Gene Wolfe - Exodus from the Long Sun

“You, Generalissimo. Were you a horse officer? We say cavalrywoman, but I do not think you will say that here. A cavalryman, I think?”

Oosik made her a small bow. “Correct, Generalissimo. No, I was not, nor are most of our officers. We have only one mounted company per brigade, though the second has two at present. My son is a cavalryman, however.”

For the first time, Siyuf smiled; seeing it, Silk could readily imagine her subordinates risking their lives to earn that smile. She said, “I hope to meet him. Tomorrow or the day after. We shall speak of horses.”

“He will be honored, Generalissimo. Unfortunately he is unwell at present.”

“I see.” She turned back to the parade, and her voice became indifferent. “It is sad that boys must fight here.”

Mules hauling cannon followed the horse herd. “I expected camels,” Silk told her.

“Horses and camels do not make friends,” she said absently. “It is best we hold them apart. Mules are more…” She snapped her fingers.

“Easygoing,” Saba supplied. “They don’t mind camels as much as most horses do.”

“Does it really take eight to pull one of these big guns?”

“On your street of fine stones? No. But over our desert where is no road, many more sometimes. Then one must lend to another its mules and wait. I have seen sixteen unable to pull a single howitzer from the mud. That was not on this march, or we would not be here.”

Saba asked, “Didn’t you notice the mixed gun crews, Calde? I expected you to ask about them.”

Already the last cannon was rumbling past. After it came a long triple line of small carts with male drivers; each cart was drawn by a pair of mules.

Silk said, “I’m accustomed to working with women, General. With Maytera Marble and Maytera Mint at my manteion, before I became calde — with Maytera Rose as well until she left us. Your mixed crews seem more normal to me than,” he groped for an inoffensive phrase, ending lamely, “than the other thing, just women or just men.”

“Men drive the mules and hump shells. They do those almost as well as women could. Women lay the guns and fire them.”

Siyuf asked, “Where is General Mint? Did you not call her Mother Mint just now? Or are there two of this name?”

“No, they’re the same person. She’s a sibyl as well as a general, just as I’m an augur as well as calde.” Silk was tempted to add that he hoped to drop the first soon.

“She marches with her troops today?”

“I’m afraid not.” A bare-faced lie would serve best, but he was unwilling to provide one. “We’re still engaged with the enemy, Generalissimo.”

If Siyuf suspected, nothing in her face revealed it. “I am sorry I do not meet her. Next you see camels.”

Silk, who had seen camels singly or in small caravans of a dozen or a score, had scarcely imagined that there were so many in the whorl — not hundreds but thousands, innumerable camels tied one behind another in strings of thirty or more, each such string led by a single camel-driver riding its big lead camel. They grunted continually as they walked, peering at everything with haughty eyes in faces that recalled Remora’s.

“They carried food, mostly,” Saba explained, “and oats and barley for the horses and mules. They’re lightly loaded now.”

Here was one of the most sensitive points. “You have to realize there’s very little food in Viron.” Silk picked his way among snares. “We’re delighted to have you, and we’ll do our best to feed you and your troops; but the harvest was bad, and our farmers have been hoarding food because of the fighting.”

“We know your difficulties.” Siyuf’s dust-colored cap and hunched shoulders spoke. “We will send out foraging parties.”

“Thank you,” Silk said. “That’s extremely kind of you.”

Oosik stared.

“Which reminds me,” Silk hurried on, “I’ve planned a small, informal dinner tonight at the Calde’s Palace.” (He found he could not bring himself to say, “At my palace.” ) “You’re all invited, and I hope that all of you can attend. We haven’t got a real kitchen yet, but I’ve arranged to have Ermine’s cater our dinner; Ermine’s serves the best food in our city, or at least it has that reputation.”

“I must bring with me a staff officer.” Siyuf turned to face him. “This our custom demands. May I do this?”

“Of course. She will be very welcome.”

“Then I come. Saba also, if you wish it.”

“I certainly do,” Silk assured Siyuf.

Saba nodded reluctandy.

Oosik said, “You may rely upon me, Calde.”

“Thank you. And you, Your Cognizance?”

With the help of the baculus, Quetzal rose. “I’ve no food, Patera Calde. That’s what you’ll talk about, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure we will; we have that to discuss, along with many other things. You have wisdom, Your Cognizance, and we may need it more than food.”

“Then I’ll be there. I may even have suggestions.”

A hand signal held the group parallel to the human stream below; Sciathan reinforced it with helmet notification: “Two east.” As each agreed, he checked them off mentally: Grian, Sumaire, Mear, and Aer were still willing to accept his leadership. His right arm stiff, he slapped toward Viron’s thatch and shingles, palm down. “Going lower.” Fingertips to forehead. “You may follow if you choose.”

Aer almost certainly would.

Was this man Auk among the marchers’ creeping rectangles? One of the spectators whose cheers had dwindled to chirps in the vastness of the sky? Either way this Auk was a lone individual, his fellow citizens a myriad of myriads. As he had from the beginning, Sciathan told himself that he should be bursting with pride; for this daunting, almost impossible mission, Mainframe had chosen them.

The possibility that Mainframe wished to destroy them had to be dismissed unheard, like the equal possibility that he, Aer, and the rest had been chosen because they were expendable.

Right arm pointing, hand cupped. “I fly east.”

Four acknowledgements. They were all coming.

He had begun a circuit of the city. They would have to land soon, have to remove and secure their wings, question and persuade its inhabitants in the Common Tongue. Whether he was a miracle worker or a malcontent, his fluency had no doubt been a factor.

Where was there a good, big field, with people near but not too near, close to the city? Below him, a house with a desert-colored peaked roof sprang up like a mushroom.

Right arm extended, palm flat, motioning down. “Lower.”

It seemed that he could read the character of each of his companions in their acknowledgments: Grian weighing the odds; Sumaire narrow-eyed, her hands deadly still; Mear frantic for adventure; Aer concerned for everybody except herself.

At this altitude they were within the reach of small-arms fire, and small arms were evident; all the overseers of the bearded men erecting tents seemed to have them. He reminded himself that once they had landed the presence or absence of weapons would make no difference, that any mob of Cargos could kill them with stones or sticks. In fact the weapons that these Cargos had should be an advantage; armed, they would be less apt to feel threatened.

Pointing arm, hand a fist. “North.” Two fingers down, separated. “Terminate flight.”

“Aye, Sumaire.” Taut face, dry lips, hooded eyes.

“Aye, Mear!” Descending too fast and glorying in it.

“Aye, Grian.” Picking his spot.

“Aye, Aer.” Worrying about him, worried not that he would crash but that he would bungle his approach.