Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

And as ever, a pitcher of ale and a tall horn cup next to it.

I wondered if he was fighting off the effects of stolen memories, but it seemed he was just in the mood for drink.

My stomach rumbled so loudly he heard it. He must have known I was there already, as he didn’t glance up from what he was reading, but indicated I should sit next to him.

I did, my stomach again protesting, unabashed.

Braylar looked over at me. “I was wondering when your basic needs would rouse you from your slumber. I heard you stirring and summoned another plate for you. Ale?” He picked up the pitcher, filling his own cup and stopping just short of doing the same with the other.

I had a bad head for drink even on a full stomach, but just then it did sound good, and it would at least fill my belly a bit before the food arrived.

Almost before I could nod he had filled the horn cup to the brim. After accepting it and taking a swallow-it was quite good, rich and heavy-I remembered Skeelana’s words and said, “I would have guessed you’d be catching up with your Towermates below or in an alehouse somewhere?”

“I allowed myself a little of that, and there will be time enough for more. Or not, as it happens. But for now, there are a good many things I need to tend to first.” He took several swallows of his own. “Still, one shouldn’t be wanting.”

There was a knock on the door, and Braylar said, “There, you see. Timing is everything.” Then he shouted, “Enter!”

A young Syldoon, or Syldoon slave more likely, as the boy had not been hung or inked, came in carrying a tray with food. I clamped my hands on my stomach to try to stymie any more embarrassing grumbling from below.

The boy walked over, set the tray on the table and bowed low, avoiding eye contact with either of us. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“Captain is fine. Captain Killcoin, if you insist on formalities. And what shall we call you, boy?”

The youth, brown curly head still bowed low, thought about his answer before replying, “Whatever it please you, my lor-uh, Captain.”

“And what did it please your parents to call you, my obsequious little man?”

He did look up then, but only for an instant before lowering his eyes again. “My parents? Captain?”

“Yes. I will insist on calling you Drizzleshit if you do not provide a suitable alternate.”

The boy stammered but didn’t provide an answer.

“Do you like ‘Drizzleshit,’ boy?”

The boy started to shake his head, stopped himself, and then shook it anyway. “No, Captain. Not especially.”

“Then you best get out of my room and pull your head out of your ass before you set foot in here again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my-yes, Captain. Captain Killcrown.”

“Killcoin, you dolt. Get out of here, Drizzleshit.”

The boy backed away, still bowing, than turned and nearly ran into the door, fumbling with the tray as he shut it behind him.

Braylar shook his head. “And this is what we have to work with. If your raw material is shit, you can be sure the finished product will be little improved.” He gestured at my plate. “Eat.”

I picked up a large hunk of dark bread that was surprisingly dense and heavy. “I would think the raw material is always, well, raw.”

“A wide difference between raw and impure. Ask any smith, Arki-when the iron ingots are poor quality, you might be able to hammer out a sickle, but you will never produce a fine fighting blade. It is the same with men. Which is why we only select the finest. Or used to.” He glared at the door as if he might still be able to cause the boy running down the hall to trip over his feet. “Bah. Perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I have simply been gone too long and soured. Or perhaps things are as bleak as they appear and we are all sliding toward a cliff. It remains to be seen.”

Braylar pushed his chair back and stood, steadily enough, but his red cheeks said he had been drinking for some time. “As you heard, we attend the Caucus in two days. Stay in this room until such time. Continue your translation, your recording, and enjoy the solitude.”

He started toward his bedchamber and I asked, more loudly than I intended, “Do you have any suspicions about what will happen?”

“Today? Tomorrow? Eternally?”

“At the Caucus.”

He looked over his shoulder, most of his face in shadow. “I always harbor suspicions, Arki. Always. You might think they would disappear back on familiar ground, among allies. And you would be an idiot for thinking so. The factions here revel in the opportunity to undermine and destroy one another, and alliances are forged of gossamer. The only thing you can depend on here is Tower. All else? The greatest suspicions imaginable. And never so legion as when an Emperor is pulling the strings. You can be sure he did not call a Caucus to hand out pretty doilies and candied eels.”

The captain walked out of the room, and nearly took my appetite with him.

But Vendurro’s logic suddenly seemed apt: do what you can do, and leave the rest to play itself out as it will.

I just wished I had his conviction in following it.

The next day I stayed sequestered in my room, happy to be translating in peace and quiet. But it was impossible not to be uneasy whenever I took a break or allowed my mind to drift. Braylar was correct-after reconciling myself to the fact that we were leaving Alespell and Anjuria, and surviving the various dangers on the road, I had made the mistake of thinking that Sunwrack would be a relatively safe, if alien, harbor. A respite from bloodletting and the threat of attack or ambush. But from everything I had heard, the thick stone walls, the thousands of loyal soldiers, the solidarity among them-they might as well have been paper and shadow for all the protection they seemed to afford. At least with the current emperor and Jackal Tower’s affiliations with the deposed emperor. Our position seemed worse than precarious, with the politics here being brutal and bloody even on the best of days.

It was better to struggle through passages written by men long dead than to meditate on the possibility of joining them.

But the second day, the room felt smaller, stuffier, and I was having serious trouble concentrating-words swam, thoughts evaded, and time seemed frozen in amber.

So I was surprised but grateful when Vendurro stopped by. I expected he would have been carousing with his Towermates, or sleeping off the same, but then remembered the excursion he had to have taken already. I was reluctant to pry, but equally reluctant to say nothing at all, since he had confided in me. So after a short exchange where he asked me about the dates and figs on my plate, and if I had eaten their like anywhere else, as he seemed to think the figs in particular had a unique flavor in this region, there was a pause. So I inquired, rather clumsily, “You saw her then? The widow?”

He scratched the back of his head, looked around the room, as if he had entered and forgotten exactly why, and said, “Ayyup. Went about as expected.”

“That well, eh?”

“Well, worse, truth be told. Mervulla went white the second she saw me. Alone, that is. Don’t know that she ever had seen me alone before-it was either with Gless or not at all. So she seen me standing in her door after three years, alone, and she knew straight away before I opened my mouth at all, started saying, ‘No, no’ over and over. Stepped away from the door, nearly tripped over her child. Been so long since I seen her, hardly recognized the little bugger at all. But the kid being there just made something awful something worse.

“Right about then, I hoped Mervulla might come at me like I thought, flailing and scratching, maybe even draw a blade and try to stick it in me-that I could have handled. But she just sat there, mouthing ‘no’ and not really saying it at all, tears rolling down her cheeks, her little one holding her skirts and legs tight, looking at me accusing like, wondering what I done to upset their world so much for no good plaguing reason, not recognizing me at all.