Two men sat in the dark office of an unlit building.
“Do you realize what this MEANS?” Mal shouted.
“Nicko, I think you may be overreact—”
“OVERREACTING? To thousands crying for General Shin? The chant’s being taken up all over the world! Keeping him confined to Edge hasn’t slowed support for him—it’s getting stronger!”
The good doctor held up his hand in a vain attempt to calm his companion whose veins bulged in six places. It was a good idea that Brisack brought his heart medications, because Mal’s would be bursting out of his chest in about five minutes. “Now, now, I think you’re reading far too much into this—”
“How can you be so relaxed?” Mal bellowed. “Don’t you see the pattern? What happened the last time the citizens became enthralled with a man they thought would deliver them to some different end?”
Brisack smiled cautiously. “They cleared the way for you to be installed, Nicko.”
“Precisely, Doctor! People are no better than sheep—they’ll follow anything that moves, despite the care given them for the past twenty years. They’re too stupid to realize what they dumbly follow. Well I’ll not have it! He will NOT steal my flock! I’ll not sit by while King Perrin builds himself a throne in Edge!”
“Flock of dumb sheep,” said Brisack thoughtfully. “Intriguing comparison, albeit inappropriate. I think you’re confusing sheep with ducklings. But I can’t help but wonder—why are they shifting their devotion?”
“Because he answered their inane little letters!” Mal snapped.
“He doesn’t have a Letter Skimmer service? Personalized attention?” Occasionally Brisack felt the need to practice his sarcasm.
Mal wasn’t impressed. “I’ve got proof,” he said, standing up. He made his way over to a desk and picked up a small piece of paper. “When I first heard that Shin was responding to regular people’s mail, I had one of the reception area recorders write him a letter. A couple of days ago, he received this.”
Brisack held the letter to catch the faint light coming from the stables. “Clever, Nicko. Information gathering from the very source. This doesn’t look like an adult’s handwriting.”
“It’s not,” Mal fumed. “It was written by his son! Horrible penmanship, too, considering his mother is a teacher.”
Brisack scoffed. “Penmanship has nothing to do with intelligence, and everything to do with conformity. The more complicit the hand, the more timid the mind. That’s why much of the younger generation writes identically. Let’s see . . . ‘Dear Merk: Because my Father is overwhelmed with letters, he’s dictating responses to me and my family’—Well, can’t excuse the atrocious grammar right there, especially for a boy of nearly fifteen. ‘My father thanks you for your concern for our family and wishes you well. He also offers this advice: You live in Idumea? Get out! Ha-ha.’”
Brisack pursed his lips in an effort to suppress his guffaw, but part of it leaked out anyway.
“Yes. Ha-ha,” Mal said flatly. “That’s why we don’t employ teenagers as letter skimmers.”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” Brisack shrugged, his face still contorting, “certainly authentic. Seems he has quite a bit to say. ‘Just kidding, Merk. My father didn’t say to write that, but I’m certain he agrees. See the signature of his below? He put that there before I finished the letter. If he ever finds out what I’m writing, he won’t make that mistake again. I’m just now filling up extra space. Anyway, thanks for the letter! Perrin Shin. I’m working on imitating his signature. How does this look? Perrin Shin. Yeah, it still needs work before I can attempt to requisition anything from the garrison. Do you want anything? I can try to copy his signature to requisition you a nice horse so you escape from Idumea. Let me know. Peto Shin.’”
The good doctor rubbed his mouth vigorously with his hand, trying to eliminate the laugh.
“Go ahead,” Mal grumbled. “All the recorders laughed before I confiscated it. They thought the boy was both cocky and charming. No wonder everyone writes to his father. They want to see what he’ll let his bratty son get away with next.”
“He could deplete the garrison, requisition it all away!” Brisack couldn’t help but add with a chuckle. “Now I wished I’d spent a few moments speaking with the boy at The Dinner last year. Didn’t realize he was so . . . independent.”
“All of them are independent,” Mal seethed. “And that, my good doctor, is why they’re so dangerous! What about your project in the north? Is it ready? Because if it’s not, then we’re going back to my original plan of eliminating Mr. Independent!”
Brisack’s chuckle died. “It’s nearly ready. We should’ve recruited some men with minds a bit brighter than midnight, but if I go up there myself, I’m confident that I can refine the mixture in a matter of days. Don’t worry—all of this is still in our control.”
“You still believe that? It’s completely out of control!”
“No, no, Nicko. This is what politics is about, right? We help the people discover the threat to their security, then we provide them with a solution. Granted, in the past we created the threat that sent them scurrying to us for help, but I’m still convinced we can turn this to our advantage. Another threat has merely revealed itself all on its own. Now,” Brisack continued with a smile that tried to suggest confidence, “it’s a little early in the season for fishing, but then again, I suppose it’s always a good day to go fishing, and I haven’t yet taken Shin up on his offer to check the rivers in the north—”
“Brisack!”
He leaned over to Chairman Mal. “Relax, Nicko. When I’m finished no one will be chanting General Shin—or even thinking King Perrin—ever again.”
---
It was Sewzi Briter who first noticed the colonel approaching the house after dinner.
Her husband noticed next, because his wife was making a panicked gurgling noise. Cambozola rushed to her at the kitchen sink, then realized that it wasn’t a dried pea she was gagging on but her terror of the colonel who she spied in the gap between her yellow curtains.
Cambozola patted his wife. “He’s been a lot calmer lately. At the Remembrance Ceremony he was quite . . . impressive.”
“Yes,” his wife whimpered, eyeing the sword strapped to the colonel’s side. “I remember. What’s he doing?”
Cambozola tilted his head to better see the colonel in the gap, who had paused a few feet before their door. “Well, if I had to guess, I would say he’s . . . practicing smiling? Who practices smiling? Oh, there’s a different kind. And another one. How odd. What kind of man has different smiles? Oh, I do believe he’s settled on one. And now he’s got it pretty well fixed—”
His wife leaned away from the window. “We shouldn’t be watching him like this!”
“Why not?” Cambozola grinned. “He’s good entertainment.”
There was a loud knocking at the door.
Sewzi clenched her teeth.
“Remember, Sewzi, he’s Jaytsy’s father. He can’t be all bad. And he just figured out how to smile!”
Her husband’s reassurances didn’t help, and Sewzi anxiously twisted the dish rag in her hands.
Cambozola steeled himself and swung open the door. “Sir! Good to see you. Something I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes,” Colonel Shin said, still with his smile that tried to be friendly yet contrite. He aimed it straight at Sewzi.
She pursed her lips and nodded once at him, the best acknowledgement she could muster.
Shin turned to Cambozola. “Briter, I’m looking for some help. May I come in?” he asked, almost nervously.
“Of course! Of course!” Cambozola said, holding out his arm to the kitchen table. “We were just about to have some pie.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Shin said, sounding genuinely apologetic as he stepped into the house. The kitchen shrunk in proportion to his stature, and Sewzi fought the urge to scuttle back into a corner to be out of his way. “Especially pie. The best convers
ations happen around pie. Pie’s sacred.”
Sewzi looked into his dark eyes—just like Jaytsy’s—and something twinkled back at her.
Feeling a bit safer, Sewzi found her voice. “I think my husband was trying to offer you some, sir. If you’d like to join us?”
Shin’s smile changed yet again, becoming more gentle. “As I said, pie’s sacred, and I’ve done nothing to deserve pie. I made wrong assumptions about you when you first arrived, and my treatment of you this past year hasn’t exactly been pie-worthy. For that, I’m very sorry.”
Sewzi couldn’t help but smile in response.
Her husband chuckled softly. “Ah, but you have, Colonel. At the Remembrance Ceremony, the third name you read was my mother’s. Yenali Briter. No one here knew her, or her love of goats, or of knitting, or of knitting goat hair. Or her ability to make a most wonderful raspberry pie, for which you’ll have to wait for a few moons. But you, Colonel, were the first to speak her name in Edge. And that, sir, is pie-worthy.”
To the Briters’ surprise, the colonel’s eyes became shiny. “I just hope we didn’t miss anyone. I sent out inquiries and asked around about your mother. I will remember the name Yenali Briter as if she were my own family. And I also wish to thank you.”
Cambozola grinned magnanimously. “My goodness,” he said to his wife, “this evening is just filling with surprises—”
Sewzi tried to subtly smack his arm to shut him up, which, because the kitchen was small, was a rather obvious gesture.
But the colonel just continued to smile, and Sewzi thought she heard a low chuckle rumble up from some depth.
“I want to thank you,” he said, “for your care of my daughter the past few seasons. She’s loved being here, and your farm was a welcomed sanctuary when she couldn’t find any at home.”
Sewzi was still terrified of him—and she suspected she always would be—but the sincerity in his eyes and the growing emotion in his voice made her almost want to hug the man. Almost.
“Sir,” she said instead, “I love your daughter. She’s an excellent young woman, and her father definitely deserves a piece of pie.”
Colonel Shin grinned genuinely, and for the moment Sewzi understood what Mrs. Shin saw in him. He nodded and sat down at the table.
The Briters exchanged stunned expressions, and Cambozola sat down next to the colonel as Sewzi retrieved another plate.
“So,” Cambozola said grandly, as if entertaining Chairman Mal himself, “how do you think I can help you, Colonel?”
The colonel’s gaze sharpened and he leaned on the table. “Mr. Briter, tell me everything you remember about Moorland.
---
Lemuel left the black coach and strode smartly up the wide stone stairs of the High General’s mansion. His grandparents had wanted him there so they could have the honor of hosting him for his visit back to Idumea.
The soldier on duty at the large oak doors saluted before opening one. Lemuel almost smirked at the motion, enjoying that the soldier was a decade older than him, yet was his servant.
But the smirk died before it ever surfaced, because standing in the foy-yay of the Grand Hall of the mansion was General Thorne, waiting with his arms folded.
Lemuel hadn’t expected him. Surely there would have been something for him to be doing at the garrison at dinner time, then he should have traveled to his own stately home several blocks away.
Lemuel immediately came to attention, as he had learned to do when he was three years old.
Qayin Thorne nodded once. “Captain, you’re late.”
Lemuel swallowed and said, “Yes, sir. There were problems with some wagons above Pools. Seems a shipment was stolen so the wagons were scattered and burning, creating a delay.”
“Did you stop to render assistance?”
“No, sir. I knew reaching here at an acceptable hour was the priority. I told the driver to go through the fields around the accident.”
“Well done. I—” Qayin was interrupted by a blur of a woman.
“Lemuel!” Versula Cush came running from the dining hall, her arms out to embrace her son. “I thought I heard your voice!”
But he remained at attention. “Mother.”
Versula stopped suddenly, noticing the unexpected presence of her husband. Still, she bravely stepped up to her stiff son and hugged him anyway. “So glad to see you arrived safely! A year is far too long.” Her eyes grew wide as she examined him. “My goodness, what happened to your jaw? That’s a nasty bruise—”
“Tripped and fell,” was all Lemuel responded.
Versula was a woman who knew about bruises that one didn’t want to explain. “You must be hungry. Dinner’s just about—”
“Enough!” Qayin barked. “We’re not finished here.”
Versula firmed her stance. “I just want to feed my boy—”
“He’s not a boy, Versula!” Qayin reminded sharply. “Hasn’t been a ‘boy’ for many years, if his bragging is to be believed.”
Versula flushed red and only glanced in the direction of her son.
“He’s an officer first. Remember that. Being ‘your boy’ is so far down the list it doesn’t even make the page. We’ll come eat when we’re ready. Understood?”
Versula nodded submissively and sent her son a quick look.
He understood it. Just do whatever you have to.
Without another word, she scurried back to the dining hall where her mother was giving orders to the maids about the seating arrangements.
Qayin cocked his head toward the study and started for it, and his son dutifully fell in behind him. Qayin threw open the door and promptly went to sit behind the grand desk that was the High General’s, but apparently the Advising General felt comfortable to take over whenever he felt the need.
Lemuel paused for the slightest of moments before following. He’d been in that room a few times before, tagging along with his grandfather when he went to visit Relf Shin. The office had changed in the last year since the Cushes took over . Gone were the sweeping red drapes that covered the tall windows. Instead, dull planks of wood served as shutters on the inside, rather than the outside.
Missing, too, was the large portrait of Pere Shin. Lemuel was surprised at his disappointment of that. As a boy he watched Pere’s eyes when he visited the mansion, feeling as if Pere could see right through him. The portly man, while large and threatening, also seemed to have a bit of mischievousness about him, as if he held secrets. Maybe Cush moved the painting to the Command School.
Qayin Thorne would have moved it to a rubbish heap.
“Sit,” Qayin ordered, pointing to a plain wooden chair.
Lemuel sat between the cushioned and forbidden chairs on either side of him.
“Your biweekly reports have been thorough, but you’ve left out some key information. I suspect you did so to maintain discretion about certain people and activities?” Qayin’s question was more of a restatement of what his son should have already understood.
Lemuel was used to the questioning. It began when he was four. “Yes, sir. I was as forthcoming as I could be, sir.”
Qayin frowned at the vague response. “What have you learned from Master Sergeant Zenos?”
Lemuel hadn’t expected that to be the first item of business. He blinked and hesitated, even though he knew it would annoy the general. “Uh, I’ve learned a few things from him. What, sir, specifically do you wish me to learn? He just an enlisted man.”
Qayin rolled his eyes. “Just an enlisted man . . . how dense is this captain?” he muttered loudly. “What have you learned?”
“Uh . . . scheduling. Training of new recruits. Uh . . .”
“UH?” Qayin bellowed. “What kind of response is that, soldier? I knew you were unprepared for this assignment. I told them you wouldn’t be ready, but they thought you could pick things up on your own.”
Lemuel couldn’t help himself. “Who, sir?”
Qayin ignored him, as he frequently did.
His son existed only when he was convenient. “Without the proper training, what can he do?” Thorne lectured the desk. “He wasn’t graduated early for intelligence, but because we needed an inside man!”
This was the first time Lemuel had heard any of this, and it smacked him with confidence-shattering force. Before he could start to work out what all of what his father meant, he realized General Thorne was staring at him.
“Tell me, Captain: what does Zenos do besides his duty?”
Lemuel frowned, not knowing.
“Does he hang around the taverns?” Qayin barked.
“No, sir.”
“Does he spend his free time with a variety of women?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what does he do?”
Suddenly Lemuel understood. “He spends all of his free time with the Shin family, sir. He’s Colonel Shin’s best friend, sir.”
Qayin held up a finger. “Exactly. And why?”
It was then that Lemuel realized he had wasted an entire year, and that horrible insight left his empty stomach queasy. His father had told him he should be learning from Zenos, but he had expected lessons and private discussions—
Now Zenos was making him look stupid.
He hated Zenos.
“He acts as their best friend so that he is closer to Colonel Shin,” Lemuel confessed miserably.
Qayin nodded. “He’s Perrin’s confidante. I recognized that last year. No other soldier would dare use Shin’s first name in a public setting as he did. He attacked his commanding officer, yet they left the garrison the next day as if they were brothers. Zenos has been very careful to plant a most extensive and deep root system, growing ever more closer to Shin. When the time is right—and it will be sooner rather than later if I have my way—Zenos will be able to uproot Shin in a most devastating manner.”
Lemuel swallowed hard, understanding only about half of what was said, but he’d never admit that.
“And you, son—” it was only on rare occasions that Qayin called him ‘son’—“will be by his side when he does so. You need to be involved, and then I can involve you in many more things. Do better, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.” He made to get up, but his father’s head tilting told him to sit back down.
“Now, about a certain young lady whose affections you are to secure . . . have you done so?”
A bead of sweat broke out on his brow. “Not yet, sir. She’s still a bit immature.”
Qayin’s lip curled. “Why should maturity matter?”
Lemuel had worried about this line of questioning. “She’s not interested in courting yet, sir. I have, however, made it clear that I’m always near, always watching, and always present. Just as you instructed, I’m a veritable mountain lion.”
Qayin’s jaw shifted. “You’ve been there nearly a year. It didn’t take me that long to convince your mother.”
Lemuel looked down at his hands and felt his stomach wrench as it had the night Jaytsy demonstrated her ability to kick with shocking accuracy.
“Did you do everything I instructed?”
And there was the question he’d been dreading. “I tried to, sir.”
“Tried to?”
Lemuel just nodded. “She, uh . . . wasn’t receptive.”
Qayin sat back. “Then you did it wrong. Or rather, didn’t do it at all!”
“No, sir,” Lemuel whispered.
“Again, you need to do MUCH better.”
I need to avoid her kicks, he thought bitterly to himself. But to his father, he said, “I will, sir.”
“Learn from Zenos; be as close to Shin as he is. Find your own way into his mind. Then when Perrin admires you, he’ll persuade his daughter to accept you.”
When Lemuel couldn’t think of any response, Qayin sighed in annoyance. “You know why I have only one son, right?”
Lemuel knew. He’d been told many times.
“So that I could pour all of my efforts into one select child. But I’ve come to the conclusion that was the wrong approach. Your mother had begged to have a second child, but I thought the competition would have been bad for you. But I should’ve had a second son in case my first son disappointed me, as he is right now.”
Lemuel knew he shouldn’t mention the possibility that the second child could have been a girl. A female hadn’t been sired by a Thorne for three generations. A daughter would have been too great a disappointment, if it had the nerve to show up.
Qayin stared at his son, who sat immobile. Finally he said, “Go. Your grandparents will be expecting to eat soon, and if you keep Cush waiting, he’ll get his revenge by eating everything.”
It wasn’t a joke. Qayin didn’t believe in those.
Lemuel stood up, saluted his father, and headed out of the study.
His mother caught up to him before he reached the washing room, and she pulled him aside into a recessed doorway.
“So good to see you!” she said with a practiced smile. She got right to business. “Your father was right about one thing,” she said as she wiped some road dust from his silver buttons as a pretext for their secret conversation.
Lemuel knew she’d been listening in. She always was.
“If her father admires you, Jaytsy will feel obligated to accept you.”
Something dark opened up in Lemuel’s gut, and he saw a flash of anguish in his mother’s eyes. He realized then how she came to marry his father: obligation.
“Also realize,” Versula continued to fuss over her son, “that with a father like Perrin, Jaytsy doesn’t wear two faces.” She gently fingered his bruise which she wouldn’t ask twice about. “Now, go wash off the rest of that road dust. You know Grandmother doesn’t like filth at her table.” She turned to float elegantly back to the dining hall.
Lemuel continued to the large washing room, turning his mother’s words over in his head.
She doesn’t wear two faces.
As he ran his hands under the piping hot water that Idumea’s springs generated, pouring out from the ornate gold-plated spigot, he wondered: Didn’t everyone wear two faces?
He scrubbed his face and couldn’t remember the first time his mother instructed him how to find his second one. But he knew, since he was very little, that the tears he shed when his father beat him had to disappear before Lemuel left the house.
“Put on your second face, Lemuel. The strong one,” she’d tell him.
His anger had to be tempered. “Second face, son,” she’d remind as he left for school. “The proud one.”
And when he went to Command School Preparatory Courses, where, if his grades weren’t perfect, his father expressed his fury with his belt, he remembered himself. “The defiant face, Lemuel.”
He’d made the shift so often that his second face—the public one—automatically appeared since he was eight.
His mother perfected it as well. At home he saw her pleading whenever Qayin dragged her upstairs. But she’d come back later with a calm façade despite the redness in her eyes and the bruises on her arms. In public she was sophisticated and superior. But at home, Lemuel saw the anguish she revealed only briefly as she had a moment ago. Living with a husband whose fury and beatings made him seem more of an animal than a man had taught Versula how to come across as even more than a woman. She was the envy of all the other officers’ wives. Lemuel had heard them gossiping about Versula Thorne, never suspecting that what they admired was her second, perfect face.
Qayin Thorne, however, was the master—of his family, of the army, and of the second face. He could be outright charming and pleasant when it served him. Lemuel hadn’t quite figured out how his father did it, but he would, eventually. It was crucial to his own future success.
As Lemuel dried his face and hands with the scented thick clothes, he remembered how his mother had said “Perrin.” The fervor of her voice sounded like longing, and he wondered why Perrin didn’t require his family to have two faces. They could’ve used two faces last year, but
strangely, they didn’t. Their exhaustion, frustration, and even fear had been evident. Lemuel was experienced in recognizing what was lurking in a person’s eyes, despite what the rest of the face said. The Shins had tried to hide some of it, but not effectively, as if they really didn’t know how.
And now, for the past few weeks, their eyes were brighter and clearer, almost deceptively so. But then again, perhaps . . . perhaps it was real. Maybe the delight and strength that exuded from Jaytsy was genuine, and not a performance.
He laid down the cloths on the sink basin, careful to fold them just so to please his grandmother, then inspected himself in the wide mirror. He removed his cap, quickly combed his short-cropped hair to lay smoothly—his father would take note of any slips of imperfection—and regarded his face. He was the most handsome and perfectly proportioned male ever in Idumea or the army, even with the manly bruise. Surely Jaytsy could see that, and wasn’t that what females of any species worried about, the appearance of the father of their offspring? He had it all. She just didn’t see that yet, because of her immaturity.
Lemuel nodded to his reflection. Now that Perrin was improving, so would everything else. He needed to be more obliging to Perrin, slide under his wing so Jaytsy would see him there. Already Perrin was treating Lemuel as a son: shouting at him and striking him, just as Qayin always had.
Lemuel had to keep the correct balance, though. Perrin knew that he was a future threat, so he had to revise his two faces; one had to be as endearing as a son to the colonel, and the other had to demonstrate he was still a strength to be relied upon.
Command was complicated.
At least he had a week to think about how to work the colonel to get his daughter. And then, he’d get everything else he deserved.
---
Knock-knock . . . knock-knock-knock.
It had been a wonderful week. Perrin was more firm than the mountains before him, the fort was running smoothly, the soldiers were responding to him again, and that blasted “knock” had been gone to Idumea for The Dinner.
Just like bad things, all good things come to an end.
Perrin took a deep breath and said, after a longer-than-necessary pause, “Come in.”
Captain Thorne opened the door as if he had been rehearsing to do so with measured gusto. It was good to see him so unsure, as if he had been thrown down and was now trying to find his feet.
Perrin tried on him his most threatening glare.
Thorne swallowed hard.
Internally, Perrin grinned. Oh yes. He still had it. Let the power struggle begin.
“Sir?”
“I see you’ve returned from The Dinner, Thorne,” Perrin intoned. “Enjoy yourself?”
“It was good to be home again, sir. But to be honest, I enjoy Edge even more.”
So that’s how he was going to play it, Perrin thought. Ingratiate himself to the authority. So life in the tower will now be nauseating.
“Check the duty roster on your way out. Zenos didn’t scheduled you until tomorrow morning. You have time to settle in from your trip.”
“Thank you, sir. I trust Zenos’s duty roster meets with your approval? I realize how insightful and perceptive his approach is.”
It took all of Perrin’s will to not groan out loud. A duty roster that’s insightful? Perceptive? He almost preferred the undermining captain to this sniveling, groveling excuse for a man. Boy.
“I’m sure you’re hungry, Thorne. If you hurry, you can catch dinner in the mess hall—”
“Sir, there’s something else,” Thorne said. He looked behind him to make sure no one was listening in, and shut the door. “Sir, I want you to know my father and grandfather tried to keep the news quiet, but it seems that the Administrators heard about what happened here. About the chant for you to be a general?”
Perrin sat back and folded his hands on his lap. It was the only way to keep them for forming fists. “And exactly how did they learn about that, Captain Thorne?”
Thorne paled slightly. “Sir, there must have been over eight thousand people here! Surely someone is going to say something.”
“Yes. They would.”
Thorne swallowed again. “Anyway, sir, my father and grandfather felt you should be released from your probation now. They even made that recommendation to Chairman Mal, but you see, the chant has made the Administrators nervous.”
“Nervous,” Perrin repeated dully. He hadn’t expected his probation to be lifted. Likely not ever. And that was fine by him.
But Thorne was trying to use it. “Sir, it’s Mal who won’t lift your probation. My father and grandfather are petitioning—”
“There’s no need,” Perrin told him. “I don’t want either of them doing any favors for me. Is that understood, Captain?”
Captain Thorne blinked in surprise. “Of course, sir.”
“Anything else, Thorne?”
Thorne licked his lips anxiously. “Just that . . . I’m sorry, sir.”
Really? Perrin nearly blurted out. Finally? Sorry for attacking my daughter? For trying to supplant my authority? For being a roach that begs for my boot to stomp on you?
But he only said, coolly, “You are?”
Thorne nodded. “You really should be released by now, sir. It’s been almost a full year.”
Perrin’s glare sharpened to a piercing point.
Thorne didn’t know what to do with it. He tried to catch it, match it, evade it, then after ten uncomfortable seconds cleared his throat. “I’ll go get dinner now, sir. Unless there’s anything else?”
“No.” Unless he was ready to hand over his resignation, but the captain’s hands were disappointingly empty. “Dismissed, Captain.”
Perrin clenched both of his fists as the captain went out the door. “Well,” he said after a minute of deep breathing to calm himself. “Now that he’s back, I suppose it’s time to start burning down the barn. But first, we have to build a couple of others.”
---
The next day Perrin came out of his office to see his three young officers sitting obediently at the large forward command desk, wearing expressions of apprehension. This was, after all, the first time since they’d come to the fort that he held a weekly officers’ meeting. He was about fifty weeks late to follow procedure.
Well, as they say: best now than never was.
“Thank you for coming,” he said cheerfully and loudly as he dropped a stack of files next to the open chair. The other officers, he noted, were seated about as far away as they could be around the desk. “We’ll be doing this on a weekly basis, by the way, so make sure your schedules are cleared for this hour.”
“An excellent idea,” said Thorne, and Perrin had noticed that his sycophantic style from last night was in full force.
“You see, sir,” Thorne continued eagerly, “we did something like this last year as well, as per and in accordance to Fort Procedures, Section 3—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Perrin interrupted as he sat down to the desk. But it was the manner in which he sat that helped establish the mood of the meeting.
He had a few ways of putting his body down; subtly, normally, and a way that Mahrree called big-ly, as if everything around him couldn’t help but lean toward his direction, much as when he sat in the middle of the sofa.
Today, though, he made sure he sat huge-ly. That the chair made an audible creak when he thunked his full weight on it only added to the effect.
“Thorne,” he said, after making quite a bit of noise scooching the chair closer to the desk so that the three pairs of eyes were glued to him, “I frequently skimmed the notes you took. But now we’ll be holding the weekly meeting the correct way.”
There were three things Perrin picked up in that moment; first, Thorne was so full of pride that it was easy to insult him, as his affronted scoff, which he tried to keep in, demonstrated; two, Offra was capable of smiling, and hiding it in almost an instant; three, Radan was incapable of holding in his snicker, for which h
e had to cover his mouth with his hand.
And, as a pure bonus, Perrin also picked up that Thorne and Radan had had some kind of arrangement, and that one of the many strings that held them together was severed by Radan’s snickering.
Perrin sat back in the chair. Oh this was going to be fun.
“Now,” he announced, “and Thorne, take notes—”
“But sir, that’s enlisted man’s work. Now, while I do enjoy having only officers here—”
Perrin twisted fully to face Thorne who paused, unsure of why the commander was scowling at him.
“There’s a space at this desk next to me that will, in the future, be occupied by Sergeant Zenos,” he told Thorne steadily. “He’d be here today if he wasn’t south on leave visiting his father and sister. And as per accordance to whatever section you were just trying to quote, Beneff may also attend this meeting. However—” and this was where Perrin was about to lie, “—because I don’t want us to be disturbed, Beneff is manning the reception desk downstairs and will ensure that no one comes up to the tower.”
He just couldn’t put up with Beneff’s doddering, nor his recent habit to hum at random moments and dig his finger into his ear.
“Now, Thorne, you will do as you are told by the commander of the fort, because that is, actually, what I am, and while I concede that in the past year I acted as considerably less than that, I’m done with my little break and am back fully in charge. Pull out that quill and paper, Captain. And follow standard procedures this time, not whatever that little chart thing you came up with about seven moons ago. That helped absolutely no one.”
Thorne, stunned, could do nothing but follow the direct order.
Turning back to the other smirking young men, Perrin began with, “A new year, and new projects. Lots of responsibility to hand around, and we’re going to start today. Gentlemen, the growing and collecting of the taxation last year was a big success, for which I belatedly thank each of you. However, we can’t sit back and think that Idumea will come to the rescue again should another disaster hit us. Nor do Edgers, I’m sure, want to be beholden to Idumea again.”
Perrin could tell Thorne wanted to say something, but he wasn’t about to give him—scribbling frantically to keep up with the deliberately fast rate in which Perrin spoke—any chance of interruption.
“So I’m instituting our own ‘reserves’ program. This year we’ll once again grow as much as we did last year, but instead of sending it to Idumea, we’ll store it here in Edge in barns which we’ll designate as storehouses, similar to the one we have in the compound. Then, if there’s an emergency, we can provide. We’ll continue this storing procedure each year, restocking each Harvest, and distributing the old goods to those less fortunate in Edge.”
Thorne’s lips were moving as he scrawled, something on his mind that he couldn’t express until he was done recording.
Perrin made sure he didn’t get that opportunity. “This project will be in addition to our regular work, so it will require a great deal of dedication for the next several moons. There are two main components: securing land and constructing the storehouses, and explaining the procedure to the villagers and visiting families—”
“—which I will gladly take on, excellent ideas, Colonel.” Apparently Thorne could babble while taking notes. “When Idumea hears of our plan, I’m sure they will—”
“No,” was all Perrin said, and huge-ly. He had a manner of speaking bigger than anyone else, too.
Thorne’s quill stumbled on the page and he looked up as if he’d been slapped. “No?” He seemed like he was ready to slap back.
Oh the toady was already slipping, poor captain.
“No,” Perrin repeated more easily, his focus solely on the two lieutenants. “This project is for you two men.”
Radan and Offra both sat a little taller, their eyes darting over at Thorne with hints of superiority.
Perrin pointed at Radan. “According to your file, you did some construction down in Midplain. Therefore I’ll put you in charge of securing land, timber, builders—everything we need to build two storehouses, one on either side of Edge. You may find an unused barn already available which we may be able to convert. I want frequent updates, and we’ll meet once a week to evaluate progress.”
“Yes, sirrrrr!” Radan said, enthusiastically adding even more r’s.
That had annoyed Perrin to no end, and if he was going to work with this young man, something had to change. “Radan, I appreciate the zeal, but ‘sir’ is supposed to be a quick response, not take half the afternoon to get through. Work on that, if only when you’re around me, all right?” He added a friendly smile that relaxed Radan’s tense shoulders.
“Yes . . . sir.”
“Well done. Now, Offra,” he turned to him, “I understand you helped Zenos with the collection of the taxation, and I want you to resume that. Because Zenos will initially be busy with other matters, I’m putting the project of contacting villagers, plotting—”
It was Thorne’s prolonged throat-clearing that caused Perrin to stop and look at the captain. For good measure, Perrin slapped him, hard, on the back. “Something caught in there, Thorne?”
Thorne, who had been bristling like a porcupine for the past five minutes, raised his eyebrows. “Sir, I must protest. I think I am much more up to the task of—”
“And I don’t. Offra,” he turned back to him, “as I was saying—”
“Sir, have you read his file?” Thorne demanded.
Perrin didn’t even glance at Thorne as he said, with a faint smile aimed at Offra, “Yes, I’ve read Offra’s file. But more than that, I’ve observed the man himself. I believe he’s far more than ‘adequate’ to handle this assignment. Besides, his former commander is an arrogant twit who can’t recognize character if it bit off his nose. However,” and now Perrin turned to see that Thorne’s face had gone beet red, “I’ve also observed you over the past year, and I recommend that you shut your mouth before a new entry is added to your file.”
Thorne clamped his mouth shut so tight there was an audible click, and he turned an enraged shade of purple.
“And a well done to you, too,” Perrin said, as if speaking to an eight-year-old. “I suppose you have learned something since your diplomacy courses.”
Even Offra sniggered at that, and Radan looked quickly out the observation windows to hide his grin.
“As I was saying, Offra—dig out the files of what you did last year, and tomorrow we’ll go over them to see what needs modifying. Then you’ll begin creating a strategy to present this to Edge. I want this to be strictly voluntary. I believe that when Edgers see the wisdom in it they’ll come around and want to contribute.”
“Sir?” Offra piped up. “A question?”
“Of course! This is, after all, a meeting where all opinions and questions can be freely stated,” said Perrin generously, fully aware that his treatment of Thorne since the beginning contradicted all of that. Well, had to keep the young officers on their toes, right?
Offra cleared his throat. “Could we . . . offer incentives?”
“Yes? Yes?” Perrin encouraged in the same manner he used on his old dog Barker to get him to finally bark. Which he never did.
Offra nodded nervously. “Such as . . . maybe villagers’ names would be posted on the message boards for their contributions? Announced at the amphitheater? Something public that feeds people’s egos? They tend to respond to that, you know.”
Perrin grinned. “Yes, they absolutely do! Good ideas. Jot them down, Thorne. You seem to be falling behind, there.”
With an angry harrumph—likely forgetting that wasn’t a subservient noise to emit—Thorne went back to scribbling.
“Keep ideas like that coming, Offra,” Perrin said.
Offra’s hand went up like a timid school boy’s.
“I see the lieutenant in the corner has another question?”
Offra smiled in embarrassment. “Just one more thing, sir? Last yea
r Rector Yung assisted in convincing some of the villagers to help. May I use him again?”
“And the marvelous suggestions just keep coming, don’t they Thorne?” Perrin slapped him hard on the back again, making sure he hit the same spot as before. That’d have to be the last time, Perrin knew, because he was enjoying hitting that boy far too much.
The quill in Thorne’s hand flipped out, leaving a messy trail across the notes. “Oh, sir!”
“Oh, dear,” Perrin tsk-tsked. It really was just that easy to undo the captain. “Well, you needed to rewrite all of those anyway. Three copies, just like your grandfather requests.”
Radan was fully grinning now, and Perrin thought he heard a few more strings between him and Thorne snap.
Now Radan raised his hand.
Perrin leaned forward. “Really, boys—no need to raise hands. We’re not in Command School anymore, thank the Creator.”
Radan’s arm sagged as he glanced at Thorne. “But last year we always had to . . .” He trailed off as Thorne glared at him.
Perrin smiled kindly. “Never was in section 3, or wherever the procedures for weekly meetings are. In fact, when a group of officers get together, it’s expected a few shouting matches will occur. All part of the fun, right? Now, what do you want to say?” Radan grinned as Perrin added to Thorne, “And be sure to get all of this.”
“Sir, any particular kind of barns you want for the storehouses?”
Perrin leaned back and looked at the ceiling, contemplating. “I don’t really know, Radan. Surprise me. We’ll go over the plans you find, and work from there. Did you get all that, Thorne?”
“Yes. Sir.”
“My, you could split a mountain with a response like that, Captain.” Perrin slapped his hands on the desktop, causing Thorne to make yet another inky spill on his notes.
“Oh, sir! Really!”
“Oh, I am so sorry about that. Maybe next time we’ll have Zenos take the notes.”
“Yes, please!”
“Because his writing is so much neater . . .”
---
Half an hour later Perrin grinned as Offra and Radan saluted him readily before heading down the stairs, and Thorne grumbled as he began to rewrite his notes.
When Perrin got up, it was with a huge-ly bump against the desk, which meant Thorne growled out loud, crumpled up the sheet of paper he had just began—now covered in spilled ink—and slapped down another sheet to begin once more.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Perrin said soothingly, “I have another officers meeting scheduled soon, and that’s where you’ll likely get to witness a real shouting match or two. And someone else will take the notes.” Then, unable to help himself, and because it felt so right, he slapped Thorne’s back one last time, leaving a red mark on his hand that burned with enormous satisfaction.
When Perrin closed the door to his office, he chuckled.
Being in command was fun again.
Chapter 11 ~ “Men, it’s our turn to go hunting!”