From where I stood, I could see that the largest town in northern Koretia was marked clearly on the map as Blackpass, not Backpass. But it was true enough that Mountside was misspelled and misplaced on the map.
"Sir," I said somewhat desperately, "I lived in Mountside for sixteen years. Whichever surveyor made this map—"
I stopped. Radley, acting as though he had not heard me, sat down, opened my record book, and picked up his pen. As I watched, he wrote a dated entry that said, "Reprimanded by his captain for insolence. Recommendation sent to the Chara that the sublieutenant be dismissed from the Division of Disclosure."
Without even leaving time for the ink to dry, Radley closed the book. He looked up at me and waited expectantly.
This time I had sense enough not to speak. I stared over his head at the army seal, my throat closed.
"I can see," said Radley after a while, "that if I am forced to work with you, you will be even more difficult to handle than Lieutenant Carle. Well, I have no time to deal with you at the moment. You and your lieutenant will receive my orders for your next assignment in due time. Dismissed."
I saluted him with my blade, as stiffly as I had ever saluted any official in the Chara's armies; beside me, Carle did the same. Radley had already lost interest in us. He was writing down some notes to himself concerning our assignments in "Backpass."
I waited until Carle and I were back in our own tent, with the flap safely closed. Then I asked, "How did a man like that become a captain?"
Carle raised his eyebrows. "You need to ask? Didn't you recognize his name?"
I stared. "He's
that
Radley? The Chara's brother-in-marriage?"
"I heard he made a mess of his last command. The Chara must have thought that even Radley could handle soldiers of such high caliber as the men in our division." Carle's voice was dry as he pulled off his blade and rummaged in his back-sling.
"But Carle . . . for the Chara to assign as poor an official as that to be captain of one of his most valuable divisions . . ." I floundered, searching for words.
Carle shrugged as he pulled his wine flask out of the back-sling. "Bloodlines are the highest law, as they say in Koretia. The Chara could hardly have given his own brother-in-marriage the type of post he deserves."
Carle's words slapped me into silence. I don't know what my face revealed, but Carle, sighing, handed me the wine flask. "Oh, dear. You've been thinking of the Chara as perfect? As a god above all human frailties?"
"I thought . . ." Tears stung my eyes; I turned away under the pretense of opening the wine flask under a shaft of light that travelled down from the small hole at the top of our tent, where the pole stuck through.
Carle's hand wrapped over my shoulder, warm and strong. "My mistake. I'm so enamored with the Chara that you've probably heard me babble on about him as though he were a god. I forgot that, coming from Koretia, you'd be likely to take my words the wrong way."
"You've talked about the Chara's high honor in court—"
"And I was telling the truth." Carle squeezed my shoulder before removing his hand. "There is something . . . uncanny about the way in which the Charas have maintained integrity over the centuries in court matters. But outside the court . . ." Carle took the flask back from me as I turned and wiped the back of my hand over the wine that had spilled on my lips. "Well, I don't want to paint too bleak a picture. Radley has a reputation for being brilliant on the battlefield. Maybe the Chara thought his brother-in-marriage could acquire similar brilliance in a command position. Who's to say that he's wrong? Perhaps Radley will wake up one of these days and realize that accurate information from his subordinates is more important than feeding his own sense of self-importance."
"You don't believe that." I sat down on my pallet cross-legged and stared up at him.
Carle shrugged. "After my father's death-bed reformation, who's to say? But at my best guess . . . no. Some men aren't willing to reform themselves. Still, the Chara's mistake is likely an honest one, even if tinged somewhat by considerations of family loyalty. No doubt the Chara will realize in time that he needs to assign another captain to our division."
"But until then . . ." I looked down at the earthen floor of the tent, trailing my finger across it. "What will you do if Radley gives you an order that would bring harm?"
"Bring grave harm to Emor? I'd go over his head to the Chara." Carle's response was without hesitation.
"But what if . . ." I couldn't seem to bring myself to look up. "What if the harm were only to you?"
This time, Carle's response was longer in coming. He had turned away to place his empty flask in his back-sling, and he took quite a while rummaging around in its small number of contents. Finally he said, "Any order that Radley gave me which would bring harm to me would most likely bring harm to you as well. It's my duty, as your official, to protect you from unnecessary harm. So the same would follow: I'd appeal to the Chara for the overturning of those orders."
"And if the orders weren't repealed?" I looked up finally.
Carle flicked a glance at me. "I won't let you come to harm, Adrian. Don't worry yourself about that. Look, I need to see Sewell and tell him about the mistake on the army map. He can pass on the information to the army surveyors, who will no doubt prostrate themselves with gratitude; they're forever frustrated by the fact that they're dependent on spies' reports to try to reconstruct foreign territory. Do you want to come?"
I shook my head, and Carle, after a moment's pause to scrutinize me, left the tent.
Where I was left to my thoughts. I understood – more clearly, perhaps, than Carle had intended – what Carle's response meant. If he was given an order that would endanger me, without benefit to Emor, he would disobey the order, risking a dismissal of high dishonor or perhaps even death.
But if he was given an order that would unnecessarily endanger himself. . . . I felt a chill cover me, as though I were sitting in a snowbound cave. I hugged my legs, thinking that, in a certain sense, I had learned nothing today that I had not already known for months. It had simply not occurred to me before that Carle would be willing to sacrifice his life, not simply to obey the orders of the Chara, but to obey the orders of an ignorant, vile official such as Radley.
I think there has been no moment, since I first left Siward alive, when I have been more tempted to commit murder. But remembering that the Chara's law regards the discussion of murderous plans as being of equal gravity as actually committing murder, I cleared my mind of all thoughts of how I could exploit Radley's self-chosen ignorance of Koretian ways. Sheathing the dagger of my imagination, I set myself to work preparing for my next assignment in the Chara's service.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The first day of September in the 942nd year a.g.l.
I was sleeping at dawn when Carle woke me by placing his hand over my mouth.
I am used to this, though danger usually comes when we're on a mission, rather than when we're safe in the Emorian army camp. I lay still, trying to ascertain the source of the danger. Carle leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "Get dressed. Be as quiet as you can."
I reached for my tunic at the bottom of the bed, then paused. The tunic was black. On its sleeve was the familiar sign of a mountain shielded by a sword. I looked at Carle, who was still crouched inches from me, dim in the moonlight, but not so dim that I could mistake the color of his uniform. He merely raised his eyebrows at me.
I scrambled into my clothes, trying to think through the haze of my sleepiness. No point in asking how Carle had been able to get hold of our old uniforms; he had contacts everywhere in the camp. The question was why we were disguising ourselves this time as border mountain patrol guards.
I checked that my thigh-blade was secure in its pocket, then took my belt from Carle's hand and knotted it round my waist. He had a sheathed sword awaiting me to hook to the belt. As he opened the flap of the tent, I saw that he too was openly armed, as though we had never been made spies.
The army camp was asleep. Only a few scattered guards remained awake; Carle, who knew the patterns of their patrolling, deftly guided us around them. We were headed, I saw, toward the northern inner gate of the palace.
Suddenly I had the feeling that this was not a mission I should be on. "Carle," I whispered, "I really don't think we should—"
"Don't you trust me?" he whispered back, arching one eyebrow.
There was only one answer to that question, of course, so I shut my mouth. We reached the guard-post of the inner gate, whose guards were watching our approach oh-so-idly, with their hands not-so-idly resting on their sword-hilts. Two of the guards, I noticed with a sinking heart, had spears.
However, those guards allowed us to come within speaking distance before they lowered their spears crosswise to bar our way through the gate. Carle said not a word; he merely held up a piece of paper, folded four times in the manner of Emorian letters. As he did so, I caught a glimpse of it: it was blank of everything but a seal impressed upon black wax.
The lieutenant of the watch glanced at the seal no more than a second before shouting an order. The spears were raised, and we walked through the gate. The lieutenant asked, "Would you like an honor escort, sublieutenant?" He looked at Carle rather at me; the colored hems of our old tunics showed our former ranks.
Carle declined with a courteous word, and we continued on our way, climbing the hill toward the palace. I waited until we were well out of earshot before I said furiously, "Carle, that was nothing but Quentin's latest letter to us. It must be a death-sentence crime to lie your way past the palace guards like that."
"Did I lie?" Carle looked cheerful. "It's not my fault if other men make incorrect assumptions. Anyway, you needn't worry – it's only a flogging offense for you, and then only once you've entered the palace."
He had not, I noticed, indicated what the penalty would be for him if we were discovered. I opened my mouth to protest further, and then let it hang open. I had just seen what we were approaching.
Even in the dawn hours, the palace was brightly lit from the flames that shone upon it. The light danced upon what I had never seen from outside the wall: carvings in the marble. Carvings of men fighting, judging, embracing, feasting, drinking, gambling, dancing, and, I swear, sitting down to play Law Links. All of the glories of Emor's peace were there, etched in figures so real that it seemed they would walk out of the palace's marble at any moment.
I did not realize that I had stopped until I felt Carle's hand on my shoulder. "Happy birthday, Adrian," he said.
I could not speak, nor even turn my eyes from the carvings. After a moment, Carle added, "Arpeshian artists. Enslaved, no doubt, but they served their art nonetheless. I hope they were granted their freedom afterwards. . . . Well, come. We need to be inside before the day's first hour."
He did not say why. I continued forward, trailing behind Carle now, thinking more and more that, all other considerations aside, I did not deserve to enter this place. Besides, I told myself with some relief, it was doubtful I would be able to enter. Carle had managed to fool the lieutenant of the watch at the northern inner gate, but there would be more stringent scrutiny of us at the northern entrance to the palace, which lay ahead.
But Carle did not go that way. Instead, he veered to the left, following along the side of the palace as we made our way past the carved figures. They were growing more archaic in tone now, and as I scrutinized them, I realized that the artists had set out to tell the tale of Emor's history. Here was the Battle of Mountain Heights, which had widened the empire. Here was the civil war of Emor's early history. And here, at the very beginning—
But I did not see how the artists had chosen to depict the first Chara, for just before that point in the carvings came a set of steps leading down to a dark doorway that I might easily have missed if I had not still been following Carle. There were no guards at the door; I wondered whether the door led to one of the underground furnaces that were said to heat the palace.
Carle tried the door, found that it was unlocked, and swept it open with one arm. He stepped inside—
—and stopped immediately. A blade touched his throat.
A sword was at my heart, and a second one had slid between my hand and my sheathed sword, though I had barely made it over the threshold. A voice, cool and dark with humor, said, "Visitors, gentlemen? Or have you come to stay with us?"
Whatever this place was, I gathered that it was not the sort of place which normally received visitors. Carle cleared his throat, which was rather brave of him, considering that a dagger tip still lay upon it. "Our apologies," he said. "We were told to come in by way of the north entrance. I take it we have entered through the wrong door?"
The passageway beyond the door was as black as the Jackal's fur. All I could see in the wavering torchlight was my captors – two young guards with determined looks on their faces – and the speaker: a lieutenant who held his blade against Carle with such ease that I guessed he was not unfamiliar with the use of sharp instruments. I glanced round at the darkness again, feeling my uneasiness increase.
The lieutenant, for his part, was taking in our appearances. He snapped the fingers of his free hand, and the guards lowered their swords, though they remained watchful. The lieutenant lowered his own blade but did not sheathe it. "Credentials," he said crisply.
Carle silently showed the letter, and then, at the lieutenant's gesture, handed it over. The lieutenant held it up to the light and scrutinized it for a long moment as I felt sweat trickle down the back of my neck. I could hear the faint sound of moans now, further down in the dark passage, and my nose was twitching from unpleasant smells.
"Well," said the lieutenant finally, "if you are a forger, then you are a good one. And I dare not break this particular seal to check the contents of the letter. My congratulations, sir. If you are a spy, you are a spy of high skill."
Carle bowed silently, as though he had been granted a genuine compliment, as indeed he had.
"I suppose," said the lieutenant, still with that dark humor that seemed to characterize his profession, "that you have an urgent need to see the Chara." He cocked his head at Carle, and I found myself wondering which of the cells beyond us were reserved for potential assassins.