by Weber, David
Jathmar doubted any of the legislators who’d voted for it had the least idea what had driven the duke’s unyielding determination. They didn’t know—yet—what their army had been doing in Sharona’s universes. He found it very hard to remind himself of that, and part of him burned with the need to hurl his own knowledge into their teeth. But he couldn’t. There were so many reasons he couldn’t…including the fact that they had no official proof of what was happening.
Jathmar hated admitting that. And that burning part of him didn’t really care about all the reasons to keep his mouth shut. The shame and the rage the duke and Jasak felt was genuine. He knew that. But Arcana wasn’t his country, and the fact that someone might be trying to manipulate the situation to undercut Andara and the Union Army meant exactly nothing to him. Let them come down in ruin! They were the ones who’d killed his friends, almost killed him and Shaylar, invaded the universes claimed by Sharona treacherously, under cover of negotiations, and slaughtered every Voice in their path!
That part of him wanted only to hurl the money back into Thankhar Olderhan’s face, but he couldn’t. First, because he was a penniless beggar with a wife and one day, if the gods were kind, a family to support, and beggars couldn’t afford pride. The money would at least give Shaylar and him a measure of independence. They could pay for their own clothing, their own personal items, without the indignity and shame of having to ask for such basic necessities. And, second, because another part of him did know Olderhan was just as determined as his son to find the men behind the Union of Anccara’s murderous crimes and bring them to justice.
So he’d accepted the money, if not the conciliatory gesture Parliament’s contribution to it represented. That, he would never accept, and he’d told the duke so while signing the requisite records with a stylus that recorded his signature in the personal crystal designated to hold Jathmar’s financial affairs. Still, it was a beginning, at least. A first painful step on the road toward true autonomy. At times like this, alone in a spell-locked room, waiting for Jasak’s trial to resume tomorrow, the dream of freedom to come and go as they chose seemed so remote, so unattainable, he might as well have reached for the moon by climbing a ladder too short to touch the sky.
Shaylar, love, I need you beside me tonight. Separated like this, Jathmar felt only half alive, as though his soul had been ripped down the center. Shaylar was too far away for him to sense her through their damaged marriage bond, and he regretted, again, his decision to support her crusade to join a survey crew.
It was undoubtedly as irrational as blaming himself because he couldn’t protect her now, but that made the regret no less bitter, no less intense. Reasonable or not, he simply could not shake off the belief that he was the one who’d brought her to this, to such terrible suffering. Had he known…had he even suspected…But this was one risk they’d never considered.
Tomorrow he must face his captors’ relentless questions alone. He knew, already, that he’d spit in their faces before he would reveal anything of military value. He didn’t care, any longer, if their lie-detection spells caught him in an outright fabrication. The rules had changed, permanently, when the duke shared his suspicions with them.
In his memory, he saw again the crossbow quarrel slam into Ghartoun’s throat, choking him to death on blood and steel. Saw again the lightning bolt slam into Barris Kassell. Felt, again, the searing agony of the fireball igniting his hair, his clothing, his very skin. Saw the dragons attacking Shaylar outside a fort. Saw the whole sorry parade of soldiers, politicians, and even servants who looked at them with hatred, with the desire to injure, to strip their very minds bare.
The hatred in his heart ran to the bottom of his soul.
But how could one prisoner exact retribution?
He stood in front of his darkened window, gazing out at the blazing sea of lights that sparkled and glittered and danced across Portalis’ rooftops, domes, spires, and crystalline towers. Another fireworks display detonated in the darkness above the city, spreading a sparkling pattern of light across the stars.
They weren’t true fireworks, of course, since there was no gunpowder involved. They were silent light displays, sent racing skyward by Gifted wizards who performed “sky light” shows for momentous occasions such as state anniversaries, religious holidays, or the celebration of invading and slaughtering people who’d never done Arcanan citizens harm.
From his room high above the rooftops, Jathmar could see the crowds in the streets, tonight. There was a festival underway in Portalis—a rally in support of the Union of Arcana’s “heroic defenders.” He’d seen news crystal reports of other rallies just like it, watched the recorded images as people danced and laughed, consumed sweetmeats and sparkling wine and made toasts to the downfall of Sharona’s portal forts and towns.
Now, as he watched those distant fireworks, the pain in his heart was too deep to express in mere words. Somehow, he vowed, someday, Sharona would avenge those murdered Voices. Someday, somewhere in the widely scattered universes, a Sharonian soldier would avenge the slaughtered civilians in those towns, in Jathmar’s crew. Somehow, Sharona would force Arcana to pay for its sins. All Jathmar could do was pray for that moment to arrive before too many more innocents lost their lives.
He turned away from the “sky light,” soul-sick. He dimmed the window, using a spell-powered controller to turn the “glass” opaque, so the celebration wouldn’t shine into his eyes all night. That done, he climbed into bed and turned out the lights. Tomorrow would be here all too soon.
He needed to be ready for it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Darikhal 31, 5053 AE
[January 19, 1929 CE]
“Well, it’s nice to know the corps-captain doesn’t think I’ve gone completely mad,” Arlos chan Geraith said dryly, gazing down at the typed transcript of the Voice message which had arrived the night before from Corps-Captain Fairlain chan Rowlan. Then he glanced up at Brigade-Captain chan Hartan. “I half expected him to relieve me and put you in command, Shodan. Very restful it would’ve been, too.”
The other men seated around the large meeting table chuckled or smiled, depending upon their seniority and nationality, and he leaned back in his chair to contemplate them for a moment.
They sat in the conference room attached to the office which had been made available for him in the town of Salbyton. It felt a bit odd to be quartered outside the precincts of Fort Salby, but the evacuation of the town’s civilian population had been completed, and the substantial brick house into which he’d been moved had once belonged to Salbyton’s mayor. It also stood directly adjacent to the town hall, which was far bigger and offered much better—and more efficient—accommodations than anything inside the crowded fort. And it was also considerably more comfortable than the fort’s barracks, which was a nontrivial point in its favor. The fact that he would have displaced Regiment-Captain chan Skrithik if he’d located his HQ in the fort CO’s offices had been another part of his thinking, although he hadn’t cared to discuss it with the regiment-captain himself. Rof chan Skrithik had amply proved his right to that command and to those offices, and chan Geraith wasn’t going to step on that right.
In addition to any considerations of common courtesy, there was a potentially delicate point of authority involved. Although chan Skrithik was a serving officer in the Imperial Ternathian Army, from which he’d been seconded to his present duty, he held his command as an officer of the Portal Authority Armed Forces, not the ITA. It had been made clear to all concerned that the local PAAF units came under chan Geraith’s command—and would come under Corps-Captain chan Rowlan’s command when 5th Corps’ commanding officer arrived—but the PAAF was still a separate military entity. Its standing units would almost certainly be folded into the unified Imperial Sharonian Army which must inevitably emerge from the new political structure. Until that happened, however, it was incumbent upon an Imperial Ternathian Army officer to tread carefully, and not simply—or even primarily�
�because of the Portal Authority’s sensitivities. Despite the surface calm being reported from Tajvana, Emperor Zindel’s relationship with Chava Busar remained as…fraught as ever—probably even more so, given the violence Busar’s matrimonial plans had suffered—and the Uromathian was no doubt searching every nook and cranny for some fresh reason to take umbrage. As such, it behooved chan Geraith to be more cautious than ever about appearing to overreach.
At the moment, he had a remarkably good relationship with Sunlord Markan and Windlord Garsal, which he intended to keep that way, but neither they nor the units of the Imperial Uromathian Army they commanded had been placed under his orders. They’d been ordered to cooperate with chan Skrithik, and they’d been specifically placed under the PAAF officer’s command—as a PAAF officer—for the defense of Fort Salby, but their exact relationship with chan Geraith, chan Rowlan, or the ITA had been left completely undefined. Which was why they, as well as chan Skrithik, had been invited to the present meeting in the most scrupulously courteous fashion and as allies, not subordinates.
Now Markan smiled ever so slightly—an enormous concession from a senior Uromathian officer in the presence of Ternathians—and shook his head.
“You may be surprised he has not decided to relieve you, Division-Captain, but I am not. And while what I understand about your intentions could certainly be described as…audacious, I believe they fall somewhat short of insanely reckless, despite any apprehensions you may cherish about your potential madness.”
“I appreciate your courtesy, Sunlord,” chan Geraith replied, careful, as always, to use his aristocratic title rather than his military rank, “but I’m not sure how far short of ‘insanely reckless’ my current brainstorm actually is.”
“I have observed from my study of military history that the difference between insane recklessness and inspired genius is often difficult to parse. Unfortunately, only time will tell us which way future historians will describe your current intentions,” Markan observed, and chan Geraith chuckled.
The Uromathian was almost certainly correct about that, he reflected. Fortunately, the Ternathian tradition was to encourage officers to utilize their own best judgment and to think for themselves, and audacity—or at least a willingness to run calculated risks—in the accomplishment of their missions was expected of them. In this case, however, the risk he was running was impossible to quantify, far less calculate, ahead of time, and the gaping holes in his information about the other side and its capabilities only underscored that difficulty.
He glanced down the table at Battalion-Captain chan Gayrahn. The youthful Bernithian was working hard to improve their knowledge and understanding of the Arcanans. Many of the POWs who’d been moved farther up-chain after Prince Janaki’s arrival at Fort Salby had since been returned to Traisum, now that it was securely held. The others had continued their journey towards Sharona, but it had been evident to chan Geraith—and approved by higher authority—that it was essential at least some of them be kept where chan Gayrahn and the Voices and Mind Speakers available to the 3rd Dragoons could work with them. The men at the sharp end of the sword needed the best available information as quickly as they could get it, and quite a few useful nuggets had already emerged from the Talent-assisted interrogations.
A lot of what chan Gayrahn was learning about the Arcanan military, or about the Andaran culture which seemed to permeate that military, at least, seemed hopelessly at odds with the Arcanans’ observed actions, however. Indeed, quite a few of their prisoners flatly refused to believe Sharonian claims about how the rest of their military had conducted itself. They were less inclined to reject the notion that the Union of Arcana had reacted to the initial clash between itself and Sharona by launching an attack, but they indignantly denied that the Arcanan Army would have been guilty of simply shooting civilians out of hand. Chan Geraith ought to have found that at least somewhat reassuring, and yet…
I wish I had a copy of these “Kerellian Accords” they keep talking about, he thought now, moodily. However much I hate to admit it to any one else, I can actually understand how a military force with no equivalent of Voices might be do whatever it took to shut down our Voices. For that matter, it’s hard to see how they had any other choice, and it fits exactly with Sharonian military policy before the protocols for shutting down the Voice Talent were devised. It’s a bit difficult to demonize them for doing exactly what our ancestors did, especially when they don’t have any Voices of their own or any way short of shooting them to neutralize them.
Of course, the fact that those protocols had been available for well over fifteen hundred years meant it had been a while since any Sharonian military organization had found itself in the quandary the Arcanans currently faced. It was unreasonable to expect even the minority of Sharonians who studied such ancient history in the first place to let present day Arcanan “atrocities” pass simply because their own great-great-whatever-grandparents had done the same thing seventy or eighty generations ago, and he expected public opinion back home to demand accountability and punishment. For that matter, chan Geraith wasn’t exactly prepared to give the Arcanans a pass himself. Yet what worried him much more was the Arcanan commander’s refusal to return any Sharonian POWs taken before his repulse here in Traisum.
From Regiment-Captain chan Skrithik’s reports about the magical translating ability of their crystals, it seemed likely that Arcanan interrogators must have already gotten any vitally important military information their prisoners might have had. That was what bothered chan Geraith. If Commander of Two Thousand Harshu wasn’t hanging on to them for the intelligence they could still provide him, logic suggested he was hanging on to them because of the intelligence they might have provided to chan Geraith. There were all sorts of things Harshu’s enemies might have found it useful to know about the Arcanans, and it was reasonable to assume he’d prefer they didn’t find out what those things were. Yet it was also possible there were things Harshu didn’t want his enemies to know about how the forces under his command had dealt with the survivors of the Sharonian units they’d overrun on their way to Fort Salby.
And it’s also possible you’re indulging your own paranoia, he reminded himself. The fact that the bastards killed Crown Prince Janaki’s likely to predispose you to think the worst of them in every conceivable way, now isn’t it? And if it makes you feel that way, what do you think it’s going to do to all the men under your command when they find Arcanans in their sights?
“At least we have all of the division as far forward as Salym, Sir,” Regiment-Captain chan Kymo pointed out.
“Yes, we have,” Brigade-Captain chan Kartan said rather sourly, and chan Geraith grinned at him.
“Someone has to mind the store here in Traisum, Shodan, and you’re already on the spot. Don’t worry too much about it, though. When the Twenty-First gets here, Division-Captain chan Jassian will be taking over Traisum. He’s got more manpower than a dragoon brigade to begin with, and given all of the Bisons we poached off of him to get the Third on its way, he wouldn’t have the mobility for his entire division to keep up with us, anyway.”
Chan Khartan’s nod might have been just a tad short on enthusiasm, but he knew he didn’t really have a lot of room to complain. He’d still be on the road to the Renaiyrton wharves in plenty of time to catch up with the division’s spearhead. Assuming chan Geraith’s entire strategy didn’t come crashing down in ruins, of course.
“I know you’d like to come along with us as well, Regiment-Captain,” the division-captain said now, glancing down the table to where Rof chan Skrithik sat. Taleena waited on the sturdy perch erected for her, motionless with the patient stillness people unfamiliar with imperial Ternathian peregrines always found profoundly unnatural. “Unfortunately, Fort Salby’s your command responsibility.”
“I understand, Sir,” chan Skrithik replied, and chan Geraith was fairly confident the regiment-captain really did.
It had to be galling for chan Skrithik—and, f
or that matter, Markan and Garsal—to be left behind after they’d fought so magnificently to hold Salby in the first place. But neither chan Khartan’s dragoons nor the infantry brigade which would relieve them here sometime in the next three or four weeks was going to be staying in Traisum. Assuming chan Geraith’s plans worked, chan Khartan would be following the 12th Dragoons and the rest of Renyl chan Quay’s 1st Brigade down the Kelsayr Chain quite soon now. Chan Jassian’s 21st Infantry Division would also be moving out—probably very rapidly indeed—down a rather different axis of advance sometime in the next two or three months, and there were still all those nasty political considerations to bear in mind. Chan Geraith couldn’t very well order chan Skrithik to join the advance from Traisum without taking Markan and Garsal along as well, unless he wanted to offer the Uromathian emperor a mortal insult by depriving his personnel of the honor of the advance after they’d fought so gallantly at chan Skrithik’s side. But neither could he let them come along without offering Chava an equally useful pretext for taking offense by taking Uromathian units under Ternathian command without prior approval.
Why can’t at least part of this frigging operation be at least remotely simple? he wondered. For that matter, why can’t the Arcanans be the only opposition I need to worry about?
