Geder
The bitterly cold predawn breeze murmured through the walls of Geder's tent and set the flame on his oil lamp dancing. He leaned closer, then cursed softly and turned up the wick. The flame brightened and then smoked. He backed it down slowly until the smoke disappeared. In the brighter light, the pale ink grew, if not clear, at least legible. He stuck his hands into his armpits for warmth and leaned in closer.
And so it came that in these final days, the three great factions entered into a war of both blood and terrible cunning such that measureless stone ships flew through the skies with great iron thorns that slaughtered dragons as they flew and also deep pods found manners to hide themselves from their enemies until they should be forgotten that they might attack an unprotected enemy and also swords envenomed to slay both master and slave. The mighty silver-scaled Morade, maddest and mightiest of the warring clutch-mates, fashioned a tool more devious than the world had known, and in the high mountains south of Haakapel (which, Geder thought, would be Hallskar now) and east of Sammer (which Geder was almost certain was the fifth-polis name for the Keshet), he forged the Righteous Servant to whom none could lie nor no one could long disbelieve, and its sigil was of cardinal and intercardinal showing the eight directions of the world in which no falsehood could hide, and in this great Morade found his subtlest power.
He rubbed his eyes. The thick, yellowed pages of the book smelled of dust and mold and the odd sweet binder's glue that no one had used in half a thousand years. When he'd found it in the deep shadows of a rag-and-bone shop in Vanai, it delighted him. As he struggled through his translation, his enthusiasm waned.
The author claimed to have copied and translated a much older scroll, long since lost, that dated back to the first generations after the fall of the Dragon Empire. That was, for the first part, a framing device for speculative essay so trite and overdone that Geder's heart sank when he read it. In the second part, it meant that everything else in the essay was presented as legitimate history, which he found less interesting. And finally, the author had embraced long sentences and complex grammar in an attempt to make the text feel authentic, and it made every page an endurance test. By the time Geder reached the verbs, he had to turn back and remind himself what they were talking about.
If he'd been back in Vanai, he would have put the work aside. But Sir Alan Klin, Protector of Vanai, had heard of the caravan smuggling out the secret wealth of the city and made its recovery his first priority. This meant sending his favorites along the dragon's roads to Carse, and every man's status after that took his search party farther and farther from the likely hunting grounds until Jorey Kalliam was left with the Dry Wastes, Fallon Broot on the sea road to Elassae, and Geder Palliako leading two dozen half-mutinous Timzinae soldiers through the icy mud of the southernmost of the Free Cities.
In their weeks on the farmer's tracks and game trails, they'd found three caravans. Small affairs hardly more than three carts each, and all of them tracking winter goods between local cities and towns. In between, days of mud and nights of nagging cold wore on Geder. And as poor a companion as his essay on the powers of dragons to unmake lies might be, it outshone the soldiers. At the end of the day, he curled into his bed, sleeping while the others drank and sang and cursed the snow. In the mornings, he rose with the cook, reading and translating and pretending that he was anywhere besides here.
A discreet scratch came at the door, and his squire stepped in along with the Timzinae who acted as his second. The squire carried a tray with a shaped-bone bowl of stewed oats with raisins and an earthenware bottle of hot, dark, oily water that pretended to be coffee. The Timzinae made a formal salute. Geder closed the book as the squire laid his food out before him.
"What are the scouts saying?" Geder asked.
"The carts haven't moved," his second said. "They aren't more than two hours' march."
"Well, no hurry then," Geder said with more cheer than he felt. "Tell the men we'll break camp after we eat and have this done with by midday."
"And after?"
"South and west," Geder said around a mouthful of oats. "That's where the road goes."
The second nodded and saluted again, turned on his heel, and left. Geder had the feeling that there was contempt in the movement, but he might only have been seeing what he expected to see. As he ate, the seams of his tent began to grow more distinct. Voices rose, men calling to each other, horses complaining, the chopping sound of planks coming down from the cooking platform. Outside, the sky moved from darkness to grey to a blue-and-white daybreak more light than warmth. By the time the weak sun had taken the worst chill from the air, Geder was mounted, and his men ready to march. According to the scouts, the newly sighted caravan was at least a decent size.
Still, Geder didn't have any real hope for more than another disappointing search and sullen locals until he saw the Tralgu.
It was sitting on the outermost cart, its ears pricked forward with an interest that didn't show in the rest of its face. Wester's second was supposed to be a Tralgu. Geder swept his eyes over the carts huddled around the old mill, counting under his breath. Information was always sketchy, memory unreliable, and carts in a rough group could be hard to count, but it was near enough to what they'd been searching for that Geder's heart began to beat a little faster.
A Timzinae in a thick wool robe walked down the road toward them. Geder motioned, and his six archers fanned out on the road behind him. The Tralgu sat forward and flicked an ear.
"You're master of this 'van?" Geder asked.
"I am," the Timzinae said. "Who the fuck are you?"
"I am Lord Geder Palliako of Rivenhalm and representative of King Simeon and Imperial Antea," Geder said. "Where are you coming from?"
"Maccia. Going back there too. Bellin's snowed over."
Geder stared down at the black eyes. The nictatating membranes slid closed and open again, blinking without blinking. Geder wasn't sure if it was a lie. It was possible, of course, that there was more than one 'van in the Free Cities with a Tralgu guard. This might still be a false alarm.
"You've stopped here?"
"Axle came loose on one of the carts. Only just got it strapped back in place. What's this all about?"
"Who's your guard captain?" Geder asked.
The 'van master, turned, spat, and pointed to a man leaning against one of the carts. A Firstblood with a blank, friendly face and an air of restrained violence. Wheat-colored hair touched by grey. Broad across the shoulder. It might have been Marcus Wester. It might have been a thousand other men.
"What's his name?"
"Tag," the 'van master said.
One of the soldiers in the road behind him spoke, his voice too low for Geder to make out the words. Another replied. He felt a blush crawling up his neck. Either the man was lying to him or he wasn't, and every moment that Geder hesitated, he felt more like a fool.
"Get your guards out onto the road," he said. "Put the carters with their carts."
"And why would I do that?"
Someone chuckled. Geder's embarrassment turned to rage.
"Because if you don't, I'll have you killed," he shouted. "And because you had the temerity to question me, I'll have every weapon and piece of armor in a pile on the road ten paces from your guardsmen. And if I find so much as a work knife overlooked, I'll leave your corpse for the crows."
The nictatating membrane slid open and closed. The caravan master turned around and trudged back toward the carts. Geder motioned his second closer.
"Send men around the sides. If anyone tries to sneak away, bring them back alive if you can. Dead if you have to. We're searching this place down to the pegs and nails."
"The mill house too?" the second asked.
"Everything," Geder said.
The Timzinae nodded and moved back, calling to his men. Geder watched the carts, anger and embarrasment giving way to anxiety. The captain and the caravan master exchanged a few words, and the captain looked up. He frowned at Geder, shrugged, and turned away. If there was going to be resistance, it would come now and it would come hard. Geder shifted in his saddle, the still-healing wound in his leg aching in anticipation. Movement came from the mill house, from every cart. How many soldiers would they have? If the full wealth of the Medean bank was sitting in those carts, every carter would be a swordsman or an archer. Geder's scalp began to crawl. If they had bowmen hidden in those carts, he'd be sprouting arrows. Fear shifted in his belly like he'd eaten bad fish. Trying to seem casual, he turned his horse and trotted to the rear of their formation.
To judge by the expressions of the soldiers, he hadn't fooled anybody.
The first of the guards lumbered out from the carts, half a dozen swords in her arms like firewood. She dropped them on the ground where Geder had ordered. Then a thin boy hardly old enough to be a soldier with two unstrung bows and a backload of quivers. Slowly, the unpromising parade went on, the sad pile of arms and armor growing until ten guards and a wild-haired cunning man marched out to the road in wool and cotton, counted ten paces from the heap, and stood in the clear, hugging themselves against the cold.
"Move in," Geder said.
The soldiers walked forward, blades drawn. The carters stood by their carts and smiled or frowned or looked around in confusion. Geder rode a slow turn around the little encampment. The sound of the search seemed to follow him - voices fierce and querulous, wood clacking, metal clanging against metal. He watched as his men pulled ingots of pig iron out of a cart and dropped them to the ground. One man scratched at the metal to be sure it was only what it seemed, then spat and turned back to the search.
Midday came and went. A chill wind picked up, setting the snow to skitter and swirl around their ankles. The soldiers unloaded each cart, looked under them, examined the horse and mules, and began going through the mill house. Geder got off his horse at the edge of the mill pond and looked at the bare carts, the frigid carters, the ineffectual sun in the watery sky. One of the carters - a sickly-looking girl with pale hair and skin - crouched by bolts of fallen wool and pretended not to watch Geder. He knew what she saw. A puffed-up nobleman bullying her and her friends. He wanted to go to her, to explain that it wasn't like that. That he wasn't like that.
Instead, he turned away. The shifting dust of snow moved over the ice like ripples on water. Geder walked along the edge, trying not to feel the girl's gaze on him. Some idiot had been skating. White marks showed where blades had cut across the thin ice. Lucky they didn't break through. He'd read an essay once outlining the time it took each of the thirteen races to die in icy water. Well, twelve, really. The Drowned weren't...
Geder stopped almost before he knew what stopped him. On the edge of the pond, a long, low drift of snow swept out onto the ice. The white blade marks vanished into it, and then out of it again as if the skater had passed directly through the little drift. Or it hadn't been there until after the skater had passed. Geder walked closer. The snow itself looked odd. It didn't have the ice-crust he expected, and it was smooth as broom-swept sand. Geder looked up. The guards were on the far side of the caravan. His own soldiers grouped at the mouth of the mill house. He walked around the curious snow.
Deep scores and marks marred the surface of the ice. Poking out just at ankle height, something black and square. He squatted, brushing the snow away. A box, half drowned in recently cut ice and then covered over. And others beside it, all of them crusted over with thin ice and hidden by the carefully arranged snowdrift. He looked up. The girl carter was standing now, craning her neck to see him, her hands knotted at her belly. Geder took out his knife and forced the latch. Topaz, jade, emerald, pearl, gold and silver filigree as delicate as frost. Geder pulled back like the gems had stung him, and then, as he understood what he was seeing, felt a sunrise in his chest, relief and pleasure rushing through him, unknotting his muscles and bringing a grin to his face.
He'd done it. He'd found the missing caravan and the hidden wealth of Vanai. No more of Geder Palliako, the expendable idiot. No more apologizing for what he liked to read or the roundness of his belly. Oh, no. His name would be carried back to Camnipol and King Simeon on a carriage of gold by horses with rubies on their reins. He would be the talk of the court, praised and honored and celebrated in the highest circles of the kingdom.
Except, of course, that he wouldn't. The name that would be celebrated in Camnipol was Alan Klin's.
Alan Klin, who'd humiliated him. Who'd burned his book.
Geder took a long, deep breath, let it out slowly, and closed the lid. A moment later, he opened it again, dug two double handfuls of gems out, and poured them down his shirt. The lovely little stones gathered around his belly where his belt cinched tight. He closed his jacket to cover the lumps, lowered the lid again, and scraped the snow back over it. As he stood, a wide, black joy filled him and made his first pleasure seem weak. When he walked back to the carts, he didn't need to remind himself to hold his head high. The girl watched him approach. Geder grinned at her like he was greeting an old friend or a lover. An accomplice. Briefly, he lifted a single finger to his lips. Don't tell.
The girl's eyes went wide. Half a breath later she nodded, only once. I won't. He could have kissed her.
When he found his second, the Timzinae had finished leading the common soldiers through the mill house. Geder noticed that the conversation among the soldiers stopped when he walked in the room, but this time it didn't bother him. The interior of the house smelled of mold and smoke, and the signs of the caravan's night in the shelter marked the stones of the flooring. A broom leaned against the far wall. Its head was wet, and a thin puddle of water darkened the stones beneath it. Geder pointedly ignored it.
"What have you found?" he asked.
"Nothing, my lord," the second said.
"We're wasting time here," Geder said. "Gather the men. We should move on."
The second looked around. One of the soldiers - a young Timzinae with black scales that shone like he'd polished them - shrugged.
"My lord, we haven't turned the basement. If you'd like - "
"Do you really think there's a point to it?" Geder asked. When the second didn't reply at once: "Honestly."
"Honestly, no."
"Then let's get the men together and go."
The caravan master, sitting on a stool, made a rough impatient noise in the back of his throat. Geder turned to him.
"On behalf of empire and king, I apologize for this inconvenience," he said with a bow.
"Think nothing of it," the 'van master said sourly.
Outside, the soldiers fell into position as they had every time before. Geder lifted himself to his own saddle carefully. His belt held. The gems and jewels dug at his skin, pinching a little at his sides. None fell out. The caravan guards watched with well-feigned lack of interest as Geder drew his sword in salute, turned his horse, and moved forward at a gentle walk. With every step they took away from the caravan, he felt his spine relax. The sun, already sliding down toward the horizon, half blinded him, and he craned his neck, counting the soldiers behind him to make sure no one had doubled back or been left behind. None had.
At the top of the ridge, Geder paused. His second came to his side.
"We can make camp at the same place as last night, my lord," he said. "Strike out south and west in the morning."
Geder shook his head. "East," he said.
"Lord?"
"Let's go east," Geder said. "Gilea's not far, and we can spend a few days someplace warm before we go back to Vanai."
"We're going back?" the second asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"May as well," Geder said, struggling against his smile. "We aren't going to find anything."