The Seer King: Book One of the Seer King Trilogy (2 page)

The stands were shouting, some for victory, some wondering what madness the officers had come up with this time, but the two lance-majors chosen to referee the match said nothing. Slowly they rode forward, and the other players rode up with them.

“Sir,” one of them began, “I saw nothing.”

“Nor did I, Captain,” said the other.

“Then you’re damned blind! I say this man fouled me! Are you accusing me of lying?”

“Legate?” one of the lance-majors said.

Perhaps I could have phrased my reply more politely, but I
knew
I hadn’t touched him — in both cases my stroke would have been put off, and I certainly would have felt the blow up the shaft of my hammer.

“The hells I did,” I said, my face no doubt reddening in anger. “The captain is mistaken! He must have struck himself by accident, turning to come after me!”

“I did not, Legate,” and Captain Lanett’s voice was as cold as a mountain stream. “Are you saying I am the liar?”

I started to say what I believed, but caught myself just in time. “I do no such thing, sir,” and I put emphasis on the word. “I know what I did, and I expect every man on this field knows as well.”

The adjutant stared at me, and when he did I swear the shouts of the regiment went mute. He said nothing, but wheeled his horse and rode off toward the stables.

Cheetah Troop had, indeed, taken the day. But the last few seconds had soured that victory. The men of my column congratulated me, but even their praise was muted. It took only seconds for everyone in the Seventeenth Lancers to know what had happened: The regimental adjutant, a man of probity and respect, had accused the newest officer, an unknown legate from a forgotten district, of illegal play and the gods-damned boy had the gall to deny it.

I hoped the incident would be forgotten or at least ignored, and avoided the mess that night. But it was clear by the next morning that my “fouling” of Captain Lanett was the sensation of the hour, and it would be some time before it was forgotten.

Lanett made it worse by refusing to look at or speak to me save when duty directly called, and so the incident grew.

I felt I was in disgrace such as no officer had ever known and, worse, was being treated as unjustly as any man the gods wished to test for moral righteousness. A thousand plans and plots ran across my mind, from the hope that my family’s hearth-god Tanis might reach out and twist Lanett’s soul to make him tell the truth, or that the adjutant might be savaged by the next boar he attempted to spear, and even far less honorable thoughts in the deep of night involving cleverly arranged “accidents.”

It might seem these events are absurd, taken far beyond proportion, which is true. But such affairs of honor are quite common when soldiers are at peace, their minds not fully occupied with their trade. But on the other hand it’s not that foolish — would a merchant hire a young clerk whom another respected colleague has falsely accused of theft?

A soldier, really, has only one possession besides his life, and that is his honor.

I knew not what I could do.

The solution was time, I now realize. Sooner or later another scandal would appear, and mine would move into the background. If I did nothing foolish like desert or strike my superior, there would inevitably come a backswell of support, especially if I carried myself well and gave no cause whatsoever for reproach.

But that is not what happened.

Less than two weeks later, just at the end of the Time of Heat, I was in the riding ring with my column, putting them through yet another round of mounted drill, when I was summoned to the domina’s office.

I was worried — thus far the regiment’s commander had appeared to take no notice of what had happened at the rõl match, and I was trying to convince myself he hadn’t learned of the event. But now … junior legates are
never
called before the domina, except in the event of complete disaster.

I hurriedly changed into my best uniform, and went to the regimental headquarters. The regimental guide, Evatt, ushered me directly into Domina Herstal’s office, and I saw real trouble coming.

There was only one man in the office: Captain Lanett. He sat at the domina’s table, a great slab of cunningly worked teak, and appeared intent on some papers in front of him.

I smashed my fist against my chest in salute and stood at rigid attention. After a long moment, he deigned to look up.

“Legate Damastes á Cimabue,” he began, without preamble, “you are being detached.”

I hope I managed to keep an impassive face, but I doubt it. Shit — no doubt I was being sent to some assignment in limbo, caring for the widows and orphans of lances who’d fallen in the line of duty, or elephant handlers’ school or something else guaranteed to end my career. The bastard adjutant would not let go.

“Sir!” was all I said, however, in spite of my anger and churning guts.

“Do you wish to know where?”

“If the captain wishes to tell me.”

“It’s a plum assignment,” Lanett said, and a smile, not friendly, came and went on his thin lips. “Something most officers would die for.”

I’ll interject a rule here that holds true in all walks of life: The more a task is praised by the one giving it, the more likely it is to be dangerous, thankless, pointless, or all three.

I waited in silence. Captain Lanett began reading from the paper in front of him.

“At the pleasure of the Rule of Ten, you are being detached, together with all lances and warrants of Cheetah Troop, to provide security for the new resident-general of the Border States, also known as the Province of Kait, until ordered otherwise. You are also to function as military adviser and aide to the resident-general, and in any other capacity he deems fit, until you are properly relieved or replaced by either the resident-general or the domina commanding Seventeenth Ureyan Lancers. In addition …”

He went on, but I heard nothing much. He stopped after a few more sentences, and I’m afraid I blurted, “Sir, if I understand you correctly, I’m being put in command of Cheetah Troop?
All
of Cheetah Troop?” I was completely incredulous. One turning of the glass ago I was waiting to be sent into some sort of exile, now I was being given what I would only be able to dream of for at least five, and more like ten, years: command of an entire troop, over 100 lances, a promotion of two full positions! Something was wrong.

“That is correct.”

“May I ask why I was chosen?”

I knew I’d left myself open, and expected a glare and a reprimand from the captain. Instead, he looked down at the desk, as if unwilling to meet my gaze. His tone, though,
was
harsh:

“That was the decision reached by Domina Herstal and me,” he said. “You need not question it.”

“No, sir. But — ”

“If you have questions, you can ask them of Troop Guide Evatt. Your troop is to be ready to ride out, bag and baggage, to Renan, where the resident-general awaits, within two hours. All married men are to be transferred to other troops and replaced by single lances. Dismissed!”

I started to gape like a fish, but caught myself, clapped my hand to my chest, wheeled, and marched out.

Something was
dreadfully
wrong.

Regimental Guide Evatt was — normally — a bluff, paternal man whom a number of new recruits and legates had made the mistake of treating like a kindly and declining grandsire, for which compliment he’d repaid them by verbally removing their hides in small strips and nailing them to the wall of his office. I hadn’t made that mistake, but had treated him as what he was: the conscience, judge, and heart of the regiment. If he had not been a warrant, everyone in the regiment except Domina Herstal would have called him “sir.” In return, I’d been given the compliment of being addressed as he did all officers under the age of fifty, as “young sir,” or “young legate.”

But not this day. He acted a bit diffident, as if he was doing something he knew wrong, and, just like Captain Lanett, had a bit of trouble meeting my eye, and his answers were only a bit less evasive than those of the adjutant.

He told me the orders had been received two hours ago by heliograph. I wondered why I hadn’t been detailed by Domina Herstal himself — detaching one of his prized regiment’s six troops was a big change, and it seemed to me he would want to make sure I was fully instructed.

“He didn’t have the time, Legate. Another matter came up.”

I wondered what other matter, more important, could have occurred, here in our sleepy garrison, at the exact same moment, but didn’t pursue that line.

“Guide Evatt, why me?” I suspect my tone was imploring.

“Because,” the older man said slowly, but mechanically, as if giving a rehearsed answer to an expected question, “the domina feels all new officers should be given command training as early as possible.”

“But into the Border States?”

“There should be no major problems, Legate á Cimabue,” he said. “This is a diplomatic mission, not an expeditionary force.”

“I’ve heard,” I said, “the Men of the Hills don’t bother to find a difference when they have
any
Numantian soldier within bowshot.” I could have also asked if this was expected to be a peaceful task, why the married lances and warrants were to be left behind.

“Legate,” the regimental guide said, “we don’t have time for jawing. The domina wanted you on your way so you can reach Renan within three days. The resident-general and a company of infantry are waiting there.”

That was all I would get from him. I thanked him, trying to sound as insincere as possible, and went for Cheetah Troop’s barracks.

They were a swirl of confusion and obscenity as men uprooted themselves from months and even, in some cases, years of comfort. My own column, which would have been given their orders last, after I’d been summoned, and hence had less time to pack, was swearing more loudly and piteously than the others.

There was a line of carts, bullocks already hitched, drawn up in front of the barracks, and bedding and baggage were cascading in.

Fortunately I would keep Troop Guide Bikaner, both of whose wives had left him to return to their native district for ritual purification some months ago, not to return for at least a year.

He was surrounded by chaos, bellowing orders and looking a bit frantic as a steady stream of thankful- or angry-looking married men left for their new troops, and new and unknown lances wandered or rode in, arms and horses cluttered with their gear.

I grabbed one lance, ordered him to my quarters with instructions to pile everything in the room into the bags under the bed and to have my horses, Lucan and Rabbit, saddled and ready to ride and two pack horses loaded with my gear.

Then I set to helping Troop Guide Bikaner, trying to appear as if I were in command, but actually trying to impede him as little as possible. He’d done such moves many times over the years, and I but once, and that a drill at the lycee.

Surprisingly, in one and one half hours we were drawn up on the parade ground, our wagons — loaded with our possessions and the rations for the journey, plus the attached handful of cooks, smiths, harness makers, sutlers, and quartermasters from Sun Bear Troop, the regiment’s support element — to the rear.

Domina Herstal appeared and, after I called the men to attention, addressed them briefly, saying they were headed for a new, and possibly difficult, duty, and they were to obey Legate á Cimabue as they would him,
following all proper and sensible orders,
a phrase I found a bit unusual. He also advised the men to be careful on the other side of the mountains and bade them all a safe return when their duty was complete.

It was as uninspiring a speech as I’d ever heard.

At its finish, Captain Lanett gave me an oilskin packet with my orders, Domina Herstal took the salute, and we rode out of Mehul Garrison toward Renan.

It had taken me only a day and a half, riding leisurely, to travel from Renan to Mehul. It took the troop three days, pushing hard. Admittedly, the more the men the longer travel takes, but we were further slowed by our baggage and wagons. I was grateful we were not traveling with families and the motley followers that trail an army on the move, but our pace was tedious for cavalry.

I knew something strange had happened, but could not figure what it could be. It was hard worrying at the matter yet still maintaining a cheerful and firm exterior to the men, who certainly weren’t unaware the situation was abnormal. I came up with an acceptable lie, that Domina Herstal no doubt knew of the possibility of this assignment some time ago, but sprang it as a surprise because he wished to find out how prepared the regiment was for a sudden move, such as if war erupted between us and Maisir. That eased the worry, and made the grumbling of “But why is Cheetah Troop so special — couldn’t we stay happy, ordinary swine in the rear ranks and ignored like we were?” louder. Ironically, in view of what came later, I’d come up with my explanation as being the most preposterous, since Numantia and the enormous kingdom of Maisir had been long at peace, and our rivalry was only in trade.

Troop Guide Bikaner looked at me wryly, and so I asked him to ride ahead of the column with me, out of the men’s earshot. I asked him if he had any better theory. He thrice denied doubting what I’d said, as a polite warrant should, but eventually grinned and agreed that yes, things were most out of whack.

“I’ll have t’believe, Domina Herstal was as s’prised by th’ orders as anyone. Whatever’s goin’ on, he’s not parcel to. I’ve known him since he was a captain, an’ there’s not a sly bone to him.”

“I’ll ask you,” I said, deciding utter frankness was the best, “the same question I wanted to ask Captain Lanett and did ask Regimental Guide Evatt, without getting a good answer: Why was I chosen to take command of this troop?”

There was a long silence, with only the whisper of the hot breeze through the roadside trees and the clop of our horses’ hooves.

“I don’t want t’answer that, sir, not knowin’ anything, and havin’ naught but a supposition t’offer, an’ that speaks not well of th’ regiment, an’ worse of our task.”