’re left with their own countrymen, who know their hiding places better than we do.
“I can testify the Maisirians’ll fight well for us, for I’ve been salting them in with my skirmishers, using hunters, trappers, and the like, and I like them well enough, as long as you don’t let them knot up, and remember they’re being a little traitorous. Seems to me this is an everybody-wins-but-the-Maisirians sort of thing. Sir.”
He beamed at the emperor, expecting to be praised to the skies. Instead, Tenedos just stared. He turned to me. “Since you’ve already heard this proposal, obviously you endorse it.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Yonge didn’t mention one advantage I saw. It seems to me if you declared freedom for the peasantry, their army’d melt away. Once we take Jarrah, that’d mean Maisir would be ours in perpetuity. They’d have good reason to remain loyal to you. It wouldn’t be one of those always-rebelling states like, well, like Kallio.”
“I see.” The emperor stood. “Are you two quite mad?”
“I beg your pardon, Highness?”
“I spoke quite clearly. Do you realize what would happen if I were idiot enough to do what you suggest? There would be instant chaos throughout Maisir. No laws, no rules, no one to obey.”
“Fine,” Yonge said with enthusiasm. “That’ll give their army and their king something to occupy their time with besides us.”
“Anarchy,” Tenedos said again, this time in a hiss like a serpent’s. “Once a country falls into chaos, who can say whether it can be brought back? Obviously neither of you realize how closely run the civil war was, with the Tovieti and Chardin Sher behind it. I — we — almost lost everything!
“Now you propose we cast the die again, with the smug hope that everything will somehow come out all right. Do you two happen to remember that the Tovieti are active in Maisir, as well? Don’t you think this piece of imbecility would encourage them? And what would it do to certain classes back in Numantia? Don’t you think such a proclamation would stir them up again? We could well have another rebellion at home, while we’re fighting in this terrible country. I have no urge at all to suddenly wear a yellow silk cord around my neck.
“I didn’t think either of you were fools. I’m not at all sure of that anymore. Now, leave me. And do not ever mention that idea to anyone again, on pain of facing my wrath and most severe punishment. Go!”
Yonge walked out. I came to attention and saluted before leaving. The emperor didn’t return it.
Yonge waited outside the tent. I expected him to be blind with rage, knowing his hillman’s temper. I was more than slightly angry myself. But Yonge was pale with what could only be fear, and I’d thought that emotion completely unknown to the Kaiti.
“What’s the matter?”
“Not here. Come.”
He led me to a spot on a low knoll, away from the camp, where the only men we could see were two sentries on their rounds several dozen yards distant.
“I’m sorry for what the emperor said,” I began. “He was wrong. I still think your plan is — ”
Yonge waved his hand. “Forget about my idea. The emperor will one day learn that a man who readily calls another a fool is generally staring into his own pier glass. Numantian, we are in desperate trouble.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I’m no sorcerer or priest,” Yonge said. “But let me ask you something: The emperor has said, often, that he serves Saionji, has he not? Goddess of chaos, correct?”
“Chaos, war, the Wheel, rebirth.”
“But mostly death and destruction, eh?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He’s said that it’s necessary to destroy before you can rebuild, hasn’t he?”
I nodded.
“I think it’s pretty obvious he’s served his goddess well. Now he’s told us he fears chaos, did he not? What do you think Saionji is thinking, if she exists, if she heard those words? What does she think of her finest servant now, eh?”
I never claimed to be much of a believer, nor a student of theology, but a sudden chill of fear struck me and, involuntarily, I glanced up at the dark, distant heavens.
“Curse chaos, curse the goddess,” Yonge said. “I think we just heard Saionji’s servant declare his own freedom, declare he’s no longer her vassal, without ever realizing what he said. Don’t you think she’ll seek revenge, revenge as great as her rewards were?”
“Come on, Yonge,” I tried. “The gods are distant, and seldom hear the stupidities of man.”
“Perhaps,” Yonge said. “Or perhaps we just heard our doom being prophesied.”
“That’s enough,” I said, a bit testily. “Besides, what is there to do about it?”
“If I’m right, only three things. One I will not speak of, for I am not prepared to offer violence to a man I swore an oath to. Not yet, anyway. The other is to leave the service of this madman who thinks he can dictate to the gods.”
“Nice choices,” I said, trying not to show shock at how casually Yonge could talk of royal assassination. “And the third?”
“You can come watch me get drunk, Cimabuean. Drunk and dangerous. And if you were anything but the fool the emperor has named you, after what we’ve heard, you’d be the first to empty the bottle.”
• • •
When I woke the next morning, it was if I’d not slept at all, for Yonge’s words had made me remember what that magician who’d called himself the Speaker had said, long ago as we left his village with the colossal temple, high in the mountains between Numantia and Maisir: The god you think you serve, you do not serve. The goddess you fear is not the one who is your enemy, but your enemy is one who seeks to become more, to become a god, yet, in the end, shall be no more than a demon, for demons are already his true masters.
I pondered that man’s words, trying to put meanings to them: The god I thought I served? Irisu? Isa the War God? But he is no more than a manifestation of Saionji. Was Saionji the goddess I feared that he spoke of? That made sense. So then who was my enemy? King Bairan? Hardly.
There could only be one answer: the emperor himself. I could well believe he sought to become a god. But my enemy? No, that I couldn’t believe, in spite of the wrongs he’d done me. And that he served a demon or demons? In spite of Yonge’s words, I doubted if he’d forsaken Saionji, or been forsaken by her.
In fact, could it be that he himself was a manifestation of Saionji? Just as Death, with her skull, swords, and pale horse, was a manifestation of the destroyer and creator goddess? Certainly he — and I — ha
d sent enough people to the Wheel for Saionji to remember us well.
But the man I served a direct manifestation of that nightmare? The terrible thought brought me sitting up and completely awake. I shivered and once again reminded myself of my oath.
But as I got off my cot and went to my canvas wash basin, the Speaker’s final words still rang: Serve who you may, serve who you might, you serve but one, and that one will grant you naught.
• • •
We moved into the Kiot Marshes on the last day of the Time of Heat. We could’ve cut due west and then marched along the traditional trading route to Jarrah, but we would’ve faced more suebi, and Tenedos was very aware of the corrosive effect the desolation had on our soldiers.
The emperor had used magic to discover where the marshes narrowed above Irthing. It would take no more than a week to reach the forests that bordered Jarrah, and the city was another week’s march away, according to our rather unreliable maps. Finally, the emperor reasoned that since the marshes were as ominous to the Maisirians, we would be on equal ground there. After the army splashed into the mire, several people wondered, What ground?
There were roads — not much more than paths through the wasteland — but not many. Most were animal-made, but the better ones we thought had been made by the marsh people. Prisoners had told us the same thing Shamb Philaret had said: Those who lived in the Kiot never acknowledged King Bairan. So we hoped there’d be less trouble with partisans.
The emperor issued orders that the people of the marshes were to be treated as prospective allies, not looted or molested. This got a wry smile from Yonge and laughter from most of the other officers, who couldn’t imagine a Numantian soldier confronted with a fat pullet or its mistress and merely smiling and touching his helmet. But the marsh people were, in fact, left mostly alone after the first time we encountered one of their villages.
I was riding behind the forward cavalry screen when our advance stopped. I went ahead with the Red Lancers to investigate. I found half a regiment of horsemen, with a milling crowd of Guardsmen behind, and a wide fen. In its center was an unwalled village of two dozen long thatch-roofed huts — each two-storied — with a roofed, raised platform in the middle. I saw a scattering of pigs and chickens rooting about, but no humans. “What’s the problem?” I asked the domina in charge of the cavalry. I noticed that he, and five or more of his men, were soaking wet, even though the day was dry, if overcast and gray. “What’s holding up the advance?”
“We came on this village, and started to ride into it,” the domina explained a bit sheepishly. “None of my scouts could find a path, so we rode directly forward.”
“And started sinking,” I added. “I assume no one drowned.”
“No, sir. But we were well and truly stuck. Had to be dragged out with ropes, sir. I sent other scouts to find the path into the village, so we could, er, negotiate for supplies.”
“I see.” I wondered if we should skirt the village, but curiosity suggested otherwise. Besides, I rationalized, it would be well for me to know these people, since we’d be encountering others like them.
A figure came out of one hut. He was not tall, but very very heavy, waddling as he came. He carried a carved wand under one arm, had a dagger sheathed at his belt, and wore a loincloth and what looked like the remains of a Maisirian officer’s tunic. Atop that he had on some strange sort of armor that, the closer he got, looked more and more like the tanned and sewn-together scales of some enormous snake or crocodile. I wondered if he was drunk, for he went hither and thither across the swampland, from one grassy hummock to another, then, sometimes, walking across open water.
He stopped when he was two long spear-casts distant, and stared for a very long time. Finally he cupped his hands and shouted in accented Maisirian: “Go away.”
I dismounted and walked to the edge of the swamp, and shouted back that we were not Maisirians, but their enemies, and wished to speak of peace, since we had heard that the people of the marsh had no use for Maisirians, and the enemy of our enemy was our friend.
The response came back: “Go away.”
“That is impossible.”
The fat man stared for a while longer, then, without saying more, walked back to his hut, using the same erratic path as before. He disappeared into his hut, and further shouts brought no other signs of life.
“Yes, sir?” the domina asked. He was keeping his lips quite firm, but I heard buried laughter from the ranks.
I thought I had the situation in hand. “The reason he thinks he’s safe,” I said, “is that the way to his village is under water. It zigs and zags and unless you’re familiar with the path, you’ll go over your head.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I was watching where he put his feet,” I said. “Put men out on line. Swimmers all. Have other men behind them with ropes. Walk forward until you find the beginnings of the path. Once we find that, I’ll lead us into the village, and we’ll see what song he wishes to sing.”
“Yes, sir.”
And so it was done and, after a very wet, very muddy hour, the beginnings of the path were found. Men paced ahead carefully, probing with saplings, and it was as I said — there was a path just under the water, graveled and wide enough for four men to walk abreast. We put stakes on either side of the path so we wouldn’t lose it, and eventually it wound to where the man had stood.
“Very well,” I said. “Svalbard … Curti … Domina, give me half a dozen other men. Behind me.” I splashed forward, with perhaps five hundred or so soldiers watching. I felt a bit foolish, but remembered that a leader had to be willing to wade in the shit as well as ride in the parades. Without mishap we made it to where the track ended.
“Very good,” I said, feeling confident. “Now, he was standing here, and when he left, he went …”
And four paces forward I went into water well over my head. I surfaced, spluttering, and Svalbard hauled me back to the path. There was real laughter from the bank.
“Let me try, sir,” and the big man waded out in a different direction and promptly stuck himself in quicksand. It took Curti and another soldier to drag him free. After that, I was willing to be a little less a leader, and let others probe for the path. Another hour, and we still hadn’t found it.
I saw a galloper back at the bank, and the domina waving, and knew the messenger was from the emperor, who was wondering what the hells was holding up the advance. Very well, I decided. These marsh people could have their gods-damned swamp and piss on ‘em. I went back to shore and ordered the march to continue, avoiding the village.
As we moved away, I swear I could hear laughter echoing across the dismal waters from the village.
• • •
The Time of Rains began, and travel was as it had been a year ago — a good day was when it only drizzled, and a bad one when you couldn’t see your squad leader through the downpour. The rivers and creeks rose, and the way was always muddy.
One night, the army was waiting for our pioneers to throw bridges across a swollen river, when a galloper found me and said the emperor wondered if I cared to dine with him at the headquarters of Tribune Aguin Guil. I said I’d be more than delighted and, as dusk rose, rode back to Guil’s headquarters.
He had pitched a huge pavilion that must’ve taken half a dozen carts to carry, and great fires roared around it. Magic must have dried the wood, for I hadn’t been able to build more than a smoldering smudge pot for four days, and had had no hot food for the same time. I licked my lips, smelling wonderful odors — of roast beef, freshly baked bread, and spices. Quite suddenly fatigue slammed me, and I felt like what I was — a very wet, very hungry soldier, not a little discouraged and feeling near the end of his rope.
I saw servants wearing fresh, clean, dry uniforms, laying out plates on linen-clad tables, and the plates winked gold reflections of the crystal lamps hanging above the comfortable chairs. I heard laughter, some of it women’s, and the clinking of glasses, and I saw the empero
r’s carriage drawn up outside.
I reined Brigstock in and slid from the saddle. A man came up and saluted. He wore a legate’s sash. When tribunes entertain emperors, horsemen or even lances are too low-ranking to be horse holders.
“Tribune á Cimabue. The emperor is delighted you were able to make an appearance.”
“Not nearly as delighted as I am,” I said, and started toward the pavilion. I turned back to the legate, to ask if it was possible to find some grain for Brigstock, and saw, just at the fringes of the firelight, twenty or so men. They were all footsoldiers, none with a higher rank than private or axman, and all were wet, ragged, and dirty. Their beards and hair looked as if they’d been plucked from scarecrows. None of the men appeared to have eaten for a day or more. All that was clean about them was their swords and spears.
I knew all of them, for these were the men who’d followed me from the terrible retreat at Sayana through the ghastliness of the Tovieti suppression and the Kallian campaign. After that they’d been with me in a hundred nameless skirmishes and confrontations on our borders. They were slovenly, crude, mostly uneducated. They smelled and swore and couldn’t be trusted around taverns or bordellos.
But they’d always been there, and when I’d ordered them forward they’d cursed me for a murdering son of a bitch — and gone. Men from their ranks died as often as not, sometimes screaming, sometimes quietly, sometimes with a rough jest on their lips.
Now they stared at that golden pavilion, faces quite blank.
I walked back to the legate.
“Sir?” His expression was a little fearful, as if the first tribune had found him doing something wrong.
“Those men there?”
“Yessir?”
“Were they there when the emperor arrived?”
