by Chris Bunch
“Why, if I may ask, didn’t you return to the emperor’s service?”
Linerges sighed and scratched his nose. “I don’t like to jump to conclusions. But the emperor’s performance in Maisir was appalling. I think — hells, I know — he violated the oath he took when you crowned him emperor. But there were other vows he broke, ones that none of us speak aloud.
“You know what I mean, don’t you?”
I did. Vows to humanity, to the army, to his soldiers, to his citizens. But I did no more than nod.
“So if I couldn’t stand aside, and I couldn’t bring myself to serve Tenedos, and certainly no one but a bully could be a Guardian … well, you were the last, sorry option.”
“And I’ve never been so glad to have a new recruit,” I said. “You know, Yonge’s come back, too.”
“I saw him when I rode in, and he called me several dozen species of fool for coming back. And he asked if I still thought I was immortal.”
“Do you?”
“Of course.” Linerges didn’t smile. He’d told me this before, and I was never able to determine if this was his idea of a capital jest or if he was sincere.
“Then, O Immoral, I mean Immortal One, it’s time for you to get your stubby ass to work. I’m turning this while gods-rotted mess over to you for a time. Try to keep them in line and don’t screw things up too badly.”
“While you do what?”
“I’m going tout to play in the rain. Me, Yonge, and maybe a couple of hundred other mad fools.”
• • •
Sinait and Kutulu thought I was, indeed, a lunatic after I told them what I had in mind. But I remembered going out in the rain, long ago in Kait, when we first sought the demon Thak, and how no one thought any soldiers would be about in the dismal storms.
“We cannot afford to lose you,” Sinait said.
“Yes, you can. You have Linerges now.”
“Linerges,” Kutulu said, “is like me, or rather like me if I were a soldier instead of a warder. No one will follow him. Not like you.”
“Batshit,” I said irritably. “You might as well make me king right now, then.”
Sinait and Kutulu looked at each other.
“Well?” I snapped. “Why the mysterious looks?”
“Never mind,” Sinait said. “You’re set in your course.”
“He is,” Kutulu said. “And if he is, then I’m going with him.”
I started to growl that the army could hardly do without its primary collector of intelligence, then caught a bit of grin on his face. If I could do it, so could be.
“Very well,” I said. “You, and … six, no, ten of your men. Your best spies.”
“I already know who I’ll take,” he said. “And you’re right. It might be fun.”
“If I’d been the first to volunteer,” Sinait asked, “would you have taken me instead of him?”
“No,” I said. “You must stay. You’re the most powerful wizard we have.”
“I knew you’d say that,” she said. “I just wonder how many other people who shouldn’t go, will, however.”
• • •
Yonge was the next to insist, which I’d expected. I guess he was a little surprised I didn’t argue. By this time, I knew better. He’d simply agree he shouldn’t go and then meet us three days later on the trail.
I wanted fifty skirmishers who could ride, but Sendraka couldn’t be one of them — he, too, was needed with the army. Yonge said he’d have them, tough, furtive, and dishonest — his best.
I took two companies of light infantry, not wanting separate volunteers, but men who’d trained and fought together, and had them mounted on mules. They were led by Captains Alcium and Turfan. That gave me 150 men.
The others were volunteers, men like Svalbard, who could never stand garrison life if there was a chance of getting killed.
Lasleigh, Baron Pilfern, said he must go, whatever the task, wherever it was, because he had to wash away the sour taste of the retreat. He still had forty of his originals, and ten more Kallians he was training.
I’d need some light cavalry for scouting. As much as I longed to take Domina Thanet and the best of his men, I couldn’t stand losing what few good cavalrymen I had on this enterprise, so I’d take Lasleigh and train them as we rode.
That gave me 230 men, and I made sure each was well shod, clad for the weather, and armed. They had the best horses and mules in the army. Each man would carry twenty-five pounds of foodstuffs for us, twenty-five for our horses or mules.
Svalbard came to me with the 231st man, a new arrival, another of my bodyguards who’d survived the bloodbath at Cambiaso. This was Curti, the best archer I’d ever seen, whom I’d seen go down with an arrow in his leg.
He apologized for not coming sooner, but he’d been living in Chalt, and it took time to work his way around Tenedos’s army and get across the Latane. I welcomed him, of course, and told him to serve alongside Svalbard. With two such warriors at my back, I had no reason to fear anyone.
All of the force was given the Spell of Understanding to enable them to understand other tongues than their own, and I set seamstresses to work.
Two nights before we left the army, Cymea Amboina came to my tent after the evening meal.
“I’ve heard you’re planning an adventure,” she said.
“An adventure? I’ve heard that’s really a disaster happening a thousand leagues away.”
She inclined her head, acknowledging my humor but not laughing.
“You’re not taking any of us with you?”
“Us meaning Tovieti?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I said. “And I meant no offense by not doing that.” I was speaking truth — I simply hadn’t thought of them.
“There are still Tovieti in Urey,” she said. “One of us could be of use in contacting them.”
I jolted. “How did you know we were going to Urey?”
“Remember,” she said. “I’m not unfamiliar with magic.” She grinned. “And one of your tailors happens to be with us and showed me his work.”
“I hope you’ve told no one,” I said. “Those who even know about my planned sortie imagine we’re going north, after Tenedos.”
“I’ve told my three advisers,” Cymea said. “All keep secrets well.”
“Your people do that,” I agreed. “Yes. I’m going south.”
“Toward the Maisirians.” I made no reply. “Could I ask what you intend?”
“No. You may not,” I said, not sharply. “I wish no one even speculating about that. I don’t think there’s a sorcerer about who can read minds, but I’d rather not take the chance.”
“It’s good to be cautious,” Cymea said. “Which is why you’re taking not only a Tovieti, but a wizard as well.”
“You propose?” I said, already knowing the answer.
“Myself. I’ve as much power as anyone else here, except Sinait possibly, perhaps more.”
I could have said something damned foolish, such as she was too young, or a woman, or something equally idiotic. But there were soldiers in the ranks far younger than she was, and while we had no women as warriors, there were many hangers-on, sutlers, “companions,” and such, and many of them knew which end of a dagger or sword should be put to work.
“I would think your people might object to possibly losing you,” was all I did say.
“As I’ve heard you say, no one is indispensable. I choose to go, and my brothers and sisters found no good cause to object. Do you?”
“Why should I?”
“You seemed to hesitate,” she said.
“No,” which was a lie. I still feared and hated the Tovieti, and its evident leader more than most. Cymea was looking at me very directly. I tried to turn her attention.
“So you were able to winkle out my intent that easily. I’m impressed, and wouldn’t want to be the friend or lover who tries to hide anything from you,” I went on, trying to make a small joke.
“Fr
iends? Lovers? How odd,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve thought a lot about either, not for a long time. I guess the order’s been all I need. Just as the army’s everything you need.”
“It wasn’t always like that,” I said, saw her expression harden.
“I thought we agreed to forget,” she said, voice cold.
“I’m sorry,” I said hastily. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I just meant … one time I had something of a life beyond carrying a sword around.”
It was my turn to be overtaken by my thoughts. Cymea started to say something, then stopped. I wasn’t really aware of her.
“Maybe,” I said, musing aloud, “maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I never did have a real life. Maybe the whole time it was nothing but soldiering, and what I thought was my private life was just a spare moment here and there.” I dragged myself back. “Sorry. Talking about yourself is always a bore. My apologies.”
“None needed,” she said. “So I’m to be ready when?”
“Two days hence, at the beginning of the last watch.”
I shouted for Svalbard and ordered him to help Cymea get ready. She left the tent, looked back through the flap for an instant, then went on.
I poured a glass of now-cold tea, sat, deep in thought. How odd. What life had I really had, even before? Certainly I was married to Marán, had palaces, went to dances and feasts. But what part of my life could I say I truly owned? When the emperor called, I came running, and served well and hard, as my family had before me, regardless of holidays, days of birth, or personal importance.
Those palaces, perhaps even my now-dead wife, all these were the rewards of duty well done, not a real life, such as most men build as the years pass. I was given riches easily, and they were taken away by the emperor, by the gods, just as easily. I had no children, now no family at all.
All I had was Numantia.
For an instant, I felt childishly sorry for myself, then pushed the absurd mood away.
That was as it was supposed to be, wasn’t it?
My family motto, We Hold True, meant we held to something, we served something, emperor and country.
What more was there?
What more could there, should there be?
• • •
The day after, in driving rain and predawn blackness, we slipped out of camp and rode south.
Toward the armies of King Bairan.
FIFTEEN
RAIDING
I kept away from the Latane River, marching almost due south on a caravan route that ran from Polycittara to a ferry landing across the Latane from Renan. It was slow going — the rains seemed heavier this season, but perhaps it was only because I was out in them, still brooding a bit over my defeat.
The mucky track, its paving not maintained for years, slowed our horses, and there was no need to exhaust them — or ourselves — before we came on the Maisirians.
At first, there were few travelers abroad, and most fled into the surrounding country as they saw the column, having learned soldiers seldom bring good with them. We were scrupulous about paying for supplies and fodder in the villages and farms we passed, even though we paid in scrip, which would only be good if we won the war.
I was a bit sorry there were so many of us, because we mostly were forced to sleep outside, only occasionally finding an unoccupied barn to crowd into.
When we came to a village, generally one of the elders would suggest my officers would be gladly quartered in the people’s houses. The men could use a field to pitch their scraps of canvas in. It might have been tempting, but I remembered a certain banquet on the long retreat from Jarrah and how sodden warriors had watched as their leaders ate dishes the common men hadn’t seen for weeks, from gold and silver plate.
When we crossed into Urey, there were more and more people about, refugees fleeing the Maisirians to the south. They’d been moving long enough for the old and feeble to fall by the wayside and to discard the odd bits and pieces people take in hasty flight.
These people didn’t run when they saw us — they were too worn, too tired, and bandits had probably combed their ranks and taken the best, living and material.
Muddy faces looked up when we came on them, showed a moment of fear, then dully looked back at the endless mud they traveled through. Once or twice we were cheered, although no one could tell whether we were rebels, Guardians, or Tenedos’s army.
I wondered what I would do if I were ever in their position. Was it better to flee with what little you could carry into the unknown or stay where you were and hope the invaders wouldn’t be too harsh? It was a choice I hoped I’d never have to make.
Then we came on ruins, recent ones from this invasion, older ones from the last time. Ironically, in this battered, forlorn land, we were able to get out of the weather more often, sometimes taking over an entire abandoned village or one of the great barns the farmers had built for their vanished cattle.
The highway turned west until we were in sight of the river, then ran south beside it, generally no more than half a league away.
One night, we saw a ruined pavilion on the river. It was huge, and I wondered who’d dreamt half the people of Renan would need a single dance hall. The outbuildings were collapsing or burned, and the main hall had sagged into collapse as the years pulled at it.
Some walls had collapsed, but the roof still stood on its sturdy supports. I was afraid to bring the horses inside, because the flooring was musty, rotten, barely strong enough to support a man, but there were sheds enough around the main building for most, and we tied our canvas between them and gave overhead cover to the others.
I was glad for the shelter, because it’d been raining steadily all day and now, near dark, the storm was building, wind whipping, rain tearing.
There’d been fireplaces here and there along the walls, for cooking and warmth, and there was plenty wood scattered around. I wasn’t worried about the smell of smoke attracting attention. We were still days beyond Renan, Cymea’s magic said there was no danger, and the pavilion was half a league away from the road.
It was chill, and we crowded around the fires making our supper. At least we weren’t starving or thirsty. We’d bought and had slaughtered five beeves two days earlier, and everyone had meat in his pack. We’d passed a field of potatoes the refugees hadn’t completely dug up, and a handful of men shoveled productively for a few minutes.
Beef, potatoes, herbs the more talented carried, garlic, water, other vegetables not entirely desiccated, a splash of the wine we’d gotten two villages ago, and there was a tasty stew.
I allowed an extra tumbler of wine for each man who wished it, and we lined up before the pots, officers last, filled our tin plates, and found a place to sit.
Cymea asked if I wished company. I did — in spite of the meal, my mood was a bit gloomy in this moment to dead peace and dreams. My soldiers were also quieter than the circumstances warranted, mostly eating in silence.
We finished our meal, I went to the river, washed the plates in sand, rinsed them and came back.
“A pity we can’t chance some singing,” I said. “Cheery things up a trifle.”
“There are ways,” Cymea said. “I could set wards out, so no one could hear us.”
“Excellent,” I said.
She opened her saddlebags, took out herbs, lit a brazier, and whispered a spell.
“There. No one can hear the loudest bellower now. Nothing will carry beyond the sentry line.”
I was about to call for the men I knew had the widest and bawdiest repertory, when another idea came.
“We always depend on our own,” I said. “Sorcerer, can you bring up the past? If it doesn’t attract attention from any other wizard.”
“Perhaps,” she said cautiously. “What sort of past do you want?”
“This arena’s. I wonder what it was like, before it failed, back in peacetime.”
“A long time ago, I sense,” she said. “Perhaps before I was born. But
your idea’s interesting. And I shouldn’t worry about any Maisirian wizard seeing my efforts. This isn’t very high-grade magic.”
Again, she rummaged through her bag. “We’ll try this … some hawthorn … that … lavender … shepherd’s purse … rosemary … maybe this … that for certain.” She got up, found a dried flower in a corner, a scrap of paper that had been a handbill, some dust from a corner.
Again the brazier flamed, and I smelt the sweetness of the lavender as the herbs burnt. The men had noticed what she was doing and were watching curiously. I warned them what Cymea was attempting. A few edged away, people who felt magic brought nothing but grief, but most pressed more closely.
She sprinkled the trash on the fire, and whispered:
“You were once
Return again
Turn back
Turn back
Time is not
The rain is not
The storm is not
Life come back
Return again
Remember, dust
What you were
What you saw
What you were
Time, turn back.”
Very slowly, like a mist rising from nowhere, the floor repaired itself, became highly polished. The walls were erect, brightly papered, the gapped roof solid, and colored tapers gleamed in chandeliers. We heard music, dimly at first, then louder.
The pavilion became peopled with wraiths, and the styles and fashions were those of twenty years earlier, when the Rule of Ten held Numantia, and I was a young legate.
Men and women, richly dressed, filled the room, some dancing, some chatting, some leaning against the drinking bars along the walls. I saw a captain in the uniform of the Seventeenth Ureyan Lancers, my first regiment, tried to recognize him, failed as he bowed to a woman and led her out onto the floor.
“Are those ghosts?” I asked Cymea.
“No,” she answered. “Or anyway, not ghosts if you mean do they have will, could they, for instance, come over and buy you a drink? They’re but real images of the past that I’ve called up.”
