Perfectionist
Angel of Verdun
A Conspiracy of Soldiers
I am nervous as the men begin to enter the tent. I don't show it, naturally, but I never have quite gotten used to these meetings. We have only the best interests of Gallat and Manin at heart, of course, but in these dark times that's a dangerous thing. In the wrong light it could look like treason, and even at the end of the world the oligarchs still care about treason. I tell myself not to worry. It's not as though the Lightprotectors know or care what their paid soldiers are doing, so long as we die when they ask, and no one comes to these meetings without vetting. They file in, hard-bitten sergeants and scarred veterans and competent Captains – though of course the incompetent Captains are mostly dead by now – not exactly men on speaking terms with the Servants.
The tent is almost full and I am almost ready to begin, when one final figure enters the tent. I nod in acknowledgment, then do a double take as my heart skips a beat. It's him. I've only seen him a couple of times, but there's no mistaking him. All the soldiers know him, speak of him in reverent terms: the Ward who understands what's happening, the one who speaks to the soldiers and the Faithful who have taken up arms, not to the merchants. He's also deep in the Faith's hierarchy and doubtless on first name terms with half the Lightholders in the League; not, let's put it bluntly, the kind of man you'd invite to gathering you're trying to keep secret.
Yarin enters last, and I furtively wave him over. “What is he doing here,” I demand in a hoarse whisper.
“I don't know,” Yarin replies. “He found me as I was coming here and said he was coming along. He already knew, I didn't tell him, and I couldn't stop him without a scene.”
“All right, I suppose we can't do anything. This could be a turning point. Get them ready.” As Yarin goes to quiet the room, I reflect that if the Lightprotectors wanted to arrest us they would hardly send a lone Ward. He must, I tell myself, be here to lend his support; and what a great thing that would be. Yarin has gotten the audience seated; it's time to begin. The Ward is in a corner, his face utterly blank. For all the animation he displays as I begin to speak he might be watching a particularly dull paint dry; beige, perhaps, or maybe grey.
I start on an apocalyptic note. We are at the end of our time, I say, and there are no more second chances, nowhere left to retreat. They nod grimly; no one here has any illusions about the odds facing us. But, I tell them, hope is not yet lost, for the Accans are coming from across the sea, riding to the rescue again. Now I come to the heart of it: we have a chance, but not if the League squanders it. And the League will squander it. I speak disparagingly of the effete mincing oligarchs of the Council, crying out again to the Redeemer to save them. I remind them that Gallat was better than this once, that our fathers brought down Ferman and contested with Evyni. It is our shame, I say passionately, that the Lightholders and Lightprotectors we have allowed to rule us can do nothing but lead us to failure and ruin and then pray that salvation will come from across the Kern, where they built upon the strength of old, rather than resting on it.
It isn't my best performance, I'll admit. They're listening, I can see; they want to agree, but they're wary, not on the hook yet. That's all right; the substance isn't the reason they've come, after all. The speech over, they talk amongst themselves. The discussion turns to the failures at the Sundown Moors; one of them, a big one with facial scars, is loudly convinced that we were sold out by our Lightprotectors. I sit back, no longer participating in the discussion. Patience is crucial now. Speaking unprovoked might ruin everything. So I tell myself, anyway, but even so as the night drags on I find myself beginning to worry. I have just decided to signal Yarin to speak up – we've never yet had to use it, but we did consider the possibility - but then at last someone asks the question, as someone always does in the end: how did you get out of Gallasa? I smile a little half smile of relief despite myself, and reluctantly – still mustn't be eager – launch into the story.
I give a much better account of myself in this second oration. It's not all that difficult, I suppose; the events around the Immolation are so tragically dramatic, and still so raw to all of us, that a pantomime skit might have much the same effect. Still, though I'm not a boastful man, I must say I've honed the story to a cutting edge by this point. So I start with the panicked flight from Hallandata. Most of them were there, of course, and some of them nod along; we all remember it only too well. I tell them how I sent my company away as the Aitahists approached Gallasa and the city dissolved into panic; I tell them how I stayed, tell them about the chaos and the slaughter, tell them about running into the dockyard warehouses after the High Ward burned and dodging looters for three days. I relate my epiphany, my resolution to escape, to live long enough to make the easterners pay. I talk about the ruined grandeur of the city and the savage glee of the heathens as it burned, and I see their eyes alight with pride and rage and determination. I describe, in thrilling detail, killing a sentry and passing through the Aitahist camp in his clothes, being discovered, fighting my way out, stealing a horse, and riding for three days and nights with the pursuit never more than minutes behind. I tell them about days in the wilderness, eating berries and drinking streamwater, and the joy and elation I felt when I came upon a party of Faithful, marching to the defense of Sirasona.
It's all really good stuff, though I say so myself, and it goes down terrifically with this crowd. It's even mostly true.
I don't feel guilty about massaging events; my father always taught me that you should never be so selfish as to let a little thing like honesty get in the way of a good Truth. And for these men this Truth would not be improved if they knew that, after I sent my men away, I proceeded to head to the nearest pub with the intention of getting so drunk I wouldn't notice when the Aitahists killed me; or that I blacked out, missed most of the sack, and only woke up three days later in a pigsty in a secluded corner of a ruined city; or that the sentry was dead before I found him, and my discovery in the camp was more a case of being caught in a drunken soldier's brawl. A Captain stumbling around a deserted ruin, hung-over and reeking of pig; well, it just doesn't look properly heroic. And that's why they're all here, of course. Not to listen to a condemnation of the Servants, or to hear about how the feckless oligarchs have to be rescued again by Satar, where they are still led by real men; no, they all know that, they all agree. They're here to see if the stories are true; they're here to see if I'm a man they could side with. It's one thing to know that things should be changed; it's another thing entirely to believe that you're dealing with someone who can make them change. By the time I finish they have made up their minds, for the most part. Hands are shaken, agreements spoken, pledges signed, and our little conspiracy is that much larger. As they file out, one by one, I can see on their faces enthusiasm, fierce determination, and even a brief spark of hope.
Well, on all faces save one. His face is just as blank and impassive as when he entered; indeed, throughout the whole night he has barely moved and said not a word. I suppress a brief surge of disappointment that I couldn't convince him, then follow them out. It's late and as the adrenaline wears off I begin to really feel my exhaustion. I am in a hurry to to reach my tent and leave the world for a few hours. Yarin starts to follow, but I wave him off. “I'm fine,” I tell him. “Go get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning.” He nods and heads in the other direction.
As I walk I think about our group, about what we can do for Gallat and the Way. I have no illusions, of course; we are likely all dead, but it would not be right to submit meekly to our fate, as some of the Servants have openly proposed. As I reach my tent I am so engrossed by my bleak thoughts that I don't notice a darker patch of shadow on the side of my tent, and I nearly leap out of my skin when it steps forward and speaks. “That was an excellent performance,” the shadow says, and as it steps forward I recognize with another shock that it's him. “That was no performance, Ward, merely the honest truth,” I reply, quickly recovering the appearance of composure.
“Do not take me for one of these blunt soldiers, Captain. We are taught to see through veils to the truth of things, we men of the Faith.” He laughs softly, a wildly disconcerting sound. “And some few of us even learn. Oh, don't worry. I meant it truly as a compliment. Only the very foolish would deny that appearances matter, and they matter trebly so when it comes to leading men.”
I am at a loss for words momentarily. This is an almost entirely novel sensation. “It's good to meet a man who recognizes that truth,” I – well, I wouldn't call it a splutter, but it wasn't far off either. “In my experience you men of the Faith tend to disapprove of such things.”
“But, as we are learning now to our great detriment,” he continues, and now his voice is cold and hard, “appearances count for less than nothing if they hide an essential core that is rotten. Aitah is a marvellous leader of men, but she leads them to ruin.”
“And you think that I am the same? You want to know my core, Ward Risadri?” Now I've recovered, and now I understand. I should have known sooner: this Ward is not one to side with speeches or heroes. This Ward cares only about the Faith, and I decide to level with him. “I shall tell you, then. It is this: I believe in the Faith to my bones. I believe that ruin awaits if we should fall. And I believe that the Way needs protection, and guidance, and our men, those puffed up, impious Servants and mincing Lightholders, cannot provide it.”
He is silent for a long moment, and I wonder if I have gone too far; too late I remember that a Ward, even this Ward, will have many friends among those Servants. Then he speaks. “We have been searching for one another, I think. We have a great deal to discuss, Captain Javan.”
I am nervous as the men begin to enter the tent. I don't show it, naturally, but I never have quite gotten used to these meetings. We have only the best interests of Gallat and Manin at heart, of course, but in these dark times that's a dangerous thing. In the wrong light it could look like treason, and even at the end of the world the oligarchs still care about treason. I tell myself not to worry. It's not as though the Lightprotectors know or care what their paid soldiers are doing, so long as we die when they ask, and no one comes to these meetings without vetting. They file in, hard-bitten sergeants and scarred veterans and competent Captains – though of course the incompetent Captains are mostly dead by now – not exactly men on speaking terms with the Servants.
The tent is almost full and I am almost ready to begin, when one final figure enters the tent. I nod in acknowledgment, then do a double take as my heart skips a beat. It's him. I've only seen him a couple of times, but there's no mistaking him. All the soldiers know him, speak of him in reverent terms: the Ward who understands what's happening, the one who speaks to the soldiers and the Faithful who have taken up arms, not to the merchants. He's also deep in the Faith's hierarchy and doubtless on first name terms with half the Lightholders in the League; not, let's put it bluntly, the kind of man you'd invite to gathering you're trying to keep secret.
Yarin enters last, and I furtively wave him over. “What is he doing here,” I demand in a hoarse whisper.
“I don't know,” Yarin replies. “He found me as I was coming here and said he was coming along. He already knew, I didn't tell him, and I couldn't stop him without a scene.”
“All right, I suppose we can't do anything. This could be a turning point. Get them ready.” As Yarin goes to quiet the room, I reflect that if the Lightprotectors wanted to arrest us they would hardly send a lone Ward. He must, I tell myself, be here to lend his support; and what a great thing that would be. Yarin has gotten the audience seated; it's time to begin. The Ward is in a corner, his face utterly blank. For all the animation he displays as I begin to speak he might be watching a particularly dull paint dry; beige, perhaps, or maybe grey.
I start on an apocalyptic note. We are at the end of our time, I say, and there are no more second chances, nowhere left to retreat. They nod grimly; no one here has any illusions about the odds facing us. But, I tell them, hope is not yet lost, for the Accans are coming from across the sea, riding to the rescue again. Now I come to the heart of it: we have a chance, but not if the League squanders it. And the League will squander it. I speak disparagingly of the effete mincing oligarchs of the Council, crying out again to the Redeemer to save them. I remind them that Gallat was better than this once, that our fathers brought down Ferman and contested with Evyni. It is our shame, I say passionately, that the Lightholders and Lightprotectors we have allowed to rule us can do nothing but lead us to failure and ruin and then pray that salvation will come from across the Kern, where they built upon the strength of old, rather than resting on it.
It isn't my best performance, I'll admit. They're listening, I can see; they want to agree, but they're wary, not on the hook yet. That's all right; the substance isn't the reason they've come, after all. The speech over, they talk amongst themselves. The discussion turns to the failures at the Sundown Moors; one of them, a big one with facial scars, is loudly convinced that we were sold out by our Lightprotectors. I sit back, no longer participating in the discussion. Patience is crucial now. Speaking unprovoked might ruin everything. So I tell myself, anyway, but even so as the night drags on I find myself beginning to worry. I have just decided to signal Yarin to speak up – we've never yet had to use it, but we did consider the possibility - but then at last someone asks the question, as someone always does in the end: how did you get out of Gallasa? I smile a little half smile of relief despite myself, and reluctantly – still mustn't be eager – launch into the story.
I give a much better account of myself in this second oration. It's not all that difficult, I suppose; the events around the Immolation are so tragically dramatic, and still so raw to all of us, that a pantomime skit might have much the same effect. Still, though I'm not a boastful man, I must say I've honed the story to a cutting edge by this point. So I start with the panicked flight from Hallandata. Most of them were there, of course, and some of them nod along; we all remember it only too well. I tell them how I sent my company away as the Aitahists approached Gallasa and the city dissolved into panic; I tell them how I stayed, tell them about the chaos and the slaughter, tell them about running into the dockyard warehouses after the High Ward burned and dodging looters for three days. I relate my epiphany, my resolution to escape, to live long enough to make the easterners pay. I talk about the ruined grandeur of the city and the savage glee of the heathens as it burned, and I see their eyes alight with pride and rage and determination. I describe, in thrilling detail, killing a sentry and passing through the Aitahist camp in his clothes, being discovered, fighting my way out, stealing a horse, and riding for three days and nights with the pursuit never more than minutes behind. I tell them about days in the wilderness, eating berries and drinking streamwater, and the joy and elation I felt when I came upon a party of Faithful, marching to the defense of Sirasona.
It's all really good stuff, though I say so myself, and it goes down terrifically with this crowd. It's even mostly true.
I don't feel guilty about massaging events; my father always taught me that you should never be so selfish as to let a little thing like honesty get in the way of a good Truth. And for these men this Truth would not be improved if they knew that, after I sent my men away, I proceeded to head to the nearest pub with the intention of getting so drunk I wouldn't notice when the Aitahists killed me; or that I blacked out, missed most of the sack, and only woke up three days later in a pigsty in a secluded corner of a ruined city; or that the sentry was dead before I found him, and my discovery in the camp was more a case of being caught in a drunken soldier's brawl. A Captain stumbling around a deserted ruin, hung-over and reeking of pig; well, it just doesn't look properly heroic. And that's why they're all here, of course. Not to listen to a condemnation of the Servants, or to hear about how the feckless oligarchs have to be rescued again by Satar, where they are still led by real men; no, they all know that, they all agree. They're here to see if the stories are true; they're here to see if I'm a man they could side with. It's one thing to know that things should be changed; it's another thing entirely to believe that you're dealing with someone who can make them change. By the time I finish they have made up their minds, for the most part. Hands are shaken, agreements spoken, pledges signed, and our little conspiracy is that much larger. As they file out, one by one, I can see on their faces enthusiasm, fierce determination, and even a brief spark of hope.
Well, on all faces save one. His face is just as blank and impassive as when he entered; indeed, throughout the whole night he has barely moved and said not a word. I suppress a brief surge of disappointment that I couldn't convince him, then follow them out. It's late and as the adrenaline wears off I begin to really feel my exhaustion. I am in a hurry to to reach my tent and leave the world for a few hours. Yarin starts to follow, but I wave him off. “I'm fine,” I tell him. “Go get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning.” He nods and heads in the other direction.
As I walk I think about our group, about what we can do for Gallat and the Way. I have no illusions, of course; we are likely all dead, but it would not be right to submit meekly to our fate, as some of the Servants have openly proposed. As I reach my tent I am so engrossed by my bleak thoughts that I don't notice a darker patch of shadow on the side of my tent, and I nearly leap out of my skin when it steps forward and speaks. “That was an excellent performance,” the shadow says, and as it steps forward I recognize with another shock that it's him. “That was no performance, Ward, merely the honest truth,” I reply, quickly recovering the appearance of composure.
“Do not take me for one of these blunt soldiers, Captain. We are taught to see through veils to the truth of things, we men of the Faith.” He laughs softly, a wildly disconcerting sound. “And some few of us even learn. Oh, don't worry. I meant it truly as a compliment. Only the very foolish would deny that appearances matter, and they matter trebly so when it comes to leading men.”
I am at a loss for words momentarily. This is an almost entirely novel sensation. “It's good to meet a man who recognizes that truth,” I – well, I wouldn't call it a splutter, but it wasn't far off either. “In my experience you men of the Faith tend to disapprove of such things.”
“But, as we are learning now to our great detriment,” he continues, and now his voice is cold and hard, “appearances count for less than nothing if they hide an essential core that is rotten. Aitah is a marvellous leader of men, but she leads them to ruin.”
“And you think that I am the same? You want to know my core, Ward Risadri?” Now I've recovered, and now I understand. I should have known sooner: this Ward is not one to side with speeches or heroes. This Ward cares only about the Faith, and I decide to level with him. “I shall tell you, then. It is this: I believe in the Faith to my bones. I believe that ruin awaits if we should fall. And I believe that the Way needs protection, and guidance, and our men, those puffed up, impious Servants and mincing Lightholders, cannot provide it.”
He is silent for a long moment, and I wonder if I have gone too far; too late I remember that a Ward, even this Ward, will have many friends among those Servants. Then he speaks. “We have been searching for one another, I think. We have a great deal to discuss, Captain Javan.”
