30 - Reward and punishment

When the sun was a fist west of the crag, I went to Hurai with my backpack. “I have it in my head, kras’,” I said.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

I took a deep breath. “Assassinate Inkrajen.”

“Assassinate Inkrajen?” I signed chalk. “That’s it?” I signed chalk again. He heaved a great sigh, that said clear as words, ‘And there I was, hoping you were the genius of my dreams.’ “Well, that would certainly be a great victory, which I asked for—if it were possible. You learned what you should for a field plan, not an assassination!” Clearly he’d checked up on me. “Did you even ask anyone whether we’ve tried it already?”

Kyash—no wonder he had two guards right in the room. I signed charcoal.

“Fourth Chevenga…” He heaved another sigh, and I could tell he was trying to think how to best approach this. “Come on, inside my tent. There’s something amiss here. We need to talk.”

“Krachaseye?” said someone behind us, a deka’s second by his insignia. “I was sent to report, there’s some sort of commotion in the Lakan camp, again.”

“Are they attacking?” Hurai snapped. “That alarm last night turned out to be nothing.”

“No, kras’, but—”

“Then it can wait, keep watching, no reports until it’s something actually useful, dismissed, come, Chevenga. Sit here.” He looked me in the eyes, like an uncle who knows he must share his wisdom emphatically with a nephew who’s on the verge of some disastrous choice. “The man knows how valuable he is, and guards himself like the Lakan Gods’ bracelets. We’ve tried three times, lad. We lost one that way, one of the better assassins I had. So—I’m nixing your first example of perfection in the strategic art as shit. What’s your second? You do have a second plan, at the very least, as a general always must? If it’s ‘Send for reinforcements,’ I’ll smack you.”

I was speechless, his words, ‘tried three times, lost one of the better assassins I had’ echoing through my head. It was a good thing I hadn’t asked; I’d have chickened out for sure. He took my chin in his hand and turned my face up to make my eyes meet his. “You came with such recommendations, lad… and you’re Tennunga’s son. Something isn’t right here. Are you sick and not telling me? Is it an attack of nerves?”

“I have something I think I should show you, krachaseye,” I said. Why my hands were shaking now, I didn’t know. The knotted lock of Inkrajen’s white hair trembled as I drew it out, followed by the sand-timer, the gems, the sheaf of maps covered with Lakan writing, the Shae-Frisena book. His mouth dropped further and further open, the more he saw. “That’s what the alarm in their camp was, last night,” I said. “Today, they must be mourning him.”

Old as he was, Hurai still had hands like lightning. As well, it was the last thing I’d expected. With that big arm he could ring a skull as hard as Esora-e could. After the crash and the time of darkness, the pressing of the tent-floor into my chin and chest came to my consciousness slowly; then words, in a haze. The voice was familiar, one I’d come to know recently; absently I remembered, Hurai Kadari. “No stripling not even sixteen ever comes fresh to a fighting army, and puts himself in the general’s place, no matter who he is… and then comes to take credit without bringing the person who actually did the deed!”

Kahara… of course he’d think it couldn’t be me and so I got someone else… I tried to lift my head, felt and saw the tent turn end over end around me, and lay back down again. His voice turned crisp, giving orders. “Samo, fetch a mail runner, Ina, take a letter. Saint Mother shit on me, boy, you tell me how I should word this, to your aunt the semanakraseye, your mother, your shadow-father, your Teachers, to all Yeola-e…” I vaguely remembered the story of General Maha exiling her son for acting without orders. My mothers and stepfather would argue charcoal, but Esora-e would argue chalk; which way would Assembly go?

Struggling to keep from getting vomit on his tent-floor, I said, “Krachaseye, I did it. The others in my ten who weren’t on sentry-duty can be my witnesses; they saw me gear up and I told them where I was going. Whatever punishment you order, I willingly accept.”

There was a long silence, then he said, “Ina, cancel the letter, catch Perha, tell him to cancel the runner, Samo go order the scouts closer to the Lakan camp and look for signs of mourning, go.” There was another long silence. I felt that now I’d be able to get up, but decided to stay where I was.

“You know, Chevenga,” he said finally, musingly, “your shadow-father told me to expect surprises from you. Stubborn old goat that I am, I resolved with myself to be surprised by nothing you did. I guess I don’t need to tell you—in one day, you’ve laid utter waste to that. I’m… surprised.”

I’d broken the assassin’s law of secrecy, mentioning it to Mana, joke or not. “You’ll be marked on the field, but then you are already anyway,” Hurai said. “So we’ll just make it another chapter in the Chevenga legend. I didn’t rattle your brain too much for you to recount it well, did I? Good, Kema, get the Proclamatory person and send out the order to assemble after noon meal.”

The reports came back; the Lakans were indeed mourning, running up black ribbon-banners. As I was recounting it to the scribe, the report came that the Lakans were sending a parley delegation was spied. “I think you should attend me as I meet with them,” Hurai said as he geared up.

A Lakan General First’s helmet is plumed with a stiff tassel extending from a gold silken rope an arm thick coiling around his head, somewhat silly to my eyes; the banner he carries is the black pegasus of Laka, his wings, mane and tail made of golden flame, on a field of scarlet. It now had the ivy-branch of truce tied on it. “It’s odd to see black hair under the tassel,” Hurai said. “That’s Inkrajen’s second, Orbukjen.”

Orbukjen’s squire was wearing two golden arm-rings and a thick gold-and-jewels collar that I suddenly knew I’d seen before. “I guess they think foxiness runs in the blood, and want to keep what they have,” Hurai said, when I asked him who the boy was. “That’s Inkrajen’s son.”

I killed your father. I saw his eyes run over the parley party and then to our army beyond, never suspecting the assassin would be at the general’s right hand. Now I saw the resemblance. He was armed with only a dagger, being too young to fight. But maybe you will be before the war is over, and since it’s going to be announced, you’ll be able to seek and call me out on the field knowing.

The Lakan herald began to proclaim, in Enchian with the Lakan lilt with its thick consonants, beginning with ponderous formalities. It must surely be beneath Hurai’s honor to murder his distinguished counterpart, he said in effect, so the assassin must have been “a renegade, a coward and a criminal, who acted without your authority.” To prove his honor intact, Hurai need only deliver said person into their hands.

“Without my authority; they hit dead on there,” Hurai chuckled. “Maybe I should… just kidding.” He dictated his answer to our herald. “Inkrajen was indeed honorable enough never to send one man creeping in the dark, but only a thousand horses; the world has less devious in it, for his loss. We Yeolis defend ourselves with every advantage we have when invaders come to kill and enslave, however much that might offend their delicate morals. If, O illustrious Orbukjen, you find this disagreeable, you have my wholehearted invitation to turn around and march home.” Behind us from the army there was a deafening roar of laughter and cheering.

Orbukjen cursed us with his own voice, so loudly I could hear it, and waved his fist. Most of the knights stood steady, but two or three dropped their banners to one hand and drew their straight swords, flashing; one spurred his poor horse against the reigning of his own squire. No surprise, they’d loved Inkrajen. Thus the parley ended.

“Don’t look so green, you’ve only got four years until you’re semanakraseye,” Hurai said as I readied to go out before the assembled Yeoli army. “Just think of it as saying hello to twelve thousand dear friends. Oh, and don’t forget they’ll have spies watching, so incriminate as many of their sentries as you can so they execute plenty.”

He was right; they were all my friends, cherishing me to the same degree they’d suffered at Inkrajen’s hands. Once I remembered to cast my voice as I’d been taught, they clung to every word, roared with laughter where I least expected, adored me with their eyes at every pause. There was nothing I could say, even admitting fear, that displeased them. Love-drunk, I suddenly yearned to tell them all that was in my heart, even what I felt about Inkrajen’s son, and had to tell myself to hold back. When I finished they leapt up to cheer me standing, the clashing of wristlets ringing like storm-rain.

Hurai awarded me the Serpent Incarnadine, Yeola-e’s highest award for stealth. I was the only one of twelve-thousand who was taken aback, I think; I remember my shadow-father standing at the edge of the speaking-circle, looking not surprised at all, as Hurai fastened it to my collar. But a flogging-post was set up too, and a whip-worker warming up his arm. I had acted without orders. The reward and punishment in one; it was just.

Hurai Kadari was always a brilliant general; he was not so good a politician. When he explained the wrongness of what I’d done and told them his order was flogging to falling, someone shouted, “Hurai, no! After what he did? You can’t flog him!” In a moment, the whole army had taken up the cry.

The general stood frozen. In the sun, I saw sweat on his head, where his hair was thin. They didn’t like him as much as his ability truly warranted, having held fast at best under him, recently lost, and never won. I had given them victory just with my two hands. I saw my power, by the law unwritten. I could draw myself up, say to him, “The people wills. You can’t flog me,” and walk away unscathed.

They yelled and he stood unsure, and I thought. I had never been flogged to falling before, but I’d heard how much it hurt, and didn’t want it, especially in front of twelve thousand people. But I saw us tomorrow with his authority successfully defied, thus weakened, the warriors losing respect for him, talking against him, arguing over who had been right, so we’d be weakened in the field. If I turned against him I turned against them, whatever they felt.

So I took off my shirt. The yells of “No!” redoubled, a hint of anger in them now. They wouldn’t listen to him explaining, I saw; only me. I held up my hands for silence. It was almost instant, so with me they still were. “You are the souls of kindness,” I said, “and I thank you for the mercy you’d grant me. But justice is better than mercy in a case like this. The krachaseye is right; I did act without orders, as no warrior should do, and I resolved in myself when I did that I’d accept what punishment he decreed. I deserve his reward and his punishment both, so I accept both.” That silenced the protests, and I went to the post.

They came with a rope to lash me to the post, perhaps thinking of my age. I waved it off, hoping I did indeed have the strength to do without; this wasn’t the same as keeping my hand still for a combing. I took a good grip on the post, and the army went dead silent.

I can remember every grain-line and crack in the spot of grayed wood before my eyes to this day, though the memory of pain has been effaced somehow, as it often is with me. I remember the temptation to fall before my legs gave out, since that would end it, and staying up almost more from ground-in habit than will; I remember thinking, as the pain began ripping apart my senses, “It’s probably a good thing I never got flogged to falling before; if I’d known it would hurt this much maybe I wouldn’t have submitted to it.” I held still, though. Soon after that it was over; I went to proper unconsciousness, deep enough that I have never remembered Mana and Krero catching me. Most of the army was in tears when I woke up.

Though it was hard for me, we celebrated that night. I was carried all over the camp, which I could only bear by the aid of copious draughts of painkiller. Hurai gave me two days to recover—the Lakans were standing pat, no doubt waiting word from home—then called me to his tent the morning of the third. “Next assignment,” he said. “What you don’t know, you can find out; everyone knows you now. I want one brilliant battle plan, perfect in every aspect, overlooking nothing, certain to bring us great victory at negligible cost, in short, a perfect example of the strategic art… and I don’t want anything like last time!”