Soldiers Live (5 page)

Taglios:

Trouble Follows
Mogaba knew there was trouble seconds after he left his rooms, so austerely
furnished in shabby regrets. Palace staffers pushed to the sides of the
corridors as he passed. Without exception they were scuttling away from the
Privy Council Chamber. They must have heard rumors that had not yet reached his
ears. Rumors they were sure would displease the Protector, which meant that,

soon, someone would be making life unpleasant for someone else and these people
hoped to be well out of the way before he started.

“Pride,” he said, in a normal, conversational voice to a young Grey runner
trying to ease past without attracting notice. “Pride is what did me in.”

“Yes sir.” Color drained from the young Shadar’s face. He did not yet have a
beard to hide behind. “I mean, no sir. I’m sorry . . . ”

Mogaba was gone, indifferent to the apprentice soldier. Similar incidents
occurred each time he passed through the Palace. He spoke to almost everyone.

Those who had watched the habit develop understood that he was talking to
himself and did not expect any reply. He was pursuing a running debate with his
own guilts and ghosts—unless he was spouting proverbs and aphorisms, most of the
meanings fairly obvious but a few convolute and obscure. He was particularly
fond of “Fortune smiles. And then betrays.” He just could not get into bed
comfortably with the truth that he had made that bed himself. He still had
difficulty separating “ought to be” from “the way things really are.” He was no
fool, though. He knew he had problems.

He was certain that he had a much more solid grip on reality than did his
employer, though.

Soulcatcher, however, took the view that she was a virtual free agent and
refused to be wedded to any particular reality. She believed in creating her own
by making her imaginings come true.

Some were quite mad. Few, however, lasted beyond the heated moment of
conception.

Mogaba heard crows arguing ahead. Crows infested the Palace these days.

Soulcatcher was fond of crows. She allowed no one to harass or harm them. Of
late bats had made a claim on her affections as well.

When the crows became vocal the few servants still around started moving much
faster. Unhappy crows meant unhappy news. Unhappy news was guaranteed to produce
an extremely unhappy Protector. When Soulcatcher was unhappy she did not care
who suffered the consequences. But someone surely would.

Mogaba stepped into the council chamber and waited. She would talk to him when
she was ready. Ghopal Singh of the Greys and Aridatha Singh of the City
Battalions—no relation: Singh was the most common surname in Taglios—were there
already. Which meant that Soulcatcher must have been haranguing them about their
failure to root out enough enemies, again, before the bad news arrived.

Mogaba exchanged glances with both men. As he believed himself to be, they were
good men trapped by impossible circumstances. Ghopal had a flair for enforcing
the law. Aridatha was equally talented at keeping the peace without enraging the
populace. Both men managed despite Soulcatcher, who loved both chaos and
despotism and inflicted each with verve and ferocity, driven by the dictates of
whimsy.

The woman seemed to materialize suddenly. It was a talent she used to disconcert
lesser beings. A lesser man than Mogaba might have been numbed by the sight of
her. The woman had a body the wonders of which seemed highlighted rather than
concealed by the tight black leather she wore. Nature had blessed her with
superb raw materials. Her vanity had driven her, over the centuries, to keep
making improvements through cosmetic sorceries.

“I’m not happy,” Soulcatcher announced. Her voice was petulant, that of a
spoiled child. Today her look was younger than usual, as though she wanted to
spark every young man’s fantasy. Although the preening crow on the tall chair
back behind her was a distraction once she settled.

“May I ask why?” Mogaba asked. His voice was calm, untroubled. Life in the
Palace at Taglios consisted of a disorganized stumble from crisis to crisis. He
no longer became emotionally involved. Soulcatcher would turn on him someday. He
had made his peace with that already. He would face it calmly when it came. He
deserved no better.

“There is a huge Deceiver festival being celebrated in the Grove of Doom. Right
now. Tonight.” This voice was cool, calm, rational. Masculine. You got used to
the changes after a while. Mogaba seldom noticed anymore. Aridatha Singh, only
recently promoted, still found the unpredictable chorus disconcerting. Singh was
a sound officer and good soldier. Mogaba hoped he lasted long enough to become
accustomed to the Protector’s quirks. Aridatha deserved better than he was
likely to get.

“That’s definitely not good news,” Mogaba agreed. “Seems I recall you wanting to
harvest the timber there while obliterating every last trace of the holy place.

Selvas Gupta talked you out of it. Said it would set a bad precedent.” Gupta had
had secret encouragement from the Great General, who had not cared to waste
manpower and time clearing a forest. But Mogaba loathed Selvas Gupta and his
smugly holy attitude of superiority.

Gupta was the current Purohita, or official court chaplain and religious
adviser. Purohita was a post that had been forced upon the Radisha Drah twenty
years earlier by the priesthoods at a time when the princess had been too weak
to defy them. Soulcatcher had not yet abolished it. But she had little patience
with the men who occupied it.

Selvas Gupta had been Purohita for a year, which incumbency exceeded that of all
his predecessors since the establishment of the Protectorate.

Mogaba was confident that slimy little snake Gupta would not last out the week.

Soulcatcher gave him a look which offered the impression that she was peering
deep inside him, sorting his secrets and motives. Having paused just long enough
to suggest that she was not being fooled, she said, “Get me a new Purohita. Kill
the old one if he argues about it.” She had an ancient custom of being
unpleasant toward priests who disappointed her. Which ran in the family. Her
sister had slain hundreds in a single massacre a generation earlier. The
exemplary demonstrations of both sisters, however, never seemed sufficient to
convince the survivors that they ought to abandon their scheming. They were
stubborn. It seemed likely that Taglios would come up short of priests before it
ran short of conspiracies.

The crow hopped down onto Soulcatcher’s shoulder. She lifted gloved fingers to
offer it some tidbit.

“Did you have a response in mind? Something involving my colleagues?” Mogaba
nodded toward the Singhs in turn. He suffered little jealousy of either man and
did respect each for his abilities. Time and persistent adversity had ground the
rough edges off of his once potent sense of self-appreciation.

“These gentlemen were here already, regarding another matter, when the news from
the Grove arrived.” She offered the crow another morsel.

Mogaba’s eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. He was not to be made privy to that
matter?

But he was. Soulcatcher used a cackling crone’s voice. “The Greys found several
slogans painted on walls today.” The crow cawed. Elsewhere, other crows began
squabbling.

“Not uncommon,” Mogaba replied. “Every idiot with a brush, a pot of paint and
enough education to string five characters together seems to be compelled to say
something if he discovers a blank piece of wall.”

“These were slogans from the past.” This was the voice the Protector used when
she was focused entirely on business. It was a male voice. A voice like Mogaba
imagined his own to be. “Three said ‘Rajadharma.’ ”

“I’ve heard the Bhodi cult is making a comeback, too.”

Ghopal Singh added, “Two said ‘Water Sleeps.’ That’s not Bhodi. And they weren’t
stray graffiti left over from four years ago.”

A thrill, half fear, half excitement, coursed through Mogaba. He stared at the
Protector. She said, “I want to know who’s doing it. I want to know why they’ve
decided to do it right now.”

Mogaba thought both Singhs looked cautiously pleased, as though glad to have
potential real enemies to chase instead of just irritating people who would
otherwise remain indifferent to the Palace.

The Grove of Doom was outside the city. Everything outside was Mogaba’s
province. He asked, “Was there some particular action you wished me to take in
regard to the Deceivers?”

Soulcatcher smiled. When she did that, just that way, every minute of her many
centuries shone through. “Nothing. Not a thing. They’re scattering already. I’ll
let you know when. It’ll be when they’re not ready.” This voice was cold but was
filled with her evil smile. Mogaba wondered if the Singhs knew how seldom anyone
saw the Protector without her mask. It meant that she meant to involve them in
her schemes too deeply for them to escape the association.

Mogaba nodded like a dutiful servant. It was all a game to the Protector. Or
possibly several games. Maybe making a game of it was how you survived
spiritually in a world where everyone else was ephemeral.

Soulcatcher said, “I want you to help catch rats. There’s a shortage of carrion.

My babies are going hungry.” She offered her black-winged spy another treat.

This one suspiciously resembled a human eyeball.

An Abode of Ravens:

The Invalid
Am I still alive?” I did not need to ask. I was. Pain was a dead giveaway. Every
square inch of me hurt.

“Don’t move.” That was Tobo. “Or you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

I already wished I did not have to breathe. “Burns?”

“Lots of burns. Lots of banging around, too.”

Murgen’s voice said, “You look like they whipped your ass with a forty-pound
ugly stick, then slow-roasted what was left over an open pit.”

“I thought you were at Khang Phi.”

“We came home.”

Tobo said, “We kept you unconscious for four days.”

“How is Lady?”

Murgen told me, “She’s in the other bed. In a lot better shape than you.”

“She ought to be. I didn’t shoot her. The cat get her tongue?”

“She’s asleep.”

“What about One-Eye?”

Tobo’s response was barely audible. “One-Eye didn’t make it, Croaker.”

After a while, Murgen asked, “You all right?”

“He was the last.”

“Last? Last what?”

“The last one who was here when I joined. The Company.” I was the real Old Man
now. “What happened to his spear? I’ve got to have his spear in order to finish
this.”

“What spear?” Murgen asked.

Tobo knew what spear. “I have it at my place.”

“Was it damaged by the fire?”

“Not much. Why?”

“I’m going to kill that thing. Like we should have a long time ago. You don’t
let that spear out of your sight. I’ve got to have it. But right now I’m going
to sleep for a while some more.” I had to go where the pain was not, just for a
time. I had known One-Eye would leave us someday. I thought I was ready for
that. I was wrong.

His passing meant more than just the end of an old friend. It marked the end of
an age.

Tobo said something about the spear. I did not catch it. And the darkness came
back before I remembered to ask what had become of the forvalaka. If Lady had
caught or killed it I had gotten myself worked up for nothing . . . But I guess
I knew it could not be that easy.

There were dreams. I remembered everyone who had gone before me. I remembered
the places and times. Cold places, hot places, weird places, always stressful
times, swollen with unhappiness, pain and fear. Some died. Some did not. It
makes no sense when you try to figure it out. Soldiers live. And wonder why.

Oh, it’s a soldier’s life for me. Oh, the adventure and glory!

It took me longer to recuperate than it had that time I almost got killed
outside Dejagore. Even with Tobo applying his own best healing spells, learned
from One-Eye, and urging his edge-of-the-eye friends to help as well. Some of
those were supposed to be able to bring a fossil back to life. I felt like a
fossil, like I had not enjoyed the advantage of the stasis that had frozen the
others while we were prisoners under the plain. There was a lot of confusion
inside me. I could no longer figure out how old I am. My best guess is
fifty-six, give or take a few years, plus all that time underneath the earth.

And fifty-six years, brother, was a pretty damned good run—particularly for a
guy in my racket. I ought to appreciate every second, including all the misery.

Soldiers live. And wonder why.

An Abode of Ravens:

Recovery
Two months had passed. I felt ten years older but I was up and around—and moving
like a zombie. I had indeed been roasted well-done by a jet of almost pure
alcohol blowing through the hole that had been drilled by Lady’s errant
fireball. Everybody kept telling me how much the gods must love me, that I had
no business being alive. That had I not been turned the way I was, with the
forvalaka positioned perfectly to absorb a lot of the blast, there would not
have been much left of me but bones.

I was not entirely convinced that that might not have been the better outcome.

Persistent pain does little to buoy one’s optimism or elevate one’s mood. I
began to develop a certain sympathy for Mother Gota’s perspective.

I did manage a smile when Lady began to rub me down with healing unguents.

“Silver linings,” she told me.

“Oh, yes indeed. Yes indeed.”

“Would you look at that? Maybe you’re not as old as you think.”

“It’s all your fault, wench.”

“Sleepy’s worried about you wanting to avenge One-Eye.”

“I know.” I did not have to be told. I had had to put up with people like me
when I was Captain.

“Maybe you should tone it down.”

“It’s got to be done. It’s going to be done. Sleepy’s got to understand that.”

Sleepy is all business. Her world does not include much leeway for emotional
indulgence.

She thinks I just want to use One-Eye’s death as an excuse to visit the Khatovar
shadowgate, basing her judgment on the fact that I had tramped through Hell for
a decade trying to get to that place.

The woman is hard to fool. But she can also get fixed on one idea to the
exclusion of other possibilities.

“She doesn’t want to make any more enemies.”

“More? We don’t have any. Not out here. They may not like us much but they all
kiss our asses. They’re scared to death of us. And they get more scared every
time another White Lady or Blue Man or wichtlin or whatnot lumbers out of
folklore and joins Tobo’s entourage.”

“Uhn. Is that the spot? I saw something Tobo called a wowsey with the Black
Hounds yesterday.” That is my honey. She can see those things clearly, even over
here. “It’s as big as a hippo but looks like a beetle with a lizard’s head. A
lizard with big teeth. To quote Swan, ‘It looks like it fell out of the ugly
tree and hit every single branch on the way down.’ ”

Willow Swan seemed to be cultivating a new image as a churlish but colorful old
man.

Somebody has to step in and take One-Eye’s place. Though I was sort of thinking
about picking up the stick myself.

“What do we know about the forvalaka?” I asked. I had avoided asking for
specifics before. I knew the damned thing got away. That was all I needed to
know until I was prepared mentally to start planning the conclusion of its tale.

“It left its tail behind. It suffered severe burns and several deep wounds and I
blinded it partially with my last fireball. It lost several teeth. Tobo has
created a number of fetishes using those and bits of flesh torn off by the Black
Hounds while it was fleeing toward the shadowgate.”

“But it did have what it takes to get back to Khatovar.”

“It did.”

“Then it’s going to be as hard to kill as the Limper was.”

“Not anymore. Not with what Tobo has.”

“He had your help?”

“I’m ancient in the ways of wickedness. Am I not? Didn’t you write something
like that a time or two?”

“Especially after I got to know you . . . Ouch! Well . . . as long as you’re a
bad girl like you’re being a bad girl right now . . . ” I do not recall if I did
write the exact words she claimed but I know I recorded those approximate
sentiments many years ago. Without exaggerating. “I’m going to go after it.”

“I know.” She did not argue. They were humoring me. They wanted to keep me
quiet. Sleepy was involved in touchy negotiations with the File of Nine. The
Court of All Seasons and the monks of Khang Phi were behind us already. The
warlords of the File remain unconvinced that it would be wise to give us what we
want even though the Company has grown to the point where it has become a
serious burden on Hsien’s economy. And poses a threat, if the notion of conquest
happens to take root. I, myself, do not see one warlord, or even a cabal of
warlords, out there, who would stand much more chance than smoke in a high wind
if the notion did take us. Most of the warlords are clear on that, too.

They still want Maricha Manthara Dhumraksha—our Shadowmaster
Longshadow—desperately. Their hunger for revenge borders on racial obsession.

They are not forthcoming about the evils Longshadow visited upon their forbears
but we have our sources inside Khang Phi. Longshadow’s cruelties had been as
capricious as any wickedness of Soulcatcher’s but far more terrible for their
victims. The need to haul the Shadowmaster up before a tribunal colored every
consideration of the warlords, the legal and noble courts, even the several
spiritual traditions of Hsien. Maricha Manthara Dhumraksha was the one thing
they all agreed upon. Nor did I ever sense a hint of a chance some rogue would
try to acquire control of Longshadow in an effort to amplify his own power.

Sleepy did not want a short-tempered, foulmouthed but still influential former
Captain stumbling around being sarcastic and opinionated while she was trying to
wring the one last concession she wanted out of the File of Nine. She was
confident that our years of good behavior would tilt the scale. And if it did
not, well, she was the kind of planner who always had a secondary scheme in
motion. In fact, she was that wonderful kind of villain for whom the public and
obvious scheme might well be only a tertiary effort meant primarily as a smoke
screen. Our Sleepy was one wicked little girl.

There are no great sorcerers in the Land of Unknown Shadows. “All Evil Dies
There an Endless Death” means that they have persecuted the talented since the
flight of the Shadowmasters. But Hsien does not lack or disdain knowledge. There
are several huge monasteries—of which Khang Phi is the greatest—dedicated to the
preservation of knowledge. The monks do not sort it into good and evil
knowledge, nor do they make moral judgments. They take the position that no
knowledge is evil until someone chooses to do evil with it.

Even though it has been engineered to wreak havoc upon the human body, a sword
is strictly inert metal until someone chooses to pick it up and strike. Or
chooses not to do so.

There are, of course, a thousand sophistries spewed by those who wish to deny
individuals the opportunity to choose. Which is an arrogant presumption of a
divine scale.

This is what happens when you get old. You start thinking. Worse, you start
telling everybody what you think.

Sleepy was nervous lest I express an unfortunate opinion to one of the Nine,

whereupon, in high dudgeon, the offended party would abandon all sensibility and
self-interest and deny to us forever the knowledge we need to repair the
shadowgate opening on our native world. She misapprehends my ability to evoke
the unfriendly response.

Before the werepanther came I might have stumbled. I might have expressed an
actual opinion to a member of the File, some of whom are amongst the most
reprehensible generals I have ever encountered. I doubt that, given the
opportunity to rule unchallenged, many of them would be more enlightened than
the hated Shadowmasters.

People are strange. The Children of the Dead are among the strangest.

I will not upset anyone. I will be diligently supportive of any policy Sleepy
sets. I want to leave this Land of Unknown Shadows. I have things to accomplish
before I hand these Annals over for the last time. Settling up with Lisa Daele
Bowalk is just one. There is the Great General, Mogaba, the darkest traitor ever
to stain the Company’s history. There is Narayan Singh. For Lady, there is
Narayan and Soulcatcher. For both of us there is our child. Our wicked, wicked
child.

I asked, “Is there anything besides Longshadow we could offer the File of Nine?

Sweeten it just enough to make them move over beside Khang Phi and the Court of
All Seasons?”

My sweetie shrugged. “I can’t imagine what.” She smiled enigmatically. “But it
may not matter.”

I did not pay sufficient attention. Sometimes I overlook the new truths. These
days my Company is managed by sly children and devious old women, not
straightforward stalwarts like myself and the men of my time.