The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  “Here, sir,” said Linciard, and relieved him of the cloak-pin, taking the opportunity to lean in while he clasped it. Sarovy stood still, staring past his heavy shoulder at the infantrymen that awaited them. “Closest is Lieutenant Arlin with the moustache,” Linciard murmured, “then his Sergeant Kirvanik, Lieutenant Gellart with the beard, Sergeant Rallant. They know your reputation, sir.”

  Sarovy nodded, appreciative; the infantrymen had been ejected from the meeting before proper introductions could be made. While Sarovy had hoped that not everyone would know how he had fallen, he had to make the best of it. He waved Linciard away.

  “Lieutenants, Sergeants, I apologize for the…argumentative introductions,” he said, nodding to the infantrymen. Three of the four were Wynds like Linciard, long-faced and broadly built, fair-haired; on some days, the Crimson Army seemed like a sea of Wynds, and Sergeant Rallant in the back looked no different from the rest, for all his annotated file. The fourth, Sergeant Kirvanik, was a hulking brute with an olive tinge to his skin, another ogre-blood. All watched Sarovy with measuring eyes.

  “We’re familiar with Colonel Wreth, Captain,” said Lieutenant Arlin gruffly. “Not so much with you.”

  “I will need to study your files before we meet officially. The General has ordered me to see us deployable within the week, which may require shifts in the roster. Shall we convene in two days to hammer out the rough patches?”

  The infantrymen glanced amongst themselves, then Lieutenant Arlin shrugged heavily. “Early afternoon, sir?”

  “That would be fine.”

  From the back, Lieutenant Gellart said, “The siege line, sir, we’re off the rotation now? And the mentalists. The transfer message said we’re not to be mindwashed.”

  “Both true, but keep it to yourselves please, and your men. I want no trouble with others because of Blaze Company’s exemptions.”

  “And what exactly is our role, sir? Heard this ain’t an infantry company…”

  “We will discuss that when we meet, Lieutenant.”

  “Heard there’s mages…”

  “Please do not speculate, Lieutenant.”

  Gellart huffed and scratched his thick beard, then nodded. “As you say, sir.”

  “Any further questions?”

  Silence from the infantrymen, their faces stony, unreadable. Sarovy glanced past the eaves and pulled up his hood. “Then consider yourselves on leave until our meeting. Move your men to their new quarters then rest them; I will want to see them put through their paces when we resume.”

  “Yes, captain.”

  “Dismissed.”

  The infantrymen saluted, pulled up their hoods and trooped away. Sarovy watched them pass the honor guard, cross the bridge and split into pairs toward their respective barracks; only then did he return Linciard’s inquiring glance and start forward, and only when they had left the command hill behind did he say, “They distrust me.”

  “’Course they do, sir,” said Linciard, close on his heels. “You’re a noble.”

  Sarovy sighed. Wynds were considered quiet, obedient backwoods bumpkins; they made good though sullen soldiers because they did as they were told.

  But that was a façade. Over the years of working with Wyndish archers and lancers, Sarovy had come to realize that they were not quiet, not obedient, only careful. They spied, they cheated, they plotted against everyone outside their self-made 'clans', and most did it so well that they were never noticed.

  And they hated nobility. Perhaps it was because their nobles were plundering, paranoid, tax-maddened bastards, but between the strict social codes and the heavy hand of the Gold Army, the common Wynds conscripted to the Crimson Army resented hierarchy with a festering passion.

  “A foreign noble stripped of rank and title,” Sarovy said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Still noble-born. All fancy.”

  “I suppose the insubordination charge is a bright mark to them, then.”

  “Could be, sir.”

  “If both infantry platoons are fully Wyndish, I am going to hang myself.”

  Lieutenant Linciard chuckled. “Don’t worry, sir. Sergeant Kirvanik is there to save you.”

  “Fantastic.”

  They walked for a while in silence. The Blaze Company bunkhouses were halfway across camp, past the northern women’s quarters and the stables at the Barrow Gate, and thus the furthest distance from the command post of any freesoldiers. Sarovy had to wonder if that meant something.

  Nearly there, with the women’s quarters just in sight, something caught his eye between two barracks, and he stopped in his tracks.

  Another man would have noted only the two figures and their broad swatches of color: a man’s black scout-uniform, a woman’s white service-dress. But Sarovy had been trained for clarity of vision, attention to detail. He saw the blades crossed at the small of the man’s back, the black bandana that could be mistaken for hair, and the short ponytail protruding from beneath it—its color darkened from copper-red to brown by the rain. The woman’s hair, wetted to her scalp, was the same color, and her eyes locked with Sarovy’s from over the man’s shoulder.

  The man turned his head and squinted. Sarovy recognized him quite distinctly.

  He recognized the woman as well.

  “Sir?” said Linciard.

  Sarovy held up his hand in a forestalling gesture and strode toward the pair. Halfway there, Specialist Weshker’s eyes widened in recognition, and he blanched and stepped between his captain and the Corvishwoman, hands raised.

  Behind him, the white dress flickered. The woman was running.

  Sarovy pointed after her.

  Lieutenant Linciard flew by, hit Weshker like a charging bull and kept going, kicking up wads of mud in his wake. The white dress disappeared around a corner, then so did he.

  “Bad pikin’ idea,” groaned Specialist Weshker, struggling to his feet. He had gone down against the wall instead of into the mud, and clutched his shoulder as he straightened, sharp face pinched in pain. Sarovy caught him by the collar and pushed him back against the wall with no resistance.

  “I thought I told you to stick to the barrack, Specialist,” he said.

  The Corvishman’s lip curled, dark eyes evasive. “I got bored, sir. I came lookin’ fer women. We can do that, yeh? Us freesoldiers?”

  “I remember her, Specialist.”

  “Yeh? So, d’yeh recommend her then?”

  Sarovy let go of the collar and caught Weshker by the back of the neck instead, digging hard fingers into the muscle and shoving his head down. The Corvishman yelped and bent beneath his grip. Despite his years in the armies, Sarovy was not fond of using physical force to get his way, but Weshker was fraying his last nerve.

  “I remember her from your sentencing,” he hissed. “And I remember her knife.”

  “I swear I dunno nothin’ about that,” Weshker whined.

  The sound of boots returning. Sarovy looked back to see Lieutenant Linciard round the corner again, dabbing at his nose with the heel of his hand, streaks of mud on his cheek. At Sarovy’s lifted eyebrow, he grimaced and said, “Almost caught her half-up a wall, but she kicked me. She’s piking fast, sir.”

  “If you would bring the Specialist then, Lieutenant.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  Sarovy let go and turned away, shifting the bundle of files more comfortably under his arm. He heard curses, a grunt, a spitting sound, then a bit of muffled hollering and finally the tread of heavy boots and someone kicking sullenly while being dragged.

  He did not look back.

  They passed through the main Blaze Company bunkhouse under the curious eyes of the Lancer platoon. Sarovy’s cold gaze cut off any comments. Past the small meeting room, into his office, where the lieutenant half-pushed, half-flung the Corvishman to the floor as Sarovy closed the door behind them.

  At Linciard’s expectant look, Sarovy gestured for him to guard the door, then took up his own position at the folding table that served as his
desk. The rest of the office was austere: the walls bare, the camp-bed and footlocker shoved in one corner, armor rack in another, chamberpot and side-table with shaving kit in a third. He owned nothing else in the world.

  He set down the mass of files, then turned his attention to Weshker. The Corvishman had not moved from where he had landed. Bandana askew, tendrils of wet hair plastered to his cheeks, he glanced from Linciard to Sarovy like a trapped animal—which, Sarovy supposed, he was.

  “I din’t do nothin’ wrong,” he whined, breaking the silence.

  Sarovy rested one hand on the hilt of his heirloom sword and took a deep breath, schooling his anger. Weshker did not deserve the full weight of it. “Anything,” he corrected after a moment. “You did not do anything wrong.”

  “Yeh! Exactly! So I can go now?”

  “No.”

  “But I din’t—“

  “Who is she, Specialist?”

  Weshker gulped, but shook his head. “I dunno who yeh talkin’ about.”

  Sarovy held up a finger silently. Weshker looked at it, then at his face, then said, “Uh…she my cousin?”

  A second finger. The Corvishman cringed.

  “All right, all right!” he said. “I’m sorry! I jes’, like I said, I got lonely an’—“

  A third finger.

  “—she found me! She found me, sir! I din’t even know her ‘til the sentencing! I think she kinna crazy! All right, so we talked a couple times since then, yeh, an’ I think she been followin’ me around, but that en’t my fault! I dunno how she knew about me an’ I sure din’t ask her t’—“

  “Wait,” said Sarovy, unsurprised at how easily Weshker had crumbled. The Corvishman’s look after the verdict had been a plain plea; whatever was happening, he was honest in saying he had not sought it out. “Start at the beginning. Who is she?”

  Weshker wrung his hands, looking pained. “Sanava en-Verosh of the Verosh-Rhi. They a big clan back in Corvia. She a slave in the women’s brigade.”

  “And she’s been following you.”

  “Yeh! I din’t know her ‘til the verdict, but she knew me. Maybe someone told her a Korvii gonna get executed? I en’t in good with my folk no more, but we a family, yeh know?”

  “Go on,” said Sarovy.

  “So she come around sometimes. Askin’ things, like how come I’m free an’ what I remember of Corvia an’ what we doin’ here. But I don’t tell her nothin’! Er, anythin’! I jes’ hit on her a lot, right? Because I don’t actually know.”

  He looked crestfallen, a fox who had failed to bring home the fowl. Sarovy considered smacking him. “And she has not indicated why this interests her,” he said instead.

  “Nah, she dun talk about herself. She jes’ ask questions.”

  Abruptly, Sarovy was tired of watching him squirm. He sighed and unclipped his oilskin, tossing it to Linciard to hang by the door, then stepped around to the proper side of his desk and sat, exhaling the last of his anger. In this position, he was the stern captain, not the man still wound-up by the meetings. “Sit,” he told Weshker, pointing to the extra folding chair. Cautiously the Corvishman rose to claim the seat.

  “So what d’we do, sir?” he said, anxious yet hopeful.

  Sarovy steepled his hands on the desk and closed his eyes, trying to organize his thoughts. Wreth, Vrallek, General Aradysson, this Sanava woman—their faces tumbled through his mind, along with rags of greasy clay and the constant glint of gold. Those pendants he kept seeing everywhere. He did not know where this was headed, but he did not like it.

  “Nothing, for now,” he said.

  “Nothing, sir?” said Linciard. “But if that bi— That woman is spying…”

  “There is more afoot than one sly Corvishwoman,” said Sarovy. “We can not afford to focus on her.” He pulled a page from the stack of Specialist personnel files, small compared to the rest of his company but brimming with questions. “My mission appears to be integrating the disparate units of our army into a cohesive whole, but I am realizing that there are undercurrents and subsets of which I was unaware. Monsters in our midst.”

  Weshker blanched, gripping the edge of his chair. Behind him, Lieutenant Linciard crinkled his brows and glanced between them, evidently uneasy about including the Corvishman in this conversation.

  “If you find the woman, I want her brought in,” Sarovy continued. “Make sure she knows that I am not interested in harming or punishing her. All I want is information—things she might have seen while in camp, or overheard. Things that we soldiers would be mindwashed for witnessing. Specialist Weshker, I suspect you have the best chance of convincing her to step forward.”

  Grimacing, Weshker said, “No offense, but are yeh crazy? She’d attack yeh in an instant. Bringin’ her in… Look, yeh saved my life, I en’t gonna put yeh in a room with the likes of her.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Specialist, but this is not a request.”

  “…If yeh say so.”

  “Sir,” said Lieutenant Linciard, hard and sharp. Sarovy arched a brow but Linciard’s attention was focused on the Corvishman, along with the rest of his ire: face stony, arms crossed like bars, hands fisted as if trying to keep himself from throttling the smaller man. He looked up to Sarovy after a moment and said, less tightly, “Sir, you can’t possibly think you can trust the Corvish to provide any useful service.”

  “I been more help than yeh, yeh loomin’ useless Wyndish windbag,” Weshker snapped back, sneering. “What yeh done so far ‘cept follow the Captain around like a hired thug?”

  Linciard’s nostrils flared, his expression darkening, and he opened his mouth but Sarovy said, “Stop,” before anything could come out. The lieutenant straightened automatically but did not lose his bristling mien.

  I should have expected this, Sarovy thought. Linciard liked the idea of Weshker in the company as much as Wreth liked the idea of Sarovy heading it, and had expressed his opinion long and loud. It did not seem to be personal, just one of those provincial knee-jerk reactions that made managing the Crimson—with its wealth of exiles, reprobates and demotions from all corners of the Empire—so bloody awful. Sarovy had long since gotten over his own Trivestes-born issues with the Riddish, and found it exasperating that no one else would make the effort.

  Regarding the pair of them, he said, “We are not in Wyndon or Corvia. You have no territory to dispute. Specialist, you will not bait or insult the lieutenant; he is a superior officer and deserves your respect. Lieutenant, you may question my judgment but you will obey my commands, and you will not retaliate against the specialist. You are an Imperial officer and you will act appropriately. Am I understood?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Though neither of them looked any less tense, Sarovy trusted that they would restrain themselves for now. Gesturing with the page he had selected, he said, “Specialist. I noted that you understand the language that Magus Voorkei and the Houndmaster-Lieutenant speak.”

  The Corvishman blinked, then made a face. “Yeh. Sounds like real bad Corvish, so I guess it’s Gheshvan. Ogre-speak. I can follow it a bit.”

  “Then you will translate.” Sarovy indicated the page. “There are words on here that I do not understand, yet they sound like Gheshvan. I would know what they say.”

  Weshker blinked, then shrugged apologetically. “I ken’t read, sir.”

  “Then I will.” Sarovy smoothed the page down on his desk and skimmed it for the term. It was the file for one of the female Specialists, Miralda Carver, and contained little more than her name, rank and transfer history. “Lagalaina,” he read.

  Weshker furrowed his brows, then said, “Well, laina means woman. Laga means… It’s part of the word fer alcohol. I think it’s like ‘drunk-makin’.”

  “Woman who gets you drunk?” Linciard said dubiously.

  “I dunno why they’d write that in Gheshvan, but ken I meet her?”

  “No.” Sarovy set the file aside, frowning, and pulled out another one. “This one is… Senvrak
aenka.”

  Weshker’s face went bright red, and he covered his mouth to smother a choke of laughter. Sarovy narrowed his eyes and waited while the Corvishman’s shoulders shook, while tears sprang up, while he slid slowly down the camp-seat, unable to stay upright from the force of his unshared hilarity. Finally he pulled his hand away and drew in a great wobbly breath, wiping at his eyes. “Oh T’okiel, that was jes’ wrong. Are yeh sure they en’t writin’ performance notes?” Then he burst into another giggling fit and bent double.

  Sarovy tapped a finger methodically on the page and traded looks with Linciard. “Your translation, Specialist,” he said when he heard the Corvishman start breathing again.

  “Best penis!” Weshker crowed, then slid right off his chair.

  Sarovy stopped tapping. Linciard made a strained sound and stared at the ceiling, and Sarovy glared at his files in a flash of anger. He doubted that Weshker was making it up, but if they were indeed ‘performance reviews’…

  “One more,” he growled, and yanked out another file. “Ruengriin.”

  The laughter stopped. Below the lip of the desk, Weshker hiccuped once, then rose warily.

  "Uh," he said, "if that's short fer ruengriinagagi, then that means 'people-eater'."

  Sarovy glanced to the name at the top of the file.

  Houndmaster-Lieutenant Kanor Vrallek.

  For an instant, Sarovy saw Vrallek’s other face: the wide mouth unhinged like a snake’s, the serrated ridges of tearing teeth, the pale chitin and blood-red eyes. A shudder went through him, and he blinked rapidly.

  “We got stories about the ruengriinagagi,” Weshker went on, hauling himself back into his seat. He looked edgy now, his flush gone. “Say they come up from Wyndon or Darronwy in the east, runnin’ like men but faster, with packs of thiolgriinagagi followin’ ‘em. Wolf-eaters. Big horrid hounds. They come up on our hunters an’ tear ‘em apart. Some packs besieged Sengeth-Dai-Khul back in the day, ‘til the spirits drove ‘em off.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” snapped Linciard. “Wyndon’s never sent cannibals after you. Piking drunken Corvish assholes probably—“