The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) (55 page)

"
You are en-Verosh, but...that is all I know
."

For a moment, her nostrils flared and there were sparks in her eyes: hateful cinders threatening to combust him with her stare.  But then she soured and looked away, trying to twist her hand from his.  "
I do not care to—
"

"
Please
," he said, tightening his grip, and winced as her nails bit into his knuckles.  "
Sanava, you followed me, you gave me—  I barely know you.  I want to.  Please, just one thing, one piece?  I will tell you anything, I will turn myself inside out for you
..."

Close-mouthed, almost sneering, she snapped her hand out of his but did not move away.  Her face was in profile, sharp as a blade, and he told himself firmly not to reach out.  That she would cut him with her tongue—if nothing else—should he try.

After a long moment of staring at nothing, hand still raised and breathing short sharp breaths, she said, "
No man need know a woman's past.  We are ghosts in this place, and I will not haunt you
."

"
Already you do
!"

"
You weak creature
."

Weshker's tongue knotted.  He heard contempt in her voice but she did not look at him; her eyes were distant.  Perhaps she was not speaking to him.  "
Sanava
..."

"
I will not haunt you with this
."

"
Sanava, I am a small man among large.  I am Korvii among Wynd.  I...I know.  We share tents, and I was not always with good men.  If you are a ghost, then we should haunt together.  We will haunt them, not each other
."

She cast him a sidelong look, gaze questioning, and he wondered if he had spoken right.  If he had used the proper words.  Then she shifted to face him once more, and her hand sought his, her eyes on his, like dark lagoons pulling him deep.

"
I was taken from the woods when I was seventeen
," she said softly.  "
I was hunting to feed my children.  I live because I will one day go home to find them, and my mate.  I will go home with a string of teeth around my neck from all the Imperials that have touched me
."

The words hit like a fist, then faded.  He covered her hand with both of his.  "
Can I come with you
?"

A smile quirked the corner of her mouth, and for a moment real warmth danced in her eyes.  "
When you learn yourself, crowspeaker?  Perhaps
."

That was all he needed.

*****

Captain Sarovy looked over his mages, his lieutenants and their sergeants, then back to the slate on which he had sketched the current Blaze Company roster.  “Are we having any further issues?” he said as he picked up the nub of chalk.

The officers looked to each other as if unwilling to speak first.  Sarovy sighed.  It was early on Cylanmont 11
th
, and this was not their first meeting.  He had assembled his officers and their seconds every morning since the inoculations had begun, both to get them used to his style of captaincy and to watch them for any change in behavior.  Two of them—Archer-Lieutenant Sengith and Shield-Lieutenant Gellart—he knew had been inoculated previously; they both had senvraka as their sergeants, Korr and Rallant.  Korr had told them at the first meeting that for men not vulnerable to senvraka, the inoculations did not require the bite, only a weaker dosage that he and Rallant had been delivering through their platoons’ ale ration.

Lieutenant Sengith had nearly leapt on Korr in a fury at that revelation, but had been restrained.  It had been hard for Sarovy to tell whether he was enraged more by the manipulation or by the adulteration of their alcohol.

Distasteful as he found it, Sarovy had given the senvraka permission to access the ration for the rest of the company.  Since then, he was sure he detected an odd tang in it, but could not avoid drinking; the rains had only recently let up and the river was swollen with silt and filth.  The ale ration was the only thing potable in camp.

He had dreamed strange dreams, though, and from the looks on his human officers’ faces, they had as well.

“Anything?” he prompted, scanning the line-up again.  They were arranged around the long table in the main bunkhouse meeting-room, but no one was at ease enough to sit.  Along the left stood Archer-Lieutenant Sengith—a big strawberry-nosed Amand, built like a bear but surprisingly adept at his command—and his sergeant Korr, evidently no longer at odds; Shield-Lieutenant Arlin of the second infantry platoon and his ogre-blooded sergeant Kirvanik; Magus Voorkei; and Scryer Mako, who sat casually, the only exception.  Along the right side were Lancer-Lieutenant Linciard and Sergeant Benson—a short, stolid Amand with close-cropped hair and a perpetual squint of concentration—and Shield-Lieutenant Gellart with his sergeant Rallant.

At the far end of the table was Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek, arms crossed, Sergeant Presh lingering behind him with a mild knowing smile.

Linciard cleared his throat to break the silence and said, “Sir.  Corporal Redsky and Lancer Tycaid fell ill this morning.  I’ve been told that Specialist Ilia visited them last night.”

“
Our expatriate Jernizen,” Sarovy said thoughtfully, and looked to Sergeant Rallant.  As he was the more tactful of the two senvraka, Sarovy had taken to addressing most questions to him.

Rallant smiled and shrugged slightly.  “Expatriates?  You lancers take in all kinds.  It’s probably a reaction between the inoculation and their mentalist conditioning.  Inoculations put pressure on some of those mental barriers, you see, and can undo some mindwashing.  People who have been very mindwashed, very conditioned, can become disoriented.  Think of it like a bad hangover.  You might want to have your mentalist loosen them up a bit.”

Sarovy looked to Scryer Mako, who sighed and said, “Of course.  First Infirmary?”

“
Yes,” said Linciard.

“
After the meeting,” Sarovy clarified.  “Linciard, the other Jernizen?”

The lieutenant grimaced.  “Headaches, bad dreams, night-sweats, dizziness.  A few of the Averognans too.  Whitehall and Salvametron.  The Heartlanders seem fine.”

“I’ve got half a section from the Brother Isles that’s been acting sea-sick, which is ridiculous,” said Shield-Lieutenant Arlin.  He was Wyndish, tall and thick-necked with a blond moustache that could stop a flood.  “And almost a full section of Drixi who can’t seem to think straight.  Some of the High Drixi’ve been talking gibberish.”

“
I haf headaches,” said Shield-Sergeant Kirvanik.

Sarovy shook his head, staring down at the roster.  Not for the first time, he was reminded of the patchwork nature of his command.  The Crimson Army seemed made up of the dregs and cast-offs from the other armies: Heartlanders unwanted by the Gold and Sapphire, protectorate-folk like the Kerrindrixi and Averognans who were not full citizens, and westlanders—ex-mercenaries like the Brother Islanders and ogre-bloods, turncoats like Presh and the Jernizen.  General Aradysson had accepted the expatriates in part because they were decent soldiers, but also because he was not being sent reinforcements.  Soon, Sarovy expected to see Illanites in the Army as freesoldiers, not just slaves.

It seemed such practices brought along more trouble than just the typical inter-kingdom tensions.

“
Rallant, how long will these side-effects last?”

“
Sir.  I would guess a week for the sick ones, a day or so for those with nightmares.”

“
And they will all recover?”

“
Of course, sir.  We don’t do this to hurt anyone.  We’re here to help.”

Sarovy narrowed his eyes at Rallant, but the sergeant’s expression stayed formal and respectful.  With an effort of will, he made himself stop glaring.  Ever since the meeting with the Specialists, he kept noticing Rallant lingering near the lancer barracks, or observing the field while the lancer platoon was at drills.  Watching Linciard.

The same way Specialist Ilia, the lagalaina, seemed to keep showing up around him.

Sarovy had pulled Linciard aside two days ago to warn him about it.  Linciard had thanked him gruffly.  Even now, Rallant had positioned himself right next to the Lancer-Lieutenant, but Sarovy was satisfied to see that Linciard never looked at him.

He did not know what the controllers were up to, but he did not like it.  If Vrallek had shown a twitch of amusement or awareness over it, he would have pinned the ugly bastard to the wall and demanded an explanation, but Vrallek was stone-faced as well.

Sarovy forced his thoughts back to the matters at hand.  Inoculations, enchantments.  “Scryer Yrsian, Magus Voorkei, have you made any progress on my requests?”

“Not so much,” said Scryer Mako, leaning forward to steeple her hands against the table.  She was dressed in a rose-pink robe trimmed in gold thread, and her straight hair was pinned back from her heart-shaped face.  The tips of her short nails glinted silver.  “The armory won’t fill requisitions for enchanted blades for anyone below the rank of captain, so that won’t help us.  As for enchanting our own…”  She spread her hands apologetically.  “I’m not an Artificer.  I can’t hammer magic into the men’s swords; that needs to be done while they’re being forged.  At best, I could paint a few temporary glyphs on them, and I’m not a Warder either so I can’t do much for armor.  The best you could do is get a better sword for yourself, sir.”

Sarovy’s hand fell to the hilt of his heirloom blade.  Unenchanted, he knew, but with the weight of his lineage behind it—the centuries of bloody use, the formal rite of inheritance, the eagle head at its pommel.  It had cut the metal elementals beneath Bahlaer where no other normal sword could, and if it had power without being touched by magic, so much the better.  He did not care to have the mages’ influence upon him.  “No, I do not need one.”

“If you say so.  You could try requisitioning another mage…”

Sarovy shook his head.  “The General tells me that we have no free mages—that I am fortunate to have you, let alone Voorkei and Presh.”

“Well, with the way the Crimson goes through mages, it’s not surprising,” said Scryer Mako.  “Most of the ones here now are support types, not combat.  I do portals and mindwashing, I’m not supposed to be on the field.  Voorkei’s some sort of battle-mage though, right?”

The Gejaran mage shrugged his bony shoulders, sending the strings of beads and teeth to clattering.  “I do vhat needed,” he said roughly.  “Fight svirits, dark things, vhatever told.  I know lots
vykhe
—lots sfhells.  I try
vykhe-iriol
, hyes?  The…the glyphs she say.  I have little skill in.”

“
But you’re not an Artificer, right?” said Scryer Mako, eyeing him.

Magus Voorkei plucked at one of the strings of beads, which looked like spheres of resin with dark, unidentifiable inclusions.  “Not need to ve,” he said.  “Circle Artificer vork vith statues, hyes?  Constructs, arnor, veafons.  Veapfh—  Swords.  Is other things can ve done, though.  Vhat hyou call synfathetic—  Eh,
dalurxudrakvykhe
—“

“
Dalur tioren gih drak
?” Scryer Mako said, frowning.  “
Au kurthi-vykhe
?”

Sarovy looked between the mages sharply.  He had not known that the Scryer spoke Gheshvan, but by the look on Voorkei’s face, neither had he.

“
Au, au
,” said the ugly mage, shaking his head.  “
Vresakha
—“

“
We should discuss this privately,” Mako said, glancing to the baffled officers then to Sarovy apologetically.  “Captain, really, I have no way to address that request.  If you think of something else, please ask.  But Voorkei needs to explain this to me, and I don’t want to fill up your time with lab-talk…”

Still frowning, Sarovy nodded to them.  “You may go.”

“Just in the corner.  I don’t want to disturb anything.”  Mako rose, patting her hips as if she might have hidden something in the clinging fabric of her robe.  To Sarovy’s surprise, she drew a thick leather-bound notebook from a near-invisible slit, then a charcoal stick.  When she noticed his stare, she grinned.  “Pocket portal.”  Then she beckoned for Voorkei to follow, and they moved into a corner of the room, talking quietly but animatedly in the Gheshvan tongue.

Sarovy watched them for a moment, then shook his head.  Some days, he felt like he had no clue what was going on.

As if echoing the thought, Shield-Lieutenant Gellart said, “Your pardon, sir, but do we have any idea what we’ll be up against?  Has the General told you anything?”

“
No, lieutenant, not yet.”  Sarovy looked down to the slate, on which he had arrayed the five platoons for the type of army-versus-army clash they had not seen since the Jernizan campaign. Unless they were set against the Padrastans—unless the siege finally broke through Kanrodi—he knew they would not see such action.

If they were deployed here in Illane, they would be fighting smugglers, bandits, cultists.  Farmers and peasants.  Civilians.  He did not like it.