The Shasht War (12 page)

"So tell me, dear Nuza, how is he?" said Toshak quietly.

"Nuza and Toshak exchanged a glance. How strangely entwined their lives had become, she thought. She and Toshak had been lovers once, and had parted just before Thru appeared in their lives. Then she and Thru had fallen very deeply in love, and great Toshak had somehow managed not to be so jealous that it poisoned things between them.

"He has headaches now, and there's a look in his eyes that I do not understand. He says that war is terrible, and I believe him."

Toshak was nodding. "It is."

"So he has another scar on his poor head, but he still smiles the same way he used to."

"I asked about him, because when I saw him after the battle, here in Sulmo, he was still not recovered from the wound."

"If you look at that scar you'll know that it's a miracle that he's alive. His helmet was cut clean through."

Toshak pursed his lips. "It's a pity we don't have enough resources to equip ourselves with metal helmets."

Another "crack" redirected their attention to the white ball now soaring toward the boundary with a fielder running hard beneath it. It might come down before the boundary line, and if the fielder was fast enough, he might make the catch.

He ran with all his might. The supporters of the Academy team were on their feet cheering him on.

They saw his arm outstretched just a few yards short of the boundary line. The ball was falling short. He threw himself forward and caught the ball. The crowd roared.

Heplu, now halfway out, grimaced while he took some practice swings.

The next ball went flying high right past the boundary. Seventy runs had been scored for the Army team.

"I think we better hope that Thru is still the same hitter that he used to be," grumbled big Hob.

A thwack announced another strike on the red pole, and a groan went up from the soldiers. Heplu had missed another accurate ball and was down to his final chance.

The next ball he drove to the boundary, but the one after that he knocked up in a soft curve that was easily caught. Heplu had added only five runs to the Army total, and he was obviously disappointed in his performance as he walked away from the pole. Still, the applause grew louder because now Thru Gillo came out with his bat under his arm.

As he took up his stance the crowd chanted his name, "Seventy-seven-Run Gillo!"

The throwers readied themselves. They had waited all afternoon for this moment. This was the real test of their power and skill. Some of them studied the figure of the mot at the batting crease making smooth practice swings. Then the first thrower jogged to the line and hurled in a fierce delivery. Thru eyed it and let it pass, as it was too high for a good shot and was heading wide of the red post.

A soft "ooh" came from the crowd, partly in disappointment.

The second ball was much too high as well. The third was in the dirt. Some of the soldiers behind him were calling out rude sallies to the throwers for the Academy, accusing them of being afraid to throw anything that Thru might hit.

Now the best of the Academic throwers ran to the line, and his ball hurtled in, on target and waist high, veering viciously in toward the batter.

Thru uncoiled with his smooth, deadly stroke, and a great "crack!" echoed around the game field as the ball was struck high and far, shooting out on a tremendous trajectory that took it over the boundary while it was still climbing.

Seventy-two runs for the Army team, and Thru Gillo was at bat.

The crowd watched in total absorption as Thru set about building his innings. He declined to swing at anything except balls that were certain to hit the red post, but even then he deflected away anything that wasn't in his best hitting range. Balls that dropped to the waist or below he pounced on and smashed them hard and far.

He reached 14 runs before a swerving throw got past him and thwacked off the red pole. He got to 30 before he gave up his first catch, a ball hit hard but not quite cleanly that corkscrewed up and off to one side and was caught after a thirty-yard run by a racing fielder.

Still, the Army team was over the 100, a crucial psychological test.

Thru continued his work from the batting crease and reached 39 before he was beaten again and a beautifully thrown ball dipped under his swing and snicked the red pole.

He took his time after that, deflecting balls away that were less than ideal and jumped on only those in his best hitting zone.

He reached 45, then 47 and then was caught out at last after getting a little too much under a ball and giving up a towering catch near the boundary. The Army had 118 runs now and still two more batters to take their stand.

Thru left the field with loud, prolonged applause ringing around the game field. Nuza was there to greet him with a huge hug. He exchanged hugs with Hob and Toshak, too.

"Well, well, just like old times," said Nuza. "All together again. Well, almost."

Thru nodded, just happy with having played well. The worries about lingering effects from his head injury were fading.

"How's the head?" said Toshak.

"Clear. No headaches now."

"Seventy-seven-Run Gillo came back today," said Hob happily.

The game continued. Toshak bade them farewell; he had appointments that could not be missed, but Hob elected to stay as did Nuza.

The Army team were finally all out at 131, an intimidating score. Now the Academics would bat while the Army mots would field and throw.

Thru was not a thrower, but he was quite good at catching long balls, so he was stationed way out on the boundary line.

The Academics had several good batters, and these mots soon made an impression on both throwers and fielders for the Army team.

Thru found himself pursuing well-hit balls that bounced over the boundary or flew high on their way to a score. He made one catch, when the Academics were at 76 runs. They continued to hit well, and when they reached 120 with one mot left to bat, there was growing concern in the mass of Army supporters grouped tightly around the batting pole. What had seemed like certain victory was now in doubt. All their noise and smart remarks could not break the concentration of the last Academy hitter, though, and he struck again and again, scoring 6 runs before giving up a catch. Going on to 9 before letting a ball through to strike the red post. He went past the Army score and then six more before he was finally done in, and the game came to an end.

The Academic crowd was cheering wildly. The local chooks were jumping up and down with loud whopping cries. Most had thought their team was doomed once Thru Gillo had hammered out his impressive score of 47.

The two teams shook hands on the open space by the red post before leaving the field.

Afterward Thru met Nuza at the door to the Sulmo clubhouse. He was cheerful despite the defeat. His skill with the bat had not been lost. Nuza hung on his arm as they walked up the broad avenue to the inner-city gate. The Sulmo ball field was in the outer city, that part which had been walled in during a brief boom era in the city's history. The inner city remained the more densely populated, heavily built-up part, as it always had been.

The avenue was lined with graceful elm trees and stone benches on which folk could sit and rest their limbs while they watched others going to and fro. The avenue ran on past the ball field to a large vegetable and grains market, so there was quite a bit of foot traffic here throughout the day.

Here and there, elder mots were playing the board game called Chat, which was a popular pastime in Sulmo. On either side of the avenue for much of its length lay parkland with green lawns on which a few people strolled. Beyond it were formal beds filled with southern flowers. It was a peaceful scene, most pleasing to the eye.

"You can almost imagine that things are just the same. That the men never came," said Nuza.

"Almost," he agreed.

Ahead of them rose the towers and spires of Old Sulmo, the Fane of the Great Spirit, the Small Fane, the Royal Palace, and the Corn Market, each very different, but each beautiful in its own way.

"If it hadn't happened, if they hadn't come, we would have been on the roads this summer."

"Yes, I know. But our lives will never be what they were. We have to make the best of what we have left."

"Someday," she said, leaning on his shoulder, "I hope we can have something of our old life."

Their hands interlocked, Thru prayed with all his heart that Nuza's hopes would not disappear. The future was clouded. Endless war, or else defeat and annihilation were the most likely prospects. The life they had once enjoyed seemed as far away as the moon.

Harking back to an ancient tradition, the King of Sulmo, Gueillo X, had ordered a grand banquet in honor of the Meld of Daneep and the army of Sulmo. The city was abuzz with talk about this event from the moment the Royal Proclamation was read out on street corners. The next ten days were filled with public excitement. Almost as if everyone in the city had been invited personally.

Thru received his invitation under the Royal Seal. For a moment he caught himself as he opened it. A year before he had been no more than a traveling player. A wanderer, a roustabout, a weaver who couldn't get into the weavers' guild. Now he was invited as an honored guest to a royal banquet.

The war had produced so many strange occurrences that he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised by this one, either. Yet still, it felt strange to have been elevated like this so quickly at such a young age. He was barely a grown mot, and yet he was commanding a brigade on the battlefield. Sometimes it was all a little amazing to him, when he had the time to contemplate it.

When he found that Nuza was not invited, he wondered aloud about not going at all. Nuza would not hear of it.

"Of course you must go. It is you they want to honor. The people attending will be the wardens of each of Sulmo's counties. They will represent the people of their counties, and that means they must see you and all the other mots who won the battle. Of course, they can't meet the ordinary soldiers, but they can meet the officers. Then they will go home to the counties and spread their impressions of you and the others. So you will represent the army itself."

Thru understood. It was the way society worked. Everyone in the Land would eventually be touched by some report from this grand dinner. He was still left with a little dread concerning the heavy responsibility of representing the army in this manner. What if he made some social gaffe?

"What if I use the wrong fork for the shellfish?" he said plaintively.

"Bah, silly. You use the forks in order from the outside in. It's perfectly logical."

"It is?"

"And just don't drink too much wine. Keep a clear head and you'll be fine."

His coat and trousers were all repaired, and his boots were polished to a lovely shine. Thus he arrived at the Royal Palace among the throng of guests and was shown through the wide passageways of polished wood to the banquet hall, hung with red and gold in honor of the Royal Army of Sulmo.

A long table was laid with a scarlet cloth. Thru had never seen so much silver and gold. A hundred candles were lit in two lines down the length of the table. It was a vision of Old Sulmo, from her brief golden age.

The gathering was split into two noticeably different groups. The officers of the army, in their sober blue uniforms with the red-and-yellow pegs that denoted their rank, and surrounding them a more numerous mass of the cream of Sulmo society. Here were the Gryses of every province, the great Melds of the four Quarters and the shorelines, the Lady Mors dressed in grand finery, and many humbler folk, the squires of the shires and the constables of the larger towns.

Thru Gillo, wearing his simple blue outer coat with the red pin of his rank at the throat, felt the differences. He was but a humble mot of a Northern village. His accent betrayed that every time he spoke.

Still, the King had asked for Thru to sit by him. Nearby were the Melds of the South and the East and, of course, the Meld of Daneep. King Gueillo was a portly mot, with fine silvery fur and peculiarly large ears. Like most of the crowd the King was clearly enjoying the occasion. The wine had been flowing freely. Suddenly the King stood up.

"To you, Colonel Gillo," the King extended his goblet. Others were rising to do the same in a formal toast. Thru was half inclined to rise, too, but the King caught his eye and held it and thus he knew that he must remain seated.

"In the name of the throne of Sulmo and all the people of my realm, I dedicate this toast to Colonel Gillo, who was so instrumental in winning our victory."

Thru cast a look across the table. There was the Meld of Daneep, eyes smiling, raising a goblet to him.

Thru raised his own goblet, and toasted the Meld back.

There were loud murmurs among the gathered aristocrats who much approved of this public giving of respect to one of their own.

"To Thru Gillo," said the King again, and everyone raised their goblet and repeated his words.

The throng now sat down, and he saw by the King's glimpse that it was his turn to stand. He surveyed the table and the crowd of lesser folk gathered along the far wall of the huge room.

All eyes were on him.

He raised his goblet.

"I thank you for the honor you do me. I do not think I have ever felt a prouder moment, but I must pass on some of this honor, for it lies in truth with the mots and brilbies of the army that fought at Chenna and the Sow's Head.

"So, to the army!"

With a congratulatory roar the well-dressed folk rose up and toasted the army of the realm.

Then it was time to be seated for the first courses. Mots in livery brought in platters piled high with delicacies from the royal kitchen. There were wedges of lime and bewby pie, then fresh oysters in the shell, and crayfish cooked in the Sulmese way.

When the table was cleared once more, a round of introductions began. Thru was presented to the Melds of the Quarters and the other Melds of shoreline and hill. The Meld of Daneep himself did the introductions, a singular honor.