Chapter Twelve
Vaagdjul rose hastily. “I have heard as much as I need. If I were to remain longer, I would hear more than I should. Or wish.
“The hall shall be sealed. The guards will admit no one. Leave when you will. I am old, and tired, and have presided over too many family squabbles and tragedies. Apprise me of your plans when they are set.”
The chief hobbled toward the exit, two of his guards following with his chair. The third walked alongside the venerable h’achgai, one hand surreptitiously ready to steady or catch him.
As soon as their footfalls faded, Dora spun toward Tirolane. “Coño! Why not start with ‘he’s my abuelo’—eh, grampa?”
Tirolane gritted his teeth “I will not resort to the currency that paid my way as a waif growing to age on Zrik Whir: pity, pity, and more pity.” He shook his head sharply. “And yet, that is just what I have done.”
Orsost stepped close to him. “Lord Tirolane, we are with you!” He glanced at the Crewe, disappointed frown deepening.
However, Enoran’s eyes remained on Tirolane’s face. “So, this is why you would not accept our oaths?”
Tirolane nodded, met the technicker’s gaze. “I could not, in good conscience, allow you to join your paths to mine. For I could not know, and still do not, what I must hazard to fulfill the oath I took to rescue my only living family.”
His attempt at a smile was bleak rue. “And what follows that quest will be no better: rescuing friends who have been taken by the x’qai.” He gave up trying to affect jocularity. “The simple truth is that an oath of service made to me is likely to become a suicide pact.”
“So,” commented Bannor, arms crossed, “it’s not chance, you happening to be with Sharat. You must have heard about his mission when you were at the Legate’s in Forkus. Although that doesn’t seem like the sort of intel Tasvar would share out.”
“It was not,” Tirolane admitted, “but when one knows what to look for as an assault group is being readied—the type and amount of provisions, the numbers and persons on the team, the region-specific kit—their destination was a near certainty.”
Peter nodded. “And your claim that you were setting forth to immediately seek your friends: that was an . . . exaggeration?”
Tirolane started. “I am no liar! Nor have I invited or encouraged anyone to believe anything that is not true! My friends have disappeared into the stronghold of some liege here on Brazhgarag. And it is not an ‘exaggeration’ to assert that, of all the humans on this continent, Cruvanor is more likely to have word of them than any other.”
“Why?”
“Because it is known that there are a dozen senior war leaders who have found ways to pass intelligence between them secretly and stay apprised of conditions among not just lieges, but of the suzerains to which they answer.”
“Damn,” Duncan breathed, “a humint star chamber! Ready-made!”
Miles grinned. “Down boy. Er, sir.”
Tirolane walked slowly toward the Crewe, hands out. “I know the magnitude of what I ask, not only in time and risk but compassion for people you do not know. So I swear this upon my ancestors, most especially the only one whom I know to be alive: if you grant me this boon, my fealty is forever yours. A life bound to you for a life set free. But know this, as well: I will go alone if I must, and I will take oaths of fealty from all those who, knowing the dangers, still wish to tender them unto me. Including those of any trogans or trogs who wish to follow their former leaders.” He gestured to the humans on either side of him.
Miles leaned away. “Damn, I thought you were on our side, Tirolane. But I guess we see your true colors now, yeah? You’ll even take the trogs over us, to get what you want.”
Tirolane’s jaw became as rigid as his eyes were hard. “That was not my intent. But if that is leverage, and if it helps you make the right decision, then so be it.”
“The right decision for you and Cruvanor, maybe, but not us.”
“No. It is the right decision for all of you.” He let his gaze run along the faces of the Crewe. “You more than anyone.”
Miles was leaning forward to respond when Caine raised a hand. “Let him finish.”
“Yeah”—Bannor nodded shrewdly—“I think the downside—losing Cruvanor—is only half of what Tirolane is talking about. That’s the stick . . . but I’m guessing there’s a carrot, too. Am I right?”
Tirolane frowned. “I do not know what a carrot is. But if you mean that I have only presented the perils of not saving my grandfather, rather than adding mention of the benefits, then you are correct.”
Caine smiled. “Yes, that’s what Bannor means. So: tell us.”
Tirolane spread his hands in appeal. “Let us dismiss the fact that Enoran and Orsost would then gladly join your efforts—and so, your colors. Let us also leave aside the certainty that Cruvanor and the humans with him will offer you the same, if not greater, gratitude and loyalty. Let us even ignore that, with Cruvanor’s name and knowledge, you could build your force not merely through captured trogs but more freed humans.”
“That’s a lot to ignore,” Duncan muttered, rubbing his chin.
“Let us consider only this,” Tirolane concluded. “That Cruvanor is one of the great experts of ancient salvage. Certainly the foremost on this continent, and very possibly in the world.” He nodded at the group. “None of you have overseen such a project. He has, dozens of times. His eye will discern the value of objects unerringly, and also, assess which artifacts may be refurbished most easily. Very possibly using components of other similar devices that may be found nearby.”
“And how do you know this?” Ayana asked mildly.
Tirolane offered the shadow of a courtly bow in her direction. “Because when an artifact is acquired by Zrik Whir, and its black market provenance indicates it was found and assessed by Cruvanor, that is the highest standard of value and reliability.”
He surveyed their carefully neutral faces again and his own started to bend into the shape of baffled anger. “Will you not have me? Have I not been honorable at all times, in all ways?”
“None more so,” Caine replied.
“Indeed, none so much,” Yaargraukh answered, his tone of respect calming the swordsman. “But your honor pulls you in two ways. No one can objectively advocate for themselves in such circumstances.”
“Which,” Riordan followed, “is why we must ask you to give us the room: so that, as a group, we may decide how to respond.”
Tirolane nodded and paced away. Without so much as a glance from him, the two freed humans followed him out of the hall.
Riordan let a full minute pass, then nodded at Bannor.
The Special Forces colonel turned toward Bey. “We need your opinion on what you just heard.”
She frowned, uncertain. “Of course, but I did not understand all of it.”
Riordan managed not to smile; he was quite sure that whatever parts were unfamiliar, she’d already made some shrewd guesses.
Bannor shook his head. “We’re not asking you about prospecting or Cruvanor or any of those matters. Our concern is much narrower. Specifically, if Tirolane was to leave our group, what impact do you think it would have on the trogs?”
Bey nodded, frowned. “This would be a very bad time for any rifts to appear among their highest leaders. There are now three separate groups that have been added to those of us who came north as your prisoners from Forkus. All but one of the twelve newest are kajh, and half of those are trogans. They will soon be competing for places of respect, so strong leadership from familiar figures will be necessary to maintain order. And in this group, that will be more crucial because of your . . . er, unfamiliar means of command.”
“Yeah,” added Miles with a long sigh, “and if the three humans who leave are the locals who lead them the ‘normal’ way, that will confirm their suspicion that the rest of us don’t know what the hell we’re doing.” He spat. “Great. Just great.”
Caine sought and found Bey’s eyes. “Do you feel Tirolane’s departure could lead to desertion? Or mutiny?”
Bey shook her head sharply at the suggestion of mutiny. “No. You have won battles and they have seen that you are both fearsome and just.” She frowned. “If by desertion you mean slipping off in the night, I do not think any would do that. But they might fade away from the edges of an uncertain battle, and any order to retreat might cause them to flee, instead.”
Duncan’s voice sounded injured. “Kinda disappointing, given that we’ve treated them way better than anyone else—including their own kind.”
“You have, but their minds are still those of warrior-thralls. They are accustomed to leaders who never give them more than they must. You give them much more, but in their experience, the only leaders who do that are those with a weak hold over their troops.”
As if reading Caine’s mind, she looked over at him. “But do not change the way you lead. For now, just remember to remain distant from them: that is the behavior of higher leaders who cannot be bothered with the affairs of regular kajh or urldi. And if your lieutenants express authority in familiar ways, they will see your behavior as akin to that of powerful vassals or lieges. Eventually, they will see the true differences in leadership and realize that is what makes this band so successful. But that will require more time and victories.”
Bannor nodded. “Thank you, Bey. Now, we will need to speak among ourselves.”
She tilted her head, as if she doubted what she had heard. “You are asking me to leave? Even though I am part of your, eh, command staff?”
Bannor nodded.
She turned to look at Caine. “And you agree to this?”
He met her gaze. “I’m the one who made it a rule, in this case,” he exaggerated. Because even if there had been enough time, they still could not have explained why it was necessary for her to leave. Discussing Tirolane’s ultimatum meant assessing how it affected prospecting, which in turn directly impacted their odds of returning to space. And since Caine had been the one to restrict “Shangri-la” topics to Fireside Chats, he was the reason Bey couldn’t remain. Besides: my unit, my responsibility.
Bey did not make it any easier. “You do not trust me? You?” Typically quite professional, her voice had become high and raw.
Caine kept his face unchanged. “Trust has nothing to do with it. The rest of us must now discuss things that would be unsafe for you to know.”
Bey’s face contorted into tight, intersecting lines of both anger and hurt. “And you think I would share your secrets? Even though I might be tortured?”
Riordan suppressed a sigh of regret. “Bey, none of us know all the, uh, Talents, that x’qai might have to extract secrets. But I do know this: if someone decides to investigate our most powerful artifacts, then anyone with detailed knowledge of them is at great risk. And I refuse to expose anyone to that peril needlessly. That is why I must ask you to leave. This one time.” I hope.
Without a word, Bey stood and stalked out of the great hall.
The others exchange glances. “Boss,” Dora muttered, “I think we may have a problem with her.”
“Probably more than one, but that’s a conversation for another place and another time.” Or, given how fast things change on this world, maybe never.
Craig was rubbing his hands—anxiously, Riordan thought. “So we’re deciding whether we go after Cruvanor and keep Tirolane, or go straight for the old ruins and lose him, right?” Answered only by nods, Girten continued. “Well, then how’s that even a choice? Tirolane is a good guy trying to do a great thing. The ruins—well, it’s not like we know if we’ll find anything useful there. And it sure doesn’t seem like anyone else is rushing to find out before we do.”
“No, not so far as we know,” Peter answered, “although there is probably at least one informer inside Tasvar’s fortress. Far more important is what Djubaran reported about the sand rising up against the flat-tops. We cannot know whether it will take days or seasons for the desert to cover them again. But we can be sure of this: the sooner we reach them, the more likely we can get inside.”
Riordan nodded. “Those are key variables in the strategic question before us: what is the best way to achieve our primary objective of getting the hell off this planet? Do we rescue Cruvanor before going to the ruins, or after?”
After several seconds of silence, Miles shrugged. “I’ll say it if no one else will. The site is a bird in the hand; Cruvanor is one in a very distant bush.” He sighed. “So, hold on to the bird. We leave the casino and count our winnings. Going after Cruvanor is tempting Fate. And she’ll kick your ass, every time.”
“So what’re thinkin’ then? That we’re going to traipse into the wrack and ruin of ages past and find a rocket down there, just waiting for us?”
Newton’s counter was testy. “No, but we are likely to learn what kind of technology existed when these ‘flat-tops’ were built. And that will tell us if it is sensible to keep looking for a means of getting to orbit, and possibly, give hints where to look for them.
“On the other hand, we may learn that their technology was not sufficiently advanced. Either way, we would have an answer to our most urgent question: Can we return to space and regain the ship?”
“Or,” O’Garran sighed, “is it just a bridge—well, orbit—too far?”
“Only once we have answered that,” Eku mused, “can we be certain that our efforts and energies are focused on achievable ends. It is a very simple choice.”
Bannor shook his head. “But it’s not that simple a choice. You heard Bey. Tirolane could prove key to maintaining control over the forces we need to reach, secure, and explore the ruins. And without Cruvanor, will we even know what to look for? Will we miss warning signs, dangers, that his experienced eyes would spot in time?”
Dora shook her head. “Yeah, yeah, all very logical. Very clever. But you’re overlooking something.”
Riordan smiled. “Tell us.”
“Well, it’s like Colonel Green Beanie said about these ruins. We don’t know what it’s gonna be like. Probably skulking around in the dark, hoping monsters we’ve never heard of won’t kill us before we find something that might not even be there.
“And rescuing Cruvanor? More unknowns. Can we get the barge? Will we win? If we do, will it hurt us so bad that we’ll have to go back to Achgabab and lick our wounds—assuming they’ll let us?”
Newton crossed his considerable arms. “And your point is?”
“My point, Doctor Ice Water, is one you’d never see.” She stared around the faces of the Crewe. “There’s only one choice we’ve got that isn’t based on maybes and guesses and calculated risks. And that’s rescuing Cruvanor—because it’s the human thing to do.
“Win or lose, a rescue is a real act; it’s visceral. Yeah, we might lose more goods, maybe even some lives. But it will bind us all together because we stood together. Stood against creatures that make their living by sucking the life out of us all: creatures that everyone—human, crog, trog—hates.” She raised her chin, daring anyone to contradict her.
“Assuming we survive as a unit,” Peter pointed out.
“No argument,” she replied, “but we’ve got some tricks that they’ve never seen. And if they’ve sent a whole army along with this barge, we’ll be able to see that way in advance and turn around.”
“Dora’s right,” Bannor agreed. “There’s only one reason to intercept it that transcends debates over optimization: to save the humans on that barge. Everything else—whether Cruvanor can help us, whether the ruins are above or below the sand, and whatever they do or don’t contain—is what we worry about next.” He glanced over at Riordan.
Who let the silence extend to ensure that the debate had truly wound down. Caine looked around the group. “Every point made was solid.” He nodded at Rulaine. “But I agree with your conclusion.”
O’Garran cocked an eyebrow. “Not like you seem surprised by any of it, sir. You barely reacted.”
“Because, Chief, sometimes the best thing a commander can do is let his staff debate the options and consequences.” He nodded his appreciation. “Besides, it wouldn’t have been right for me to steer this conversation.”
Somers raised an eyebrow. “An’ why’s that, Commodore?”
“Because, from the moment Tirolane put the choice before us, I knew which option I favored.” He saw perplexity in the faces ringing him. “As far as I’m concerned, what we choose now defines who we are. Are odds and percentages going to drive our actions and our objectives? Or will they be determined by what we value most: the people around us?
“We’ve all seen, and felt, how pragmatism can push human values off the table. In military operations, it’s often unavoidable. But if it becomes too frequent, it can become a habit. Then, flesh-and-blood costs are just statistics: wrinkles that spoil the ‘bigger picture.’”
He jabbed his finger at the ground. “I won’t have that. Ever. We need every one of our people to know we care for our own. But more importantly, we need them to believe it—and that means we have to act accordingly.”
Riordan straightened. “They’ve seen that we don’t make reckless decisions. They’ve got to see that we won’t make heartless ones, either. And if that is the core truth of our unit, then we will stick together as a unit. Hell, that’s why we’re all here now: because we came to know—and feel—that way about each other. And the more we’ve been the underdogs, the more important that’s been.”
Caine leaned back. “So: that’s why we’re going after Cruvanor first.”
Craig was smiling broadly. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Should I go get Tirolane, now?”
Riordan couldn’t help smiling back. “Please do, Sergeant Girten.”
* * *
After hearing the outcome he’d clearly read in Girten’s broad smile, Tirolane proved as good as his word: he offered to take an oath of irrevocable fealty then and there.
Riordan shook his head. “Tirolane, you know we don’t believe in having vassals. We believe in, and have become, friends who travel together but are free to part if they must and to return as they can. Is that acceptable to you?”
He stood very straight. “It is not merely acceptable; it confirms my conjectures, and highest hopes, about your group from our first meeting. That you were a company so worthy of my fealty that you would forego an oath and make it an agreement of honor instead. So to you I say simply, ‘Lead. I shall follow.’”
They shook hands in Bactradgarian fashion and, reflexively, the rest of the Crewe came forward to make a similar welcome to him and then Orsost and Enoran.
Except Girten, who sidled up to Caine. “Sir, you might want to step out into the main corridor for a moment.”
Riordan turned. “Why? Is someone waiting for us?”
Craig looked uncomfortable. “Well, they deny it . . . but I think so.”
“Spit it out, Sergeant: who’s come to see us?”
“Not to see ‘us,’ sir. Just you. And she didn’t come; she stayed.”
* * *
Riordan had to walk around the nearest corner before he discovered Bey sitting on one of the stone benches lining the main approach to the great hall. He sat at the other end. “You’re angry.”
She didn’t look at him, but nodded. “I was. I know I shouldn’t be.” Bey shut her eyes. “I was furious, was sure you thought I was weak . . . but I know you do not think so.”
“Then what—?”
“So, if you knew I was not weak, then I was certain you sent me out because you thought me a stupid trog who could not keep secrets. But I knew you didn’t think that, either. So then I even imagined that you sent me out of the council to prove that you preferred the rest of your trib—eh, Crewe. But that made less sense; had you felt that, you would have shown it long before now.”
“So, you are still angry because—?”
“Because even though your precaution and your reasons are prudent, I did not—and do not—like them. But that is just stupid and impulsive, which is exactly what other races expect of trogs. And that makes me angry at myself.”
“You have no reason to be angry at yourself.”
She almost shouted. “Do you think I don’t know that? But then, in the same instant, I am angry at you for having been the cause, the source, of all these doubts and feelings. They are not . . . not sensible.”
Caine shrugged, smiled. “Feelings aren’t always sensible.”
“They are for me,” Bey snapped irritably, but something in her tone suggested that she doubted the words even as she uttered them.
Riordan wondered at her oddly irresolute assertion. “I understand your anger. And also, the frustration of having reactions that, if you were counseling a friend, you would call illogical.” He smiled again. “I’ve certainly done that. Far too often.”
Bey looked up. Her eyes bored into his longer than he expected—and apparently, she as well. Bey slapped her thighs and rose. “I must do something.”
“What?”
She shook her head fiercely. “Anything that will keep me from thinking or feeling until both become more clear. I presume we march for the river tomorrow?”
Riordan nodded. “At first light.”
She returned his nod and walked briskly away.
As she did, Caine had the impression that as much as she was rushing toward her sleeping furs, she was also rushing away from the great hall.
As fast as she could without running.