S. Turney - Interregnum

This was going to be hard work. Truths Kiva didn’t really like to divulge were going to have to be shared. Damn Athas. Why couldn’t they just have left the boy and found another Lord in need of troops? He sighed and looked the lad in the eyes.

“Quintillian,” he sighed, “why do you think there are so many mercenary units or private armies? There were over two hundred thousand men in the Imperial army before the civil war. Most of us over the age of thirty-five have served with the military before the collapse. My entire unit here were all soldiers then. The Grey Company weren’t always grey. They wore military green once. And a number of us met the Emperor on occasions. It’s a very complicated political landscape right now and there are some things that are best left in the past. Deal with it.”

He sighed again as the boy’s innocent face contorted with the effort of coming to terms with lies and half-truths. Just like Quintus in the early days; before the rot set in.

“It’s not much of a problem here in the Provinces,” the captain explained, “but when we get near Velutio, things will be a whole lot different. The world’s a different place there. You have to be very careful what you say. The Lord of Velutio and I are ‘acquainted’ and we don’t see particularly eye to eye. He won’t take very well to someone with your name, either.”

Kiva reached into his pocket and withdrew a small silver flask. The container had a wolf’s head engraved on it, and an inscription, but Quintillian barely saw it as the captain moved his hand to grip around the decoration. Lifting the flask to his lips, he took several deep pulls on it before lowering it once more and replacing the lid. He leaned back and closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. Quintillian watched him as did Mercurias, the first to speak.

“Don’t you think you’re hitting that a little hard?” the medic queried.

Kiva flicked one eye open.

“I’m not your worry. Keep your mind on your patient. I’m going down to see Athas and the rest.”

He stood, swaying slightly as his knee almost gave way and then, righting himself with the support of the chair, squared his shoulders and started down the stairs. Once he was safely out of sight and with the rest of the men below, Quintillian turned to face the medic, his voice full of uncertainty.

“Should he be drinking strong liquor when we’re all still in danger?” he asked.

Mercurias turned the lad back round and continued work on the shoulder, his hands remarkably light and gentle, considering his general disposition.

“It’s not liquor” the medic replied. “It’s Mare’s Mead.”

Quintillian’s brow creased as he sought out memories.

“I’ve heard of that” he said brightly. “One of the priests at home kept it for something.”

Mercurias raised his brows in surprise.

“It’s quite rare and not very well known” he said quietly. “Your priest must be well versed in the medicinal arts. Mare’s Mead is an extremely powerful pain suppressant. It’s very acrid and bitter in its normal pollen form, which is why people mix it with mead to take, hence the name. Problem is, it also has a number of side-effects that vary from person to person. Kiva takes it for a pain in the side, legacy of a wound he took a long, long time ago. I dread to think what it’s doing to him, ‘cos he’ll never let me examine him. I do know he averages about three hours a night sleep in a good week and he’s a very troubled man, but then he’s always been like that, ever since the days of the collapse.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much” the boy added.

“He doesn’t like anyone very much. Just don’t antagonise him.”

“Done.” With a short, sharp tug, Mercurias tied off the thread and then cut the spare away. “Try not to wave your arms around over your head for a few days, or I’ll just let you bleed next time. If you’re getting kit from Athas, can you give me your tunic afterwards? It’s quite good quality material and I could turn it into good bandages with some washing.”

Quintillian nodded, wincing as the activity tensed muscles in his neck that pulled gently on the stitches. He craned his neck in an attempt to examine his own shoulder, but couldn’t see far enough round and the movement hurt. Instead, he examined the smaller wound on his leg.

“Your stitching’s very precise” he complemented the medic. “Did you ever practice in one of the major hospitals or temples?”

Mercurias shook his head.

“I’ve always been in the army” he replied. “Thirty some years I’ve been with these men. I’ve treated everything from splinters to deep slashes to gangrene to trench foot. When I joined I knew nothing, just apprenticed myself to one of the combat medics. In the old days there was a lot of activity on the northern borders. Particularly with Kiva’s unit. I was well and truly dropped into the shit at the deep end.”

He frowned.

“You have a habit of asking earnest, simple questions and getting more truth out of people than they should be willing to give. I don’t think you’re half as naive as you act, Quintillian. I think you play people to find out as much as you can.”

The lad raised his hands in defence, but the medic continued. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think you’re sly or devious or manipulative in any bad way. It’s just how you deal with people, isn’t it. People find themselves telling you things that they perhaps shouldn’t. I know that I told you things I wouldn’t, and I think the Captain did too. That’s a useful talent to have, but it could get you into a lot of trouble. Be careful. I’ve known people just as incisive who’ve fallen a long way because of their wit.”

Quintillian smiled benignly.

“My tutor always told me to find out everything you can about a subject before you pass any kind of judgement on it.”

“Wise words,” the medic replied, “but bear what I said in mind. Now stay here while I go and get a tunic from Athas for you.”

Mercurias reached the top step and turned to look at the young man, standing at the window with his hands clasped behind his back. This boy was really something; much like his uncle used to be. Maybe that’s why Kiva’d agreed to take him on. Sighing with the weight of the world, he turned back and descended the stairs.

Quintillian stood at the window and gazed out into the dawn light. The farmyard was in shadow on this side, the sun still barely rising above the horizon. Perhaps two miles away, over the crest of the hill would be a bag of coins hidden beneath a thorny bush. Many miles beyond that was the city of Velutio, and beyond that: the sea. If he tried hard, he thought he could almost smell the brine and hear the gulls. Below, whatever meeting the company had had must have broken up. Two of the men he didn’t know left the house, moving out toward the hill. For a moment, he pondered the possibility that the captain had sent them after the gold but, even if they’d had the faintest idea where to find it, these men were not the sort to do that. The two men would be scouts, out to see whether the enemy army had left and the coast was clear.

These men, for all their brash roughness and mercenary cause, were men of honour. He’d played a dangerous game earlier with the captain to test that, impugning the man’s honour. Most of those who’d served under the Emperors were dutiful and honourable and, despite the changes the world had undergone around them, many of them would not have changed in their hearts. The army had had a code. Oh, Quintillian hadn’t been born during those glory days, but he read so much. Voracious, his tutor had called him, and he read far too much to wander this world innocently. Darius would be so jealous when he returned to the island with all these stories of adventure.