by David Weber
He’d been convinced they’d sprout wings and fly. Instead, they’d merely whipped along the open highway so fast their coach might well have outraced a bullet. Not one from a modern gun, of course, but they’d have given one of those early, slow-moving balls from a Ternathian matchlock a real run for its money.
The journey to this firing range had scared him nearly pissless. But now that they were here…He could actually breathe, out here. The knowledge that they must go back to those hateful walls, which pressed more closely and more unbearably with every day, was a physical agony he could scarcely bear. Confinement was killing them. Slowly, cruelly killing them, and they had no hope of clemency from their captors.
Jathmar intended to enjoy every moment out here to the fullest, despite the unexpectedly large, avidly curious, openly hostile audience. He turned his gaze to the viewing stands where the entire Commandery sat in a glittering array of gold and silver and bronze devices on their fancy dress uniforms: forest green and gray for the army, a crimson as vivid as any tropical fish for the navy, and the velvet-ink black of night skies for the air force. He hadn’t seen anything resembling Marines and had opted not to ask, since giving his captors new military ideas was not on his agenda.
Also seated in the viewing stands were the members of the newly appointed Parliamentary War Operations and Intelligence Committee, led by the Speaker of the Union, himself. The committee’s interest in their planned demonstration was both obvious and intense ad, unlike the military’s board of inquiry or y court, the committee included two Mythlans: one garthan and one of the shakira he’d heard so much about, during their travels and since their arrival.
The shakira—Gerail vos Durgazon, the Union minister of industry—wore a supercilious sneer that appeared to be permanently etched into his face. Jathmar had detested him on sight, and not just because prior experience had amply confirmed Gadrial and Jasak’s attitude towards shakira in general. No, he had a very specific and personal reason to detest this individual representative of Mythal’s hereditary overlords: the truly filthy way the man had looked at Shaylar. Part cold-blooded hatred, part carnal lust, and part thwarted rage, that smugly superior, violently hostile look told Jathmar Minister vos Durgazon had no intention of abiding by military regulations or Arcanan law, should Shaylar ever fall into his custody.
The garthan, on the other hand, had the gentlest, kindest eyes Jathmar had ever seen. He hadn’t expected that, particularly from a Mythlan, but Gadrial had told him Jukaru Tumnau, the Minister of Health, although unGifted, with no trace of the Healing capability, was one of Arcana’s best psychiatrists. He’d also been a close personal friend of Halathyn vos Dulainah—which helped explain the notorious bad blood between him and vos Durgazon. Tumnau wasn’t about to accept anything the Sharonians told him without considering it very, very carefully, but he wasn’t automatically hostile, despite vos Dulainah’s death. In fact, what Jathmar read most strongly in Tumnau’s eyes was an almost childlike curiosity, which rippled through a deep and glimmering compassion.
A long table stood just in front of the viewing stands. That table provided seats for the officers of Jasak’s court-martial. There were five: three Andarans, one Ransaran, and one Tukorian, and Jathmar already had cause to view all of them with a cold hostility. They’d spent the entire day, yesterday, questioning each of the witnesses in what they referred to as a mere “preliminary inquiry.” Those questions had been fairly sharp when directed at Jasak Olderhan, patient and attentive when directed at Otwal Threbuch, grim and scornful when leveled at Bok vos Hoven, and gently respectful when addressed to Gadrial Kelbryan.
As for Jathmar and his wife…
The officers had badgered them with a remorseless barrage of questions that were hostile, scathing to the point of deliberate cruelty, and contemptuous of every syllable they uttered in response. The board of inquiry before which they’d first appeared had been difficult enough initially, but its members had quickly taken their tone from Commander of Wings Brith Darma and become almost courteous. Not so the court-martial board. If he’d been inclined to be charitable—which he wasn’t—Jathmar might have put that down to the fact that they were scared to death by what had already been reported to them and were taking that fear out on the closest example of what they were frightened of. The reasons for their attitude didn’t much concern him, however; its consequences, on the other hand, most assuredly did.
Of course, he thought with a certain bitter amusement, I have to say they learned better, too, didn’t they? And a godsdamned sight quicker this time around.
His lips quirked in a smile of memory, and he shook his head. There were huge differences between Sathmin Olderhan and his own mother, but under the skin, the New Ternathian farmer’s wife and the Arcanan duchess were more alike than either of them might have believed. Duchess Garth Showma had already tolerated quite as much abuse of her son’s shardonai as she intended to, and she’d sailed into the hearing room at Shaylar’s side like a Ternathian battleship breaking an enemy line.
Commander of Twenty Thousand Helfron Dithrake, Count Sogbourne, the senior and presiding member of the empaneled court-martial, had been less than pleased to see her, though he hadn’t been stupid enough to say so in so many words. His courteous suggestion that Her Grace might, perhaps, want to await the witness in the lounge had been answered only with the sort of cold stare with which governesses reduced unruly children to terrified obedience, and the count had shown he was even smarter than Jathmar had thought by dropping that line of suggestions immediately.
Some of his colleagues had been rather less discerning, however. They’d intended to treat Shaylar as a hostile witness, and treat her as a hostile witness they had. Squadron Master Olvarn Gerandyr, the court-martial’s Navy representative and second ranking member, had led the way. Gerandyr was a Chalaran, from the Arcanan equivalent of Esferia, the enormous island off the peninsula of Yar Khom, and Thankhar Olderhan (who’d known him for over twenty-five years) had warned Jathmar he was about as tactful as a brick at the best of times. He was also, the duke had said, a man of honor who would do his best to consider the evidence, but it had been obvious the squadron master was one of those who regarded all things Sharonian—and especially Sharonians with those unnatural “Talents”—with profound suspicion.
“So, Madam Nargra-Kolmayr,” he’d begun in a sharp, aggressive tone, “you continue to assert that your ‘party of civilians’ had nothing but peaceful motives, do you? Perhaps, then, you’d care to explain why all of you were armed to the teeth? And why, when you realized there was another survey force in the area your immediate response was to run—run in a body—for the nearest portal rather than sending a single member of your group, or even a small delegation of it, to attempt to establish nonviolent contact with it? Surely people with these ‘Talents’ of yours should’ve been able to locate and contact Hundred Olderhan’s platoon without precipitating a bloodbath if you’d chosen to make that effort instead of settling into what can only be described as an ambush position!”
Shaylar had stepped back half a pace, wincing under the power of the emotions rolling off of him. Then she’d rallied.
“I’m not ‘asserting’ anything,” she’d replied in an equally sharp tone. “I’m telling you what actually happened—exactly what happened—and your own lie-detection spells should tell you I’m doing it as honestly as I possibly can.”
“Oh, really?” Gerandyr had scowled. “And how do we know our spellware even works against someone with your ‘Talent’? All we have is your word for that. And, frankly, I’m not at all convinced we should accept it. Besides that—”
“Magister Gadrial’s also explained that—” Shaylar had begun, but Gerandyr’s palm had slapped the top of the bench before him like a gunshot.
“I was speaking, Madam!” He’d glared at her, flushed with anger. “You’d do well to remember your situation here! In the eyes of this court, you and your husband—”
“Are my son’s shardo
nai.” Sathmin Olderhan’s cold, clear voice had cut through Gerandyr’s bluster like a scalpel. It had also snapped the ship master’s eyes to her, and her smile had been even colder than her words.
“Shaylar and Jathmar come under the house honor of House Olderhan and the civil protection of the Duchy of Garth Showma under the provisions of the Code of Housip,” she’d continued with merciless precision, “and that code—like the Kerellian Accords—was given formal force of law and incorporated into the Articles of War—by the Union’s Constitution at the time it was drafted. They are members of my family, Squadron Master, and I’ll thank you to remember that!”
“Your Grace,” Gerandyr had started, “I was merely—”
“I know precisely what you were doing, Olvarn Gerandyr,” the duchess had said crisply. “However, you will not verbally abuse, or threaten, or attempt to frighten a member of my family! Shaylar is not your prisoner, nor is she accused of any crime. The worst that can possibly be alleged against her is that she and her companions defended themselves against attack by a far larger force of trained soldiers. That they did it superlatively well is to their credit and no grounds for abusing her when she and her husband are captives so far from home! If you wish to lodge formal charges against her, then I invite you to do so.” She’d bared her teeth. “I don’t think you’d like how that would turn out, Ship Master, but by all means try, if that’s what you want. In the meantime, however, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you interrogate a member of my family.” She’d paused, sweeping the assembled, momentarily petrified court with cold eyes.
“I trust,” she’d added then in velvet tones wrapped around a dagger of ice, “that I’ve made myself clear?”
She had.
Under the circumstances, the court had decided to excuse Shaylar from any further examination that day and allowed her to return to Garth Showma House. Clearly, they’d hoped the duchess would go with her.
She hadn’t.
With Shaylar absent, Jathmar had, perforce, borne the brunt of the officers’ questions about Sharona, but with the duchess sitting silent and watchful at his side, they’d been remarkably calm, even courteous about it. They hadn’t been any less suspicious or thorough, but they’d definitely watched how they asked those questions, and he was just as happy they’d been asking them of him. He might not be good at lying and prevaricating, but he was better at it than Shaylar. He’d succeeded in tiptoeing through the brutal day without once tripping the lie-detection spell’s alarm, which he considered quite an achievement.
But today, thank all the gods of Faltharia, he wouldn’t be formally testifying in a witness chair. He had little doubt he’d be questioned; but he felt more capable out here, more in control and far more comfortable with the subject matter at hand. Even breathing fresh, clean open air helped.
Jasak was explaining his plan to the officers of the court. Jathmar watched their faces, predicting an outburst at any moment. That outburst came twenty seconds later.
“Are you mad, sir?” Count Sogbourne demanded incredulously. “Allow a prisoner to touch—to operate—a terror weapon? In the presence of the Commandery of Arcana and the entire War Ops and Intel Committee? Including your own father and Speaker Skyntaru? Not to mention us? Are you mad?”
The “us” in question was the glittering row of officers selected to try Jasak, who remained perfectly calm and formally at ease.
“Jathmar Nargra is the most appropriate person to demonstrate these weapons, Sir,” he replied in a patient, firm tone. “My father, by the way, concurs with that opinion, because Jathmar understands their function and operation far better than I do. And he’s not going to commit suicide and leave his wife alone to face a lifetime of imprisonment, either, I assure you!”
His argument made perfect sense to Jathmar, but no member of the court was likely to care very much what he thought. For that matter, they didn’t seem overly impressed by what Duke Garth Showma thought, either.
Under the circumstances, he wasn’t surprised when Sogbourne insisted Jasak conduct the demonstration. In fact, they’d all expected that reaction, and Jathmar had spent two and a half hours the previous evening coaching Jasak on how to load and operate the rifle and handgun they planned to use today. Jasak had already fired each type of weapon, but that had been weeks and eighty-five thousand miles—and a multitude of universes—ago. Firing a weapon someone else had loaded, just enough times to realize its true power, was hardly sufficient preparation for a demonstration of this kind.
So Jathmar had coached him, resisting the fleeting notion of teaching him an incorrect technique that would cause the Commandery to dismiss the guns as unreliable and far less effective than they really were. It was so tempting he could taste it, but he couldn’t do that without putting Jasak at risk of serious injury, and he wouldn’t—dared not—risk the death of Jasak Olderhan.
He needed Jasak to stand between them and the rest of Arcana, beginning with the men in those bleachers. And truth be told, he liked Jasak. They were enemies, yet in an odd way he also regarded Jasak as a friend. Not a confidante. That was impossible. Nor did Jathmar feel the same easy camaraderie that he’d shared with his fellow survey crewmen. That, too, was impossible.
But Jathmar knew he could rely on Jasak Olderhan. He’d seen enough of Jasak’s interactions with superior officers, during “conversations” where he and Shaylar had been the sole subject of discussion, to know nothing would cause Jasak to deviate from the protection he offered. Watching Jasak’s father and even—or perhaps especially—his mother had merely reinforced Jathmar’s inclination to trust Jasak Olderhan’s word.
Those parents had raised the man who’d courteously but firmly refused every threat, bribe, and offer made in demand of turning them over to the speaker of the moment, in a dizzying and depressingly long line of speakers and tense moments. And that mother had descended upon the court-martial board which had traumatized Shaylar like the gods’ own wrath because Jasak had given his prisoners his word that he and his would protect them from anything. Whatever else might happen, Jathmar trusted Jasak Olderhan’s word, in a world where he could trust no one and nothing else.
So he’d gone to Jasak’s apartments and carefully and correctly taught him how to safely load, fire, and chamber a new round to fire again until convinced that Jasak could perform the drill on his own—safely—with a live-fire demonstration.
And so it was Jasak who strode out to the shooting bench on Fort North Hathak’s target range. Fortunately for him, there was very little breeze today, so he wouldn’t have to contend with bullet drift caused by high gusting winds. It had snowed a little overnight, but the sky was perfectly clear now.
Jathmar watched Sogbourne with a sense of intense satisfaction. The true danger this morning hadn’t been the threat of arming a prisoner in the presence of senior officers. It had been the inadequacy of High Hathak’s shooting range.
Its earthen berms were built to stop arbalest bolts, which had a maximum range of no more than eight hundred yards even from the Arcanan Army’s spell-assisted weapons. They were, to put it mildly, insufficient to stop heavy rifle bullets from a weapon with a maximum range which was four or five times that.
The look of horror on the faces of the Arcanan officers when Jathmar explained the problem during the questioning yesterday had been grimly satisfying.
“A mile?” Sogbourne had gasped. “Your hand-held weapons can kill a man a mile away?”
“There are some rifles that can take down a target even father away than that. Actually, the maximum range of the most recent rifles is as much as three miles, but I’ve never met anyone who could actually hit a target at that range. On the other hand, there are specially tuned weapons—we call them ‘sniper rifles’—which can hit a man-sized target at two thousand yards,” he’d added.
“‘Sniper’?” the count had repeated the Sharonian word carefully.
Jathmar had enjoyed that reaction, as well.
“Yes. T
he men who use them are called snipers. Their job is to find a vantage point like a branch in a tree or a spot partway up a rocky hillside or on top of a cliff. Once hidden, they locate and shoot specific targets—high ranking officers, artillery crews, soldiers who are particularly effective on a battlefield, or even visiting civilian dignitaries.”
He’d met horrified stares with a cool, level gaze and let the protests roll off his back.
“That’s murder!”
“It’s barbaric!”
“As barbaric as burning a man to death?” He’d raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, from personal experience, I’d far rather be shot from a mile away by a trained sniper than roasted alive.”
The silence in the courtroom had been profound, to say the least. If they’d expected him to be cowed they’d been grievously disappointed. He hadn’t been rude. He hadn’t been aggressive. He hadn’t even been belligerent. But he wasn’t going to roll belly up and let them eviscerate him, either—not yesterday and not ever. Pride was damned near all he had left.
Wringing sweat from the officers of Jasak Olderhan’s court-martial board was a fair accomplishment for a man figuratively in chains. As for the weapons demonstration, Jathmar had suggested stacking up piles of sandbags to strengthen the range’s berms, and now he felt a stir of satisfaction as he noted how high and deep the soldiers of Fort North Hathak had piled them. The targets they’d be using were, according to Jasak, standard military arbalest targets, and the range officer had set up a series of them at varying distances to demonstrate the effective ranges of both the handguns and the rifles.
Now Jasak picked up a scissor-action rifle and carefully loaded it with one round. He used great care in following the drill Jathmar had taught him, loading the tube-fed magazine through the loading gate, working the action to chamber the round, releasing the safety, lifting and anchoring the buttplate in the pocket of his shoulder, aligning the sights and carefully, gently squeezing the trigger.
