Foxfire (42 page)

“It's that kind of assumption that's cost us dearly in the past,” Geriv snapped.

“Shall I order them to extinguish the fires?” Korim asked eagerly.

“No. I'll suggest it—strongly—to the Remil. But we'll let him give the order. He's still in command, after all.”

Together, they made their way down the ramp of packed earth and strode through the compound. It was easy to distinguish the fresh troops, chatting easily around their cook fires, from the silent Little Falls men. They jumped to their feet and saluted crisply enough, but their eyes watched him with mingled hope and desperation.

Observing Jonaq's grimace, he muttered, “Guard your face.”

“I don't care how many komakhs they've lost,” Jonaq whispered. “They should act like warriors, not whipped dogs.”

The allusion was unfortunately apt. The men were either sunk in apathy or snarling at each other. According to the Remil, there had been several incidents, ranging from fist-fights to a brawl with knives. Floggings had been meted out and rations of ale cut, but clearly more drastic measures had to be taken. Soon.

He had intended to ease into the discussion during his private dinner with Remil do Fadiq, but when the man downed his fourth cup of wine, Geriv bluntly shared his concerns and asked how the Remil proposed to address them.

“I was thinking of a feast, Vanel.”

Geriv took a deep breath. “We just had a feast.”

“Not much of one. And that was to celebrate Midsummer.” The Remil splashed more wine into his cup. “This would celebrate your continued presence at Little Falls. Unless you plan to head back to Graywaters soon?” he added hopefully.

“No.”

The Remil drowned his disappointment with another gulp of wine. “I thought venison. The men would like that. And games.”

“Games?”

“Footraces, archery, wrestling. That sort of thing.”

He had to admit the suggestion had merit. Games would be as welcome a change from the monotony of drilling as venison would be from fish and porridge. They would also allow the men to hone their skills. A temporary stopgap, of course, but it was a start.

“An excellent idea, Remil.”

“Thank you, Vanel.” The man rubbed his bulbous nose, purple with broken veins, then carefully set his cup on the table. “I know what's happening. I've seen it at other outposts. Men stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Haven't seen Zheros in years. But it's worse here. Marching hither and yon looking for the rebels. Half the time finding nothing. Rest of the time, they come screaming out of the trees and then they're gone—poof! Like attacking the wind. Gets on the men's nerves. That's when the rot sets in.”

“As their commanders, it's up to us to combat it.” Geriv grimaced; he sounded like a sanctimonious prig. “I've seen your record. You're a good soldier.”

“I'm a drunk, Vanel. That's why I was sent to this backwater. I know my troops, though. They're good men. Good fighters. But they're a long way from home and each time they go into that forest, they're scared shitless. Begging your pardon. They need a victory to lift their spirits. But I don't even know where the gods-cursed rebels are.”

“You have no way of contacting this informant you spoke of?”

“He comes and goes with one of the rebel bands. It was him who told me they were planning that ambush upriver. Near the village of some chief named Gath. I haven't heard from him since.”

The Remil reached for his cup, then let his hand fall onto the table. “I just hope he's still alive. His information's been invaluable. And without it, I'm not about to send any more of my men into the forest. So they drill and pick fights with each other. And I flog them and drink. And plan games. I don't suppose you could ship us some whores? That would really lift their spirits.”

Drunk or not, there were limits. He was the Vanel of the Northern Army, not a procurer.

“I wouldn't be troubling you about it, Vanel. It's just that we daren't touch the local women. And most of my boys haven't had leave since they got here. Two years is a long time between . . . well.”

At his old post, Geriv had availed himself of the local pleasure house from time to time, but it had been years since he had been driven by such urges. He forgot that other men—especially young ones—were different.

“Surely, you could have made such . . . arrangements yourself.”

The Remil eyed him blearily. “I haven't received any messages from Headquarters in a year. Those supplies you brought? They're the first to reach us since last autumn.”

No wonder the men's uniforms were patched and worn and they were subsisting on fish and rotting millet.

“The new troops will bring this garrison up to full strength. Once reinforcements reach The Bluff, you may arrange leave for your original komakhs.”

That would have to suffice; he was not about to start ferrying whores upriver.

“With permission, Vanel?”

“Yes?”

“Do you mean to get rid of me?”

A hesitant knock saved him from an immediate reply.

“That'll be supper,” the Remil said.

At his summons, a guard in a rain-sodden cloak entered and saluted. Eyeing the brace of wood pigeons dangling from his fist, Geriv wondered if they were supposed to pluck the birds themselves.

“Your pardon for interrupting, Remil. The village chief sent these over for you.”

The Remil was on his feet with astonishing quickness.

“The boy who brought them insisted we give them to you at once. So you could have them for your meal tonight, he said.”

“Is the boy still here?”

“Yes, Remil. At the gate. Shall I bring him in?”

“No. Just tell him to give Birat my thanks.”

As the guard saluted and withdrew, the Remil tossed the birds onto the table. Geriv watched him paw through the plump bodies, appalled. Clearly, the food situation was even more desperate than he had realized if the prospect of wood pigeon for supper excited the man so.

The Remil settled back on his haunches, his grin revealing a broken front tooth. “He's back.”

He pushed aside the neck feathers of one bird. Apparently, it had been caught in a snare for the sinew bit deep into its broken neck, trapping a cluster of green leaves against the gray feathers. Only when Geriv bent closer did he realize that the leaves were carefully tied in place with a tiny strand of sinew.

“The chief knows about your informant?”

“It was Birat's idea to use him.” The Remil snatched his cloak from a hook by the door. “He'll be waiting for us in the usual place.”

“He won't bolt if he sees two men instead of one?”

“He trusts me. But I'll go first. You should hear for yourself what he has to say.”

“Won't there be talk if we're seen leaving the fortress this late?”

“It's still light out.” The Remil's grin widened. “And I can always let it slip that the Vanel insisted on nosing around the fortifications again.”

The storm had left the hills a morass of mud. Geriv slogged after the Remil, reflecting grimly that anyone watching their lurching progress would suspect they were both drunk. He had to clutch at tree stumps and saplings to keep from falling on his face. By the time they approached the crest of the second hill, he was caked in mud up to his calves.

The queer half-light of the gloaming painted the land a monotonous gray, but he could make out the new growth that had sprung up since the trees had been cut. The damnable forest was relentless, always battling back no matter how ruthlessly they cleared it.

The Remil held up his hand, and Geriv halted. Peering through the gloom, he watched do Fadiq zigzag along the top of the hill then come to an abrupt halt. For a moment, Geriv thought he was conversing with a stump. Then the stump shot skyward and became a man's silhouette. After a protracted conversation—clearly, the spy was reluctant to have a third party join them—the Remil waved him forward.

Geriv instinctively veered left to keep the spy on his good side. He looked wiry but strong, with a quiver of arrows on his back, a bow slung across his chest, and a sword at his hip.

There were no introductions; the Remil simply gestured to the man to speak.

“There's to be a Gathering of several bands. At the full moon. Three days southwest of here.”

The spy's information about the site was concise and detailed, from the description of the hill to the easiest trails to reach it. But he could only guess at the numbers in the other rebel bands and the likely routes they would take.

When Geriv learned that the Spirit-Hunter's son and daughter were with one group and the Spirit-Hunter himself with another, his heartbeat quickened. By the time the man finished speaking, his palms were damp.

The Remil had not exaggerated his value. The information he had given them tonight might be enough to crush the rebellion forever. If they chose to act on it.

With or without a truce, the Spirit-Hunter's foster-son would seek vengeance if anything happened to his family. Was it worth risking his anger? Especially if he possessed even greater power than his brother?

He asked a few questions about the Spirit-Hunter and his two children, careful to keep his voice casual. The spy's answers only confirmed the idea forming in his mind.

The hill had too little cover to conceal his men, and if the rebel scouts spotted his troops, the rest would scatter. Besides, the bands were likely to straggle in over the course of a day. Even if he succeeded in ambushing the first, the others would escape.

He'd send a messenger by ship to Deepford. Let them deal with the third band. Then he could deploy the forces of Little Falls against the others.

The spy jolted him from his thoughts by demanding, “So what are you going to do?”

Because Geriv needed him, he was careful to banish any trace of anger from his voice before replying. “I'm still deciding.”

The spy eyed him a long moment. “You don't know me. And you've only the Remil's word that I can be trusted. But I was nearly killed when your troops attacked Gath's village. This time, I want to know the when and where ahead of time. You want the Spirit-Hunter? Just look for an old man with fingers missing on both hands. You want to target his son or daughter? They're easy, too. He looks like a Zheroso. She's got fiery red hair and a temper to match. Me—I don't stand out so much. So if you're going to attack my band, I mean to be out of the way. And seeing how useful I've been, I'd think you'd prefer that as well.”

“You
have
been useful,” Geriv replied. “Why? What made you turn against your people?”

“My people are in the village across the river.”

“But you've lived with the rebels. Fought with them. Can you simply stand by and watch them die?”

He thought the man winced, but all he said was, “The rebellion will fail. Even with the Spirit-Hunter. Better it fail now than drag on for years.” He shifted his feet restively. “It wasn't an easy choice I made two years ago. It hasn't gotten any easier since. I pray for the spirit of every comrade I've helped to kill. And I pray that this time, you'll land a blow hard enough to crush the rebellion for good. So we can mourn our dead and get on with our lives. Now where and when do you plan to attack?”

Geriv stiffened. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him in such a peremptory tone. That the man was a traitor made it all the more disagreeable. But again, he kept any hint of distaste from his voice.

“Battle plans are not drawn up in an instant. The Remil and I need to discuss our options. But first, I want you to tell me everything you know about the Spirit-Hunter's village.”

 

 

Darkness had finally fallen when he made his way to his quarters. Pujh greeted him with a muted tirade about the benefits of a good night's sleep, but Geriv was too pleased with his night's work to admonish him.

He woke Jonaq and gave him his orders, then summoned his scribe and dictated a terse message to his uncle, begging him to convince the queen to postpone any decision regarding a truce until he had completed his inspection of the river fortifications. Vazh would suspect there was more to it than that, but it was all he dared reveal; if Rigat had the temerity to invade the queen's spirit, he would not scruple at attacking Vazh.

His scribe secured the leather cords around the tablet-box and handed it to him to seal. Geriv dripped wax onto the two knots, pressed his ring firmly into the congealing puddle, and tied on the small copper tag that indicated the message was urgent.

He prayed that his uncle could sway the queen and that, together, they would find a way to keep the reputed Son of Zhe in Pilozhat. If—gods forbid—Rigat discovered his plan, at least Vazh and the queen would be spared.