Olderhan smiled at the old joke, not as widely as Rukkar would have liked, but there was a faint smile there. Rukkar knew full well that marching over a bit of ground and flying over it were two drastically different propositions.
Chapter Thirty
January 31
Commander of Two Thousand Mayrkos Harshu’s expression was bleak as his orderly escorted the exhausted-looking, travel-stained commander of one hundred into his chansyu hut office. The sarkolis-crystal heater filled the office with a comfortable warmth, but none of that warmth had leaked into the two thousand’s cold eyes.
“Hundred Thalmayr, Sir,” the orderly-who could read his two thousand’s moods unerringly after so many years in his service-announced in a somewhat flattened voice, then withdrew as Hadrign Thalmayr braced to attention and saluted with the stump of his right wrist. Not even the best of Gifted Healers could regenerate a totally lost or destroyed limb.
Harshu returned the salute with a curt nod, not even glancing at the other two officers he’d asked to join him here. He already knew what he would see in Herak Mahrkrai’s and Klayrman Toralk’s expressions. They’d read the brief hummer message Thalmayr had sent ahead of him, and neither of them was stupid enough to miss the weasel-wording of that dispatch…or the holes in it. Nor had they missed the fact that it had arrived less than twenty-four hours before Thalmayr himself. Worse, they probably understood the reasons for the tardiness of its arrival as well as Harshu did.
The hundred’s journey-flight, more accurately-from Thermyn to Karys had begun over a month earlier. True, he’d spent much of that time on unicornback, covering the vast distance between Fort Ghartoun and the first of the AEF’s airheads in Failcham, but he’d still had ample opportunity to send word ahead if he’d wanted to. For that matter, he could have gotten higher priority for air transport if he’d been willing to tell Toralk’s AATC station commander what had happened in Thermyn. The dispatch he’d finally written could say whatever it liked about maintaining security to prevent rumor mongering, but the truth was obvious.
He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know about it before Harshu because he hoped the two thousand would protect his worthless arse the way he had Neshok’s. That he’d wink at Thalmayr’s barbarities because he’d allowed so many others. And the hundred was so concerned with covering up his own actions-and their consequences-that he didn’t give a single solitary damn how much additional damage the time he’d wasted might have caused.
Well, Mayrkos, you always knew the gryphon would get loose in the henhouse sooner or later, didn’t you? Not that you ever expected it to happen this way. His iron expression never wavered, but internally he winced. On the other hand, you knew no plan survives contact with the enemy, too, and you ought to’ve borne that in mind while you were deciding what kind of shit you were willing to let people like Neshok get away, he reminded himself. Thought you could keep it from getting out of hand, did you? Sure, you knew that stinking shakira bastard would’ve just shuffled you out of the way and given the job to that arsehole Carthos, and only the gods know how much worse it would’ve been with him in command. No way you could’ve gotten anyone back home to override the son-of-a-bitch in the available time, either. So you went all Andaran-noble and decided to jump down the dragon’s throat to keep as much control as you could. And the fact that you really needed that info-that keeping your own men alive required it-made it easier, didn’t it? Besides, you were so damned sure you could keep it from splashing on anyone else when the time came, weren’t you? Well, guess what? If what you think happened really did…
He let the silence linger, watching the tall, broad shouldered commander of one hundred’s face as that silence worked on his nerves. For all his powerful build, the dark-haired, dark-eyed Thalmayr’s body language was stiff, defensive, as if he were bracing for a blow. His eyes were nervous and a muscle in his cheek quivered as his stiffly squared shoulders seemed to hunch under the weight of the two thousand’s silent gaze. The hundred was obviously exhausted, as well he should be, given the journey he’d undertaken to reach this office, but the sweat smell which hung about him carried a stronger stink of fear than of exertion.
“Very well, Hundred,” Harshu said at last. “I suppose we’d better hear your report, hadn’t we?”
“Yes, Sir.” Thalmayr swallowed visibly and his nostrils flared. “Last month,” he began, his voice harsh with fatigue and something else, “two of the officers under my command at Fort Ghartoun-”
* * *
“-until I arrived here this morning, Sir,” the hundred finished. He’d spoken for little better than a half hour, interrupted by only a handful of questions, but perspiration gleamed on his face.
Silence fell, coiling in the corners like a serpent, and he swallowed again, harder than before, as Harshu gazed at him with the hooded eyes of a hunting dragon.
“And you had no intimation that such an obviously well organized mutiny was being prepared in your command?” the two thousand asked finally.
“No, Sir.” Thalmayr’s remaining hand clenched tighter on his right wrist behind him as he stood in a position of parade arrest.
“And how do you think that happened, Hundred?” Harshu’s voice was icy.
“I don’t know, Sir. In retrospect, I should have known, of course. Fifty Ulthar always resented my authority, and I believe he blamed me, rather than Hundred Olderhan, for what happened to Charlie Company. And Five Hundred Isrian did remark when he left me in command of the fort that Fifty Sarma had a reputation as a complainer. But I never anticipated something like this, and if there were any warning signs, I missed them. I shouldn’t have.”
“You should have known,” Harshu repeated softly, and Thalmayr seemed to wilt a little further. The hundred’s cheeks, chapped and reddened from his winter dragonback journey from Failcham, turned paler, and Harshu smiled thinly. “Yes, I think we can all agree about that.”
Thalmayr said nothing. There was very little he could have said.
Harshu let him stand there for several more heartbeats, then exhaled harshly.
“Is there anything you’d care to add to your report?” he asked. “Any additions or…clarifications?”
“No, Sir.” The muscle in Thalmayr’s cheek twitched harder, but there was an almost defiant glitter in his eyes, something composed of far too many emotions for easy analysis. “Not at this time.”
“I’ll expect a formal report in my PC by tomorrow morning,” Harshu told him.
“Yes, Sir.”
The hundred didn’t look happy to hear that, Harshu reflected with a certain satisfaction. And he was going to look one hell of a lot less happy before the two thousand was done with him.
“Very well, Hundred Thalmayr. That will be all for now. My clerk will see to your billeting.”
“Yes, Sir!”
Thalmayr saluted again, turned on his heel, and marched out of the office, and Harshu sat back wearily in his comfortable chair as the door closed.
It was very quiet-quiet enough the voice of a distant sword could be heard through the closed office window, counting cadence on one of the drill fields-and the two thousand pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Perfect,” he said into the silence. “Just perfect.”
“Not the word I’d choose, Sir,” Toralk said, and Harshu snorted. Trust the Air Force officer to get right to it, he thought.
“I suppose that’s fair enough,” he replied. “And,” he confessed, lowering his hand and turning his head to look Toralk straight in the eye, “it’s nothing you haven’t been trying to warn me was coming, either, Klayrman.”