Exile's Challenge (18 page)

“You're cheerful,” Fallyn said.

“No.” Var shook his head, still smiling. “Only amused. God, Matieu! I thought there'd be glory in this. Not …”

“Hatred?” Fallyn smiled back.

“Is it truly that bad? They hate us?” Var lifted up, looking to where the settlers' fires burned within the ringing flames of the infantry, those lights outlining the defensive cannon spread along the perimeter. Beyond, the glow reflected off the bayonets of the pickets between, watching wary.

Fallyn shrugged, reaching for a bayonet on which was spitted a chunk of venison delivered by Abram Jaymes.

“It's not that,” the guide said. “Leastways, not exactly.”

Var turned toward him. The man was of indeterminate age, in need of a bath and a haircut, his clothes in need of washing—likely in lye, Var thought—and his habit of chewing tobacco was undoubtedly disgusting. But Var liked him. He said, “Then what? In God's name, we've delivered half of them safely home to their holdings. We've even rounded up their indentured folk; and we've not taken more cattle than we need to feed ourselves. There's been no sign of hostiles, so what have they got to hate?”

He thought that Jaymes would repeat himself: reiterate that the settlers were afraid, would sooner remain behind Grostheim's walls until Var and Talle had swept Salvation clear of the demons, or the savages—whichever they at last proved to be—and hated those who'd forced them out from the city, back into the land they feared.

But Jaymes surprised him. He said, “This used to be our land. You understand that?”

Var shook his head; Fallyn set his venison back over the flames. It dripped fat that spat and sizzled, ignored.

“Evander conquered the Old World, no?” Jaymes said. “The War of Restitution saw us—I was Evander born an' bred—take the Levan an' Tarrabon, an' just about every other country worth the conquerin'. I fought in that war, likely as you two did, an' I saw the Autarchy take control of all those lands. I was—what?—thirty-somethin', when I heard about Salvation. A new land! Off westward, past the Sea of Sorrows. God, but when I heard what was there, I wanted to go! You know the story?”

Var nodded, followed closely by Fallyn: it was a common tale, scribed down in Evander's history, the history of the Autarchy.…

In the ninth year of the War of Restitution the brigantine,
Lord's Delight
, captained by Eban Patcham, was blown off course whilst seeking to elude two Levan warships—far enough that he encountered the Sea of Sorrows, and lost his pursuers. He survived—amongst few of his starving and thirsty crew—and found a bay that he named Deliverance, and beyond it a clean, clear land that he called Salvation. He was able to repair his ship, and take on sufficient water and meat that most of those who'd survived the initial journey came back alive to tell the tale—which inspired the Autarchy to colonize that westward land, and in honor of its discoverer, name it Salvation.…

“I was on the first ship,” Jaymes said. “I'd seen the War, done my share of fighting—God knows, I killed enough men—an' I was weary of it.” He laughed, wiping his hands. “You know when the War ended, how old soldiers were paid off or offered free passage out? Well, I chose to take the passage. I wanted a new land that was clear of war. I wanted to go someplace there wasn't war. So …” He reached into the flames to fetch out Fallyn's venison. “Mind that, it'll be hot.”

Fallyn smiled and spat on his burning hands. Var only shook his head and motioned that Jaymes continue.

“I wasn't good for much,” Jaymes said. “I'm surely not a
farmer—not got the patience—nor the head to be a trader; or the money you need to set up as either. But I'd learned to shoot, an' how to walk careful—the War taught me that—so I became a hunter.”

“But,” Var said, “you don't like war.”

“No.” Jaymes laughed. “What I said was I didn't like the War. There's a difference, eh?”

Var said, “I don't understand.”

“Ain't that why you wonder about the settlers?” Jaymes asked; and laughed as Var shook his head. “Listen! I came out here to a free land. Most of them others did, too—the farmers, an' the millers, the vintners; everyone—to a
free
land. You understand? Not what there is back in Evander, but a place that was all ours. Not Evander's or the Autarchy's, only
ours
, where we could live free without priests or Inquisitors or the Militia watchin' us all the time. Can't you understand that?”

Var hesitated before replying. The tone of this conversation veered perilously close to sedition, and he wondered if he—an officer in the God's Militia—should take part, or bid Jaymes hold his tongue. Should Talle overhear … He glanced around, half expecting the Inquisitor to appear out of the shadows. But they sat alone; Talle was ensconced in the wagon he had commandeered, engaged in whatever arcane practices occupied him. Even so, Var doubted the wisdom of allowing the guide such latitude, and, conversely, felt he must grant that freedom—must understand the thinking of Salvation's inhabitants if he was to properly dispense his duty. So he said, “To a point. But Salvation has a governor appointed by the Autarchy, and a garrison to enforce Evander's will.”

Jaymes chuckled softly. “Salvation has a governor who sits safe behind Grostheim's walls an' doesn't bother himself too much about the rest o' the country. An' you know by now how successful Spelt's troops are—why else are you here? No, the truth of it is that Evander keeps a hold on this land through the indentured folk.”

“What do you say?” Var frowned. “You speak of living free, and then of dependence on branded exiles. They're hardly free.”

“Indeed,” Jaymes agreed, “but they're not citizens. The
folk who own them are, and they consider themselves free folk. Listen, most o' those settlers never had servants back home. But here? Well, here they get their pick o' the exiles, an' their choice o' land—more land an' more servants than they could ever dream of back in Evander. They become … gentlemen.” He invested the word with contemptuous relish. “An' that's what ties Salvation to Evander, not loyalty to the Autarchy.”

“But …” Var began, and fell silent as Jaymes grinned and raised a hand.

“There's never been an Inquisitor set foot here before. The law's pretty lax, an' folk mostly go about their own business without much thought of Governor Wyme or Evander or the Autarchy.”

“Until they need us,” Var said.

“That's true.” Jaymes ducked his head. “But when you've defeated the painted people an' built your forts—what then? Shall you an' the Inquisitor stay? Or go back to Evander?”

Var shrugged. “I don't know. That will depend on what orders I receive.”

“Which'll come by ship, no? Across the Sea of Sorrows, an' you know how long that voyage takes. There's naught but a handful o' ships come an' go each year—we're isolated here. We're an' awful long way from Evander, on the far side o' the world.”

Var began to see the direction of his thinking. Jaymes chuckled again and went on: “An' year by year the farms prosper; an' the indentured folk bear children. Think on it, Major: things go on as usual, an' the time must come when Salvation won't need Evander. There's already food enough for all, an' about enough branded folk to serve the farmers. In time, Salvation'll be ready to stand on her own feet.”

“God!” Var gasped. “Are you talking about some declaration of independence?”

Jaymes spat a stream of liquid tobacco into the fire. It erupted sparks, stinking. “I'm just pointin' out the obvious,” he said mildly. “You asked me about the settlers' attitude, an' I'm tellin' you. Don't you see it?”

“I think,” Var said slowly, nodding, “that I do. The settlers need us to defeat the hostiles; but they also fear that we
shall bind them to Evander; that we shall be—what? Evander's police?”

“Somethin' like that,” Jaymes agreed. “They're afraid o' that, but they still need you. So they don't rightly know how they feel about you. Neither them or Governor Wyme, I reckon.”

Var took a deep breath; released it noisily. For a while he stared into the flames, then raised his head to study Jaymes.

“You know that I should report all this. That I should advise the Inquisitor of everything you've said.”

“Yes.” Jaymes met Var's eyes unafraid. “But I'll take a wager you won't.”

“You have,” Var said, “and likely the stake's your life.”

“That's not worth so much.” Jaymes cut a plug of tobacco and set it between his teeth, chewing loud. “An' I know where my money's placed.”

“You've great faith in me,” Var said.

Jaymes shrugged. “I trust you.”

There was a long silence. The fire crackled, sparks rising as if in forlorn hope of joining the stars in the wide sky above. All around were the noises of a night camp: the voices of the settlers and their children, the conversations of soldiers, the calling of the pickets, the snorting of the horses. Where Var sat with Jaymes and Fallyn there was only a pervading, thoughtful quiet.

Then Var said, not sure why he did, “I'll not betray you.”

“Nor I,” added Fallyn.

Jaymes spat more tobacco. “Didn't think you would,” he said calmly. “Else I'd not have told you.”

Var saw the settlers in a different light after that. He tried to put himself in their position, to think as they did—which was not so difficult, their situations being not so very different. Was he honest with himself, he could imagine his duty lasting the rest of his life, that Evander would order him to remain even after the hostiles were exterminated. Likely as military commander of all Salvation—which was such promotion as he would not have dreamed of a year or two ago—but …

It was as Abram Jaymes had said: Salvation lay a world
apart from Evander, and when he thought on that, it did, indeed, seem an isolate land, vast for the exploring. Wyme's maps had shown him that, for all its size, Salvation was but a little piece of an unknown immensity. What Evander knew of it ended at those sky-topping mountains that sprawled across the western horizon, at the Glory River to the north and the Hope River to the south. It was, out here where the grass ran seemingly limitless and the sky spread vast above, a jigsaw segment in a country huge beyond imagining. And, save for the hostiles, open for the settling. He began to see the forts he was commanded to build as the clenching fingers of Evander's fist—which not long ago he would have applauded as defenders of the land—but now, with Jaymes's words sinking in like seductive claws, he wondered if they were not to become barriers, containing the inhabitants of Salvation that the Autarchy not lose them.

And why? he began to wonder. After all, Salvation
was
on the far side of the world. It exported nothing to Evander, and apart from such luxuries as the privileged imported (he thought of Wyme's furniture) and those metallic manufactures Salvation could not yet produce of itself, there was nothing Salvation could not make. And in time, surely, ore would be found, and metalworks begun, and then … Why then, Salvation might make her own guns, manufacture her own powder, and not need Evander.

Tomas Var wondered, as he delivered the reluctant settlers back to their farms and mills and vineyards, if he became a secessionist.

He told himself,
No
! That he was an officer of the God's Militia, his duty clear: to render Salvation safe for its Evanderan settlers. To secure the land for the Autarchy, whose servant he was. But he could not forget what Abram Jaymes had said that honest night, and when he saw Talle work his hexings on those reluctant to remain, he must bite his lip to not cry out in protest.

At least, when they came on farms burned down, he was able to persuade the Inquisitor it was in the best interests of Evander that they delay awhile, that the engineers and his own troops help rebuild the wreckage. And every holding,
standing or new-built, was hexed by Talle, protection against attack. Sometimes the settlers even thanked him.

So Tomas Var saw his first duty done and set to the next. He swung his column around to find the treeline, the wilderness edge, where the Restitution River came out of the forest, and set building the first fort. It was by now midsummer and no hostiles had been sighted. Var wondered how long they would remain invisible.

“Bluecoats, eh?” Chakthi's kick took Owan Thirsk from his sad musings. “Tell me about them.”

“Marines.” Thirsk stirred warily on his tether. “Bluecoats are marines, Master.”

“What are … marines?” The Tachyn akaman clearly found the word hard to pronounce.

“Elite warriors,” Owan Thirsk said. “The chosen fighters of the Autarchy, the spearhead of the army.”

Chakthi could understand that. Thirsk was grateful: he'd not relish another kick, his ribs were sore enough.

“And they wear blue?”

Thirsk said, “Yes.”

“And the ones who wear green?”

“I think …” Thirsk paused, racking his mind, frightened. “Engineers, I think.”

“What are engineers?” Chakthi pronounced the word
en-jin-ears
. “What do they do?”

“Build,” Thirsk said quickly, anticipating punishment.

“Build what?” Chakthi flicked a rawhide strap across his face, as he often did when he could not comprehend.

Thirsk flinched. It was not a hard blow and he was thankful for that: his master was often unkinder. “Forts,” he said. “Like Grostheim—the city you attacked.”

The memory prompted another lashing and Thirsk cringed.

Chakthi asked, “Why?”

“I think,” Thirsk said, “that they bring a terrible power against you. I think the akaman in the city has sent word
across the sea, to bring soldiers against you. To take this land from you.”