The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (11 page)

Linciard wondered how their old captain Terrant was doing without him, or how Sarovy had pried the man from his grip, because everyone knew the only reason their company ran as well as it did was Benson's hard work.  Certainly it wasn't the backing of headquarters.

“Gejaran, isn't he?” said Linciard, feeling he should participate.  “Are we eating Gejaran food now?”

Benson looked up at him with humorless black eyes.  “We are eating whatever he can cobble together from the supplies the militia didn't steal.  Most of the shops will sell to us, but the mark-up is ridiculous.  I've been trying to hammer out some deals, so, like I was saying, I won't be purchasing anything nonessential until I get the prices down.  Food included.”

“Doesn't that seem a bit unwise?”

“Which do you prefer: a gourmet meal or a solvent operations budget?”

Linciard opened his mouth, then shut it.  They valued Benson because he knew to choose the right answer, not the indulgent one.  “But shouldn't we stockpile?  It's winter.  If we have nothing—“

“It's winter in Illane, not winter in Wyndon.  No ice, no snow.  I'm told they raise their best crop over the cooler months because of the rains, so there will be no shortfalls.  We don't need to fill a longhouse with supplies.”

“That doesn't mean we won't have need.  Just because the merchants are selling now, doesn't mean they'll do it forever.”

“It's Illane.”

“It's—“  Linciard shot a look down the street to the northeast.  Past the fountain, the Civic Plaza was full of civilians in lavish merchant attire or lawyers' robes or sober servants' gear, for it housed not just the garrison but the courts, the council house, the public scribes' offices, the defunct local press, a double dozen shops and services for the militiamen, and the half-empty debtor's jail across the road in Latchyard.  All these city amenities were cupped within a raw stone basin left by the partial collapse of the Old Crown fortress above.  The remaining fortress walls towered fifty feet above the jail-yard and thirty above the garrison's sheltered training ground, with a road rising between them to the plateau where the estates of the merchant-princes and the Lord Governor sat enthroned upon the ancient wreckage.

But that northeast road, called Bargeward Way, led to the river and the bridge and the Shadowland beyond.  No polite price-gougers there, just cultists hunched like spiders in their web, watching.  Plotting.

In his mind's eye, Linciard saw the route to that smoking hole in the ground.  Straight down Bargeward Way, left on Ridge Road, right on Tomcat's Tail.  A quarter-mark on horseback.

He'd been studying the maps and riding out with his patrols—switching between them as the shifts changed, trying to learn the lay of the land.  They'd gone as far as the river on this side, then south to the edge of the district known as Lower Hook and west into Night Fields and the Morass, overall covering the central third of the city.  A quiet, businesslike, evasive area.  Even the youths who threw bricks and bottles at them were quick to disappear up stairs or down alleyways too treacherous for a horse to pass.

He didn't like it.  It reminded him of the woods of northern Wyndon when the bird-calls ceased and the deer fled.  Bigger predators were on the prowl.

“It's a conquest,” he told Benson, stressing each word.  “It's thin ice.  Let's not drown for the weight of our money.”

Benson gave him a sour look.  “So you'd have me lay in winter supplies?  Firewood, I suppose?  Blankets?”

“Are you mocking me, sergeant?”

“I'm soliciting guidance.”

“Food, man.  Food.  Kegs in case someone fouls the well.  Replacement gear—enough for at least a month.”

“For two hundred men?  Lieutenant, we will not be snowed-in.”

He thought about the bars on the insides of the doors.  “Listen, you were in the Jernizan campaign, and the first Illanic, right?  But nothing where we've had to dig in, hold ground.  I have.  We're doing that now, so we should do it right.”

Another long look, less scrutable, then Benson pulled the quill from behind his ear, uncapped a vial of ink and started scribbling in his ledger.

Linciard exhaled and turned his attention back to the men at the fountain.  From his vantage on the garrison steps, he could easily count heads, but seeing faces wasn't as easy.  He wanted to memorize the roster, to be as good as the captain was about knowing the company, but those weren't his lancers; they were from the First Infantry platoon, a veritable sea of short dark Amands and broad blond Wynds.

Sergeant Benson's people and his.  The backbone of the Gold and Crimson Armies.

Rallant was there at one side, overseeing the exercise.  Linciard tried not to look at him.  He wasn't ashamed, no; he just needed to focus on his own work.  Obviously.

On the other side of the plaza, four horses stood bored at the hitch before the council house: the captain's and his bodyguards'.  Linciard wasn't sure why the captain had taken them out, except perhaps to give them some fresh air.  The stables were cramped, made for maybe half of the forty-five Tasgards and three Ten-Skies they now housed.

Thus why Linciard sent out lancer patrols as often as possible.  He had four out right now, half a section each, getting a feel for the city.  His awareness of their routes made him feel like he had phantom limbs—like if he focused hard enough, he could sense them, see through them.

In truth, his only link was to the two corporals who wore earhooks.  His own felt awkward on his ear.  He wasn't supposed to take it off, but he did, constantly, for fear that he'd somehow broadcast his thoughts to the rest of the company.  Scryer Mako hadn't chastised him yet, but he was sure she knew.

Everything made him agitated.  He wished he was back in the ranks, supplying unasked-for opinions and corralling his more combative comrades.  It felt like everyone was watching him now, waiting for him to choke on his own foot or fall on his sword.  And Rallant wasn't helping.

Don't think about him.  Think about names.  That man's Tinsmith, that one's Teppett, that one's Coromant.  Wait, there's two Coromants.  Which one is he?

Piking infantry...

Suddenly he didn't care.  The infantrymen weren't his purview, and anyway his head hurt; it was a bad time to be learning new things.  He needed to stretch his legs, give his horse a run.

“Benson, I'm going out,” he said.  “Gonna join up with Skinner's patrol.”

“You can't, sir.  We have business to go over.”

“I thought we just went over it.”

“Other business.”  Benson flipped his ledger to a later page and said, “Lieutenant Arlin reported that the Jernizen lancers have been harassing his Drixi.  He's been able to keep the Drixi in line but apparently Corporal Vyslin is having trouble reining in the Jernizen.”

Vyslin.
  His former lover's name rang so loud in his head that feared it would trigger the earhook.  By reflex he glanced toward Rallant, but the man was a controller, not a mentalist, and hadn't stirred from watching his troops.  “What, again?” Linciard mustered.  “When did this happen?”

“Earlier, sir.  Shift-change.  While you slept in.”

Linciard winced.  “Arlin's on nights, right?  Vyslin and the Jernizen are on the overlap, so...”

“They should be in the mess-hall, sir.”

“I guess I should talk to them.”

“Yes.”

“Pikes.”

Benson didn't comment.  His silence was enough.  “All right, get on the supplies,” Linciard said irritably, turning to stomp up the steps.  “I'll go do some yelling.”

“Yes sir.”

Stuck between an ex and a zealous place
, he thought. 
Piking Jernizen.  Piking Vyslin.  I should split them up, but who else would take either of them?

No one but me.  Only I'm enough of an idiot.

*****

Captain Sarovy nursed a cup of tea across the table from the Bahlaeran council.  They had opened with sneering pleasantries before ushering him to his solitary seat, behind which his lancer-bodyguards and Scryer Mako stood as a mirror to the councilors' guards: six militiamen, a mage and the Crimson turncoat.

Houndmaster Chelaith, if memory served.

Until now, Chelaith and his platoon had been all that Bahlaer knew of Crimson rule.  Sarovy let his gaze linger on the man, not concerned that the council would take it as a slight; pettiness seemed to rule here, and short of throwing his tea at them or drawing his sword, he doubted he could make things worse.  He had met Chelaith only briefly, when the Lord Governor had tried to bribe and threaten him, but knowing what he did now, he saw more.

A lean man with a narrow, pointed face, yes, and wearing the noxious green Bahlaeran livery with a token Crimson lieutenant's medallion to show his provenance.  But there was a glint of gold beneath the medallion, and while he did not share Houndmaster Vrallek's bulk, he had a feral gleam in his eyes.  When their stares locked, Sarovy felt the same wave of disorientation.

So, a ruengriin among the heretics.  He would have to bring it up with Vrallek.

The others were less interesting.  The mage looked bored; Sarovy had felt his mentalist's probe the moment he entered the room, but Scryer Mako had smacked it down in short order, and with it his apparent interest in the proceedings.  The militiamen were unspectacular, and the four councilors had not changed: the gut-heavy Lord Governor in green velvet and jewels, grizzled Commander Tonner in dress armor, a merchants' guild representative named Narreth who outshone the Lord Governor by sheer number of accessories, and the prim and quite sedate Madam Lirayen, whom Sarovy gathered was a representative of the aristocracy.

Sarovy disliked both the Commander and the Governor, and they had made it clear they felt the same.  The other two were civilians and thus of little consequence, though he appreciated that they listened more than they spoke.  Still, if he'd had his way, he would have ignored the summons.  He did not understand the need for yet another fruitless shouting match.

At least the tea was strong.

“We need the limits of your authority in writing, captain,” nagged the Lord Governor for what felt like the thousandth time.  The rings on his fingers sent scintillations through the room every time he jabbed at the pile of papers.  “Your General may have set you up in our garrison, but he has not presented me with any sort of documentation detailing your purpose, your purview, or even your rank relative to my men.”

“The papers will be delivered once they have been drafted,” said Sarovy calmly.  “For the moment, understand that my authority extends over the whole of the militia—including you, commander.  I do not intend to involve you in my operations, as I would rather you continue your standard policing duties, but if it is necessary, I will take command and deploy you as I see fit.”

It was mostly a bluff.  Field Marshal Rackmar had laughed off his request for a writ of purpose, but bureaucrats, like wolves, sensed weakness and would attack relentlessly if he let on that he had no orders.  The appearance of strength was essential.

“You, a captain, are to command me,” said Commander Tonner doubtfully.  Despite his fancy armor, he had the steely eyes of a career soldier, and the grey that had overrun his beard only gave him more incentive to hold his ground against a usurper.  Sarovy could read the man's contempt in his look—
this city will chew you up and spit you out
—but it did not rankle him.  Privately he suspected Tonner was right.

But orders were orders, and he knew how to handle soldiers.

“As I said, Commander, I am not here to replace you, nor to particularly control you.  I have my own mission against the Shadow Cult.  However, should the call come from my General, I expect your full force at my disposal.  Is that understood?”

Commander Tonner did not blink, did not even narrow his eyes.  “I hear you.”

Which translates to 'in your dreams, interloper'.

Not unexpected.  Not even unwelcome.  It was good to know where he stood with these people.

“But do you have any authority over the civilians?” said Guildsman Narreth, fiddling nervously with a few of his pearl-studded chains.  He looked like a walking frill display, skinny but covered in them from collar to belt like a bird trying to make itself seem bigger, and while some of his jewelry appeared to be chains of office or guild badges or other semi-practical ornaments, the rest were overwrought gewgaws.  He even wore some in his oiled and curled black hair.

Sarovy could hardly bear to look at him.  Just one of his gaudy jewels could have paid a soldier's salary for a year.  But that was the lure of these men—these beady-eyed merchants and petty lords, flaunting their silver and gilt with such abandon.  Scryer Mako had chattered something about 'elected officials' and 'garb of station' earlier, but Sarovy could not fathom it.  All he saw were well-born fools.

“I have authority over civilians inasmuch as your militia does,” he said, trying to focus on the man's flat nose and not his jewelry.  Beneath the glitter and powder, he was plain-looking, loose in the neck—older than he seemed.  “If they behave criminally in our sight, we will arrest them.  If they assault us, we will respond with commensurate force.  However, we are not interested in policing them, and we will not be hunting heretics.  Only the Shadow Cult.”