Sutler's Road, page 12
I sang a verse whose many nouns leveraged well the proximity of so much silver and whose verb needed very little encouragement.
divide mercury flesh blood bone
It was not natural for mercury to combine with the components of a man, and the marvelously-complex verse tore through the Ashmari’s defenses. The mercury exploded free, killing all the bluecoats and royals nearby. All that remained of the pair was their sandals and the tip of one toe.
The captains became vocal and urgent, and at their direction, the rest ran for their lives across the causeway toward the entrance hall.
“Halt!” I ordered. The captains echoed my call.
It was a trap. The workmen I’d seen earlier had rigged the entrance hall to collapse—bring it down as I was crossing the causeway. But all of this was no way to kill me. What was their aim? If they did not want me dead, what could they—
They wanted my mercury as well as my city. They wanted me to flee in desperation to the place where I hid my mercury.
“It is a trap. The faithful are betrayed!” I said loud enough for Hessier, Hemari, and royal to hear. “We must find another way.”
The Hemari withdrew, but a number of the royals continued on.
The sound of the interior columns sheering inward was the crack of an iron whip. The entire hall came down at once, the causeway fell, and a great cloud of dust and debris rose to engulf us.
“Follow me if you want to live,” I said to the senior captain and started back through the palace. The rest were close behind. A tunnel nearby connected the place with the treasury, but I turned away from it and the ambush waiting for us there. I marched us all the way through the palace instead, into the servant’s spaces beneath, and down into the carriageway tunnel that ran beneath the rebuilt Deyalu. Through a heavy door and down another flight of stairs, we reached a foul-smelling pump room.
The royals objected, but the bloody captain would hear no excuses, and we fled into the sewers. He did my work for me until we reached a low and narrow place.
“Beneath the river?” he asked, but did not wait for an answer. We were in danger there, while we waited for the two hundred disorganized royals to file through the wet and narrow passage.
I considered setting an ambush of my own there, but judged it to be too risky. The route through the sewers from the river to the Tanayon was dangerous enough without letting the Ashmari close in on us.
We hurried through those dark tunnels and came up through a clothier’s shop. When we entered the hallway of the deserted administrative building above, we could hear the clamor of a great crowd.
The gardens beyond were on fire. Priests and pikemen fled mobs of untold size. Here and there Hessier struggled back with the rest toward the cathedral, while white light and flames lit one after another.
At the center of a nearby avenue, a group of my Hessier stood their ground, cloaked in darkness. They sent the mobs around them back up the avenue at a cluster of forms near the entrance to the gardens. The Ashmari there withdrew while my Hessier spent the magic they had gathered.
My Hessier were under the influence of a magic—or a lack there of. The Ashmari were leaching away our power by eroding the long centuries of work I had done binding the Shadow to my city. It explained everything. It was not sadness. We were being starved.
The lull that followed lasted only moments. The two crowds separated and Bayen’s priests flooded up the stairs and through the many rows of great iron fences and gates into the many great buildings that surrounded my cathedral.
The pikemen that the Sten’s money had purchased embarrassed themselves as they collided with each other. The Hemari swept in with us did not. The bloody captain and his juniors cleared the terraces before the entrances, closed the iron fences, and kicked the pikemen into position behind them. The handful of Hessier who had made it back to the cathedral did as proper a job, Paij chief amongst them. They overlapped their efforts and purged the Spirit of the Earth from every rock, wall, and person. Inside the Tanayon, we were strong indeed.
The Ashmari-led mobs filled the gardens. We braced for the charge, and I waited for the long drink of so much death.
14
Crown Prince Evand Yentif
I wish I could say that my brigade tore east like lions. I’d authorized my outriders to put a spear in anyone who thought to delay us, but the ground before us defied my will to proceed.
On every map of the Halberdon I’d ever seen, the tithe road flew along the border between the Kaaryon and Urmand and into Berm as straight as an arrow. The men who lived in the sloughs and gullies along the ass-end of the Kaaryon knew what I did not: that every mapmaker’s patron is a craven liar. We were instead stuck headfirst into the vast expanses of what the locals called the Red Maple Swamps, where the tithe road was an uneven embankment of crushed rock that only stopped sinking when then were frozen. And between each low expanses of fern-choked and moss-covered stands of water-steeped maple, the road made its way up onto ridge after ridge of gnarled pines that turned us north or south as much as a half day before surrendering back down into the next stinking stretch.
We endeavored to dash from one ridge to the next, but the territory defied anything but a steady plodding. The onion farmers that lived upon these ridgelines seemed to know this—had perhaps worked to make it so. By the third day of this, we were in the constant company of the sutlers Travijion had described. They formed up behind us, hopeful with each evening that there was something from their wagons we would need. Each new set of swamp dwellers we encountered would happily describe the column of Bluecoats that had ridden past the previous day and then do their best to sell us their garbage.
Sahin was staying just out of reach.
We made camp on the 7th of Spring in the Red Maple Swamps atop a short ridge that had recently been clearcut. Subsequent rains had gouged many deep, narrow gullies in the sandy slopes. It was not a fit place for 2,000 men and horses to find rest, but my brigade made do.
My chief and captains assembled at the top of the plaza when we were tents up. They were debating their favorite topic in full force when I approached.
“Ubroshor’s anxieties about lines of defense are not ancillary,” Captain Grano said to Captains Feseq and Captain Ivinta, “The location and layout of a camp must be expressed in terms that accentuate ocularity. Command must be maintained at all times and the camp must allow for command to move from top to bottom with all swiftness and efficiency.”
Ivinta took the contrary position, regardless of the topic. “Control of the visible as an attempt to preserve ascendancy is a provincial argument,” he replied. “The Hemari guardsman can be trusted into the care of a sergeant and beyond the sight of a captain. A correct camp, like this one, protects what is most important—the horses—and divides itself so that the tasks required for readiness and fitness are never hindered.”
“Gentlemen,” I said, then cleared my throat. I hated the debate. The Ubroshor Manner of Camp provided in Book One of the Manuals of Hemari had not changed since General Ubroshor committed them to vellum. The gathering of captains was a wasteful culture of debate made worse by each successive academy class, and their arguments continued to grow smaller.
Feseq had not heard me. “Nonsense, the both of you. All his many explanations and diagrams argue for the effective exercise of power—in anticipation of its loss. A position of strength can only be achieved by maximizing visibility and the enforcement of a system for the conveyance of information.”
Grano was so worked up by this response he looked ready to throw a punch.
“Sirs, you hinder the design,” I said. “Let me demonstrate your points collectively, for you are all certainly right and are debating nothing. At this moment, I can see with my eyes all the efficiencies and offenses that concerned me. Every horse has had the mud washed from his legs and feet and drying poultices of clay powder and moss have been correctly applied. The supply chain has caught up to us, and the outriders have returned. All but one of my line sergeants have raised tent pennants declaring themselves ready for inspection and review, telling me that the outriders are missing a full troop. Your lieutenants stand ready to our right and our left having completed those reviews and reporting to you. And you stand ready to report to me only those things beyond your individual mandates for command.”
I had to pause there to catch my breath. Six captains took more management then 1,900 guardsmen. The happy fact that Tanner would have returned with the supply train was hard to hold onto.
I said to them, “I am hopeful, gentlemen, that you have come with tales of great feats and fitness. Captain Ivinta, your outriders are short a troop. Explain.”
“One of my lieutenants thought to find a faster way across to the next ridge using a road he saw a sutler using. He is my best. He will return. We have made no sighting of the enemy but have found evidence and account of their passage. We are no more than one day behind them.”
I thanked him but marked all fifteen men down as lost. I knew the sound of unrealistic optimism when I heard it. Scouts were on the working end of any action. Losing a troop meant contact, and that was more meaningful than any plop of horse dung or swamp dweller’s interview.
“Chief, report.”
Okel said, “Nine of the water barrels are tainted.”
I knew the amount we had on hand down to the last cupful, and the subtraction meant we had less than a ten-day supply. I spat a curse, and said, “Put the brigade on three-quarter rations until the barrels are refilled, and find the man responsible for the tainted supply. If he is a civilian, mount him on a pike. If he is Hemari, his captain will administer twenty lashes. Next?”
Okel hesitated before saying, “Ten men are complaining of riding sores.”
Complaints inspired something very near rage. “Take their coats and boots and let them walk home.”
Captain Feseq cleared his throat. I waved him on, and he said, “I’d wager that it is the swamp, sir—the barrels and the complaints. It has a knack for spoiling the best-preserved provisions and making the simplest scratch a deadly wound. I’d consider half rations on the water to guard against further contamination, and I would pay the healer’s price to have the worst cases of sores seen to. Treated early, a healer of his skill could see to thirty cases at a time. I’d wager ten barrels of wine on it.”
Only a fool or proper soldier would countermand a colonel who had just charged another of his juniors for insubordination. The wager was clever—a way for me to withdraw my previous order, as well as a way for him to be rewarded for being right. Ten barrels was no small amount, but a price I was willing to pay to see my brigade safely out of these cursed swamps.
“Fifteen,” I said, to keep it sporting.
“Fifteen, it is.”
“It’s a bet, Captain,” I said. “I leave the complaints of the swamp to you and place the brigade’s healer under your command.”
He saluted me smartly. “Thank you, sir.”
“Anything else?”
Captain Grano said, “The growing collection of camp-followers is proving to be quite a distraction. And there is also someone new in the mix.”
“How so?”
He took a few steps farther into the tent row and pointed. I followed him out and looked down his finger to see a wide wagon that had secured a conspicuous spot for itself just outside of camp. Inside it, a dozen naked women of mixed breeding were making quite a show of pleasing a single naked man. Four of them were fighting over his cock while others kissed his mouth, hands, and feet. The three best looking girls leaned out the back of the wagon beckoning my Hemari to join them while their owner espoused their virtues and his reasonable prices. He wore a sort of priest’s dalmatic, dark colored with red circles on each breast. His hat and beard were also fashioned in a religious style, though the small tusks that sprouted from the round black hat and the braid at the end of his beard were not. His rattle of words sounded something akin to a sermon.
“Is that man a priest?”
“Conservancy,” Grano said. “Appointed by Sikhek, he claims. He showed me proper documents bearing the right marks. His church is in the village of Doctrice, somewhere ahead of us on the road. He says it’s a Bermish village, but the map has it in Urmand. Not sure what to make of him. He requested a word with you.”
“Wants to discuss his girls, of course,” I replied. I considered hanging the miserable excuse for a priest from one of the moss-covered maples. My men would not thank me for it, though—especially as Tanner had her own tent in camp. I waved Captain Feseq over, instead. He knew my mind.
“Add the girls to the healer’s bill?” he asked.
“Yes, rot his eyes. He’ll complain of exhaustion, but be sure each girl gets enough of the blue to keep whatever fever or pox is upon them off the men.”
“What’s in it for the healer? He hates these swamps more than Alsman Herr.”
“He can have one girl of his choice each evening or twenty standards—whichever he prefers. Be sure the sutler isn’t charging anything more than five pieces of tin per go—those girls aren’t worth any more than that. And be sure they stay in the train. His girls are for the brigade only for the duration.”
“The rest of the sutler will be looking to get the same deal.”
“Remind the priest of that when he gripes about the price,” I said, and to the rest, “Anything else?”
They stayed silent, so with salutes we got about our business of putting 2,000 tired, hungry, and filthy men to bed.
Tanner.
I remembered she was back in camp when I saw her tent at the end of the row. I started grinning but bit the insides of my cheeks and steeled myself. My men were in rough shape. I turned my back on her tent and made a slow walk down the rows. There were three rows of sixteen tents on either side of the paddock.
“Colonel on the row,” called the nearest line sergeant as I started down the first. The men poured out of their tents and came to attention. Most had been with me the better part of four years. I greeted many by name.
“Zoviya is watching lads,” I would say. “Almost have ‘em now.” They sounded like banalities to me, despite the positive response. I tried to smile, but knew I was scowling. I told them I’d put a bounty on the mapmakers and road-builders and managed one joke about drinking wine to solve the problem of having too much wine and a second about men of the East confusing their wives with their horses. I had flecks and globs of mud stuck everywhere upon me, same as them, and chastised the occasional lad whose uniform was cleaner than mine.
A few lads held up lengths of straws and would wink or salute me with them—the winners of the first draw for visits to the wagon. I saluted each in reply.
The guards at the top of the camp must have thought me odd when I at last returned, smiling despite the smells and the bugs. I checked myself as I started toward Tanner’s tent at last.
I wasn’t just smiling, I was grinning stupidly. I was already erect. Like a 15-year-old boy—hard from just the thought of her.
The tent was dark and warm from the braziers in the corners. The light of the moon shone through enough for me to see a small chest of clothes and a tray of bread, cheese, and wine. Upon the wide cot in the corner, Tanner had crowded a fortress of blankets around herself. She was snoring, and I found it adorable.
I’d never heard a woman snore before.
I came to a stop there and stared at the mountain of linens. I’d never slept through the night with a woman before her. How bizarre. Paid to leave, not to stay; it was more law than axiom for the Yentif. I’d not even kissed her.
Four days unable to touch or think about her, and standing there, I could not defend myself from the accusation that I loved her.
I laughed out loud, shed my clothes, and found my way across.
Was she still asleep? She’d stopped snoring, but her breathing was regular. I did not want to scare her.
I was too chilled to wait—naked and stupid, still smiling. I eased into the space she’d left for me, slid under the covers, and got close enough to feel her warmth.
This was what a woman was supposed to smell like—warm straw and fresh linen, a heat too, as though she was dreaming of our first kiss.
She woke slowly, and without a word, she rolled into my embrace—our happy anticipation so perfectly realized. Mouths searched, and her kiss was the press of starved flames. We both came alive in a burning wave.
I kissed down her neck and on toward her breasts and was encouraged lower by a stern shove. I found what she wanted me to. She took a long breath, expecting me to move on. It was not something a Yentif did—not something I’d done much of during my years upon the Deyalu, but I decided to stay. My tongue brushed each side of her open beauty, pushed deeply, and I lost track of fingers, tongue, and the rest. Forever I stayed there. Her gasps became frequent, colliding with each other in her pleasure.
“Oh, Bayen above,” she said as her rigid, quaking flesh settled. “Come here,” she begged, and reluctantly I left my post and laid myself down upon her.
The touch of our bodies was like the joining of two sheets of lighting—cracking hunger between every curve of our flesh.
She looked into my eyes and brushed her thumb across my happy mouth. She nodded, and I was there.
I pushed gently into her ready heat while our eyes searched. Happy searching, seeking the soul behind the eyes, studying every fleck and lash.
Deeper.
We gasped together, both still searching with our eyes.
Deeper.
Our soft, delicate smiles were lost to hungry mouths and grasping hands. Deep I stayed—her body wrapped tight all the way up to the thick base of my shaft.
It was a desperate struggle for a moment as we sought a rhythm and a grip that would satisfy. This could not be a girl from Dagoda beneath me. Her smile was happy, her body moved as though she had as little idea of it as I.
