The Pleasure of Memory (59 page)

“Would you like me to top off that coffee, Jhom?”

“Thank-you, Soontra,” he hoped he said, “If it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Well, the pot’s right here,” she said, as she filled his mug, “Don’t know how much more convenient I can make it. Give me a yell if you need anything else, you hear?” She threw him a wink as she turned away.

He admired her legs as she sauntered away from him. He loved the way the muscles rippled along those thick, strapping calves. Why in the nine had this woman affected him so? He’d never been one to seek the company of females, other than to satisfy the obvious needs with a flip of coin, of course, and he’d especially never seen himself settling down and breeding. Yet, here he was. For the first time in his long life, he was actually smitten. And it terrified him

He scratched the stubbly hair behind his head and wondered for the thousandth time if he’d ever work up the nerve to ask her to marry him? For the thousandth time, he received precisely the same answer. Sure, just as soon as he was ready to abandon the mercenary life and finally settle down. Translation: Probably never.

He sighed and parked his chin in his hand as he leaned closer to the window. He rubbed a hole through the grease on the wavy glass. The Iron Mountains rose up in the distance, dark and imposing even in the morning light. He could see the veil of smoke where Barcuun barricaded itself into its oppressive cliffs twenty miles distant, and he imagined the chaos that must be gripping the city as war loomed with Parhron.

As he watched the world, he noticed someone out on the road. They looked to be running. He leaned closer and cleared more grease from the glass. Though still a ways off, it looked like a soldier. It was damned early for someone to be running along the Easthigh Road. They were coming toward the inn.

He sat back in his chair and took another drink of his coffee. Soontra was flitting through the heavy wooden tables and booths cluttering the inn, filling coffee mugs, clearing plates, and swinging her feminine wares. He watched her as she sauntered past the massive fieldstone fireplace. The roaring flames behind her flashed the image of her thighs through her skirt.

He grabbed his head and pushed his mind away from such dangerous thoughts. He had to make a decision before he became just another goddamned ‘regular’. He needed to make his final decision and make his move. He was nearly sixty years old. If he were ever going to settle down and start making offspring, he’d best do it before middle age walked past him.

Sighing, he looked out the window again. The runner was nearly at the inn. He could now see with certainty that it was a soldier. More than that, it was a Baeldonian runner, a cross between a messenger and scout. As he watched the solitary figure dutifully making its way closer, he wondered if it was bringing a bad cloud with it, mayhaps news of a turn in the winds of war with Parhron.

Minutes later, the inn’s door flew open on sour screech of hinges. Brilliant morning sunlight exploded through the dark room. The silhouette standing in the blaze of the door didn’t enter further.

“Close the goddamned door!” someone yelled out, “By Calina’s tits, were you born in a field?”

“Sorry,” the intruder said as he awkwardly closed the massive door. The huge iron latch defied his attempts to secure it. The door creaked back open.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” someone else shouted, “You deaf or stupid? Close the door already!”

“Sorry,” the man said again, as he fumbled with the hardware, “Think I got it now. Yea, there it is.” The door finally submitted and the latch clanked into place.

“It’s about goddamned time!” a ruddy old farmer said as he turned back to his meal, “Bloody grunts! No smarter than cattle, as Gimbletout’s my witness.”

The soldier stowed his helmet under an arm. Dark spots of sweat trailed him across the dusty planks as he walked through the room inspecting each of the patrons he passed. When those inexperienced eyes finally landed on Jhom, a look of recognition blew into his face.

“Damn,” Jhom whispered to himself, “This can’t be good.”

The soldier stopped before his table, still a little winded from his run. He was a young one, not more than twenty-five years. “Ghanter Jhom’ne Fenta?” he said. He threw up a salute like it was an afterthought.

Jhom leaned back in his chair and studied the boy. “You can drop the ‘ghanter’,” he said, “I’m no soldier, not anymore.”

The boy’s mouth moved to speak, but no sound came out. Regrouping, he said, “Uh…but you are Ghant’r Fenta?”

The boy wore his reddish hair cropped short and tight in traditional military style, but braided his long beard in a manner indicative of a runner. He also wore a runner’s narrow, black-steel breastplate, knee-length black britches, and queerly jointed greaves covering thin, black leather shoes laced tight to his feet and calves. His footwear was more akin to the heelless, nearly soleless desert boots worn by the savages than standard military issued boots. A short, narrow sword hanged against his thigh from an equally narrow belt. Considering how anemic their armor appeared, Jhom had always wondered why the runners bothered wearing any at all.

“Does your mother know you’re here, boy?” he asked the grunt.

The soldier flinched at that. “Sir?”

“You’re barely old enough to wipe your own ass.”

“Sir, with all due—”

“How’d a runt like you manage to get into the army to begin with?”

The soldier again faltered. “Runt? That’s—”

“Are you deaf as well as short? Are there no height requirements in His Majesty’s modern army?”

The soldier’s brow shot up. “Uh…well, I’m eight foot one, sir. I’m as—”

“You’re not a hair over eight, boy.”

The soldier licked his lips and looked nervously about the dark inn. When his eyes returned to Jhom, he said, “With all due respect, sir, I—”

“What’s your business with me?”

The runner stiffened formally. “Ghant’r Fenta,” he began like he was reciting a script, “It’s—”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Yea, sir…I mean, of course. I just—”

“Well, which of Khe’naeg’s balls are you waiting for? Get on with it already!”

“Ghant’r Fenta. The—”

Jhom slammed the table hard enough to bounce his mug. “Sit down, for gods’ sakes!” he shouted, “You’re giving me the jitters standing there like you’re gonna faint or something!”

“Yea, sir!” The boy set the helmet on the table and dropped into the proffered seat.

Jhom leaned back in his chair and drummed the table with his fingers as he studied the soldier sitting across from him.

“Sir,” the young soldier said, “I’m instruc—”

“Soontra! Bring this pup some milk before he wets himself.”

The soldier was as nervous as a worm on a fishing trip. Jhom knew he had good reason to be.

“Well, soldier,” Jhom demanded, “What is it?”

“I have a message from Gran’ghant’r Bender.”

“I might’ve known. What’s that bastard want now?”

The boy’s eyes swelled.

Jhom lifted his coffee. “Relax, son. I’d bet a gold trekla he can’t hear us from here.”

The soldier nodded unconvincingly. “Uh…there’s news, sir,” he said quickly, “From the caeyl mage down in Na te’Yed.”

Jhom’s mug froze before his lips. He wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “What did you say?”

“The Water Caeyl Mage, sir. We’ve word from one of his sentries.”

The mug slid back to the table.

Soontra placed a large cup of yellow milk before the soldier. The soldier drew a quick gulp of it and swiped a hand across his mouth. “One of the mage’s sentries landed in town,” he said eagerly, “It’s got some message from the mage, but won’t give it to nobody but you.”

“A sentry?”

“Yea! And it won’t talk to nobody but you, sir.”

“Has Bender tried talking to it?”

“Of course. Not that it’s done him no good, you know. The sentry says the message is only for your ears. It’s got old Bender blowing smoke out his—”

“Easy there, boy! Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean Bender and I aren’t still pals.”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean no—”

“Forget it!”

As Jhom stared at the young Baeldon, he thought about the fact that Bender sent a runner to get him. Runners were scouts, but were used for stealth more than speed. Bender didn’t send a rider, he sent a runner. Over twenty miles. Not only that, but he’d sent a new recruit; this boy was green as the grass. It meant Bender was buying time, hoping to get something from the sentry before Jhom could make it back to the Ministry.

“How long you been a runner, boy?” Jhom asked.

“Sir?”

“Never mind.”

Jhom stood up, sending the great chair skidding back across the oak floor. He flipped a large metal coin down on the table. The coin bounced once, and then hummed for several seconds before clattering to a stop.

“Where did the sentry land?” he asked the boy.

The soldier nearly knocked his chair over scrambling to his feet. Better than a half foot over nine feet, Jhom was a solid head taller than the boy. “Right in the military square,” the boy said, “In front of the war building.”

Jhom didn’t wait for him. He grabbed his leather hat from the table and stomped for the door. As he pulled the door open, he paused. This time, no one complained about the light.

He looked down at his hat, at its wide brim that was turned up slightly at the sides, at the long silver feather tucked into the blue band, and he struggled against what he wanted to say. Finally, he pulled the hat up on his head and adjusted its angle to just a bit of a cock, and then turned back into the room.

Soontra was leaning back against the grand old bar, wiping her ample hands in her apron, and sending him a look even an old bachelor could interpret without help.

“I might be gone a while,” he called to her, “Any sign of Parhronii soldiers and you high-tail it for Barcuun, you hear?”

She smiled. “I hear you, Jhom.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Yea, I know you will, Jhom. Gods’ speed.”

“Well, ain’t that just the sweetest thing?” a ruddy-faced old farmer said loudly, “Now will you shut the goddamned door already?” Laughter percolated through the other patrons.

Jhom barely heard it. His attention was welded to Soontra. He knew by her look that she’d be waiting when he returned, and the knowledge gave him strength. Could be it was time to make that proposal after all.

Minutes later, he was riding toward Barcuun, driving his huge warhorse forward at a frantic pace while his mind fended off a storm of questions. Why would Chance send him a message? And why land it before the war ministry? Chance knew damned well he was no longer in the military, despite the fact they still called him Ghant’r and saluted him like the idiots most soldiers were. He was an advisor now, a soldier of fortune at best.

Could be Chance was sending word about the impending war between Baeldonia and Parhron, though even as he considered it, he knew it was bullshit. Chance would never get involved in their fight, not unless the security of the Nolands or Na te’Yed was somehow at risk.

Still, mayhaps he was wrong in that angle of thought. Mayhaps Chance was concerned. Nothing good could come when two member countries of the Allied Council waged war on each other. In their nearly thousand-year alliance, the two countries had never had a conflict of any kind. Now three Baeldon ambassadors were dead, accused of being assassins, spies, and saboteurs. The stability of the entire region could go to hell if these two old friends went to war. It would risk the collapse of the Alliance.

Could be it wasn’t such a stretch after all. Could be Chance actually was trying to intervene.

∞

A mile into Slagstep Canyon, Jhom passed the first gate into Barcuun, a wall of stonework spanning the three hundred foot width of the steep gorge. Referred to as the Greeting Gate, it was a sixty foot high wall of granite fortification with four separate arched entrances, each barricaded by wooden gates large enough to allow the greatest machines of war to pass through, including the massive cannons the Baeldons were famous for. Hundreds of soldiers and civilians occupied the grounds before the gate. They were crowded in so tight, he could’ve walked clear across the canyon width just using heads as stepping stones. He eventually urged his warhorse through the throng toward the military entrance, where he was quickly identified and waved through the gates.

The inner staging grounds were even more congested with travelers. It took him better than an hour to reach the second gates, a ride that normally would’ve seemed long at twenty minutes. The canyon walls rising on either side of the gates were nearly a half-mile high and carved with the faces of thousands of Baeldons, each one twenty foot tall. These loyal faces covered the cliff walls from the base of the mountain to the skyline high above. They were lined chin to brow and cheek to cheek for the ten-mile length of the cities gates. They were a memorial to those who’d fallen in the Fifty Year War two centuries before, and they never failed to humble him when he rode beneath them.

As he wallowed through the interminable crowd, he watched dozens of squads of young soldiers march past in the other direction. They were all in their field armor, all armed with axes, bows, and pikes, and followed by warhorses towing their machines of war. They were bound for points northeast near their border with Parhron, and the sight of them only further decayed his mood. This war was an ideological impossibility, a hell-bent dive into a fight that seemed about as real as an opium-induced dream. The Parhronii claimed three Baeldonian diplomats had assassinated an entourage of their ministers during the winter Festival of Calina in Parhron City several months earlier. Jhom knew this to be a ridiculous claim, an act that had no more chance of happening in this mortal world than a frog growing wings.

The notion of the Baeldons sinking to an act as despicable as assassination was preposterous; assassination was culturally repugnant to his people, and particularly when said assassination was staged against their closest ally. And the crown on the absurdity of the entire affair was the fact that the Baeldonian diplomats committed suicide to avoid capture. Suicide was essentially unheard of among his kind, making the accusation not only a cultural impossibility, but a religious impossibility as well.