Under Strange Suns (27 page)

He was marooned, true. But he was marooned with a bona fide genius and among intelligent creatures possessed of sophisticated metallurgical capability. Things could be worse.

“If I’m going to live with these people, I ought to know something about them,” Aidan said.

“Makes sense.”

“Well, tell me.”

“What am I, an encyclopedia entry? I had to spend twenty years learning. You just want an info dump in twenty minutes?”

“Yes.”

“Kids these days. Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Aidan said. “But let’s start with money. How do I pay for stuff?”

“This side of the Wall works more on a barter system. No coin. But they do calculate values on slips of bark, marked with the value of the labor or goods exchanged. That can be used as a sort of note. Not exactly legal tender, but it suggests a general value. You have one in your pocket, you’re assumed to have provided that amount of service or delivered that amount of goods and gotten this note in promise of an equivalent return.”

“Like an IOU?”

“Right. You can either show up waving the note, demanding the guy pay up, or you can use it like cash, buy something you want and let that guy serve the IOU on the original issuer. There are quite a few of these in circulation, almost a de facto currency. It is...imprecise. And not all that stable, but then again everybody knows everybody.”

“Government?”

“Mostly Checkok runs things. He’ll call up an ad hoc advisory committee for anything not routine, or summon the whole village for anything important, so long as it isn’t an emergency. In a time crunch he makes all the calls himself. He’s got some armed supporters to back him up, what I call his knights. But that isn’t really accurate. They’re more policemen than warriors.”

Aidan figured that was enough for the moment. Yuschenkov was right; why cram it all into one lesson?

“Can we visit the forge?” he asked Yuschenkov.

“Of course. This way, though I suppose directions are superfluous. Just look for the largest plume of smoke.”

They walked through what passed for the center of town. Considering the limited population–Aidan guessed two, three thousand tops–the place bustled. Joon passed to and fro, mostly in pairs, slowing only fractionally to glance at the new freak in town. Stores and workshops showcased incessant activity.

“The joint is jumping,” Aidan said.

“Yes. The joon this side of the Wall hitch their identity, their self-worth, to their occupations. Virtue is demonstrated by activity, rather than–like the Lhakovi–by religious observance.”

Aidan considered that as they approached the smithy. What exactly was his identity, then? What was his worth?

The interior of the smithy was bright with the light of multiple forges. The din of hammers clanging upon hot metal demanded that conversation be conducted at a shout. Aidan observed that most of the work was performed by pairs, one joon turning a slab of metal with tongs, the other smacking it with a hammer. The massive trip hammer hunched at rest next to the gearing that would connect it to the power of the water wheel, whose spinning shaft Aidan could see thrust through the riverside wall.

Much of the work produced was farming implements. Aidan noted a great number of household goods as well. But what caught his eye was a sort of armory, racks lined with javelins, knives, and even a few of the thrusting swords, such as he had taken off the joon soldier on the other side of the Wall.

He plucked one of the swords from the rack. He tested the flex of the blade.
Good steel
, he thought.
Not too rigid, not too flexible
.

His actions caught the attention of a joon in a thick apron, his single arm thrust through a hole in its center.

“The Master Smith,” yelled Yuschenkov, by way of introduction. “Khorknevot.”

Aidan listened to Yuschenkov and the Master Smith holler a conversation.

“He says if you want the sword, it is yours,” Yuschenkov said.

Aidan started to yell a response, then cut himself short. He gestured at himself, then at Yuschenkov and Khorknevot, finally at the door. The other two seemed to get the gist and followed him out of the cacophony of the smithy.

The air felt blessedly cool after the furnace-like interior of the smithy. And even though joon passed by on the street and the millrace chuckled to itself within its banks, it seemed to Aidan as quiet outside as a desert patrol at dawn.

“I was saying,” Yuschenkov said, “that the Master Smith offers you that sword if you want it.”

“I heard. I was considering it. Why would he just give it to me?”

“The honor of having one of us two-armed curiosities owning one of his blades. Marketing, Aidan.”

Aidan laughed. “Okay. I accept. But, what I was wondering was if he could make a minor modification to the sword, and–if it isn’t taking advantage of his generosity–if he’d forge a smaller blade to my specifications.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well the thing is, these folks have certain advantages as fencers. They don’t precisely present the traditional, narrow silhouette, but they are slender through the torso. And look at that reach. But what I do have, to offset that advantage, is two arms.”

“That you do. You’re thinking about fighting, then?”

“I already have fought them, if you recall. And you yourself told me these Lhakovi are aggressive. I may not have much choice about fighting, and I only have so many rounds for my pistols.”

Aidan thought Yuschenkov looked thoughtful at that. He was almost disappointed when the man failed to stroke his beard as he said, “Fair enough. What precisely would you like the Master Smith to whip up for you?”

Aidan explained that he would like the hilt of the sword shortened to accommodate his smaller hand. He specified a slightly heavier blade to make best use of his strength advantage, and insisted upon sharpened edges. He wanted the ability to cut as well as thrust. He then described a main gauche, dropping to his knees to sketch the parrying dagger in the dirt of the street, scratching out a sword next to it to provide scale.

Yuschenkov relayed a few questions from the Master Smith who, as near as Aidan could tell, seemed content to undertake the job.

“I think it’s nearing dinner time,” Yuschenkov said after Khorknevot plunged back into the hell of the forge. “And I think we may have dinner conversation.”

“What do you mean?” asked Aidan, pacing alongside.

“It might be your role to train the Girdled-by-Field’s defense force. Something to discuss with Checkok at any rate.”

“Train them? Why me? I’m new here, remember. What do I know about joon warfare?”

“You know about warfare. That makes you the most qualified person this side of the Wall. Outside the occasional squabble between villages, there isn’t much organized violence here. And even the inter-village strife is mostly symbolic. One or two joon get killed, honor is satisfied. They don’t take and hold territory. That’s a Lhakovi characteristic. And since the Lhakovi have kept south of the Wall so far, the locals haven’t developed the grand old art of soldiering. But trusting the Lhakovi to keep to their side is a fool’s bet. I’ve been trying to prepare Girdled-by-Fields materially, improve their technology, hoping that would give them the edge. But it’s a slow process, and it might not be enough by itself if–no, when–Hannibal’s elephants cross the Alps.”

Aidan fell silent as they returned to the Esaul’s Hall. Soldiering again. Circling about to run smack into his own past. Or perhaps he was facing the practical reality that he couldn’t escape himself? He didn’t like that thought–that his entire identity consisted of being a soldier. No, this eventuality wasn’t engineered as a personal revelation for him. It was a manifestation of a fundamental law: conflict. He had tried to flee conflict, not himself. He may not be able to flee himself, but he could be comforted knowing that there were new aspects of himself to explore. But what he could not escape was conflict.

And he was good at conflict.

He wondered if Yuschenkov had been contemplating drafting him since the moment he had revealed his military career. Or was this a spur of the moment inspiration? From what he had learned about Yuschenkov so far, Aidan leaned toward the latter. Well, oftentimes gut instinct was the way to go.

“All right,” Aidan said as they reached the Hall. “I’ll put in a job application.”

* * *

Checkok put on what Aidan assumed was a fine spread, a feast to welcome his new human guest. Of course if the Esaul had instead ordered up a selection of the vilest foods his cooks could envision, Aidan would have been unable to tell the difference. Joon cuisine was, he decided, going to be an acquired taste. It wasn’t–for the most part–unpalatable, but the textures were unfamiliar. They didn’t register on his tongue as food. Overall he found it bland, but he made polite noises and asked Yuschenkov to pass along his compliments.

Aidan was intimately familiar with the necessity of acting the role of the good guest, sipping tea and feigning appreciation of strange food. Prior to Azziz’s jettisoning of DC from the planet Earth, the most common mission undertaken by Green Berets was training foreign troops. Afterwards it became ‘round-the-clock retributive actions. But Aidan retained the knack of adapting to foreign customs and cuisine.

Checkok hosted the meal at a long wooden feasting table, his dinner guests seated on wooden benches lining the sides while Checkok sat at the head in a chair constructed of iron and wood. A trio of servers occupied the foot of the table, delivering food from the platters and bowls heaped there, occasionally refreshing the stockpile with additions from the kitchen.

Aidan counted ten dinner guests, not counting himself or Doctor Yuschenkov. Two them–a married couple–manufactured pigments and dyes and were considered well-to-do and influential as Girdled-by-Fields measured such things. Most of the others were the Esaul’s knights, who usually dined with him. Aidan thought of them as Checkok’s comitatus, remembering a term from one of the history books he’d read on the
Yuschenkov
. He and Doctor Yuschenkov sat at the end of the long sides of the table, flanking Checkok. They’d been given upended barrels to sit on, as neither man fit comfortably on the low benches.

When Aidan deemed that conversation had become general he said to Checkok, “Yuschenkov raised the question today of what I should do with my time here. And he had an intriguing answer to his own question.”

He watched Yuschenkov’s wry smile twist his beard before he translated the comments to the Esaul. Yuschenkov must have elaborated a bit because Checkok’s response was lengthy. In fact it went on for some time and at increasing volume, peppered with the word Aidan was becoming all too familiar with: “Lhakovi.”

The voices about the table ceased, the other dinner guests listening intently.

“I’ll try to nutshell it,” Yuschenkov said when the Esaul wound down. “He thinks it’s the bee’s knees that you have some facility with killing Lhakovi. In fact, he’d be thrilled if you recrossed the Wall and did some more of it. But he says his militia know how to fight and he wonders what added benefit you could bring if he appointed you captain. There was a bit more, but as you see he’s on his third cup and it wasn’t really relevant.”

“Third cup of what? I thought you said you couldn’t make hooch here.” It was off topic, but Aidan thought it worth the detour.

“What he’s drinking isn’t alcohol. It provides some sort of euphoric and eventually soporific experience for joon, but has no effect on humans. Unfortunately. I might even go so far as, ‘alas.’”

“Fine, build up my hopes, why don’t you. Okay, what do I bring to the table?” Aidan thought about what Yuschenkov had told him of local joon warfare. Small-scale, ritualistic. Within that framework, perhaps the militia did know how to fight. Perhaps they were divisional champs. But against an army practiced at total war, those skills were of limited value. How to explain that without being insulting? “My job was training people to fight, even people who already knew which end of the spear to point at the enemy. I don’t doubt that his men are brave and skilled. I’ve fought against a lot of men who were brave and skillful, and I’ve survived each battle. And usually won.

“I’ve been trained to fight and survive in every sort of terrain, and so far Ghark hasn’t thrown me any curveballs, no methane swamps or, I don’t know, exploding ice fields. I’m more than qualified to teach small unit tactics, the kind of hit-and-run skills needed to delay and whittle apart a larger force.

“And I know enough to know I don’t know everything. I’m new here, and I will not automatically assume that my way is best.”

“You mind writing all that down?” Yuschenkov asked. “I’m not a goddamned UN translator.”

But he went ahead without a transcript. He must have been persuasive, Aidan decided later, because before the feast ended, Aidan found himself hailed by the guests as the new captain of the Girdled-by-Fields militia.

“Must have been my high charisma score,” Aidan mumbled to himself before curling up onto his too-small bed that night.

* * *

Aidan was left to his own devices the next morning and resorted to pantomime to acquire breakfast. The gashes on his arm had reduced from livid, raised berms to pink, slightly puffy scarring. He chomped down the platter of whatever it was a joon servitor set before him without the least grimace of distaste. And he didn’t feel the need to nap immediately after. He was, in a word, recuperating.