He was here in Blaze Company because the Crimsons thought he was a spiritist, a shaman. He had the tattoo of a crowspeaker, but except for the ones that had saved him from the grey clay-monster and the ones he saw in his dreams, he had made no contact. He had tried here in Bahlaer, but all his rooftop offerings of food, water and shiny things had netted him only watchful stares as crows perched on balconies or laundry-lines but never came close.
But if it was his tattoo, then it wasn't about real crows.
“I uh... Yeh, I remember,” he said, fumbling with his thoughts. How do they all fit in the tattoo? Are they made of ink? They sure as pikes felt real when they were tearing the monster off of me. Do I just swear by Zolvin T'okiel and they come out? But I couldn't breathe enough to swear while it was trying to take my face. Does someone have to be killing me first? That stinks. “I dunno how to control it yet.”
Captain Sarovy exhaled. “That is unfortunate. But in that case, Specialist Weshker, I will not be punishing you. I hold you and the lieutenant equally responsible, and as the higher-ranking soldier, he bears the greater burden of good behavior.”
Weshker blinked. He wondered if Linciard had popped his eardrums, or maybe hit him so hard he was hallucinating.
“Also, I have an offer for you. The Field Marshal has ordered you back to base-camp—I don't know why. I had prepared to contest the order, and I am still willing to do so in light of your...talent, but if you wish to leave Blaze Company, it can be done.”
Immediately Weshker thought of Sanava, alone there at the base-camp. She was newer to the army than him, and as savage a Corvishwoman as he had ever known. How she had survived in the women's quarters without bloodshed, he could not imagine. But if he was still a freesoldier, he could see her again.
And maybe she could explain this.
“Yeh. Yeh, I'll go.”
The captain frowned, perhaps at the quickness of the decision. Weshker could think of no other reason to regret losing a screw-up like him. “If you find yourself in trouble there, I cannot assist you.”
“S'all right, captain. Yeh been great, but uh, I need more trainin' afore I can be useful t'yeh. What's the point of me bein' here makin' people angry?”
A long pause, then the captain nodded curtly. “You are dismissed to pack. I do not know how long it will take to have you transferred, but best to be prepared. And send in the lieutenant.”
Scrambling up, Weshker snapped the best salute he could with a splinted wrist. “Lemme say it's been good workin' fer yeh even this short time, sir, yeh a good person and it's been real eye-openin'. And I'm probably gonna be mindwashed of it all so jes'...thanks fer not whippin' me!”
With an arched brow, Sarovy said, “You have a few candlemarks with me yet. Try to behave. Dismissed, specialist.”
Grinning, Weshker bobbed him a brief bow then edged to the door, peeking out cautiously in case Linciard planned to ambush him again. The Wyndish officer was stationed several feet down the wall as if trying to avoid doing just that, and when he looked over, Weshker thumbed at the office.
“Yeh turn,” he said, then limped away at speed.
*****
Linciard stared after him, too worried to react. The door stood open, the captain waiting, and a lump formed in his throat. How did this even happen?
He could hear the murmurs of speculation from the gathering below. Most of the lancers were down there, plus infantrymen and all of the specialists. Captain Sarovy had explicitly barred Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek from coming upstairs, for the ruengriin's face had gone dark when he learned of the fight, and Linciard knew he held grudges.
I've piked myself, piked my career, piked my life. And for what?
He couldn't remember. He'd tried to reason it out—tried to explain to himself as much to the captain what Weshker had done to deserve that beating—and it was all true, even if the lead-up had been fabricated. But he couldn't remember how he'd ended up in the scouts' bunkroom.
It was hard to concentrate. He felt hazy from blood-loss and the headache had returned in force, but there was something else. He remembered being angry—so angry—but...
He should have known better. He'd thought he did know better. And now he'd put his foot in his mouth in front of the captain—outright lied to him—and probably picked a fight with the whole Specialist platoon. Weshker might not have many friends there, but he was one of them, and Linciard was an outsider.
He moved to rub his temples, but halted as pain shot up his hands and arms. This was his reward for his crime: eight sets of stitches, most on the backs of his arms but two on his palms where Medic Shuralla had needed to sew the tendons together. Due to her care, he still had all of his fingers, though some of them tingled through the salve. No big veins had been damaged, nothing irreparably severed. He would live to fight again.
Worse was the memory of the crows boiling out from Weshker's skin like so much smoke, screeching his doom. He had seen his share of combat, but nothing was as frightening as trying to bare-hand grapple a knife-wielding spiritist maniac in a cloud of wings and claws.
“Lieutenant,” came the captain's voice from the office.
Squaring his shoulders, Linciard headed in.
The captain barely glanced up from his records. “Sit, lieutenant. I have a few additional questions for you.”
“Yessir.” Lowering himself to the chair, Linciard rested his bandaged hands on his knees and tried to stay stiff-spined and still. The tingle in his fingers made them twitch though, and he kept catching himself tapping his broken boot-heel against the leg of the chair.
He waited for what felt like eternity, the scratch of the quill-pen rasping at his nerves. Sarovy was still in armor, as he had been when Linciard had come to, with his helm in reach as if he expected an attack. Linciard considered asking what had happened, but thought better of it.
Finally the captain looked up, quill still poised over the page. “You stated that you attempted to speak with him in the garrison and he ran, correct?”
Sweat sprang up on Linciard's brow. The lies had come automatically; in Wyndon and the Gold Army, selective truth-telling and manipulation of facts were the standard in getting the paperwork done, and their previous superior—Captain Terrant—had continued the tradition. Captain Sarovy was not such a man. From the cool way he regarded Linciard over the report, he thought Sarovy might stab him with that quill-pen if he dared lie again.
“I— I guess I surprised him, and he considered my...approach...threatening, sir,” he said, knowing he could not say ambush without getting himself thrown in jail.
Sarovy crossed something off the page. “And then you pursued him, concerned that he would be a danger to others?”
“...In retrospect, sir, I see that I evaluated the situation wrong.”
“Mm. And you stated that after the accident on the stairs, you attempted to apprehend him but he attacked you.”
Linciard opened his mouth and saw the Corvishman's face, already bloodied, already wide-eyed in fear. And he saw the pit-trap in the woods behind his family's winter lodge, with another pair of pain-shocked eyes staring up at him from within. And the palisade on fire, the bloody footprints in the snow...
“N-no, sir,” he said, almost choking on the truth. “No, I started it. I'm sorry. I let you down.”
Sarovy paused, then sighed and returned the quill to its inkwell. Steepling his hands at the edge of the desk, he regarded Linciard frankly, and the lieutenant could not hold his gaze.
“You did more than that,” he said. “You lied to me.”
“...Yes.”
“Why?”
“I... The Corvishman... We Wynds, you know we...”
He trailed off, unable to follow his own thread. It got lost in the haze, unexplainable by his prevaricating reflex, unexplainable by his hatred of the Corvish—because he didn't hate them, not really. Not enough to do this. Like any good Wynd, he wanted them to cease to exist, but he had no desire to be involved in that effort
anymore.
“I was angry,” he tried instead. “He saw me and Rallant, and I...”
But that wasn't right either. They had nothing to hide, except maybe from the Jernizen, and he doubted Weshker would have tattled. Even if he did, it wouldn't matter. As much as Linciard wanted to keep his private life quiet, he knew it was impossible in such close quarters.
“The truth is, you don't know why,” said Sarovy.
Linciard looked down at his hands. He'd always feared the scrutiny of others. Over his military record, his lackluster faith, his politics, his love-life, his martial prowess, his leadership abilities, and now maybe his sanity. “No,” he murmured.
“Lieutenant, you've been controlled.”
His head snapped up. “What? No, that's ridiculous. I—“
“You're sleeping with one of the controllers. Sergeant Rallant. That is twice you've lied.”
“No sir,” Linciard mumbled lamely. “You asked if he was following me. He's not.”
Sarovy's expression told him what he thought of that.
“But he can't be controlling me,” Linciard continued, fumbling for logic. “I've been inoculated, right? And he never said to attack the Corvishman. He wasn't even there when I jumped him. And he wouldn't do that to me. We're...”
Close. But the word would not come to his lips, because he knew it was wrong. All of it was wrong, and he couldn't think straight. His head was killing him.
He saw the captain straighten, frowning heavily, and then the office door opened and slippered feet skittered up behind him. He tried to look back but he couldn't move, couldn't react as a hand came to rest on the top of his head, fingers spanning his brow.
Something cold slithered across him like a cloak of ice-chips, and suddenly the headache was gone, and the fog. He glanced sidelong to see normally sweet-faced Scryer Mako staring at him like he was a bug being dissected.
“It's hard to pin down,” she mused. “Not mentalism. Deeper than that, and regenerating—no, that's wrong, that's not the influence. That's the withdrawal. Oh my.”
“What is it?” said Sarovy. “And why didn't you catch it sooner?”
Scryer Mako's face pinched with annoyance. “First of all, I'm still not an Inquisitor. Secondly, I'm supporting the earhook network and a third of the wards, plus any portals anyone suddenly needs, plus scrying, plus warding your target-bearing ass. Thirdly, do you know how many thoughts clamor at me? Half the men project something lewd when I pass by, and those are far more intrusive than this one's private wallowing. Fourthly—“
“Should I speak with them?”
“What?”
“About the lewd thoughts.”
“Why? What can they do about it? They're men. I jump in on them sometimes to teach them a lesson, but otherwise it's just fantasizing.”
The captain opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it and switched his attention to Linciard. “You have been controlled,” he reiterated, “and we are going to amend that. As useful as the controllers were during the coastal raids, I can not allow them to tamper with the men. I will have them reassigned.”
A jolt went through Linciard. He and Rallant had just begun their affair, and though he understood the captain's reasoning, he didn't want it to end like this.
“That's the control talking,” said Scryer Mako, evidently reading his thoughts. “We can't allow it.”
He saw Rallant's hard eyes, covering some unknown damage like a scab. Untrustworthy, but...
“No, look,” he said, trying to brush the Scryer's hand off. She made a scolding sound but allowed it. “You caught him out, and now you're suspicious of all the others. What can they do that you won't notice? He messed with my head, yes, and maybe he just did it for fun, but maybe there's an agenda. Within the controllers, or within all the specialists, or...or I don't know. But the inoculations worked, right?”
The captain looked to Scryer Mako, who nodded slowly. “I monitored us during the cliff raids, and none of the men reacted to the controllers' emanations like the cultists did—not even you, Linciard. They weren't being commanded, they were just calmer, more focused. What happened this time seems like a targeted overdose to make you malleable. I don't know how he does it, but it's plainly visible now that I know what to look for. And I can block it.”
“So what you are saying,” Sarovy prompted, “is that we should simply watch him?”
Scryer Mako shrugged. “I imagine any of the controllers could do this, but there are only five of them. I'd like another mentalist or three as backup, of course, but I'm fairly sure I can keep a lid on it. So if we suspect Rallant as a spy or a saboteur, isn't it more profitable to watch him than eliminate him?”
“Politics,” Sarovy spat.
“You're a part of the Empire, captain. You can't escape politics.”
Sarovy's iron gaze shifted to Linciard, and he tried not to shrivel beneath it. “This is what you want, then? A counterintelligence position? I must say I don't think you're suited to it.”
“I don't either, but...” Linciard swallowed, trying to envision his life going forward. Playing spy-games with a court-trained specialist who could take over his mind... But there were indicators. “He kept prompting me to tell you about us. If he was against the Company, why would he do that? Maybe he just doesn't know how to not do things that way. Maybe he's sorry. Maybe I can—“
Fix him.
“—turn him to our side, if he's against us. And if he is, where's that coming from? It'd have to be from in the Crimson Army, right? Though maybe the Gold...”
The captain looked as headachey as Linciard had felt. “You're quite an optimist, lieutenant. I'm trying to remember why I commissioned you.”
That stung, because Linciard didn't know either.
“Still, those are valid points,” Sarovy continued. “Perhaps the Scryer and I should have a chat with him. But in the meantime... Lieutenant, you have assaulted a fellow soldier.”
Linciard hung his head.
“Though it is perhaps not your fault, I still must act. You are hereby demoted to Sergeant and suspended without pay until I choose to reinstate you. Turn in your letter of commission and your rank badges, and pack your possessions to be moved down below. Sergeant Benson will become Acting Lieutenant, though I don't think I'll be commissioning him. And I will flog you for fighting once the medic has signed off on your recuperation.”
Linciard blanched, fingers curling beneath the bandages, but there was nothing for it. The situation could be worse; he didn't have a family to support, and he couldn't run around with a sword like this anyway.
“And as long as you're suspended, you might as well nose around the other idiots and reprobates,” continued the captain. “The foreigners, the mercenaries. The Crimson may be the dregs of the Imperial Armies but I don't want us to be the dregs of the Crimson. I want to know that my men are with me, whether Jernizen or Drixi, Riddish or Wynd, and if they're not...
“I don't trust this city. I don't trust the cultists, I don't trust the militia and I certainly don't trust the council. But I can't afford to not trust my men. There are many influences on them here, sergeant—influences that hide when I walk by, because they know they cannot sway me. You... You've been stained now. Take advantage of it.”
Linciard nodded slowly. He'd been among nasty, rough, backbiting types before. That was basically the entire Border Corps. “What about the lancers, though, sir? Benson— Lieutenant Benson isn't much of a lancer.”
“There hasn't been much need for lancers since the end of the Jernizan campaign, so it's no hardship to have you stand down for a while. I'll have Benson assign them to mounted patrol or with the infantry depending on need. You were drilling them to fight on cobblestones?”
“Yes sir.”
“How did it go?”
“Well...no one died, sir. Light forbid we need to do anything more than herd a crowd, though.”
Sarovy smiled faintly. “Not exactly the top of the heap, are we. B
ut I suppose 'not dying' is fair for a platoon of Heartlanders who never saw a horse before the war. And now the Jernizen recruits are our shining lights.”
“So they love to say, sir.”
“All right, enough of this. I have a report to scrap and you have to clear your office. However, since I do plan to reinstate you barring any further incidents, you and I will schedule some proper officer training when we have the time.”
“Proper...training? Like how to yell at people better?”
“No. Protocols. Infractions. And...” He picked up a small book from the corner of the desk. Bound in weathered blue leather, it had seen much use, its pages bristling with bookmarks and scraps of notes, and he slapped it down dead center as if displaying his favorite weapon. “The Imperial First Army 'Sapphire Eye' Officer's Rules and Regulations.”
“But...we're not in the Sapphire, sir.”
“No, we're not. We're in the capriciously-led, politically-staffed, backsliding, overreaching, underpaid and unreliable Crimson Claw. But we don't have to act like it.”
Linciard looked from the book to the captain, so stern and sure, and nodded. “Yes sir.”
*****
The next few days passed quietly in Bahlaer. A routine was established: the morning shift would patrol the pre-Riftdawn streets before giving way to the day shift at noon and hitting a tavern; the day shift would pass the torch to the night shift at dusk then hit the brothel; and the night shift would collapse in bed at first light, not allowed to get drunk or laid before duty but with nowhere to go afterward. Shifts were scheduled to rotate weekly, and Captain Sarovy stalked the halls of the garrison at all changeovers, enforcing curfew with vigor since it let him feel justified in leaving his office and stretching his legs.
His letter to Field Marshal Rackmar received a terse, noncommittal reply and scheduled the personnel transfer for the 27th of Cylanmont, four days post-fight. This left Specialist Weshker at loose ends, rattling around the garrison like a pebble in a pot. On the 26th, he burst into Sarovy's office during one of his officer-training sessions with Sergeant Linciard and, despite the sergeant's jaundiced glare, declared that he had changed his mind. He did not want to go back to the Crimson camp with 'that thing that ate Horrum'.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 26
