The Shasht War (15 page)

"What can we do?"

"Pray that General Dogvalth obtains victory over the monkeys, over the enemy if you prefer, dearest daughter. I know you are sensitive to the word 'monkeys'."

"They are people, not monkeys! They are just as civilized as we are, Father. Thru Gillo learned our language in a few weeks. They are not the illiterate apes that the priests tried to make us believe."

"My dear, always be sure to say things like that in a whisper. Don't let anyone hear you. The priests may yet regain their power."

"How can they do that?" Simona was a little surprised to hear that from Filek.

"I think Beshezz is trying to forge an alliance with the Gold Tops. They are eager for friends; Admiral Heuze has hurt them considerably."

"But the Scion would not prefer Beshezz over Heuze."

"Not yet, but if Dogvalth loses the next battle, then Heuze will go to the priests."

Fear crashed home like a huge wave in her heart. Without Heuze their position would be gone. Beshezz would either replace Filek or shunt him and his hospital plans aside. The priests would clamor for his heart. And then? The priests would come for her. Simona had already suffered a mild bout of interrogation at their hands, so she knew what that would mean.

"That is all that can save him?"

"We have suffered two defeats. The admiral cannot lose another battle."

Simona shook her head sadly. Her life was cut in half by this knife of war. Her people could only survive if they took the Land. She could only hope to stay a free woman if they conquered the mots and took the Land. And that meant the death of everything she'd seen in her short exile in the Land.

It was too horrible to bear.

"But, Father, Beshezz has a wife and two sons. Heuze's wife is dead, his sons were left in Shasht. He is no threat to Nebbeggebben."

"All true, my dear, darling daughter who knows so much and sees so far. But the admiral has been arrogant in his dealings with the Scion. The priests thirst for the opportunity to place him over the altar."

"So Nebbeggebben could gain considerable advantage with the priests if he gave him up."

"As always, my farseeing daughter has glimpsed the reality of the situation. But what you said earlier still remains. Heuze is no threat to the dynasty. Nebbeggebben has taken two young wives. He plans to have some more children for the new world."

"Are you sure he's capable of that? The plague marked him so, you said."

"That is a good question, but I've never been able to gain his confidence. He entrusts himself to the witch doctors not to me."

"But Admiral Beshezz has sons that are almost grown men."

"Which helps to stay Nebbeggebben's hand from Heuze. Also I think he enjoys the sense of power that it gives him to have two admirals fighting for his favor like this."

"But you have said before that Beshezz is an egomaniac who constantly creates difficulties."

"That is true. Today he refused to move some of his ships. He had to be ordered by Nebbeggebben to comply before he would do it."

"That will grow tiresome to the Scion, Father. I predict it."

Filek shifted back with a weary smile on his face.

"You know, my dear, I think you may be right."

"Yes, Father."

"But it won't be long before the next crisis. The fleet will move soon. The army is undergoing training now for the new campaign."

Dread rushed through Simona.

All this was not supposed to happen. The ancient Masters had given her the little scroll, and she had given it to the admiral, just as she had been told to do. But it had had little effect and had not stopped the war. Would the message ever be sent back to Shasht, as was supposed to happen?

Even if it was, it could be too late. The next battle would surely decide everything, and this time the mots would face ten thousand men. That could be enough to turn the tide.

"And then everything will be in the hands of General Dogvalth."

Simona prayed that General Dogvalth would be defeated. An easy defeat, though, with few casualties on either side. Something that would delay the campaign, and let the message from the Assenzi do its work.

Filek leaned forward again to whisper.

"I think Admiral Heuze is rethinking his determination not to set foot on land again. He may yet decide to take charge of the army. He has the authority. I don't think Nebbeggebben would try to stop him, either."

"Do you think he would be better than the general?"

"I don't know. The generals were selected for their obedience. A bunch of clods in my opinion. The admiral is certainly more intelligent, but he may not be any better at commanding an army in battle."

"And how is the dear admiral's health, Father?" she asked as he sat back again.

"Ah, well, it is not good. His nerves are bad, and he complains of being unable to sleep. He has bouts of headache."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Well, my dear, direct your prayers to He Who Eats and ask him to be kind to our dear admiral."

Simona bit her lips. It was impossible for her to think so fondly of the admiral, who had cheerfully ordered her hands and feet pounded with mallets by the Red Tops. All she wanted was something that would delay the war. Something that would stop the killing.

She made herself listen patiently to the rest of her father's complaints. She understood that he needed someone to confide in. While he complained about the builders on the hospital project, she listened with one ear, plotting to turn the discussion to something more crucial to her than the hospital.

She knew that Filek was less and less likely to discuss Rukkh. And her dream of marriage to a soldier had in fact faded away. She understood now that she didn't really want the life of a colonist, living on the land that would be taken from the mots. Still, at times she liked to think of that young man, so hard-bodied and burning of eye when he had looked at her.

Unfortunately, none of her own thoughts on this issue had stopped Filek's schemes for marrying her to some old man for political advantage.

Filek had run out of complaints.

"Ah, well, listen to me ranting on. I have too much to do, that's the real problem."

"I'm sure you do, Father."

"Mustn't complain so much. It's hard sometimes, you understand I'm sure."

"Oh, of course, Father dear." Simona, who had nothing to do, dared not mention her own utter boredom.

"Now, let us turn to something else. Have you considered what I spoke to you about the last time I was here?"

Simona shuddered inwardly. He referred to Wurg Gembeth, a corpulent cousin of General Dogvalth.

"What was that, Father?" she said playing for time.

"Well, my dear, you're not getting any younger and now is the time to marry. I think you should consider marriage to Wurg Gembeth."

"He is thirty years older than me, Father. He is older than you."

"Yes, my dear, which is good news. He is also immensely fat. He will not last long. Once he's gone to join He Who Eats, you will be a wealthy widow."

Wurg Gembeth traveled aboard the Anvil and was wed to two other young women. He visited them regularly on the women's deck. Simona had heard too much of Wurg's excited bellows in the rut.

He was fat, he was coarse and repulsive, and he would live long enough to put a stain on Simona's soul that she would never wash out if she gave in to this. But, she could see that her father was increasingly desperate about his chances. If Heuze was taken by the priests, then they would need every ally they could keep. Wurg Gembeth might be that.

"Except that, dear father, what would happen if"—she leaned forward—"Wurg is Dogvalth's cousin, right? If Dogvalth loses the battle, won't Wurg be at risk as well?"

Filek stared at her, blinked a moment.

"Yes, to some extent, but Wurg is enormously wealthy, my dear. He has given Nebbeggebben gifts of gold and gemstones."

She stared back at Filek, sudden horror blossoming in her mind. Filek realized what she was thinking and clasped her hands in his.

"No, dearest, do not think that of me. I advocate this not for the gold alone. Gold is a good thing to have and I wish I had more of it, but gold is beside the point. Wurg has a strong position with Nebbeggebben. If General Dogvalth should fail, then Wurg could still protect you."

And by implication, protect Filek, too.

She stilled her anger. Filek was determined to use her to strengthen his position. It was useless to rail at him over this. He was afraid. And she realized that she should be afraid, too. There were real risks to their lives involved. If Filek lost his position, then Simona might end her days in the ranks of army whores. Simona would never forget the helpless agony she had suffered during a mild "questioning" by the Red Tops. When they slapped your hands with the mallets, it really hurt!

"I will think about it, dear father, but I would much rather be wed to someone my own age."

"Yes, dear, so would I. I wish you were marrying a Prince of the Realm. But circumstances may go against us." Filek leaned forward again.

"We may have to do things to survive that we would rather not do. But if there is another defeat, then we may have no choice."

"Yes, Father."

They embraced, and he kissed his marvelous daughter's forehead before exiting her tiny cabin.

Simona, left alone with these alarming strands of information, sat staring out the porthole. Away in the distance she could just see tiny gleams of light. The lamps burning on the shore, illuminating the new town the men had built. Rukkh was over there somewhere, she thought. And she thought about his hard, young body and the fire that had burned in his eyes when he'd come to look at her in the old days.

She knew she'd be bored by him. He was probably illiterate. But so was Wurg Gembeth—maybe death would be preferable after all.

As she had in the old days in Tamf and Dronned, Nuza had sought out the local chapter of the Questioners in Sulmo. This was the group that met every week or every month in most towns and cities of the Land. At these meetings they voiced questions about the nature of society and the way things were. In the northern realms of the Land, they were regarded as slightly daring by the general public, but also important for allowing grievances to be aired.

The Sulmo group met in a room attached to a woodworker's shop inside the old walls. The woodworker, Sulp Emmers, was the group's leader. Nuza pressed Thru to accompany her for the evening session.

"Just because the war destroyed our old lives that doesn't mean we can't still ask questions."

"I have only three more days here. Then I must go back to Glais."

Where his brigade had reformed and was waiting for him. Let's not waste our time listening to questions about polder and land rights, he wanted to say. Let's stay in your room and make love.

But Nuza wore him down, and so he found himself sitting beside her on a wooden bench that evening listening to the questions posed by the mots and brilbies drawn to the meeting.

Thru had learned that the Questioners were both discouraged more in Sulmo and yet at the same time more popular than in the North. In Sulmo certain kinds of questions were officially discouraged. Sulmo had too many memories of the city's brief time of glory, and at Questioners' meetings folk would harp on them.

That evening there were perhaps thirty folk in the room, the usual collection of the dour and the excitable that one found at Questioner's meetings all over the Land.

Sulp Emmers was a solidly constructed mot, his grey fur whitened by sixty years and his huge hands scarred by a lifetime of working with heavy tools. He introduced the questions and selected those who were to answer. A well-fed mot in the front row, name of Maskop, wearing the maroon shirt and hat of the royal service was the one usually chosen to reply.

Maskop's replies tended to accentuate conservative, unchallenging views of the various controversies that surfaced at the Questioners.

A young mor with fiery orange ribbons woven into the fur on the back of her head was the first to speak, and brought up a matter that was a perennial sore point in Sulmo. That being its downfall had been caused by the Assenzi.

"I am only a young mor, but I have read the Book and listened here to many questions. I want to know why we feel we must obey the Assenzi? Why do we allow so many of them to come and go from our city? When you remember what they did to us in the old days it seems wrong. Rumors say that they advise the King and speak to him of his dreams."

Her outburst caused a stir along the benches, because dream speaking was an ancient tradition in Sulmo and it was disturbing to imagine the King speaking of his dreams to the Assenzi.

The royal shirt arose. Sulp waved a hand.

"I think Maskop here is prepared to answer."

Maskop bowed. Thru observed that he was a singularly fat mot, something rather unusual in the Land.

"First of all I must say unequivocally that the King does not dream speak with the Assenzi. Our King is well aware of the feelings of the folk of Sulmo. He shares the beliefs of his people and knows that great wrong was done to our city. But he also knows that in this current emergency, we must set aside our differences and work together to win the war. Remember who our enemy is! Knowing that, you know that we must cooperate with the Assenzi. They can teach us much."

"Can they be trusted?" the mor with the fiery ribbons responded.

"Why should they not be trusted?" Maskop spread his hands out to either side. "Their lives are forfeit, too, if Man defeats us."

The mor sat down while a gentle murmur broke out along the benches.

Another hand was raised by a young brilba in an expensive black velvet robe. Receiving the nod from Sulp, she rose to put a very different kind of question.

"I have come to a few meetings here before, but I did not speak. Now I am troubled by a question, so I will put it before you.

"I have heard it said that what we read in the Book is not always true. There are those who believe that it was chooks who were created first by the Hand of Man. Man made the chooks and then later Man made the brilbies and finally he made the mots. I find this idea troubling, and I wonder if there is any evidence for it."