Captain Sendraka had said we’d ride hard for the capital, and he wasn’t exaggerating. I thought I was in decent physical shape, but relearned the lesson that nothing prepares you for hard living except hard living. My ass was sore within half a day, and got sorer.
At the first stop, an inn just at the edge of Agramónte property, one man was left behind, and Marán took his waiting remount.
The skirmishers noted Marán with admiration. She never complained, and when anyone looked at her, no matter how mud-spattered, how weary she was, she forced a smile.
We moved in the regulation forced march pattern: trot for an hour, walk your horse for an hour, walk beside your mount for half an hour, rest for half an hour, then trot once more. Since we were not in hostile territory, we started an hour before dawn, and ended an hour after sunset, more or less. More or less because, in consideration of my rank, each day’s journey ended at an inn, where fresh horses waited. The inns were all outside of a town, and quiet. Since the emperor didn’t want to advertise my coming, we ate in our chambers or in a snug, if the inn had one. At our first stop I saw broadsheets that screamed the reason for the emperor’s summons:
Numantian soldiers massacred!
A Maisirian ambush!
TREACHERY IN THE BORDER LANDS!
NO SURVIVORS!
200 of Our Bravest Cavalry Butchered Without Mercy!
EMPEROR REQUIRES EXPLANATION!
Harsh note sent to King Bairan
NUMANTIA DEMANDS REVENGE!
I scanned the broadsheets for details. There wasn’t much more than what the headlines yammered. One sheet at least told me where the tragedy had occurred: “not far” from the city of Zante. It took some moments for me to remember where Zante was. I’d expected the catastrophe to have taken place in Kait, or the Urshi Highlands, where fighting was common. Zante was leagues to the east of Kait, just across the border from the mostly desert Numantian province of Dumyat. What were our soldiers doing there?
Another question I had was how was it known, if there were no survivors, the killers were Maisirian? All the Border Lands had adequate supplies of homegrown bandits. I guessed imperial sorcery must have given that answer.
Another question came to me: A normally sized troop (not company, as the always inaccurate broadsheets would term it) of cavalry was around a hundred men. This unit must have been specially augmented. I sought in vain to see what unit had been involved in the action. Naturally, the broadsheets either thought this didn’t matter, or their scribes had been too lazy or ignorant to ask the proper questions.
If the facts were slight, the stories running around the inn’s taproom beyond our snug weren’t: Of course the Maisirians had done it … probably tortured any wounded … Someone had it on good authority that the most evil magic had been used to spring the trap … just like Maisirians, treacherous sons of bitches that they were … The emperor ought not to screw around with diplomatic notes but send the army across the border — ten, nay a hundred, for every one of our brave lads … Cheers and set up another round … Probably the same conversation, or more correctly mindless raging, was going on in every inn of Numantia.
I asked Captain Sendraka what he knew of the disaster, and he said very little — his regiment had been alerted after the disaster and he’d been immediately sent to Irrigon.
Marán wondered why I hadn’t been summoned by heliograph, and Sendraka replied that the weather had been too chancy around Nicias to depend on those devices.
“What happens next?” she asked.
“I couldn’t say … but all the first-line regiments were on stand to when I left Nicias,” Sendraka said.
“Will it be war?”
Sendraka shook his head. I didn’t know, either, but feared the worst, and reading my face, Marán knew my thoughts. Then I understood, perhaps, why she’d wanted to come with me. If I was to go to war again, she wanted our love rebuilt, until it flamed as high as it once had, and I loved her for that.
We rode on, and each night heard more anger, more rage, from the people around us. As we drew closer to the capital, we passed army posts. They were at full readiness, gates guarded by squads instead of single sentries, parade grounds alive with drilling men.
We rode into Nicias after nightfall. The streets, as always in the City of Lights, were alive, but there were so many uniformed groups galloping about we went unnoticed.
We went directly to a rear entrance to the Imperial Palace and were met by Emperor Tenedos’s aide, once-Captain, now-Domina Amer Othman. I thanked Captain Sendraka and let Othman lead us through secluded passageways to private apartments.
A lavish meal was already laid out, and beside it was a note from the emperor:
Welcome. Please wait until summoned.
T
As if we had any choice. Marán had gone to the closets, muttering what she’d do about clothes. She opened one and gasped. On the racks hung two dozen of her favorite garments. In cupboards were undergarments and everything else she’d need to appear at court.
Another closet and cabinet held clothes for me: all dress uniforms. I would not be presenting myself as Baron Agramónte.
“How did he know what to pick out?” she wondered, holding up the sleeve of one dress.
“He’s a magician.”
“But he’s also a man,” she protested. “Men never know things like that.”
“Maybe emperor-type men do?”
She just shook her head and went into the bath chamber. I heard the sound of splashing. I lifted dish covers until I found something finger-sized and, munching a small, spiced, meat-filled pastry, wandered around the apartments. All was gold, silver, cut gems, or the richest, hand-rubbed woods. I could have quartered a company of infantry in these rooms, and wondered just how long we’d be kept in seclusion. There were several bookcases, and I examined their contents. Unsurprisingly, all of the volumes dealt with Maisir. There was no doubt whatsoever why the emperor had summoned me.
• • •
We spent four days in these apartments, seeing no one except smiling, faceless servants. We ate, slept, and grew increasingly nervous. Early on the morning of the fifth day Domina Othman requested we be ready for an imperial audience after the noon meal, and for me to wear my medals. At least an hour before they came for us, we were ready. They escorted us to the main entrance of the palace, as if we were just arriving.
Trumpets blared, flunkies clamored our names and ranks, and we entered the great hall, which was packed with the nobility of Numantia. The entrance was on a higher level than the main room, a huge circular chamber on several levels with the throne at the far end. We started down the sweeping staircase. The crowd surged toward us, smiles spread as carefully as facial powder and rouge. Obviously Marán and I were once more in imperial favor. A lackey bellowed an imperial “request” — that our “friends” hold their welcomes until later, for imperial business of the greatest import was about to begin.
The court yammer stilled for an instant, then grew louder and louder as the court speculated on what could be happening. I noted the Maisirian ambassador, Baron Sala, in the throng, waiting with an utterly impenetrable expression.
I saw the emperor’s sisters, Dalny and Leh, one with a handsome, foppish army officer barely out of his teens, the other with a bearded dandy who’d come to the end of four marriages now, each time having improved either his title or wealth. Both women wore black, but their gowns were revealingly cut and suggested the sisters were no more in real mourning for their brother Reufern than if they’d been naked with kohl rubbed on their nipples.
What the broadsheets had termed the “Maisirian Emergency” appeared to have made no impression at all on these fools. I remembered how I’d despised the wastrels who’d buzzed around the Rule of Ten, and realized they now thought the emperor was an even bigger jar of honey. Was this why we’d undertaken treason and overthrown that pack of imbeciles?
Marán leaned close. “If we were brought to Nicias in such secrecy, why this?” she whispered.
I didn’t know, but assumed the Emperor Tenedos, a man of infinite subtlety and deviousness, had a reason. Once again trumpets blared, and this time the fanfare was twice as loud and lasted twice as long. The noblemen and -women, recognizing the voice of their master, stopped chattering in mid-syllable and, as one, turned to the throne. A door opened, and the emperor entered.
Seer Laish Tenedos wore something that might have been a uniform — a simple collarless raw silk tunic in dark green, black flaring riding breeches, and black knee boots, with a matching belt. His crown wasn’t the simple, traditional badge I’d ennobled him with almost nine years earlier. This was new, elaborately figured and worked, with gems of many colors. Perhaps he needed a more ornate symbol, since he’d made Numantia into a greater kingdom.
Perhaps.
He seated himself on the throne, picked up a tall scepter that was also new, and rapped three times. Then he rose, and his voice, magically enlarged, boomed: “You all know of the outrage committed by the Maisirian Army against an innocent party of Numantian soldiers on a routine peacekeeping task well within our claimed borders.
“I told you I sent a sharp note to King Bairan, ruler of Maisir, protesting what his army has done and demanding a full apology and reparations for shedding the blood of our finest young men.
“This morning I received a reply, a response so shocking that I spent some hours considering what I should do. His reply, in essence, mocked me and all Numantia, saying he had no knowledge of any such event, and if something of that nature had occurred, no doubt the response was quite justified, in keeping with the recent warlike posture of Numantia!”
Tenedos’s voice dripped scorn. I saw, but didn’t understand, the shocked expression on Ambassador Sala’s face.
“Warlike posture?” Tenedos cried out. “The man is a villain, a base villain of the worst sort! Time after time I’ve ordered our soldiers to ignore provocation from the Maisirian Army on our borders. I’ve even kept from you, my own people, clear evidence that Maisir has had agents operating within our frontiers and has been agitating and fomenting unrest!
“For this I apologize, and beg understanding, for I wished to prevent turmoil from your own breasts, hoping I could maintain order and peace. But no more. This last outrage pushes our two kingdoms close to confrontation.
“As I thought about what I should do in this matter, I remembered that our finest soldier, the first tribune himself, Damastes á Cimabue, Baron Damastes of Ghazi, Count Agramónte, has recently returned from his estates, and so I summoned him to the palace. We spent some hours discussing the problem and are in full agreement.
“I … we all … wish peace for Numantia. But the shield of peace can only protect when there’s a strong arm, well armored and armed, behind that protection. I’ve therefore commanded our army built up, and for our forces to be ready for any development. Strong times require strong measures.
“I have chosen First Tribune á Cimabue for a special command, a command I cannot at present detail, but which supersedes all other ranks in our army. First Tribune á Cimabue now has call on any unit, any officer, any man for whatever is needed in these extraordinary times.”
I was grateful that the emperor’s first statement had given me a few seconds to mask my face. Now, as the cheering began, no doubt encouraged by the emperor’s toadies in the throng, all I had to do was bow deeply.
“I have prepared a reply to King Bairan’s insolence,” the emperor went on. “It will be given to the Maisirian ambassador within minutes.
“I request Tribune á Cimabue join me in my chambers, since information vital to our strategic position has just been received. That is all!”
Trumpets thundered and the crowd bellowed approval. Tenedos stood watching for a moment, an odd, small smile quirking his lips. Then he pivoted and strode off.
• • •
The door to the emperor’s reception rooms came open, and Baron Sala stalked out, face tight with anger. He saw me, and his expression smoothed into blankness. He didn’t speak, but nodded as he stalked past.
The emperor’s aide rose from behind his desk, but the door opened again, and Tenedos stood there. “Come in, my friend. Come in,” he said, his voice hearty. He closed the door, and indicated a seat, far across the huge room, on a divan. He sat beside me. On the end table was a decanter of brandy and glasses. He toyed with the stopper, then sighed.
“They never tell you about the times when you’d better not drink, do they?” He smiled wryly. “Sometimes I wish I had your discipline and never wished alcohol.”
“It isn’t discipline, sir. To me it tastes like shit.”
He laughed. “I suppose,” he said, “I should apologize for those slight falsehoods out there.”
“You don’t have to apologize for anything.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t, do I? So instead of an apology, would you like an explanation?”
“Gladly.”
“I summoned you at the same time as I sent the note off to King Bairan because I knew his reply would be sharp. It was the only possible response to my message. Actually, we still haven’t received his answer. That was why Baron Sala stormed out of here, after using every diplomatic term for liar.” He shrugged. “Lies in the service of your country are hardly sins. I know what Bairan will say, and I realized I had to provide the masses with an immediate answer.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Peasants have short attention spans,” he said. “Now the people are worked up over what happened. A week goes by, and they maintain their indignation. A week later, there’s less fervor, less ire. Two weeks beyond that, and the matter’s likely forgotten while they babble about the latest scandal from the capital.”
“Cynical, Your Highness.”
“The hells it is. I call that realism.” He stood and began pacing. “Now, for your ears only, here is what happened out there in the Border Lands. I’d become increasingly concerned, because Maisir is settling the lands just on the other side of the border, bringing in farmers and creating new units of those frontier guardians they call the Negaret. Guardians … or scouts for the invasion.
“Maisir attacked a reinforced troop of the Twentieth Heavy Cavalry, which I’ve relocated from Urey. The reinforcements were wagoneers, mapmakers, and so forth, for that district is little known.” That explained the extra men. “They were on direct orders from me, so there was a magical link between us. I sensed something wrong, something to the north, used a Seeing Bowl to search the area, and my senses drew me to the terrible scene.
“My vision showed nothing but bodies. Bodies and the carrion kites picking at them. They’d camped in a hollow near a spring. I don’t know if they were lax, or if their attackers silenced the sentries before they could sound alarm. A few appeared to have wakened, and fought back. They took a heavy toll of the Maisirians, but they were badly outnumbered. The troop was cut down to a man. The wounded were toyed with before being allowed to die. When ‘I’ came on the scene, the soldiers had been dead for two days, perhaps three.
“I used more magic to scan for their murderers. A day’s ride further south, my all-seeing ‘eyes’ found tracks, and followed them across the border, to a Maisirian outpost. Since the bodies had been mutilated, it was obvious the Maisirians were reinforced by native levies from the Men of the Hills.
“I summoned spirits,” the emperor went on, “and caused the bodies of my soldiers to burn with sacred flames. I sent a whirlwind sweeping across the area, so now there is nothing remaining, nothing but endless rolling hills of sand.
“I’ve ordered great sacrifices made to Saionji, and promised even greater, so our soldiers will be treated well on the Wheel and, because of their sacrifice for Numantia, given preferential treatment in their next lives. The men’s families will be granted generous pensions.”
Tenedos stopped, waiting for some response. There wasn’t much I could say, other than to thank him for what he had done. “What happens next?” I asked.
“We wait for King Bairan’s real response,” Tenedos said. “We proceed with building up our army and move toward the Maisirian frontier. If they attack, I assume it’ll be along the traditional trading route, through Kait, down Sulem Pass, into Urey.
“Which brings us to your role. I assume you’ve studied the materials I gave you?”
“Thoroughly, sir.”
“Do you think a war with Maisir is inevitable?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I didn’t find much in the reports to make me think Maisir wants, or wanted anyway, to invade us. At least they didn’t before Bairan inherited the throne.”
“There’s the change I’ve sensed,” Tenedos said. “I’m afraid he’s now seeing our lands as being ready for harvest. Perhaps he still thinks we’re as badly led as in the days of the Rule of Ten.” Tenedos smiled tightly. “If so, he’s misjudged things more than somewhat.”
“What’s Kutulu’s analysis?” I asked.
The emperor’s mood changed. His lips pressed into a thin line and I saw a vein throb at his temple. His eyes caught and held me with his searing gaze. “Kutulu,” he said harshly, “is dealing with other, internal matters. I’ve been using different, perhaps more qualified, people to assist me in understanding what’s happening with Maisir.”
If I hadn’t known the emperor for as long as I had, and hadn’t therefore thought him a friend as well as my master, I would never have pursued the matter.
“What happened with Kutulu, sir? If I may ask?”
“Kutulu presumed,” he said. “I’ll tell you this once, and request you never repeat it. Kutulu is in disfavor, although I assume as time passes, I calm down, and he returns to his senses, he could resume his former importance. I praised the man recently, in private, and said he could have any reward I could offer. He said he wished to be named a tribune.
“The fool!” The emperor’s pacing grew quicker, boot heels slamming against the parquet flooring. “Spies aren’t generals, aren’t tribunes. Not ever!”
I remembered Kutulu looking up at the Water Palace, admiring it, and saying Perhaps, one day, if the emperor decides . . . and not finishing his sentence. At first I thought, The poor bastard. How could he imagine a warden could ever hold the army’s highest rank? Then my foolishness and arrogance vanished. Why not? Hadn’t a magician assumed he could become emperor? Hadn’t I, a subaltern of cavalry, reached the summit? Hadn’t Kutulu served the emperor as well, perhaps better than I? Who would have cared, anyway? Perhaps seven or eight old farts who would’ve muttered about tradition being once again despoiled by the usurper. But who listened to those creaking monsters these days, with the winds of empire blowing fresh?
I thought of defending Kutulu, but caution took me, and I said nothing.
“Now, we have more important matters,” the emperor went on. “We’ll start with your new assignment, the importance of which I was not exaggerating.” An impish grin came. “But I’m not going to tell you what it is.”
“I beg pardon, Your Highness?”
“You heard me clearly. By the way, I’ve changed my mind. Pour me a drink from that other bottle, the one shaped like a rearing demon, over by my desk. In the cabinet below it, you’ll find various mineral waters.”
I obeyed. Tenedos sat down, leg hung over the chair’s arm, and watched, still smiling. I decided I could outwait him, and did.
“You won’t ask, will you?” he said.
“No, sir. I figure you’ll tell me when it’s important for me to know.”
The emperor laughed aloud. “Sometimes I suspect you know me better than I know myself. Do you ever find yourself missing the old days, Damastes? Before we had all the power and gold? Back when we wanted, instead of having?”
“Not really,” I said. “I can’t think of ever wanting to be somewhere, or in some time, other than where I am. Unless it’s really shitty, like Sulem Pass. Then I want to be anywhere.”
“That was horrible,” he said. “But on the other hand, it was glorious. I remember that infantry captain … what was his name?”
“Mellet, sir. I make sacrifice to him, and his men, every year on the anniversary of that last stand.”
I was amazed he could have forgotten Mellet, and the others of the Khurram Light Infantry whose bravery enabled us, and the Numantian civilians we escorted, to escape the doom planned by the Men of the Hills.
“Yes,” Tenedos went on. “I remember him, and all the others, very well. I think it’s well we remember men like him, and even brave beasts like that dying elephant that tried to rally to the trumpet when we first met at Ghazi. For that’s the part of war that makes us all great, worthy to stand proud in front of the gods.”
But I shivered, thinking of bloody times and the black wasteland war dragged across the world. I should have marked what the emperor said, but I merely thought it the romantic words of a man who’d known little of real war, and that almost always victorious. The emperor seemed to want no response, thankfully.
“Yes,” he went on. “Glory still must be sought and won, or men grow lazy, weak, and stupid and are dragged down by those who are stronger and more brutal than they.” The emperor sipped brandy and stared at me. Strangely, I thought he was seeing through me, or seeing me at the head of another great army, caprisoned for battle. I remained silent until the emperor’s reverie came to an end.
“Great times,” he mused. “But there shall be greater ones to come.” He drained his snifter. “I still won’t tell you what your next task shall be. But I’ll tell you who shall. Seek your friend, Tribune Petre. For it’s all, or everything beyond my initial idea, his doing.”
• • •
I’d met Mercia Petre when we were misassigned to the Golden Helms of Nicias. Petre was a completely earnest sort, whose only life and interest was the military, its history and ways. In the long, dull weeks of parade-ground duty, we’d done what many young officers do and dreamily designed our very own army. But then the Seer Tenedos had given us the chance to make it real, and so the trudging, bloated divisions of the past became the swift-striking sabers that slashed into Kallio and ended the civil war.
Petre had been in charge of the dragoons during the war, then, as tribune, was given the nominal duty of commanding the army’s center. But our full forces hadn’t assembled since we’d destroyed Chardin Sher, and so he took charge of reforming the army’s moribund training. To make sure he didn’t stale in his post, Petre made periodic visits to the frontiers on “tours of inspection,” where he threw himself into the heat of the savage little skirmishes as eagerly as any freshly named legate hungry for glory. Somehow he’d taken only the most minor wounds and had become legendary for his luck, just as tribune Le Balafre was known for always winning, but somehow always taking hurt as he did.
I was probably as much a friend as Petre ever allowed himself or wanted. All but one, and I met him on that day. Since the war, we’d both been busy on imperial business and met only half a dozen times, generally in distant, tiny outposts. I’d never been to his house. I imagined it would not be large, for Petre was a man of simple tastes, much more than a bachelor officer’s quarters, probably with a library the size of a lycée’s attached.
Petre’s mansion swept up the side of a hill, in the heights with Nicias’s richest. It was utterly beautiful, a series of sweeping curves, stone with marble facing in gentle hues that never seemed to reach a corner or a straight line. There was nothing stark, nothing harsh. Even the plants in the gardens were soft and tropical. Two smiling men, wearing unobtrusive livery in pale colors, took Lucan’s reins and led him away. A finely dressed woman, about ten years older than I, greeted me, and said Tribune Petre awaited me in the library. The servants, mostly young men, were dressed in the same uniform as the footmen.
The library was big, open, airy, with many skylights and windows between the endless shelves. There were maps aplenty rolled on racks.
At least Petre hadn’t changed. He wore a plain dark gray uniform with no medals, and the sash of rank around his waist was sloppily tied. His uniform looked like standard quartermaster issue, about half a size too big. Also Mercia was barefoot instead of wearing cavalry boots.
“So what am I to do next, then?” I asked. “What scheme have you devised this time? And by the way, you could always offer me something. It’s still brisk out there.”
“Oh,” Petre said. “Oh, yes. Uh … some tea? Yes, we’ll have tea.”
“That would go well,” I said.
Rather than signaling for a servant, Petre went to the door and called. After a time, the door opened and a tray was brought in by a very slim, almost uncannily handsome young officer.
“This is my aide,” Petre said, and perhaps no one but myself would have caught that slight hesitation before the word “aide.”
“Legate Phillack Herton.” He looked at me almost challengingly. If he’d expected to see disapproval, he was sore disappointed. If Herton was more than Petre’s aide, what of it? My province of Cimabue might be backward in some respects, but unlike Nicias it didn’t much care whom one chose to partner with. My only hope was that he made Petre’s life a little less lonely, although I’m not sure that strange man knew the meaning of the word. Herton served tea, then, unbidden, curled catlike on a sofa, eyes intent on Petre.
“You and I are going to create a series of elite divisions,” Petre went on. “I called them strike forces; the emperor decided they’d be named the Imperial Guard, and numbered. There’ll be half a dozen at first, more as we raise the men. They’ll be big units, at least ten thousand men, maybe more.”
He went to a wall and pulled a curtain aside, revealing a chart: two Heavy Cavalry regiments, 1,000 men in each; two Light Cavalry regiments — lancers, 700 men in each; four dragoon regiments — mounted infantry, 1,000 men in each; one regiment of skirmishers, 500 men; one pioneer unit to cut roads, build bridges, etc., 500 men; one of a new unit, what Petre called gallopers — messengers who’d enable the Guard commander to maintain a sort of order in the march and, in battle, to hopefully have some idea of what was going on, 250 men; one unit composed of the quartermasters, farriers, animal nurses, 1,000 men; what I privately called the odds and sods — military warders, bandsmen, heliograph operators, stretcher bearers, chirurgeons, 300–500 men; and finally the command staff. Petre said there’d be at least fifty to a hundred in this unit, and I whistled. He shook his head.
“No. That’s a bit small as it is. The way the Guard will be fought, its commander will need to subordinate all the authority he can, just to keep his mind clear for the greater picture. The staff won’t be standing around admiring its medals for sycophancy.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ve got your Guard unit — call it a corps, perhaps — in my mind. How will this unit be fought? How’ll it operate differently from our present tactics?”
“Not a great deal,” Petre said. “Our cavalry’s already trained to strike for the heart of the enemy. The Guard will only be an extreme version of this. Right now our cavalry can fight ahead of our lines for how long?”
“If they stay mobile, maybe two or three weeks,” I hazarded. “Far less if they’re pinned and brought to static battle.”
“The Guard will fight like that — but if a corps is stopped by a superior force, it’ll be able to continue the attack. The Guard’s objectives will be what the cavalry’s are now — fortresses, commanders, the enemy’s capital — but they’ll be able to stay out, stay moving, longer. Essentially they’ll be an army within themselves, so when we’re fighting on the suebi, they won’t have to worry about when the rest of the army — the quartermasters, the magicians, the bakers — will catch up. If they have to, they can take an enemy city and hold it as their winter quarters, although we can’t allow ourselves to be doomed by campaigning through the Maisirian winter.
“You’ll have noticed,” he added, “no more war elephants. They’re slow, require infinite fodder which the suebi won’t be able to provide, can’t carry that much, can be killed by any infantryman who can dodge their trunks and tusks, and don’t scare anyone but the greenest troops.”
“Good,” I added. “Plus they scare the whey out of horses.”
I studied his chart for many minutes.
“I like it in a number of ways,” I finally said. “I’d add two more units. First archers. Give me, say, five companies, a hundred men apiece. Let them train together, then break them up in detachments to be used wherever necessary.”
“Good,” Petre said, making a note.
“And one other, smaller unit. Magicians. We need battle-trained sorcerers who can feel for the enemy’s magic and lay counterspells and spells of our own.”
Now it was Petre’s turn for surprise. “And what god is going to teach magicians to get along with each other for a common good?” he said skeptically. “Aharhel? He can talk to kings, but I think sorcerers would be beyond his capabilities.”
“The god will be Emperor Tenedos,” I said flatly. “If he can bring you and me to battle, then he can damned well horsewhip his brethren into the same harness.”
“It’s a good idea,” Petre said. “And I’ll very cheerfully leave that to the emperor, as you suggest. What problems do you see?”
“First,” I said, “it’ll take time to train these units if they’ve got to be able to fight in great bodies, and we’ll have to have a lot of space to practice in.”
“The emperor is already building training camps in Amur,” Petre said. “Room there to maneuver whole armies.”
That province was secluded, barren, yet close to the Latane River for swift communication with Nicias. The gold our army would spend there would be welcome.
“What about time?”
Petre shrugged. “As soon as you tell the emperor you’re ready to implement my — I mean his idea there’ll be a decree issued and we’ll send men, each corps’s future cadre, to every post looking for volunteers. If we can’t get enough of them fast enough, or if we get stuck with slackers, then we’ll use an imperial edict to draft the troops we need.”
I thought again, then nodded. “Maybe your idea takes away some of the worry I’ve had about all those leagues and leagues of Maisir.”
“There’s only one real problem remaining,” Petre said, and I thought I caught a flash of amusement in his eyes. “We’ll need some sort of uniform for them. I suppose you’ll find the time to design something?”
I looked at him hard, but his gaze was innocent. Herton was examining a nearby tapestry. I’d achieved a certain amount of … well, I suppose notoriety is the word, for my rather flamboyant taste. Marán had designed some; sometimes I’d had an idea of my own.
“Is that joke yours?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Petre said. “The emperor came up with it, and when he finished laughing he ordered me to repeat it — exactly — to you.”
“Thanks, Mercia,” I said. “Maybe first I’ll ask his permission to redesign the battle garb of my fellow tribunes. Something in reds and greens. Floor-length robes. In velvet.”
• • •
Marán and I didn’t return to the Water Palace, but to our own mansion on the riverfront, five stories that could have served as a blockhouse. I had no time to worry about the Tovieti, so I ordered my reformed Red Lancers to be quartered in the mansion, using two ballrooms for the men. There were more than enough disused rooms for the officers. Marán, by now, had become quite used to having soldiers garrisoned in our home. At least, she said, this place was big enough so we could keep them on the first floor and have the upper stories to ourselves.
Then Mercia and I set to work building an army for the emperor for the second time.
• • •
“Ah,” Kutulu said, showing a trace of surprise, “this is a true turnabout. I visit you when you’re in disgrace, now you have done the same. You are a friend.” He picked up a box of the omnipresent yellow cards I thought he had every citizen of Numantia logged on, and was about to set it on the floor of his tiny, cluttered office. He plucked one card from the box first, though. “I must remember to deal with that man,” he muttered to himself. “I doubt, though, if your visit is completely social,” he added.
Actually, it was mostly that. I had a couple of questions, but didn’t know how to tell Kutulu that, yes indeed, I remembered when he’d come to call some time earlier, and how it had heartened me.
“I wanted to know,” I said, “if you’d been able to find any hard links between the Tovieti and Maisir.”
“None, which is another reason for imperial ire.”
Quite suddenly the small man’s face twisted, and his lips worked. I was reminded of friends whose loves had betrayed them, and how they could be unexpectedly reminded of the catastrophe and their control would shatter. Tenedos had been the sun, moon, and stars to Kutulu, and to be in eclipse must have been as awful as any ruined love affair.
I looked away, then back, and the warder regained his rigid control. “My apologies. Perhaps I’m overworked.” Kutulu’s life was nothing but work, but I nodded yes, so it must be.
“Speaking of the Tovieti,” I said, slightly changing the subject, “what wainscoting are those rats wandering in? Or are they no longer your responsibility?”
“I’m still pursuing them, and every now and then I trap one or two. I think they’re getting larger — there’s more and more signs of them. But I’ve still been unable to find their leaders, their central organization. Perhaps the emperor is right. Perhaps I’m working beyond my capabilities.”
“I doubt that,” I reassured him. “Come on, man. You told me the emperor would come back to his senses about me, and so it happened. Don’t you think he’ll do the same for you? He just has many things to worry about now. Particularly Maisir.”
Kutulu began to say something, but caught himself.
“Yes?”
“Never mind,” he said. “What I was about to say might be taken as disloyalty.” I snorted disbelief. “I thought once,” he said, in a very low tone, “that I could serve two masters. It appears I was wrong.”
“You puzzle me.”
“I should say no more, but I’ll add that I became a warder because I wanted to serve the truth. Perhaps I made it my first god.”
I had a sudden inkling of what Kutulu’s mysterious words might mean, and did not want to pursue the matter. “Back to the Tovieti. Have you heard of this phenomenon called the ‘Broken Men'?”
“I have,” Kutulu said. “Numantia’s always had a problem with the landless, called by assorted names. I suppose any country with a rigid system of place will have the equivalent.
“It worries me, though, that they’re on the increase. And I’ve picked up some linkage between these drifters and the Tovieti.”
“Should we be worried?”
“You shouldn’t,” Kutulu said. “I should, just as I worry about anything that threatens the stability of Numantia. As you said, rats in the wainscoting.”
“Another question,” I said. “Should I still consider myself a target of the stranglers?”
“Absolutely,” Kutulu said. “Especially with the emperor having named you to command his Imperial Guard.”
“You may be in disgrace, but it appears your ears aren’t stopped,” I said.
“Of course not,” Kutulu said. “I’m not dead.”
“Good. I think your talents will be needed in the near future.” I stood up. “My real purpose in coming was to convey an invitation from my wife to dine with us, perhaps tomorrow night?”
Kutulu looked amazed, and I wondered if anyone had ever asked him to a completely social event. “Well … I normally work late … No. Never mind. Of course I’ll be there. At what hour?”
“Two hours after sunset would be ideal.”
• • •
Our driveway was filled with a dozen or more expensive carriages. On one I saw the Agramónte coat of arms. Wondering what this portended, I tossed Rabbit’s reins to Karjan and hurried inside.
My new majordomo met me at the door. Marán’s brother and some fourteen other noblemen were in the upstairs library, waiting. I shed my cloak, helmet, and sword and went to meet them in the circular meeting room.
Praen, Marán’s oldest brother, stood just inside the entrance. It was sometimes hard to believe this big, bluff man was related to my delicate wife, or rather that she was a true Agramónte, since Praen and her brother Mamin looked exactly like their late father.
The other men in the room were older than Praen, but they were all of his class: well-fed, richly dressed countrymen of power and confidence.
Marán was the only woman present. I kissed her cheek and raised a curious eyebrow about what was going on.
“I’m sorry, Damastes,” she said. “But Praen sent me a note only this morning, after you’d left for the Palace of War. I sent a messenger, but he couldn’t find you.”
“I had some problems to deal with outside the palace,” I explained.
“Praen said it was very important for him, and these other gentlemen, to meet with you as soon as possible,” Marán said. “I told him you generally arrived home around this time, and the best I could suggest was that he could wait. He’s told me what it’s about, and I agree that it’s very, very important.”
I turned to Praen. “You are welcome in our house, as always. Some of these gentlemen I don’t know. Would you do the honors?”
Praen introduced me around. Count this, Baron that, Lord this, and so on. Some were old riches, some new. I knew most by title. They were rural, very conservative in their beliefs, among the last to give the emperor’s new reign more than lip service. I noticed few were drinking, although there were decanters and bottles aplenty.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “I know you’re all quite busy, so please let me know how I might be of service. We needn’t bother with niceties.”
“Would you ask your servants to leave the room, please,” Praen requested. I obeyed.
One man, Lord Drumceat, stood, holding a leather saddlebag. He took four small icons from it and positioned them at equidistant parts of the round chamber. “My seer enchanted these this morning,” he said. “Supposedly they should keep anyone, even the emperor’s Chare Brethren, from being able to overhear what we discuss.”
I felt a flicker of alarm — these men weren’t about to propose anything the emperor would disapprove of, were they?
Praen cleared his throat. “What we’ve come to discuss, Damastes, is a serious problem for Numantia. These are perilous times, and we think we might be able to help the emperor, who’s terribly busy with other matters.”
I said nothing.
“Have you heard of the landless ones?” he asked. “They’ve got various names, but around Irrigon they’re called the Broken Men.”
“I saw two when I last traveled to Irrigon.”
“There’s always been a problem with the bastards,” someone said. “People who know no law, no gods. Escaped slaves, a lot of them.”
“The count’s right,” Praen said. “And it’s getting worse. They’re not content to huddle in their warrens and thickets. Now they’re setting themselves up as bandits, in armed bands.”
“The shit-heels had the temerity to seize one of my villages,” another nobleman said. “Rousted out two of my overseers, put their houses to the torch, and told ‘em they’d have but a day to flee or they’d be for the flames, too.”
There was an angry mutter around the room.
“It’s common knowledge,” Praen said, “that the emperor’s concerned about … well, let’s say external matters. But something’s got to be done about these damned criminals, and done immediately. Let the rabble get the idea they can rise above their station, and Umar himself can’t bring them to their senses.”
“Like what happened ten years ago,” another lord said. “With those damned Toveeti or whatever they called themselves.”
“You know about them better than any of us, Damastes,” Praen said. “You … and the emperor … put them down.”
“There were some others involved,” I said dryly.
“But you were at the heart of the affair,” Praen said. “That’s why we came to consult with you.”
“I still don’t know what you want me to do,” I said.
“Nothing at all, sir,” Drumceat said. “But you’re the First Tribune. We want you to know what we’re proposing, and would like for you, when the time seems appropriate, to explain matters to the emperor.”
“I’m listening.”
“What happens if one of these Broken Men is caught on our lands?” Praen said. “Generally he’s just driven on, or perhaps taken to the nearest town, and the local magistrate deals with him.”
“Which is generally no more’n a taste of the whip, if that, and he’s hounded on to the next village, and then the next,” a man grumbled. “Steals a chicken here, guts a calf there, maybe finds a back door unlocked somewhere else. Sooner or later, he’ll run into a maiden, or a child — and what happens then? I say,” the man went on, “these people, although they’re more beasts, should be dealt with early on, and swiftly.”
“Yes,” Praen said, his face coloring with excitement. “Swiftly is the catchword. For our loyal villagers see these sons of bitches, and if nothing happens to them, why, they think how interestin', being able to live a life with no duties, taking what you want when you want it, and never a thought for the plow or the hoe. We propose, Damastes, to deal with these men, and their equally monstrous women, as they should be dealt with, the minute they’re found on our lands.”
“Without involving the law?”
“Law,” Drumceat snapped. “We know the law, the real law, better than any yokel of a magistrate with sheepshit on his sandals. Hells, Tribune, look around. We are the law of Numantia, really. Just as we’re the backbone of the country itself.”
There was a rumble of agreement. I looked at Marán. Her lips were pursed, and she nodded slightly, evidently in accord.
“Let’s see if I understand,” I said, feeling my pulse start to beat harder. “You want to set up what, private warders? Where would the men come from?”
“We’d use our best, most loyal retainers. Men who aren’t afraid of direct action. If we need more, well, there’re enough men out there who’ve been ex-soldiers we could hire, men who know how to obey orders.”
“All right,” I said. “What happens when your warders find one, or a dozen, of these Broken Men?”
“We search them,” Praen said. “If we find anything stolen, or if there’s been complaints in the district, we deal with them then and there.”
“Even if they’ve got nothing,” another man snapped, “we drive ‘em away from settled lands. Into the wastes, where they belong. Let ‘em stay there and breed, or die, or whatever they want, away from us, and away from our peasants we’re sworn to protect.”
“And the law — the warders, the magistrates — they won’t enter into this?”
“We don’t need them!” Praen snapped. There were a couple of half shouts of agreement.
I sought Marán’s face, but couldn’t read it. I waited for a few moments, out of simple politeness, for I could make but one reply.
“Gentlemen,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “Thank you for keeping your proposal brief. I’ll be equally polite. Numantia is a kingdom of laws. When those are ignored by anyone, a ‘Broken Man’ or a count, we have anarchy.”
Of course what I was saying was somewhat foolish, since I was hardly innocent enough to think a slave or peasant ever receives the same justice as a nobleman.
“Let me put things simply,” I went on. “There shall not be any of these ‘warders’ allowed on any lands I am responsible for. If any intrude, I shall take all of them, and those who command them, into custody. I will take these prisoners to the nearest magistrate and prefer charges against all of them, charges they’ve violated imperial justice and committed low treason, which the law punishes most severely.
“I will not report what went on at this meeting to the emperor. As you said, he has more than enough on his table at present. At least, I shall do nothing unless I am forced by circumstances to take action.
“That is all I have to say, or want to say, on this absurd matter, and I advise you to forget about this idea, for your own sakes. I thank you for thinking of me, and wish you well.”
I swept the room with my eyes, willing anyone to stand, to meet my eyes. Praen did, for an instant, then looked away. Only Marán gazed back calmly. In silence, the men rose, were given their coats, and left. Praen was the last to go. He looked at me, as if he wished to say something, then went out.
Marán had not moved. I waited for her to say something. Long moments passed, but all she did was stare, expression unreadable. Finally she rose and walked out. I felt a sudden chill, and a feeling that this house was not mine, at least not this night.
I returned to the Palace of War, ate a bowl of soup in the guard room, and slept on my office cot.
• • •
The next day, it was as if the meeting had never happened, at least from the way Marán behaved.
That night, Kutulu came for dinner. Instead of coming on horseback, he arrived in a coach. I don’t know how it was outfitted within, but from the outside it looked like just another prisoner transport carriage.
Marán had thought she might play matchmaker and had invited one of her acquaintances, a very pretty blond froth-head named Bridei dKeu. But Bridei, usually a great babbler of cheery nonsense, seemed struck with terror in the presence of the Serpent Who Never Sleeps, and he took little more notice of her than one of the servants.
Marán and I tried to keep the conversation going, but it wasn’t until I thought of talking about crime that Kutulu warmed up. He told us about some cases he was familiar with. He wasn’t a storyteller, but rather a reciter of cold facts, as if testifying in a law court. Thank Tanis we’d finished dinner before he began, for his stories were utterly compelling, if for no other reason than that they were of the bloodiest and most subtle murders.
Marán and Bridei drank a little too much wine as they listened, and Kutulu himself had two glasses. He was no more a drinker than I, for the drink had an instant effect on him, bringing color to his sallow cheeks and further unloosening his tongue.
Suddenly he stopped. “It is late,” he said, “and I have much work on the morrow. I shall leave.”
Bridei said she, too, must be going. Their carriages were brought around. Bridei started toward hers, then stopped. “Oh dear,” she said to her man. “I promised Camlann I’d stop by after dinner, but it’s far too late for that. Kutulu, could I trouble you to take me home, while I send my carriage to my lady friend’s house to offer my apologies?”
“Ummm … yes. Of course,” Kutulu said.
Bridei turned to her coach driver. “Very well. Tell Camlann I’ll be sure to stop by tomorrow. Then return home.”
The coachman looked utterly bewildered, as if hearing all this for the first time, then nodded. “Yes, Lady dKeu. Certainly.”
Bridei went to Kutulu’s coach, and waited. It took a moment, but then he realized what she was waiting for, held out his hand, and helped her into the carriage. He was about to follow her, but stopped.
“Thank you, Countess Agramónte.”
“Remember, I’m Marán?”
“Yes,” he said. “Marán. A very pretty name for a very pretty woman.”
I was astonished.
“Damastes, my friend,” he went on. “Let me give you something to think on. Something you might find useful in time to come. You remember what happened at Zante?”
Of course I did — the massacre of the imperial cavalry.
“Let me give you something to think on,” he said. “I must be most circuitous. It was said, you’ll recall, the incident in question happened ‘near’ Zante? ‘Near’ was not quite how it was put in the first reports,” he went on. “It was, in fact, more than ten days’ travel south of that city.”
He didn’t wait for a response, but stepped into the carriage, and without waiting for orders, his driver tapped his reins and the coach pulled away.
“What was that about?” Marán wanted to know.
I wasn’t sure.
She shrugged and turned to look after Kutulu’s carriage. “I thought I was a failure,” she said. “But … do you think bloody murder is the way to Bridei’s heart?”
I put what Kutulu had told me aside for the moment. “I don’t know if it was her heart that was taken,” I said.
“Thank Jaen she can’t keep a secret,” my wife said. “For Kutulu will never tell us what happens between now and dawn.”
Marán started giggling and took my arm, and we started inside. “What tale do you think it was that so excited her? The one about the woman who poisoned three husbands and then her lover? Or the ax that seemed to have a life of its own?”
“More likely the poor bastard who was beaten to death with his own dildo.”
She laughed. “Well, I’m not at all aroused. But if you’d care to come upstairs with me, perhaps we could remedy the situation.”
“Gladly, my love. But give me five minutes first.”
We kissed, and she started up the stairs. Normally I would have watched her buttocks bob as she went, but my mind was elsewhere. I hurried to my library, unrolled a map, and sought far south and east from Nicias until I found Zante, deep in the Border Lands. I held fingers together, approximately the distance a cavalry troop would travel in a day, then moved them ten times that farther south. Cold shock ran through me. I checked my estimates against the map’s scale. Ten days’ journey south from Zante was well across the border into Maisir!
What in the name of all the gods was a Numantian patrol doing violating the border accords? The Maisirians had been well within their rights to attack them.
What was going on in those wastelands? Why was Tenedos lying to everyone, including me?
• • •
Another question that wasn’t answered was what happened between Bridei and Kutulu. All the woman would tell Marán was that she was very, very glad she’d come to dinner.
Two days later I put the last orders for the establishment of the Imperial Guard in the emperor’s hand.
Numantia took one more step toward war.