His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) (24 page)

Torien smiled too, tightly. “I remember,” he said.

“I wish you hadn’t left us, Torien.” Senna’s
voice was quiet. “I could use you with me now. Harder and
harder to find an honest man in the capital.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” said Torien, and he tried to
say it lightly, but it came out thick, harsh.

Senna looked at him. He started to say something. Then he shut his
mouth and turned his face away a moment. When he looked back he spoke
of something else.

“Your son—your younger son. Tyren. He was at Vione,
wasn’t he? He has his commission by now?”

“He has his commission,” said Torien.

“Where’d they pack him off to? I’d like to meet
him. I haven’t had the chance yet. They tell me he takes after
you. In everything but temper, maybe—not quite so hotheaded.”
Senna smiled again.

“He commands the garrison at Souvin,” said Torien.

There was a stretch of silence. Senna was looking at him carefully,
as though trying to decide whether or not he’d spoken in jest.

“Souvin?” he said, finally. “In the Outland?”

“Yes.”

Senna leaned slowly back in his chair. “Did he ask for the
post?”

“Not in the way you mean,” said Torien.

“What happened?”

“The truth of it? The truth of it is he made Luchian Marro look
like a fool.”

“I’d heard there was a Marro at Vione,” said Senna.
“He and Tyren butted heads, I take it?”

“There was some quarrel between Marro and a Cesino recruit, and
you know how that would have ended. But Tyren defended the Cesino—did
it well enough, apparently, that Marro was punished for his part in
the thing. This commission was his retaliation.”

Senna shook his head. “The Marri shouldn’t have been able
to send Tyren to Souvin,” he said.

Torien spoke sarcastically. “Commissions in the Empire are
awarded on the basis of the Empire’s need, not on the basis of
a man’s name. You know that, Alluin, surely.”

“The Empire doesn’t need him in Souvin. He’ll only
go to waste in Souvin—a backwater garrison like that.”
Senna seemed truly angry all at once. His jaw was clenched tight as
he spoke. “There’s more need for him in Choiro right now,
in truth. My growing fear is that Berion—”

He cut himself off quickly, lifting his head to look round, to look
out through the open doorway into the garden.

“Sere,” said Torien to Moien.

“We’re alone,” said Moien, quietly.

Senna said, “Our august emperor has been buying up the direct
loyalty of the army, Torien—the regular army now. The Guard
were his already, and they’re certainly getting powerful. But
there are far too many of the regular army command who answer now to
the Emperor, not to the Senate.”

“You think he intends to move against the Senate?” said
Torien. He said it evenly, steadily, but he was running the
forefinger of his right hand absently along the rim of his wine bowl,
and his thoughts were drifting. His father had always commanded a
great deal of respect in the Senate, had spoken out against Berion
more than once. Never unduly, of course. Never brashly. But he’d
done it. Was that the simple truth of it, then? That Berion had
wanted a governor in Cesin who’d stand with him against the
Senate, and Lucho Marro had shown himself willing to do so, and
Tauren Risto had not?

“I think it’s possible,” Senna said. “He has
the Marri and their money behind him. He’s always been close
with Lucho Marro. You know that well enough, and there are plenty in
the Senate who know it. As long as he can keep buying men’s
loyalty, and sending those who might oppose him to places like
Souvin—it’s possible. Were there none left at Vione
willing to countermand Tyren’s commission?”

“Chion Mureno commanded Tyren’s column,” said
Torien. “You know Mureno?”

“I know him.”

“I thought he’d be willing to investigate the matter. I
wrote him, asked for his help. He refused it me.”

Senna lifted his chin. “So,” he said. “It goes
deeper than I thought.”

“They’ve made good use of seven months without you,”
said Torien.

Senna made no reply to that. His face was tight with thought, his
angular brows drawn sharply down into a scowl.

“When I go to Rien,” he said, at length. He spoke slowly,
carefully, as though weighing each word on his tongue. “When I
go to Rien, Torien, I’ll see to Tyren’s transfer. I’ll
take him with me to Choiro, if you’ll permit it. I fear I’ll
have need of him. I’ll have need of men I can trust, men in the
army who’ll be willing to stand against Berion, if it comes to
that. And, if it should come to that—” he lowered his
voice even further. “If it comes to that, Torien—I
believe I could get enough of the Senate behind me to name you
emperor, put you on the throne in Berion’s place.”

There was silence in the room a while.

Torien said, finally, in a tight voice, “Don’t be a fool,
Alluin.”

“I’m not a fool. Think about it. The provincial garrisons
will declare for you, if they’re faced with the choice. And you
still have popular support in Choiro. You’re still the beloved
war hero—and you’ve the Berion blood.”

“As much Cesino blood as Berion blood, if we’re going
back that far,” said Torien, dryly.

Senna shook his head again. “Listen to me, Torien. If Berion
moves against the Senate, he’ll have to be stopped. If there’s
any hope of preserving what little virtue is left in this
Empire—he’ll have to be stopped, and with bloodshed if
necessary. But it won’t be enough to take him off the throne.
There has to be another in his place when it’s done. Otherwise
we’ll have twenty years of war on our hands.”

“I come of the Varri, Alluin,” Torien said. “I know
what a disputed succession means.”

“I can count on your support, then?”

“Has so much changed between us you need ask?”

A grin split Senna’s dark face, briefly.

“I’ll speak with certain men of the Senate when I return
to Choiro,” he said. “I’ll be in contact with you.”

XIV

The next few days all ran together indistinguishably in Tyren’s
head: the daylight hours spent overseeing the repairs to the gate and
the wall and the storehouses, the evenings spent on paperwork in his
lamp-lit office. Sleep came more readily now, at least. For the most
part there was satisfaction enough in the work, and in the purpose of
the work, to keep the weight of guilt from his mind and heart. Only
sometimes, in the silence of the early mornings when he took Risun or
the black colt out on the Rien road, did it knot up inside him again,
and linger there cold and hard and heavy until he’d gotten back
to the fort, and could return his attention to the work, and drive
himself to bone-weariness to loosen it.

Reinforcements came up from Rien a week after the battle: a column of
twenty-four regulars under two officers, with a string of fresh
horses and three carts full of provisions for the replenishing of the
storehouses. The commanding officer dismounted before the
headquarters steps, swept his cape smartly over one shoulder,
unbuckled his crested helmet and held it in the crook of his left arm
while he saluted Tyren with his right hand. He was typical Rien
officer stock; the cold arrogance of it was in his face. He carried
himself stiffly, properly, chin up, lips pressed in a thin, tight
line. He spoke in a brisk, clipped voice.

“Commander Risto?” he said.

“Yes,” said Tyren.

“Commander Maurien Rægo—your replacement.”

For a long moment he was too taken aback to say anything, to do
anything but stare.

“Replacement?” he repeated, finally, stumbling over the
word.

Rægo came up the steps to hand him a sealed letter. He
recognized the seal. It belonged to Marchin Ruso, commander of the
fort at Rien.

“You’ve been recalled to Rien, Commander,” Rægo
said. “I’m to take command of the garrison here.”

He broke the seal and unrolled the papyrus with unsteady hands and
read it right there on the steps. 
To Commander Tyren Berio
Risto, the Imperial Garrison at Souvin
, it read—
You
are ordered to report at once to headquarters, the Imperial Garrison
at Rien, to receive your new commission
.

He rolled the papyrus up again, slowly. He couldn’t find
words—just looked up to Rægo dumbly, his mouth dry, his
thoughts suddenly scattered, incoherent. Aino, standing behind him,
must have sensed his bewilderment, his stupor. He stepped quickly
forward and said, “I can assist you with the quartering of your
men if you wish, Commander Rægo.”

He let Aino take Rægo off his hands and he escaped to his
quarters and sat on the bed a long time, his elbows on his knees, his
head cradled in his palms, kneading his forehead with his fingertips,
trying to put the shambles of his thoughts back together. Not now.
Not now, with the work only just started. At least Rien might let him
finish it, now Muryn had given him the clarity to do so—let him
redress the earlier failings, the wasted time. Let Rægo have
the command when the work was done, that would be all right. Let some
incompetent Choiro fool have the command then. (No, not even then,
not if there’s to be justice in this place, you know that.) But
not now, at least. Not yet. He had to finish it, first. He had to
redeem it.

He made himself get up, at length. He set to work packing up his
gear, moving numbly, dazedly. He’d nearly finished by the time
an orderly came to inform him the evening meal was ready. He went
haltingly to the mess and sat down at the head of the table with Aino
on his right-hand side and Rægo and Rægo’s
adjutant, Daien, on his left. He didn’t pretend politeness. He
nodded, occasionally, or spoke brief words when Rægo addressed
him. Otherwise he concentrated on his food.

“It’s an important victory you won here, Risto,”
Rægo said to him.

“I’m honored you should think so,” said Tyren.

“The beginning of a larger work in the Outland, maybe—that’s
my hope.”

“Maybe, yes.”

Rægo said, “We need more officers like you, Risto. I know
too many men who’d have been content to leave things as they
were—to let little things slide for comfort’s sake.
That’s why the Outland has been a breeding ground for this kind
of native rebellion, I think. It starts as a little thing, an
insignificant thing, and is ignored. Then it goes out of control.”

“You’re familiar with the Outland, Commander?”
Tyren said.

Rægo didn’t seem to notice the sourness in his voice.

“I’m familiar with these mountain tribes. I know the kind
of things our people ignore, the things that flame so easily into
rebellion. The things we laugh at. These superstitions of theirs—the
idea Tarien Varro will come back from the dead, come down from the
mountains to drive us out of Cesin. We laugh at it. These Cesini will
die for it.” Rægo looked over to Aino. “You’d
agree with me, Lieutenant?”

“Some Cesini will die for it, sir,” said Aino, in a mild
voice.

“It’s unusual to have Cesino officers,” Rægo
said. “You’re from this region, Lieutenant?”

“From Rien, sir, originally.”

“How long have you served here?”

“I was posted here this past winter, sir,” said Aino.

Tyren was irritated all at once. “Enough of this, Commander.
He’s a capable officer.”

“I didn’t suggest otherwise,” said Rægo,
shrugging.

When the meal was done Tyren mustered the men in the yard and
formally transferred the command into Rægo’s hands. He
took his leave and went to his quarters afterward, with the excuse
he’d be leaving early for Rien. He finished getting his bags
together and set them down by the doorway in readiness for the
morning. Then he lay down on the bed without undressing. He slept
only fitfully. He woke at midnight when the guard changed, woke again
with the change at the fourth hour. He got up then, slid his feet
into his boots, buckled on his cuirass and his sword. He picked up
his bags and went out through the atrium to the yard, across the yard
to the stable. He saddled Risun in the stall row. Aino came in before
he’d finished and stood there silently, watching him.

Tyren said, over his shoulder, “The black colt’s yours.”

“He’s better suited for Rien than for Souvin, sir,”
said Aino.

“Keep him, Aino.”

“If you wish, sir,” said Aino.

There were no more words between them after that, but Aino walked
with him out to the gate and gave the order for the opening of the
doors and stood by to salute him as he rode out. He took Risun out
onto the fort road and then to the common, turned north on the Rien
road. He kept his eyes fixed upon the small square patch of oncoming
road between Risun’s ears, letting numbness seep all through
his thoughts, hardness build up like a brick wall round his heart. He
didn’t spare a sidelong glance for the westward
embankment—forcefully willed down the near involuntary twitch
of his hands to pull the reins to the left. It was done; delaying
would only make it harder.

Before him the road curved broadly away to the east. He took the
turn, leaving Souvin behind him in the gray half-light.

* * *

It took him until the morning of the third day to come to Rien. He
spent the second night at a little inn maybe ten miles from Rien’s
western gate—reached it late and decided against trying to make
it to the city that night, mostly because of the knee. The gash had
opened up again with the two days of riding and it was stiff, sore,
thickly crusted with dried blood. He had one of the inn slaves wash
it and bind it up for him. In the morning, after taking the meal in
his room, he dressed in full harness and rode on to the city.

It was three months now since he’d been in Rien with Mægo
and he’d nearly forgotten the look and feel of the city: the
close, brick-faced buildings and the traffic-choked cobbled streets
of the lower city, the fountains and gardens and gleaming white
marble of the upper. The fort lay at the heart of the upper city. The
guards at the gate saluted him in file as he rode up the
cypress-lined gate path, and a shouted order came down for the
opening of the great bronze-plated doors, and he took Risun at a walk
into the yard.