Chapter 25
“NASTY,” PALEDAN said, gesturing with the point of the blade at Drake’s finger.
Drake started to say it was nothing, then caught himself. “It’s very painful,” he said, with a visible wince.
“Here. Use this.”
The major reversed the blade in his hand with a quick motion, offering Drake the handle. Drake hesitated. Not because it wouldn’t work, but because he was afraid of what he might do with that well-honed blade in his hand and a Coalition officer within stabbing distance.
As if the tapper could ever work up such nerve.
He realized two things then; first, that this was likely a test of just that. The man had probably heard he was broken, submissive. But given who Drake’s father had been, Paledan had probably wanted to test him out himself.
And secondly, and of primary importance . . . Paledan had no fear for himself. It was the self-assurance of a man who knew he could take on any man and win. Even if the tapper showed an unexpected spark of defiance, he had confidence he could put him down like an infected barkhound. Easily.
Drake took the dagger gingerly. He poked it at the thick sliver of wood. The spot quickly began to bleed, and he winced blatantly. But he got a large chunk of the splinter out, and quickly decided that was enough. The rest would work its way out eventually.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, handing the blade back in the same way it had been handed to him. Using a clean bar cloth to press against the small wound, he looked at the man who had so nearly snuck up upon him. “You left the other night without your change. I have it waiting for you.”
“I didn’t wish for change.” The man lifted a brow. “Are you always so scrupulous?”
“I’ve seen men killed for less,” he said neutrally. By other men in your uniform. “What can I get you, Major?”
“I understand you have clingfruit nectar available.”
Drake didn’t react, but inwardly, he was surprised. The juice of the native clingfruit was not frequently requested here where more potent brews were the usual fare. Clingfruit nectar had no effect except the soothing of an irritated throat.
“Of course,” he said. “I hope you’re not ill?”
“Not yet,” the man said dryly. “But I have a meeting with Jepson Kerrold shortly. I must assume nothing but talk will be the order of the day.”
Drake couldn’t stop the smallest quirk of his mouth before he turned to grasp the bottle with the drawing of the pinkish-orange fruit on it.
“You have met him, then?” Drake said neutrally as he filled a glass and held it out.
“Not yet. But I have heard enough to guess he is the sort of blowhard aspirant to glory I have dealt with in many places.” He took a sip of the nectar, seemed surprised at the taste, and took another. Then he looked at Drake levelly. “And you, tapper. Do you have an opinion of your representative?”
“A man in my position cannot afford opinions, sir.”
Paledan grimaced. “But if you did,” he persisted.
“If I did,” Drake said carefully, “I would say you are well prepared.”
There was a fraught split second of silence. And then Paledan gave a hearty laugh. “And you are the soul of diplomacy, delivering agreement without saying so, and leavened with a compliment.”
Drake caught himself smiling. And was startled to realize it was genuine. Something he never would have expected in the presence of a Coalition major. Paledan downed the last of the juice, insisted on paying for it despite Drake’s demurral, and nodded as he turned to go.
Drake’s smile vanished as the door opened before the man got there, and Kye stepped inside. Paledan looked her up and down, as any man with a beating heart would. And as any man would be, he was appreciative.
Kye, on the other hand, merely lifted her chin and strode past him without a word. Again to Drake’s surprise, the man merely smiled, and continued on his way. Most of the Coalition would have paused no matter what their agenda for the day, to remind the woman who was in charge. Had that Coalition man been Frall, the old commander, Drake shuddered to think what that cool disapproval would have earned her. He watched assessingly as the man exited, still trying to get the measure of this new commander who would in essence rule over Zelos and Ziem much more personally than Barcon and the governor.
He knew better than to express concern about the way Kye had treated the man. She would not welcome it from him. Not anymore. But he couldn’t completely quash it. “Why didn’t you just slap him?” he asked, keeping his tone mild.
“He said nothing to be slapped for. In fact, he said nothing.”
She took a seat at the bar and watched as he tore a strip off the bar cloth with the small bloodstain before he set it aside. He wrapped the strip around the spot on his finger the knife had slit, then took up a fresh cloth to wash the nectar glass. She seemed to be studying him rather intently, and he wasn’t sure why. He knew he probably wouldn’t like the reason, however, so he did not ask.
“You slapped Kerrold for looking at you like that,” he said instead.
“Kerrold makes my skin creep.”
“And a Coalition major does not?”
She glanced toward the door he’d exited. “He seems . . . different.”
He’d thought the same thing himself, but did not like hearing it from her. “What do you mean?”
“He is . . . impressive.”
He really didn’t like that.
“Impressive?”
She shrugged as she turned back. “In the way a powerful predator is impressive. He seems a man to be taken seriously.”
No, he didn’t like this at all. “As you once had an infatuation with Jepson Kerrold, I’m not sure how seriously you should be taken.”
She scowled. It wrinkled her nose in that way that had always made him smile inwardly. “I was a child. He was fancy. What did I know?”
“Truth,” he admitted.
She let out a breath that was almost a sigh. It was unlike her enough that he stilled his hands and waited.
“But you are right. My judgment of men was dreadful then, and still is now. Perhaps it will be always.”
It was not said in the way she had when she was aiming it at him, but there was still a ring of heartfelt ruefulness in her voice, and Drake hated that he was at fault for at least part of that. Perhaps all of it, if he counted what he’d done to her in both guises.
“Someday,” he began, then stopped.
“Someday what?”
“Nothing. Just stay clear of Paledan, will you?”
“He is a Coalition major, no matter how impressive. Of course I will.”
And he had to be satisfied with that.
BRANDER’S KNOCK sounded on the door. The Raider looked up from the message signed with the Spirit’s feather and called out for him to enter.
“It’s true,” he said without preamble. “The Spirit was right again. I had it from Cuplin and Weel that the miners have been accompanied the entire week by Coalition workers and new equipment. It’s probable they’re the ones who arrived on that transport last week.”
The Raider let out an oath under his breath.
“Do you think they’ve come up with a way to get their equipment to work in the mist?”
“It seems the logical conclusion.”
“So they may not need our people anymore.”
“Yes.” The Raider’s jaw tightened. “And we know what the Coalition does with things they no longer need.”
“What will we do?” Brander asked.
He had been thinking of this while Brander had been off confirming the intelligence. He outlined the only plan that had come to him.
“It would work, I think,” Brander said slowly.
“Yes.”
“But how to pull it off? Explosives are out, if it must seem natural.”
“Yes.”
“Some of the old miners, from the days before the borers, might have ideas.” Brander frowned. “If there are any left alive.”
“Put out the word. See who remains, and would be willing to venture suggestions.”
Brander nodded.
By the next day, the rumors, likely sparked by Brander’s inquiries, were rampant. But unlike most hearsay, they were very consistent. Because there was only one logical explanation—the Coalition had new tools and if they worked with their own people, they planned to do away with the Ziem miners. And once that was done, they would have no need of any Ziemite at all. They would wipe them all out, with no more thought than a blazer would give his prey.
And the Spirit had somehow known well beforehand. He did not know how she gained her information, only that it was unfailingly accurate.
He holed up in his quarters, pondering methods and logistics, all the while aware he knew too little of mining to be sure what might work.
Two days later, Brander brought him a visitor.
“Samac Rahan,” he said.
The Raider recognized the name of one of their pioneer miners, who decades ago had been instrumental in finding the vast reserves of planium the north mountains held.
“You won’t like it,” Brander added, “but I think he has the answer.”
He nodded, and Brander stepped back to usher a man into his quarters. He left and closed the door, leading the Raider to think he already knew the man’s plan, and would wait only to hear if it was to be implemented.
He saw the age of the man, and instinctively got to his feet in respect. They had spoken of the old miners, and Samac certainly had the look. Even paler than the normal Ziemite, a good foot shorter than he himself but broad-chested and well-muscled. Even at a clearly advanced age, he looked strong, as those who had mined with hand tools had had to be, in the days before the arrival of the powerful borers that dug through the hard, unyielding rock of the north mountains. And yet there was something else about him, a slight off-tone of his skin, the slight shuffle in his step that spoke of more than just age.
“It is an honor,” Samac said, bowing his head.
The Raider shook his head. “It is I who am honored, elder. Will you sit?”
Surprise, then gratification flickered across the old man’s face. “I thought there was no place in the Coalition world for the old ways any longer.”
“I am not in the Coalition world.”
A broad smile creased his face, and the Raider saw a flash of the man he must have been in his youth: alive, vital, strong, and powerful.
“You give me hope for Ziem, young man.”
“Do not surrender that hope. Now what is it you have?”
“An idea,” Samac said. “A plan, even.”
He laid it out then, in a meticulous, logical manner that told the Raider he had thought it through carefully. When he had finished, it was all the Raider could do not to immediately shake his head in negation. “I cannot ask you to do this.”
“You didn’t ask. Sir.”
“Samac,” the Raider said gently, “there is no way to assure your escape.”
The old man lifted his head, looked at him with eyes that were clear and bright despite his many years. “I know.”
He took in a deep breath. “You have already given your life to Ziem. You have designed and dug her mines, the system which brought us wealth, and fought bravely when the Coalition arrived to steal all we had built.”
“And now I am dying.”
The Raider drew back. The man, for his age, looked healthy enough.
“It is true,” Samac insisted. “The town healer warned me, before he was killed. And I feel the pressure of the growth, increasing every day. It will soon cripple me, leave me helpless. I do not choose to go out that way.”
“Samac,” he began, not wanting this sacrifice. And hating the fact that once, it would not have been a death sentence; once, the man could have been healed, before the Coalition had destroyed every medical facility on Ziem, and the healers and scientists along with them. No one outside Coalition protection was to have care, yet another way to force people to welcome their bootheels.
“Let me do this. For my world.”
“It might be pointless. It could well be we will lose anyway, in the end.”
“But we can make the Coalition fight for every gain, make it as costly for them as we can.”
“It would only delay them.”
“And how often have I heard that you have fought a delaying action and then turned the time gained into a victory?”
“I do not deny that it would be valuable. I quibble only at the cost.”
“I have no one left, sir. They’ve taken everyone I loved and everything I had. My death is inevitable, and soon. Let it mean something.”
“Samac,” he began, but the man shook his head.
“Let me put those years, this knowledge I have of the mines, to use one last time. I will know how to do it, and the exact moment to make the final move.”
The Raider studied the man before him for a long, silent moment. Saw the determination in his eyes, his weathered face. “Are you able?”
“For this, I will be.”
The Raider waited a long, solemn moment. Reached out and laid a hand on the old man’s arm. Samac stood up straighter, prouder.
“Then prepare.”
The Ziem blue eyes lit. “Yes, sir.”
“I will send word when it is time to begin.”
“Thank you,” Samac said, his voice steady, resolved, unwavering.
He stood, walked toward the door with a much steadier gait than when he had come in. The Raider walked beside him as escort, with a respect that had grown a thousandfold since the man had arrived. He would never, ever get used to this. Sending people to certain death. That Samac had volunteered, that he was merely avoiding a more painful future to come, made it no easier, just painful in a different way.
The old nightmare vision of his mother, plunging off Halfhead to her death to avoid her own painful future played vividly in his head. But she had not been old, only a few years older than he was now, given she had been but sixteen when he was born. And yet she had surrendered to her grief, her four children not enough to tie her to this life in the face of her pain.
He buried the old, useless ache deep, and reached to open the door for Samac. But stopped when the old man spoke. “Since it will not matter,” he said, looking up at his scarred face, “will you tell me?”
“Tell you . . . ?”
“Who you are.”
He hesitated only a moment. This man was willing to die, intentionally, to sacrifice himself to buy Ziem more time.
He leaned over and whispered into the old miner’s ear. The smile flashed again, wider, brighter. Happiness glowed in his eyes. He looked like anything but a man who had just volunteered to die. And to the Raider’s surprise, the old man engulfed him in a hug worthy of a mountain bear.
Brander was waiting outside, along with Kye.
“See him safely home,” he said.
Brander nodded.
“Then return.” He looked at Samac and smiled. “There are more rumors to spread.”
IT WAS AN EFFORT for Brander not to laugh when Nard Rejel sidled up to him at the chaser table just as he was getting up to leave, and whispered in his ear.
“Have you heard? The Raider and the Spirit have joined forces. They’ll drive the Coalition out for sure!”
“That would be a formidable combination,” he admitted, as if reluctantly.
The optics man pushed his own lenses back on his nose, then rubbed his hands together almost gleefully. “Maybe those thuggers will find Ziemites have some bite after all.”
Brander decided it could not hurt to plant the idea, and said, as if it had just occurred to him, “If this rallies more to the Raider, things could change.”
“Exactly. Thinking of going myself, if only I knew where they were.”
Now that was something he should have thought of before. “I’ve heard,” he said slowly, stalling as his mind raced, “that you can leave a message in the crack of the smallest bell in the tower, and he’ll get it.”
He figured that would be safe enough; he knew the location was scheduled to be rotated off the message drop list in a couple of days anyway, so it wouldn’t do any harm for Nard to know.
“I think I’ll do that,” Nard said, now rubbing at his bewhiskered chin.
Brander wasn’t sure the man would, thought it likely that good sense would overtake him before he got it done. But that didn’t really matter. What mattered was that it had worked. The story was circulating. One more brick in the formidable Raider legend.
And now it was time to start the next rumor on its way. He looked around until he saw his quarry. Pryl had a nephew in the mines. Besides being the canniest woodsman and tracker around, he was also one of the Sentinels who risked the double life of fighting and staying here in Zelos.
He walked over to the table the man was sitting at, carefully chosen to allow virtually anyone in the taproom to overhear. But most especially the two Coalition troopers who sat at the table to Pryl’s back.
“You look more peevish than usual,” he said as he pulled out a chair, speaking just loudly enough that he could be heard by all, yet not so loud it appeared he was shouting. He carefully sat so that he could see both Pryl and the troopers.
“You’d feel that way too,” Pryl said, his voice at the same level, “if you had a nephew in the mines when there’s going to be a cave-in any moment now.”
Brander sensed by the drop in the surrounding chatter that they’d been heard by much of the room. But most importantly, they’d been heard by the troopers.
“I’ve heard they’ve been having trouble.”
“It’s those Coalition meddlers,” Pryl said, his tone excessively sour. “They don’t know the first thing about planium mining, and they’re going to bring a collapse down on them all. Then only the Spirit can help them.”
Brander saw the troopers stiffen.
He gave a barely perceptible nod to Pryl, to signal him to continue. “Only good thing is, now that they’re there, there will be as many of them taken out as us.”
He could almost read the dilemma on the troopers’ faces; take out the insolent Pryl, or scurry back to headquarters to tell what they’d heard. They could, of course, split up to do both, but he doubted either of them had the courage to face down Pryl alone, never mind the fact that they couldn’t be sure the crowded taproom didn’t hold more than one rebellion sympathizer. He knew in fact it held several. Intentionally.
After a moment, the two scrambled to their feet and headed for the door.
He and Pryl lifted their mugs in a mutual toast.
When he finished and walked over to the bar, Drake appeared to ask if he wanted a refill. He shook his head.
“Late,” he said.
Drake nodded. “Near closing time.”
Brander nodded in turn. “I’m done. I’ll be off.”
“Good night.”
“Mmm.”
He left his friend there washing the mug he’d handed over. And wondered what it must feel like to be the lone hope of a world and yet have just about everyone in your town consider you coward. True, they thought he himself a wastrel, but that was truth enough.
He did not envy the path—the paths—Drake had chosen to walk.