I see that no ragged shaduwam march with us.
And which army, I wonder, is the real one?
Andanii, he knew, was emphatic that they discover more about this foreign mercenary commander. And so that is what he would pursue during this march north. The evening meals were far too public for any meaningful discussion. The gathered family heads watched each other like a clutch of baby birds jealously measuring the attention and feeding each one received. Certainly not the place to probe the foreigner regarding the shaduwam and the seeming pact, or understanding, he had somehow managed to strike with them.
Until then, he would maintain his public face and play the game of alliance-building among the various jostling families, together with his outward frostiness towards Princess Andanii and her family allies, however stupid and unnecessary the entire puppet show seemed to him.
That evening, during the interminable dinner in the massive main tent, he waited and watched until the Warleader excused himself early, as was his habit. Shortly afterwards he too begged off listening — yet again — to another of Ganell’s stories, and exited the tent.
The night was quiet and dark, half overcast by high thin clouds. The eerie arc of the Visitor waxed now brighter than ever. It lanced across the sky like a tossed torch. Would it smash upon them in the flame and destruction so many dreaded? Perhaps their unparalleled foray into northern territory was merely the realization of this heavenly portent of apocalypse — for the Thaumaturgs, that was. Jatal wrapped his robes tighter about himself against the chill evening air and made for the Warleader’s tent.
Guards called for him to halt at the entrance and he waited while one enquired as to the Warleader’s disposition. To one side, the hulking Scarza sat against a saddle, his rather stubby legs stretched out before him while he ate. Jatal offered him a brief bow of acknowledgement, to which the half-giant raised the haunch he gnawed upon. Shortly thereafter, Jatal was waved in. A mercenary guard used the haft of his spear to hold aside the heavy cloth flap. Jatal ducked within.
The interior was much darker than the general encampment, with its torches planted between the tents and the Visitor glaring down upon them all. Here, a single lamp on a side table cast a small globe of amber light that hardly touched the canvas ceiling and walls. His first impression was that the sparsely furnished tent was empty, and then movement from the shadows revealed the Warleader crossing into the light. He wore now only a long linen shirt over trousers bound by leather swathing, and faded hide moccasins. It might have been a trick of the uncertain light, but it appeared as if the thick canvas of the tent was moving where the Warleader had been. He went to the table and poured himself wine from a tall cut crystal decanter. Peering over his shoulder at Jatal, he hefted the heavy vessel. ‘Spoils of war,’ he observed.
‘A very beautiful prize.’
The Warleader gestured to a leather saddle seat against one wall. ‘Thank you,’ Jatal said.
‘Drink?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The old man selected another glass. The tent was ripe with the lingering spicy smoke that the man doused himself with, but Jatal thought he could detect another scent amid the heady melange. A familiar one he could not quite place.
The Warleader crossed the tent to hand him a tumbler filled with red wine. ‘You have changed,’ he said as he seated himself. He stretched out his long thin legs and held his glass in his fingertips on his lap.
‘Oh? How so?’
‘When I first saw you, you were an innocent soul.’
Jatal decided it was his turn to arch a brow. ‘And what am I now, pray tell?’
The man cocked his head on one side and studied him anew. Jatal felt as if the inhumanly cold and lazy eyes were dissecting him, laying exposed his every self-doubt, ambition and lie. ‘You are now a political soul. May the gods forgive you.’
Jatal took a sip of the wine while he considered that and grimaced his distaste: the red was as thick and sweet as blood. The Warleader raised a hand. ‘My apologies. I should have warned you. This is a strong fortified wine. It is like the truth … not to everyone’s taste.’
Jatal forced the sip down yet kept hold of the tumbler, if only so as not to offend his host. ‘When I arrived I was nothing more than the youngest of my father’s sons, the least of the brood, with no hopes or prospects. Then I was happy buried in my books and studies.’
‘And now …?’ the foreigner prompted. Yet Jatal heard no interest in his voice; if anything, the man sounded bored, or disappointed.
‘Now I find myself swept up in a gamble more insane and foolhardy than any I could have ever imagined. Even the ancient lays and stories of the old heroes cannot compare to this audacious throw. Sometimes I fear the very gods have caught their breath.’
The old soldier’s gaze had drifted down to his glass, which he lifted and finished in one last gulp. Then he gave a heavy sigh. It seemed to Jatal that the man must have heard such last-minute qualms a thousand times before. ‘You have doubts and worries,’ he said, sounding utterly wearied by Jatal’s doubts and worries. ‘That is only normal for any man or woman cursed with intelligence, such as yourself. As to this gamble, or throw of the dice, as you put it … every battle is a risk. That is why sane men prefer to avoid them.’ He held out his open hands, the empty glass loose in one. ‘However, I have spent an entire lifetime — that is, my entire life — pursuing such risks and ventures and I can assure you that this is a sound one. If we can keep these Thaumaturgs on the run there is a good chance that within a month they will no longer be in charge of their own country.’ He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and dangled his large hands. ‘And so, my prince of the Hafinaj. You came here to speak to me … what is it you wish to say?’
Fascinated by the fish-like dead eyes Jatal could not find his voice. Was this what passed as the man’s candour, or his mockery? Was he not taking any of this seriously? Jatal could not shake the feeling that he was being played with. The suspicion stoked his anger and he found the resolve to blurt out, ‘What are the shaduwam to you?’
The Warleader tilted his head. His dusk-grey eyes slit in thought. He sighed, then pushed on his knees to stand up and crossed to the side table. He poured another glass of the thick treacle-like wine. Turning, he tossed the drink down and sucked his teeth in a hiss. ‘What are the shaduwam to me?’ he repeated, musing. He leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. ‘They are as nothing to me. I would not care one whit should they all be swept from the face of the earth tomorrow. Is that enough of an answer for you, my prince?’
Jatal studied the man as he turned to light one of several tall yellow candles that cluttered the table. He gathered the impression that this man wouldn’t care a whit should just about any or every thing be swept from the face of the earth, very probably including Jatal himself. A detached part of him wondered whether this was calculated to intimidate or impress. In any other man he would assume so; yet this one struck him as different from any other he had ever met. One who did not give a damn what he or anyone else thought. And so he decided that in fact, no, this foreign Warleader was not trying to impress or intimidate or overawe him in any way at all. That would presume that he cared, when he very clearly did not. So he opted to pursue the issue, if only to shake the bushes, as they say, to see how the man would respond. ‘You have formed no agreement with them, then? No sort of alliance?’
‘I did not say that,’ the man answered flatly. He waved a hand to direct the fumes of the candle to his face and inhaled.
Ye gods, this man is difficult! Jatal set his glass aside. ‘Care to provide the particulars?’