Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy)

by Bell, Hilari

  “Beer or mint tea, sir?” she murmured, presenting the tray by his right hand.

  His gaze flicked over her, and he chose tea without another glance in her direction.

  The rest of the substrategi had the same oddly mixed appearance as the rest of the Hrum army. There was even a woman among them, hard muscled, and battle scarred. The red-bearded substrategus was the only one who chose beer, and he nodded an absent thanks as he took the cup.

  The woman, seated next to him, cast him an envious glance. But if she wanted beer, why did she choose tea? The answer dawned, and Soraya suppressed a grin. Her father had been powerful enough to attract sycophants, and he’d had small patience with them. “I need people who’ll argue when I’m wrong, Razm take them!” But Soraya had seen plenty of men, and women too, who ate what the powerful ate, drank what they drank, and laughed when they laughed.

  Was Garren the kind of commander, of ruler now, who was flattered by such attentions? If so, it probably wasn’t a disaster. Most of Farsala’s gahns had been the same . . . and Farsala had fallen.

  Soraya moved on to serve the lesser officers, and noted that most of them chose whatever they preferred without looking to see what the governor was drinking. She recognized the tactimian who’d been talking to the peddler, but he paid her no more attention than the others. The door opened and shut several times, and the crowd became denser still, dense enough that it was hard to move through it with a large tray, but Soraya did her best imitation of her own mouse-mannered maids, and no one seemed to notice her.

  As soon as a harried-looking man filled the last empty chair at the governor’s table, Garren rapped on the wood and the room fell silent.

  “I have called you all here to report an incident in Desafon. Our supply depot there was set afire and burned to the ground.”

  Soraya served her last two drinks and stepped back to stand against the wall, ready to go for more refreshments if the need arose. In the consternation rippling through the room, it was easy to remain unnoticed.

  One deep voice, that of the red-bearded man, rose above the disturbed murmurs. “Set afire, sir? Deliberately?”

  “Yes, Barmael. The ordnancer had just purchased eight barrels of wine from some downriver farm and stored them in the warehouse. The men who fought the fire didn’t have time to investigate, but they noticed that several of the barrels were open and one had been knocked over. Since the sentries observed nothing until the fire was well started, Tactimian Nellus concluded that the arsonists were carried into the warehouse inside the barrels.”

  “Then the freight handlers must have been in on it,” said a centrimaster. “There would have been a big difference in the barrels’ weights.”

  “There doubtless was,” said Garren coolly. “But the men who crewed the barge also acted as freight handlers. They even got paid extra for it.”

  There was a moment of chagrined silence.

  “Someone’s got a nerve,” said the red-bearded officer, Barmael. His voice was mild. “Did we lose anything of importance in the fire? Any casualties?”

  “No deaths,” Garren replied. “And no supplies that can’t be replaced—at least Nellus had the sense to keep the pay chests in camp! Though the surveyors you requested had sent their supplies on ahead of them, and those went up with everything else.”

  Color rose in Barmael’s face till it almost matched his hair. “We need better maps. And I’m afraid we’re going to need them even sooner than I thought.”

  “The surveyors themselves will arrive as scheduled,” said another officer soothingly. “They can make a start—”

  “What good is a surveyor without a sextant and line?” Barmael rumbled. “We need to order more equipment as soon as possible, Governor.”

  “It will come with the rest of the supplies,” said Garren. “And long before it arrives, Tactimian Nellus should have the men responsible in custody, where they will name their accomplices and die. So it won’t happen again. I merely wished to make this incident known to all of you, so you could tighten security procedures in the areas under your command.”

  “Hard to tighten anything, when you’ve only got a thousand men to patrol a city the size of Desafon,” one of the officers near Soraya murmured to the man beside him. “I’m surprised the whole place hasn’t gone up in flames.”

  “Shh,” his companion hissed.

  “I’ve been telling you, the countryside’s restive,” said Barmael. “That’s why we need better maps. We’re going to see a lot more of this kind of thing.” His voice was still mild, but several men near Soraya stiffened, and even she was surprised. Saying “I told you so” to Governor Garren struck her as a truly stupid thing to do. And yet . . . I need men who’ll argue with me.

  Garren’s gaze, resting on Substrategus Barmael, was very cold. “Do you really think a handful of disorganized farmers can threaten the army of the Iron Empire?” His voice was even softer than Barmael’s, but Soraya shivered.

  “They just burned down a warehouse in Desafon,” Barmael pointed out. “And what if they get themselves organized?”

  “Then we shall crush them, just as we crushed the last force that came against us,” said Garren. “But I believe that a bit more heed to security on the part of competent officers will solve the problem. Once the cities are taken, the countryside will settle.”

  Had Tactimian Nellus been judged incompetent? Evidently! Soraya looked down to hide her face. A fierce elation filled her at the thought of any Farsalans resisting the Hrum, but she feared Garren’s estimate of their chances was accurate. She had learned something of how vast, how powerful, the empire truly was. No, peasants could never succeed where deghans had failed. But she liked the fact that they were trying. She hoped they escaped to the last man, and struck again and again!

  “Now let us proceed to a more important matter,” Garren continued, in a voice that made it clear the previous topic was closed. “Tactimian Rodden has taken the port city, Dugaz.”

  This time the rumble that filled the room was one of surprised pleasure, and Soraya sighed.

  “Well, perhaps taken is an exaggeration.” Garren was smiling himself, though Soraya thought it a small, wintry smile. “When the tactimian approached the city he found the streets undefended, and he soon learned that the Farsalan city governor had fled some weeks before. He reports that the populace seems . . . unconcerned about the matter of governance, so I will replace him with a centrimaster, with three centris under his command. If you have any centrimasters under you who you think would do well governing a quiet city, please bring them to my attention.”

  “Three hundred men?” The tactimian she’d seen with the peddler spoke up for the first time. “Sir, isn’t that a bit light to hold any city, even if it seems quiet?”

  “I won’t send troops to garrison a peaceful city when they can be put to better use elsewhere,” said Garren in his argument-ending tone. “From Rodden’s report, a few deci could hold that town. The clerks will distribute lists of the lost supplies, with notes on how it may affect your own commands. If you uncover any problems you can’t solve, bring them to my attention. That will be all.”

  Soraya gathered up the empty cups as the officers departed, and then slipped out of the room. She doubted any officer would be presenting Garren with problems, no matter how insoluble they proved. The judgment “incompetent” had been yoked to that sentence like a cart to an ox.

  It was disappointing that Dugaz had yielded so easily. Not surprising, perhaps. Her father had once said that Dugaz was the sewer of the realm, with no redeeming feature except the toughness of its rats, but still . . .

  Soraya returned to the kitchen. Casia was seated beside a tub of carrots, with a knife in her hand and neat strapping wrapped around her ankle. She grinned at Soraya. “See, I told you. Nothing to it.”

  “You were right,” Soraya admitted. “How’s your ankle?”

  “Oh, it’ll mend. In another month or two.” Casia grimaced. “So you’ll be s
erving in the governor’s quarters for some time.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Soraya. “Though Governor Garren seemed . . . um . . .”

  “He’s a right cold bastard,” said Casia cheerfully. “But he doesn’t even notice you if all goes well, and if anything goes wrong, all you get is a freezing look as you go for a cleaning rag. He doesn’t even complain to Hennic, if it’s an ordinary accident. Beneath his high notice, people like us.”

  Calfaer, who was carving a new handle for one of the big pans, snorted. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. The less interest we get from officers the better, whatever the reason. I prefer the stupid ones, myself.”

  The rest of the staff chuckled, and Soraya frowned. She was still surprised, almost shocked, at how irreverently the servants discussed their superiors—at least among themselves. She wondered what her mouse-timid maids had said behind her back, and winced.

  “Here, girl, if you’re afrai—nervous about it, Hennic can find someone else to serve,” said Casia kindly.

  “No, I don’t mind,” Soraya repeated. “Some of the officers seem decent enough. That Substrategus Barmael, he’s being a kind man, isn’t he?”

  Casia opened her mouth to answer, but Calfaer beat her to it. “Of course he’s kind to servants—he’s no better than a servant himself!”

  Soraya’s jaw dropped—she’d never felt Calfaer radiate such curt dislike.

  “He’s an officer now,” said Casia gently. “And you’d best remember it, at least to his face.”

  Calfaer’s scowl deepened. “He’s barely fit to keep my father’s pigs!” He stood and stalked out, leaving Soraya staring after him in astonishment.

  “What in the world?”

  Casia sighed. “It’s a long story, but the short of it is that both Barmael and Calfaer are from the same land. Brasnia, it’s called.”

  Soraya frowned, comparing the burly, red-haired man to Calfaer’s small, slim frame. They were much the same age, but . . . “They don’t even speak with the same accent.”

  “That’s because our Calfaer was from a family of high lords, and Barmael was a lowly peasant type. A serf, I think they called them. But what Calfaer really holds against him is that Barmael fought against the rulers of his own land, to help the Hrum conquer it. Young he was then, scarce more than a lad, but he’s been rising in the Hrum army ever since. And Calfaer . . .”

  She sighed, and Soraya nodded understanding. People were altogether too complicated.

  THE COMMON PEOPLE OF FARSALA rallied behind Sorahb’s banner. Though they did their best to learn to fight as the deghans had, they were still far from skilled, and the Hrum took town after town.

  So Sorahb called his army to him. “The Hrum are too strong,” he told them. “And we are still unready. We must weaken them before we can hope for victory.”

  Then Sorahb called for the best night-hunters among them to come forth. He led this small band to the conquered city of Desafon, where the Hrum had built a great storehouse to hold their supplies. Sure and silent as the night itself, they crept past the Hrum sentries and set the storehouse alight.

  All who witnessed this fire say it spread and grew far faster than any normal fire could, and the Hrum’s efforts to contain it proved in vain. This is when the rumor that Sorahb was a sorcerer was born. But if that fire spread faster than any set by mortal hand, there is still one other hand that might have been involved in it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  KAVI

  THE SWAMP MUD STANK, and it seemed to Kavi that he slipped in it with every other step. But as long as he followed Duckie’s round hind quarters, the water splashing around his soaked boots was never more than ankle deep.

  The sun had set half a candlemark ago, but a waxing moon sailed serenely through the summer stars—a clear night, Azura be thanked.

  Ducks being day creatures, most of the flock that had surrounded Duckie earlier had vanished with the sun. But two stubborn drakes still swam and waddled beside the mule, quacking companionably and getting under Kavi’s feet. He’d have been more exasperated, if he hadn’t occasionally seen the mule cock a long ear in the direction of one of her feathered confederates, and then abruptly change direction. But that had to be nonsense. Mules and horses were known to have better instincts for finding good footing than men had, even without the mystical guidance of ducks.

  After a tuft of grass that looked as solid as any in this forsaken bog had sunk underfoot, pitching Kavi hip deep into muddy water, he had been content to let Duckie take the lead. Especially after the sun had set.

  In some ways Kavi was glad to see it go. The sunlight turned the brush-choked marsh into a steam bath, and biting, stinging insects had swarmed over his damp clothes and sweating skin whenever he stopped moving. Sometimes the moths that fed on the mull bushes came to join them, stifling in their numbers, though they didn’t bite or sting. But with the coming of night the insects, like the ducks, retired. The air, though still as warm and soft as water on his skin, was cool enough for him to walk without sweating. And if Kavi could see little of the cluttered ground beneath his feet, well, he was seeing Duckie’s rump just fine, and she was a better guide than his eyes in this treacherous muck.

  Duckie herself, carrying only a light pack that held food and dry clothes, and surrounded by water and a pair of her favorite feathered companions, was perfectly content. Of course, she didn’t know that mules could get swamp fever too, Kavi reflected sourly.

  His feet slipped again, and he swore and clutched a mull bush to keep his balance. A cloud of moths fluttered up and slowly settled.

  The fever was more virulent in the summer too, but Kavi had heard it seldom afflicted those who only stayed in the swamp for a short time. He had no intention of lingering any longer than it would take to deliver his warning, and his plea, and get out. But when he’d heard that the Hrum were sending a new governor to Dugaz, with only a small escort, the opportunity had seemed too good to pass up.

  It seemed like half the night had gone by, but the moon had only covered a small arc of starry sky when Duckie stopped, ears pricked and nostrils flaring. Kavi, coming up beside her, saw campfires crowning a small rise some distance away.

  He neither saw nor heard any sign of a sentry, and if Duckie did, she wasn’t letting on, but Kavi knew they had to be there. Still, no one stopped him as he clambered onto the lower slopes of the rise, leading Duckie, now that they were on higher, firmer ground. He should have found their willingness to admit him reassuring, but it made him nervous instead. Sure, getting in is easy. Getting out may be a different matter entirely.

  “Hello the camp,” he called. The standard travelers greeting.

  “Camp?” The mischievous voice behind him made Kavi jump. “Camp? This is the palace of the swamp lords! And if you doubt me, well, we’re being richer men here than any dwelling in some manor in Setesafon. That I promise you.”

  The man who leaned against the trunk of one of the low trees stepped forward into the moonlight, and perhaps his claim to wealth wasn’t without foundation. The silk vest, bright with embroidery, Kavi had half expected. After all, the famous Farsalan silk, gossamer light, yet strong enough for armor and tents, was produced in these swamps, and spinning and weaving it was Dugaz’ only industry. Well, aside from fleecing the sailors who came into their port, and of course, smuggling. It wasn’t that there was any prohibition against selling Farsalan silk to anyone who wished to buy, but it was supposed to be taxed first.

  No, Kavi had expected silk. But he hadn’t expected the wide gold bracelets that adorned—and protected—the man’s wrists, or the glass inlay on the hilt of his dagger. At least . . . no, surely it was only glass. Glass was expensive enough!

  “Palace of the swamp lords,” Kavi repeated. “Would you be their king, then?” He kept his voice very mild.

  The man grinned. “For the moment, my friend, for the moment. King is a title that comes and goes with distressing speed around here. I’m called Shir. And you would be?
. . .”

  “Rudib, of Dilam,” said Kavi. “But I’m here as a messenger, for someone else.”

  “Messenger.” Shir’s brows climbed. He was dark for a peasant, but he didn’t have a deghan look to him. Fathered by a foreign sailor perhaps. There were many such men in Dugaz. “Folk don’t often send us messengers.”

  He sounded as if a “messenger” was an unusually tasty tidbit, and Kavi sighed. “I’ve a warning you’ll want to hear, but it comes with a favor being asked as well. Which won’t surprise you. Do you want me to say my piece here, or shall we go up to the fire where we can see each other’s faces?”

  Shir threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, we’ll offer you our hospitality, be sure. But first come to the stream and wash a bit—you stink of the swamp.”

  He turned and led the way, and Kavi followed. To his nose everything stank of the swamp, but he wouldn’t mind a chance to be rid of the sticky mud.

  The stream was only about a foot across, splashing down one side of the rise, but the water was clear instead of brackish. Kavi ignored Shir’s critical gaze as he shed his dirty clothes and rinsed them as clean as he could. He knew that at least part of the reason Shir had offered him a chance to wash was to see if he carried any weapons. But as he unpacked a dry shirt, the swamp king reached out and grasped Kavi’s left arm, turning it to the moonlight.

  “What would this be?” His voice, as he gazed at Kavi’s tattoo, was only casually curious—so why was the back of Kavi’s neck prickling?

  “Just a bit of decoration.” Kavi made his own voice casual and commanded his muscles not to tense in Shir’s grip. “It’s common in the lands east of Kadesh, or so I’m told. A merchant talked me into trying it. Swindled me into it I should say, for he got a good knife out of the deal and all I got was this.”