by Dave Duncan
She knew that she was dying, but she didn’t mind any more. It was time. She had been rather surprised to see the dawn and would be even more surprised to see another. Meanwhile she was in very little pain. Slow-moving shafts of sunlight in her cottage kept her company. The busy sounds of the forest outside were like familiar friends coming to visit, pausing to chat among themselves before they bowed under the lintel—breezes moving through the branches, the chattering of the stream over the rocks, buzzing insects, the impudent call of parrots.
Her name was Phain of the Keez Place. She was very old. She could not recall how old, and it didn’t matter. She had even outlived her cottage, for the roof had a serious sag to it, and the walls had more windows now than they’d had when Keez had built them, many, many years ago.
Keez was long gone, so long that she could hardly recall what he had looked like with his silver hair and his stooped back. She could remember him in his youth, though, strong and graceful as a young horse, bringing her here to show her the place he had found, with its stream and its giant cottonwoods soaring to the sky. She could recall the eager, anxious look on his big, smooth face as he waited for her decision; the relief and joy when she said yes, this place would do well. Very clearly she could remember how right it had felt, and how she had decided to be kind and not make him suffer more, for his longing was so great—and hers no less. Now! she had said, sitting down and pulling him down beside her. Yes, now!
She remembered how his strength had delighted her—that first time under the sky especially, and uncounted later times under the roof, too. But there had never been another time quite like the time when they’d first lain together in the sunshine, right here, making this their Place.
It had been a good Place. Here they had loved; here she had brought forth sons and daughters—four she’d borne and four she’d reared, not many women could say as much. Here Keez had died, but easily, without pain. Here she was dying. The forest could have it back now, and thank you; she was done with it.
A shadow moved. Phain opened her eyes. The sunlight was angling steeper, so she must have slept. Yes, the walls were a network, holes held together by wicker. Time to go.
“Do you need anything?” asked a small and tremulous voice.
Phain shook her head on the pillow and tried to smile, to put the child at ease. It was a hard time for a youngster. Death Watch was never easy.
She couldn’t remember the girl’s name. Terrible how the old forgot! She could remember Keez clear enough. She could recall every ax stroke and every knot as the two of them had built the cottage together, over their special Place. But for the life of her she could not remember which poor child had been sent to keep her Death Watch. She could not even remember all the family coming to say good-bye to her, but she knew they must have. How long had she been lingering and making this poor girl wait? She licked her lips.
“Drink?” the child asked. “You want a drink? I’ll get you one.” Eager to please, eager to feel that she was doing something useful…
Phain recalled her own turn at Death Watch. A nasty, stringy old man named… couldn’t remember, never mind. He’d taken a week to die, given her no thanks, thrown up everything she fed him… He had smelled quite horrible, as she doubtless did to this youngster now helping her hold her head up to sip from a half gourd. The water was cool, so it must have come fresh from the stream.
“Name, child? Forgotten your name.”
“Thaïle of the Gaib Place.”
Gaib? Didn’t mean anything. Phain tried to speak again.
“Yes?” the child cried in sudden panic. “What? I can’t hear!” And she sprawled over Phain on the bedding, pressing an ear close to her lips.
Poor thing was terrified, of course. Frightened of death, frightened of suffering, frightened of messing it all up.
“Not yet!” the woman gasped, almost wanting to laugh.
“Oh!” The child—Thaïle—scrambled back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I thought… I mean, I’m sorry.”
Phain dug down in her lungs, finding just enough air at the bottom there to make a chuckle, and a few words. “Just wanted to ask who your mother was, Thaïle.”
“Oh! Frial of the Gaib Place.”
Ah, yes! Frial was her oldest granddaughter, so this leggy filly must be one of her great-granddaughters. Fancy that! Not many lived long enough to pass on their word to a great-grandchild. Gaib was the quiet, solid one with the pointy ears. Pointier than most, she meant.
“Food?” Thaïle asked. “Can I get you something to eat, Grammy?”
Phain shook her head and closed her eyes to nap a little. She hoped she wouldn’t linger much longer. She was too weary to speak more now. Only one word left to say, and she knew she would find breath enough for that.
Maig! Maig was the name of that smelly, stringy old man she’d done Death Watch for. Maig had taken a week to go. She hoped she didn’t take a week. Or hadn’t already taken a week. Hard on a child. Maig hadn’t been able to speak most of the time, but he’d found enough breath at the end to pass on his word.
And no good had it ever done her, Phain thought. Perhaps she’d never had any special talent, or the word had been too weak, or she’d just not had the Faculty.
No, there’d never been any magic in her life, just a lot of hard work.
And love. Much love. But no magic.
The wind sighed through the little ruin. She thought she would nap now, and maybe eat something later…
3
The standard was a pig of a thing, almost too heavy for Ylo’s spent muscles to manage, but it was life. As long as he clung to that pole, the whole Imperial Army was going to fight to the death to defend him. He clung.
Battle screamed around him and he ignored it, concentrating on holding the standard vertical and avoiding being knocked down by his own countrymen in the scrimmage.
He had saved a standard. He might be going to survive this.
This wasn’t the XXth Legion, though. He glanced up and registered that he had just transferred to the XIIth.
The XIIth! One of the crack outfits!
A man who saved a standard won the right to bear it till his dying day—assuming that day was not this day. No more filthy ditch-digging… no more mind-destroying weapons drill.
He was a signifer, a standard-bearer.
Attaboy, Ylo!
Signifers wore wolfskin capes over their armor, with a hood made from the wolf’s head. Barbaric? Romantic! He could guess how girls would react to that. Women would be free again.
Signifers had the nearest thing to a soft job the army ever offered. Even those twenty-three years might not seem too bad as a signifer—not much danger, and lots of respect. Perks!
Yea, Ylo!
Then he took another look. This was no mean run-of-the-mill standard he’d rescued, emblem of maniple or cohort. At its top was the Imperial star and below that the lion symbol of the XIIth. Red bunting floated from the crosspiece, and the rest of the shaft was laden with battle honors in silver and bronze. This was the legionary standard itself.
Signifer for the XIIth Legion?
Hey, Ylo!
You are going to eat meat again, Ylo!
The war had gone away. Order was being restored. Bugles were sounding in the distance.
Suddenly officers were beckoning, and he led where they pointed. They followed him to the crest of a small hillock, the only high ground in sight. A voice beside him barked, “Pitch camp!” and his shredded wits were just operational enough to realize that it was addressing him. He swung the standard in the proper signal, barely registering protests from his battered muscles. Distant bugles picked up the call.
Signifer!
And of course the speaker had been the legate himself, with a green-crested helmet and gold-inlaid breastplate. Of course. Where else would the legate be but beside the standard? Legates were not supposed to have blood on their swords, but this one did. He was dirty and sweaty, and his dark eyes blazed be
low the brim of his helmet as he appraised Ylo. He held a canteen in his left hand.
“Well done, soldier! I saw.”
Ylo muttered, “Sir!” but his mind was on that canteen.
With the bottle almost at his lips, the legate paused, and his mouth showed that he was frowning. “What outfit?”
Ylo had lost his shield; his mail shirt was totally coated in mud and blood, although none of that seemed to be his. He was anonymous. “TheXXth, sir.”
“God of Battles!” the legate said. “All night? Here, you need this more than I do.” And he handed over the canteen.
That was Ylo’s first inkling.
The Impire had held the field. The fighting was ending as the surviving djinns surrendered or were cut down. More standards were arriving, and more officers.
One of those was the commander, Proconsul Iggipolo himself, and the way he returned the legate’s salute was another inkling.
Ylo glanced up again at that potent pole he held. How could he have missed it? Above the battle honors and even above the crossbar shone a wreath of oak leaves, cast in gold.
Only one man in the entire army could put his personal signet on a legionary standard.
Ylo’s mind reeled. He forgot honor and comfort and doe-eyed girls. He thought Revenge! He thought hatred. He thought of his father and brothers, his cousins, his uncles. He thought of his mother, dying disgraced, in exile. He thought that man killed my family.
Trust. Confidence. Being close in dark places.
He thought knife between the ribs.
And then he was limping painfully along, bearing the standard high, heading for the tents that had sprouted like a field of orderly mushrooms at the edge of the swamp. Behind him came the legate.
And all the way battle-weary soldiers were scrambling to their feet to laud the leader of the XIIth, the hero, the man who had saved the day. Their cheers rang sour in Ylo’s ears and the sound was bitter. He thought most popular man in the army.
“Shandie!” they shouted. “Shandie!”
Emshandar. The prince imperial. The imperor’s grandson. Heir apparent. The most popular man in the army.
4
Never before had Ylo entered a commander’s compound, but now he marched straight in and was saluted as he did so. He set the pole in the base prepared for it and spun around to face the procession he had been leading—or tried to, but his legs failed him, and he almost fell. The imperor’s grandson saluted the standard, ignoring the stagger. He gave Ylo a nod that was a personal summons and headed for his tent, followed by a gaggle of shiny-helmeted officers, few of whom had likely bloodied their swords this day.
Ylo tagged on the end. Halfway there, his way was blocked by an oak tree garbed in the uniform of a centurion. Eyes like two knotholes peered out of a face of bark.
“Who’re you, soldier?”
Ylo was too exhausted to be humble. “The signifer!”
The man’s wooden eyes narrowed. He glanced back at the standard. “Dead or wounded?”
“Dead.”
The centurion again blocked Ylo as he tried to move. “Do you know who he was?” His voice creaked like falling timber.
Ylo shook his head dumbly.
“His cousin. Prince Ralpnie. Fourth in line to the throne.”
Ylo stared at the arboreal face for a long moment as his beaten brain wrestled meaning from the words. Eventually he decided they were a caution. And help. He had forgotten such things, in two years of being a nonperson, a number.
He dragged up the proper response from some deep-buried memory. “Thanks!”
The man nodded. Then he sank down on one knee. By the time Ylo had realized that the centurion was unlacing one of his own sandals, the man had removed it and placed it in front of Ylo’s bare foot. Ylo stepped into it. The big ox even fastened it for him—no matter how muddy and bloody he might be, a signifer must not go into a legate’s presence barefoot if there was a spare shoe around.
Ylo said, “Thanks,” again as the centurion rose.
Without as much as a nod, the tree shifted his roots and eased out of Ylo’s way.
Ylo dragged himself as far as the tent and then into its scented dimness. The walls were made of purple silk. He had not seen silk in two years. Carpets. Furniture. A smell of soap.
There were at least a dozen men there, most in uniform, some not. As he entered, the muttered greetings were ending, the condolences and congratulations. He sensed the roiling dark mood—victory, but oh, the price! Triumph and loss. Heartbreak and joy. Relief and sorrow. The legate’s cousin was but one of many not destined to share the victory.
Carpets. Iron-banded chests. There was one chair, and as Ylo arrived, the legate sat down wearily, glanced in his direction, and raised a foot.
This time the reaction came faster, fortunately. Ylo limped forward and removed the prince imperial’s boots.
Then he stepped back, and the tent fell silent. He felt the eyes on him. The stranger. The newcomer. The usurper.
His cousin!
These were the prince’s battle companions. Some might have been with him since Creslee, and most would have been with him at Highscarp and on the bloody field of Fain. Now one of their number had fallen and here was the replacement.
Not a cousin. Not an aristocrat. A common legionary—or so they would assume.
And Ylo was staring at those hateful imperial features. The prince had removed his helmet. His face was a motley of mud and clean patches, his hair a sweaty tangle. Physically he was nothing special, but his eyes burned like black fire. Twenty-six years old, and the man the army worshipped.
On his lap was a folded wolfskin. His cousin’s cape.
So? One cousin. This man murdered my whole family.
“Your name?”
“Ylo, sir. Third cohort, XXth Legion.”
“You have done well. Imperial Star, Second Class.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And signifer, of course?”
Pause. Would the upstart dare?
“Thank you, sir.”
The onlookers rustled, like dry grass when something prowls.
The prince nodded sadly. His hand lay strangely still on the wolfskin. “By tradition, the honor is yours.” He glanced at the others. “The XIIth has a new signifer, gentlemen.”
Revenge! Close. Dark night. Knife in the ribs…
Then those imperial eyes—imperious eyes—slashed back at Ylo. The legate seemed vaguely puzzled, as if seeing or hearing something not quite right.
“Service?”
“Two years, sir.”
More hesitation. “Mmm… Can you ride?”
“Yes, sir.”
Surprise.
“Read and write?”
“Yes, sir.”
Astonishment. Puzzled glances.
Then a voice in the background said, “Ylo? Ylopingo… ?”
There had never been much chance of keeping it secret.
“Consul Ylopingo was my father, sir.”
The legate stiffened. “An Yllipo?”
Stunned silence.
Then the prince said softly, “Thank you, gentlemen,” and everyone else melted away. Remarkable. Empty tent.
Just the two of them.
Prince Emshandar nodded toward an oaken chest. The new signifer tottered gratefully across to it and sat down, thinking that he would have fallen over had he been left on his feet much longer. His bones burned.
“Tell me.”
Ylo told his story. It did not take long.
The legate stared hard at him all the time, fingers still motionless upon the wolfskin. Then he gestured at a table in a corner. “Wine. And take one for yourself.”
Ylo rose. He snapped open the sealed flask with an expertise he had forgotten he had, but his hand trembled as he filled the goblets. He had just realized that he must be a problem for the prince, and men who embarrassed princes had a very short life expectancy. His hand shook even harder as he passed over the drink, b
ecause he was thinking poison. That was another possible means of assassination, safer for the assassin. Revenge would be sweeter if he could himself survive to enjoy it. Oh Gods! His mind was a rats’ nest. He didn’t know what he was thinking. Kill the heir to the throne? What madness was that?
He went back to the chest.
They drank, and the legate’s gaze never left him. Good wine… brought back memories.
“Signifer,” the prince said softly.
Not certain he was being addressed, Ylo said, “Sir?”
“Your predecessor was a close confidant of mine. Did you know that?”
“Yes, sir. Your cousin.”
That display of knowledge won a nod of surprise, and approval. “Yes. He was my signifer. He was also my personal secretary, my closest and most trusted aide, and chief of my personal staff.” Emshandar sipped at the wine without taking his eyes off Ylo. “I assumed you were just a common legionary. I assumed you would become the legion’s signifer—but not mine. You understand? You understand the distinction?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a world of difference between a man who waves a pole about and one who ciphers letters to the imperor.”
“I understand, sir.”
The prince laid his goblet down on a table beside him and rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of both hands. Then he fixed that dark, burning gaze on Ylo again.
Had he been capable of feeling anything, Ylo might have felt relief then—or even amusement at the thought of him, Ylo, attempting to function as aide-de-camp to the prince imperial. Being signifer to the legion was enough—it would be heaven after being a common sword banger. And there would be opportunities for revenge if that was what he wanted after he had considered the pros and cons.
Then the prince said, “Could you serve me?”
God of Madness! Ylo had thought the matter was settled.
Serve this murderer?
The imperor was ancient. Any day now the Gods were going to call in his black soul and weigh it—good luck to Them if They found one grain of good in it! This man would mount the Opal Throne as Emshandar V.
