“You don't carry tower shields,” I commented, making it a question.
“I requested that Tulian Dural Verrans buy enough for my men and bring them with the baggage train. It's a pain to carry them on foot, you understand.” He had used Tul's full name again, making it clear that he knew exactly who he was.
I imagined carrying a tower shield and guessed it would be a pain. “And you traveled cross country because…?”
He grinned at me. “Best route from where we were. Pretty good calculation, eh?”
I thought about it. Actually it was, depending on where they had come from. I would, now I thought about it, have expected them to hit the road either ahead or behind us. I thought about it some more. “You have a sorcerer with you.”
“Shaman, he calls himself. From the south.”
We passed through my men and over the ridge. Things had changed. The equestes had split into two groups, now each a hundred strong, and were well to the left and right of the place where we crossed the ridge and headed down toward the army. Another cavalry unit of maybe twenty men was making its way out from the main body. The army had stopped and formed up either side of the road facing both ways, ready for anything. It was an impressive sight, the men as still as statues, the light breeze moving the grasses around them and the occasional shadow of a cloud passing over them contrasting with their own lack of movement. We made our way down the slope at no great speed. I didn't want anyone getting edgy, best to keep things slow and smooth. The small group of equestes changed their line a little and I could see the commander's banner among them. Thinking things through as I rode, I knew my reputation was going to suffer. I'd got the password wrong and there were only two people who knew I had been fed the wrong information. His word against mine. I hadn't realized our first meeting, where I had almost invited him to duel, had stuck in his craw that much; but I should have. We are a prickly lot, our personal and family honor and dignity precious commodities. There was still a chance I was wrong but I doubted it. I was bloody furious and he would pay, but I held that at arm's length. Be professional and do the job. Take the lumps. State the case and leave it.
I pulled rein when we had closed with the commander's troop and they did the same, spreading around us. Gatren Teciba Orans was with the commander, his face too carefully neutral. I found myself facing Tul and went for it.
“Sir, this is Rastrian Bacht, captain of a company of crossbowmen whom he claims are here at your request. There is some confusion over the password and I felt it better to be safe than sorry.”
Tul took this in calmly, nothing showing on his face. “The confusion over the password?”
“Your aide gave me the password Strawberries at this mornings staff meeting. Rastrian Bacht gave the password as Raspberries.”
Tul turned to his aide. “Is this true?”
“No, sir. I gave the correct password. Raspberries. Sumto must have misheard me, or misremembered.”
“Well?”
“I would thank your aide to use my rank when speaking of me and there is nothing wrong with my hearing or my memory, sir.”
I could see him decide to let it drop. “I will speak with both of you about this in camp this evening.” He turned his attention to the crossbowman. “Rastrian, well met. Bring your men in. Sumto, go with him and keep them for now.”
Gatren's eyes and mouth opened in surprise as though he were about to protest but caught himself in time. I was right, he'd lied to set me up for a fall and he was going to pay. For just a moment I watched the anger on his face, but not directly, I didn't want anyone to see that I was pleased by his reaction, then I saluted and obeyed my orders. Ha!
I could not suppress my grin of joy as I rode away, Rastrian at my side.
Behind me Tul was issuing commands and his staff broke up to obey, riders heading off in various directions at fair speed.
“So, commander, what's got you happy? Pleased to be my boss?”
“Pleased enough,” I said. “How many are you exactly and what is your command structure?”
I listened attentively as he told me. In brief I gave him back the same information he'd just given me and asked for confirmation. There is nothing wrong with my memory. It occurred to me that Tul would know that. He was my cousin. Families talk about other family members. Hell, the whole class of patrons were almost all related on some level. Gatren had clearly just listened to the negative gossip and not the few gems that would have saved him from being on the losing end here. Sumto speaks several languages, is a scholar, has a remarkable memory; all he had heard was Sumto is a drunk, shirks his responsibilities, refuses military service on any thin pretext that comes to mind, is a bad debtor… I stopped myself there; the negative list was getting too long for comfort.
It completely slipped my mind to talk to my new men. I put it down to a mixture of relief and triumph.
15
The next day the army picked up the pace to a forced march. Our men and horses were good for it but my new command was suffering. There were a hundred and twelve men of varying ages and from a range of lands. The most striking of them was an old, dark skinned man who wore no armor, his only visible weapon a stout staff. His clothing was mismatched and brightly colored, including bright yellow trousers and a shocking pink headband, the back of which was tied intricately into hair that had matted into several clumps which hung down his back. He dropped out early and I sent a man to find out why. The message came back that he could not possibly keep up the pace.
“He is demanding a horse. Not asking, sir. Demanding, like I was a servant.”
I thought about it and then arranged one for him and another for Rastrian and had them join me at the back of their troop. I rode at the back so that I could see how they were holding up and also see if anyone dropped out, as the old man had.
Rastrian took his horse with gratitude and fell in with me and my original command of six. The old man in the bright clothing did the same with an arrogant assumption that he would be welcome that I had to admire. They both rode well enough that I didn't feel I had to worry about them.
“You must be the Shaman.”
The old man turned his face to me, utterly without expression. His eyes were the same. It was like there was no one behind them. He didn't answer at once. If he had not turned to face me I would have thought he didn't know I was there.
“I am Dubaku, Shaman to the Urindu.”
I gave him my name and position. For some reason he demanded my respect on a level I couldn't quite define. I have met kings and felt less need to show them any respect.
“You're a priest, then?”
He tutted in disapproval and turned away. No, I corrected myself. He had said something. I reproduced the sound and he turned back to me, laughing openly, though none of his facial expression touched his eyes, which I thought was a neat trick.
“What does it mean?” I made the noise again.
He didn't hesitate. “Idiot.”
“Exactly that?”
“You could say callow, young, ignorant. Same thing.” He said something else, mostly clicks and plosives and I repeated it exactly.
“You are a mimic.”
“No. I'm just good with languages. What did that mean?”
“A Shaman is not a rapist.”
I said it again, to make sure I had it. “And priests are?”
“They take spirits of their followers, binding them in life and warping them in death to serve as tools without minds or will. A Shaman touches the spirits of his own ancestors, and sometimes others, and asks those with ability for aid which they sometimes give.”