Tatja Grimm's World

being slammed shut. The enemy was about to get a devastating reply. Then came a pause. The crown’s war machine awaited the command that would set it in motion.

Three minutes passed, and still no action. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Cor say something. He turned to her. “What’s that?”

“I ask, where are the Sfierranyii Loyalists?”

A good question. Everyone here wore Crown camouflage. The only provincial he’d seen all afternoon was the one talking to Tatja and the point colonel. What sort of trap … he looked around, half expecting to see enemy bowmen spring from hidey-holes.

Just then, an officer rode down the line, shouting indistinct commands. The gunmen looked up in surprise, then began unloading their weapons. As they did, the forward infantrymen came back down the hill. Svir gaped. This reminded him of stories about recruits commanding training units. Apparently, the people at the top could not make up their minds.

The troops reformed and resumed their march—though now they were moving east, parallel to the ridgeline. Svir sighed and urged his animal forward. It was at least an hour till sunset, and at this latitude twilight would last three hours.

He sidled toward the nearest gun carriage and called to the driver. “What’s the story?” The woman looked down at him—his camouflage bore no rank insignia. Her answer was an obscenity, roughly equivalent to “We were shafted.”

He fell back and walked beside a carriage. The gunman sitting there was more talkative. “That’s right. We got it up to here.” He motioned. “There’s only one decent reason for racing over that hill in daylight, and that’s to get our pieces in range and give the enemy a taste of our rock. If we weren’t going to engage, we should’ve stayed back there—” he waved at the hill to the south “—until dark, and then come across. Instead we lost men—for nothing!” The gunman seemed to realize he might be talking to someone in authority. “Somebody made a stupid mistake,” he finished.

Svir found himself nodding. Perhaps Tatja was out of action, but the Crownesse generals themselves were competent men. That left provincial treachery the most likely cause of the debacle.

Behind them, the sun sent rose and orange across the sky. The high peaks of the Doomsday Range stood bright, the world’s ragged edge. They left the burning land, and soon there was only the smell of grass and living trees. If Svir hadn’t been in the saddle for most of the last twenty hours, he might have enjoyed the scene. He slumped forward, trying to keep his balance in the waves of sleep that swept stronger and stronger over him. Cor rode beside him; he was thankful she didn’t try to make cheerful conversation.

The sky was dark now. Only the Doomsday peaks were still in daylight. They formed a jagged red band, hanging in limbo above the darkened, nearer lands. Somehow he had missed the sunset…

Then Cor was pushing at his shoulder, calling to him. He sat up and looked about. Twilight was nearly past. There were lots of stars, but Seraph’s familiar light was missing. “We’re here,” Cor said.

At first glance the forest around them seemed uninhabited. Then he saw the tents hidden in the brush. Further away he could hear the grunchunch of browsing skoats. The Crown’s Men had finally reached the Loyalists. Svir slipped from his saddle and leaned against the skoat. A shadow approached.

“Svo keechoritte bignioru?” it asked.

Svir was about to croak, “Sagneori Sfierro,” (I don’t speak Sfierro) when Cor cut in with, “Attrupa bignoro chispuer, sfiorgo malmu.” Sfierro was quite close to Cor’s native Llereno.

“Traeche ke,” the other said, and led them some hundred paces into the brush. The Sfierranyi stopped, pointed to an open space, and gabbled something more. “He says we can put our tent up here,” Cor said. Svir felt like crying. At this point he could scarcely unpack his skoat. The Sfierranyi solved that problem by unhitching the pack and dropping it to the ground. Then he grabbed the skoats’ reins and led them away.

Svir looked stupidly at the gray patch that was the folded tent. Itchybites buzzed in the moist, cool air. The tiny bastards would feed well tonight. He fell to his knees and tried to unfasten the tent buckles. Cor joined him. Soon they had the tent spread flat on the ground. He slipped the center pole through the tent fabric and hoisted it. Cor crawled inside and set the floor rods.

Then they were both inside. The ground seemed so soft. He reached for Cor, and she came easily into his arms. His kiss became a snore and he was asleep.

Cor grinned in the darkness. “This is no good, friend. Tomorrow, you get more sleep during the day.”

Sixteen

Listen, you pack of traitors. You cost us thirty-five men and three art’ry pieces this afternoon. We’re going to have an explanation or we’re going to have your heads!” In the flickering torchlight, Haarm Wechsler’s face was even paler than usual. “For the last two hours you’ve led us a merry chase all over this camp. But now we’ve found you.” He stopped and stood a little taller. The guardsmen behind him came to attention. “Now you can answer for your infidelity to Marget herself.”

Everyone in the room—Provincial and Bayfastling—came to his feet. Tatja entered the Sfierranyil command tent and looked around. Close behind her came three general officers. Her lips parted in a faint smile and she murmured to Wechsler, “Got’em softened up, Haarm?” She advanced to the table and sat down. “Please be seated, gentles.” Behind her, the Crownesse people uneasily took their seats. On the other side of the table the Sfierranyil commanders seemed equally upset. Most of the provincial commanders were old men. All but one she recognized from Wechsler’s dossiers. These weren’t the best campaigners in the world, but they should have been loyal.

Her tone remained pleasant. “Now that we are all together, perhaps things can be cleared up. You deceived us this afternoon. Your courier told us you needed immediate artillery support. When we came to your aid, we found you were moving away from us. This misunderstanding cost us men and equipment, and I ask for an explanation.” Her reasonable tone took some of the edge off Wechsler’s previous statement of the question.

A militiaman stood and bowed, his chest of medals glinting in the torchlight. He wiped his hand through tangled white hair, the picture of a general disgraced; even his epaulets drooped. His Sprak was excellent, however. “Marget, what you say is true. There was deception. We can only beg your mercy. We deceived you because we were deceived ourselves. We, uh, our training is not as thorough as might be desired by Your Majesty. We are operating far outside our province. To the north is our enemy and the Doomsdaymen—which latter refuse us aid. To the south is Picchiu Province—whose army is our enemy.” The old man paused. His rambling had taken him so far afield he couldn’t remember his point. Tatja grabbed Wechsler’s elbow before that worthy could make some cutting comment about Sfierranyil mental acuteness. After all, she found normal people almost as dopey as this one.

The militiaman had regained the thread. “Marget, the campaign has taken us further and yet further inland, as we followed the forces of the Rebel Profirio. We never guessed that your aid would come to us from the south— or that it would arrive so soon. We mistook you for Picchiul reinforcements pretending to be Crownesse troops. Thank the gods that you were so numerous that we could not attack you—only trick you into Rebel fire.

“So. That’s why we deceived you. And that’s why, even when you arrived here, we were circumspect in admitting you to our command area.” The fellow’s head bobbed up and down miserably. Behind Tatja there was some easing of tension: the explanation was credible.

Tatja nodded. “Where is Profirio’s main force now?”

“Uh, we believe it’s across the river, about five miles upstream.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How is that possible? This afternoon we were attacked by his artillery—and that was almost fifteen miles downstream from here.” She produced a small piece of parchment and wrote rapidly upon it.

The young provincial sitting opposite Tatja touched the militiaman’s sleeve and said, “Deche mau, Sam.” The old man nodded gratefully and sat down.

As the young man stood, Tatja handed the parchment to a messenger and whispered something to him. The courier nodded and left. She turned back to the provincials. The young fellow was dark, his beard close-trimmed. The expression on his narrow face was unworried, almost sardonic. He wore the uniform of a full general in the