Brisack turned, keeping one hand in the same constant massaging motion, and with his other twitched open a wrapped white cloth to reveal several red berries.
“Lucky for you some late hawthorn berries are still on. Gives me an opportunity to test if the fresh ones applied topically will work in conjunction with the ones I just administered orally, although I don’t know if you deserve it.”
He crushed the berries roughly in his hands, then plastered the juice and skins on Mal’s chest.
“Three lieutenants gone in one season. Three!” he grumbled as he worked the juices into Mal’s narrow gray chest. “You’ve nearly exhausted our supply of new officers. The next batch won’t be ready for another two years, yet. And now we can’t even use them because the army will realize Guarders have infiltrated Command School! Such waste! So much gold!” he seethed as he massaged. “I could have told you this wouldn’t work. Oh, wait. I did. But you listened to Gadiman. So bent on getting what you want you’ll listen to any fool who tells you what you want to hear. You didn’t break the Shins, you’ve only made them more powerful. Why, look at what they’ve survived! Right now Relf and Perrin must think they’re invincible! You idiot!”
He continued to massage the berries and tonic over Mal’s heart, watching for when his lips would turn pink again. The good doctor complained loudly all the while since no one could interrupt him.
“The most far-fetched, impulsive undertaking. Everything we planned for by using officers in the army is completely destroyed. The next five years? Gone! Well done, Nicko. Brilliant.”
With one hand he grasped the old man’s wrist and checked his pulse while he continued to massage with the other. After a minute the doctor sighed with exhaustion and slid off his patient and the bed.
“Excellent work, Dr. Brisack. Your patient’s heart rate has stabilized and his color’s coming back, too. He’ll live.”
He plopped into a chair, clearly not satisfied with the prognosis.
“When my assistants arrive they can clean up this mess,” Brisack said, gesturing to the bottles, berries, and liquids spilled around the bed and side table. He started to wipe his wet hands on his red jacket, sighed in exasperation, and instead glared at the Chairman.
Nicko Mal couldn’t say anything, far too frail to move. He only blinked at the doctor.
“Things are going to change, Nicko,” Brisack said quietly. “You’ve ruined everything, an incredible waste of gold went to pay for Command School, and now we no longer even have those officers. Every two weeks our men wake up and find more gold than their work should ever have earned them. They’ve been spoiled for only a few days’ work each season. But no more. Agreed? Blink once if you agree, twice if you don’t.”
It took him a moment, but eventually Nicko Mal reluctantly—stubbornly—blinked once.
Brisack nodded back. “Now then, here’s what we’re going to do: we stop paying them.”
Mal blinked twice, then twice again.
“Worried they’ll revolt, are you? But they can’t leave the service without their comrades killing them for breaking the oaths. So I propose we cut them off, like a parent cuts off a leeching child. Make them earn their own ways. With no options, I speculate they’ll become very inventive. And that will be fascinating to observe. As the saying goes, desperation drives discovery. What methods will they employ to discover new ways of funding themselves?”
Mal opened his mouth to try to speak, but his lips only parted slightly.
“That’s the relaxant at work,” Brisack smiled slyly. “I recently added that to my heart tonic. You remain conscious but unable to do anything so that your body can rest and your heart can heal. One of my better concoctions, and I thank you for being one of my first human volunteers to test it. My wife’s dog just runs when she sees me approaching now. She must think I’m you. I’ll be recording your reactions to the relaxant over the next several hours. But think about my suggestion, Nicko, and tell me you’re not intrigued. We test the testers. We continue to gain research and be entertained, but keep our remaining gold to ourselves until this situation stabilizes itself in five, maybe ten, years. I see it in your eyes. You’re seeing the wisdom in this, aren’t you? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”
Again Mal was slow to respond, and it wasn’t because of the relaxant. Eventually he blinked once.
Brisack gave him a half smile. “Didn’t you once study what happens to abandoned young of different species? Some grew exceptionally strong, others became depressed and died? I referenced some of that for one of my studies once. You can do it again, but with humans. How will these sucking ‘children’ survive when we cut them lose and let them struggle on their own?”
Mal blinked once, quite quickly. “All right,” he whispered.
Brisack shook his head. “I didn’t give you enough. You shouldn’t be able to speak at all. Or maybe you’re just exceptionally stubborn.”
Mal blinked once again.
“And by the way,” Brisack said as he stood up to cork a bottle, “about saving your life? You’ll be getting my bill in the morning. Guess this proves you have a heart. And you’re welcome, you selfish son of a sow!”
---
Administrator Gadiman sat at his desk, candles burning all around him, with the file in front of him. It sat apart from several others stacked neatly on his large desk.
It was late again. The sun had set hours ago, but Gadiman still had work to do. He could work all night if necessary. And the next day. And the next, for however long he needed to be there. No one would bother him here. No one would dare.
He tried to concentrate on the task before him but his anger boiled up inside again, threatening to froth out in another fit of temper. But he couldn’t let that happen again. It took him almost three hours to reorganize all the files. But as he gathered up the files he dumped furiously out of boxes, one had fallen open to reveal a page he knew he could work with. This was the way he could get his revenge and prove his worth.
The file sat open in front of him as a bright and redeeming light in contrast to a dark and stupid night.
Those two lieutenants were ready, he knew it! Something went wrong in Edge, but it wasn’t his fault. Something—or someone—else interfered, and because of that failure, Gadiman would be dropped from the inner circle before he even got a chance to be part of it. It wasn’t fair! Everything should have worked out perfectly! So who ruined it?!
He took a few deep cleansing breaths, noticed that they didn’t cleanse anything, and grabbed the thick file. He flipped the pages over, past the High General’s comprehensive report, past the testimonies from citizens of Edge, and past the explanation from the Administrators as to why, despite all the progress Major Shin had made, he certainly couldn’t be promoted again after only one season, but here were several medals and patches instead to decorate his dress uniform, along with the proclamation of Major Shin as Officer of the Year.
He stopped flipping through the file only when he came to Captain Karna’s daily reports. He moved those pages to the top and turned to the second page.
There it was, obvious for anyone to see, if they were willing to see. Why no one wanted to, Gadiman couldn’t understand. Yet here was his salvation. He would still prevail, and prove to Chairman Mal he was far more adept than that self-righteous doctor.
He took another file from the side of his desk that had a yellow dot next to the name. He opened the file and carefully copied information from Captain Karna’s report for a second record that he alone kept.
He closed the file, pulled out the orange paint and placed another dot on top of the yellow.
He wouldn’t ignore it like everyone else.
If they wanted Shin brought to his knees, Gadiman would find another way to do it—legally, publically, definitively. It might take some time, but knew he had all the time in the world.
For disarming the entire army in front of her husband and with his reluctant approval, then sending the soldiers out in ‘ca
sual’ uniform to the village—which Captain Karna claimed had “charming effects on the citizens,” but was a phrase that made Gadiman involuntarily shudder—Mrs. Shin’s new orange label meant Beyond Watched, but not yet Traitorous.
No woman should have that kind of influence over an officer. Any more power and she’d be one of the most dangerous women in the world.
And she was.
Gadiman could see it in the four letters she sent. She had potential, this one. Far more than any other file in his very full office. And she had the ear of the son of the most powerful officer in the world.
She was a glorious disaster simply waiting to happen, to fully ripen and explode right in front all of their faces. And Gadiman would be the one to call their attention to it. He saw it, right from the beginning. He had written proof, and he would be there at the end when she destroyed herself and everyone else with the last name of Shin. They would all go down hard and loud and messy, and Gadiman would be there to sweep it all up, pour it into a bag, and hand it proudly to the Chairman.
Then he’d set his eyes on the next target, the one file he kept even more heavily guarded than Mrs. Shin’s. In it was only one item of evidence so far, but it was most revealing. He would just wait for the right moment.
Unable to stop himself, he slipped the file out from the secret drawer under his desk and opened it up. There it was, still dark and crisp in the clear scrawl unique to doctors.
Captain Shin, a dozen will be awaiting in the shadows to assist in the care of your wife and daughter.
Gadiman was no doctor, but he was intelligent enough to know to send a copy of that message to the captain, and to keep the original—in Brisack’s own handwriting—for himself.
He would be next, after Mrs. Shin.
Gadiman painstakingly set a precise orange dot next to Brisack’s name. The orange paint was his only victory for the day.
That very wrong, very stupid, very disastrous day.
---
Dormin was ready, waiting in the dark in his room at the Inn at Edge. He paced nervously, knowing that the time had come, and now was past. Something must have happened—
The door opened quietly and two figures slipped in.
“Rector Yung? Why haven’t we left yet? Where are the others?” Dormin began to fumble with a match until he heard Rector Yung.
“No light, son. We have to keep quiet for another few days yet, it seems.”
“What?” Dormin exclaimed. “I thought there was this great rush—”
“There is!” Mrs. Yung said, clearly exasperated. “But there’s been an incident at the fort, and now the patrols have doubled, round the clock. There will be no movement until things quiet down again. Probably four or five more days.”
Dormin exhaled loudly. “But that’s—”
“Hardly a worry for you!” Mrs. Yung snapped in an angry whisper.
Dormin clamped his mouth shut. He’d never heard her so testy before.
“Remember, Dormin,” Mrs. Yung said, trying to calm her voice, “this isn’t all about you. You can sit around here for weeks without a concern, but others are in far greater danger. I didn’t mean to get snippy with you,” she added apologetically. “It’s only that . . . oh, the timing just couldn’t be worse.”
Dormin saw her take a chair at the small table and plop down in it worriedly.
Her husband stepped up behind her and seemed to massage her shoulders. “We have to trust the Creator knows our plight, my dearest. He will fix everything, somehow.”
“I know, I know,” Mrs. Yung said impatiently. “It’s just that—”
“The Creator knows our plight,” Rector Yung said again, still calm and gentle.
Mrs. Yung exhaled loudly, partly in aggravation, partly in apology. “I know,” she said quieter. “I know. I’m sorry.”
In the dark, Rector Yung seemed to smile at Dormin. “All will be well,” he said with such surety as if to guarantee it. “We’ve faced trickier situations—”
A loud scoffing sound from his wife begged to differ with that assessment.
“Dearest?” Rector Yung said in a remarkable blend of innocent questioning and firm admonishment.
Mrs. Yung sighed again. “Sorry, sorry. I can’t help but get anxious at this point.”
“And yet every time all goes well, doesn’t it?” her husband said with such sweetness that Dormin wondered if the man were half sugar.
“Yes, you’re always right,” Mrs. Yung growled quietly. “And so is the Creator.”
Rector Yung chuckled quietly and took a chair next to his wife.
But Dormin clenched his hands into nervous fists. “So . . . what happened at the fort? Why is everyone more anxious than usual?”
The Yungs looked steadily at each other before Rector Yung cleared his throat.
“Dormin, sit down, son,” the rector said somberly. “There’s something you need to hear.”
Chapter 21 ~ “I never once remember laughing in Idumea.”
Mahrree looked at the brand new collection of blank paper, tightly bound and protected with a leather cover. Her own book. At least, it would be soon.
Joriana, who had left yesterday for Idumea with her husband and two fewer guards, had bought the beautiful book for her when she endured an arduous but highly distracting outing at the market with Hycymum, two toddlers, and a couple of long-suffering soldiers. When she handed the undoubtedly expensive gift to Mahrree, her eyes were damp.
“Whenever I was deeply troubled, Uncle Hogal told me to write about it. He said we don’t know what we’re thinking until we see it in our own writing, then we’re able to grapple with it. He gave me my first blank book right after my parents died and I realized I was expecting Perrin. I was actually surprised to see that Edge even carries something so fine,” she said as she ran her hand gingerly over the swirling patterns imprinted on the leather, the grooves darkened with inks.
“Oh, Mother Shin—I can’t accept this!” Mahrree had breathed, not daring to take the book. Nothing else in her house could be declared as fine, and less than one minute with either of her children would render it dismal. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“It will fit quite well in your extensive collection,” Joriana said with finality, nodding to their full bookshelves.
“But shouldn’t you keep it? I imagine you have plenty to write about.”
Joriana smiled sadly and held up two more, just like it. “You’re right—I do have a lot to write about. Mine will be dreary enough, so Mahrree, create something memorable!”
Last night she only fondled the cover, not daring to muss any pages.
“Just use it,” Perrin told her. “Really, my parents can afford it. They can afford a dozen of those.”
Mahrree squinted. “Just how much silver is paid to the High General anyway?”
He squinted back. “He’s paid in gold. And realize, that’s not a job I ever want—especially now—so you can stop your planning—”
“I don’t want you to have that job either! I’m only . . . curious.”
He glared at her, not entirely convinced that curiosity was all there was to it. “Enough to keep their house stocked and their servants well paid.”
“They have servants?!” Mahrree exclaimed. “How big is their house?”
He shrugged dismissively. “Big enough to be garish. No one in their right mind would want it, including you.”
So early this morning Mahrree stoked the fire in the gathering room, dragged one of the stuffed chairs over to it, and settled down with her book next to a small table with a mug of water, ink, and quill to write something memorable.
After five minutes of staring, she realized it wasn’t that easy. Too many things were on her mind, all fighting to be recorded, then each suddenly deciding it didn’t want to be the first to blot the beautiful buff pages.
She was wasting time, and she hated that. Soon her children and husband would be waking, she’d have breakfast to make, then the morning chores t
o do, then midday meal to ready, then put down her children for naps, and then prepare for her After School Care boys.
This afternoon they were heading to her old school’s orchard. Recently she noticed no one had picked the apples. Many were still hanging heavy on the low branches, but more had dropped to the ground, becoming food for whatever creatures stole them in the night.
At first, she was irate. This was the school orchard! Every year for decades the fruit was harvested by the students and sold in the market. The silver slips earned went to improving the school building, purchasing wood for the fire in the Raining Season, and paying the teacher. Every student’s family helped, and it was a neighborhood tradition all over Edge—gather to harvest, sell, and take care of our schools.
But now?!
Mahrree had tried to put her irritation in her apron pocket and decided to chalk up the neglect of the school orchard—and the five other school orchards in Edge, Perrin told her glumly last night—to the Guarder raid, the changes to the village, and the recent bloodshed at the fort. People just had other, more worrying, things on their minds.
So why was it that, when all the events of the past several moons had most directly affected her family, her family was the only one still concerned about the school orchards?
She repeatedly shoved aside the nagging suspicion that no one cared for the apples because they knew the Administrators were now paying for the teachers and new, larger buildings. Just like the lessons that no parents worried about, the orchard was ignored because someone else was taking care of it.
And she definitely refused to visit the notion screaming in her head that her After School Care boys were also at times being neglected by their parents because someone else was now taking care of them all day at school, and even afterwards.
Why do the work when someone else—and it doesn’t matter who—will do it for you?
Those were aggravating attitudes Mahrree tried not to dwell on, but instead quietly fought against. They’d harvest those apples this afternoon and give them to Director Hegek. They were “his” property now, after all, even though he likely didn’t realize it. The neighborhood school now belonged to the Administrators, and no one outside of the Shin household seemed to think that was yet another tragic turn of events.
Soldier at the Door (Forest at the Edge) Page 49
