TYGG ducked.
He wondered if he was supposed to feel guilty about this. They were all servants of the Almighty, after all. But by that same token, why did the ordained priests have to hold their conclaves in such secrecy? No, Tygg felt quite justified in considering his eavesdropping a form of training—especially after what he had just heard the older men discuss.
Hearing his own name mentioned in the conclave had come as a surprise, and for a moment Tygg had feared that the priests had discovered him. Luckily, his martial training had kept him quiet instead of betraying himself before he found out that he was simply on the agenda. Tygg was well aware that he was young to be considered for another promotion. Still, the Arganian priests had argued, he had a “level head” of the kind that would be needed “in this time of growing unrest,” and “the guard looks up to him.” When they had spoken of his popularity among the armed men, they had sounded equal parts complimentary and concerned.
The Skanda priests had been less convinced, and had offered up a number of half-hearted objections—including Tygg’s age. The argument had been curiously lacking in heat, though, and Tygg had gotten the impression that all the priests were going through well-practiced motions.
That was par for the course with the rest of the meeting. Ninety percent politics, all of it. Truthfully, Tygg had expected as much from his earlier observations—and he had been keeping a close eye on the ordained priests whenever they came out in public, or when two of them encountered each other—but he still felt a curious sense of disappointment, a heavy feeling in his stomach. These men were supposed to be above such worldly concerns. Their arguments should be limited to the metaphysical, like whether it was proper to speak of the Almighty as “He” or as “They.”
In theory, anyway. He was Lieutenant Tygg Vana of the Protective Guard of the One Church, and that had provided him with plentiful opportunity to see the humans and the sinners in even the most devout pilgrims and priests. Tygg did not pretend to be any different himself—he desired that promotion and would make certain, somehow, that he received it. He fully intended to become an influential person in the Church one day.
Cautiously sticking his head back out from behind the statue of the Sainted Eath of the River, Tygg discovered that the priests he was hiding from had passed him and that the hallway was empty.
He dropped down from the pedestal and saluted the sainted one with his hand over his heart, palm outward. It never hurt to be respectful. Checking his uniform for dust, Tygg calmly walked down the hallway in the opposite direction the priests had headed in. At the doors to the inner sanctum, he nodded to the guards on duty. From his own experience as a grunt, Tygg remembered quite clearly that they had very little idea of who was actually allowed past them, and they weren’t about to question a superior officer who looked like he knew what he was doing.
There was a lot to think about, and Tygg considered where to go. Church politics, unpleasant as they were, were proving to be complex. The divide between Skanda and Arganians was as clear in the clergy as it was in the world outside, and while Tygg had suspected that much, there had been far more subtle allegiances at play in the conclave as well.
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Even with all the curiosity and ambition in the world, there was no way he was going to decipher the inner workings of the One Church today. Best to put it all aside for a while and focus on his actual duties. Even the smoothest-running squad of Church Guard stationed in the Citadel of the Almighty needed to be checked up on occasionally.
His mind made up, Tygg directed his feet towards his squad’s favorite tavern. They were back on patrol duty in the morning, so it was his responsibility to make sure his men were sobered up enough by then not to fall off their mounts. He always let them have their fun, and they repaid him by leaving their more sinful urges in the barracks when they reported for duty. Tygg had found the method far more effective than trying to enforce pristine behavior at all times, like some other officers did. Soldiers were not priests. His squad’s behavior was undoubtedly one of the reasons he was being considered for captaincy. The men made him look good.
Usually.
Down the street from The Hunting Owl, Tygg frowned. He thought he could hear shouting, followed by a noise of something breaking.
Sure enough, when he was five paces closer to the tavern, two waitresses came running out the door, clearly fleeing something happening inside. Tygg began to run, and the noises of a brawl became louder.
He rushed in through the door and immediately had to duck his head as a mug of ale came flying at him, splattering out its contents.
Inside, he found a war zone. Tygg grimaced as he recognized his men on one side of the battle. Although almost every patron of the tavern had been drawn into the fight, it looked like the core of it was a face-off between his Arganian squad of the Church Guard and a Skanda squad of what was supposed to be the same force. The two races had trouble enough living together in peace—The Five Year War hadn’t been over for so long that it had been forgiven or forgotten—so usually the men were smart enough not to mix races where there was also alcohol in the mix.
For a moment, Tygg hesitated. He was an officer—he could not afford to be seen getting involved in a bar brawl, for the Church’s sake if not his own. But he didn’t see the Skanda’s commanding officer anywhere, and someone needed to step in and bring this to an end.
At least no weapons had come out yet, but enough of the men were bloodied that one of them was bound to cross that river in a fit of rage sooner or later.
With a deep breath, Tygg waded into the fight. He could try to address the mob from the bar—the acoustics and lighting in the place turned it into a kind of natural stage, so that was his best bet. But how to make the idiots listen?
Moving swiftly between the fighters, Tygg dodged a Skanda fist swinging at his head and swiped his attacker’s leg out from under him, sending him tumbling to the floor. A little further on he shoved two men intent on wringing each other’s necks hard against a table, so that they split apart, each on one side.
He never threw a punch. His goal was to contain the mess, and no man was going to stand down if the man ordering him to do so had just broken his nose. With a sense of relief, Tygg spotted Alefs, his sergeant, not far away. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and caught the punch he got thrown at him in response on the palm of his other hand.
“Lieutenant! Sorry, Sir! Thought you were one of these savages!” His black mustache and beard were coated red with blood leaking from his nose.
“Alefs! What in the name of the Holy Oak is going on? Did you all go completely mad?” He had to shout to make himself understood over the noise of breaking furniture and the lively exchange of racial epithets. “Never mind that—what started all this off?”
Alefs grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled them into a little alcove with a private table for two. A trembling waitress squealed as they invaded her hiding place, and a snarl from Alefs sent her running.
“They—those Skanda pigs—came in while we were celebrating our last night off, Tygg,” he explained. “You know how it is. All were a bit rowdy, and that lot started singing some filthy song about good Arganian women.” Tygg groaned inwardly. He sincerely doubted the Skanda song was any filthier than the things his own men regularly sang about both Skanda men and women. Truly, he was hardly fond of the Skanda and their borderline paganism and loose ideas about hygiene himself, but the blind hatred that existed between the two races had never made anything easier that he was aware of.
“Anyway,” Alefs continued, “some of us went to tell them off, tried to put them straight, and, well, this happened pretty quickly.” He nodded his head towards the main room. “Sir? Are you going to order the men to stand down?” He sounded skeptical about Tygg’s chances getting anyone to listen to him, and Tygg was forced to agree. He bit his thumb, deep in thought.
“Ranks,” he said finally. “Alefs, get the men to form ranks.”
“Along the east wall. Close ranks, no one gets through. That’s an order, Sergeant!”
“Sir!” The order given, Alefs leaped into action with the blind obedience of long practice, despite not understanding. Tygg watched for a moment as the sergeant grabbed two men by their arms and yelled instructions in their ears. Then Tygg continued on, making his way to the bar.
By the time he got there, the din of the fighting had already gotten noticeably less ear-splitting. He rolled onto the bar, spying the proprietor hunched down behind it on his knees, and jumped to his feet.
Surveying the fighting, Tygg could now see a clear front line, with most of his Arganians to his left and most of the Skanda to his right. With ranks two deep on either side, the fighting was at least somewhat contained, if not enough to respond to a call for truce. Still, he would be heard.
He cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted. “Invasion alarm! Invasion alarm!”
As one, the soldiers jumped a foot into the air and cast wild looks around themselves. The ringing of steel sounded as weapons were drawn—which was what made this a risky gambit—but fighting stilled for the moment. The civilians who had gotten involved just looked around at the others, confused.
No, the Five Year War had not been over that long yet—not long enough to stop training recruits to respond instantaneously to military strikes against the Citadel, be they from the north or from the south. When the men realized that there were no invading armies in The Hunting Owl, one by one they turned to Tygg and soon spotted his lieutenant’s insignia.
Tygg ground his teeth and clasped his hands behind his back, playing the calm, detached officer. He wasn’t feeling the part. “Disgraceful!” he shouted when enough of them were looking at him. “Are you lot servants of the Almighty, or are you animals? I’ve learned to expect this kind of behavior from caravan guards. And that’s a good thing, because the next person to strike or provoke another can go ask them if they have any openings.” His head snapped around as he saw a smirk form on one of his men’s faces. “That goes for either squad, Lernis,” he said. “Don’t think I don’t see you there.” If the Skanda believed he was favoring his own men, they would only be encouraged to start up again. And frankly, Tygg wasn’t feeling very charitable towards his men right now anyway.
“Now sheathe weapons!” He breathed deeply in relief as the men all obeyed his command. He’d managed to startle them enough to shake them out of their drunken rage.
“Good men. You will all report to your barracks, where you will remain until first bells tomorrow morning. On the way there, you will not speak to anyone outside your squad. You will not gesture at or communicate in any way with anyone outside your squad. Do I make myself clear?”
A chorus of “Sir, yes, Sir!” rang through the tavern.
“Before anyone leaves,” he continued, and waited a moment for everyone to quiet down again. “You will each come up to the bar and graciously contribute funds for repairs to this fine establishment.” That got them to take in the destruction all around them. Most looked embarrassed. Good. “If contributions fall short, I will double—no, triple!—whatever amount is missing and confiscate it from your squad payrolls equally. Dismissed! Blessings of the Owl and the Oak Tree.” He did not manage to keep the sarcasm out of his voice on the last remark, but throughout the room, hands instinctively flew up to hearts in salute.
Tygg remained standing on the bar as the men came up one by one and deposited coins at his feet, and then trudged out the door. He guessed that the cowering man behind the bar was receiving more than enough coins to replace the broken mugs and furniture—perhaps even enough to bribe his waitresses into coming back to work after all this.
With some amusement, Tygg noticed that one of the civilians emptied out his wallet on the pile before leaving as well. Perhaps he was more intimidating than he thought.
Yes, he was good at this, he realized. Too few officers of the Church Guard managed to command respect from both the Arganian and the Skanda branch. Perhaps it was not so strange that he was already up for captaincy after all. And perhaps that was only the beginning of his rise. Politics was all about convincing people to listen to your words, after all... and that he could do.
ARBITRATION
Arbitration is the virtue of justice and moderation.
It is countered by the sin of wrath.
– The Precepts of Pious Conduct
Fulcrum Prelude: The Three Virtues Page 2
