Chapter Forty-Four
The sun was striking final flickers from the river’s one visible stretch as Riordan and Ta’rel walked back to camp. Once the plan had been finalized, the leaders led their respective forces to those parts of the battlefield where preparations were required. Once completed, they’d spent two more hours dusting away the footprints they’d left in the process.
Ta’rel glanced over at Caine as Bey approached from his opposite side. The mangle’s eyes were larger than a human’s and a rich teal. “Caine Riordan, I am grateful that you wish me to be part of the special group that will attack the rear of the caravan, but I am baffled. You surely know that I am not a warrior.” He smiled meaningfully at Bey.
Riordan shrugged. “You may not be a warrior, but you have better nerve and a cooler head than most I know. But I am not asking you to fight, except in your own defense. I want you near me tomorrow because I need the counsel of someone who has lived their whole lives in these wastes, who survives by seeing dangers before they arise: someone who will notice what I might miss.”
Bey’s voice was measured, possibly . . . offended? “I, too, know the wastes, Leader Caine.”
Caine kept his voice gentle. “As well as him?”
Bey looked away. “No. No one knows the wastes as well as mangles.”
Riordan nodded. “Besides, you have an equally important, and unique, ability: to lead your people. You make up a third of our group’s number. If the battle shifts quickly, they must respond quickly. That is your task tomorrow: to see that they do. And no one can do it so well.”
She had turned back toward him, eyes eager. “I shall not fail you.”
“I know you won’t fail us,” Riordan emphasized: other than her, the trogs had taken an oath of fealty to all the humans as a group. “We have all seen your skills and intelligence. That is why we had your people make their oaths through you: so that they would know beyond doubt that you are their leader and our voice to them.”
“Caine Riordan,” Ta’rel murmured, gesturing toward Sharat’s camp circle, “I promised Ne’sar I would join her for this supper.”
Hmmm . . . maybe Katie’s right about those two. “Be assured that, if it proves more convenient, Ne’sar is always welcome in our camp circle, too.”
He nodded gratitude. “That is very kind, but we shall not be in any camp as we take our meal. We have sworn that, if either of us does not see the sunset tomorrow, the other will bear our last thoughts to our families. We mean to share those thoughts as we eat.”
Riordan’s stomach no longer felt empty so much as hollow. “I shall make sure you have the last watch. Take all the time you need.”
Ta’rel’s chin dipped in thanks and he started toward Sharat’s circle.
Caine looked after him a moment, then asked Bey, “Do praakht have a similar tradition?”
Bey shook her head. “But I wish we did.” Her tone shifted from melancholy to practical. “Leader Caine, I came to tell you something. It will take but a moment of your time.”
He smiled. “It can take as many as it needs.”
She smiled back but then pushed it aside to remain serious. “I have spoken with my people and it is decided: we do not wish to be known as praakht. We wish to be called trogs.”
Riordan almost blinked. “I am . . . surprised.” “Trogs”? Really?
“And,” Bey continued, “I wish to be known as a . . . a . . . What is Leader Miles’ word for a whakt?”
“A crog. But, Bey, you do know these are not, eh, respectful nicknames, right?”
“We are aware. But they were not made out of hate. Leader Miles makes jests of everything, but he is a good and fair leader.”
Although people who don’t know him better might suspect him of being an old-school bigot.
Bey wasn’t done. “More importantly, though, trog is not what the x’qai call us.”
“I assumed praakht was your name for yourselves.” Stupid me. Again.
She shook her head. “Before the world became as it is, legends tell that we were a people of many nations and languages. So we had many names for ourselves. It is the x’qai who called us praakht. And no doubt, that shall continue to be our name in the world for many years to come. Maybe forever. But with you, we choose to be called trogs and crogs in the hope that those with us, and those who hear of us, will know that by choosing those names, we stand against the x’qai.”
Riordan glanced sideways at her. “And the two young kajh feel the same way?”
Bey shrugged. “They were not as enthusiastic as Zaatkhur and the urldi, but they have no love for x’qai. They agreed happily, although I suspect that was because they are pleased that the oath of fealty you asked of them was so, well, gentle.”
“‘Gentle’?”
“You allowed any trog who did not wish to swear the oath to depart before the battle. That is very unusual. Most captives who have not taken or been offered an oath of fealty remain in constant danger. Or they are kept as the lowest of thralls.”
She frowned. “My only fear is that some will not understand that such gentleness is not a sign of weakness.” She banished the frown. “But any who think that? Well, in the long run, I do not think they will deserve to be called trogs. And who knows? Once they taste victory beneath your standard, many may begin to feel differently.” Bey paused. “You do have a standard, Leader Caine . . . do you not?”
“Not one that we may show just yet.” She’d probably seen the CTR symbol a few times soon after the fight in Forkus. The Crewe had covered the insignia on the standard-issue suits, but checking for damage and conducting maintenance had probably afforded her sharp eyes a glimpse or three.
Bey simply nodded. “It shall be a fine day when we may have it over us.”
“I agree, Bey. Now, if there’s nothing else, we should finish the duties of the day and then get as much sleep as possible.”
“Leader Caine, do you sleep well on the eve of battle?”
“No,” he replied with a small grin, “if I get any sleep at all.”
“Another way in which we are alike,” she nodded, returning his smile. “I shall go to my fur and hope for easy dreams.”
***
Bey was the last to approach her sleeping pile, the taste of the unusually flavorful kinestew still on her lips. Prepared by one of Sharat’s humans, it confirmed the rumors that the Legate’s food always tasted better, in large part because his troops always had ample salt.
After readying herself to sleep, she stood before her snoring fur-mate with her hands upon her hips. As ever, Zaatkhur was sprawled across half the heap, heavy arms wide. With a roll of her eyes, she wrapped her fur tight around her and pushed against his body until, with a few twists and turns, it had shifted to make room for her. “Move over, you old kine.” She sniffed. “Faugh! Did you not wash once while we followed the river?”
The voice that answered was thick with sleep. “I saw no need.”
“Nor smelled one either, I suppose.”
“I am my musk and it is me.”
“And I have to live with it.”
“Have to?” Zaatkhur was more alert, now. “I suspect you could have chosen many different fur-mates, over the years.”
“But I didn’t. Out of pity for your odorous self,” she lied. Who else could I have trusted as I slept among so many who hated me, dearest friend? Which, of course, he knew perfectly well. So, if Zaatkhur stank, it was also the smell of safety . . . and comfort.
But despite that, sleep would not come. Bey turned; Zaatkhur’s bulk was barely softened by the two furs—his and hers—between them. The change in position did not help, so she rolled back to the first.
After half a dozen such futile attempts, Zaatkhur released a sigh and spoke in the dialect she had taught him: that of the Free Tribes. “It is not the coming battle that troubles you.” His mutter was almost inaudible beneath the sonorous snores of the others in the sleeping pile.
“And are you a mindwatcher, now?”
“No. I am the unfortunate creature that must sleep next to you every night. What is bothering you, Little Bey?”
“Nothing.” Even she could hear the sulky undertone in her reply.
“Ah,” Zaatkhur sighed, “the human. You like him.”
“Who do you mean?”
“Hmmm. Now that is a bad sign.”
“What is?”
“That you deny knowing who I am plainly speaking about: Leader Caine.”
“Of course, I like him. He leads well, fairly, and honorably.” Zaatkhur’s only reply was one of his cackling whisper-giggles: the only sound more annoying than his snoring. “Is that so funny?”
“No, but you are. Now you are pretending that you like him only as a leader.” Another smothered chortle.
“You are an ignorant old boor.”
“And you like him because he is weak.”
“What?”
“Quiet: you will wake the others. Or do you wish to share your emotions with the whole camp?”
Bey bit her lip. “He is not weak. He is certainly not mighty like the one called Tirolane, but hardly weak. In fact—”
Zaatkhur released a long-suffering sigh. “I do not mean his body is weak: well, not entirely. I mean that when he is outside his magic armor, he is as smooth and soft as a sprat. He is a typical burntskin: little hair, thin skin. Not at all rounded and sturdy like us.”
“You mean, ‘like you.’”
Zaatkhur ignored her jibe. “His callouses hardly deserve the name . . . except his feet, I allow. But those tear so easily! Halfway to Khorkrag and almost all of the humans were trying to hide the blood in their boots.” He paused. “It is no great surprise, Little Bey; we are often attracted to those in whom we see parts of ourself.”
“What nonsense!”
“Is it? He is as you were when the leader dragged you into Forkus behind your mother’s, er, tunic.”
Bey bit her lip again, this time at the kindness of Zaatkhur’s reworking of the truth. Her mother had been brought through the streets and put before the gang naked. That was not a great shame in itself, but it was a message to Bey as well as all who saw: her mother may have come from a Free Tribe, but no longer had a right to pride in her origins.
As if he truly was a mindwatcher, Zaatkhur explained, “You were so very young, but you remembered that day. Which is why you’ve always looked after the weak, the wounded, the females with difficult whelping.”
“That has been a stratagem,” she retorted, almost convincing herself. “Those who survived were always devoted to me . . . and they were so numerous that if a leader mistreated me, they courted lasting resentment.”
“Oh, I saw that, but it was not the reason you did it; the protection you gained was merely a happy product of your kindness.
“Now, I will allow that this burntskin is different. He has much power. You offer him good counsel.” He stopped. “But are you truly attracted to him, or is he just the newest weakling you wish to save? I grant you, this one has made you a leader, and as his power and trust grow, he will make you a greater leader still.
“But Little Bey: you are a female and chose the way of a kajh. And no matter how great you become, no matter how many swear fealty to you, a kajh is all you can ever be to him. For in that one way, even these strange humans are no different than the most common praakht gang leader.”
She sighed. “As if I could ever forget the consequences of my choice. So you need not remind me. And especially not in such blunt and harsh words. I shall sleep now.”
But before she did, she spent many long minutes staring up at the stars and the great moon Garthyawan, wondering what heavenly mechanism spun fates such as hers.
And why it wove patterns of such intricate irony.