Shadow of the Warmaster

XII

1. 30 days after the meeting on Gerbek.

The muster in the Chel, semi-arid land between the Inci Mountains and the southern edge of the grasslands.

The chill gray hour just after dawn.

Knots of talk as the muster is getting organized:

“Any time now. Soon as you’re ready to load.” Quale looked round at the untidy ferment scattered over half a kilometer of scrub. “Adelaar’s got a clawhold on the shipBrain through the tap; she’s routing the scanners away from this sector, but I don’t want to lean too hard on that, it’s complicated working blind like she is with two sets of alarms to avoid. The sooner you can get this lot…” he waved his hand at the noisy congeries about them, “sorted out, the better for all of us.”

Elmas Ofka looked past him at the tug. “The systemships have lifts; how do we get into that thing?”

“Right.” He lifted the com. “Pels, open her up.”

Karrel Goza threaded through the clumps of rebels, forces from every part of Kuzeywhiyk brought together for this thing no one had believed possible before Elmas Ofka put it together; he knew most of them because he’d given most of them a lift at one time or another when the bitbits were hot after them; he waved a greeting to those who yelled his name but didn’t stop until he reached one of the knots near the outside, seven quiet men who were sitting on their packs or squatting beside them, ready to go when the word came. He dropped to a squat beside them. “Not long now,” he said.

Jamber Fausse snapped a twig in half, began peeling the stringy bark from the dry white wood. “Mm.” He scratched at a patch of rot. “I know you, Kar, you want something.”

“Elli.”

“So?”

“We need her.”

“Yeh. So?”

“She’s got three sets of outsiders watching each other, she thinks that’ll be enough to keep them from knifing her.”

“Probably right. Usually is.”

“Uh-huh. Safe is better’n sorry. She’s got her isyas scattered to keep the squads on track.”

“Kar…” there was a weary patience in Jamber Fausse’s rough voice, “we been going through the motions the past ten days. Why you keep telling me what I already know?”

“Just laying foundation, Jamo. You’re scheduled for the drive chambers. Kanlan Gercik’s willing to trade. I want you and them…” he jerked his thumb in a nervous half circle taking in the others who were listening without comment, without expression, waiting with the patience of monks for the talking to be over, “next to her. Kan’s all right, he’s good in a pinch, but you’ve been dealing with Huvved since before you could walk, you can smell a trap before it hatches.”

“Mm.” Jamber Fausse broke the length of denuded twig into smaller and smaller bits then threw them at a patch of dried grass and brushed the debris off his callused palms. “All right.”

Aslan stood in the shadows and watched the fighters file past; she had the Ridaar running, flaking them as they came up the lift and into the hold. These male guerrilla bands and female fighting isyas were unlike the outcast, outlawed and rebel Hordar she knew from the Mines. They were harder, angrier, fined down by hunger, fear and pain; these Hordar had lived on the run for decades, no sanctuary for them, never enough food, never enough anything but ammunition for their guns, living with the knowledge that their capture alive or dead meant death or exile for their families; to the Huvved, blood was blood, corrupt in one set of veins, corrupt in all. She watched their faces and thought she wouldn’t much like living on a world that these men and women had a hand in running. She didn’t understand why Elmas Ofka had such a powerful hold on them, but she was glad of it, she liked the Hordar and wished them well. She watched the fighters and ached for them though they’d be furious if they knew it; in a few hours their rationale for living and doing what it took to stay alive, that rationale would be taken from them. If not in a few hours, certainly in a few days. Worlds have no place for fighters once the war is won. What were they going to do with the rest of their lives?

“Eh, Lan!” Xalloor danced over to her. “Why the long face? You’re as melancholy as a poet with a prize.” Behind her, Churri snorted; he leaned against the lock and said nothing.

Aslan pulled Xalloor closer so she could talk without shouting. “What in the world are you two doing here?”

“More insurance. We’re supposed to keep an eye on you and your mum. And the rest of ’em. Churri’s a poet which makes him respectable and I’m nothing much, someone she knows, someone too feeble to be a danger to her, just barely bright enough to watch-hound.”

“I see about her, what about you? This isn’t a stage, you could get killed.”

Xalloor grinned. “Dearie dai, you are a romantic. Stage… The word turned into a giggle. “Once upon a time about a hundred years ago, didn’t I say you’ve led a sheltered life?”