Tatja Grimm's World

creatures. We lost thirty of them in the artillery attack, but three times that many have died from exhaustion. See —” She pointed at a quartermaster veterinarian. The fellow walked slowly down the rank of skoats, lifting their blankets and painting antiseptic on the raw sores and cuts he found. The Loyalists’ animals were in much poorer shape than the crown’s skoats—they had been in the campaign five times as long. Even with all the quartermaster’s care, this was still killing work. By the time he reached the end of the watering line, the vet had marked three skoats to be dropped from the train. Those animals were in no shape to continue with the expedition, even as unburdened reserve. “For no fault of their own and for no gain of their own, they lose their lives.”

For the first time, Svir felt affection for the poor animal that had carried him so far.

This was a rest stop for the humans, too. Behind the skoats, the troops of the battle group lay or sat on the ground. Most of the Provincial Loyalists lay motionless. They had been part-time militiamen, yet they had been on this campaign forty days. Their uniforms were tattered. Their boots were held together with ragged cloth bands. In some cases, blood and pus discolored the cloths. The Crown’s Men had better equipment and were fresh—besides, they were trained for this sort of thing. They kept apart from their unprofessional counterparts. But even among the professionals, there was evidence of strain. There was little of the good-natured talk of earlier rest stops.

The hospital wagon arrived with the last of the battle group. Since they were moving through wild lands, the Crown’s Men were forced to carry their casualties with them, at least so long as those casualties weren’t too numerous. At present there were probably a hundred wounded—and about twelve in this battle group. The wagon had its cloth sides rolled up so that the occupants were exposed to the open air. Svir found it difficult to look away from that wagon. There was nothing repulsive about the interior, no gore. Everything looked clean and comfortable. Some of the patients were even sitting up, and these looked better than most of the “ready” troops. But others in the wagon lay quite still, with only their heads exposed. They might have been corpses except for the trouble the crown was taking to bring them along.

Two medics moved to the back of the wagon and drew one of those long white forms off the platform. They carried it to the far side of the wagon. A colonel and three enlisted men followed the medics into the brush. The enlisted men carried entrenching tools. Svir recalled that a field grade officer was required to participate in the burial of all combat victims.

Cor made a strange laugh. “I used to like stories of fate and the gods. It made Rey so mad. ‘We are no one’s doormat!’ he would say at me so fierce… Strange, that fantasies should be the greater truth. They use us up like the skoats.” She looked at Svir levelly. “It is wrong.”

“Don’t think fuzzy, Cor.” The voice came from behind them. Svir felt Cor start with surprise. They turned and saw Tatja. Instead of her usual camouflage uniform, she wore a feminine outfit which wouldn’t have been out of place in Bayfast—but which here seemed as appropriate as a jester at an execution. The oppression that clouded everyone’s mind did not touch her. Never before had she seemed quite so callous to the problems of the people she used.

“What’s fuzzy about it?” he said angrily.

“You seem to think that people would live in peace if left to themselves. That’s rarely true. If you study history you’ll find that most wars occur because the people see some personal advantage in victory. I imagine that most Sfierranyii figure their support of the crown will get them Picchiul lands after the war. Many of these militiamen thought they would win booty in this adventure—though I doubt they feel that way now.”

“Hell, Ta—” The exclamation came out a shout. He lowered his voice and continued with quiet intensity, “So what? We’re not talking about the general case. If it weren’t for your kind, we would have peace.”

Tatja smiled. “It’s true that Jolle and I are manipulating everyone. But don’t forget the reason. Our men and the militia believe they die for a cause that we know is trivial, but in the final analysis, this war is more important and more just than any in the history of this planet. If we fail, the future will be darker than any war could make it.” She had him there. The sacrifices seemed necessary—even if the people who made them were ignorant of the ultimate justification. But he wondered if this argument would appeal if he were one of those who was going to get cut to pieces.

The last skoats were being led from the troughs. Some squads were already being assembled. The art’ry fire had stopped. Soon the next battle group would arrive. No one came near Cor and Svir and Tatja. Unless the Queen wished otherwise, she had privacy—even when she walked in the open.

Cor spoke. “But Marget, how do you know that you aren’t also being used?”

“What?” Tatja seemed nonplussed, but Svir had the feeling his wife had uncovered a bombshell.

“Why should we believe the story of the monster and the gendarme? Grant the story, how do we know that Jolle, rather than Profirio, is the gendarme?” The bombshell detonated with soundless violence. “Wouldn’t the criminal tell us the same story as the one who tries to save us?”

Tatja shrugged. “I suppose so. But there is no way we can test the story except by sitting tight and watching things develop. Besides—” and now she was smiling again “—I trust my judgment and intuition much more than I trust yours.” She looked around, evidently dismissing the problem. “You’d better get your skoats. This battle group is moving out and I want you to stay with it.” She turned and walked toward the command wagon of the next battle group, which was just creaking into the clearing. In her short skirt and lacy blouse, she might have been at a picnic instead of a war.

What had happened to Tatja? For the first time in four years, they didn’t have a friend who had all the angles figured, who could solve virtually any problem. He looked at Cor, and saw the same thought on her face. They had a life-and-death problem—and if they didn’t solve it, no superior being was going to bail them out. There was a monster loose; somehow they must discover who it was.

Nineteen

The sun was halfway to the horizon when they made their move. Svir sat up and pushed aside the insect netting which hung over their sleeping cots. The loud, unwavering hum of a three-year cicada was an overpowering soporific. The generals had finally recognized the fact that people need some sleep in the day (or perhaps it was simply that they could move as easily along the Riverside Road by night as by day, so it was possible to permit a reasonable sleep schedule).

No human sounds could be heard: apparently the sentries were in static positions. But all around them were the insect and bat sounds, and the river burbled in the near distance. Pink flowers crowded between the leaf needles of the looproot about them, and the scent was nearly overpowering in such concentration. Through gaps in the branches he could see the walls of the river gorge rise thousands of feet overhead. They had nearly reached the mouth of the glacier. O’rmouth was hidden beyond the northern wall, above the glacier. The gorge was so deep that they couldn’t see He’gate’s summit—their ultimate goal. Near the top of the gorge Svir saw a broadwing daybat soaring lazily back and forth across the updrafts as it scanned the ground with its sharp eyes.

Cor sat up. “Ready?” he whispered. She nodded. “Now remember how we’re going to play this. I think we’ll be safe even if we’re discovered. The key is to have Tatja nearby, so Jolle can’t kill us without her knowing it. You’re going to go to her tent while I take Ancho to Jolle’s wagon. I’ve got a noise bomb. If you hear it, bring Tatja as fast as you can—I may still be in one piece.” This recapitulation was needless, but it put off action for a few more seconds.

She squeezed his arm. “Let’s… let’s have me go to Jolle’s wagon instead. After all, I can now handle Ancho better than you.”

He blushed, shame and courage mixed. “No,” he finally said. “If we need Tatja, you can talk to her better than I. C’mon, Love.” They stood beside their cots and looked about. Svir felt a little faint. They were twelve thousand feet above sea level, and he was learning firsthand the symptoms of hypoxia. The only good thing about the altitude was that even in the middle of the afternoon it was not particularly hot.

As they walked through the looproot grove, Ancho scrambled back and forth across Svir’s shoulders. The little animal was normally most active at this time of day, and for once his large friends weren’t trying to make him keep still so they could sleep.

During the day, security was less strict than at night. Unless they tried to leave the bivouac, they would