by Chris Bunch
“What about you, Yonge?” Bakr said. Back then, Yonge had disappeared just before we came on the Negaret. I’d known the Man of the Hills had been a smuggler and bandit, but never that he knew Bakr, evidently well.
Yonge picked up the flask of wine from the courtyard floor, drank deeply, then refilled Bakr’s flagon.
“You were a hard foe,” he grudged. “But never murderous. I don’t remember you ever killing any of my wounded unless they couldn’t ride, nor was your name connected with evil.
“I welcome you, Negaret, as guest to our camp. Now drink your gods-damned wine. It’s cold out here.”
• • •
We sent out daily raids, but none as large as the first. One or two men would lurk on a trail and waylay a messenger; five men would ambush a supply convoy beyond Renan and fire its contents after looting what they had time to take; twenty men would rise from the brush and volley arrows into a patrol, then vanish.
My Kallians were particularly good at this, for this was the very war they’d waged against me.
Others, Tovieti, crept into the camp and killed when they could, with dagger or silken cord.
I was bringing terror to the Maisirians. We had only four killed and seven wounded in half a time and caused a hundred times more casualties among the enemy. I knew I had only a brief time before Bairan, his army, and his wizards moved on a large scale against us and I’d have to flee.
Each time we hit them with more than a few men, Bairan and his entourage would ride out from Renan, spend a day or less, no doubt tearing commanders apart and promoting, possibly even having those who’d failed killed, a rather self-defeating Maisirian custom.
Kutulu, Yonge, and I spent some time talking to Bakr, happily loosening his tongue with wine. Like the rest of the Negaret, patriotism only applied when he was winning, so he wasn’t reluctant to talk freely about what had happened since Bairan had come back from Numantia after humbling us.
“Very full of himself,” Bakr said. “For the first time, I heard tales that our king was thinking beyond our borders. Why should we wait to be attacked by our old enemies on the south and east? Perhaps we should do what we did to you Numantians, except strike first.
“That, I must say, didn’t meet with much approval at court, I heard. We’ve always held to our lasts, and expected others to do the same.
“So Bairan shut up. For a while. But I think he’d gotten the taste of being a conquering hero firm in his mouth, although all of us know Numantia was really beaten by Jedaz Winter and Jedaz Suebi, eh?
“That’s his right,” Bakr went on. “He’s the king; kings think like that. Or, maybe don’t think like that, for surely there’s no logic or gain from such fantasies.
“He decided he was going to turn us Negaret into crack cavalry, and tried sending out some jedaz to various lanxes to train us, make us more like regular soldiers.
“Two, I heard, came to odd accidents. You remember the tale I once told you about the king’s shum who slipped when walking by the river at night? At least one of those jedaz was given a liberal coating of tar and sent back to Jarrah without his pants. It was good that it was the hot season.
“Next the king decided he was going to destroy the Men in the Hills, in the Disputed Lands, which we all thought was stupid, because if that happened all the little city-piddlers would come to the frontiers for free land, and what would happen to us Negaret then?
“But,” Bakr said, putting one finger beside his nose, “that was but a ruse, and for a moment I respected this Bairan, even though he wasn’t a Negaret.”
“Burning my frigging city wasn’t much of a ruse,” Yonge growled.
“Eh,” Bakr said. “Cities are stones. You can always pile new ones on top of each other, can’t you?”
Yonge was forced to grin and refilled Bakr’s glass. I realized both he and the Negaret were a little drunk, and determined to seize the moment.
“Who’s the new azaz?”
Bakr looked frightened for an instant, then covered his expression.
“I do not know, Damastes, and would never dream of asking. Perhaps there isn’t one, for when we marched south I saw no particular pig of a wizard kissing the king’s bum, but rather he was surrounded by a host of those mumbling men who wish they could become demons.”
I found that interesting and had another question, after Yonge and Bakr had reminisced with a few tales of war and pillage.
“Something else, Jedaz Bakr,” I said, keeping my voice casual, “with the king here in Numantia, who governs Maisir? His ligab,. Baron Sala?”
“You are a fool, Damastes,” he answered, “and unwise in the ways of kings. Ligaba Sala, I have heard, is a man of wisdom, deep thoughts, and careful deeds, although I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“I know Sala,” I said, remembering the man with the drooping moustaches and the infinitely sad eyes, as if he’d witnessed all the evil Man and Saionji could wreak. “Both in Numantia and in Jarrah, and he is indeed wise, and I would almost consider him a friend. But I don’t understand why you call me a fool.”
“Then you are doubly one, for what king would leave a wise man in charge of anything when he’s away, for he might return to find a new man sitting his throne, a man who was once his ligaba? Baron Sala is with the king here in Numantia and lives with him in Renan, where they have commandeered palaces, without letting us poor Negaret have more than our black tents.” He hiccuped.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Who rules Maisir in Bairan’s stead?”
“No one,” Bakr said. “For we are such a huge country it takes time for anything to have an effect. The king would have given explicit orders to his flunkies, and those mindless little asslickers will still be putting them into effect when we finish defeating you and return home.”
“Bairan has no successor?”
“None he’s recognized, and everyone would have heard if he did legitimize any of his bastards. Bairan prefers to keep everyone curious, so there can be no conspiracy and therefore no princeling to kill when he returns to Jarrah.
“I suppose he thinks that if Irisu is so stupid as to return him to the Wheel without a proper successor, then Maisir must have sinned and deserves the shambles it’ll fall into.
“His father kept the same policy until he became very sick, then named Bairan’s brother, who was too dumb to sit a throne, not unlike you, Numantian, for he went hunting one day with Bairan, and Bairan was the only one who rode back. I understand his brother had a magnificent funeral.
“His father died just after that, and we should all believe Bairan when he tells us it was a quiet, natural death.” Bakr laughed.
“You see why you should not aspire to a throne, Damastes? Strange things happen.”
The idea I’d had before, and set aside, came as a full-blown plan.
“Strange indeed,” I said.
• • •
“I think he’s mad,” Cymea said. “Or suicidal. Don’t you, Kutulu?”
The spymaster considered.
“No, not mad. But a dreamer. Damastes, what you envision cannot be done by a regiment or an army.”
“No,” I agreed. “Not with a regiment. But with three men, no more, I think I can break the Maisirians, send them scuttling home, and maybe live to tell the tale.”
SIXTEEN
STALKING A KING
My idea was quite simple — to enter the Maisirian camp and make King Bairan come to me.
Then I’d murder him.
In the ensuing madness, I might even have a chance to escape.
“Three men,” Kutulu said. “Who?”
“Myself. Yonge, for he’s the best scout we have. For a third man, I’d like to have the archer, Curti, but he can’t move that well. I’ll take Svalbard, for even one-armed he’s more dangerous than anyone I know with a full set of limbs.”
For an instant, I thought Kutulu wanted to volunteer, but logic prevailed in his calm mind, and I was able to avoid
embarrassment. Instead, the problem came from another quarter.
“You’ll need a magician, to ward off casting spells from their War Magicians,” Cymea said.
“Not you,” I said, instantly understanding her drift. “And you’re the only wizard I have here. The way I plan to approach the king can’t be done by more than three, and two would be best.”
“You’ll be naked to their spells,” Cymea said fiercely. “And die like a fool.”
“Some say I’ve lived like one,” I said. “No.”
“Yes,” Cymea said. “You’ve told me how you plan to get into the Maisirian camp. I’ll go with you, then drop off before your attack. I’ll be close enough,” she said, her voice excited, “to ward off any castings that might reveal your presence.”
There was merit to her words. A sorcerer would vastly increase the chance of success. It would be best if I took a combat-experienced magician instead of Svalbard, but I had none such with my raiders nor, with the exception of Sinait, with the army.
I thought of asking Cymea what would happen if the Maisirians found her, but we both knew the answer. It would be terrible, and the best she could hope was a swift death. Then I thought of a rather gruesome option.
“Very well,” I said, which got a look of surprise from both Cymea and Kutulu. “You can go. But there’ll be a fifth. Curti. And he’ll have orders that neither of you is to be taken alive.”
“I wouldn’t allow that in any event,” Cymea said. “But someone to guard my back when I’m mumbling nonsense and waving my hand around is a good idea. What are the chances of this succeeding?”
I thought honestly. “One in twenty … no, one in ten.”
“Better than some we’ve faced,” Kutulu said.
“Better than most I’ve seen,” Cymea agreed.
Kutulu looked at me for a long time. He licked his lips, began to say something, then pressed them together and hurried out.
“That man likes … maybe loves you,” Cymea said. “Not in a sexual sense.”
I thought of telling her about Kutulu’s former adulation for Tenedos, and how the once-emperor had betrayed that love, but didn’t. Cymea started to leave, then turned back.
“I sense … I feel … something strange about your idea,” she said. “This is more than just a maneuver, a tactic, to you.”
“It is.”
“You hate Bairan.”
“I do.”
“I think I need to know why,” Cymea said. “Not from curiosity, but because your feelings must be masked by my magic, or they might be sensed too easily by the enemy.”
I took a deep breath. So I was going to be forced to tell my story yet again.
“Sit down,” I said.
It took far less time than I’d thought, for I didn’t go into the details. Cymea was familiar with the type of spell the azaz had cast on me, although she’d never seen its casting. It wasn’t as painful in the telling as before. Perhaps Karjan’s murder was lying less heavily; perhaps the long process of becoming self-shriven was under way.
When I finished, I’d drained the tin pitcher of water beside me and almost wished for wine. I couldn’t look at Cymea, so I don’t know if she was staring.
“I sensed something, as I said,” she said. “Nothing that terrible, though.”
I looked up then and saw her face, pale with anger.
“What a monstrous bastard he is!” she said.
“Yes,” I agreed. “And no. He’s no more than a king, no more than anyone who has nobody to answer to, nothing over him, except the judgment of the gods when he dies, and who even knows if they exist?”
“They exist,” she said. “I believe in them.”
“I’m not sure I do. Not anymore.”
She picked up her sword belt, started toward the door.
“You sensed something, eh?” I said, trying to end this on a lighter note. “The man who falls in love with you had best be faithful, for a cheat will evidently meet a swift doom by his own feelings.”
She stopped, didn’t turn.
“The man I choose will never look at another woman,” she said, “because I’ll keep him so happy he won’t have the time or energy for anyone else!”
I tried to keep a straight face, failed, and am afraid a bit of a snicker came.
She started to stalk out, stopped once more, still didn’t turn. “Did that come out as arrogantly as I think?” she said. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh hells,” she said, then laughed. “So much for grand exits.”
“I could never manage them either,” I said, then I started laughing. Strange merriment from two who were most likely going to die unpleasantly in the next few days.
• • •
My strategy was very simple: If we were able to kill King Bairan, what would his now-leaderless armies do? I’d seen how tightly they were controlled during the war, and how, if leadership was absent or removed, the Maisirian soldiery would flop about like so many headless chickens.
From what Bakr had told me, this invasion wasn’t popular, only favored by the king. Without Bairan …
• • •
Cymea asked how, if we were successful, or if we were exposed, I intended to get out of the Maisirian camps.
I hadn’t much of a plan, other than scouring the map for possible routes, so I told her, “My stealth and my terror will give me a plan at the proper time. I hope.”
“You definitely need a sorcerer,” she said firmly. “Or a caretaker. Look you. Why can’t we get out the same way we go in?”
“I thought of that,” I said. “But I’ve no way of knowing how long the stalk will take. The best we can do is try to get outside their lines to the assembly point I’ve set on the map. Hopefully there’ll be horses there, and a couple of men waiting, and then we can ride away into Kallio.” I stopped. “You know, when I came up with that plan, it sounded somewhat feasible. Now …” I didn’t say anything more.
“I can enchant something, give it to Kutulu, and it’ll respond to my signal,” Cymea said. “I’ll also need spittle and a bit of blood from everyone. And I’ve already set up amulets that’ll guide us like compasses toward that assembly point.”
“I thought magic was going to be supporting me, not taking this whole thing over,” I said.
“At the proper time, the best always rise to the top. Like cream.”
“Or pond scum,” I added.
She made a face, hurried away, and I went back to my maps, thinking perhaps it was very well Cymea hated war so passionately. She was beginning to behave like that most fearsome of all soldiers, a born warrior.
• • •
We used the Seeing Bowl to scout the target area three times; I then forbade it as the attack date grew closer, for fear of alerting Bairan’s magicians. I noted, close to the target itself, an overgrown topiary garden for a hiding place. Cymea also noted it, and said, thoughtfully, “I may be able to do something there that’ll surprise you.”
“Like what?”
“Now, if I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
• • •
Once before, at Sidor, I’d flummoxed the Maisirians by marching into their midst quite openly. I proposed to do much the same thing again, with only a slight variation.
One of Cymea’s Tovieti had told us of an old road that led to Renan, abandoned for some twenty years and forgotten. Parts of this road had been used to make up the new, improved route, which was perfect for my intent.
Again, we’d attack at full strength, and at dusk we made ready to leave the castle. This would be the last time any of us would see it, no matter which way things went.
My plan was to attack the Maisirians, and the assassination team would use the confusion to infiltrate to the target. If we were successful in killing Bairan, or if we were forced to abort, a second feint would be made by my raiders as cover for us to get out.
Then the entire force was to withdraw through a given series of assembly points into Kalli
o.
I hoped that the five of us would be able to rejoin them somewhere along that route.
The Time of Rains had come to an end, and the Time of Change brought sharp, cold wind whistling.
“Well, Kutulu,” I said, “you’ve always wanted to command soldiers … now you’ve got your chance.”
“I can only hope I do well.”
“If you don’t, we’ll all see you on the Wheel,” I said.
“Then I’ll do well for certain.” He looked at his horse. “As I said once before, one of these days I’ll find a profession that doesn’t require the use of these monsters.”
The five of us would ride at the head of the formation, and I’d command the initial attack. Curti and Cymea were dressed as Maisirian shamb, officers low-ranking enough to be ignored by their superiors, but still to be kowtowed to by any lower-ranking soldier, the rest as Maisirian calstors, warrants but not of any particular importance. The uniforms had been taken from Maisirian dead and altered to fit by Curti, who surprisingly had quite a talent with a needle, thread, and scissors.
The three who’d go after Bairan carried bows, short but powerful recurves used by the skirmishers and by jungle hunters, slung on our backs, short swords and daggers. In our pockets we carried the round iron pigs so useful as hurled weapons or clenched in the fist.
As I pulled myself into the saddle, Svalbard clapped Curti on the back.
“Here we go again,” he said. “Death or glory, eh?”
“Something like that,” Curti muttered, sounding uncharacteristically glum.
“Come on, man,” Svalbard said. “Cheer up, I wager I’ll pass you running when the shitting and shooting starts.”
“I’ll see you again,” Curti said. “But not in this life, my friend.”
He mounted, and Svalbard, without replying, did the same. We rode out from the castle for the last time.
• • •
I’d planned to leave the three prisoners we’d taken, two Maisirian officers plus Bakr, tied with ensorcelled ropes inside the castle, but Cymea had taken me aside and said, “If you really want them to live on, I’d not leave them bound inside these walls. That which is dead, but not dead, might be tempted.”
