Whisper of Waves

4

11 Flamerule, the Year of the Blazing Brand(1334 DR)

FIRESTEAP CITADEL

Pristoleph watched the lieutenant approach, knowing full well why he looked so angry. It wasn’t often that the officers deigned to mingle with the men, and they generally only came to harass or punish. Pristoleph expected a bit of both.

As the lieutenant made his way quickly and deliberately through the rows of tents, soldiers who had been lounging on the grass or on whatever makeshift seats they’d arranged for themselves stood and saluted or at least nodded as he passed. Once his back was to them, some would scowl or offer a rude gesture, but most would go back to what they were doing, unconcerned and unimpressed.

Pristoleph started out unconcerned and unimpressed.

“You will stand when you address me, soldier,” the lieutenant said.

Pristoleph smiled but didn’t move from his comfortable canvas folding chair. From the tent behind him drifted the sounds of gasps and groans, then a woman’s giggle.

“Stand, damn you,” the lieutenant said, his voice low and tight, his mouth curled in a furious grimace.

The officer wasn’t much older than Pristoleph, a lean, pampered youth with the dark, almost black hair common in Innarlith. His skin was a bit paler than usual, undoubtedly from years spent in the cloistered halls of private schools and society galas. His soft skin had never seen a moment’s battle, despite his rank.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Wenefir asked.

He’d appeared, as Wenefir usually did, as if from nowhere, stepping out from behind the tent. The lieutenant was surprised and confused, but his breeding and arrogance quickly calmed him.

“Is there a problem, soldier?” the young officer asked Wenefir. “Yes, I should say there is.” He turned his attention back to Pristoleph. “This … man. Is he a friend of yours?”

“He is,” Wenefir replied.

“Then you shall both-” the lieutenant began then was interrupted by a loud groan, almost a wail, from the inside of the tent and the woman laughed instead of just giggling. “For Innarlith’s sake,” the officer pressed on, “this is a military camp not a … a … a brothel! What could you possibly be thinking, the both of you?”

The young officer made a move toward the tent, and Wenefir stepped sideways, meaning to put himself between the lieutenant and Pristoleph. Both of them stopped short and again the young lieutenant had to mask his initial shock and intimidation with the haughty arrogance demanded of his position.

A small crowd of soldiers started to gather behind the officer. Pristoleph could read in their glances and the way they whispered to each other what they were thinking, and he recognized an opportunity to put on a show that would have benefits for a long time after. The men started shifting position, growing increasingly anxious, and the young officer’s face tightened further.

“Do you feel that?” Pristoleph asked, pitching his voice in such a way that at least the first few rows of onlookers would be able to hear him.

The sounds of mumbled conversation and giggles from inside the tent came to a shushing halt.

“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you-” the lieutenant started.

“Sure you do,” said Pristoleph. “A child could sense it-that moment when the air begins to charge with a feeling of imminent danger?”

Pristoleph let a relaxed smile drift across his face. Always careful to keep the sun behind him, Pristoleph didn’t have to squint up at the lieutenant.

“I should say so,” the young officer replied. “The penalty for this sort of gross dereliction of-”

“It’s a feeling,” Pristoleph interrupted again, “that I grew up … what’s the word?”

He glanced at Wenefir, who offered, “Immersed?”

“Immersed in,” Pristoleph finished with a smile.

The lieutenant narrowed his eyes and Pristoleph would swear the man wanted to take a step back but was fighting the impulse with all his might.

“That was on the streets, you understand,” Pristoleph added. “The Fourth Quarter, against the wall.”

Pristoleph held his eyes still while the lieutenant studied him. He was confident that his face betrayed nothing, and by doing so, told the young officer all he needed to know.

Still, the lieutenant wouldn’t allow his position to abandon him entirely and he said, “I will thank you not to interrupt me again, soldier. Do so one more time, stay seated in my presence, and continue this ludicrous conversation one more breath and you will find yourself standing tall before the man.”

“What in all Nine Hells is that supposed to mean?” Wenefir asked with a sneer and a quiver in his voice that almost made Pristoleph nervous.

Wenefir edged a little closer to the lieutenant, who twitched ever so imperceptibly away, and Pristoleph stood. He held up a hand and Wenefir backed off, but he kept his steely red eyes locked on the young officer, who was subtly beginning to squirm.

“You’ll have to excuse my comrade-in-arms, here, Lieutenant,” Pristoleph said. “He can be sensitive sometimes. Is it any wonder, after what he’s been through?”

“I assure you,” the lieutenant said, “I have no-”

“He used to climb down chimneys,” Pristoleph went on. “That was how he made his living, if you could call it that. You know what a few years of that does to you? It poisons you. The soot, the black grime inside a chimney when it’s scraped into every crevice of your naked body … eventually he had to be emasculated. The soot warts, they call them. Nasty things. They’ll kill you if you leave them alone, if you can suffer the pain. Can you imagine pain so bad you’d rather castrate yourself than endure it another moment? That’s my friend, here. He’s got nothing between his legs, but he’s still a better man than most.”

Wenefir blushed, suppressed a smile, and continued to stare down the lieutenant. The young officer’s face drained of color and he drew in a breath that hissed its way into his lungs.

“I say, I …” the lieutenant said.

Shifting, hissing sounds came from the tent, another giggle, and the clatter of a sword belt. Pristoleph continued to smile.

“If you’ve come for the young lady, sir,” Pristoleph said, “I’ll have to ask you to wait a moment while she finishes up with another customer.”

The lieutenant puffed out his chest, his tabard still hanging unfilled over his unimpressive physique. Pristoleph took a moment to admire the young officer’s armor while the lieutenant made a great show of being so offended and shocked-mortified even-that he was momentarily unable to speak. It wasn’t practical, fighting armor, but the kind of decorative parade plate rich mothers bought for their sons to play soldier in while Father finished shoring up the family business before having the good graces to die and let the former army officer step into his fortune.

“I have no interest in your filthy little-”

“Shut up, lieutenant,” the captain said as he stepped out from the tent, his sword belt in his left hand, and his right arm around the waist of a blonde woman wrapped in a silk sheet.

Pristoleph didn’t laugh at the lieutenant’s reaction, but Wenefir did. When both Pristoleph and the captain glanced his way, though, Wenefir shut up. That was not the case for the bulk of the assembled soldiers, some of whom laughed heartily at the young lieutenant’s expense.

“Captain, I … I …” the lieutenant blustered, and it looked for a moment as if he might fall down.

The captain, a convivial, gray-haired man with arms like oak trees, clapped Pristoleph hard on the back and said, “You’ll go far in this man’s army, boy.” Then he looked at the young lieutenant. “I paid him up front, Lieutenant Ptolnec, and I expect you’ll do the same.”

With that, the captain gave the lady a kiss on the cheek that was greeted with another giggle.

“Until tomorrow, Nyla my dear,” said the captain, then he stomped happily off through a parting sea of cheering soldiers.

It took Ptolnec nearly a full hour to finally hand over the coin and take his turn in Pristoleph’s tent.