The Cutting Edge (3 page)

These were the prince's battle companions. Some might have been with him since Creslee, and most would have been with him at Highscarp and on the bloody field of Fain. Now one of their number had fallen and here was the replacement.

Not a cousin. Not an aristocrat. A common legionary-or so they would assume.

And Ylo was staring at those hateful imperial features. The prince had removed his helmet. His face was a motley of mud and clean patches, his hair a sweaty tangle. Physically he was nothing special, but his eyes burned like black fire. Twenty-six years old, and the man the army worshipped.

On his lap was a folded wolfskin. His cousin's cape. So? One cousin. This man murdered my whole family. "Your name?"

"Ylo, sir. Third cohort, XXth Legion."

"You have done well. Imperial Star, Second Class."

"Thank you, sir. "

"And signifer, of course?" Pause. Would the upstart dare? "Thank you, sir. "

The onlookers rustled, like dry grass when something prowls. The prince nodded sadly. His hand lay strangely still on the wolfskin. "By tradition, the honor is yours." He glanced at the others. "The XIIth has a new signifer, gentlemen."

Revenge! Close. Dark night. Knife in the ribs ...

Then, those imperial eyes-imperious eyes-slashed back at Ylo. The legate seemed vaguely puzzled, as if seeing or hearing something not quite right.

"Service? "

"Two years, sir." More hesitation.

"Mmm ... Can you ride?"

"Yes, sir. "

Surprise.

"Read and write?"

"Yes, sir." Astonishment. Puzzled glances.

Then a voice in the background said, "Ylo? Ylopingo ... ?" There had never been much chance of keeping it secret. "Consul Ylopingo was my father, sir."

The legate stiffened. "An Yllipo?" Stunned silence.

Then the prince said softly, "Thank you, gentlemen," and everyone else melted away. Remarkable. Empty tent.

Just the two of them.

Prince Emshandar nodded toward an oaken chest. The new signifer tottered gratefully across to it and sat down, thinking that he would have fallen over had he been left on his feet much longer. His bones burned.

"Tell me."

Ylo told his story. It did not take long.

The legate stared hard at him all the time, fingers still motionless upon the wolfskin. Then he gestured at a table in a corner. "Wine. And take one for yourself."

Ylo rose. He snapped open the sealed flask with an expertise he had forgotten he had, but his hand trembled as he filled the goblets. He had just realized that he must be a problem for the prince, and men who embarrassed princes had a very short life expectancy. His hand shook even harder as he passed over the drink, because he was thinking poison. That was another possible means of assassination, safer for the assassin. Revenge would be sweeter if he could himself survive to enjoy it. Oh Gods! His mind was a rats' nest. He didn't know what he was thinking. Kill the heir to the throne? What madness was that?

He went back to the chest.

They drank, and the legate's gaze never left him. Good wine ... brought back memories.

"Signifer," the prince said softly.

Not certain he was being addressed, Ylo said, "Sir?"

"Your predecessor was a close confidant of mine. Did you know that? "

"Yes, sir. Your cousin."

That display of knowledge won a nod of surprise, and approval. "Yes. He was my signifer. He was also my personal secretary, my closest and most trusted aide, and chief of my personal staff. " Emshandar sipped at the wine without taking his eyes off Ylo. "I assumed you were just a common legionary. I assumed you would become the legion's signifer-but not mine. You understand? You understand the distinction?"

"Yes, sir. "

"There's a world of difference between a man who waves a pole about and one who ciphers letters to the imperor. "

"I understand, sir."

The prince laid his goblet down on a table beside him and rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of both hands. Then he fixed that dark, burning gaze on Ylo again.

Had he been capable of feeling anything, Ylo might have felt relief then-or even amusement at the thought of him, Ylo, attempting to function as aide-de-camp to the prince imperial. Being signifer to the legion was enough-it would be heaven after being a common sword banger. And there would be opportunities for revenge if that was what he wanted after he had considered the pros and cons.

Then the prince said, "Could you serve me?"

God of Madness! Ylo had thought the matter was settled. Serve this murderer?

The imperor was ancient. Any day now the Gods were going to call in his black soul and weigh it-good luck to Them if They found one grain of good in it! This man would mount the Opal Throne as Emshandar V.

His close friends and aides would roll to the top of the heap at once. His personal signifer would be in line for heady promotions, even a consulship, perhaps. That long-lost political career was back on the table again. In fact it was shining brighter than it had ever done.

Sudden caution warned Ylo that politics had turned out to be more dangerous for his family than soldiering ever had. What he wanted now was a little security in his life. Yet ...

Revenge? To serve this man would be a betrayal of his ancestors, his parents, his brothers ...

Or would it be a sweeter revenge? And the opportunities for murder would be unlimited, day and night.

Confused, he muttered, "You couldn't trust me!"

The prince had probably read every thought in that hesitation. "You have the legion's standard; you have earned it, and no one can question your loyalty to the Impire. For the rest, I will accept your word."

Ylo stuttered and then blurted out, "Why?"-which was almost a capital offense in the army.

The legate frowned. "I was in Guwush when it happened, Signifer. I disapproved. It was a bloody, inexcusable massacre! I tried to stop it. Can you accept my word on that?"

Such words would be treason on any other lips. And he had no need to lie. He did not seem to be lying.

To Ylo's astonishment his own voice said, "Yes, sir. I believe you."

"And I would like to make what small recompense I can. Can you believe that?"

Ylo must have nodded, because the legate rose, and Ylo reeled to his feet, also. He laid down his goblet and lurched forward to accept the cape being offered. Surely the Gods had gone crazy?

"I appoint you my signifer, Ylo of the Yllipos!" the legate said solemnly. He pulled a face. "My grandfather will have a litter of piglets!"

There was no safe reply to that remark. Ylo was incapable of saying anything anyway. What had he fallen into? And how? A curious gleam shone in the prince's eye. "I hate being devious. You must be the senior surviving male in your family? If you want to claim the name and style yourself Yllipo, then now is the time to do it! "

That would be a direct slap at the imperor's face. That would be a spit in his eye. It might even be illegal, or treasonous. That was much too dangerous!

Fortunately Ylo had a good excuse to hand. He found his voice. "I may have an aged uncle still alive somewhere, sir, I think." An outlaw, of course, attaindered and penniless.

"He is not likely to dispute your claim, though?"

"No, sir ... but I would hate him to hear of it. "

The prince nodded gravely. "The sentiment does you honor! Ylo it is then. Your duty is always to the imperor, then to me, then to the legion, in that order. But you will never find those loyalties in conflict."

He was very sure of his own motives, Ylo thought. He himself was not. In fact he was a lot less sure of them than he'd been ten minutes ago. Why had he accepted? And Yllipo? Why should the prince imperial suggest a bravado like that?

What had Ylo won this day? A consulship, or revenge? If he played his hand right ...

For a moment longer the legate studied his new aide-was he having doubts? But then he held out a hand to shake. Unable to believe this was happening, Ylo took it.

"I mourn my cousin deeply," the prince said, "but I welcome you in his stead. I think it was not only the God of Battle who was with us out there today, Signifer. I think the God of Justice was busy, also. "

Tears sprang suddenly into Ylo's eyes.

He wondered if he had just given away his soul.

The terrible day was not over-indeed, it had barely started. Ylo staggered out of the legate's tent into blinding heat, although the hour was shy of noon. The army did not consider a major battle any reason to slacken discipline. The camp lay spread out around him, rows of tents straight as javelins in all directions. On the outskirts, exhausted legionary grunts were digging the encircling vallation. The centurions' screamed threats drifted in faintly. Well, there was the first blessing . . .

"You have your own duties to attend to." Shandie had dismissed him with those words, but what in the Name of Evil did they mean?

The massive centurion accosted Ylo again and saluted. He had replaced the missing sandal.

Bewildered, Ylo returned the salute and only then realized that he was holding the slain signifer's cape. That had been what this leather-faced thug had been saluting.

"Hardgraa," the monolith growled. "Chief of his bodyguard. "

"Ylo," Ylo said. "Personal signifer." That felt curiously satisfying.

Not believable, just satisfying.

"Thought you might need these," Hardgraa remarked. He held out a wad of rags and a rolled red cloth.

Of course a signifer's first duty would be to tend his standard-clean it, replace the bunting. That was what the legate had meant. Ylo took the offering with shaky hands. "Thanks." He forced his aching feet to move.

The centurion paced beside him until they reached the standard. The easiest way to dispose of the cape was to put it on. It did keep the sun off, and the hood was certainly more comfortable than the massive, dented helmet. As Ylo was about to start work, the centurion muttered, "A moment, Signifer," and straightened the hood for him. Bug-eyed perfectionist!

Ylo began polishing the lowest of the emblems. He would need a stool to reach the star, for he must never lay the pole on the ground. He tried to ignore the watching Hardgraa.

"See that civilian over there, the one who looks like a retired priest?"

Ylo forced his eyes to focus and grunted.

"Sir Acopulo-his chief political advisor. And the butterball just going into the tent? Lord Umpily, chief of protocol. And me. Anything you need to know, any help you want . . . just ask. Ask any of us, but one of those three especially."

Ylo grunted again, squinting against the incandescent desert sun reflecting in his eyes. "Thanks more."

"Anything concerning security or his safety-anything at all, no matter how trivial-tell me with your next breath."

Ylo nodded and decided not to mention his own ambitions for a sharp blade between the royal ribs. He went back to work. The centurion rubbed the bark on his chin. "You did say personal signifer, Signifer?"

"Yes. "

"Curious. An Yllipo? He must be making some sort of political statement. "

Ylo clenched his teeth and went on polishing.

"Important job. Sure to screw it up, of course. Maybe that's it."

Still Ylo held his temper. His skin was streaming sweat under his chain mail and felt rubbed raw in places, as if the links had worn right through his tunic. Every joint ached, every muscle trembled with fatigue.

Hardgraa scratched his cheek. "And I've never known Shandie to go for a pretty face before. Tribune of the Vth Cohort, now-he's a rogue. Vets all the young recruits ... but not Shandie."

Ylo spun around, staggered, steadied himself with a hand on the accursed pole. He scowled at the crude, weatherbeaten veteran. A rock-eater, this one. He'd met some tough centurions in his time, but this looked like the original, the prototype. "I understood that his personal signifer was his chief of staff, Centurion?"

"Correct. "

"Then . . . I . . . you . . . " He was too muddled to find the right words.

"You don't give me orders, Signifer. You pass on his orders. If he hasn't given any, you tell me what you think his orders would be. I obey those orders."

Oh, Gods-responsibility!

"We're a team!" The older man chuckled dryly. "You think we'll try to pull you down? You're expecting a rat pack, maybe?" Dumbly Ylo nodded. He was an outsider. He had been thrown into this close-knit coterie with his fur still wet and his fangs not grown. His loyalties were as questionable as his abilities, and they must all know that.

The centurion shook his head. "If Shandie wants you, then he gets you. Trust us! You're in, understand? One of us. And the sooner you can be useful to him, the happier we'll all be. You can't do my job, and I can't do yours, because I'm not gentle born. We each sing our own songs, understand? A team. And if you ever let him down, in any way at all, I shall personally rearrange that pretty face until you look like a retired gladiator with a bad case of--"

"What're you telling me, Centurion?"

"The council of war's in half an hour. " Ylo threw down the rag.

"Why the Evil didn't you say so? I want two of the maniple signifers here soonest. If any other legion's standard outshines the XIIth's at the council, I will personally roast their balls on a stick. I need a shave, a wash, and clean kit-right now!"

Hardgraa grinned, showing a ragged assortment of amber teeth. "Yessir! " he said, and took off at the double.

An hour-later Ylo found himself still awake, attending the council of war. At least, he thought he was still awake. Who would ever suggest that a man wear a wolfskin cape-with a hood, yet-over full armor in a tropical desert? But to attend a council of war, standing on shaking legs in back of the prince imperial, facing a proconsul ... No, he had to be awake; no dream could ever be this unlikely. If the Gods weren't insane then he was.

Under the furnace glare of the sun, the circle of legates huddled within the circle of their signifers. Ylo was not close enough to hear what was said, but he had already heard Shandie tell his advisors what he expected to be said, and what ought to be said, and the conversation would not veer much from that path.