The officer had finished speaking and was now looking at him in silence. Gel-Ethlin frowned, gave a contemptuous snort, suggesting that he had never heard such unconvincing nonsense in his life, and said he would inspect the contingent himself next morning. The officer saluted and went off to rejoin his men.
At this moment a messenger arrived from the governor of Kabin, sixteen miles to the east. The governor sent word that he was worried lest the rains should begin and the army withdraw to Bekla before reaching him. During the past ten or twelve days the level of the Kabin reservoir, from which water was brought by canal sixty miles to Bekla, had sunk until the lower walls had become exposed and a section had cracked in the heat. If a disaster were to be prevented the repair work ought to be carried out at once, before the rains raised the level again: but to complete the job in a matter of a day or two was beyond local resources.
Gel-Ethlin could recognize an emergency when he was faced with one. He sent at once for his most reliable senior officer and also for a certain Captain Han-Glat, a foreigner from Terckenalt, who knew more than anyone in the army about bridges, dams and soil movement. As soon as they appeared he told them what had happened and gave them a free hand to select the fittest troops, up to half the total strength, for a forced march to Kabin that night. As soon as possible after getting there they were to make a start on repairing the reservoir. He himself, with the rest of the men, would join them before evening of the following day.
By late afternoon they were gone, the soldiers grumbling but at least not mutinous. There was a good deal of limping and their pace was slow. Still, that was less worrying than the thought of the probable condition they would be in when they got to Kabin. Presumably, however, Han-Glat would need a few hours to survey the reservoir and decide what needed to be done, and this in itself would give them some rest. At any rate he, Gel-Ethlin, could hardly be criticized by headquarters in Bekla for the way he had gone about the matter. As night fell he went the rounds of the sentries and bivouacs – a shorter task than usual, with his command down to half-strength – heard the casualty reports and authorized a handful of genuinely sick men to be sent back to Bekla by ox-cart; ate his supper, played three games of tvari with his staff captain (at which he lost fifteen meld) and went to bed.
The following morning he was up so early that he had the satisfaction of rousing some of his officers in person. But the low spirits of the men gave him much less satisfaction". The news had got round that they were in for not only a forced march to Kabin, rains or no rains, but also for plenty of work when they got there. Even the best troops are apt to take it hard when ordered to do something arduous after having been led to believe that their work is virtually finished, and Gel-Ethlin had deliberately retained his second-best. Himself a sturdy, energetic man, staunch in adversity, he could hardly contain his annoyance at the stupidity of the soldiers in being unable to realize the serious nature of the news from Kabin. It was only with difficulty that three or four of his senior officers were able to convince him that it was hardly to be expected that they would.
'It's a curious thing, sir,' said Kapparah – a leathery fifty-five-year-old who had survived a lifetime's campaigning and prudently turned all the loot that had stuck to his fingers into farmland on the borders of Sarkid – 'it's always struck me as a curious thing, that when you're asking men to give a little extra, the amount they're genuinely able to give depends on the reason. If it's defending their homes, for instance, or fighting for what they believe is theirs by right, they'll find themselves able to do almost anything. In fact, if it's a matter of any sort of fighting, they're nearly always able to give a good deal. They can understand that, you see, and no one wants his mates to think he's a coward, or that he dropped out while they went on. Those kinds of thoughts are like keys to a secret armoury. A man doesn't know what he's got inside until the key opens it. But to repair the reservoir at Kabin – no, they can't grasp the importance of that, so it's a key that doesn't fit the lock. It's not wont, sir, it's can't, you know.'
The camp had been struck, the columns were drawn up ready to march and the pickets, who had been fed and inspected at their posts, were being called in last of all, when the guard commander brought in a limping, blood-stained hill-man. He was little more than a boy, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, staring about him and continually raising one hand to his mouth as he licked the bleeding gash across his knuckles. Two soldiers had him under the armpits or he might well have turned tail.
'Refugee, sir,' said the guard commander, saluting Bekla-fashion, with his right forearm across his chest, 'from the hills. Talking about some sort of trouble at Gelt, sir, as near as I can make him out.'
'Can't stop for that sort of thing now, guard commander,' said Gel-Ethlin. 'Turn the fellow loose and get your men fallen in.'
Released by the soldiers, the hill-man at once fell on his knees in front of Kapparah, whom he probably took for the senior officer present. He had babbled a few words in broken Beklan – some-thing about 'bad men' and 'fire' – when Kapparah stopped him by speaking to him in his own language. There followed a swift dialogue of question and answer so incisive and urgent that Gel-Ethlin thought it better not to interrupt. Finally Kapparah turned to him.
'I think we'd better get the whole story out of this man before we set off for Kabin, sir,' he said. 'He keeps saying Gelt's been taken and burned by an invading army and he will have it that they're on their way down here.'
Gel-Ethlin threw out his hands with a questioning look of mock forbearance and the other officers, who did not particularly like Kapparah, smiled sycophantically.
'You know what we're up against at Kabin, Kapparah. This is hardly the time -' He broke off and began again. 'Some terrified peasant lad from the hills who'll say anything
'Well, that's just it, sir; he's not a peasant lad. He's the chief's son, run for his life, it seems. 'Says the chief's been murdered by fanatics in some religious war they've started.' 'How do we know he's the chief's son?' 'By the tattooing on his arms, sir. He'd never dare to have that done just to deceive people.' 'Where are these invaders supposed to have come from? 'From Ortelga, sir, he says.'