Exile's Challenge (11 page)

It was happiness and confusion, mingled. Davyd ate and drank, and wondered where the future might lead.

Morrhyn—he was sure—had spoken of dreaming together: of some oneiric union beyond his immediate understanding, which should gift him with … he could only think of revelation … some order that lay like God's will somewhere beyond his immediate comprehension, like the light of the rising sun dispelling mist and night, promising the clarity of a sunlit day. But yet it was as if, even as he sat with succulent meat in his mouth, a cup of tiswin at his elbow, and friends all around him, there existed a dark dawn none there, not even Morrhyn, could see.

He was not sure of it, himself; only that it came: of that, somehow, he was certain. Suddenly, as he sat with these new-won friends and ate their meat and drank their tiswin he
knew
that he
would
see it, and that it was his future, and Flysse's, and Arcole's, and Morrhyn's, and—he looked around the circle of smiling, laughing faces—Kanseah's and Yazte's: all of them.…

He had seen it in Taza's eyes: it came. He felt it in the surety of his blood. It was in the laughter of the Matawaye and the color of Arrhyna's hair, the shade of the sky and the lines on Lhyn's face. But he could not name it, or—without proper comprehension of their language—explain what he felt. What he
knew
.

So he waited for further explanation, afraid he had it wrong and unsure what to say—even had he the words to
explain it—save thanks for the food and the tent he was brought to when the feasting was done, which was his alone. Flysse and Arcole were given another, which was a kindness to them and chaos to him, for he needed to talk but was embarrassed to interrupt what they might—surely!—be doing, now they were at last alone.

And he would have gone to Morrhyn, save that the wakanisha had left the circle in company with Lhyn, and he was unsure whether they were lovers or old friends. And Rannach had surely gone eagerly with Arrhyna, so there was no one he might properly talk with.

And likely, for all what he felt, it was nothing—so he told himself. Surely if it was anything, then Morrhyn or Kahteney would have dreamed it: surely they were far greater Dreamers than he.

But still, as he lay down on the furs of his gifted bed and watched the play of firelight on the hides of the lodge, he could not forget Taza's eyes, or the doubt he felt.

Tomas Var had not thought to see Salvation again.

On his return to Evander he had delivered Andru Wyme's messages to his commanding officer and given his own report, then gone about his duties thinking he had seen the last of the New World. Grostheim and its occupants held no great attraction for him, and did he occasionally wonder what fate befell Arcole Blayke, he surely felt no desire to again cross the Sea of Sorrows. He had found himself posted to garrison duty in the Levan and assumed, with the countries conquered in the War of Restitution now pacific, that he might look forward to a slow rise through the ranks. He found himself thinking, for the first time in his life, of settling into some permanent posting. He had met a woman, Krystine d'Lavall, and contemplated engagement. Consequently, he had been surprised to find himself recalled to Bantar, where he must reiterate all he had observed in Grostheim to a committee of senior officers, Inquisitors, and officials of the Autarchy. They plied him with questions and then—to his far greater surprise—announced his immediate promotion to the rank of major. And his new commission.

An expeditionary force of two hundred and fifty marines accompanied by infantry, artillerymen, and engineers was to set sail for Salvation under the command of the Inquisitor Jared Talle. The newly appointed major was to be Talle's second-in-command. Their immediate task was to secure the city of Grostheim, after which they would exterminate all hostiles and see a chain of forts established along the perimeter of the explored territory. Salvation then pacified, the full force would scour the wilderness and, should Inquisitor Talle
deem it beneficial, extend by main force the boundaries of the known country.

It was elevation undreamed of for Var, but for all he was delighted with his promotion, still he could not deny he felt some reservations. For one thing, he doubted Krystine d'Lavall would wait for him—after all, he had no idea when he might return. But he was an officer in the God's Militia and did not question the orders of the Autarchy, so he penned a swift letter to Krystine and prepared to leave. It occurred to him as he wrote that he might never return, and thought abruptly of Arcole—perhaps now they shared the bond of exile. For another, he realized that he was second in a line of command that effectively replaced both Governor Wyme and Major Alyx Spelt, thereby rendering him one of the most powerful men in all the New World. He felt somewhat uncomfortable with such abrupt elevation over older men: he wondered how Spelt and Wyme should take it. That they would accept, he did not doubt—neither provincial governors or military officers argued with Inquisitors—but he anticipated resentment, such as might well brook problems affecting his designated tasks.

He had said as much—cautiously—to Talle as the
Wrath of God
sailed westward. And Talle had coughed out his whispery laugh and dismissed Var's reservations. Was the major not his second-in-command, he asked, and was he not an Inquisitor? Therefore who would dare argue? And did any colonials resent this imposition of Evander's authority, then they would answer to him; so Var need not worry—only obey his orders.

So far as Talle was concerned that resolved and ended the problem; Var was less sure. There would not be open disagreement, but it should be mightily difficult to execute his orders without the full cooperation of Wyme and Spelt, or the wholehearted support of Grostheim's garrison. And he was loath to impose his authority by recourse to the Inquisitor. Were Governor Wyme's worst fears realized, he must fight a campaign in unfamiliar territory and knew that victory would depend on concerted effort, shared purpose rather than enforced obedience.

Worse, he could not like Jared Talle, nor respect the man.
The Inquisitor enjoyed the exercise of his power too much, relished his position too much. He seemed to gloat on the prospect of usurping Andru Wyme, and seemed to expect Var to enjoy the same pleasure at thought of Spelt's demotion; nor less at thought of exterminating whatever hostile forces existed in Salvation. Var wondered—traitorous thought—if power corrupted Talle. Also, he smelled. Which was a small thing—God knew, Var himself had often enough gone stinking into battle—but still there hung about him a sour odor of must and sweat, as if he lived in a state of perpetual excitement, galvanized by that talent that made him an Inquisitor. He bathed seldom, and for all the long crossing had not, as best Var could tell, changed his clothes. It was not easy to sit with him in the small cabin, the air heated fetid, the windows never opened, as if Talle enjoyed the inhalation of his own body odors. Var preferred to spend his time on deck, or on the other ships, which bore the infantry and the light cannon of the artillerymen, or even with the engineers. That was to him an escape—from Talle's acrid excretions and the Inquisitor's oppressive presence, both.

Sometimes, as the flotilla proceeded westward, Var wondered if he was a fit officer for such an enterprise.

But still it was advancement beyond his dreams, and he was ordered to the conquest of a world by an authority he had never doubted. Were they successful, he and Talle, then he knew he might well find himself promoted colonel, or even marshal—military commander of all the New World. So he hid his dubiety and played the diplomat as he smiled at Talle and endeavored not to choke on the man's sourness, which seemed as much spiritual as physical.

He smelled it now, as squadrons of gulls mewed raucous welcome and he leant against the forrard rail, staring into the hazy blending of summer sky and lapping sea that rendered Salvation's coast a misty line across the horizon.

He turned as Talle approached, thankful for the breeze that did a little to subdue the man's fetor.

“Ere noon, eh?”

Talle took station at the rail alongside Var. His long black hair seemed too weighted by oil for the breeze to shift from his sallow face, and Var could not help the impression of a
carrion crow dressed in frock coat and breeches that sprang to mind. He nodded and said, “Soon after noon, I think. We've Deliverance Bay to cross yet.”

The Inquisitor grunted and fixed bright black eyes on Var. “You seem none too happy at the prospect, Major.”

“I've my orders.” Var met his stare expressionless. “My happiness is surely of no account.”

“No.” Talle smiled, exposing yellow teeth. “But better that you enjoy your work, eh?”

Var said stiffly, “I serve the Autarchy, Inquisitor. Now—with your permission—I'd see my men ready to disembark.”

“Yes, of course.” Talle waved a languid dismissal and Var turned away. As he went across the deck he felt the Inquisitor's eyes on him, as if an overheated sun burned against his back. None of this, he thought, should be easy, and likely none too pleasant. He resisted the urge to glance back and went to his officers.

The
Wrath of God
reefed sail, slowing that the three accompanying vessels might take station astern. It had been Talle's suggestion that they approach Grostheim in formal array, so as to impress those waiting ashore, and Var must admit they did make a gallant sight. He wondered what reception they should receive, and how Grostheim fared. Wyme's reports had spoken only of hostile attacks on inland farms, and the governor's fear that the demons grew stronger. Might they have grown strong enough to attack the city itself?

Var saw his men readied for landfall then went forrard again, arming himself with a spyglass.

At least the city stood, but not without damage. The glass showed him the signs of burning, blackened wood about the walls, and watchtowers contrasting darkly with the pale scars of fresh timber where repairs had been effected. Folk came from the seaward gate: he picked out Wyme's sedan chair surrounded by the scarlet coats of Spelt's soldiers. He passed the glass to Talle, who surveyed their destination, grunted, and returned the device without further comment.

The
Wrath of God
came alongside the wharf and Var accompanied Talle down the gangplank. The
Lord's Pilgrim
, the
God's Vengeance
, and the
Fist of God
stood to offshore, awaiting the disembarkation of Var's marines before disgorging their own military cargoes. The sun stood high overhead and the air was warm: summer came earlier to this western land than to Var's home. He adjusted his tricorne and saluted as he halted before Wyme's chair. Alyx Spelt stood beside the governor, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized Var and saw the insignia of his new rank. Wyme commenced an unctuous speech of welcome, and Talle raised a hand, less in greeting than to halt the governor's rhetoric.

“I am the Inquisitor Jared Talle.” He spoke as Wyme's effusive litany spluttered into silence. “I am come to rectify your … problems. You already know Major Var, I believe. He is my aide, answerable to me alone.”

His tone brooked no argument, nor left room for discussion. Var saw Wyme's florid features darken to a purplish hue, Spelt's lips purse tight as his eyes narrowed. The practice of diplomacy seemed not to occur to Talle, nor did he appear to notice the resentment his abrupt declaration produced.

“Later, you will apprise me of the situation,” Talle continued curtly, “and I shall decide what measures I must take. Meanwhile, I'd find my quarters.”

Wyme seemed a moment lost for words; Var doubted he had anticipated this when he requested Evander send him an Inquisitor. Then he cleared his throat, struggling to retain some semblance of dignity. “Yes, of course, Inquisitor Talle. A room's prepared for you in my mansion—if you and the major will accompany me?”

Var said quickly, “By your leave, Inquisitor, I'd see my men billeted, and the other vessels off-loaded.”

“Very well.” Talle nodded in agreement. “That done, join me in the governor's mansion.”

He turned away, ignoring Var's salute, and beckoned for Wyme follow him. Var looked to Spelt. “If you would assist me, Major?”

Spelt hesitated, frowning irritably. He glanced toward Wyme's chair as if debating the placement of his allegiance, but the sedan was already in motion, the indentured bearers striding alongside Talle, whose short legs carried him with surprising speed toward the open gate.

“I'd be most grateful,” Var said, hoping to disarm his fellow officer and perhaps undo some measure of the resentment. “We've a small army to see ashore.”

Spelt stared a moment at the
Wrath of God
, blue-coated marines already forming ranks along the wharf, then out at the waiting craft. Var saw that his already-bitten nails were chewed almost to the quicks, his fingers stained dark with tobacco. He appeared older; his eyes, as anger faded, weary. He nodded and said, “So, a major now, eh? And aide to an Inquisitor, to boot.” His tone was neutral, his voice harsh as if alcohol and tobacco roughened his vocal cords. “I suppose I must congratulate you.”

“I believe my previous visit persuaded the Autarchy I've some small knowledge of Salvation.” Var smiled apologetically, bowing to Spelt's greater familiarity. “And as Governor Wyme requested an Inquisitor … Well, I was fortunate enough to be chosen, and consequently promoted to suitable rank.”

Spelt fixed him with cold eyes. “You'll earn it here, I think. What are your orders—to prosecute the demons?”

“To exterminate them,” Var answered. “And establish forts along the wilderness edge.”

“Exterminate them?” Spelt coughed out what might have been a laugh. “Easy for Evander to order; harder to achieve. You've your work cut out, Major.”