The Cutting Edge

by Dave Duncan

  Poor thing was terrified, of course. Frightened of death, frightened of suffering, frightened of messing it all up.

  "Not yet!" the woman gasped, almost wanting to laugh. "Oh!" The child-Thaile-scrambled back. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean ... I thought ... I mean, I'm sorry. "

  Phain dug down in her lungs, finding just enough air at the bottom there to make a chuckle, and a few words. "Just wanted to ask who your mother was, Thaile."

  "Oh! Frial of the Gaib Place."

  Ah, yes! Frial was her oldest granddaughter, so this leggy filly must be one of her great-granddaughters. Fancy that! Not many lived long enough to pass on their word to a greatgrandchild. Gaib was the quiet, solid one with the pointy ears. Pointier than most, she meant.

  "Food?" Thaile asked. "Can I get you something to eat, Grammy?"

  Phain shook her head and closed her eyes to nap a little. She hoped she wouldn't linger much longer. She was too weary to speak more now. Only one word left to say, and she knew she would find breath enough for that.

  Maig! Maig was the name of that smelly, stringy old man she'd done Death Watch for. Maig had taken a week to go. She hoped she didn't take a week. Or hadn't already taken a week. Hard on a child. Maig hadn't been able to speak most of the time, but he'd found enough breath at the end to pass on his word.

  And no good had it ever done her, Phain thought. Perhaps she'd never had any special talent, or the word had been too weak, or shed just not had the Faculty.

  No, there'd never been any magic in her life, just a lot of hard work.

  And love. Much love. But no magic.

  The wind sighed through the little ruin. She thought she would nap now, and maybe eat something later ...

  3

  The standard was a pig of a thing, almost too heavy for Ylo's spent muscles to manage, but it was life. As long as he clung to that pole, the whole Imperial Army was going to fight to the death to defend him. He clung.

  Battle screamed around him and he ignored it, concentrating on holding the standard vertical and avoiding being knocked down by his own countrymen in the scrimmage.

  He had saved a standard. He might be going to survive this. This wasn't the XXth Legion, though. He glanced up and registered that he had just transferred to the XIIth.

  The XIIth! One of the crack outfits!

  A man who saved a standard won the right to bear it till his dying day-assuming that day was not this day. No more filthy ditch-digging . . . no more mind-destroying weapons drill.

  He was a signifer, a standard-bearer. Attaboy, Ylo!

  Signifers wore wolfskin capes over their armor, with a hood made from the wolf's head. Barbaric? Romantic! He could guess how girls would react to that. Women would be free again. Signifers had the nearest thing to a soft job the army ever offered. Even those twenty-three years might not seem too bad as a signifer-not much danger, and lots of respect. Perks! Yea, Ylo!

  Then he took another look. This was no mean run-of-the-mill standard he'd rescued, emblem of maniple or cohort. At its top was the Imperial star and below that the lion symbol of the XIIth. Red bunting floated from the crosspiece, and the rest of the shaft was laden with battle honors in silver and bronze. This was the legionary standard itself.

  Signifer for the XIIth Legion? Hey, Ylo!

  You are going to eat meat again, Ylo!

  The war had gone away. Order was being restored. Bugles were sounding in the distance.

  Suddenly officers were beckoning, and he led where they pointed. They followed him to the crest of a small hillock, the only high ground in sight. A voice beside him barked, "Pitch camp!" and his shredded wits were just operational enough to realize that it was addressing him. He swung the standard in the proper signal, barely registering protests from his battered muscles. Distant bugles picked up the call.

  Signifer!

  And of course the speaker had been the legate himself, with a green-crested helmet and gold-inlaid breastplate. Of course. Where else would the legate be but beside the standard? Legates were not supposed to have blood on their swords, but this one did. He was dirty and sweaty, and his dark eyes blazed below the brim of his helmet as he appraised Ylo. He held a canteen in his left hand.

  "Well done, soldier! I saw."

  Ylo muttered, "Sir!" but his mind was on that canteen. With the bottle almost at his lips, the legate paused, and his mouth showed that he was frowning. "What outfit?"

  Ylo had lost his shield; his mail shirt was totally coated in mud and blood, although none of that seemed to be his. He was anonymous. "The XXth, sir."

  "God of Battles!" the legate said. "All night? Here, you need this more than I do." And he handed over the canteen. That was Ylo's first inkling.

  The Impire had held the field. The fighting was ending as the surviving djinns surrendered or were cut down. More standards were arriving, and more officers.

  One of those was the commander, Proconsul Iggipolo himself, and the way he returned the legate's salute was another inkling.

  Ylo glanced up again at that potent pole he held. How could he have missed it? Above the battle honors and even above the crossbar shone a wreath of oak leaves, cast in gold.

  Only one man in the entire army could put his personal signet on a legionary standard.

  Ylo's mind reeled. He forgot honor and comfort and doeeyed girls. He thought Revenge! He thought hatred. He thought of his father and brothers, his cousins, his uncles. He thought of his mother, dying disgraced, in exile. He thought that man killed my family.

  Trust. Confidence. Being close in dark places. He thought knife between the ribs.

  And then he was limping painfully along, bearing the standard high, heading for the tents that had sprouted like a field of orderly mushrooms at the edge of the swamp. Behind him came the legate.

  And all the way battle-weary soldiers were scrambling to their feet to laud the leader of the XIIth, the hero, the man who had saved the day. Their cheers rang sour in Ylo's ears and the sound was bitter. He thought most popular man in the army.

  "Shandie!" they shouted. "Shandie!"

  Emshandar. The prince imperial. The imperor's grandson. Heir apparent. The most popular man in the army.

  4

  Never before had Ylo entered a commander's compound, but now he marched straight in and was saluted as he did so. He set the pole in the base prepared for it and spun around to face the procession he had been leading-or tried to, but his legs failed him, and he almost fell. The imperor's grandson saluted the standard, ignoring the stagger. He gave Ylo a nod that was a personal summons and headed for his tent, followed by a gaggle of shiny-helmeted officers, few of whom had likely bloodied their swords this day.

  Ylo tagged on the end. Halfway there, his way was blocked by an oak tree garbed in the uniform of a centurion. Eyes like two knotholes peered out of a face of bark.

  "Who're you, soldier?"

  Ylo was too exhausted to be humble. "The signifer!"

  The man's wooden eyes narrowed. He glanced back at the standard. "Dead or wounded?"

  "Dead. "

  The centurion again blocked Ylo as he tried to move. "Do you know who he was?" His voice creaked like falling timber. Ylo shook his head dumbly.

  "His cousin. Prince Ralpnie. Fourth in line to the throne. " Ylo stared at the arboreal face for a long moment as his beaten brain wrestled meaning from the words. Eventually he decided they were a caution. And help. He had forgotten such things, in two years of being a nonperson, a number.

  He dragged up the proper response from some deep-buried memory. "Thanks!"

  The man nodded. Then he sank down on one knee. By the time Ylo had realized that the centurion was unlacing one of his own sandals, the man had removed it and placed it in front of Ylo's bare foot. Ylo stepped into it. The big ox even fastened it for him-no matter how muddy and bloody he might be, a signifer must not go into a legate's presence barefoot if there was a spare shoe around.

  Ylo said, "Thanks," again as the centurion rose.
<
br />   Without as much as a nod, the tree shifted his roots and eased out of Ylo's way.

  Ylo dragged himself as far as the tent and then into its scented dimness. The walls were made of purple silk. He had not seen silk in two years. Carpets. Furniture. A smell of soap.

  There were at least a dozen men there, most in uniform, some not. As he entered, the muttered greetings were ending, the condolences and congratulations. He sensed the roiling dark mood-victory, but oh, the price! Triumph and loss. Heartbreak and joy. Relief and sorrow. The legate's cousin was but one of many not destined to share the victory.

  Carpets. Iron-banded chests. There was one chair, and as Ylo arrived, the legate sat down wearily, glanced in his direction, and raised a foot.

  This time the reaction came faster, fortunately. Ylo limped forward and removed the prince imperial's boots.

  Then he stepped back, and the tent fell silent. He felt the eyes on him. The stranger. The newcomer. The usurper.

  His cousin!

  These were the prince's battle companions. Some might have been with him since Creslee, and most would have been with him at Highscarp and on the bloody field of Fain. Now one of their number had fallen and here was the replacement.

  Not a cousin. Not an aristocrat. A common legionary-or so they would assume.

  And Ylo was staring at those hateful imperial features. The prince had removed his helmet. His face was a motley of mud and clean patches, his hair a sweaty tangle. Physically he was nothing special, but his eyes burned like black fire. Twenty-six years old, and the man the army worshipped.

  On his lap was a folded wolfskin. His cousin's cape. So? One cousin. This man murdered my whole family. "Your name?"

  "Ylo, sir. Third cohort, XXth Legion."

  "You have done well. Imperial Star, Second Class."

  "Thank you, sir. "

  "And signifer, of course?" Pause. Would the upstart dare? "Thank you, sir. "

  The onlookers rustled, like dry grass when something prowls. The prince nodded sadly. His hand lay strangely still on the wolfskin. "By tradition, the honor is yours." He glanced at the others. "The XIIth has a new signifer, gentlemen."

  Revenge! Close. Dark night. Knife in the ribs ...

  Then, those imperial eyes-imperious eyes-slashed back at Ylo. The legate seemed vaguely puzzled, as if seeing or hearing something not quite right.

  "Service? "

  "Two years, sir." More hesitation.

  "Mmm ... Can you ride?"

  "Yes, sir. "

  Surprise.

  "Read and write?"

  "Yes, sir." Astonishment. Puzzled glances.

  Then a voice in the background said, "Ylo? Ylopingo ... ?" There had never been much chance of keeping it secret. "Consul Ylopingo was my father, sir."

  The legate stiffened. "An Yllipo?" Stunned silence.

  Then the prince said softly, "Thank you, gentlemen," and everyone else melted away. Remarkable. Empty tent.

  Just the two of them.

  Prince Emshandar nodded toward an oaken chest. The new signifer tottered gratefully across to it and sat down, thinking that he would have fallen over had he been left on his feet much longer. His bones burned.

  "Tell me."

  Ylo told his story. It did not take long.

  The legate stared hard at him all the time, fingers still motionless upon the wolfskin. Then he gestured at a table in a corner. "Wine. And take one for yourself."

  Ylo rose. He snapped open the sealed flask with an expertise he had forgotten he had, but his hand trembled as he filled the goblets. He had just realized that he must be a problem for the prince, and men who embarrassed princes had a very short life expectancy. His hand shook even harder as he passed over the drink, because he was thinking poison. That was another possible means of assassination, safer for the assassin. Revenge would be sweeter if he could himself survive to enjoy it. Oh Gods! His mind was a rats' nest. He didn't know what he was thinking. Kill the heir to the throne? What madness was that?

  He went back to the chest.

  They drank, and the legate's gaze never left him. Good wine ... brought back memories.

  "Signifer," the prince said softly.

  Not certain he was being addressed, Ylo said, "Sir?"

  "Your predecessor was a close confidant of mine. Did you know that? "

  "Yes, sir. Your cousin."

  That display of knowledge won a nod of surprise, and approval. "Yes. He was my signifer. He was also my personal secretary, my closest and most trusted aide, and chief of my personal staff. " Emshandar sipped at the wine without taking his eyes off Ylo. "I assumed you were just a common legionary. I assumed you would become the legion's signifer-but not mine. You understand? You understand the distinction?"

  "Yes, sir. "

  "There's a world of difference between a man who waves a pole about and one who ciphers letters to the imperor. "

  "I understand, sir."

  The prince laid his goblet down on a table beside him and rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of both hands. Then he fixed that dark, burning gaze on Ylo again.

  Had he been capable of feeling anything, Ylo might have felt relief then-or even amusement at the thought of him, Ylo, attempting to function as aide-de-camp to the prince imperial. Being signifer to the legion was enough-it would be heaven after being a common sword banger. And there would be opportunities for revenge if that was what he wanted after he had considered the pros and cons.

  Then the prince said, "Could you serve me?"

  God of Madness! Ylo had thought the matter was settled. Serve this murderer?

  The imperor was ancient. Any day now the Gods were going to call in his black soul and weigh it-good luck to Them if They found one grain of good in it! This man would mount the Opal Throne as Emshandar V.

  His close friends and aides would roll to the top of the heap at once. His personal signifer would be in line for heady promotions, even a consulship, perhaps. That long-lost political career was back on the table again. In fact it was shining brighter than it had ever done.

  Sudden caution warned Ylo that politics had turned out to be more dangerous for his family than soldiering ever had. What he wanted now was a little security in his life. Yet ...

  Revenge? To serve this man would be a betrayal of his ancestors, his parents, his brothers ...

  Or would it be a sweeter revenge? And the opportunities for murder would be unlimited, day and night.

  Confused, he muttered, "You couldn't trust me!"

  The prince had probably read every thought in that hesitation. "You have the legion's standard; you have earned it, and no one can question your loyalty to the Impire. For the rest, I will accept your word."

  Ylo stuttered and then blurted out, "Why?"-which was almost a capital offense in the army.

  The legate frowned. "I was in Guwush when it happened, Signifer. I disapproved. It was a bloody, inexcusable massacre! I tried to stop it. Can you accept my word on that?"

  Such words would be treason on any other lips. And he had no need to lie. He did not seem to be lying.

  To Ylo's astonishment his own voice said, "Yes, sir. I believe you."

  "And I would like to make what small recompense I can. Can you believe that?"

  Ylo must have nodded, because the legate rose, and Ylo reeled to his feet, also. He laid down his goblet and lurched forward to accept the cape being offered. Surely the Gods had gone crazy?

  "I appoint you my signifer, Ylo of the Yllipos!" the legate said solemnly. He pulled a face. "My grandfather will have a litter of piglets!"

  There was no safe reply to that remark. Ylo was incapable of saying anything anyway. What had he fallen into? And how? A curious gleam shone in the prince's eye. "I hate being devious. You must be the senior surviving male in your family? If you want to claim the name and style yourself Yllipo, then now is the time to do it! "

  That would be a direct slap at the imperor's face. That would be a spit in his eye. It might even be illegal, or
treasonous. That was much too dangerous!

  Fortunately Ylo had a good excuse to hand. He found his voice. "I may have an aged uncle still alive somewhere, sir, I think." An outlaw, of course, attaindered and penniless.

  "He is not likely to dispute your claim, though?"

  "No, sir ... but I would hate him to hear of it. "

  The prince nodded gravely. "The sentiment does you honor! Ylo it is then. Your duty is always to the imperor, then to me, then to the legion, in that order. But you will never find those loyalties in conflict."

  He was very sure of his own motives, Ylo thought. He himself was not. In fact he was a lot less sure of them than he'd been ten minutes ago. Why had he accepted? And Yllipo? Why should the prince imperial suggest a bravado like that?

  What had Ylo won this day? A consulship, or revenge? If he played his hand right ...

  For a moment longer the legate studied his new aide-was he having doubts? But then he held out a hand to shake. Unable to believe this was happening, Ylo took it.

  "I mourn my cousin deeply," the prince said, "but I welcome you in his stead. I think it was not only the God of Battle who was with us out there today, Signifer. I think the God of Justice was busy, also. "

  Tears sprang suddenly into Ylo's eyes.

  He wondered if he had just given away his soul.

  5

  The terrible day was not over-indeed, it had barely started. Ylo staggered out of the legate's tent into blinding heat, although the hour was shy of noon. The army did not consider a major battle any reason to slacken discipline. The camp lay spread out around him, rows of tents straight as javelins in all directions. On the outskirts, exhausted legionary grunts were digging the encircling vallation. The centurions' screamed threats drifted in faintly. Well, there was the first blessing . . .

  "You have your own duties to attend to." Shandie had dismissed him with those words, but what in the Name of Evil did they mean?

  The massive centurion accosted Ylo again and saluted. He had replaced the missing sandal.