asked for confirmation. There is nothing wrong with my memory. It occurred to me that Tul would know that. He was my cousin. Families talk about other family members. Hell, the whole class of patrons were almost all related on some level. Gatren had clearly just listened to the negative gossip and not the few gems that would have saved him from being on the losing end here. Sumto speaks several languages, is a scholar, has a remarkable memory; all he had heard was Sumto is a drunk, shirks his responsibilities, refuses military service on any thin pretext that comes to mind, is a bad debtor… I stopped myself there; the negative list was getting too long for comfort.
It completely slipped my mind to talk to my new men. I put it down to a mixture of relief and triumph.
15
The next day the army picked up the pace to a forced march. Our men and horses were good for it but my new command was suffering. There were a hundred and twelve men of varying ages and from a range of lands. The most striking of them was an old, dark skinned man who wore no armor, his only visible weapon a stout staff. His clothing was mismatched and brightly colored, including bright yellow trousers and a shocking pink headband, the back of which was tied intricately into hair that had matted into several clumps which hung down his back. He dropped out early and I sent a man to find out why. The message came back that he could not possibly keep up the pace.
“He is demanding a horse. Not asking, sir. Demanding, like I was a servant.”
I thought about it and then arranged one for him and another for Rastrian and had them join me at the back of their troop. I rode at the back so that I could see how they were holding up and also see if anyone dropped out, as the old man had.
Rastrian took his horse with gratitude and fell in with me and my original command of six. The old man in the bright clothing did the same with an arrogant assumption that he would be welcome that I had to admire. They both rode well enough that I didn't feel I had to worry about them.
“You must be the Shaman.”
The old man turned his face to me, utterly without expression. His eyes were the same. It was like there was no one behind them. He didn't answer at once. If he had not turned to face me I would have thought he didn't know I was there.
“I am Dubaku, Shaman to the Urindu.”
I gave him my name and position. For some reason he demanded my respect on a level I couldn't quite define. I have met kings and felt less need to show them any respect.
“You're a priest, then?”
He tutted in disapproval and turned away. No, I corrected myself. He had said something. I reproduced the sound and he turned back to me, laughing openly, though none of his facial expression touched his eyes, which I thought was a neat trick.
“What does it mean?” I made the noise again.
He didn't hesitate. “Idiot.”
“Exactly that?”
“You could say callow, young, ignorant. Same thing.” He said something else, mostly clicks and plosives and I repeated it exactly.
“You are a mimic.”
“No. I'm just good with languages. What did that mean?”
“A Shaman is not a rapist.”
I said it again, to make sure I had it. “And priests are?”
“They take spirits of their followers, binding them in life and warping them in death to serve as tools without minds or will. A Shaman touches the spirits of his own ancestors, and sometimes others, and asks those with ability for aid which they sometimes give.”
We of the city are not much interested in religion. The fact that there was some form of existence after death was well known and considered indisputable. Our philosophy teaches that life is for the living and death for the dead. The dead seem to feel the same way about it, revealing nothing of whatever their experience might be. I had not made any study of foreign practices, though I knew that priests could summon spirits that each had a power or ability. My ancestors had slaughtered many such and destroyed many temples. Most of the sacred writings were also burned. We do not like rivals, and priests were rivals to our sorcery. Individuals we now tended to leave alone as curiosities, but any attempt to preach or propagate a faith would still be mercilessly put down.
“I see the distinction.”
He looked away from me. It was so clearly a dismissal that I almost laughed aloud at his arrogance. What was he, a patron? I took no offense. I liked him. And I wanted to learn his language while the opportunity was there. I have a thirst for learning that is just fundamentally part of my make-up.
I turned to Kerral. “Look out for stragglers, I'm riding ahead for a while. Rastrian, would you join me?”
Together we rode out.
“Where did you find him?”
“Dubaku? A few years ago I was in the army of the King of Gherkellik, he was tired of pirates coming across the Prian Straits so he hired mercenaries and sent us and his own troops over the sea to take a piece of their lands. Dubaku joined us there after convincing me of his usefulness.”
“Whose side was he on?”
Rastrian shrugged. “His own. I think he still is. Still, it's a free company and as long as he obeys orders he will do for me.”
“As long as he doesn't try and convert anyone.”
“He won't. He says his teachings are secrets for his son.”
That struck me as sensible even as another aspect of it struck me as odd. “Where is this son he is supposed to be teaching his secrets to?”
Rastrian shrugged. “I guess he has children somewhere, and grandchildren, and great grandchildren. He says he's a hundred and thirty years old but I'm guessing he lost count.”
Magic could be used to extend life. The head of the healer's guild had two hundred years under his belt. But that was sorcery. What could a spirit do to extend life? I assumed he was lying for effect or using a different counting system.
We were riding beyond the ditch at the side of the road. Small bunches of trees had begun to spring up here and there on the otherwise bare terrain. A line of hills was angling toward the road, and ahead I could see a farm close to the road. We were entering the province of Lirria. Soon enough we would pass the town of Huprew. I decided I wanted to talk to Tul and ordered Rastrian back to my troop. They were still mine, at least for now. The earlier meeting with Tul had gone well enough for me. He had made it clear that as there was no proof either way he was going to let it pass, but that it or anything like it had better not happen again. He was staring at his errant aide when he said this so I knew that he was sure in his own mind that I was innocent of blame. He had given me the hundred crossbowmen to command on the basis that “someone has to command them and no one else is free” but I suspected it was a reward for handling things well enough. We were cousins and under normal circumstances he would favor me heavily as family and a natural ally. My reputation had scotched that but I was repairing things as fast as I could.
I caught up with the head of the army a few minutes later and pulled up near enough to Tul that he could choose to acknowledge or ignore me as he chose. He decided on the former and I asked if I could speak with him. After a moment he nodded, commanded his people to keep the pace, and pulled his horse off the road. We sat for just a moment watching the army pass us by.
“If I might ask, why the increase in pace?”
“Maybe I'm just getting your crossbowmen fit.”
“Possible, but I don't think so.”
He watched me for a while, obviously considering. “Keep it to yourself. The Prashuli and Orduli are rising. There have been deaths among the merchants who have had free passage until now. The Ensibi have lost a town in the north of their territories. Orthand is in a fury. He can see his client people slipping through his fingers and they
