Jack Campbell: The Hidden Masters of Marandur

He remembered dust and death and the sound of many rifles as the caravan he had been tasked to protect had been destroyed. That was it. Memory of fear and failure.

“General,” Alain said, “do the Imperials have many weapons such as that?”

Flyn’s eyes followed Alain’s gesture. “Mechanic weapons, Sir Mage?” The general’s voice was cautious again, worried. Every common knew how Mages felt about Mechanics and their works. “We have a few rifles. Three, to be exact. Like any military force that can afford them.”

“How many do the Imperials have?”

“A full legion will typically have five or ten at the most,” Flyn replied, not trying to hide his bafflement that a Mage was acknowledging the existence of Mechanic-made weaponry.

“Only ten?” Alain felt a sense of reassurance. “I have faced more than twenty.” Why had he told this older man that?

Flyn’s astonishment grew. “Twenty? And you survived? That is most remarkable, Sir Mage.”

Alain had expected the general to show some skepticism, some disbelief in what Alain had said. No Mage elder had ever accepted that Alain had faced such peril and survived it. But Alain felt a need to disabuse Flyn of any exaggerated expectations about him, he who had failed to save many others in the caravan. “Only myself and one other survived. All the others died.”

“Others.” Flyn let the word hang for a moment. “Your pardon, Sir Mage, but it is unusual for a Mage to speak of…others.”

“As it is unusual for a Mage to speak of Mechanic weapons?” Alain asked. He was being reckless. Amazingly reckless to confide in even so small a way with a common. But with Mari he had learned what companionship could be, and since parting from her had missed more and more the ability to speak of things large and small with another who might understand or simply listen. Something in this general, his steadiness and his openness, made Alain want to unburden himself a little. “I have seen what such weapons can do. I have seen what my own weapons can do.”

Flyn nodded, his eyes intent on Alain. “It is an ugly thing.”

“Does it hurt you to kill others, General?”

The question so startled Flyn that he stared wordlessly for a while before he could reply. Then Alain saw understanding dawn on the common’s face as he looked at Alain. “It is a hard thing, Sir Mage, for any man or woman with a conscience. I do what I must, and in the heat of battle the excitement fills me, but afterwards I feel the pain of it.” He paused. “The first time is the hardest. I’ve never forgotten the face of the first man I killed. I was…eighteen at the time.”

Alain nodded. “I was seventeen.”

“When you were facing more than twenty rifles? It is a hard thing, Sir Mage,” Flyn repeated. “A hard thing to remember, a hard thing to face afterwards, for anyone who thinks life has value.” Flyn rode a little closer to Alain, lowering his voice. “I have never met, nor heard of, a Mage who had such concerns. If I did, I would tell that Mage what I tell my young soldiers. They do not believe me, but perhaps a Mage would. I would say that what we do is an ugly business but a necessary one. We keep the Empire off balance, we keep the soldiers of the Free Cities experienced and sharp, and so perhaps we prevent worse things. Preventing something worse, defending something worth defending, helping those who need and deserve such assistance are the only justifications for what we do.”

Flyn jerked his head toward where the young soldier P’tel rode, far away enough that he could not hear their words. “I know that. He doesn’t. He still thinks of glory and excitement, proud of his shiny armor and his new lance and the shield his mother gave him before he rode off with us. The young ones look forward to battle and hope to encounter a legion so they can come home to celebrations, covered in what they see as glory. Not me. If we meet a legion, it means some soldiers like P’tel will die, never to come home to mothers and fathers who sent them off with pride and tears. My job is to get those soldiers home, and I hope you will do your utmost to assist me in that if necessary.”

“You do not wish to fight?” Alain asked.

“No, Sir Mage. My job is to get our mission accomplished while losing as few soldiers as possible. That’s why I do this. Because I’m pretty good at it, good enough that I can usually get the job done while losing as few of my own men and women as can be.”

“Two are more than one,” Alain said, remembering what he and Mari had been able to do together. “I will do all I can to assist you in your work.”

Flyn nodded, no longer distant, but almost reassuring in his attitude. “You’ll do fine. Twenty rifles! Where was that, if I may ask?”

“Far south of here. In the Waste east of Ringhmon.”

“Ringhmon!” Flyn spoke in a disgusted tone. “They wanted to hire me once, but I told their emissaries that from what I knew of Ringhmon no sum of money would be enough.” He paused. “Some interesting events occurred in Ringhmon not too long since. Do you know of them, Sir Mage?”

Alain felt that thing Mari called humor, though he did not let it show. “I was involved.”

“Were you, Sir Mage?” Flyn grinned. “Your Guild slapped Ringhmon with some sanctions, and that on top of—”

“Of?”

“Your pardon, Sir Mage. There were actions taken by others.”

Alain turned a direct look on the general again. “The Mechanics Guild?”

“Yes, if you wish to speak so directly of them. An interdict. Ringhmon can receive no services from that Guild and must pay a large fine when it can raise the money.”

So Mari’s Guild had finally done something. But Alain did not believe that the action was in revenge for what had been done to her by the leaders of Ringhmon. “And the Empire?”

Flyn’s eyes evaluated Alain shrewdly. “They’ve made noises about snapping up Ringhmon while it is in a weakened state, but rumor has it that your Guild, and another Guild, have told the emperor it will not be permitted.”

Alain gazed along the gently rolling fields at the horizon. “The Empire will never be allowed to take Ringhmon, or the Free Cities.”

“Not as long as the Great Guilds rule, no,” the general agreed.

“Nothing must change,” Alain said, his voice flat.

But he wondered if something in his voice or face had betrayed his feelings. Flyn gazed wordlessly back at him before finally nodding once.

Flyn returned to his duties elsewhere, and Alain rode onward with the column as night came on, thinking about the shadows among which he rode. The commons. Mari had said the common people—all those who were not Mages or Mechanics—were like Alain and Mari even though they lacked the skills of members of the Great Guilds. Alain did not want to kill any more commons, but when his Guild elders insisted that Alain take this contract, he could not refuse it. Not simply because no Mage would accept Alain’s reluctance to strike at shadows, which would be an unmistakable sign of just how far he had strayed from wisdom. But also because Alain had been asking for contract work as the weeks wore on, wishing to prove himself and knowing that the elders distrusted his skills and perhaps him.

In the darkness of full night, he imagined Mari riding beside him.

He had sought out some female Mages when he arrived in the region of the Free Cities, seeking distraction from thoughts of and feelings for Master Mechanic Mari. But the female Mages, with the expressionless faces and lifeless voices which were proper in Mages, had no interest in conversation. Nor could he feel any physical desire for them, not when Mari entered his thoughts the moment he touched any other woman.

Midnight passed, the soldiers marching steadily, any talk in the ranks silenced as the weary Alexdrians concentrated on walking or riding. Occasionally Alain would see pairs of cavalry riding past on scouting duty, or the figure of General Flyn accompanied by several other riders.