“It’s not that bad,” One-Eye said. “You wouldn’t attract any attention unless they find out you’re out from some other source. I mean, they wouldn’t be watching for you, would they? No reason to. So it’s just as good as if we got it to do everything we wanted.”
“Crap! You better start praying that next letter comes through. Because if I go out and get my ass killed, guess who’s going to haunt whom forever?”
“Darling wouldn’t send you out.”
“Bet? She’ll go through three or four days of soul-searching. But she’ll send me. Because that last letter will give us the key.”
Sudden fear. Had the Lady probed my mind?
“What’s the matter, Croaker?”
I was saved a lie by Tracker’s advent. He bounced in and pumped my hand like a mad fool. “Thank you, Croaker. Thanks for bringing him home.” Out he went.
“What the hell was that?” Goblin asked.
“I brought his dog home.”
“Weird.”
One-Eye chortled. “The pot calling the kettle black.”
“Yeah? Lizard snot. Want me to tell you about weird?”
“Stow it,” I said. “If I get sent out of here I want this stuff in perfect order. I just wish we had people who could read this junk.”
“Maybe I can help.” Tracker was back. The big dumb lout. A devil with a sword, but probably unable to write his own name.
“How?”
“I could read some of that stuff. I know some old language. My father taught me.” He grinned as if at a huge joke. He selected a piece written in TelleKurre. He read it aloud. The ancient language rolled off his tongue naturally, as I had heard it spoken among the old Taken. Then he translated. It was a memo to a castle kitchen about a meal to be prepared for visiting notables. I went over it painstakingly. His translation was faultless. Better than I could do. A third of the words evaded me.
“Well. Welcome to the team. I’ll tell Darling.” I slipped out, exchanging a puzzled glance with One-Eye behind Tracker’s back.
Stranger and stranger. What was this man? Besides weird. At first encounter he reminded me of Raven, and fit the role. When I came to think of him as big, slow, and clumsy, he fit that role. Was he a reflection of the image in his beholder?
A good fighter, though, bless him. Worth ten of anyone else we have.
Twenty-Three
The Plain of Fear
It was the time of the Monthly Meeting. The big confab during which nothing gets done. During which all heads yammer of pet projects on which action cannot be taken. After six or eight hours of which Darling closes debate by telling us what to do.
The usual charts were up. One showed where our agents believed the Taken to be. Another showed incursions reported by the menhirs. Both showed a lot of white, areas of Plain unknown to us. A third chart showed the month’s change storms, a pet project of the Lieutenant’s. He was looking for something. As always, most were along the periphery. But there was an unusually large number, and higher than normal percentage, in this chart’s interior. Seasonal? A genuine shift? Who knew? We had not been watching long enough. The menhirs will not bother explaining such trivia.
Darling took charge immediately. She signed, “The operation in Rust had the effect I hoped. Our agents have reported anti-imperial outbreaks almost everywhere. They have diverted some attention from us. But the armies of the Taken keep building. Whisper has become especially aggressive in her incursions.”
Imperial troops entered the Plain almost every day, probing for a response and preparing their men for the Plain’s perils. Whisper’s operations, as always, were very professional. Militarily, she is to be feared far more than the Limper.
Limper is a loser. That is not his fault, entirely, but the stigma has attached itself. Winner or loser, though, he is running the other side.
“Word came this morning that Whisper has established a garrison a day’s march inside the boundary. She is erecting fortifications, daring our response.”
Her strategy was apparent. Establish a network of mutually supporting fortresses; build it slowly until it is spread out over the Plain. She was dangerous, that woman. Especially if she sold the idea to the Limper and got all the armies into the act.
As a strategy it goes back to the dawn of time, having been used again and again where regular armies face partisans in wild country. It is a patient strategy that depends on the will of the conqueror to persevere. It works where that will exists and fails where it does not.
Here it will work. The enemy has twenty-some years to root us out. And feels no need to hold the Plain once done with us.
Us? Let us say, instead, Darling. The rest of us are nothing in the equation. If Darling falls, there is no Rebellion.
“They are taking away time,” Darling signed. “We need decades. We have to do something.”
Here it comes, I thought. She had on that look. She was going to announce the result of much soul-searching. So I was not struck down with astonishment when she signed, “I am sending Croaker to recover the rest of his correspondent’s story.” News of the letters had spread. Darling will gossip. “Goblin and One-Eye will accompany and support him.”
“What? There ain’t no way...”
“Croaker.”
“I won’t do it. Look at me. I’m a nothing guy. Who’s going to notice me? One old guy wandering around. The world is full of them. But three guys? One of them black? One of them a runt with...”
Goblin and One-Eye sped me milk-curdling looks.
I snickered. My outburst put them in a tight place. Though they wanted to go no more than I wanted them along, they now dared not agree with me publicly. Worse, they had to agree with each other. Ego!
But my point remained. Goblin and One-Eye are known characters. For that matter, so am I, but as I pointed out, I’m not physically remarkable.
Darling signed, “Danger will encourage their cooperation.”
I fled to my last citadel. “The Lady touched me on the desert that night I was out, Darling. She is watching for me.”
Darling thought a moment, signed back, “That changes nothing. We must have that last piece of story before the Taken close in.”
She was right about that. But...
She signed, “You three will go. Be careful.”
Tracker followed the debate with Otto’s help. He offered, “I’ll go. I know the north. Especially the Great Forest. That’s where I got my name.” Behind him, Toadkiller Dog yawned.
“Croaker?” Darling asked.
I was not yet resigned to going. So I passed it back to her. “Up to you.”
“You could use a fighter,” she signed. “Tell him you accept.”
I mumbled and muttered, faced Tracker. “She says you go.”
He looked pleased.
As far as Darling was concerned, that was that. The thing was settled. They hastened down the agenda to a report from Corder suggesting Tanner was ripe for a raid like that on Rust.
I fussed and fumed and no one paid me any mind, except Goblin and One-Eye, who sent me looks saying I
