But he had spent more time among the Imperials now than among his kin, and his vocabulary had dwindled. There was so much he could not say without the Imperial tongue.
"Nin ha, nin ha," he tried, holding up his hands placatingly. He was getting to know that apologetic phrase well. "You know I speak bad," he continued more slowly, working to get the words right—or at least in the right order.
Was he imagining things, or did her lips twitch in amusement?
"Aa," she said in acknowledgement, and there was definitely a smile in her voice. "Thus we practice. Thus perhaps why the crows do not come."
He swallowed thickly and nodded, and she stepped closer to fold herself down in front of him. It was not just language-practice that she had mandated, but regular attempts to summon up the crows that had twice aided him—the spirits that had poured from his tattooed shoulder to attack first the clay monstrosity that had tried to eat him, and then the mages who had gone digging through his mind.
"Shirt off," she told him, and he eagerly fumbled with the buttons of his jacket, peeled it away, then wriggled out of the tunic and undershirt below. The camp had cooled from the rains and the turn of the seasons, mandating a few layers, but despite her thin dress, Sanava did not look chilled. He supposed she was not yet adapted to the hot lowlands.
Scooting closer, she beckoned him to turn so she could see his left shoulder, and he complied. Her hand on his skin felt like desert sunlight, warm and a bit rough. He tried not to look down the neckline of her dress as she leaned close, instead focusing on her cheek, her ear, the smooth slope of her neck and shoulder and the loose auburn flow of her long hair.
He wanted to bury his face in it. Keeping his hands knotted together in his lap was difficulty itself.
Her nails nipped lightly at his skin as she poked, squeezed and thumbed along the contours of his slave brand. Weshker tried not to make a face. He had been branded more than a decade ago, after his clan's slaughter by the Gold Army and the Wyndish Border Corps, and the mark had stretched and gone smeary with time. His designation, CRV117, was almost illegible beneath the fallen tree mark for Corvia, which itself defaced the crow tattoo he had been given after his successful spirit-quest.
The number meant that before him, only a hundred and sixteen Corvishfolk had survived capture to become slaves. He doubted many had lived much longer than that.
He wondered what number Sanava bore under her sleeve, and why she had not cut her own throat after receiving it.
Finally, she sat back and cupped her chin in one hand, slanted brown eyes narrowed to slits as she contemplated him. "I am kin to neither spirits nor magic," she said thoughtfully, "but I think they afflict you both. The spirit must be there, in you. It has come out twice, yes? But there is magic to prevent such things from outside."
She pointed at the sky, and Weshker squinted up, then nodded his understanding. The camp wards—the magical dome that kept out enemy spells and probably spirits.
"So the crows live in your soul," she continued, "and come out for danger. Never before the monster?"
"No, that was first. But I have had danger before..."
She tapped short sharp nails against her chin in thought. Her critical gaze made him shift anxiously; he wondered if he smelled, or was dirtier than the men she was used to. He had scrubbed clean on the first day of his induction into the freesoldier army, but since then had not visited the wash-section of the river much; he did not like the idea of being exposed among so many other men. One of his fellow scouts had threatened to throw him in the river if he did not go soon, but he kept avoiding it. There were more important things to do.
Like be here.
But she was clean. She was very clean. So what did she think of him, if he couldn't manage not to be a little earthworm? Why would she want him when there were hordes of other men—
And that was where those self-pitying thoughts always stopped, because he had seen the women's barracks. He had seen the hospitality tables, and the rows of barely curtained beds. He knew what happened here, and that the slave-women had no choice.
And he knew that Sanava was up here on the roof with him, alone, because she wanted to be.
"Of course you have been in danger before," she scoffed, "or you would not bear a brand. Did the crows not aid you when you were taken?"
Grimacing, Weshker tried to remember. There had been so much smoke, so many shouts and screams, and a veritable blizzard of crows—spirit and flesh and skinchanger alike. And cunning cousin-foxes, switching forms on demand, tracking blood through the snow and ash as they fought to keep the Imperials away from their more fragile human kin. There had been screams in the shadows, demand for the assistance of the Kheri, but the Talkur-Nent clan had broken their promise to the Shadow Folk first, and so no reinforcements had come. No rescue.
He remembered the strain in his arms as he pulled a bow too big for him, as he fumbled with the arrows while the smoke stitched pain through his lungs. He remembered the screams of his sisters—rage or fear, it was hard to tell. Remembered the fighting between the huts, and the fire in the cave, as if the volcano Aekhaelesgeria had awakened and was belching flame through this low, minor mouth.
Had there been wings stroking comfortingly against his cheek as he struggled to put an arrow through a soldier's neck? Had there been claws on his shoulders, gathering as if to bear him away into the sky?
He coud not be sure. Sometimes he dreamed that the black host had swooped down and carried him and all his family away, brought them to the great roosts on the flanks of the fuming, holy mountain. Or that his sisters had all transformed into crows and foxes as soon as the clanhold's walls were breached, and escaped through the gaps into the snowclad forest.
And sometimes he dreamed that he himself was a crow, picking through the smoking remains of his old home. Plucking at the bone charms around his sisters' pale necks, the obsidian beads, the copper rings. Snipping out soft tongues; relishing the last visions in frosted eyes.
"I don't know," he whispered. "It was a long time ago."
Her incisive gaze softened slightly, and she set a callused hand on his. It swept away the morose mood and he turned his fingers to meet hers, wondering where she had gotten those calluses—wondering if she spent much of her time in high places like this, avoiding the soldiers and her fellow slave-women down below. She seemed a better crow than him.
"Perhaps the monster did something," she mused.
"Perhaps..." He frowned. "It nearly killed me. If not for the crows... If not for their claws cutting me, I would not be sure that I am me, and not it. It wanted my face. I have never been so close to death. Perhaps they have been sleeping inside me, waiting to save my life?"
Her mouth pursed. He wanted to kiss it. She was so close. "You were not long past your marking when you were taken? You were never trained?"
"True."
"Then perhaps it is all they can do. You are meant to be a spirit-speaker but you never learned, and so you are deaf to them, mute. Like the rest of us. If we had the awakening-smoke, perhaps we could reach the spirits again and beseech them to teach you, but..."
Sanava spread her hands apologetically, one still linked with Weshker's, and he nodded his understanding. Neither of them had the resources or knowledge to gather a shaman's supplies—the narcotic herbs that breached the barrier to the spirit world, the bone tools and blessed inks that could fix his tattoo and extend its covenants further across his skin, the scrolls of ritual summonings and offerings and pacts, the sacrificial blades. Weshker could barely speak the language.
If Maevor had still been around, perhaps Wesker could have sought his aid, and that of the Kheri black market. Surely even though the Shadow Folk had abandoned the Talkur-Nent, they had not turned their backs on all Corvishfolk.
But Maevor was gone to the Palace. Probably dead. And Weshker had no allies here, no matter what his new captain said.
"We can do nothing, then?" he said, worried. If he had nothing to show for th
is 'training', the captain would probably cut him off—maybe even send him to the Palace like the others. And he would lose her...
Sanava smiled with one corner of her mouth and twined her fingers more firmly with his. "We can do many things. Teach you to be Vesha Geiri, not this Imperial mask you wear. Teach you to be Korvii, that when we are free of this prison, we can speak with spirits as is proper. Teach you to be a man, hm? That demands some practice."
His heart skipped a beat. His pants said yes! But down below was the women's quarter, the seedy barracks and soldier-filled tables, and even isolated up here, he could still feel their existence like eyes on his back. The closet had been spontaneous; since then, they had barely touched. He did not want to associate what happened between them with what happened down below.
He had never thought he would fall so swiftly, so thoroughly. But on that night when he had stepped from the assembly hall on the heels of his condemned comrades, feeling wretched and treacherous in his uniform jacket, and seen her there in the foreyard, seen her burning eyes...
Oh, he had fallen. He had hit the ground at her feet. Any touch healed him; her lips brought him back to life. But he hated to have this happen here—to think that when they parted, she returned to a place of pain.
"I...I like practice," he said, "but I... Sanava... You know of me. Would you teach me of you?"
With an expression bordering on nonplussed, she said, "Of me?"
"You are en-Verosh, but...that is all I know."
For a moment, her nostrils flared and there were sparks in her eyes: hateful cinders threatening to combust him with her stare. But then she soured and looked away, trying to twist her hand from his. "I do not care to—"
"Please," he said, tightening his grip, and winced as her nails bit into his knuckles. "Sanava, you followed me, you gave me— I barely know you. I want to. Please, just one thing, one piece? I will tell you anything, I will turn myself inside out for you..."
Close-mouthed, almost sneering, she snapped her hand out of his but did not move away. Her face was in profile, sharp as a blade, and he told himself firmly not to reach out. That she would cut him with her tongue—if nothing else—should he try.
After a long moment of staring at nothing, hand still raised and breathing short sharp breaths, she said, "No man need know a woman's past. We are ghosts in this place, and I will not haunt you."
"Already you do!"
"You weak creature."
Weshker's tongue knotted. He heard contempt in her voice but she did not look at him; her eyes were distant. Perhaps she was not speaking to him. "Sanava..."
"I will not haunt you with this."
"Sanava, I am a small man among large. I am Korvii among Wynd. I...I know. We share tents, and I was not always with good men. If you are a ghost, then we should haunt together. We will haunt them, not each other."
She cast him a sidelong look, gaze questioning, and he wondered if he had spoken right. If he had used the proper words. Then she shifted to face him once more, and her hand sought his, her eyes on his, like dark lagoons pulling him deep.
"I was taken from the woods when I was seventeen," she said softly. "I was hunting to feed my children. I live because I will one day go home to find them, and my mate. I will go home with a string of teeth around my neck from all the Imperials that have touched me."
The words hit like a fist, then faded. He covered her hand with both of his. "Can I come with you?"
A smile quirked the corner of her mouth, and for a moment real warmth danced in her eyes. "When you learn yourself, crowspeaker? Perhaps."
That was all he needed.
*****
Captain Sarovy looked over his mages, his lieutenants and their sergeants, then back to the slate on which he had sketched the current Blaze Company roster. “Are we having any further issues?” he said as he picked up the nub of chalk.
The officers looked to each other as if unwilling to speak first. Sarovy sighed. It was early on Cylanmont 11th, and this was not their first meeting. He had assembled his officers and their seconds every morning since the inoculations had begun, both to get them used to his style of captaincy and to watch them for any change in behavior. Two of them—Archer-Lieutenant Sengith and Shield-Lieutenant Gellart—he knew had been inoculated previously; they both had senvraka as their sergeants, Korr and Rallant. Korr had told them at the first meeting that for men not vulnerable to senvraka, the inoculations did not require the bite, only a weaker dosage that he and Rallant had been delivering through their platoons’ ale ration.
Lieutenant Sengith had nearly leapt on Korr in a fury at that revelation, but had been restrained. It had been hard for Sarovy to tell whether he was enraged more by the manipulation or by the adulteration of their alcohol.
Distasteful as he found it, Sarovy had given the senvraka permission to access the ration for the rest of the company. Since then, he was sure he detected an odd tang in it, but could not avoid drinking; the rains had only recently let up and the river was swollen with silt and filth. The ale ration was the only thing potable in camp.
He had dreamed strange dreams, though, and from the looks on his human officers’ faces, they had as well.
“Anything?” he prompted, scanning the line-up again. They were arranged around the long table in the main bunkhouse meeting-room, but no one was at ease enough to sit. Along the left stood Archer-Lieutenant Sengith—a big strawberry-nosed Amand, built like a bear but surprisingly adept at his command—and his sergeant Korr, evidently no longer at odds; Shield-Lieutenant Arlin of the second infantry platoon and his ogre-blooded sergeant Kirvanik; Magus Voorkei; and Scryer Mako, who sat casually, the only exception. Along the right side were Lancer-Lieutenant Linciard and Sergeant Benson—a short, stolid Amand with close-cropped hair and a perpetual squint of concentration—and Shield-Lieutenant Gellart with his sergeant Rallant.
At the far end of the table was Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek, arms crossed, Sergeant Presh lingering behind him with a mild knowing smile.
Linciard cleared his throat to break the silence and said, “Sir. Corporal Redsky and Lancer Tycaid fell ill this morning. I’ve been told that Specialist Ilia visited them last night.”
“Our expatriate Jernizen,” Sarovy said thoughtfully, and looked to Sergeant Rallant. As he was the more tactful of the two senvraka, Sarovy had taken to addressing most questions to him.
Rallant smiled and shrugged slightly. “Expatriates? You lancers take in all kinds. It’s probably a reaction between the inoculation and their mentalist conditioning. Inoculations put pressure on some of those mental barriers, you see, and can undo some mindwashing. People who have been very mindwashed, very conditioned, can become disoriented. Think of it like a bad hangover. You might want to have your mentalist loosen them up a bit.”
Sarovy looked to Scryer Mako, who sighed and said, “Of course. First Infirmary?”
“Yes,” said Linciard.
“After the meeting,” Sarovy clarified. “Linciard, the other Jernizen?”
The lieutenant grimaced. “Headaches, bad dreams, night-sweats, dizziness. A few of the Averognans too. Whitehall and Salvametron. The Heartlanders seem fine.”
“I’ve got half a section from the Brother Isles that’s been acting sea-sick, which is ridiculous,” said Shield-Lieutenant Arlin. He was Wyndish, tall and thick-necked with a blond moustache that could stop a flood. “And almost a full section of Drixi who can’t seem to think straight. Some of the High Drixi’ve been talking gibberish.”
“I haf headaches,” said Shield-Sergeant Kirvanik.
Sarovy shook his head, staring down at the roster. Not for the first time, he was reminded of the patchwork nature of his command. The Crimson Army seemed made up of the dregs and cast-offs from the other armies: Heartlanders unwanted by the Gold and Sapphire, protectorate-folk like the Kerrindrixi and Averognans who were not full citizens, and westlanders—ex-mercenaries like the Brother Islanders and ogre-bloods, turncoats like Presh and the J
ernizen. General Aradysson had accepted the expatriates in part because they were decent soldiers, but also because he was not being sent reinforcements. Soon, Sarovy expected to see Illanites in the Army as freesoldiers, not just slaves.
It seemed such practices brought along more trouble than just the typical inter-kingdom tensions.
“Rallant, how long will these side-effects last?”
“Sir. I would guess a week for the sick ones, a day or so for those with nightmares.”
“And they will all recover?”
“Of course, sir. We don’t do this to hurt anyone. We’re here to help.”
Sarovy narrowed his eyes at Rallant, but the sergeant’s expression stayed formal and respectful. With an effort of will, he made himself stop glaring. Ever since the meeting with the Specialists, he kept noticing Rallant lingering near the lancer barracks, or observing the field while the lancer platoon was at drills. Watching Linciard.
The same way Specialist Ilia, the lagalaina, seemed to keep showing up around him.
Sarovy had pulled Linciard aside two days ago to warn him about it. Linciard had thanked him gruffly. Even now, Rallant had positioned himself right next to the Lancer-Lieutenant, but Sarovy was satisfied to see that Linciard never looked at him.
He did not know what the controllers were up to, but he did not like it. If Vrallek had shown a twitch of amusement or awareness over it, he would have pinned the ugly bastard to the wall and demanded an explanation, but Vrallek was stone-faced as well.
Sarovy forced his thoughts back to the matters at hand. Inoculations, enchantments. “Scryer Yrsian, Magus Voorkei, have you made any progress on my requests?”
“Not so much,” said Scryer Mako, leaning forward to steeple her hands against the table. She was dressed in a rose-pink robe trimmed in gold thread, and her straight hair was pinned back from her heart-shaped face. The tips of her short nails glinted silver. “The armory won’t fill requisitions for enchanted blades for anyone below the rank of captain, so that won’t help us. As for enchanting our own…” She spread her hands apologetically. “I’m not an Artificer. I can’t hammer magic into the men’s swords; that needs to be done while they’re being forged. At best, I could paint a few temporary glyphs on them, and I’m not a Warder either so I can’t do much for armor. The best you could do is get a better sword for yourself, sir.”
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 44
