Tetrarch (Well of Echoes) (46 page)

They were approaching one such watercourse at sunset. ‘Are we camping here?’ Nish asked hopefully.

‘We will do as you order, Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar,’ Mounce replied.

‘Please call me Nish,’ said Nish. ‘What do you think?’

‘I am a soldier, Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar. I don’t think.’

Nish’s heart sank. No doubt they knew that his dizzying promotion was just a confidence trick.

‘If we stop here, will we reach the Aachim camp by mid-afternoon tomorrow?’

‘Unlikely, surr.’

‘Then we’ll press on!’

They raced off. At once the ground seemed rougher, his mount’s gait more jouncing, and Nish felt every jolt. Riding even harder, they reached another watercourse just as the light was fading. The sergeant continued through the water and kept going.

‘A leader must lead,’ said Ranii, at his elbow.

‘We camp here!’ Nish roared. Attempting to dismount, he fell off his horse as the soldiers wheeled around and came cantering back.

Nish picked himself up, rubbed his throbbing backside and began to unsaddle the horse.

‘I’ll do that, surr,’ said Tchlrrr.

‘Help Mounce with the camp,’ said Nish. ‘I’ll take care of my own horse. It’s the least I can do since I’ve been sitting on the poor creature all day.’

‘He’s a warhorse,’ said Mounce. ‘He’s used to carrying a proper soldier and all his gear. A pipsqueak like you won’t trouble him.’

The insult was deliberate and Nish could not pretend he had not heard it. What was he to do?

N
ish stopped dead and slowly turned around. It had to be done right away. ‘Sergeant Mounce, you are broken to the ranks for insolence. Hand me your badge and baton, if you please.’

Mounce looked as if he had run into a tree. His leathery skin went red, then purple. His mouth opened and closed like a fish trying to breathe out of water.

‘You – you can’t do that, surr,’ he choked.

‘As marshal, I believe I can.’ Nish held out his hand. It took an effort to stop it from shaking, for he was taking a monumental risk. If the soldier refused, Nish might as well go home, for he would never recover.

It was a contest of wills, one Nish had often fought with his father, who invariably won it. On the other hand, the trials of the past months had grown a few fibres in Nish’s soul. He had faced opponents more formidable than this one. The man was just a soldier, used to obeying orders no matter how stupid they might seem. The advantage was on Nish’s side.

Taking a step forward, Nish looked the man in the eye. This was a game he had learned from the scrutator, and one of the easiest paths to dominance, if you had the will for it. Nish screwed his down hard. Nothing is going to beat me.
Nothing!
As Troist has seized his chance, I will take mine. I’ve waited long enough for it.

He put that fire and fury into his eyes. The soldier held him for a minute, then his eyes slid away and Nish knew he had won. The man put out his hand. Nish took the badge and baton.

The former sergeant bowed his head. ‘You have broken me, surr. When I go back I will be finished. No soldier will ever respect me again.’

Nish was about to point out that it was on Mounce’s own head, until a sudden, rare feeling of empathy came over him. He had been just as low, more than once, and but for the generosity of the overseer one time, and Scrutator Flydd another, might now be a soldier in the front-lines. Or in the belly of a lyrinx.

‘You will have the chance to earn back your baton on this journey. Whether you do so is, of course, up to you.’

The soldier did not grovel, for which Nish was grateful, but he did bow. ‘Thank you, Marshal Cryl – Thank you, Nish.’

Nish bowed, the man turned away and they all went about their business.

After dinner Nish sat up talking to Ranii, who now tried to conceal her hostility. She briefed him on the character, the manners, the protocols and the Histories of the Aachim.

‘You must appreciate,’ she concluded, ‘that everything I have told you relates to the Aachim of Santhenar, who have dwelt here for four thousand years. A culture and a people can change immeasurably in that time, even one so self-contained as theirs. The Aachim of this world are, no doubt, more like us than these newcomers. You must be cautious; who knows
what
proprieties an innocent remark or gesture might infringe. And yet you must be bold, for they do not respect timidity. Above all else we must avoid the impression of weakness.’

‘Which is the true impression.’

‘Yes, and no. Militarily, we are weaker than we have been. The war has taken a toll. But we have endured it, and are tougher and more resilient because we have. And even if we
are
weak, we can act strong. We must, just as you faced down Mounce earlier. There are all kinds of strength, Marshal Hlar.’

‘I’m just beginning to realise it.’

‘The Aachim can be bluffed. The Histories tell us that. And they are at a disadvantage. Their constructs are more than the equal of our own machines, but they have no home base, no friendly lands to provide them with supplies, no safe place to send their wounded. They must carry everything with them and there are but one hundred and fifty thousand of them.’

‘Rulke took Aachan from them with a hundred Charon, so the Great Tales say.’

‘That was the boldest stroke of all time! But Santhenar is not Aachan and we old humans are not Aachim. We are lesser, yet greater, and we would never give up our world so easily. Besides, these Aachim do not know Santhenar, and that is the greatest disadvantage of all.’

‘Though one readily remedied with advisers and scouts from their own kind in Stassor.’

‘Stassor is a long way from here and accessible only on foot. Help could be months in coming. We must capitalise on their disadvantage so as to bring them to negotiate.’

‘What is our objective?’

‘To have them as allies against the lyrinx! Surely you realise that?’ She stared at him as if he was an idiot.

Nish flushed. ‘I asked Troist but he did not say.’

‘It’s so obvious I’m astounded you needed to ask.’

‘Well, I did.’

‘Whatever we do, we must avoid offending them, and from what I hear of Vithis, that will be difficult.’

Nish considered his approach as he bounced on his black and blue backside across the hard soil of Rencid. It would be his greatest test. He was not sure he was up to it.

As they drew near the Aachim camp, a triplet of constructs whined out to meet them. Nish drew level with Mounce and passed him the baton and badge. ‘I must have a sergeant while we are here; the toughest and most unflinching in the east. Are you up to pretending?’

‘Surr!’ Mounce touched his cap, spurred ahead and put up his pole. The blue truce flag cracked in the breeze of his passage. He pounded up to the clankers, wheeled around them in a circle, ignoring the spear-throwers trained on him, skidded to a stop and jammed the pole into the ground. Pulling back on the reins, he brought his horse up on its hind legs, danced all the way round the flag, then turned his back and trotted back to Nish.

Ranii was smiling. ‘I think that sets the right tone. The Aachim are not put off by arrogance, since it is one of their defining characteristics.’

‘What do we do now?’ whispered Nish. ‘Should I present my credentials?’

‘To a group of soldiers? Of course not!’

‘We must state our business, surely?’

‘Let’s see what they do first. Since they have not come down from their machines they may be an escort. We’ll go forward, mounted, and see if they challenge us.’

Nish gestured to Mounce, who fell in beside Tchlrrr. The pair rode forward in perfect formation. Nish followed several lengths back, Ranii at his side. When Mounce’s horse was a bare length from the leading construct, its hatch cracked open.

A tall dark woman cried, ‘Who are you who ride so recklessly into the Aachim camp? Name yourselves!’

As Nish opened his mouth, Ranii hissed, ‘Leave it to the sergeant, Marshal Hlar. Do not assume lackey’s duties or they will think you are one.’

Mounce called out their names and business, whereupon the tall woman said, ‘You are expected, Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar. Go ahead. Keep your hands away from your weapons.’

They rode down the rank upon rank of constructs, and even Nish was hard put not to gape like a village yokel. In Tirthrax he had seen the machines only from a distance. Up close, they outclassed the clankers he had worked on as a prince’s yacht surpasses a toy floating in the bathtub.

He forced himself to look impassive. Their marvels were no secret: the Aachim were the greatest engineers and designers in the Three Worlds. His horse was the best Troist had to offer, but it was not a construct.

They entered a heptagon of bare ground with the rows of constructs radiating away from it. At its centre was, clearly, the command tent. Mounce and the soldier moved to either side to allow Nish to pass through.

‘Ride to within ten lengths of the tent, then dismount,’ said Ranii in a low voice. ‘This time try not to fall off. Bow and introduce yourself. I will come behind with your credentials.’

She fell back and Nish walked the horse forward. He felt incredibly conspicuous. A wall of Aachim surrounded the open space. He rode the distance, stopped and swung down. His knee wobbled as he struck the ground and for a horrified instant Nish thought that he was going to fall on his face. He steadied himself and waited.

The wait was a long one. As he was wondering why they did not come, the horse defecated noisily, splattering his left boot and lower leg. Nish tried to wipe it off with his other foot.

Three people emerged from the tent. The first was a very tall, haggard-looking fellow dressed in blue-black robes, his cheeks etched with creases and his mouth cast down in bitterness. He was followed by two others, a dark-skinned woman with black curling hair, handsome rather than beautiful, and another man whose close-cropped hair was iron-grey.

Nish bowed. ‘I am Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar; son of Scrutator Jal-Nish Hlar of Einunar Province; Envoy to General Troist.’

‘You are not the first, Marshal Hlar,’ said the haggard fellow, ‘though you are certainly the littlest. What do you want?’

Nish was taken aback by the affront. Having been told that the Aachim were a formal species, much taken up with ritual and protocol, he had expected the formalities to take hours. Moreover, he was paralysed by the thought that he was about to make a major blunder. He could not think of the right words to say, or how to say them.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, but before he could make a complete fool of himself the woman with the curly black hair moved out from behind Vithis. She wore a scarlet blouse, black pantaloons and long black boots.

‘Good day to you, Marshal Hlar,’ she said. ‘I am Tirior of Clan Nataz. Beside me stands Luxor of Clan Izmak. We are both of the Eleven Clans. Our leader,
for the moment
, is Vithis of Clan Inthis. We bid you welcome.’

‘Clan Inthis, First Clan!’ Vithis snapped.

There came a rebellious mutter from behind him. Others introduced themselves by their clan and given names, all being members of the Eleven Clans. At the end, a red-haired couple came forward. They were smaller of stature and paler of skin.

‘I am Zea,’ said the woman. ‘My partner is Yrael. We represent Clan Elienor and seek news of our Aachim brethren on Santhenar.’

‘Clan Elienor!’ sneered Vithis. ‘Least Clan, Last Clan. Not of the Eleven Clans nor ever will be.’ He stepped in front of them, dismissively.

Zea moved to one side. ‘We are one with the Aachim kind,’ she said gently. ‘All Aachim, not just the Eleven Clans, whose rivalry has ever held us back.’

Nish could see that rivalry in the body language of the leaders. Was that an advantage or a disadvantage? ‘Thank you, Tirior of Clan Nataz,’ he said faintly, perspiring in his uniform. ‘Good day to you, Vithis of Clan Inthis and Luxor of Clan Izmak.’ He bowed again. ‘Thank –’

‘Don’t overdo it,’ Ranii said out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Come into the shade,’ said Luxor. ‘Will you take a glass of wine with us?’

Nish was prepared for this. Aachim wine was notoriously strong and he’d not had a drink in months. He might have begged for water on the grounds of a religious prohibition, which they must respect, but he’d made such a shaky start that Nish did not dare.

‘I would be glad to,’ he said.

Vithis grimaced, but stood back so that Nish and Ranii could follow Luxor and Tirior into the annexe of the tent. It was an enormous affair with five apexes held up by engraved poles and taut wires.

Tirior showed Nish to a chair and drew others up opposite. He tried to hide his stained boot and trousers, but was uncomfortably aware of the smell of manure. Refreshments were brought. Nish held his glass up to the light, as he knew the custom to be, and praised the colour for being as green as seawater. Vithis sneered. Evidently the comparison was infelicitous. They waited for him to take the first sip.

He did so. The wine was superb. Nish said so. Vithis smiled thinly.

Tirior chuckled. ‘It is from my own estate, held by many to be the finest on all Aachan.’