by Dave Duncan
Bewildered, Ylo returned the salute and only then realized that he was holding the slain signifer's cape. That had been what this leather-faced thug had been saluting.
"Hardgraa," the monolith growled. "Chief of his bodyguard. "
"Ylo," Ylo said. "Personal signifer." That felt curiously satisfying.
Not believable, just satisfying.
"Thought you might need these," Hardgraa remarked. He held out a wad of rags and a rolled red cloth.
Of course a signifer's first duty would be to tend his standard-clean it, replace the bunting. That was what the legate had meant. Ylo took the offering with shaky hands. "Thanks." He forced his aching feet to move.
The centurion paced beside him until they reached the standard. The easiest way to dispose of the cape was to put it on. It did keep the sun off, and the hood was certainly more comfortable than the massive, dented helmet. As Ylo was about to start work, the centurion muttered, "A moment, Signifer," and straightened the hood for him. Bug-eyed perfectionist!
Ylo began polishing the lowest of the emblems. He would need a stool to reach the star, for he must never lay the pole on the ground. He tried to ignore the watching Hardgraa.
"See that civilian over there, the one who looks like a retired priest?"
Ylo forced his eyes to focus and grunted.
"Sir Acopulo-his chief political advisor. And the butterball just going into the tent? Lord Umpily, chief of protocol. And me. Anything you need to know, any help you want . . . just ask. Ask any of us, but one of those three especially."
Ylo grunted again, squinting against the incandescent desert sun reflecting in his eyes. "Thanks more."
"Anything concerning security or his safety-anything at all, no matter how trivial-tell me with your next breath."
Ylo nodded and decided not to mention his own ambitions for a sharp blade between the royal ribs. He went back to work. The centurion rubbed the bark on his chin. "You did say personal signifer, Signifer?"
"Yes. "
"Curious. An Yllipo? He must be making some sort of political statement. "
Ylo clenched his teeth and went on polishing.
"Important job. Sure to screw it up, of course. Maybe that's it."
Still Ylo held his temper. His skin was streaming sweat under his chain mail and felt rubbed raw in places, as if the links had worn right through his tunic. Every joint ached, every muscle trembled with fatigue.
Hardgraa scratched his cheek. "And I've never known Shandie to go for a pretty face before. Tribune of the Vth Cohort, now-he's a rogue. Vets all the young recruits ... but not Shandie."
Ylo spun around, staggered, steadied himself with a hand on the accursed pole. He scowled at the crude, weatherbeaten veteran. A rock-eater, this one. He'd met some tough centurions in his time, but this looked like the original, the prototype. "I understood that his personal signifer was his chief of staff, Centurion?"
"Correct. "
"Then . . . I . . . you . . . " He was too muddled to find the right words.
"You don't give me orders, Signifer. You pass on his orders. If he hasn't given any, you tell me what you think his orders would be. I obey those orders."
Oh, Gods-responsibility!
"We're a team!" The older man chuckled dryly. "You think we'll try to pull you down? You're expecting a rat pack, maybe?" Dumbly Ylo nodded. He was an outsider. He had been thrown into this close-knit coterie with his fur still wet and his fangs not grown. His loyalties were as questionable as his abilities, and they must all know that.
The centurion shook his head. "If Shandie wants you, then he gets you. Trust us! You're in, understand? One of us. And the sooner you can be useful to him, the happier we'll all be. You can't do my job, and I can't do yours, because I'm not gentle born. We each sing our own songs, understand? A team. And if you ever let him down, in any way at all, I shall personally rearrange that pretty face until you look like a retired gladiator with a bad case of--"
"What're you telling me, Centurion?"
"The council of war's in half an hour. " Ylo threw down the rag.
"Why the Evil didn't you say so? I want two of the maniple signifers here soonest. If any other legion's standard outshines the XIIth's at the council, I will personally roast their balls on a stick. I need a shave, a wash, and clean kit-right now!"
Hardgraa grinned, showing a ragged assortment of amber teeth. "Yessir! " he said, and took off at the double.
An hour-later Ylo found himself still awake, attending the council of war. At least, he thought he was still awake. Who would ever suggest that a man wear a wolfskin cape-with a hood, yet-over full armor in a tropical desert? But to attend a council of war, standing on shaking legs in back of the prince imperial, facing a proconsul ... No, he had to be awake; no dream could ever be this unlikely. If the Gods weren't insane then he was.
Under the furnace glare of the sun, the circle of legates huddled within the circle of their signifers. Ylo was not close enough to hear what was said, but he had already heard Shandie tell his advisors what he expected to be said, and what ought to be said, and the conversation would not veer much from that path.
Technically Shandie was Iggipolo's subordinate, but everyone knew that state of affairs might terminate at any minute with a courier on a steaming horse bringing word of the imperor's death. Furthermore, it had been Shandie who had brought up the XIIth in time to turn Karthin from utter disaster to slim victory. Thus the proconsul would be very considerate of that particular legate's opinion. Shandie's opinion was that the caliph had been taught a lesson, but the Impire would need to field more resources before it could apply any further education. There had been no formal declaration of war, there would be no formal treaty. The status quo had been restored and the issues must wait for another day.
No one was very happy about that. There were too many dead imps being dug out of the mud. Even a battle-shattered tyro like Ylo could yearn for the caliph's head on a pole at short noticepreferably after someone else had collected it-but to argue with reality was crazy. The Impire had held the field and could do nothing with it, a useless victory.
When everyone agreed to that, the council dispersed, and the army turned to its own affairs: tending the wounded, burying the dead, thanking the Gods ... prisoners and fodder and victuals and transport and sanitation and replacements and all the concerns of a mobile city. The cowards were strung up and flogged before the assembled legion-four died, and the rest were crippled. Shandie had confirmed the sentences; he watched impassively as they were carried out. His signifer stood at his back and watched also and remembered the hours he had lain in the swamp, playing dead.
Rumor said that the VIIth Cohort of the XXXth had run from the field and was going to be formally decimated.
In the Imperial Army, a tribune might command a cohort or a troop of cavalry or an administrative department or even the legion itself at times-or nothing at all. The distinctions were subtle and deathly important. The legate of the XIIth had about a score of assorted tribunes at his call. Being a prince as well as commander of the crack XIIth, he also maintained a civilian staff, a court in waiting, and it comprised a dozen or so advisors and flunkies. Ylo was now expected to coordinate all these people and oversee every matter, military or civil, large or small.
Lists and reports, dozens of reports-reports above all. Every one of them involved the legate and his signifer. Signifers had duties of their own, also. Standards did not, without assistance, signal commands or carry themselves at parades or honor the Gods. The legionary signifer had command of all the lesser signifers; Shandie's signifer had charge of the coding sticks and all his secret correspondence.
Ylo should have gone stark raving crazy during the next few hours, but he just did not have the time. What had he gotten himself into? Looking beautiful while holding up a stupid pole was a job he thought he could handle. He had not wanted all this. The aftermath of battle was no time to be breaking in a new man, but obviously Shandie was going to do it anyway. Ylo wo
ndered more than once if he was just being worked to death to get rid of him. In one moment of particular despair, he even suggested that to Hardgraa.
"Not Shandie," the monolith growled. "His grandfather would, certainly. Not a scruple in his head, that one. But not Shandie. It's always like this around him."
Out of uniform, the prince imperial was nothing much to look at. Even in his bathtub he went on working, listening to reports, so Ylo knew exactly what he looked like, and he wasn't a patch on Ylo himself for looks. Like any imp, he was dark-haired and swarthy; his complexion was poor. He was slighter and bonier than most, with hardly a hint of his grandfather's aquiline arrogance. His eyes, though ... his eyes gave him away.
He was eerily impassive, never wasting a move, and yet he had more energy than a hurricane. Oh, he was quiet. He was patient. He would explain in detail-but Ylo dared not give him cause to explain twice.
He dictated to four pairs of secretaries at the same time-a burst of short sentences to each, then on to the next, and by the time they had written down his words he would be around with another burst. He rarely needed to ask for a read-back.
Ylo was supposed to organize all that, making sure both versions of each letter were the same, coding those that were especially secret. It went on without respite until dark was falling and insects batted and fizzed around the lamps. He could not remember when he had last slept, and his head was stuffed with rocks.
Accepting a bundle of letters to be sealed, he swayed on his feet. Shandie reached out and steadied him. Ylo peered blearily at that now-familiar black stare. He began to mutter an apology and was cut off.
"Can you last another twenty minutes?"
"I think so, sir." Liar!
"Good. Now, who else wants to see me tonight?"
Ylo turned to the door, struggling to remember names and faces.
Perhaps it was only twenty minutes. It felt like an hour before taps was sounded and Shandie suddenly called a halt. The secretaries clutched up their writing cases and hurried away.
Ylo stepped outside and ordered a military escort to see them back to the auxiliaries' quarters. The moon was up. Distant peaks in the Progistes glimmered like pearls. He shivered-he had never known a place to cool off as fast as this one, and he had never known a man could be so weary and still live. He returned to the tent that seemed to have become his prison. He removed the benches the secretaries had used. He straightened up the chests and rugs; he tidied up odds and ends.
Shandie was sitting on the chair, studying a sheet of vellum in the wavering light of an oil lamp above him. He seemed unconscious of the flies and moths wheeling around him.
He was nothing much to look at, but he could twist a man like a string. Ylo hated him, didn't he? Hated him for the way his grandfather had slaughtered the clan? Hated him for the torment of overwork? Hated him just for being Shandie? Didn't he?
Maybe he was just too tired to hate, and his hatred would come back in the morning. Maybe he wasn't the hating type. Ylo tucked a few stray blades of grass back under the edge of a rug. The prince's bedding must be in one of the chests, but he did not know which. It would be his job to find it and set it up. He did not know where he himself was supposed to sleep, but any flint quarry would do nicely, thank you.
Shandie was watching him. "Bedding, sir?"
"It's in that one, I think. But we shan't need it, I hope. Pass me my helmet. "
No more, no more! Gods let it end!
Ylo fetched the helmet. He knew the drill now-they stood face to face; he inspected the prince, adjusting his plume, rubbing smears off his cuirass. At the same time, Shandie inspected him, straightening the wolfskin hood so the ears stood up evenly, checking his chain mail and even making sure he had no inkstains on his fingers.
Shandie must be just as exhausted as Ylo, but he didn't look it. He had as much reason to be exhausted. He had marched all the previous night at the head of his legion-Shandie never rode into battle, which was one reason the men all loved him so. He had fought as hard as Ylo, certainly, and driven himself as hard ever since. Yet the bastard wasn't showing it.
Those imperial eyes were on his face ... "You're doing very well, Signifer. " Gulp. "Thank you, sir."
"Extremely well. I appreciate what this is costing you. Now, we're probably going to have another visitor." The prince lowered his voice. "I can't guarantee it, but he does like to watch battles. Close the door."
Ylo went. The night air outside was perfumed with some plant he didn't know, and sweet as wine, now that it was cooling off. The camp was dark. The inside of the tent stank of oil. The flaps fell, shutting out the desert night, shutting in the two men and the dance of lamplight.
Shandie was standing at one side, waiting like a boulder. Maybe the man was crazy. Ylo limped over and stood behind him, the two of them facing the entrance. The single chair sat in the center, empty. The water clock dripped monotonously. Superstitious tinglings stroked Ylo's scalp. This was madness. Then the flap on one side flicked up momentarily, and a man entered-except that Ylo had the curious delusion that he'd seen the darkness of the opening uninterrupted until the flap was falling again, and in that case ...
Man?
He was very big. His armor shone in gold, with jewels on his breastplate and greaves. His helmet lacked cheek pieces or noseguard, so that the handsome young face could be clearly seen.
Shandie saluted. Ylo froze, but fortunately that was what he was supposed to do. Then his knees began shaking.
A God? But people who had seen Gods didn't describe Them as looking like that. The crest on the helmet was gold. There was no rank in the army that merited a gold crest, not even the imperor himself. This was the largest imp Ylo had ever seen, as big as a jotunn, or a troll ...
God of Terror! A sorcerer! The warlock of the east, of course. The giant returned the salute, muscular forearm across chest. "You nearly screwed up!" he said, his voice deep as thunder, thrilling as a bugle call. Ylo wondered how women would react to this marvel. Of course all that would matter would be how he wanted them to react-a warlock got whatever he fancied.
"You could have helped!" Shandie snapped.
Ylo almost moaned aloud. How dare the prince lip a warlock? Then he remembered that the Protocol forbade anyone to employ sorcery on the imperor or his family, and Shandie was certainly family. So he was safe. But that didn't mean that Ylo wasn't in danger. The wardens were laws unto themselves. Sweat streamed down his ribs, his legs shook wildly. He had reached the limits of his endurance.
The sorcerer scowled. "I chose not to help."
Shandie shrugged his armored shoulders. "Your Omnipotence, may I present-"
"An Yllipo? The old bugger will disown you!" the giant said, striding across to the chair. "You trying to kill him with an apoplexy?"
"Of course not!"
Protocol or not, how could Shandie dare use such a tone to a warlock? Or such a giant? Of course a sorcerer was not necessarily what he seemed, and Warlock Olybino was mentioned in the stories Ylo's family told of his grandfather and the Dark River War, and that had been forty years ago.
He could not possibly be as young as he looked.
"He'll breathe fire! An Yllipo?" The hostility seemed to be mutual. The warlock's black eyes locked onto Ylo. "So you want me to tell you whether the traitor's spawn is going to be loyal, or whether he's planning to stick-"
"No! " Shandie barked. "That is not what I want. I told him Id trust him, and I will trust him. That is not what I want."
"What then? Why's he here?"
"Part of his education. Was his father a traitor?"
"No. One of his brothers was being stupid, but nothing serious. "
Shandie said, "Ah! " sadly, but he did not turn to look at Ylo. "Besides, even if he planned to cut my throat in the next hour, you couldn't warn me, could you? "
East scowled. He leaned back and crossed one massive thigh over the other. "Don't say `Couldn't' around me, sonny. 'Shouldn't,' maybe. That's not quite the sa
me. 'Sides, there are precedents for handing out warnings. That's not direct use of magic. "
"My apologies." Still Shandie did not turn. "Signifer, this is Warlock Olybino, warden of the east. "
Ylo saluted. If military etiquette required anything more than an ordinary salute for a warlock, the details lay beyond Ylo's ken. He was far more concerned by the realization that the Protocol, while it forbade the use of magic against the Imperial Army, made exception in the case of East. The Imperial Army was the prerogative of the warden of the east. So Warlock Olybino could use sorcery on Signifer Ylo any way he liked, although no one else could, not even the other three wardens. He could pry into Ylo's mind and discover whether he was truly loyal or was planning revenge. Ylo would like to know that himself.
But the warlock was now ignoring him. "So-you want me to report your great victory to the Old Man?"
"I'd be grateful if you would," Shandie said respectfully. "And that I'm well. He worries."
"He should. Want me to tell him how that second javelin almost made a two-month baby heir apparent?"
"Better not, your Omnipotence. I did wonder if you'd bent that one a little?"
The golden horsehair waved as the warlock shook his head. "No."
"Or organized our young friend's feat with the standard?"
"No. I stayed out totally."
Now why would the warlock of the east have refrained from influencing the Battle of Karthin? Why let the XXth Legion be demolished, and three others badly savaged, and all for no real gain?
Shandie did not ask, and Ylo certainly wasn't about to.
But Ylo had grown up in a very political family. Politics, his father had told him once, was a matter of layers. If you could see it, it probably didn't matter, and vice versa. The bottom layer was always the wardens. Their schemes were the real schemes, he had said. The Four got what they wanted, and they ruled by majority.
Olybino had been bought off, or scared off, but no one but the wardens themselves would ever know which, or why, or how.
"Fine," Olybino rumbled. "I'll tell him. It will ease the news about Guwush. "
