Shem stepped out of Perrin’s office and quietly closed the door. In a way he was a bit jealous of Perrin, napping on a stack of paper on his desk. Shem needed a nap, too, but—
He paused when he saw that the only person in the forward command office was Lemuel Thorne. The captain wore a thin smile that suggested he’d planned for them to be alone.
“Is he resting again?” Thorne’s tone had an edge to it.
Shem ignored it. “He is. Make sure he’s not disturbed.” Shem made for the stairs, but Captain Thorne blocked his way.
“I will, and Master Sergeant? I want to help.”
It was the twinkle in his eye that so annoyed Shem. “I don’t need your help, and neither does the colonel.”
“Ah, but you do,” Thorne simpered. “I’m supposed to be learning from you. I believe this may be something I’m to learn?”
Shem was too drained for this train-the-new-Guarder-who-doesn’t-know-he’s-a-Guarder nonsense. The Quiet Man had thought initially that he could make a game of this, but that idea soured quickly.
However, the eager expression in Thorne’s eyes suggested he was willing and ready to do anything, even take over the fort if necessary. In fact, he seemed to hope just that.
“Look, Captain, this isn’t the time, nor is this anything—”
“But I’m supposed to be learning!”
“No!” Shem snarled in a loud whisper. “This isn’t about you, or your training, or anything else. You’re here to help this fort, and that’s all I have for you. What’d you spend all those years in Command School for, huh? Use that training.”
“But—”
“Leave the colonel alone! You need to understand something: Shin is like a brother to me, and I alone will take care of him.”
As he barreled down the stairs he heard Thorne call after him, “How’s that supposed to help me? Zenos! Get back here!”
---
Thorne scowled after Zenos, who hadn’t bothered to show the respect the captain deserved.
A crashing noise behind him spun Thorne around, and he realized it came from behind the colonel’s closed door. It sounded as if a tin lunch bucket had been knocked off the desk, and now there was the commotion of someone getting up abruptly from the desk.
“Stupid Zenos,” Thorne murmured. He braced for impact, waiting for the door to be jerked open and to face the bleary-eyed colonel who would again look past him and mumble incoherently—
Maybe . . . maybe that’s what Zenos was doing: something to the colonel to keep him confused, tired, angry. But why?
Wait—wasn’t that what brothers did to each other? Antagonize and demoralize? Not having one, he didn’t know. But he was sure that’s how it should be.
Thorne held his breath, watching the door, but instead all he heard was awkward lumbering in the office, then the sound of the colonel dropping heavily into his big chair again.
Thorne exhaled and sat in his own chair, much smaller and less comfortable than what the colonel occupied.
Zenos had said Lemuel should use his Command School training to help, so what do second-in-commands do when the commander is incapacitated?
They command.
Thorne’s lips parted in a growing smile. He liked that big chair, and Zenos was essentially saying it was his, in a way.
Of course it was. Lemuel Thorne was born to do this.
---
Shem was headed to the mess hall when the private caught his arm. “Excuse me, sir, but the surgeon’s been looking for you.”
Shem sighed. He’d been dreading this, and he had a feeling the surgeon had been, too. A few minutes later he entered the surgery wing, hoping that he was there to discipline a wounded recruit, but the area was quiet.
Except for the surgeon, whose last name—appropriately or inappropriately, depending upon whom you asked—was Stitch. His heavy white eyebrows appeared even more foreboding as he looked up from his desk.
“Master sergeant?” Dr. Stitch said, seeming so apprehensive that his pale eyes nearly disappeared in the bushiness of his brow. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Shem exhaled and shut the door behind him.
“Bolt it, please, Master Sergeant. I don’t wish us to be disturbed.”
The bolt caught a bit, and Shem realized it likely had never been locked in all the years the fort had been there. Still, he worked it just a bit longer than necessary, trying to stall the inevitable.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
Dr. Stitch gestured to a chair near him. “Perhaps I should be asking that of you: what can I do for you and . . . the colonel?”
Shem offered his most charming smile as he sat. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”
The older man waved that off. “You’re a terrible actor, Zenos. You couldn’t tell a convincing lie if your life depended upon it. The colonel is . . .” He paused to find the right word, because when a man’s career is on the line, one had to get it right. “Troubled?”
Shem nodded. “A fair assumption. And quite understandable, you must admit. His parents were recently murdered, you know.”
“Zenos,” the surgeon said quietly, “it’s been rumored that there’s something more going on. Now, out of respect for the man and the years I’ve served here, I’ve tried to ignore those rumors. But to be honest, it’s growing out of hand.”
“Rumors,” Shem said, a bit coldly. “You’ve been here about ten years, right? Tell me, Stitch—what have you learned about soldiers and rumors in those years?”
A corner of the surgeon’s mouth lifted. “That soldiers are bigger gossips than their grandmothers, truth be told.”
“They are. And rumors grow to become ugly, terrible things, don’t they, Stitch?”
“Zenos, tell me honestly. He’s traumatized, isn’t he?”
Shem stiffened. “And what happens to traumatized officers?”
Shifting a bit in his chair, Stitch began with, “Well, the army does what we can for them. Some talking, you see, and—”
“You put them out to pasture, surgeon!” Shem snapped. “As if they’re an old horse no one can bear to see anymore. This happens, more frequently than anyone cares to admit, and the faster they’re swept away, the easier they are to forget. And then what happens?”
The surgeon’s mouth worked up and down, unsure of which words to let come out of it.
“I know what happens, sir. They die,” Shem said bluntly. “Check your volumes of diseases over there,” he gestured to the books on a shelf. “There’s no entry for ‘Trauma,’ is there? It’s the ignored ailment, because the army hates to think that they broke someone who they used, and have to throw him away. Well, that’s not going to happen here. No label of ‘trauma’ will be placed upon Perrin Shin, because he’s only losing a bit of sleep, correct? Which causes him to be a bit testy, right? And maybe results in his taking naps during the day, isn’t that so? All of which is normal behavior for a slightly depressed man who is grieving, wouldn’t you agree?”
Stitch didn’t know what else to say but, “Of course, Zenos.”
Shem grinned without feeling any joy. He clapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “I’m glad we had this little chat, Dr. Stitch. After all, an army that believes Beneff is still a capable soldier certainly can’t find any reason to put Perrin Shin out of it, right?”
The surgeon pointlessly moved around files on his desk. “No, absolutely not. Nor did I want to put the colonel out to pasture, I assure you. I have a job to do, you see, and Captain Thorne—”
“What’d he say?” barked Zenos.
Stitch’s head snapped up, startled at Shem’s venom. “He’s said nothing, Zenos. All I was going to say was, ‘Captain Thorne seems capable enough of carrying some extra duties, along with you and the new lieutenants, so I don’t need to make any kind of report at all to the garrison, do I now?’”
“Sorry, sir. I should have realized that . . . what I mean is—”
Stitch held up his hand
to stop Shem’s apology. “Understood. It’s just that I received this,” and he held up a message. “From Administrator Brisack, asking about our colonel’s health.”
Shem pursed his lips as he read the message. Doctor Brisack knew. Mahrree had asked for the sedation, and Brisack could readily put two and three together, the prying old man.
He handed the message back to the surgeon. “Naturally Brisack is worried about the colonel. He helped treat him when we arrived in Idumea, and the colonel was feeling a bit unwell. This is merely a follow-up, and I don’t see that you need to waste anymore ink than to write, ‘Colonel Shin is doing as expected, and the fort is well under control.’”
Stitch smiled slyly. “I believe that’s exactly what I was going to write. Since the colonel hasn’t come to me for anything, he obviously isn’t in need of any treatment . . . yes, the fort and our colonel are just fine. Thank you, Zenos. That will be all.”
---
“Ah, Lieutenant Offra.”
Something in Captain Thorne’s voice reminded Offra of a teacher he had when he was thirteen: a wiry man who would have enjoyed teaching much more if he didn’t have to deal with actual children, and made sure all of his students knew what a bother they were to him. But there he was, stuck with all of them, so let’s just get this over with, shall we?
“You’re just who I needed to see.”
Offra was used to keeping his responses internalized, as he’d learned at his last posting where everything he suggested was summarily dismissed. He looked up from the large forward command desk. “Yes, Captain?” He tried to make sure his disdain for the ‘superior’ officer, three years younger than him, wasn’t obvious.
Thorne picked up a form from the desk. “I see we’re still having a little trouble with the new system I implemented.”
Offra choked back his initial response, and instead came up with, “Master Sergeant Zenos is in charge of scheduling, and I see no reason to change his system. Sir,” he added carefully.
“But what I’ve created is far more efficient,” said Thorne. “Since Zenos told me I’m to use my training to improve the fort, increasing efficiency is exactly the kind of progressive measures my father and grandfather wish to see.”
Offra was feeling exceptionally brave that morning. “Exactly how is it effective for 200 men to stand in front of the small schedule trying to decipher the confusing charts you’ve created to detail their shifts for the next four weeks, sir? With Zeno’s plan, a quick glance tells them all they need to know!”
Thorne’s glare turned condescending. “You see, Offra, that’s why I’m the captain, and you’re not. After they’ve learned my system, they’ll need to see the charts only every four weeks.”
Offra clenched his fist under the desk. “But it’s not necessary.”
Thorne tilted his head. “I doubt you would really know what’s necessary and what isn’t, Offra. I read your former commander’s review of you. He called you a merely ‘adequate officer.’”
Offra’s clenched fist lost some of its ferocity.
Thorne sniffed. “Even an ‘insubordinate’ officer is more interesting. This is probably why you were sent to the smallest fort as far away as possible where you couldn’t do any real damage.”
Only about six hours later did Offra realize that an excellent comeback would have been, “And that’s why they sent you here as well?” But Thorne’s words had stung him into silence. He didn’t realize his former commander would actually attach his disregard to Offra’s permanent file.
Thorne took Offra’s non-response as submission. “A short initial adjustment period is all that’s needed for the men, and then they’ll have a far more progressive procedure.” The captain leaned toward him. “If you want, we can always ask the colonel for his opinion.”
Offra swallowed.
The command office door swung open, and Colonel Shin strode into the forward office looking around aimlessly.
The two young officers froze in their positions, bracing for whatever might come next.
“Dumbest thing ever,” Shin mumbled as he picked up a few papers from the desk and dropped them again. “Three copies of everything. Who else wants them but Cush? Just looking for reasons to keep himself in that chair, behind that desk . . .”
Thorne and Offra watched him, but he didn’t acknowledge their presence. Shin sidled over to a large bookshelf and pulled out a few blank pages, murmuring.
“Not as if anyone will do anything with the copies. Just shove them in a crate, shove that crate in a room, then forget all about them. I’ve got a better system: one form, small page, two boxes. First box says, ‘No problems.’ Second box says, ‘Problems—send help.’ Check off the first box? Don’t even bother sending it. That’s progressive. Waste of trees. No one gets it. We need to keep the trees. But we cut down that forest to make more paper so I can write reports in triplicate to send to Idumea that no one will ever read. Ever look at your patches?”
The young officers, not sure if he was really addressing them, obligingly regarded the various patches on their uniforms.
Shin continued to ramble, not glancing at either of them. “The one issued by Idumea, with a pine tree and a sword on top of it? What’s that supposed to mean, anyway? That we defend the trees? Chop them down with our swords? No! We’re supposed to be in those trees, holding those swords, fighting alongside with the trees. But no one would ever see it that way . . .”
He was now sitting back at his desk in his office and writing on the pages he retrieved, rambling incoherently.
Smugly, Thorne turned to Offra. “Door’s open,” he whispered. “Go ahead. Ask him his opinion about the scheduling charts.”
Offra had yet to have a completely rational discussion with the colonel. Shin always looked past Offra as if he were a patch of fog, and probably didn’t even know the difference between him and Radan. And Thorne knew that, too.
“Take it up with the master sergeant,” Offra whispered back. “This is Zenos’s duty. He’s been at it for a dozen years now, and also believes that he has a good system. Consider his years of service, his experience—”
“Zenos? Zenos,” Thorne scoffed. “Don’t think too much of Zenos. I’m second in command here, Offra. Don’t forget that.”
Thorne stood up, straightened his jacket, and marched confidently into the command office. He knocked lightly on the door, five times, to get the colonel’s attention. “Sir?”
Offra leaned to the side to watch the colonel’s response.
Shin grunted as he copied the report he had already written. “Problem?” he said absently.
“Sir, I would check the box that said, ‘No problems.’”
Shin looked up at him, perplexed.
“I was just referring to the idea you had . . . two boxes? One form? Rather clever, sir.”
Shin’s confused expression shifted into a glare.
Offra smirked. Maybe Colonel Shin didn’t see him, but he definitely saw Thorne, and he didn’t like what he saw. There was still justice in the world.
Thorne cleared his throat, unperturbed. “Sir, the measures to improve the efficiency of the fort are continuing at a commendable pace. I have no doubt the High General is most pleased with our, and your, efforts here.”
“And?” Shin barked impatiently.
Offra dared to grin. But only for a moment, in case someone happened to see him for once.
“I was just wondering if there was anything else you wanted evaluated, sir,” Thorne said, his voice losing just a little bit of its overconfident quality. “Granted, the changes we’re experimenting with now are quite minor and inconsequential . . . really not even requiring your time to glance at them. Perhaps as second in command here I should just look at them for you, allow you to continue taking care of the pressing needs of the fort, while the more mundane items fall to someone like me—”
Offra rolled his eyes. At this rate, Thorne could minimize the entire fort’s defection to the Guarder
s.
“Is there a point to this endless conversation, Captain?”
Offra rubbed his hands together. Someday, Shin might be worth getting to know.
Thorne faltered under the black stare of the colonel. “Uh, sir, just that . . . if you need anything evaluated, I can do it, sir.”
“Then do it!”
Thorne nodded once and turned to leave the office, neglecting to close the colonel’s door behind him.
Lieutenant Offra stared down at the desk to hide his snigger as Thorne picked up the duty schedules.
“There,” Thorne said as if he had just single-handedly won the Great War, seemingly oblivious that the commander seemed ready to take him out himself. “I told you. I’ll take care of these duty schedules. If Zenos has a problem, he can see me about it.” Thorne trotted purposefully down the stairs.
Offra didn’t exhale until Thorne was at the bottom of the stairs. He glanced over again at the colonel writing furiously at his desk, ink flicking from his quill and speckling the papers on the desk. The man’s quill was as deadly as his sword.
Offra went back to work.
---
Perrin knew what was going on. In the village. At home. In the fort. In his tower. Among his men.
He just had no power to prevent any of it. Like the land tremor that struck, he could do nothing to stop it. All he could do was clench every muscle and wait to ride it out.
Because he had no power.
He was helpless.
He barely was.
---
The next morning a messenger arrived at the tower, and Thorne took the folded parchment from him.
“The colonel is indisposed,” he informed the small man in red. “As second in command, I can take care of this. I see it’s in Chairman Mal’s handwriting. You may not have realized that. But I know his writing, since I’ve have dinner with him many times—”
“It also bears the official stamp of the Administrators and Chairman Mal on it.” The messenger tapped a finger on the oval stamp and sneered at the captain before he headed down the tower stairs.
“Well of course every document has the official mark of the Administrators,” Thorne murmured as he broke open the wax seal. He scowled as he read the message, realizing that this wasn’t a problem that he caused, but one that he was required to help fix.
Lieutenant Radan, who increasingly popped up when the captain least expected it, came up the stairs. “Sirrr—”
Thorne had noticed how Radan dragged out that word longer than necessary, as if trying to prove just how much devotion he had. Instead he sounded like a slurring snake. Nevertheless, Lemuel had been hoping for someone just like him.
“—I noticed the Administrators’ messenger leave. Did he bring us anything interesting?”
Lemuel didn’t like Radan, whose elongated nose and dark brown spiky hair resembled a gawking rat, but the man was more eager to make a name for himself than any of the other soldiers.
Lemuel waved the parchment. “Announcements are coming tomorrow, and the fort is to present them at the amphitheater in the evening. The Administrator of Taxation has decreed what Edge has to repay for all of the food they took. Or rather, that Shin took,” he added in slight annoyance.
“How bad is it?” Radan folded his arms.
“The amounts seem high. Payment ‘with interest’ he’s calling it. Need to send back more than was received.” He sighed. “I suppose it’s up to us to present this in a way that Edgers won’t be upset.”
Radan puffed up his average chest, likely trying to appear as defined as Lemuel. “Well sirrr, that sounds exactly like a job for someone as capable as you.”
Lemuel recognized sniveling talk-ups when he met them. Radan was slightly subordinate, likely hoping to leapfrog over his superiors into a higher position. Lemuel would use Radan as well as the lieutenant intended to use the captain.
“Thank you, Radan,” Thorne said with a slim smile. “I appreciate your support. We can use this opportunity to demonstrate to the village what quality of new officers have come to Edge.”
“What will we say, sirrr?”
Thorne noticed how Radan had slipped himself into that spot on the platform, to be by the captain’s side in full view of the village. It was the posturing game, learned at Command School. There were no official courses taught in it, but the only way to get somewhere was to force yourself there, shoving others out of the way.
Sure, Lemuel thought. Let him. Should things go wrong, I’ll need someone to take the blame.
“We need to run this by the colonel, first,” Thorne reminded.
“Of course, sirrr,” Radan back-stepped. “Naturally, we need the commander’s opinion on everything—”
But Thorne was already gently knocking on the colonel’s door. He heard a grunting sound, and something shuffling on a desk before a muddled, “Come in?” reached his ears.
Asleep again, Lemuel thought with irritation. How can he command when he’s always napping? Good thing I’m here . . .
He opened the door. “Colonel, we’ve received word from Idumea about the repayment structure.”
Shin, bleary-eyed, said, “What are you going on about?”
Thorne took a step closer to the desk, holding out the parchment.
Shin didn’t take it, but continued to rub his cheeks which had the effect of pulling down his eyelids and making his eyes appear even more bloodshot.
Thorne cleared his throat, hoping that might help wake up the colonel. “Administrator Iris has sent a list of what Edge needs to return in Harvest to make up for the amounts you brought back with your caravan.”
“Grain, right?”
“Sir, Iris is willing to accept a number of goods—he’s sending a list—in proportion to the weight of what you took. Grain, but also fruits, vegetables, even beef, pork, and mutton on the hoof.”
Shin now rubbed his temples, and Thorne noticed the commander was in need of a haircut. “All right. What’s to be done?”
Lemuel smiled internally. “We present the list tomorrow night, then create a plan for the village to fulfill the amounts. Iris was under the impression that last season you already had a plan?”
Shin merely grunted. “Maybe. Have to check.” He gestured lazily to a messy stack of notes on a shelf.
No plan would be forthcoming, Thorne noted. But it was an excellent opportunity for an up-and-coming captain. He leaned carefully on to the desk. “Sir, I’d appreciate the opportunity to demonstrate my abilities and knowledge by appropriating this duty—”
“Captain,” Shin interrupted, waving his hand as if coming off a bad batch of mead, “less garrison-speak, more making-sense-speak. We’re miles away from Idumea. Quit talking like them.”
Lemuel stood up, a bit put out. They taught an entire class in how to speak army, and he’d scored higher than anyone else.
“Sir, let me be in charge of the taxation amounts,” he got straight to the point. “Gathering it, sending it—”
“With Zenos,” Shin said, leaning back in his chair and hazily focusing on some distant point. “He knows things. Ask his advice.”
Lemuel was about to say he didn’t need Zenos’s advice, but sensing the colonel didn’t want to talk anymore, he merely nodded. “Thank you, sir,” and shut the door behind him.
Radan’s nose was twitching in anticipation. “So it’s all ours?”
Thorne nodded once. “Yes, it’s all mine. You may assist.” If anything went wrong, he’d need a lackey.
Radan was practically salivating. “I thought I heard Shin mention something about Zenos?”
Thorne shook his head. “Amphitheater work is for officers. The enlisted men are for cleaning up after us.”
---
After dinner Perrin sat dully on the sofa, staring at nothing. But in his head floated bits and pieces of something that exploded, and occasionally he tried to puzzle them back together, unsuccessfully.
Because there were the nights whe
re sleep came so deep and heavy that Perrin felt a glimmer of hope again. The gory images would be interrupted by a recurring dream of a young face looking up at him, leaning against his knee, while many others sat behind him, listening. He’s telling Perrin a story that makes him laugh.
That was the only time he ever laughed now. Those were the mornings he could talk to his family, and almost see clearly enough to realize that the captain was subtly undermining, that the soldiers were wary of both the captain and the colonel, and that old Beneff was about as useful as a third earlobe.
And then there were other nights, when the dreams would come too intensely for that little face to stop it all. Instead, he’d wake up to see the terrified expressions of his wife and children, and Shem.
It was always the day after those nights that Rector Yung stood at his front door, holding his battered hat in his hands, and smiling with tentative confidence that this time Perrin would let him in.
Like tonight.
There was knocking at the door, and Perrin knew the pattern: slightly hesitant yet completely optimistic.
Reluctantly, he stood up and opened the door for the tiny man. He knew the rector wanted to come in, but wouldn’t let him in. He couldn’t.
Something about Yung frightened him, as if the Creator himself stood at the door, wanting a reason for Perrin’s erratic behavior, wanting to know why he had no faith in Him.
Or maybe, Perrin was worried that Rector Yung was his last resort to dig out of the pit, but he wouldn’t have a solution. And if the rector couldn’t help, then there truly was no more hope—
“Colonel Shin! So good to see you again. May I have five minutes—”
It may have seemed illogical to slam the door in Yung’s face, but in the churning rationality of Perrin’s mind, it was the only reasonable thing to do.
He ignored Mahrree’s questioning look as she came out of the kitchen to see who was at the door. Instead he plopped down again on the sofa and stared into a corner.
He was trapped in that barn in Edge, without wings or a prayer.
---
The sergeant in charge of stables stopped abruptly on his way to the barns after midday meal. It wasn’t every day that each of his one hundred horses were outside the stables, instead of in them.
“What’s going on out here?” he demanded of the lines of sheepish privates holding multiple reins of horses.
“Rearrangements,” Captain Thorne’s voice startled him. “These creatures were placed in there willy-nilly—”
“Based on temperament!” the sergeant snapped.
“Now it’s based on color, size, and gender.”
“Why?!”
“Because it’s better.”
“But Karna—”
“Karna’s no longer here, Staff Sergeant. Oh, and I changed our feed supplier.”
The staff sergeant spluttered until he could spit out, “But sir, Karna and Shin worked out something with that old widower. He supplies us to help take care of his ill daughter.”
“Has anyone seen this ill daughter? That’s what I thought. We do things my way now. And I’m not Karna.”
As the captain strode away, the sergeant mumbled, “I see that.”
---
“Ah, Cook,” Captain Thorne said as he peered into the big pot. “Stew, is it? And I see I’m here in just in time.”
The cook eyed him warily, not used to seeing an officer in his kitchen. “Actually, it won’t be ready for several more hours—”
“Yes, I know. I mean that I’m here in time to order you to add mushrooms.”
“Mushrooms! That’s completely wrong—”
“Mushrooms are necessary, Cook. They spring from the ground, sturdy and pliant, and eating them will ensure the soldiers are too.”
“Actually, sir, mushrooms are rather delicate—Hey! You can’t put those in there—”
“I just did, Cook. I want to see mushrooms at every dinner.”
“Colonel Shin hates mushrooms!”
“And how often does he eat dinner here? That’s what I thought.”
---
Every afternoon Perrin sat at the command desk dully going through needless paperwork. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the pages when he heard a knock at the door. “Come in.”
The door quietly creaked open.
“Master Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
Shem held up a dark blue bag. “Mail. You look a bit rested after your nap, so . . . ready to go through it?”
Perrin sighed and sat back in his chair. “Will you take the Idumean rubbish today?”
Shem smiled. “Of course. Let’s see what’s been sent our way.” He set down the bag and pulled out a large bound set of papers. “Smells like manure, so it must be from Idumea. What have you got?” he asked as Perrin pull out several folded parchments.
Perrin frowned. “I don’t know. Seems to be . . . six of them, addressed to me.”
“Open one.”
Perrin swallowed and hesitated.
“Perrin,” Shem said quietly. He rarely used his first name in the tower, except for times like this. “I feel confident they are safe. If you want, I’ll open them first—”
“No,” the colonel cut him off with a rigid laugh. “Little bits of paper can’t do anything. Well now,” he said, breaking the plain seal, “what have we here?” He read quietly, aware that his friend was watching him.
“What is it?”
Perrin’s mouth went dry. “I’m not sure how to categorize it.”
“Read it to me.”
“It says, ‘Colonel Shin. You probably don’t remember me, but my father owns the Stables at Pools. I was very sorry to hear about the High General and Mrs. Shin. Your father came here frequently to choose horses, and was always very kind to me. He told me that he expected great things of me, and I’ve always taken that to heart. I was so sad to hear about their passing, and I feel really bad for you. I just wanted you to know that. I will miss them, and I hope you’ll be all right. Signed, Roak.’”
Shem smiled. “It’s a letter, Perrin. And a sweet one, at that. How old is he?”
Perrin shrugged. “Maybe late teens? I met him twice myself, a few years ago when my father sent me to Pools for training. Best horses in the world. Shem, what do I do with this?”
“You appreciate the sentiment. You accept the fact that someone else in the world feels for you. And, when you feel up to it, maybe send him a message back thanking him for his note.”
Perrin nodded at it. “I guess I could do that.”
“Open another one,” Shem urged.
Perrin did so. “It’s from a seamstress in Vines. Said she saw my mother once, and that she looked so beautiful. She’s sorry they’re gone. She just felt the need to tell me that.” He refolded the message. “I can’t . . . I can’t deal with this right now,” he whispered.
Shem took up another letter and smiled. “Perrin, look at the writing on this one. Gizzada! It has to be!”
Perrin took it out of his hands. “Gizzada?” He smiled faintly to see the large looping writing of his former master sergeant-turned-restaurant owner in Pools.
“You have to read that one. The man bought you a white fur coat with butterflies stitched on it, remember? Oh, how I wished I could’ve seen you in that.”
Perrin almost chuckled at the memory. Taking a slash to his back cut three of the poor innocent butterflies in half and soaked them in blood. His scar itched faintly as he opened the message. A moment later he closed his eyes and put it down.
“What does he say?” Shem asked gently.
Perrin handed over the note.
Shem read out loud. “‘Dear Colonel, for weeks I’ve been searching for the best words, but everything I write doesn’t convey how horribly I feel about what’s happened to your family, and now what they’ve done to you at the fort for your valiant effort to save Edge. This is wrong! You know that we sit and talk in the back room of my restaurant, and ev
ery enlisted man in Pools and Idumea feels the same way. That’s several hundred soldiers, sir, who don’t think you deserve to be confined to Edge like a disobedient child. I thought you’d like to know that my back restaurant menu has changed. Men now proudly order the Shin Sandwich: General for a large, Colonel for the half, although I’m thinking maybe I should reverse that.’”
Shem smiled. “Leave it to Gizzada to express his feelings in food. Oh look, he goes on to describe a dessert called The Peto—”
Perrin shook his head. “They’ve hurt other people, Shem. Not just me and my family. Three more people in the world feel pain because of what the Guarders did to my parents.”
“Perrin,” Shem said steadily, “that’s not a reason for revenge, remember? Pain is part of the test of this life. How people handle it helps them grow. Look at these three—they’re handling their pain by wanting to take some of yours. They’ve likely been prompted to send you these messages. Gifts. Accept that, and be grateful.”
Perrin gestured to the other messages.“Probably the same things,” he sighed.
Shem gathered them up. “You’re going to hold on to these, my friend. Someday you’ll be ready to respond to them. I’ll bring them to Mahrree until then.”
Perrin pulled another message out of the pile that also had familiar writing on it. “Looks like this is from Brillen.”
Shem began to grin. “Open it.”
“Why?” Perrin asked, suspicious.
“Just open it!”
Perrin did so, and groaned a minute later. “He’s got the route for the next Strongest Soldier Race already plotted out?”
“Well, with his wedding next week, he was worried he’d be a bit distracted for a time, and he didn’t want to neglect it. Brillen wrote me a while ago asking if he could still come up to judge it.”
Perrin rubbed his forehead. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“No, it’s a great idea! Just what we need. Everyone. I have a feeling I’m going to beat you again this year, Colonel,” the master sergeant goaded, a bit early this year.
“How long have you two been planning this?”
“We do it every year, Colonel. Just because Karna is in Rivers doesn’t mean we can’t still run the Strongest Soldier Race. If you turn me down, I just may have to challenge mushroom pudding.” Shem winced slightly, their new code for Lemuel Thorne.
Perrin smiled ever so slightly. It was a great look. The wince expressed pain, disgust, and plotting all in one brief expression. “He’s actually earned that title of mushroom pudding, I hear. Would you make my apologies to the cook?”
“Already have,” Shem winked. “And I also told him that mushrooms every day would likely cause him to go over budget.”
“Mushroom pudding would likely find a supplier all on his own,” Perrin sighed.
“Maybe. And I really don’t want to race Mr. Pudding, Perrin,” Shem whispered earnestly. “The race has always been you against me. I think this will help. It won’t help, however, that you’ll likely lose to me again, but . . .”
Hearing the teasing challenge in his voice, Perrin actually smiled. “I may be getting older, but I’m still very quick.”
Shem leaned forward on the desk with that familiar spark in his eyes. “Not as quick as you like to think you are, grandpy.”
“Oh, don’t you dare start that again,” Perrin almost chuckled.
Shem waggled his eyebrows. “Come on, grandpy—ready to take me on again?”
For a tiny pause of time, everything was perfect again and Perrin was more than ready to begin another brag session with his favorite sparring partner.
But then the moment was gone. It seemed ridiculous to even worry about a race of egos when the world—at least Perrin’s world—was falling apart. It was a brief glimpse of joy, of what his life used to be. And the glimpse was agonizing. But duty was duty.
“I’ll do it,” he said listlessly. “The village looks forward to it. Hycymum makes all that cake. Who am I to break with tradition?” He tossed the message on the desk. “Answer him for me, will you? Tell him best wishes on the wedding. Wished we could be there.”
Shem gathered up the messages. The spark was fading in his eyes, too, and for once, Perrin noticed.
“Sure, Colonel. I’ll let Karna know,” Zenos said, his voice equally dull. “You know what? I’ll just take care of the rest of the bag today. If you need me, I’ll be out at the desk in the forward office.” He flashed Perrin a fake smile, picked up the bag, and left.
Alone, Perrin sat back in his chair and held his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
---
Two men sat in the dark office of an unlit building.
“Anything new?” Mal asked.
Brisack shook his head. “Still nothing from Mrs. Shin. Every week, I told her: I need a report. And what does she send me?”
“You really expected she’d let you in on their intimate details?” Mal chuckled. “My dear doctor, your naiveté amazes me.”
Brisack sighed. “I thought we’d established an understanding at The Dinner. And when she wrote to me about helping Perrin, you could see the desperation in her words—”
“I remember,” Mal cut him off before Brisack could wax worried again about another man’s wife. “You showed me the letter, several times. Next item—how’s Captain Thorne’s training coming?”
Brisack bristled at the abrupt change, but only for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure. He seems to have taken on a great deal of responsibility while the colonel is ailing, but as for our Quiet Man nudging him in the right directions?”
Mal pondered that. “The entire situation isn’t quite what we expected, but workable. I saw in Thorne’s last biweekly report that Zenos spends an inordinate amount of time at the Shins. Even all night, it seems.” He raised his eyebrows.
Brisack frowned. “Meaning what?”
Mal held up his hands. “Meaning . . . you’re the one who knows all things about family life. Figure it out.”
The good doctor folded his arms. “If anything, it means Zenos is aggravating the situation for us. Prolonging it. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Shin has been reluctant to write?” He scratched his chin. “Maybe she’s overwhelmed and even suspicious, but doesn’t know how to express any of that to me? Oh, so much that I could—”
“That you could what, Doctor?” Mal chuckled mirthlessly. “Listen to you, worried that your favorite woman might be suffering.”
“I was going to say,” it was Brisack’s turn to interrupt, “that there’s so much I could be learning from Perrin’s trauma. It’s been years that we’ve had such a vivid example of it. At least one that we can record. Other afflicted men leave the army right after the nightmares begin and eventually end up suicidal . . .” His voice diminished to nothing.
Mal leaned forward in his stuffed chair to see his companion more clearly in the dim light. “Yes, I do believe you’re concerned about that. Now, the researcher in me would suspect that you’re concerned because his ending may not be one that we planned for him. But the man in me thinks that you’re anxious about his widow, and maybe wondering if she’d be interested in a balding man in his late sixties, and if so, how you’d dispose of your own flitting wife.”
Brisack’s eyes flared. “After all these years you still know so little about me, Nicko.”
Mal sat back and chuckled. “No, what you’re worried about is that after all these years I know you too well.”
“Another question,” Brisack said confidently, knowing he would soon shift Mal off topic in a most uncomfortable way, “Thorne mentioned the two lieutenants and Beneff. Who, exactly, is Beneff?”
Mal rolled his eyes. “I wondered where he’d ended up. Initially we were going to send Shin those three lieutenants, if you recall. The obsequious one, the inconsequential one, and the belligerent one. I believe that last one came down with a fever just before he was to leave. The garrison put in a substitute—old Beneff.” r />
“Thorne mentioned in his latest report that Beneff is the most doddering, useless soldier in the army,” Brisack said. “And considering some that we have in the army, that’s quite an accomplishment. Shouldn’t someone that old have been retired by now?”
Mal frowned. “Probably . . . I wonder who put him in, then?”
“I have a good idea,” Brisack offered.
“Who?”
“Gadiman.”
Mal went motionless, and Brisack smiled to himself. Oh, very uncomfortable indeed.
“So, Nicko, has anyone tried looking for Gadiman lately?”
“Well,” Mal said, uncharacteristically hesitant, “after the initial investigation . . . uh, no.”
“Not that anyone among the Administrators seem to care,” Brisack said, sounding almost amused, “but his assistants have been wondering what they should now. Genev, Gadiman’s top man, has been bringing me the reports Thorne’s been sending to their office. I find it interesting that in all this time, you haven’t once inquired how I’ve been getting Thorne’s loyalty reports.”
Mal worked his shoulders into the cushion behind him.
So Brisack continued. “I asked Genev to look up Beneff in Gadiman’s other files. Genev was surprised to discover those crates even existed under the floorboards of Gadiman’s desk, and seemed a bit reluctant to hand over such a find. However, all of Gadiman’s notes appear to be there, and as for Beneff, it seems he was one of the first, a long time ago. Even before Wiles, if you can believe that. He’s never been very effective, mind you, in anything except for maybe causing a bit of mischief here or there, mostly accidental.”
Still Mal said nothing.
“Gadiman had additional plans, before he vanished. Apparently he assigned Beneff even before we made our arrangements. And now, Gadiman has been missing for quite some time.”
Mal remained silent.
“When I spoke to Genev yesterday,” Brisack went on, enjoying not being interrupted, “I told him to continue as normal. Those three men did most of Gadiman’s sniffing around anyway, and they can just continue recording worrying instances of disloyalty in the world, although it seems now that no one cares.”
Mal picked up on his accusatory tone. “I care,” he insisted, finally speaking up. “It’s just that . . . we already have plenty to study right now—”
“No, I think it’s just that you refuse to acknowledge that something’s happened to Gadiman!”
They’d been avoiding this point for several weeks. At least Nicko Mal had been avoiding it. Not that he had any affection for the weasel-like man, but the fact that Gadiman up and vanished, after his brilliant success, seemed to Mal a . . . well, a betrayal. Where was he, anyway? Starting his own group of Guarders somewhere? Planning his own little projects? With Beneff, of all idiotic people?
No . . . no he was too eager and skittish to organize something like that, even though he did put together the attack on the caravan, and then the murder of the Shins with shocking speed—
No . . . no, he couldn’t possibly pull off something like that again, and on his own. Gadiman depended too much on Nicko Mal, like an old school friend who didn’t realize they hadn’t been in school together for decades, and it was fine for him to go off on his own—
No . . . no, he’d never come to that kind of realization and suddenly leave Idumea and the Administrators.
He likely was only . . .
Well, Mal couldn’t imagine where.
“You think you know me so well,” Brisack broke into his thoughts. “But I also know you very well. And I know what you’re afraid to think: something happened to Gadiman, and he’s dead.”
“No . . . no, I don’t think that—”
“You’re afraid to think that,” Brisack said more forcefully as Mal slouched further in his chair, “because if it’s true, then it proves that none of us are untouchable. You like to claim that you’re in charge of the world, but it’s as if the world hasn’t noticed and it does whatever it pleases in spite of you. You claim the sky is blue, but almost on a daily basis it betrays you. Face it, Nicko—Gadiman’s gone, and we’ll likely never know why. Consider that maybe someone murdered him for us. He was certainly not without enemies. We can replace him with someone better. Genev seems to be a decent enough snitch and desperate to prove himself. Name him as an Administrator and let him supply us with some new subjects.”
Nicko stared off into the darkness for so long that Dr. Brisack was about to get out of his chair and check his companion’s pulse.
“Give it more time,” Mal eventually said. “Let’s see if anything turns up. Just . . . more time—”
“For what, Nicko? For what?”
Nicko didn’t know how to answer him, but the idea that the world had yet to recognize his superiority struck him with the sudden emptiness that others in the world much less worthy than himself likely experienced every day.
All he could do was get out of his chair, make his way through the dark library, stagger to his state room, and crawl into bed.
Chapter 4 ~ “This is the worst Raining Season ever.”