Bleak Seasons (3 page)

With the exceptions of three hidden doors, all entrances to the Company’s
quarters have been bricked up. Likewise every window opening below third floor
levels. Alleys and breezeways are now a maze of deathtraps. The three usable
entrances can be reached only by climbing outside stairways subject to missile
fire their entire rise. Where we could manage we have fireproofed.

For the Black Company there is no inactivity during the days of siege. Even
One-Eye works. When I can find him.

Every man stays too damned busy and too damned tired to dwell upon our
situation.

After entering a concealed entrance known only to the brothers of the Old Crew,

the crows and bats, the shadows, the Nyueng Bao watchers down the street and any
Nar who care to keep track from the north barbican, I trundled down flight after
flight of steps. I reached a basement where Big Bucket dozed beside a lonely,

fitful little candle. Quiet though I was, he cracked an eyelid. He wasted no
breath on a challenge. A ramshackle, twisted wardrobe tilted against the wall
behind him, its door hanging crookedly on one damaged hinge. I pulled the door
gently and eased inside.

Any outsider force reaching the cellar would find the wardrobe stuffed with
desperately meager food stores.

The cabinet fronts a tunnel. Tunnels join all our buildings. Mogaba and anyone
else interested might expect as much. If they got down into our cellars a little
work would show them what they hoped to find.

That ought to satisfy them.

The tunnel entered another cellar. Several men were asleep there, amidst
tremendous clutter and a smell like a bear’s den. I moved slowly until
recognized.

Had I been an intruder I would not have been the first never to return from the
underworld.

Now I entered the real secret places. New Stormgard rose atop old Jaicur. Little
effort was made to demolish the old town. Many of the earlier structures had
been in excellent condition.

We have a bewildering maze dug out down where no one ought to think to look. It
gets a tad bigger whenever a sack of earth goes to the wall or into one of our
other projects. It is no cozy warren, though. It takes willpower to go down into
those dank, dark places where the air hardly moves, candles never come wholly to
life, and there is at least a chance that any shadow may harbor a screaming
death.

And me, I have a thing about being buried alive.

It gets no easier with practice.

Hagop and Otto, Goblin and One-Eye and I went through this before, on the Plain
of Fear, where for about five thousand years we lived like badgers in the
ground.

“Cletus. Where’s Goblin?” Cletus is one of three brothers who serve as our
engineers and master artillerymen.

“Around the corner. Next cellar.”

Cletus, Loftus and Longinus are geniuses. They figured out how to bring fresh
air down the chimneys of existing structures up top, then into the deep tunnels,

let it flow slowly through the complex, then send it up other chimneys. Plain
engineering, but it seemed like sorcery to me. A flow of breathable air, though
slow and never pure, serves us well enough.

It does nothing to lessen the damp and the smell.

I found Goblin. He was holding a candle for Longinus while the latter slapped
wet mortar onto freshly scrubbed stonework about eye level. “What’s the problem,

Goblin?”

“Rained like a bastard up there, eh?”

“Gods swiped a river somewhere and dropped it here. Why?”

“We’ve got a thousand leaks down here.”

“Big problem?”

“Could be later on. There’s no drainage. We’re as low as we can go unless the
Twelve tunnel goes good.”

“Sounds like an engineering problem to me.”

“It is,” Longinus said, smoothing the mortar. “And Clete did anticipate it.

We’ve waterproofed from the start. Trouble is, you can’t tell how you’re doing
until you get a really nasty rain. We’re lucky it didn’t go on the way it does
during the rainy season. Three days of that, we might’ve gotten flooded out.”

“Still sounds like an engineering problem. You can handle it, right?”

Longinus shrugged. “We’ll work on it. That’s all we can do, Croaker.”

Little dig there. Like telling me, let everybody do their own worrying.

“That’s why you wanted me?” It seemed a little weak, even for Goblin.

“No. Longo, you don’t hear anything.” The toad-faced man made a complex gesture
with three fingers of his left hand as he said that. Some half-hinted glimmer
trailed behind his fingers momentarily. Longinus went back to work like he was
deaf.

“It so important you need to cut him out?”

“He talks. He don’t mean no harm but he can’t help repeating everything he
hears.”

“And makes it better when he tells it. I know. All right. Tell me.”

“Something has happened with the Shadowmaster. He’s changed. Me and One-Eye only
decided for sure about an hour ago but we think it’s been going on for a while.

He’s just kept us from seeing it.”

“What?”

Goblin leaned closer, as though Longinus might yet eavesdrop. “He’s gotten well,

Murgen. He’s just about back to normal. He’s been getting his feet under him
before he comes down on us with them both at once. We also decided that he is
hiding the change more from his buddy Longshadow than he is from us. We don’t
scare him that much.”

I stiffened, recalling strange behavior on the encircling plain, going on right
now. “Oh, shit!”

“What?”

“He’s going to come tonight. Real soon. They were moving into position when I
came down. I thought it was just the usual . . . We’d better go full alert.” I
headed out of there with what energy I had, announcing the alert wherever I saw
anybody.

Shadowspinner did not hurry. The Company took its positions on the wall. The
Taglian rabble we led got as ready as they ever get. I sent warning to Mogaba
and Speaker Ky Dam. Mogaba is a jerk and a lunatic but not a complete fool. He
believes he keeps the job separate from personalities. If Goblin claimed we were
in big trouble he would listen.

Alarms sounded everywhere. Shouts of anger at being anticipated rose outside the
wall.

The civilian population began to respond. Fear swept the darkened streets. This
felt bigger than usual. As always, the old-timers among the Jaicuri recalled the
first coming of the Shadowmasters. Back then the enemy first wave consisted of
deadly flickers of darkness.

“One-Eye. Any shadows out there?”

“Won’t be any of those, Murgen. They have to come up from Shadowcatch.

Longshadow would have to be in on it.”

“Good.” I’ve seen what the shadows can do, on a small scale. The Jaicuri were
right to be scared.

“I promise you some sorcery, though. It’s already gathering.”

“I love how you can always cheer me up, runt.” I surveyed the walls beyond our
section. Hard to see much but it looked like any assault would meet a ready
defense.

Which meant nothing if Spinner was in good form.

“Murgen!”

“What?”

“Behind you.”

I looked.

Ky Dam, Speaker of the Nyueng Bao, accompanied by a son and some grandsons, by
gesture asked if he could come up to the battlements. Only the son was armed. He
was a squat, emotionless man rumored to be some kind of master swordsman. I
nodded. “Welcome aboard.”

The Speaker looked like he was about a thousand years older than One-Eye but was
spry enough to climb without help. He didn’t have a lot of himself to move
around. His hair was evenly distributed around his head and face but very little
of it remained. It consisted of white wisps. He was covered with liver spots.

His skin color had faded. He was more pallid than some of us northerners.

He bowed slightly.

I responded in kind, trying to match his bow exactly. That would indicate an
honor between equals, which ought to earn me some good guy points because,

although junior in years, I was senior here because he was on Company ground and
I was Company top dog.

Clever me, I make every effort to be polite to the Speaker. And I keep reminding
the guys to be respectful and protective of all Nyueng Bao, even if provoked. I
am trying to encourage the taking of a longer view than is usual with ordinary
people.

We have no friends anywhere in these strange lands.

Ky Dam faced the darkened plain. His presence was strong. Many Jaicuri believe
he is a sorcerer. Goblin and One-Eye say he can be called a wizard in the word’s
most archaic sense, of wise man.

The old boy drew a breath that seemed to enhance his aura of strength. “It will
be different tonight.” He spoke mainstream Taglian with no accent.

“Their master has recovered his powers.”

The Speaker glanced at me sharply, then at Goblin and One-Eye. “Ah. So.”

“Exactly.” I’ve always wanted to do that when some old fart made cryptic noises.

I couldn’t help myself when the perfect opportunity arrived.

I eyeballed the Speaker’s escort. The swordmaster seemed too squat and bulky for
his reputation. Such as it was. Not a lot crosses the cultural boundary.

The grandsons looked like most Nyueng Bao men in their prime. Like if they
smiled, or showed any emotion whatsoever, they would forfeit their souls. Like
they had cactus plugs up their butts, in Goblin’s words.

I went on with my work while Ky Dam considered the night. His escort stayed out
of my way.

Big Bucket checked in. “All set, boss.”

And the Shadowmaster’s men sounded like they were ready to play. Their horns
began calling like bulls in rut. I grumbled, “It won’t be long.” They could put
it off for another twenty years, though. I wouldn’t mind. I was in no hurry.

A Taglian messenger stumbled up from the street, fought for breath, croaked out
word that Mogaba wanted me.

“On my way. Less than five minutes,” I told him. I scanned the darkness. “Hold
the fort, Bucket.”

“Just what this outfit needs. Another comedian.”

“Oh, I’ll slay them.”

Ky Dam said something. The swordmaster squinted at the night. For half a
heartbeat there was a ghostly flicker in the hills. Star? Reflection of a star?

No. The night was cool, wet and overcast.

The Speaker said, “There may be more happening than is immediately apparent,

Bone Warrior.”

“Perhaps.” Bone Warrior? “But, unlike Nyueng Bao, we are not warriors. We are
soldiers.”

The old man got his mind around that quickly. “As you will, Stone Soldier. All
may not be as it seems.” Was he making these up as he went?

He did not seem pleased by his speculation. He turned, hastened down the stair.

His grandsons had trouble keeping up.

“What was that about?” Bucket asked.

“I don’t have a clue. I’ve been summoned by His Holiness, the Prince of the
Company.” As I stepped to the stair I glanced at One-Eye. The little wizard was
staring toward the hills, about where Ky Dam had done the same. He seemed both
puzzled and unhappy.

I didn’t have time to ask. Nor did I have much inclination.

I had had bad news enough already.

Mogaba stands six feet five. Any fat on him has to be between his ears because
there isn’t an ounce anywhere else. All bone and muscle, he moves like a cat,

his slightest twitch pure liquid grace. He works hard to stay hard but not to
become overly muscled. He is very dark but a deep mahogany more than an ebony.

He glows with conviction, an unshakable inner strength.

He has a ready wit but never smiles. When he does show humor it is entirely
surface, for effect, an illusion spun for his audience. He doesn’t feel it and
probably doesn’t understand it. He is as focused as any human being who ever
lived. And that focus is the creation and maintenance of Mogaba, greatest
warrior who ever lived.

He is almost as good as he wants to be. He might be as good as he thinks he is.

I never saw anyone who could match his individual skills.

The other Nar are almost as good, almost as arrogantly self-confident.

Mogaba’s self-opinion is his big weakness but I don’t think anyone could get him
to believe that. He and his reputation stand squarely at the center of his every
consideration.

Sadly, self-indulgence and self-admiration aren’t always traits that will
inspire soldiers to win battles.

There is no love lost between Mogaba and the rest of us. His rigidity split the
Company into Old Crew and Nar factions. Mogaba envisions the Black Company as an
ages old holy crusade. Us Old Crew guys see it as a big unhappy family trying to
survive in a world that really is out to get us.

The debate would be much more bitter were Shadowspinner not around to snap up
the mantle of bigger common enemy.

Many of Mogaba’s own people are less than thrilled with the way his mind is
working these days.

Something Croaker harped about, from the moment he first set quill to paper, is
what might be called matters of form. It is not good form to bicker with your
superiors, however wrong they may be and however one-sided their determination
of their superiority is. I try to maintain good form.

Croaker quickly elevated Mogaba to third in the Company, after himself and Lady,

because of his exceptional talents. But that did not automatically entitle
Mogaba to assume command if Croaker and Lady were gone. New Captains are
supposed to be elected. In a situation like the one here in Dejagore the custom
is to poll the soldiers to see if they think an immediate election is necessary.

If they think the old Captain has become mad, senile, dead, incompetent, or
otherwise in need of permanent replacement then a election will be held.

I cannot recall any instance in the Annals when the senior candidate was
rejected by the soldiers, but if an election were held today a precedent might
be set. In a secret ballot even many of the Nar might declare no confidence in
Mogaba.

There will be no vote while we are besieged. I will oppose any effort to hold
one. Mogaba may be mad and I may not be able to go along with him in areas he
considers religious, but only he has the will to control thousands of skittish
Taglian legionnaires while keeping the Jaicuri in line. If he should fall his
assistant Sindawe would step up, then Ochiba, and only then, maybe, if I can’t
hide fast enough, me.

Soldiers and civilians both fear Mogaba more than they respect him after all
this time besieged. And that troubles me. The Annals demonstrate over and over
that fear is the most fertile soil for treachery.