"Excellent." Mikhan smiled. He recognized Marka's advantage as long as they held the monopoly for producing Aylos Jalan's firepowder. "It is now only a question of allocating resources for industrial manufacture. How long before you might arrange a demonstration?"
"Demonstration. Um. Yes. Well, er..." Kern blinked again. "Maybe in an hour?"
Mikhan laughed. "I feared you were about to say week after next," he replied. "It will take me a day or two to gather the right people. When I have, I'll let you know."
Kern smiled. "More resources always sound good, Marshal."
"I'm sure they do." Mikhan's deepset blue eyes glittered. "Just don't let me down."
"Of course not, Marshal." The blinks came faster now and Kern drywashed his hands. "You can rely on me. That you can."
Mikhan's smile warmed. "So glad to hear it," he murmured. He hoped the small man never saw his relief. Armies fighting without firepowder would be severely disadvantaged in future.
A modern army needed another secret weapon, and that was Mikhan's next destination.
***
Lieutenant Brennin, commander of the scout training school, dashed from his office and buckled his sword in place. He dismissed the messenger who brought warning of Marshal Mikhan's imminent visit.
Brennin hated unannounced visits and regarded them as rude, or else fishing to look for replacements. Thankfully, Mikhan had no entourage surrounding him.
"Sorry for descending like this," apologized Mikhan. "But I'm curious to see how you're getting on."
Brennin nodded to accept the apology. Such things from senior officers were as rare as gold nuggets. "Pretty well, Sir. We're getting more suitable sylphs sent to us every day. Now we've got the screening right."
"Screening?" echoed Mikhan.
"For fear of open spaces," replied Brennin, certain the Marshal already knew the answer. "We screen the candidates before they arrive, it helps keep the program more secret."
Mikhan nodded. "That's a good idea," he said. "Can we go through?"
"Of course, Sir."
Brennin led Mikhan to a large area, full of sylphs. Most exercised, some practiced self-defense techniques copied from Marcus's army, others cleaned equipment. All wore the green, gray and brown paint that acted as camouflage.
"I see there's no black in the paint," said Mikhan.
"Experimenting with the color scheme, we realized early on there's no need for it."
"Marcus's scouts wear it. Well, most of the younger ones anyway."
"It does no harm," replied Brennin carefully, "but adds nothing. So there's no point in adding it to the camouflage. Come this way Sir, and you can see for yourself."
Mikhan followed Brennin through to another area, even larger than the first. A mix of grass, scrub and trees, two Sergeants stood beside a wall, one with a spyglass.
"You relax Sergeant Eltren, the Marshal and me will go out there."
The Sergeant without the spyglass grinned and leaned back. "Yessir!"
Mikhan looked at the other man with interest.
Brennin gestured across the area. "How many, Sergeant?"
"Twelve, Sir," replied Eltren.
Mikhan looked out at the apparently deserted area.
"Another test, Sir," said Brennin. "We do this once the lads are a few weeks into their training. If they fail, they are back-classed and choca rations are cut."
"Fail what?"
"We walk out there, and we find them. We'll find them all right, but that's not the test. I'll put my hand on the head or shoulder and if Sergeant Pourn –" Brennin nodded towards the Sergeant with the spyglass "– can see any part of them, he's failed."
Mikhan smiled and nodded in approval. "This I like, Lieutenant Brennin."
The commandant smiled back. "I thought you might, Sir. Shall we see who we can find? Twelve of 'em are out there somewhere."
Mikhan followed Brennin as he walked, crisscrossing the ground. The commandant was right about the scouts being easy enough to find. Despite appearances, sylphs could not make themselves invisible, but stillness counted for a lot. And the paint helped them blend into the background.
In moments, they came across the first scout. They only spotted him at all because his earpoints twitched as he began to fear getting trodden on. Brennin crouched beside the scout and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"If Pourn raises his arm, he can see the scout," said Brennin.
Mikhan watched the man with the spyglass. It seemed the Sergeant pointed it directly at him. Eventually, Pourn lowered the spyglass and shook his head.
A slightly muted scent of sinabra reached Mikhan's nostrils, something he never remembered smelling from Marcus Vintner's scouts. How did they mask their sinabra?
"A pass," said Brennin. "All right, lad, you can go and join the Sergeants now."
A muffled response that might even have been the correct one, before the sylph stood and trotted across the ground to crouch beside Eltren. Mikhan thought he saw the Sergeant congratulate the successful scout.
"The Calcan scouts mask their sinabra," said Mikhan. "We can still smell the scouts here."
Brennin nodded. "We're working on that one, Sir. Hopefully get a result soon."
"I hope so," replied Mikhan, "because I'm already impressed."
He was more than impressed. Firepowder and sylph scouts. Sandester was catching up with her enemies.
Marshal Mikhan smiled. "Keep going as you are," he said. He gestured across the training field. "They don't fight, but that might prove decisive in any battle."
"Yes, Sir," replied Brennin. "We realized that very early on in the training. And these sylphs are second to none."
***
Chapter 6
To Marry Again Or Not?
Elsin Menra Handra tapped her long fingernails on the side of the alovak mug. As a widow – and a junior widow at that – she faced something of a problem. Moments later, Elsin's infertile sylph stepped forward and picked up the alovak can, refilling her mistress' mug without a word.
"Thank you Millan," she said.
The sylph flushed a brighter blue, bobbed her head and stepped back again.
Elsin hoped the creature never learned she'd been named after a favorite doll from her own childhood. Impressed by the service sylphs gave in Marka, she had acquired Millan the previous winter.
The infertile's wound had not yet healed, the pain of her mother's rejection still strong. Elsin knew infertile sylphs never fully recovered from such wounds of the mind. Rejection always made a young infertile yearn for replacement parents, and if sylphs would not look after her, then humans would do. Now she had stopped crying every night for her own mother, Millan had opened herself to bonding.
A properly bonded sylph was a joy; Elsin had witnessed so many who seemed almost able to read their owner's mind. Obedience, loyalty and eagerness to please were hallmarks of a sylph happy in her work.
Willing to please and still very young, Millan showed keen intelligence as she learned the new tasks expected of her. Infectious eagerness made up for her rare mistakes, and she never repeated those. Elsin marveled at her sylph's progress and never needed to raise her voice.
She pushed the sylph from her thoughts. Other considerations worried her more.
Both Elsin's parents were wealthy merchants, or heirs to their respective families' business. Their marriage had proved an astute match and, though her older brother would ultimately inherit her father's trading empire, Elsin would get her mother's successful merchant caravans.
When Elsin married Branad, then claimant to the still vacant Markan Throne, he had seemed a good catch. Being the junior wife meant she had no pressure to produce heirs to the throne, but association with the Vintners, and hence power, increased her chances of marrying her daughters to the most powerful merchant houses in Sandester and beyond. The possibilities thrilled her.
Then, disaster.
Defeated in battle, Branad had renounced the claim for himself and his descendants
in favor of Marcus, a distant cousin. This meant her daughters could never inherit the claim, or the throne if that claim was ever successful, and also neatly severed links to the Vintners for her daughters and their descendants.
Elsin must wed again, and marry someone within the Vintner family, so her daughters could achieve the best possible connections through marriage to Sandester's merchant class.
Kana, Branad's first wife, always seemed disappointed that her son Verdin, honorably enough, had no interest in pursuing his claim to the Markan Throne. Both wives had been present when Branad renounced his claim, but Kana still needed to accept that. Even though she had transferred her support and encouragement to Branad's younger brother, technically not among Branad's descendants, she still had no plans to marry Nazvasta in the hope she might be crowned with him.
An error Elsin intended to exploit for her advantage.
Nazvasta had only taken one wife and publicly stated he had no intention of marrying another. Though rare for a man of his status to have only one wife, Kana respected the man's obvious commitment to a woman he clearly loved.
So naive.
Elsin knew any marriage to Nazvasta would be loveless from his part. And certainly resented bitterly by Heylena. Marriages in her class had nothing at all to do with love, but were about business, trade and extending influence.
Such marriages always came with a price attached, and Elsin was willing to pay.
Such a marriage would gain influence with the merchants and, in addition, she could persuade Heylena where her daughters might find suitable matches. A few generations, and Branad's renunciation would be forgotten. Who knew what might happen then?
Elsin smiled. She should not get ahead of herself. First, she must let Nazvasta pursue and win his claim to the Markan Throne.
And she had another, more risky, alternative.
Branad's son Verdin Vintner was not related to her and he might prove an equally good alternative. She had only six years seniority; she had heard of marriages with greater age gaps. If Nazvasta proved resistant, then perhaps Elsin could marry Verdin instead.
While that might cause raised eyebrows, she knew Verdin possessed many gifts. Not among the Gifted of course, but a talented young man with ideas how to drive Marka forward.
Any child from such a union would be barred from the throne – Branad's renunciation still stood – but he could build on Verdin's legacy. And Elsin would stand alongside him. Again, a few generations and who knew what might happen? A merchant king, perhaps?
Verdin might be the better alternative; after all, he happened to be the rightful heir to Sandester – Branad's renunciation had never applied to the lands he already ruled – and if Nazvasta's claim failed, Sandester might remain independent of any new empire.
An interesting problem. Who to go for? At least Nazvasta lived right here, in Sandester.
Her attention snapped back to Millan as the infertile opened the alovak can to peer inside.
Elsin smiled. "I've had enough alovak for the moment, thank you," she said. "Why don't you go to the kitchens and see if you can find something for us both to eat?"
"Se bata," replied Millan, dropping into a tiny curtsey, all that Elsin required.
She smiled to herself again as she watched her sylph scamper away, though she paused to close the door carefully.
Elsin's expression grew more pensive. She had always resented being treated as a junior. Younger child in her family, even if one a bit more indulged than her brother, then junior wife to Kana. Of course Branad had married Kana first, and of course she had produced a son, but Elsin knew possessing beauty did not equate to an addled brain.
Indeed, if building a loyal following in Marka been left to her, instead of Kana... Well, she believed that they, and not Zandra, would now hold sway over most of the wives who mattered in that city. But no, Kana instead tried to bully and patronize the city's richest and finest.
Elsin hoped Nazvasta could salvage something from the mess.
***
"Hello, little sister."
Millan squeaked, earpoints jerking upright in surprise, and spun on her heel. Seeing who had spoken to her, those earpoints lay back in her hair and she lowered her eyes.
The kitchens were warm and she stood to one side of the table, waiting for one of the cooks to bring her the food anya had requested. She had waited a little longer than expected, but the kitchens were busy and the small sylph did not think anyone deliberately snubbed her.
The speaker, despite cat-slit pupils and pointed ears, was no sylph, but a gwerin. Long black hair complemented skin so pale it looked unnatural, and her black pupils stood out against the pale brown of her eyes. She might have been born to sylph parents, but the human part of her more obviously stood out.
Fareen intimidated Millan. The infertile had not yet seen her fifth summer, but the gwerin emanated the wisdom that only came with great age. Fareen must be much older than Millan could even imagine. Generations of sylphs – and humans too, for that matter – were born, lived and died, while Fareen lived on. And on.
Age, itself deserving of respect, mixed with wisdom and intelligence. Both shone in those beautiful eyes. Millan felt like a scurrying mouse to Fareen's magnificent great eagle. Apt, thought the youngster, for something predatory lurked in the gwerin's eyes even as she smiled.
"Here to collect your mistress's meal?" continued Fareen, perhaps unaware how her presence troubled the youngster.
Eyes wide, Millan nodded. Her earpoints still lay back in her hair.
Fareen smiled. "Trust you are settling in well? Elsin looking after you properly?"
Another nod.
Fareen put a forefinger under the infertile's chin and tilted her head up so she looked directly into her eyes. She smiled. "No need to fear me little one, I will not hurt you."
Millan tried and failed to relax. "I am not frightened," she replied, but her thumping heart gave lie to her words. She wanted to get anya's meal and go.
"Is your mistress pleased to be home? Has she spoken much of what happened in Marka?"
Millan blinked. "She is cross with Kana-ya," she replied.
"Why is that, little sister?"
"Anya says that she wasted a good chance in Marka."
"I expect Elsin talks with you a lot. Does she speak of other things too?"
Millan nodded as her earpoints momentarily jerked upright in surprise. The familiar use of anya's name shocked her. No matter how valuable the gwerin's advice, and despite her great age and wisdom, Fareen was still property. She ought not speak of the free in such a way.
Fareen smiled. "I expect she also thinks you forget what you have heard."
Millan gave the other a sylph's slow blink.
"Ah! Here is the food you ordered. Let me help you take it up." Fareen smiled. "What else does your mistress talk about?"
***
Two soldiers outside the door guarded the small room against eavesdroppers. Within, four men sat around the polished table, an alovak can placed at its exact center. Each man present held a mug of the steaming black liquid.
Paintings of summer pastures lined the windowless walls, for this north-facing room backed into the hill. But the four men ignored the bright splashes of color on the otherwise drab stonework. They had not come here to admire art.
Fareen had decided to give this meeting a miss, pleasing Nazvasta. Some strange beliefs concerning gwerins were common, and few humans spoke freely around Fareen. Though Nazvasta doubted that his gwerin would intimidate these men, he wanted them to express their opinions openly.
"Thank you for coming, gentlemen," he began, opening the meeting. "I think we all know each other?"
Paul Tennan and Indelgar nodded, though Mikhan remained impassive.
"As you know, we believe that the time when Emperor Zenepha will stand aside is almost upon us. It seems likely that Marcus Vintner will replace him."
Indelgar stirred. From feelings of patriotism, or divided loyalties? Naz
vasta continued.
"When this happens, I intend to raise the dragon's head banner and lay my own claim to the throne."
"Branad renounced the claim," interrupted Indelgar. "Before Marka's Senate."
"We know," said Mikhan. "I was there."
Nazvasta wore a small smile as he waited. So, divided loyalties. This man needed to be bought; his questioner had been right. "Branad renounced his claim for himself and his descendants," he pointed out. "I am Branad's brother, not a descendant."
Indelgar stared and his green eyes flashed. "By following the letter and not the spirit of his renunciation. Raising the dragon's head banner will lead to war!"
"Yes." Nazvasta's blue eyes were calm. "I expect it will."
Indelgar sat back, but held his tongue.
"We will not be marching to Marka, however." Nazvasta smiled. "Hingast made that mistake. But instead stay here and let Marcus come to us, or ignore us."
Mikhan and Paul nodded in unison.
"The question is, how might he attack?" Nazvasta gestured. "Thanks to Indelgar, we know Marcus's generals are capable of some surprising tactics."
Indelgar looked embarrassed.
"I suspect a direct assault from Marcus is unlikely," said Mikhan. "More a question of supply and logistics than capability. As his father learned when he, ah, visited." A stab of pain. Salin. His generalship had come at a high cost.
Indelgar nodded agreement and looked more hopeful.
"A defensive strategy is usually best until your enemy shows his hand." Paul Tennan spoke quietly, dark eyes thoughtful. "In Marcus's place, I would seize the northern Horn and simultaneously land north of Vertia. That would draw us away from Sandester."
"Northern Etrea and the southern Horn used to belong to us," pointed out Nazvasta. "Marcus's father grabbed both Horns before besieging Sandester. We only retrieved one Horn and have had to share the Bay of Plenty trade ever since. Will greed tempt Marcus to seize the northern Horn again?"
"It's some distance from Maturia to Sandester," said Mikhan. "Once all the Prefectures are properly garrisoned, he faces an awkward journey. His aim will be to take all of Sandester by squashing your claim and installing a ruler more... amenable to his rule."
"And Marcus has not built up his navy," pointed out Indelgar. "It rarely leaves the Bay of Plenty."
"Might he acquire Re Tauran ships?" asked Nazvasta.