Soldier at the Door (62 page)

Mal blinked once, quite quickly. “All right,” he whispered.

Brisack shook his head. “I didn’t give you enough. You shouldn’t be able to speak at all. Or maybe you’re just exceptionally stubborn.”

Mal blinked once again.

“And by the way,” Brisack said as he stood up to cork a bottle, “about saving your life? You’ll be getting my bill in the morning. Guess this proves you have a heart. And you’re welcome, you selfish son of a sow!”

---

Administrator Gadiman sat at his desk, candles burning all around him, with
the file
in front of him. It sat apart from several others stacked neatly on his large desk.

It was late again. The sun had set hours ago, but Gadiman still had work to do. He could work all night if necessary. And the next day. And the next, for however long he needed to be there. No one would bother him here. No one would
dare.

He tried to concentrate on the task before him but his anger boiled up inside again, threatening to froth out in another fit of te
mper. But he couldn’t let that happen again. It took him almost three hours to reorganize all the files. But as he gathered up the files he dumped furiously out of boxes, one had fallen open to reveal a page he knew he could work with.
This
was the way he could get his revenge and prove his worth.

The file sat open in front of him as a bright and redeeming light in contrast to a dark and stupid night.

Those two lieutenants were ready, he knew it! Something went wrong in Edge, but it wasn’t his fault. Something—or
someone
—else interfered, and because of that failure, Gadiman would be dropped from the inner circle before he even got a chance to be part of it. It wasn’t fair! Everything should have worked out perfectly! So who ruined it?!

He took a few deep cleansing breaths, noticed that they didn’t cleanse anything, and grabbed the thick file. He flipped the pages over, past the High General’s comprehensive report, past the test
imonies from citizens of Edge, and past the explanation from the Administrators as to why, despite all the progress Major Shin had made, he certainly couldn’t be promoted
again
after only
one season
, but here were several medals and patches instead to decorate his dress uniform, along with the proclamation of Major Shin as Officer of the Year.

He stopped flipping through the file only when he came to Ca
ptain Karna’s daily reports. He moved those pages to the top and turned to the second page.

There it was, obvious for anyone to see,
if
they were willing to see. Why no one wanted to, Gadiman couldn’t understand. Yet here was his salvation. He would still prevail, and prove to Chairman Mal he was far more adept than that self-righteous doctor.

He took another file from the side of his desk that had a yellow dot next to the name. He opened the file and carefully copied info
rmation from Captain Karna’s report for a second record that he alone kept. 

He closed the file, pulled out the orange paint and placed anot
her dot on top of the yellow.

He wouldn’t ignore it like everyone else.

If they wanted Shin brought to his knees, Gadiman would find another way to do it—legally, publically, definitively. It might take some time, but knew he had all the time in the world.

For disarming the
entire
army in front of her husband and with his
reluctant
approval, then sending the soldiers out in ‘casual’ uniform to the village—which Captain Karna claimed had “charming effects on the citizens,” but was a phrase that made Gadiman involuntarily shudder—Mrs. Shin’s new orange label meant Beyond Watched, but not yet Traitorous.

No woman should have that kind of influence over an officer. Any more power and she’d be one of the most dangerous women in the world.

And she was.

Gadiman could see it in the four letters she sent. She had pote
ntial, this one. Far more than any other file in his very full office. And she had the ear of the son of the most powerful officer in the world.

She was a glorious disaster
simply waiting to happen, to fully ripen and explode right in front all of their faces. And Gadiman would be the one to call their attention to it. He saw it, right from the beginning. He had written proof, and he would be there at the end when she destroyed herself and everyone else with the last name of Shin.  They would all go down hard and loud and messy, and Gadiman would be there to sweep it all up, pour it into a bag, and hand it proudly to the Chairman.

Then he’d set his eyes on the next target, the one file he kept even more heavily guarded than Mrs. Shin’s. In it was only one item
of evidence so far, but it was most revealing. He would just wait for the right moment.

Unable to stop himself, he slipped the file out from the secret drawer under his desk and opened it up. There it was, still dark and crisp in th
e clear scrawl unique to doctors.

Captain Shin, a dozen will be awaiting in the shadows to assist in the care of your wife and daughter.

Gadiman was no doctor, but he was intelligent enough to know to send a
copy
of that message to the captain, and to keep the original—in Brisack’s own handwriting—for himself.

He would be next, after Mrs. Shin.

Gadiman painstakingly set a precise orange dot next to Brisack’s name. The orange paint was his only victory for the day.

That very wrong, very stupid, very disastrous day.

-
--

Dormin was ready, waiting in the dark in his room at the Inn at Edge. He paced nervously, knowing that the time had come, and now was past. Something must have happened—

The door opened quietly and two figures slipped in.

“Rector Yung? Why haven’t we left yet? Where are the others?” Dormin began to fumble with a match until he heard Rector Yung.

“No light, son. We have to keep quiet for another few days yet, it seems.”

“What?” Dormin exclaimed. “I thought there was this great rush—”

“There is!” Mrs. Yung said, clearly exasperated. “But there’s been an incident at the fort, and now the patrols have doubled, round the clock. There will be no movement until things quiet down again. Probably four or five more days.”

Dormin exhaled loudly. “But that’s—”

“Hardly a worry for you!” Mrs. Yung snapped in an angry whisper.

Dormin clamped his mouth shut. He’d never heard her so testy before.

“Remember, Dormin,” Mrs. Yung said, trying to calm her voice, “this isn’t all about you. You can sit around here for weeks without a concern, but others are in far greater danger. I didn’t mean to get snippy with you,” she added apologetically. “It’s
only that . . . oh, the timing just couldn’t be worse.”

Dormin saw her take a chair at the small table and plop down in it worriedly.

Her husband stepped up behind her and seemed to massage her shoulders. “We have to trust the Creator knows our plight, my dearest. He will fix everything, somehow.”

“I know, I know,” Mrs. Yung said impatiently. “It’s just that—”

“The Creator knows our plight,” Rector Yung said again, still calm and gentle.

Mrs. Yung exhaled loudly, partly in aggravation, partly in apo
logy. “I know,” she said quieter. “I know. I’m sorry.”

In the dark, Rector Yung seemed to smile at Dormin. “All will be well,” he said with such surety as if to guarantee it. “We’ve faced trickier situations—”

A loud scoffing sound from his wife begged to differ with that assessment.

“Dearest?” Rector Yung said in a remarkable blend of innocent questioning and firm admonishment.

Mrs. Yung sighed again. “Sorry, sorry. I can’t help but get anxious at this point.”

“And yet every time all goes well, doesn’t it?” her husband said with such sweetness that Dormin wondered if the man were half sugar.

“Yes, you’re always right,” Mrs. Yung growled quietly. “And so is the Creator.”

Rector Yung chuckled quietly and took a chair next to his wife.

But Dormin clenched his hands into nervous fists. “So . . . what happened at the fort? Why is everyone more anxious than usual?”

The
Yungs looked steadily at each other before Rector Yung cleared his throat.

“Dormin, sit down, son,” the rector said somberly. “There’s something you need to hear.”

Chapter 21 ~ “I never once remember laughing in Idumea.”

M
ahrree looked at the brand new collection of blank paper, tightly bound and protected with a leather cover. Her own book. At least, it would be soon.

Joriana, who had left yesterday for Idumea with her husband and two fewer guards, had bought the beautiful book for her when she endured an arduous but highly distracting outing at the market with Hycymum, two toddlers, and a couple of long-suffering so
ldiers. When she handed the undoubtedly expensive gift to Mahrree, her eyes were damp.

“Whenever I was deeply troubled, Uncle Hogal told me to write about it. He said we don’t know what we’re thinking until we see it in our own writing, then we’re able to grapple with it. He gave me my first blank book right after my parents died and I realized I was expecting Perrin. I was actually surprised to see that Edge even ca
rries something so fine,” she said as she ran her hand gingerly over the swirling patterns imprinted on the leather, the grooves darkened with inks.

“Oh, Mother Shin—I can’t accept this!” Mahrree had breathed, not daring to take the book. Nothing else in her house could be d
eclared as
fine,
and less than one minute with either of her children would render it
dismal
. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“It will fit quite well in your extensive collection,” Joriana said with finality, nodding to their full bookshelves.

“But shouldn’t you keep it? I imagine you have plenty to write about.”

Joriana smiled sadly and held up two more, just like it. “You’re
right—I do have a lot to write about. Mine will be dreary enough, so Mahrree, create something memorable!”

Last night she
only fondled the cover, not daring to muss any pages.

“Just use it,” Perrin told her. “Really, my parents can afford it. They can afford a dozen of those.”

Mahrree squinted. “Just how much silver is paid to the High General anyway?”

He squinted back. “He’s paid in gold. And realize, that’s not a job I
ever
want—especially now—so you can stop your planning—”

“I don’t want you t
o have that job either! I’m only . . . curious.”

He glared at her, not entirely convinced that curiosity was all there was to it. “Enough to keep their house stocked and their ser
vants well paid.”

“They have servants?!” Mahrree exclaimed. “How big is their house?”

He shrugged dismissively. “Big enough to be garish. No one in their right mind would want it, including
you
.”

So early this morning Mahrree stoked the fire in the gathering room, dragged one of the stuffed chairs over to it, and settled down with her book next to a small table with a mug of water, ink, and quill to write something
memorable
.

After five minutes of staring, she realized it wasn’t that easy. Too many things were on her mind, all fighting to be recorded, then each suddenly deciding it didn’t want to be the first to blot the bea
utiful buff pages.

She was wasting time, and she hated that. Soon her children and husband would be waking, she’d have breakfast to make, then the morning chores to do, then midday meal to ready, then put down her children for naps, and then prepare for her After School Care boys.

This afternoon they were heading to her old school’s orchard. Recently she noticed no one had picked the apples. Many were still hanging heavy on the low branches, but more had dropped to the ground, becoming food for whatever creatures stole them in the night.

At first, she was irate. This was the school orchard! Every year for decades the fruit was harvested by the students and sold in the market. The silver slips earned went to improving the school buil
ding, purchasing wood for the fire in the Raining Season, and paying the teacher. Every student’s family helped, and it was a neighborhood tradition all over Edge—gather to harvest, sell, and take care of our schools.

But now?!

Mahrree had tried to put her irritation in her apron pocket and decided to chalk up the neglect of the school orchard—and the five other school orchards in Edge, Perrin told her glumly last night—to the Guarder raid, the changes to the village, and the recent bloodshed at the fort. People just had other, more worrying, things on their minds.

So why was it that, when all the events of the past several moons had most directly affected her family, her family was the only one still concerned about the school orchards?

She repeatedly shoved aside the nagging suspicion that no one cared for the apples because they knew the Administrators were now paying for the teachers and new, larger buildings. Just like the lessons that no parents worried about, the orchard was ignored because
someone else
was taking care of it. 

And she definitely refused to visit the notion screaming in her head that her After School Care boys were also at times being n
eglected by their parents because
someone else
was now taking care of them all day at school, and even afterwards.

Why do the work when
someone else
—and it doesn’t matter who—will do it for you?

Those were aggravating attitudes Mahrree tried not to dwell on, but instead quietly fought against. They’d harvest those apples this afternoon and give them to Director Hegek. They were “his” prope
rty now, after all, even though he likely didn’t realize it. The neighborhood school now belonged to the Administrators, and no one outside of the Shin household seemed to think that was yet another tragic turn of events.

Mahrree thought again of what Joriana had said about her own blank books, and decided that maybe she need to follow Hogal’s a
dvice as well. The rich, thick pages would be darkened with her own frustrations, musings, worrying, and venting. It seemed a poor way to treat such a treasure, but nothing else came to her mind.

Since it seems that The Writings are actually the records of families and what they experienced, perhaps I too can create my own “Writings” on these pages given to me by my mother-in-law, Joriana Shin.

She smiled at the words. “Not a bad beginning,” she murmured, and continued on.

So much has happened this past year that I almost worry what more can occur, because we’re only nearing the end of Harvest Season, and a long Raining Season is still to come. The year started quietly enough, until Weeding Season came bringing with it strange changes to the education of our children and a raid by the Guarders which resulted in tragic consequences, especially for Perrin’s great aunt and uncle, Tabbit and Hogal Densal.

It would have been worse though, I’m sure, had Corporal Shem Zenos not

Mahrree stopped.

Exactly how much should she say about Shem and their suspicions? It was barely over a week ago the two lieutenants were found dead in the hallway of the guest quarters. Shem even volunteered himself to be interrogated by her father-in-law, and only an hour later an exasperated High General sent him out of the command tower. Perrin told Mahrree he had never seen his father so frustrated, nor had he seen Shem so relieved to be exonerated, again.

Two days after the attack, files came by the Administrators’ messenger service from Dr. Brisack. It seemed there had been a girl both lieutenants had pursued when they first arrived at Command School, one that played both of them before chasing after a gradua
ting officer. There was bad blood between the two lieutenants which they chose not to reveal, both eager to serve the Chairman and High General. The files were accompanied by a note from Dr. Brisack personally apologizing for not recognizing the potential problems with the young officers and allowing such ill-disciplined men to serve so closely to the High General.

Later Perrin told Mahrree over dinner that his father confided to him that Dr. Brisack was the only decent one among the Administr
ators, but he’d never own up to saying that.

“And I read the note from Brisack, Mahrree,
and thinking on the off chance that maybe . . .” He shrugged when he said that, and looked at her hard to see if she could finish the sentence.

It took her a minute. “If maybe . . .
he
was the one who sent you the warning a year and a half ago?! About the twelve Guarders? An Administrator? How would he have known?!”

Perrin shook his head quickly. “I know, I know. And the writing didn’t match, not one bit. It was ridiculous to even think it, but . . . Well, at least the mystery seems to be solved. The lieutenants did kill each other at the same time. Brisack confirmed he had seen a case of that before. Shem was so relieved he was no longer a suspect that he practically danced out of the office.”

“So,” Mahrree sighed happily, “we can be absolutely sure we know the truth about Shem Zenos?”

Her husband only swallowed and went back to his dinner.

That’s why Mahrree stared now at her new book, wondering exactly what to write. Shem had been over the afternoon and evening before, staying with the children so that she could go with Perrin to do the final inspection of the new small fort in Moorland. She didn’t even think twice about leaving Jaytsy and Peto in Corporal Zenos’s devoted care. Shem was their little brother, after all. The children called him Unk and ran into his arms whenever they saw him.

The three of them were sound asleep together on the sofa when she and Perrin returned late last night. The sight of her children snuggled in Shem’s ample arms was so adorable that Mahrree co
mmitted it to memory. 

“He really is the sweetest soldier ever, isn’t he?” she said to her husband, who
merely sneered good-naturedly at her.

But still Mahrree was plagued with suspicion.

Was it
really
just coincidence that Shem noticed the Guarder raid first that Weeding Season? Or had he been
watching
for it? And if he had, why did he let them succeed in reaching the village? Just how much on Mahrree and Perrin’s side was he then? Was he more now?

She tapped the feathered end of the quill on the paper.

Shem was theirs, she was sure of it. In fact, the question hadn’t even entered her mind again until she started thinking about it just now.

She shrugged and started writing instead about Hogal and Tabbit’s passing, about Shem’s injury, and about Perrin’s new measures that were now being implemented throughout the entire world.

She chuckled as she wrote about High General Shin’s suggestion to put a simple log cattle fence at the edge of the forest to slow down the Guarders attempting to run across the barren field, and her husband’s dumbfounded reaction that he hadn’t thought of that himself. Yesterday he set two crews of soldiers to begin felling timbers along the river for the long beams.

Mahrree’s writing strayed into the Shins’ visit and the assassin
ation attempt, that really wasn’t officially an attempt, but Mahrree and Perrin had wondered if maybe—

She scribbled out the last two sentences she wrote.

“Oh,
that’s smart
,” she shook her head. “Yes, put down in writing that you suspect Shem Zenos to be something . . .
else
. That the lieutenants were something . . .
else
. Don’t even know if it’s the same ‘else’! Should this ever fall into the wrong hands . . . Sorry Shem, I simply lost my head for a few minutes.” She dropped her quill and folded her arms. “I wonder if the guides ever struggled with knowing what to reveal.”

She looked sadly at the page where she’d so carefully recorded, then so violently crossed out, words that could do far too much da
mage. There was only one thing to do.

Cringing, she tore out the first two pages of her beautiful new book and threw them into the fireplace.

“Sorry, Mother Shin. Well, this is hardly a promising beginning,” she chuckled sadly, looking at her now-blank book again. “Maybe this is why people don’t always keep their own writings. Whatever isn’t boastful is embarrassing, or shameful, or libelous. And if it’s none of those things, then it’s downright boring!”

She sighed loudly and looked over at her worn copy of The Writings on a shelf, wedged between other books. There were many incidences in their ancient history which were less-than-glorious, but certainly memorable. Maybe that really was the purpose of The Writings: to show not everything is charming, funny, and happy ev
ery day. She read the set-backs and failures of her ancestors so she could see how they endured those dark days to see the sun shine again. And it always did.

She shut the cover on her own bound pages, retrieved her copy of The Writings from the shelves, and sat back down.

How did their ancestors write about difficult things?

She opened the book to the saddest words in The Writings, the last warnings from Guide Hierum, the first guide chosen by the Creator. She had hoped, when her mother gave her the copies of her family lines, that she would see she was descended from the Great Guide. But to her disappointment, she wasn’t. Still, she admired him more than any other man who had lived. Her chest burned, either with the power of his last words or the dread of them. They always seemed timely, no matter what time she read them.