‘The Emperor rules us all, Atri-Preda,’ Letur Anict had said with a faint smile. ‘The conspiracy among his kind directly threatens his loyal support structure-those who endeavour, at great personal sacrifice, to maintain that apparatus.’
‘People such as yourself.’
‘Indeed.’
‘What are you asking of me, sir?’
‘Brohl Handar will insist on accompanying your punitive expedition. I believe it is his intent to claim territories reconquered for himself’-a wave of one hand-‘no doubt in the name of the empire or some such meaningless nonsense.’
You mean, as you have done?
‘I will try to talk him out of it,’ she said. ‘It’s not safe-’
‘Indeed it isn’t. Precisely my point.’ After a moment, Letur Anict leaned back. ‘You will, alas, not win your argument.
The Overseer will march with you, accepting the risks.’
The risks, yes. Imagining they come from the Awl.
‘I will do all I can to preserve his life,’ Bivatt said.
A spread of hands. ‘Of course. That is your duty, and we both know how treacherous the Awl can be, especially as they are now commanded by none other than Redmask. Who can say what dread ambushes he has contrived to spring upon you, with the principal aim of murdering commanders and other important personages. Indeed, Atri-Preda, you have your duty and I would expect no less from you. But I do remind you, Brohl Handar is engaged in treason.’
‘Then have Orbyn Truthfinder arrest him.’ If he dares, for that will bring it all out into the open, and you’re not ready for that.
‘We will,’ the Factor then said, ‘be prepared for his return.’
So soon? ‘Has the Emperor been informed of these developments, sir?’
‘He has. The Patriotists would not be engaged in this hunt were it not so-I am sure you understand that, Atri-Preda.’
She believed she did. Even Karos Invictad would not proceed without some sort of sanction. ‘Is that all, sir?’
‘It is. Errant smile on your hunt, Atri-Preda.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
And now, everything had proceeded to match the Factor’s predictions. Brohl Handar would accompany the expedition, refuting her every argument against the idea. Reading his expression, she saw a renewed confidence and will-the Overseer felt as if he had found, at last, firm footing. No error in his recognition of his true enemy. The unmitigated disaster lay in the Edur’s belief that he had made the first move.
She said now to the Overseer, ‘Sir, if you will excuse me. I must have words with my officers.’
‘Of course,’ Brohl Handar replied. ‘When do you anticipate contacting the enemy?’
Oh, you fool, you already have. ‘That depends, sir, on whether they’re fleeing, or coming straight for us.’
The Overseer’s brows lifted. ‘Do you fear this Redmask?’
‘Fear that yields respect is not a bad thing, sir. In that fashion, yes, I fear Redmask. As he will me, before too long.’
She rode away then, down to her troops, seeking out, not an officer, but one man in particular, a horseman among the Bluerose, taller and duskier than most.
After a time she found him, gestured him to ride out to her side, and they walked their horses along one edge of the road. She spoke of two things, one loud enough to be heard by others and concerning the health of the mounts and other such mundane details; the other in much quieter tones, which no-one but the man could hear.
‘What can you see of the horizon’s bruised smear, that cannot be blotted out by a raised hand?’
Redmask glanced over at the foreigner.
Anaster Toc smiled. ‘Lying in a ditch amidst the wastes of humanity is something I would recommend to any nascent poet. The rhythms of ebb and flow, the legacy of what we discard. Wealth like liquid gold.’
Not entirely sane any more, Redmask judged, unsurprised. Skin and bones, scabbed and stained with fiery, peeling rashes. At least he could now stand without the aid of a stick, and his appetite had returned. Before long, Redmask believed, the foreigner would recover, at least physically. The poor man’s mind was another matter.
‘Your people,’ Anaster Toc continued after a moment, ‘do not believe in poetry, in the power of simple words. Oh, you sing with the coming of dawn and the fleeing sun. You sing to storm clouds and wolf tracks and shed antlers you find in the grass. You sing to decide the order of beads on a thread. But no words to any of them. Just tonal variations, as senseless as birdsong-’
‘Birds sing,’ cut in Natarkas who stood on the foreigner’s other side, squinting westward to the dying sun, ‘to tell others they exist. They sing to warn of hunters. They sing to woo mates. They sing in the days before they die.’
‘Very well, the wrong example. You sing like whales-’
‘Like what?’ asked Natarkas and two other copper-faces behind them.
‘Oh, never mind, then. My point was, you sing without words-’
‘Music is its own language.’
‘Natarkas,’ said Anaster Toc, ‘answer me this, if you will. The song the children use when they slip beads onto a thread, what does it mean?’
‘There is more than one, depending on the pattern desired. The song sets the order of the type of bead, and its colour.’