“Too late,” Sarovy told him, though he sympathized. He sometimes saw that monstrosity in his dreams, its faceless stub-head slowly gaining form and features. “You are a freesoldier now, and it is some kind of a specialist. It should not be permitted to harm you.”
Weshker whimpered but then nodded and darted off, just as consumed by nervous energy as Sarovy. It was the quiet tension of the city, the sense that he paced in a cage while many eyes watched. More tips had come in and more Shadow Cult storehouses had been raided without incident, but he was suspicious of such easy victories.
His prime confidante was Scryer Mako. She still flirted with him, perhaps by habit; social-climbing was the Riddish way, and in his brief time as a higher officer he had weathered many propositions from unattached Riddishfolk, male and female. He didn't think it serious.
Together, they tried to suss out the Shadow Cult's plans and manage the city council, while Sergeant Linciard studied the men.
Getting soldiers drunk was not difficult, but getting them to talk about their crimes would have been impossible for Sarovy, who could not contain his disapproval. For Linciard, it came easy. He had a good imagination and a glib tongue, and the stories he told the other reprobates about inter-family grudges and off-duty shenanigans in the Border Corps played well to the drinkers, particularly the infantry and the ex-mercenary lancers.
In return, that lot told him about their homelands—the Jernizen bitching about their woman-monopolizing lords, the Brother Islanders enthused about seeing the world beyond the ocean but disdainful of the food, the Kerrindrixi amazed at how easy life was in the lowlands—and about their own misdeeds. Minor things, mostly. Hazing, threats, fisticuffs, malingering, coercing the merchants, and pranks like swapping gear or sprinkling nettles in the bedsheets. According to Linciard, there was more to be learned, so Sarovy had not called the perpetrators in, though he had delivered a general lecture on the importance of good relations with the citizens.
As for Linciard, he was mending swiftly thanks to Medic Shuralla's ministrations. While Sarovy appreciated her work, he could not forget that she was a Trifold cultist, her red-and-white striped coat a signal to their enemies that she was on their side, so he had designated one scout per shift to tail her—not that she went anywhere, really. Those scouts also kept an eye on the other non-Blaze personnel that passed through the garrison, from the Latchyard laundresses and janitors to the militiamen's wives.
When both Sarovy and Linciard were off-duty, they went over the Sapphire officer's manual—out loud, since Linciard was not much of a reader. Sarovy had been given the manual upon his transition from the Trivestes Youth Corps into the formal Sapphire Army at age sixteen, and had studied it relentlessly ever since. It was what had kept him focused in his exile, for he could easily have succumbed to the lure of the Crimson's negligence.
Unlike the Sapphire and Gold, the Crimson had no military press, no codified rulebook, no headquarters or real training, just whatever its Generals managed to hammer into the skulls of their subordinates. Its penal code was left to the discretion of the officers, as was the differentiation between the criminal and the merely stupid. Sarovy knew that General Kelturin had planned an overhaul after the havoc at Fellen, but the siege at Kanrodi and the Guardian fallout had evidently ruined that.
Linciard espoused the opinion that if he had to learn the Sapphire way, so should the other officers. As much as Sarovy would have liked that, he had little enough time to teach one man, for the council still demanded his presence.
He spent too much of each day listening to them complain—though no longer about him. In truth, he would have preferred being shouted-at to being suddenly included in all council sessions and thus forced to listen to them bicker about the economy, their neighboring city-states and every issue brought in by their constituents. Worst was that they never seemed to decide on anything, just argued it endlessly. It made him want to arrest them all just to shut them up.
His only solace was that his presence, though mandated, seemed to unnerve them. Perhaps they had expected him to insert himself into their politics, to try to command or threaten them, but he preferred to stay silent and take notes of the discussion and his plans for the company. That very silence kept them constantly glancing at him, constantly aware of his presence, and when he did speak, they often flinched. It amused him.
Otherwise, the city remained quiet. There had been no thaw toward the company from the populace, and his men reported a slight increase in out-of-town mercenaries guarding certain businesses, but no conflicts had broken out yet. For his part, Sarovy declared a moratorium on Crimson conscription in the city—which the militia had still been carrying out, bringing in every unemployed man between fifteen and forty they happened to find. He did not want to deal with that hassle.
In the basement cells, militiamen Rynher and Beltras still languished, uncommunicative. Torn between releasing and executing them, Sarovy just let them stew.
Sergeant Rallant hadn't tried anything since the fight. With Linciard consigned to the general bunkrooms, the two had little chance to be alone, and Linciard reported—and Scryer Mako verified—that what time they did catch was spent in public. Linciard was trying to maneuver back into the relationship but Rallant had gone distant.
The last concern was Acting Lieutenant Benson. He had taken to tracking down Linciard wherever he was and chastising him for his behavior, and while Sarovy did not want to alienate the man, he could not have him badgering Linciard in the midst of his mission. Yet he could not tell him why. Benson was no gossip but he was also no actor, and the reprobates would notice any change.
Finally, Sarovy had ordered Benson to leave Linciard to his self-destruction, which earned a scandalized look and a sullen, put-upon mood from the man thereafter. Bad for morale. He only hoped that this would be worth the work.
By the time the 27th dawned, Sarovy had compiled a list of questions and requests for Field Marshal Rackmar, though he did not expect the man to attend the personnel transfer. That would have been too responsible, too involved in the business of his outposts. But without proper leadership, Sarovy could only tread water, waiting for something to happen.
*****
It took nearly a mark for Scryer Mako and the base-camp mages to transfer the pieces of a proper portal-frame. Sarovy stood patient throughout the process, neither fidgeting with his papers nor smacking the twitchy Specialist Weshker with them. Scryer Mako and Magus Voorkei took another quarter-mark to assemble the door-like frame and test it before opening it to traffic.
As it cast a shimmering light through the chamber, Sarovy straightened to full attention.
Strung between the hooks on the inside of the frame, the pane of swirling colors slowly resolved into an image: two white-robed figures, a handful of Crimson soldiers, and the well-warded walls of the casting chamber in the Crimson camp. Within moments, the image became an opening, with sound and scent and sensation flooding through the portal instead of just sight: ozone from the chamber's residual magic, humidity from the southern storms, and the quiet chanting and muttered conversations of the camp-siders.
Sarovy stepped forward, scanning the crowd for Field Marshal Rackmar. As expected, he was not in evidence, and though the camp-side soldiers wore the armor and peaked helms of the General's guard, none of them bore a badge of rank higher than lieutenant.
Disappointment sank like a stone in his gut. He knew better but he could not control it.
“The exchange is as stated, then?” he said, turning his attention to the white-robes. “The Field Marshal will take two-thirds of my well-coordinated arcane team and replace them with his selections?”
“Why, no,” said the taller of the white-robes, a sharp-faced man with dusky hair raked back in loose feathers. He held a scroll in one gloved hand, and offered it through the portal with a smirk. “The Field Marshal has considered your plea and returned an adjusted verdict.”
Sarovy took the scroll and unfurled it to skim q
uickly. Then again at a more proper pace.
I, Argus Rackmar, Field Marshal of the Imperial Armies and Interim General of the Imperial Third Army the Crimson Claw, do on this day so Authorize the Transfer of one Master Warder Edarwyn Tanvolthene of the White Flame and one Enlightened Messenger Aran Cortine of the Risen Phoenix Light to the Crimson Claw First Aggregate Company, known as Blaze Company. In addition I Authorize the Transfer of one Specialist Weshker of Blaze Company to the Crimson Claw Honor Guard, pending Review of Talents. As Witnessed in the Glory of the Imperial Light, so let it be done.
Rackmar's scrawled signature, the red seal of the Crimson and the white of the White Flame ended the text.
Nothing about transferring his mages. And an Enlightened Messenger was...
He looked up quickly, eyeing the two white-robes through the portal. The one that had handed him the scroll was obviously a mage, his robe the traditional cut with the bell-sleeves that fell to hide his hands, the fabric detailed with intricate metallic sigils, the collar clasped with the silver insignia of the Silent Circle.
The other man, also garbed in white, was a different story. On second glance he wore not robes but vestments, tailored close about the torso then flaring below, with the winged star of the Risen Phoenix Light embroidered heavily in white thread—one set of wings stretching up, across and over the shoulders like a yoke, the second set crossing the ribs then flowing to the back, the lowest arching over the hips then falling down the sides of the legs. Though the wings held detail down to the last feather, the long four-pointed star that centered them was plain, running from the cleft of the man's collar to the beginning of the riding slit. Over it, he wore the twisted cord of the worldly harness draped across his shoulders like a chain. It was said to be all that held the enlightened to the earth. His was white from collar to mid-ribs, and black down the rest of its length: the measure of darkness he had yet to burn away.
By his short sun-bleached hair and ruddy skin, he was a Daecian. By his eyes—full white, with no sign of iris or pupil—he had gazed upon the Light and not flinched.
As if conscious of his stare, the blind priest smiled and inclined his head. “With your permission, captain, shall we cross?” He had a measured, warm voice, and kept his blank stare slightly lowered as if aware of its unnerving nature.
“Yes. You have my permission, and I bid you welcome,” said Sarovy, for he could think of no objections. That Rackmar had deigned to send him a mage after conceding him his foreigners was a surprise, and the priest even more so. He had not seen a priest since his exile. General Aradysson had banned them from the Crimson Army.
The mage came through first without batting a lash. The priest paused as if to compose himself, then followed with blank eyes closed, a shudder passing through him as he crossed.
Sarovy held out his hand automatically to them, aware that mages preferred a clasp to the traditional knuckle-tap of the military. The mage took it good-naturedly, hand long and bony under the glove, and said, “Edarwyn Tanvolthene, though Edar is fine. I'm sure it will be a pleasure to work with you. I've heard much.”
“Blaze Company Captain Firkad Sarovy. I have heard nothing.”
“Just as well, just as well,” said Tanvolthene wryly, then glanced to the rest of the mages and officers. “Ah, and these look like my new comrades. If I may?”
“As you will.”
Tanvolthene swept past him, already cheerfully greeting the others, and he did not need to look back to know the doubt on their faces: the timbre of Voorkei's voice and Presh's first sardonic greeting, as well as Scryer Mako's presence in his head, all told him of their wariness.
His attention, though, was taken by the priest. Unsure how to offer a hand to a blind man, he started, “Enlightened Messenger—“
The priest waved dismissively. “Messenger Cortine is sufficient. I am told that the Crimson Army is out of touch with the faith, so I do not expect reverence. My superiors selected me for this task because of my experience with the straying devout. I apologize if you had anticipated another mage, for I cannot serve in that capacity.”
“No apology needed,” said Sarovy. “I must warn you, though, that there are foreigners in our ranks who may find your presence discomfiting.”
“I am not here to proselytize, captain, though it saddens me that your men have not been shown the Light. The Field Marshal wishes me to combat your Shadow Cult enemies; thus, my role here is more that of a warrior than a priest. Still, those who ask for the guidance of the Light shall receive it.”
“Acceptable,” said Sarovy. “If you require assistance, I can assign a detail to you.”
“Not necessary. My path is ever illuminated for me. Though if you could spare a small space for a chapel, it would be appreciated.”
“Of course.”
Abruptly, the Messenger tilted his head and stepped forward with an odd smile. Sarovy would have stepped back, but those blank white eyes seemed to dig into him, excavating a feeling he could not name. “Ah. Interesting,” said the priest, then reached up to trace the winged star on Sarovy's forehead with two fingers: one pair of wings lofting to his hairline, one spread wide across his brow, one bent low over his eyes.
The touch sent a rush of fire through Sarovy's head, knotting at the base of his skull and tripping down his spine to weaken every limb. He had not felt this in a decade, and never so strong, so that when Messenger Cortine scribed the lowest wings, it was enough to send him to one knee. Head bowed, eyes closed, he saw again the incandescent shape, the burning entity he had gazed upon in the Palace—
Then Messenger Cortine drew a finger up the middle of Sarovy's brow to mark the star, and his strength returned in a flood. Not just what he had lost but a sense of stability, of support, and a clarity that had so long been lacking from his life. His worries shed away like so much ash.
As the Messenger's hand left him, he rose slowly, dazzled but steady and finally calm. Smiling, the Messenger inclined his head and said, “I apologize. I am interrupting your trade.”
Sarovy blinked, then looked to Specialist Weshker, who was staring at him wide-eyed. He could not fathom the reason for that expression. “Are you prepared, Specialist?” he said.
“Uh...yessir.”
“Then you are released to the service of the Crimson Claw Honor Guard.”
The Corvishman blinked, then stooped to hoist his footlocker across his shoulder, careful of his still-splinted wrist. The locker seemed light, probably all but empty. A tentative step toward the portal, a glance back, and then a few more steps as Sarovy nodded his encouragement. Finally, after several deep breaths at the very threshold, he flung himself through.
His leap turned into a stumble then a doubled-over, choking series of retching noises, the footlocker hitting the ground. Sarovy shook his head. That was not the way he would have recommended someone take their first portal jaunt.
The Crimsons gathered to assist him though, so after a moment's observation, Sarovy turned from the portal to regard the room. Already Voorkei and the new mage Tanvolthene were talking animatedly in Gheshvan, Scryer Mako on the sideline translating for Presh, and Messenger Cortine had been crowded by three of the officers—Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek, Shield-Sergeant Rallant and Archer-Sergeant Korr. The other officers stood back, mumbling amongst themselves, as the Messenger smiled obligingly at Rallant and scribed the winged star on his forehead to the same effect.
Absently, watching this, Sarovy touched his brow and thought he felt something there. Chalk or dust, some kind of mark. But when he drew his fingers away, they were clean, and the Messenger had sent Vrallek to his knees, and it all seemed strange but right.
He called on Scryer Mako to deactivate the portal, called on the others to clear the way so he could find a proper chapel-room for Messenger Cortine to bless. The Messenger's smile felt like sunlight on his back as he swept past, full of answers to his dilemmas, full of fire.
No more fear.
*****
On
the base-camp side, Weshker swallowed down the acid taste of bile. Several hands held him up but his legs still felt like water. Pike magic, he thought, pike all of this, I knew it was a bad idea and now I'm back where the monster can get me...
But he had the crows on his side, and Sanava. She would know what to do.
“Specialist Weshker?”
He looked up woozily then blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating. The ranks of Crimson soldiers had parted, allowing two women in closely-tailored and very flattering white leather to approach. The one in the lead had sun-lightened, jaw-length hair in a flirty cut and eyes that ran all over him, though he could not say whether they approved or laughed. The other was just as fair, her hair bound back in loose plaits from a face blank of interest. They moved with confidence—almost swagger—and bore military-police truncheons at their hips but no Army insignia, just a stylized flame etched in the leather above the right breast.
And a golden teardrop pendant at the neckline.
“Weshker—may I call you Wes? I'm Nerice of the Field Marshal's guard,” said the leader. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, making her seem too young for her role. “This is Pendriel. We're to see you to your quarters and help you...settle in.”
Her tone went up his spine like a warm finger, and he stared. A part of him was screaming specialist! danger! danger! and another howled about loyalty to Sanava, but those necklines were cut awfully low, and the curl of Nerice's lips was awfully friendly.
“Uh, yeh. Wes's fine,” he managed, voice rough. “Nice t'meet yeh. I'm yers now, I guess, so yeh set the agenda...”
“Come then,” said Nerice, her eyes deep amber wells of amusement. “Let's get started.”
Weshker shouldered his footlocker and nodded, struggling not to stare as they turned to lead the way. They had nice long legs, both of them, and the leather followed every curve.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 27
