The Warrior's Tale (3 page)

The sweet strings of a lyre coaxed me out of my reverie. It was Omyere - who'd left my side unnoticed - and was now sitting on a stool by the shrine playing that wonderful instrument of hers. She looked at me across the others as she played, and began to sing a
gentle
song I knew was meant for me. I saw the soft fall of her red hair - as bright red as Amalric's - and thought my brother a lucky man to find such a woman. I had a lover once, I thought, who'd touched me like Omyere must touch my brother. Not Tries - but Otara, she of the throaty laugh, soft arms, and fingers that could stroke the demons from my head. She was my lover for many years before she died and I suppose in many ways she'd replaced my mother.

Forgive me, if I weep, Scribe. But do not smirk, as if to say that is the nature of a woman. If you dare do such a thing - or even think it-I'll forget my vow and you'll not leave this room to smirk at another. Otara is close to my heart, and when I swore I'd speak only the truth, I knew very well I'd have to reveal things that are against my nature to uncover. There may be more weeping before this book is done - so beware, lest some of the tears that fall become yours. Now, let me wipe my eyes and gather my thoughts
...

As Omyere sang, I mourned Otara - just as she'd meant. The song changed and I felt cleansed. The lyre took up a playful tune. It made me think of my mother's laugh and I reflexively looked at the shrine. I watched the water running along the moss that clung to the stone and imagined the shape formed by moss, water and rose-petal shadows to be my mother's face. It seemed to come alive and I saw her eyes open and her lips move. There was the heady scent of sandalwood - my mother's favourite perfume. I felt a warm hand touch my neck and thought I heard a whisper - my mother's voice. It was so low I couldn't make out what she said, but I knew if I listened closer I could hear quite easily. I think I became afraid
...
Actually, I'm sure of it, for I suddenly thought, This is nonsense. It's the hangover still at work. Your mother was an ordinary mortal, like yourself. Certainly not the kind to play at ghosts. I snatched my head back, and the whisper broke off. The scent was gone and when I looked at the shrine, so was the face. Omyere had stopped playing. I saw her frown, and shake her head. I felt like I'd missed something very important - and the loss was painful.

Then all thoughts of loss, lovers and ghosts vanished in a thundering of hooves outside the villa walls. Amalric was back from the Evocators' Palace.

He'd returned with news that war had been declared. The remainder of my mother's feast day collapsed in a babble of fright and excitement. Every citizen of Orissa was expected to gather at the Great Amphitheatre that night to hear the public announcement, undoubtedly to be accompanied by various morale-boosting displays.

My brother soothed everyone as best he could and tried to keep his temper as they deluged him with stupid questions: how long did he think the war would last; what kind of financial suffering did the family face; what goods did he think would become scarce, so they could begin their hoarding now with an eye to black-marketeering in the future. Although Amalric is the youngest of my father's children, he's the unquestioned head of family. My father had wisely passed over my other brothers - all as weak and lazy as they were foolish - to bequeath his merchant empire to Amalric. Obviously, a lot of jealousy and hard feelings were stirred up, but my brother's force of personality, plus his fame as the discoverer of the Far Kingdoms, kept the weasels cowed in their dens. Eventually, he caught my eye and motioned to meet him in his study. Then he shooed them all home with reminders to attend the great meeting.

As I took a seat near his writing desk a few minutes later, I could see from the grim set of his mouth and high colour of his skin, there was more news than just the declaration of war.

'What are you hiding, Brother dear?' I asked. 'Go ahead
...
tell me the worst.'

He laughed, but the sound was harsh. 'I can't ever keep anything from you, can I, Big Sister?'

'It comes from long practice, my dear,' I replied. 'Before you became a grown man and such a - dare I say it -
responsible
sort, I caught you with lizards in your pockets, and a little later, doxies in your bed.'

My brother had been so young when our mother died, I'd practically raised him. We'd always been close, sharing secrets we'd never dream of mentioning even to our loved ones.

'So, out with it, Amalric,' I said. 'Tell your wise sister what those fools at the palace are in such a panic about.'

Amalric made a wry grin. 'Even though we have had plenty of notice,' he said, 'our troops are hardly prepared for a real war.'

'That goes without saying,' I replied. 'Although
my
women are ready enough. We've doubled our training schedule and have remained on full alert since we heard the first rattlings of Lycanthians' swords. I've even, without orders, put extra rec
ruiters out around the girls' ly
cees and marketplaces, paying their expenses from one of my discretionary funds, for which initiative I could probably be relieved.'

My undisguised tone alerted him to my bitter feelings. He gave me an odd look, then moved on.

'Well, the rest of our troops will be doing the same now,' he said. 'Especially after the Magistrates were done spanking our incompetent commanders.'

'They'll be up to the mark, soon enough,' I said, grudgingly admitting my brother soldiers were not totally without worth. 'Which means that problem will be quickly solved and everyone knows it. So if the Magistrates and Evocators are still shitting their breeches, then the trouble must be
really
big.'

Amalric sighed. 'It's magical in nature,' he said.

'I should have known,' I replied. 'But they're all panicky fools. Haven't they any faith in their own spells? Or have they been lazing about and ignoring the secrets you brought back from Irayas?'

'Of course not. But the Archons have been hard at work, too,' Amalric said. 'And it seems they got more dark knowledge from Prince Raveline than we suspected. Our Evocators fear they'll match us spell for spell. Look at that damned wall they restored across the peninsula. One of the Evocators told me no one in the palace, even Gamelan, could cast a spell like that overnight.'

'Who cares?' I scoffed. 'In the end, hard steel always decides a fight. So their Archons have worked up some new spells to protect them from our weapons? That'll mean
our
wizards will find a counterspell, and so on and so forth, until finally it's up to us common soldiers to win the old-fashioned way - with blades, axes, clubs and bows. Don't worry. We've always beaten them in the past. Magic isn't going to change anything.'

'Normally, I'd agree,' Amalric said. 'For I learned as much about magic in battle from Janos Greycloak. He might have been a great sorcerer, but he was always a practical-minded warrior first.'

He poured himself a goblet of wine. I waved him off when he offered me some and took some cold water instead.

'This time, however,' he continued, 'there are foul tales of some terrible weapon the Archons are working up. I know rumours are more plentiful than beetles in pigswill when war threatens. However, Gamelan reports strange disturbances in the magical ethers, which leads him to lend credence to the whispers.'

I was silent. Gamelan was not only the Chief Evocator - and our most powerful wizard - but an old man who had seen much and was noted for his cool appraisal. If Gamelan was worried, there was good cause to fear.

'What else?' I asked, for I sensed more bad news.

'The Archons are trying to win favour with King Domas,' my brother said. 'He is a cunning monarch, so I doubt they'll have much success. Unless
...
they convince him our cause is hopeless. Then he'll do the same as any sensible ruler - he'll support the apparent victor.'

If that happened, we didn't stand a chance. The Far Kingdoms are superior to us all in the practice of magic. They were our allies, thanks to Amalric. But would they remain so?

'We'll just have to face that when it comes,' I said, returning to the safety of fatalism. 'If it comes at all.'

'Preventing it will be my sole labour until the war is over,' my brother said. 'The Magistrates have ordered me to Irayas. I'm to keep King Domas sweet for the duration.'

I didn't have to look at his gloomy face to know this was upsetting. He would not only miss the fight, but would be forced to live among strangers for as many years as the war took.

'When do you leave?' I asked.

'In a few days,' he said. 'As soon as I get my things together and a ship is readied.'

Both of us considered what the future might hold. My own thinking was there was little time for my brother to help me in my own task.

'Before you go,' I said, 'I want you to speak to the Magistrates. Every person is going to be needed for this fight. The Maranon Guard
must
not be kept home!'

Amalric shook his head. 'I already brought the subject up,' he said. 'And despite all my arguments
...
it was rejected.'

My heart plunged. I was stunned to have lost so quickly.

'But, why?' I cried, although - as I said before -
I
knew the answer.

'The usual reasons,' he said. 'I listened to their tired old quarrel for hours.'

'Let me list them,' I said, my temper barely under control. 'The gods made women
gentle
, and it's unnatural for them to be warriors; we aren't strong or hardy enough to take the field; our moods are controlled by our monthlies; we have no reasoning powers, but are victims of casual fancy; male soldiers wouldn't trust us to fight by their sides; or, they'd be too protective, putting their own lives and the mission at risk; we, their daughters, would become whores, since it's a well-known fact women have no control over their base natures and will fuck every man in sight; and, if we are captured, the enemy will rape us, demeaning the Manhood of Orissa.'

'I don't think you have missed one,' my brother said, drily. 'The last reason drew the most heated comments.'

'Oh, lizard shit!' I said.

'My feelings,
exactly
,' Amalric said. 'Although my replies were not so colourful, or to the point. Plus, there is one thing I have not mentioned as yet. General Jinnah will be named to head the expeditionary force. It was he, in fact, who was the most vociferous in opposing the deployment of the Guard.'

My anger found new heights. Jinnah as Supreme Commander! That surprised me, but shouldn't have. Jinnah was one of those soldiers a country at peace spawns like a compost heap breeds maggots. They're all of a type: coming from the proper family; educated in the proper lyceums; serving in exactly the right post at
exactly
the right time as they rise in rank; able to speak well to their superiors; calm yet resolute to politicians; almost always handsome and grave, the very image of what a leader should look like; and never touched by scandal. In time of war, all of these pluses become fatal defects: their families and teachers will not have allowed an original idea or person to cross the threshold for generations; their kowtowing to their overlords proves a mockery since they believe their superiors to be even more stupid than they are; in frustration they take out their anger by treating their underlings with arrogance and disdain. Finally they've avoided scandal by never doing
anything
unless they had to, and only then if there was a culpable subordinate to blame should things go awry. As for their cultured looks - I've never known a handsome face to turn aside a spear thrust.

In short, I felt General Jinnah to be an exact mirror of everything that was wrong with the Orissan Army, as it dreamed through the long years of peace.

I'd never run afoul of the man, although once in manoeuvres, when we were detailed off as the mock-enemy, I'd sent my Guard into 'battle' using irregular tactics that not only 'destroyed' his forward elements, but made a shambles of bis most-precise, most-absurd timetables. Not that a direct confrontation would have been necessary for him to oppose me thus - Jinnah was well known as a fanatic foe of anything that smacked of the new or original, not unlike our city fathers.

My anger fled, and I was left with nothing but despair. Tears blurred my vision, although not one fell. I heard Amalric rise, and in a moment he had a comforting arm about me.

'Don't say you're sorry,' I snarled, 'or I'll lose whatever dignity I have left.'

My warning was unnecessary. Amalric knew me too well to say a word. But I didn't shake off his arm. I badly needed the steadiness of his loving touch.

I thought of that moment in the grove when I saw my mother's face on the shrine, smelled the sandalwood perfume, and heard the indecipherable whisper. Why had I rejected her? Why had I turned away? Because, I chided myself, there
was
no ghost. You were only being weak - because of the hangover. You imagined it. But a part of me quarrelled with that: imagination, or not, it said, for a moment you
believed.
Whether it was a ghost, or your imagination, you still rejected her. Why? I couldn't say. If there was an answer - it seemed to lie at the bottom of a great, black abyss.