Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy) (19 page)

“No deaths,” Garren replied. “And no supplies that can’t be replaced—at least Nellus had the sense to keep the pay chests in camp! Though the surveyors you requested had sent their supplies on ahead of them, and those went up with everything else.”

Color rose in Barmael’s face till it almost matched his hair. “We need better maps. And I’m afraid we’re going to need them even sooner than I thought.”

“The surveyors themselves will arrive as scheduled,” said another officer soothingly. “They can make a start—”

“What good is a surveyor without a sextant and line?” Barmael rumbled. “We need to order more equipment as soon as possible, Governor.”

“It will come with the rest of the supplies,” said Garren. “And long before it arrives,
Tactimian Nellus should have the men responsible in custody, where they will name their accomplices and die. So it won’t happen again. I merely wished to make this incident known to all of you, so you could tighten security procedures in the areas under your command.”

“Hard to tighten anything, when you’ve only got a thousand men to patrol a city the size of Desafon,” one of the officers near Soraya murmured to the man beside him. “I’m surprised the whole place hasn’t gone up in flames.”

“Shh,” his companion hissed.

“I’ve been telling you, the countryside’s restive,” said Barmael. “That’s why we need better maps. We’re going to see a lot more of this kind of thing.” His voice was still mild, but several men near Soraya stiffened, and even she was surprised. Saying “I told you so” to Governor Garren struck her as a truly stupid thing to do. And yet . . .
I need men who’ll argue with me.

Garren’s gaze, resting on Substrategus Barmael, was very cold. “Do you really think a handful of disorganized farmers can threaten the army of the Iron Empire?” His voice was even softer than Barmael’s, but Soraya shivered.

“They just burned down a warehouse in Desafon,” Barmael pointed out. “And what if they get themselves organized?”

“Then we shall crush them, just as we crushed the last force that came against us,” said Garren. “But I believe that a bit more heed to security on the part of
competent
officers will solve the problem. Once the cities are taken, the countryside will settle.”

Had Tactimian Nellus been judged incompetent? Evidently! Soraya looked down to hide her face. A fierce elation filled her at the thought of any Farsalans resisting the Hrum, but she feared Garren’s estimate of their chances was accurate. She had learned something of how vast, how powerful, the empire truly was. No, peasants could never succeed where deghans had failed. But she liked the fact that they were trying. She hoped they escaped to the last man, and struck again and again!

“Now let us proceed to a more important matter,” Garren continued, in a voice that made it clear the previous topic was closed. “Tactimian Rodden has taken the port city, Dugaz.”

This time the rumble that filled the room was one of surprised pleasure, and Soraya sighed.

“Well, perhaps taken is an exaggeration.” Garren was smiling himself, though Soraya thought it a small, wintry smile. “When the tactimian approached the city he found the streets undefended, and he soon learned that the Farsalan city governor had fled some weeks before. He reports that the populace seems . . . unconcerned about the matter of governance, so I will replace him with a centrimaster, with three centris under his command. If you have any centrimasters under you who you think would do well governing a quiet city, please bring them to my attention.”

“Three hundred men?” The tactimian she’d seen with the peddler spoke up for the first time. “Sir, isn’t that a bit light to hold any city, even if it seems quiet?”

“I won’t send troops to garrison a peaceful city when they can be put to better use elsewhere,” said Garren in his argument-ending tone. “From Rodden’s report, a few deci could hold that town. The clerks will distribute lists of the lost supplies, with notes on how it may affect your own commands. If you uncover any problems you can’t solve, bring them to my attention. That will be all.”

Soraya gathered up the empty cups as the officers departed, and then slipped out of the room. She doubted any officer would be presenting Garren with problems, no matter how insoluble they proved. The judgment “incompetent” had been yoked to that sentence like a cart to an ox.

It was disappointing that Dugaz had yielded so easily. Not surprising, perhaps. Her father had once said that Dugaz was the sewer of the realm, with no redeeming feature except the toughness of its rats, but still . . .

Soraya returned to the kitchen. Casia was seated beside a tub of carrots, with a knife in her hand and neat strapping wrapped around her ankle. She grinned at Soraya. “See, I told you. Nothing to it.”

“You were right,” Soraya admitted. “How’s your ankle?”

“Oh, it’ll mend. In another month or two.” Casia grimaced. “So you’ll be serving in the governor’s quarters for some time.”

“I don’t mind,” said Soraya. “Though Governor Garren seemed . . . um . . .”

“He’s a right cold bastard,” said Casia cheerfully.
“But he doesn’t even notice you if all goes well, and if anything goes wrong, all you get is a freezing look as you go for a cleaning rag. He doesn’t even complain to Hennic, if it’s an ordinary accident. Beneath his high notice, people like us.”

Calfaer, who was carving a new handle for one of the big pans, snorted. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. The less interest we get from officers the better, whatever the reason. I prefer the stupid ones, myself.”

The rest of the staff chuckled, and Soraya frowned. She was still surprised, almost shocked, at how irreverently the servants discussed their superiors—at least among themselves. She wondered what her mouse-timid maids had said behind her back, and winced.

“Here, girl, if you’re afrai—nervous about it, Hennic can find someone else to serve,” said Casia kindly.

“No, I don’t mind,” Soraya repeated. “Some of the officers seem decent enough. That Substrategus Barmael, he’s being a kind man, isn’t he?”

Casia opened her mouth to answer, but Calfaer beat her to it. “Of course he’s kind to servants—he’s no better than a servant himself!”

Soraya’s jaw dropped—she’d never felt Calfaer radiate such curt dislike.

“He’s an officer now,” said Casia gently. “And you’d best remember it, at least to his face.”

Calfaer’s scowl deepened. “He’s barely fit to keep my father’s pigs!” He stood and stalked out, leaving Soraya staring after him in astonishment.

“What in the world?”

Casia sighed. “It’s a long story, but the short of it is that both Barmael and Calfaer are from the same land. Brasnia, it’s called.”

Soraya frowned, comparing the burly, red-haired man to Calfaer’s small, slim frame. They were much the same age, but . . . “They don’t even speak with the same accent.”

“That’s because our Calfaer was from a family of high lords, and Barmael was a lowly peasant type. A serf, I think they called them. But what Calfaer really holds against him is that Barmael fought against the rulers of his own land, to help the Hrum conquer it. Young he was then, scarce more than a lad, but he’s been rising in the Hrum army ever since. And Calfaer . . .”

She sighed, and Soraya nodded understanding. People were altogether too complicated.

T
HE COMMON PEOPLE OF FARSALA
rallied behind Sorahb’s banner. Though they did their best to learn to fight as the deghans had, they were still far from skilled, and the Hrum took town after town.

So Sorahb called his army to him. “The Hrum are too strong,” he told them. “And we are still unready. We must weaken them before we can hope for victory.”

Then Sorahb called for the best night-hunters among them to come forth. He led this small band to the conquered city of Desafon, where the Hrum had built a great storehouse to hold their supplies. Sure and silent as the night itself, they crept past the Hrum sentries and set the storehouse alight.

All who witnessed this fire say it spread and grew far
faster than any normal fire could, and the Hrum’s efforts to contain it proved in vain. This is when the rumor that Sorahb was a sorcerer was born. But if that fire spread faster than any set by mortal hand, there is still one other hand that might have been involved in it.

T
HE SWAMP MUD STANK,
and it seemed to Kavi that he slipped in it with every other step. But as long as he followed Duckie’s round hind quarters, the water splashing around his soaked boots was never more than ankle deep.

The sun had set half a candlemark ago, but a waxing moon sailed serenely through the summer stars—a clear night, Azura be thanked.

Ducks being day creatures, most of the flock that had surrounded Duckie earlier had vanished with the sun. But two stubborn drakes still swam and waddled beside the mule, quacking companionably and getting under Kavi’s feet. He’d have been more exasperated, if he hadn’t occasionally
seen the mule cock a long ear in the direction of one of her feathered confederates, and then abruptly change direction. But that had to be nonsense. Mules and horses were known to have better instincts for finding good footing than men had, even without the mystical guidance of ducks.

After a tuft of grass that looked as solid as any in this forsaken bog had sunk underfoot, pitching Kavi hip deep into muddy water, he had been content to let Duckie take the lead. Especially after the sun had set.

In some ways Kavi was glad to see it go. The sunlight turned the brush-choked marsh into a steam bath, and biting, stinging insects had swarmed over his damp clothes and sweating skin whenever he stopped moving. Sometimes the moths that fed on the mull bushes came to join them, stifling in their numbers, though they didn’t bite or sting. But with the coming of night the insects, like the ducks, retired. The air, though still as warm and soft as water on his skin, was cool enough for him to walk without sweating. And if Kavi could see little of the cluttered ground beneath his feet, well, he was seeing Duckie’s
rump just fine, and she was a better guide than his eyes in this treacherous muck.

Duckie herself, carrying only a light pack that held food and dry clothes, and surrounded by water and a pair of her favorite feathered companions, was perfectly content. Of course, she didn’t know that mules could get swamp fever too, Kavi reflected sourly.

His feet slipped again, and he swore and clutched a mull bush to keep his balance. A cloud of moths fluttered up and slowly settled.

The fever was more virulent in the summer too, but Kavi had heard it seldom afflicted those who only stayed in the swamp for a short time. He had no intention of lingering any longer than it would take to deliver his warning, and his plea, and get out. But when he’d heard that the Hrum were sending a new governor to Dugaz, with only a small escort, the opportunity had seemed too good to pass up.

It seemed like half the night had gone by, but the moon had only covered a small arc of starry sky when Duckie stopped, ears pricked and nostrils flaring. Kavi, coming up beside her, saw campfires crowning a small rise some distance away.

He neither saw nor heard any sign of a sentry, and if Duckie did, she wasn’t letting on, but Kavi knew they had to be there. Still, no one stopped him as he clambered onto the lower slopes of the rise, leading Duckie, now that they were on higher, firmer ground. He should have found their willingness to admit him reassuring, but it made him nervous instead.
Sure, getting in is easy. Getting out may be a different matter entirely.

“Hello the camp,” he called. The standard travelers greeting.

“Camp?” The mischievous voice behind him made Kavi jump.
“Camp?
This is the palace of the swamp lords! And if you doubt me, well, we’re being richer men here than any dwelling in some manor in Setesafon. That I promise you.”

The man who leaned against the trunk of one of the low trees stepped forward into the moonlight, and perhaps his claim to wealth wasn’t without foundation. The silk vest, bright with embroidery, Kavi had half expected. After all, the famous Farsalan silk, gossamer light, yet strong enough for armor and tents, was produced in these swamps, and spinning and weaving it was Dugaz’ only industry. Well, aside from fleecing the sailors who
came into their port, and of course, smuggling. It wasn’t that there was any prohibition against selling Farsalan silk to anyone who wished to buy, but it was supposed to be taxed first.

No, Kavi had expected silk. But he hadn’t expected the wide gold bracelets that adorned—and protected—the man’s wrists, or the glass inlay on the hilt of his dagger. At least . . . no, surely it was only glass. Glass was expensive enough!

“Palace of the swamp lords,” Kavi repeated. “Would you be their king, then?” He kept his voice very mild.

The man grinned. “For the moment, my friend, for the moment. King is a title that comes and goes with distressing speed around here. I’m called Shir. And you would be? . . .”