Taste of Lightning (5 page)

‘And?' the major prompted quietly.

The sergeant sniffed, and wiped his nose. ‘Stories spread. You know, sir, when there's not much fighting.'

‘War's not over, Sergeant.'

‘No, sir. Course not, sir.' The sergeant spoke smartly; but his spit on the ground showed his true feelings.

The major ignored it. ‘So, what about Perrin?'

‘Well, only rumour, but they say it's not just beasts he can tame.'

The major waited in silence, and the sergeant continued uneasily.

‘There were rumours of an incident, sir, the winter before you joined us, before the Battle of the Falls. We were stationed not far from the border. They say some of the lads were giving Perrin a hard time. Kid with looks like that, well . . . He was just a drafty then, and apparently didn't take it too well. Next thing you know, there's two men in the river. Lads fished em out just before they went over the falls. The story that went round was, Perrin
forced
em to jump in the river somehow – they had to do it. But I don't know, sir. Lads see what he can do with snakes and . . .'

The major was silent for a moment, watching the diggers spray clots of mud across the trampled grass. The thick smell of human sweat was sticky in the air. ‘I'd like to speak to those two men.'

‘Thing is, sir. Both were killed in the Battle of the Falls. We lost so many. Never was able to confirm it really happened.'

‘I see.'

‘Sir – he's not a bad kid.'

‘No,' said the major thoughtfully. ‘No, I'm sure you're right.'

He turned to go; a moment later he'd disappeared into the bedraggled wilderness of the camp.

A few evenings later, an officer tapped Perrin on the shoulder. ‘The Commander wants you in his tent. Now.'

Though the man spoke softly, the usual heckling started up. ‘The Donn fancies a tune, does he?'

Perrin played the finger-harp as well as any man in the Rengani Army, and better than most. In the evenings, when the men gathered round the fires to trade rumours and swap crude stories and polish their weapons, they'd call for Perrin to play and sing a ballad or two; it was the only time that Perrin didn't loathe being a soldier.

Sometimes the men wanted dancing, and then Perrin would play with a piper and a drummer; he didn't like that so well. What he enjoyed was feeling all eyes on him as he sang, and the knowledge that he could bring tears to those eyes with a tremor of his voice or the strumming of the harp. He liked to make people laugh, too, but that was easy. Any idiot could make a fool of himself. But to make the battle-hardened troops of the Fifth weep – that took a true master.

‘Old bastard must want a pretty face to look at over his roast duck.'

‘Or after his roast duck –'

With one look from the lieutenant, the jokes died away. They'd been half-hearted anyway, directed more at Perrin than at Commander Donn. The Commander of the Fifth wasn't one of those generals who'd wander round the camp pretending to be mates with his men. He was a cunning old bastard, but he was straight with you. He knew he was better than the soldiers, smarter and tougher; that was why he was a general, and they weren't.

Perrin shrugged, for the benefit of the others, and turned toward his tent.

‘Where are you going, Swordsman?'

‘To get my harp, sir.'

‘Won't need that. Now move, before my boot meets your frugging arse.'

Perrin moved. He hurried between the tents after the lieutenant, through the filth and stink of the military camp: sweat and rancid food, piss and excrement. He racked his brains for a reason he might be in trouble. He hadn't annoyed anyone recently, at least no more than usual. He was learning to watch his tongue; he hadn't argued with an order since – since the Battle of the Falls.

Still, he wasn't seriously worried. Perrin had never met a problem he couldn't talk his way out of.

The front part of the Commander's tent was well lit; Perrin blinked as he came into the light out of the shadows of the camp. Surprisingly, the Commander was alone, seated on a folding chair at a folding table, reading dispatch scrolls. Perrin eyed them with interest: he'd seen scrolls before, of course, but rarely close enough to make out the writing.

The Commander looked up, and Perrin remembered to snap to attention just in time, hand to shoulder. ‘At ease, soldier.' The Commander returned to his scrolls. Perrin stood waiting. One of the old man's legs was propped on a stool; he'd stepped on an exploder twenty years ago and blown away half his foot.

If not for the pips and stripes on his sleeves, Commander Donn might have been mistaken for a small-town administrator. He had shrewd eyes and a pinched, humourless mouth; his most distinguishing feature was his teased-up cloud of hair. Perrin took the opportunity to examine it up close. The overall effect was too fluffy for the rumoured special creams from Baltimar, he decided; it must be a wig after all.

The Commander thrust the last scroll into a carry-bag and knotted the ties. Perrin stared carefully into the middle distance, but he was aware of Donn's eyes on him, appraising, measuring. For the first time, Perrin felt a twinge of unease.

‘Swordsman Perrin.'

‘Sir.'

‘I've been checking your records.'

‘Sir.'

‘Very useful, these new Signs, this
writing
. Means we can keep track of people more easily.'

‘Sir?'

The Commander leaned back. ‘I believe you're familiar with the Signs, Swordsman?'

Perrin's heart sank. So that's what this was about. It was his own fault, showing off again. None of the other men could read, and only a handful of the officers. And when Cronsie had borrowed that battle report, Perrin hadn't been able to resist reading it out to the rest of the squad. Some frugger must have reported it. Perrin said, ‘I know some of the Signs, sir. My mother learned them in – in the Westlands. I picked it up from her.'

‘Born in the Westlands, Swordsman?'

‘Yes, sir. A place called Nadalin. On the coast of Kalysons.' Perrin stopped, but the Commander gestured to him to continue. ‘My parents took a ship to Rengan when I was six years old. My father was a baker. My mother taught children.'

Commander Donn frowned. ‘Taught the Signs?'

‘No, sir. Not once she knew it was classified. She never betrayed military secrets.'
Except to me.

‘A wise woman.'

‘Yes, sir.' Perrin stared straight ahead. His mother had wanted to teach the Signs, to share her knowledge. The village council of Chaplet, which was directly answerable to High Command, had soon put a stop to that.

‘Parents both dead now, I believe?'

‘Yes, sir, both dead. There was a fire in the bakery, after I was drafted.'

‘Sorry to hear that, Swordsman. Always a hazard, fire, in a bakery.'

‘Yes.' Perrin's voice was bitter. He was certain that the fire was no accident. The village council couldn't tolerate foreigners, let alone foreigners with secret knowledge. Perrin's mother had been a risk, even after ten years as a Rengani citizen. But a dead woman couldn't teach the Signs to the Balts, so they'd had her killed. Of course he had no proof.

‘No brothers or sisters?'

‘No, just me.'

‘Why did your parents leave the Westlands, Swordsman?'

Perrin lifted his chin. ‘Isn't that in my records? Sir?'

‘I'm asking the questions, soldier.' The Commander spoke mildly enough, but his eyes narrowed. Perrin was reminded of what the men said: that a reprimand from Donn was as bad as a whipping from any other general.

Perrin took half a heartbeat to decide that it wasn't worth risking a lie: at any rate, not a complete one. ‘They left because of me, sir. I was a handful as a kid, up to all sorts of mischief. They heard about life in Rengan – the, er, the moral standards, the simplicity of life here. Everyone pulling together for the larger purpose. Rengan's health is our common wealth, and all that. Sir.' Perrin grinned disarmingly. ‘They thought it would be good for me. An Army life is a straight and narrow life, as they say.'

The Commander put the tips of his fingers together. ‘A pretty story, Swordsman. But that's not the real reason your family left the Westlands.'

There was a pause, while Perrin calculated how much the Commander might know, and how much he could keep hidden. Probably not much, he decided. Not after the snake thing. He said, ‘Well, I had a – a voice, sir.'

‘You mean they left the Westlands because you were a sorcerer.
Are
a sorcerer, I should say.'

‘A chanter,' Perrin corrected him automatically. The Commander frowned. Perrin said hastily, ‘That's right, sir. I'm a sorcerer, sir.'

‘And they hoped that in this country, away from the influence of other sorcerers, you might forget your magic. They hoped you might be
straightened out
.'

‘It wasn't just that, sir. Life was risky for chanters, for sorcerers, in the Westlands, when the Witch-Singer appeared and the Chanters' Rising began. I suppose things might be different there now, I don't know, we don't hear much news of the Westlands.'

‘No, we don't.' The Commander frowned again. ‘Except through the weapon-makers of Mithates. But you can take it for granted that we're all better off, and safer, here in the Threelands, war or no war, than in that nest of sorcery in the west.'

‘Sir.' Perrin was expressionless. ‘As you say, sir, my parents hoped I'd forget about chantment.'

‘But you haven't forgotten, have you, Perrin?'

‘No, sir.'

Satisfied, the Commander leaned back in his chair. ‘Swordsman Perrin, you're guilty of a serious offence. You've been hiding your gifts. We can make much better use of you.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Perrin smartly. Oh, well. Now they'd send him somewhere where his skills could be used properly for the war effort, for the larger purpose, for the good of the nation. But doing what? The Balts fought with horses, but the Renganis didn't know much about them. Maybe High Command wanted him to tame horses. That would be a nice soft job. Better than endless sword drills on the practice paddock. Definitely better than being slashed to ribbons on the front line, when the fighting started again.

Perrin could have kicked himself. He should have thought of this before; he could have drawn his talents to the attention of High Command long ago. It was the old soldiers' attitude that had held him back:
Never volunteer. Keep your head down
. He'd started to believe that was the only way to survive. But this was a better way . . .

The Commander inclined his head toward the darkened rear of the tent, and a second figure emerged into the light.

‘Swordsman Perrin, this is –' Commander Donn hesitated fractionally.

‘He can call me Tugger,' the second man said easily, and instead of saluting, he held out his hand. ‘He doesn't need to know anything else.'

Perrin darted a look at the Commander, whose lip had curled in the rare grimace that passed for one of his smiles.

‘It's all right, Perrin. Shake the man's hand.'

Tugger's grip was tight, his hand brown and strong. Though he was dressed in nondescript dull greens and browns rather than a uniform, he was unmistakably a life-long soldier. He had the slight squint of someone who'd spent years staring into the sunlight, and he was weathered and tough as a strip of leather.

‘You don't need to know my rank, son.' He released Perrin's hand. ‘You only need to know it's higher than yours.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Don't call me sir. From now on, you call me Tugger, and I call you Snake. Where we're going, there are no names, no salutes, no uniforms. Clear? Of course,' Tugger grinned, ‘you'll still obey me without frugging question.'

‘Yes, sir. I mean, yes, Tugger.' Puzzled, Perrin looked from one man to the other. This didn't smell like the lead-up to a soft job behind the lines playing with captive Baltimaran horses. There seemed to be some kind of private joke going on. Perrin preferred to be the one who made the jokes.

Tugger pulled up a stool for himself and dragged another into range with his foot for Perrin. So here he was, sitting cosily around a table with the old bastard himself, and some other high-up frugger. The lads were never going to believe this story . . .

But even as Perrin formed the thought, he knew that he'd never tell the other soldiers about this meeting. With that handshake, he'd crossed into another world; without setting foot out of the tent, he'd left the camp, and the Fifth, forever. Something was up. And like it or not, he was part of it.

Tugger said, ‘You're a chanter. You sing songs that tame animals.'

It was a statement, not a question. Perrin nodded.

‘Heard you sang a red-tail to sleep the other day. That right?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘Mind if we ask for a little demonstration?'

‘No, Tugger.' Perrin's heart thumped.

Tugger called softly. A ranker dragged a large, canvas-draped box into the tent. He saluted, threw a curious glance at Perrin, and departed. Perrin shifted to the edge of his stool. It was a surroan cat; he knew it even before the low, eerie growls began to roll through the tent.

‘Take off the cover,' said Tugger.

Perrin flicked the canvas aside. It was a cage, not a box, and a flimsy cage at that. Behind the bars the big cat crouched with its back arched, its green eyes wide and gleaming with fear; its spotted fur bristled. The sharp stink of urine filled the tent, and the growling intensified. One good run at the bars and the whole cage would fall apart.

‘Should we open the cage?' The Commander wasn't looking at the surroan; he was watching Perrin.

‘If you like,' said Perrin. He held the cat's gaze; he didn't think about whether he was being insolent, and he didn't notice the glance that the two senior officers exchanged. He held out his hand to the cage and crooned softly, deep in his throat. As he sang, he lowered himself to his haunches, to the same level as the cat. The surroan growled a warning, flexed her claws, and spat.