Chapter Twenty-Five
The wind was fresh atop one of the crenellated towers that guarded the northern approaches to the Legate’s fortress. Had he closed his eyes, Caine might have been able to imagine himself on the edge of some desert back home: the Mojave or Sahara, maybe.
But then roars of a praakht turf war erupted from the adobe heaps clustered within twenty meters of the walls . . . and he was back in the squalid reality of Forkus. “So,” he said with a final look to ensure that the nearby parapets were empty, “do we take Tasvar’s deal or not?” He saw the uncertain glances bouncing around the gathered faces of the Crewe. “There is no rank in this meeting.”
The Crewe sat staring at each other, as each of them was daring someone—anyone—else to become the devil’s advocate for what had roundly been accepted as a good deal. Tasvar’s aid had already been substantial; not only had he provided them with a great deal of excellent local equipment but had brokered the exchanges with Ulchakh and Kosvak. However, that was secondary compared to the deal he had put before them yesterday: to provide all transport and sales for whatever salvage they might find at the flat tops north of Achgabab. His price: a third of the goods and proceeds realized therefrom.
A few of the group had expressed some dismay at such a high percentage . . . until Dora pointed out what black marketeers usually charged. “And here,” she concluded, “everything is a black-market deal.”
And while no one doubted the value of surveying the recently exposed “dunes that do not move,” Caine had pointed out a benefit beyond any immediate salvage—and almost certainly what Tasvar was actually investing in. If these structures were indeed sealed, then anything inside them was likely to be extremely well preserved. That did not just mean fragmentary clues about the apocalypse that had ended Bactradgaria’s industrial era, but documents and maps that might reveal undiscovered salvage sites that would have remained indecipherable to prospectors that didn’t happen to have a Dornaani translator.
After a long silence, it was Newton who sighed and said, “I have no reservations regarding the arrangement with Tasvar.”
“But . . . ?” prompted Peter.
Newton’s smile said what he did not: You know me too well. “But I do not how much we may trust the man himself.” There were a few nods at that.
Riordan looked around the group; he didn’t want to become Tasvar’s sole defender. He leaned back when Bannor cocked his head meditatively.
“Let’s go back to basics,” suggested the Green Beret. “Tasvar could have killed us any time over the last seven days. Either by assassinating us inside his own walls or by abandoning us on the streets. Different approaches but the same outcome.”
Duncan frowned. “He could be setting us up as pawns in some scheme of his own.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t feel like that to me, but as the commodore said, this is the time to put all the possibilities on the table.”
Bannor nodded. “It is. And there’s no way to be sure that’s not exactly what Tasvar is doing. you may be right. But again, I remember what it’s like to sit in his chair, and I can’t see how I would—or could—do any different, no matter his motivations. Even if he likes us, we are still unproven and largely unknown allies. He’d be a fool to be more forthcoming, or generous, than he has.”
Riordan measured the tentative nods answering Bannor’s arguments; it was time to drive home the most decisive fact of all. “And remember: we need Tasvar a whole hell of a lot more than he needs us. I’m not talking about acquiring the equipment and contacts we need to survive—although that would be reason enough.” He looked around the group. “He speaks English, damn it. And not some pre-Chaucerian dialect; he understood the dominant form of the language for the last three centuries or so. That is the one connection we’ve found between our world and this one. So right now, any plan for getting home starts with discovering how he learned our language.”
Dora rolled her eyes. “Well, we could just, y’know . . . ask him.”
Riordan smiled. “Now just imagine how that conversation would evolve. Who learns more about who: us about him, or him about us? And what’s more, since English is his secret battle language, we’d be backing him into a corner.”
Duncan nodded. “Given the way he reacted, he’s probably taken an oath to protect its secrecy. So he’d probably have to lie about it.”
Riordan nodded at Dora. “It’s like almost all the other questions we really want, even need, to ask. If we do it too soon, it could backfire. So right now, we ask only the questions necessary to survive, become stronger, and remain Tasvar’s peers.”
Miles folded his arms. “Yeah, because if he makes a hard play to recruit us, he’s going to be very disappointed when we refuse. And if his own troops get wind of that, he might feel he’s got to show us the door. Just to save face.”
“Which is pretty much our worst-case scenario,” Bannor agreed. “Once we’ve traveled that road together for a while, maybe then he’ll be willing, or get the permission, to tell us how and where he learned English.”
Veriden shrugged. “So: there’s lots of information we want that we can’t afford to get. But what about the reverse? How do we make sure that we don’t reveal the information that we can’t afford to share?”
Riordan nodded. “That’s a really good question. Thanks to Miles, we’ve already started to acquire a very . . . er, unique list of terms. But, to Dora’s point, there are items for which we probably need code words.”
Dora shrugged. “Well, among ourselves, we’re the Crewe. And it should stay that way: just among us. But then what should we call ourselves when dealing with locals?”
Riordan smiled. “I think Arashk gave us the answer to that.” He gestured around at the Crewe. “From the start, he assumed we were lordless scythes and harrows. Maybe we should go with that. But it would be better to use a word that he hasn’t heard, that no one else is likely to understand.” He glanced at Ayana with a sly smile. “Any ideas?”
She smiled and her nod almost became a bow. “We are ronin. But be aware: it does not mean lordless, at least not as you think of it.”
Bannor, already smiling at her, asked, “How would you define it?”
Riordan nodded general agreement instead of telling his friend what his eyes and face had been telling the rest of the world: that Colonel Rulaine was hopelessly smitten.
Ayana returned Rulaine’s smile. “Ronin means a wanderer, one who is adrift. Transliterated, the root of it is ‘a person of, or upon, waves.’”
“So we are masterless warriors riding the seas of fate,” Bannor summarized, smiling broadly. “That’s us.”
Ayana turned toward Caine and murmured, “Are you sure you wish this title for us, Commodore? In both history and myth, the stories of ronin typically end in failure. Or tragedy.”
Riordan smiled. “So we’ll rewrite the legend, Ayana. Or at least be the exception that proves the rule.”
She bowed in her seat. “Hai.”
Riordan turned back to the group. “There’s one other code word we need: a way to signal that we’re talking about space, whether it’s getting to orbit, the ship, or anything else. We’ve done a good job keeping those topics private, but at some point, the eavesdroppers are going to win. Any ideas?”
“Actually,” Bannor mused, “I’ve been thinking about that. There’s a term from an old book that you still hear sometimes, but most people don’t even know what it refers to.”
“Colonel,” Miles said with exaggerated patience, “I’d give you a drum roll if we had a snare handy, but . . . ”
Bannor shrugged. “Shangri-La.”
Newton emitted an approving grunt. “A high-altitude promised land that only a select few know how to reach. Quite apt.”
Girten’s eyes had been growing wide and were now moving from one face to another. “Jesus, am I the only one who’s going to say it?” he blurted out desperately.
“Say what?” Miles asked.
“Why, that we don’t have a rat’s ass chance of getting back to the ship! And even if we did, how would we fix it?”
Riordan regretted having to push back—Girten needed to be built up, not shut down—but defeatism had to be nipped in the bud. “Sergeant, I share your concerns about the feasibility of getting back aboard the ship. That’s why the ‘flat tops’ are a major priority. What we find inside them could answer all those questions, including where we might be able to get our hands on the necessary equipment.
“But at this moment, our only objective is to retrieve Eku. And afterward, to ensure his safety.” Riordan saw imminent frowns on half the faces. “He hasn’t the skills to be at the front of a fight. But what’s more, he’s got to teach us everything he knows.”
O’Garran nodded. “You mean in case he buys the farm, anyway?”
Riordan paused. “I was thinking about how he has to be able to share what he knows about mounting an orbital mission. Frankly, he hasn’t demonstrated the necessary calm or adaptability to be part of such a team. But whoever does go will need him to share everything he knows about the ship and space operations.”
Caine sighed. “I hope that, in the course of learning to survive on this planet, Eku might still develop the needed focus and flexibility. But I agree with our career soldiers: ‘hope is not a strategy.’”
“Hooyah,” intoned resident cynic Miles O’Garran. “Is that all, sir?”
Riordan nodded. “Time to meet with Tasvar.”