Chapter 2. "Dust Settles"

AN: I once again have internet access, but that did not mean I did nothing all this time. As my apologies for absence, please enjoy this multi-chapter dump.

The city greeted us with cheerful ululations, flower crowns and olive branches thrown at our marching feet, and the unmistakable scent of civilisation. Not an outhouse on a hot summer day, but not a rose garden either. There was a lot of rose perfume, however. Fifteen thousand soldiers, tired and bored out of their wits from more than two months of daily marching yet eager to spend their blood-earned salaries and silver from war spoils, attracted all sorts of vultures. For every two revellers celebrating the display of Emanai unquestionable power, there was one hawker promoting their craft, goods, or establishment.

“Hey, Arash, look — the Mule boy got his spirits drained.”

I didn’t need to turn my head to recognise Roshan wagging his tongue. The long and uneventful trek back eventually dispelled the mysterious image I’d earned during the battle and my finger companions quickly reverted to calling me by my old nickname. Specifically because of my lack of reaction once one of them slipped up.

“He said he has a third wife in Samat. What do you expect? At least he is walking.”

“Three wives!? How shameless. They rich — why don’t they get a second husband? His prick won’t see his third decade-”

“Quiet, you lot,” Hajar Kishava hissed at the gossips. “Erf, stop walking like a crook and stick your chest out. I didn’t beg our Manipular to put us at the front so that you can look like a beggar. Where are your numbing lotions if it hurts to walk?”

I shook my head but heeded the command of our First Spear and straightened my posture, giving a clear view of the accolades on my chest and sash to the crowd around us. If only the last two days were nothing but one unending orgy. Alas, they were anything but.

Less than an hour after Aikerim sent out our reply, our tents were visited by Mitra Adalet, the Kosenya Speaker, with a polite inquiry of what we were drinking, smoking, or otherwise consuming and a similarly polite request to not. To which I politely replied that one can not make a whole ass out of a single cheek and I was merely taking the route they chose to its logical conclusion. It took the rest of the night, multiple exhausted messengers, and Mitra theatrically storming out of our tent a couple of times before we all settled on an offer all of us hated in equal measures. We got five maniples, a thousand strong, but only for one campaign season. Considering that arms began to aggregate into rigid formations at the beginning of such season and marched at the harvesting time due to the spike in grain availability, both in Emanai granaries and on the fields of their conquests-to-be, that gave us this entire year and the next spring after that to complete our plan. They eventually agreed to back our claims within the Babr Mountains but only as long as we were occupying the land ourselves and were not preceded by another Emanai Manor. A Manor that was physically occupying the land as well — that part I was grateful to Aikerim for helping us push through. Not just the first man in, but also the last man standing. I believed we could work with that. If other Manors could easily settle there and not haemorrhage money, they would have done so centuries ago — the badlands moniker didn’t appear out of thin air. On the other hand, the maniples, while not under our direct control, would aid construction efforts with labour and skill for the cost of us providing food and fodder. The one thing all of us agreed on was that there would be no major offensive campaigns of any kind. No sieges, no conquests. The Houses of War were unwilling to subsidise our expansions with their blood, and I had no intention of stirring the local pot of mountain tribes with unnecessary raids.

The reshuffling cost us an additional concession of my name being submitted to the general census of Emanai and not the Census of Three Cities. By itself, it was toothless — my position within Kiymetl granted me far more legal rights and privileges than I would miss out on by being classified as a country bumpkin but it wasn’t a last-ditch attempt to slap me in the face either. This bargain would grant us land. It would grant me land specifically, since the Kamshad favours were given to me first and foremost. Even if it was seen as trash, non-Emanai land, it was still land. It would still turn one of my social ‘have-nots’ into ‘haves’ and a major one at that. Meanwhile, I was on the verge of achieving yet another major ‘have’ — my legal freedom. My already high by murk standards status was about to jump even higher. High enough that certain parties were willing to ‘bribe’ us into a soft exile and slap me with a ‘have not’ residence status as a precaution of sorts. That was par for the course — they had their wants and I had mine, and since they were willing to placate my ambitions of self-governance in the east, I was willing to heft an additional boulder over the grave of my political prospects in the capital.

The lines were drawn, the spheres of influence demarcated. The clock began to tick.

The race was on.

“Say, Hajar,” I turned toward my First Spear. “What are your plans for the future?”

“How do I know?” Her shrug chimed with the sounds of countless trinkets all over her highly polished armour. “Promotions will be done after the triumph. Why? A couple of nights and you are trying to flee from Samat and your husbandly duties?”

I rolled my eyes. “Your Houses chose to ‘reward’ my ‘achievements’ with a Manor.”

Hajar took a few short steps to stop herself from falling. “You…”

“We know who is treating us tonight.” Irfan, the Hajar’s adjutant, was an image of focus as he carried our standard.

Arash smacked his lips. “No less than three fat piglets. And good wine, not that swill they were peddling outside for five coppers a mug. My piss tastes better.”

“I can pay for your feast or you can come to mine, either is fine.” I ignored the brewing discussion about local beer quality and price fluctuations as I looked them over once more. “A Manor needs people. It needs guards, guard captains, and the like… if you are still uncertain of what I was hinting at. I guarantee good drink, good meat, and good cuts.”

“Bad headache, you mean.” Hajar’s scoff was betrayed by her twitching lips, but a sigh quickly followed. “What is a guard captain to a First Bow or, who knows, a Manipular? Wait till tomorrow — I might consider your words then. Right now? Forget it.”

My eyes returned to Hajar and her tinkling trinkets. Some of them were her accolades, earned through the years of military service, but the overwhelming majority were fertility amulets. After our victory, she leveraged her, and likely my, achievements to lay her hands on one of the few sheydayan captives and was now trying to nudge the luck in her favour by any means possible. “Can you serve while pr-”

Her palm slammed over my mouth faster than I could blink. Hajar leaned closer to hiss into my ear, “Do you want me to cut your tongue and shove it in your ass, where it belongs? Didn’t they teach you where you came from that some things aren’t spoken out loud, Erf? Especially in the public? Do you know how many jealous ears are around? How many evil eyes? A single curse and everything will be for nought!”

I wasn’t in a position to argue against the existence of curses in a magical society, especially when there were specific laws promising unsightly deaths to the practitioners of such black magic, but Hajar’s biggest enemy had been the Mother Nature herself… until I came along and sped up her cycle, that was. While I did find the whole ‘rape your prisoners for magical seed’ practice barbaric, that was a systemic problem and personally punishing my First Spear by withholding aid wouldn’t do much good to anyone. Not that she was aware of my aid either, or anyone else for that matter — the last thing I wanted were dedicated rape raids, fuelled by my fertility drugs. But it was a good ace to keep in my sleeve just in case. “You will be certain in ten to thirteen days.”

“And you will be silent until then and after. You might know a thing or two when it comes to concoctions, but you are still a male alchemist.”

“My wife attended to Roxanna Inayat herself and she agrees with me on this matter. Is that enough of a female healer for you?” I wasn’t even lying — Yeva was aware of Hajar’s condition and it was her previous observations on wer pregnancy cycles that allowed me to estimate the Spark Quickening date.

Hajar blinked. “She did? But I… No, of course I would — the time was right. Just a bit earlier than usual. Yes, I should bide my time for a tenday or two before making my decision.” Her finger poked my brigandine, “Pray that you did not lie to me, Erf… Where will your Manor be?”

I jerked my head eastward. “East from here. Slopes of the Babr Mountains. Land is bad, but I am not looking for farmers to settle the bucolic countryside. I need guards. I need trainers to train my guards. I need artisans and apprentices to help them. All of you are a decent sort so if that appeals to you — I will welcome you. I will double your current salaries from the start and provide you with personal quarters not too long after. Serve honourably and neither you nor your children will go hungry for the rest of your lives.”

My finger exchanged silent looks. Someone grunted.

“Hah! That some singin tongue of yours, Mule Boy,” Arash slapped his hand on my shoulder. “Do not fear — I, mighty Arash, will aid you as a neighbour. In two years time, once I receive my own ‘Manor on the slopes of Babr Mountains’, that is… Ha! How’s that? Did I sound like a young master?”

“Almost.” I flashed him a grin. “Drop the ‘mighty’ if you want to sound genuine — the mighty ones do not need to tell others of their might. And shave your greying goat beard. Young master, my ass! Anyhow, the offer stands and it is nothing more than an offer. I will remain in Samat until the seas calm down — seek me out if you wish, the Manor of Aikerim Kiymetl Adal is widely known across the city. Have no fear if you don’t — neither I nor the Kiymetl will begrudge you for it. Simply treat it as if I said nothing at all.”

The muted response was impossible to ignore. Irje was unfortunately right — while my offer was more than generous on paper, they had to leave their current careers behind and place their bets on me. As such, the benefits I was offering were compounded by my perceived probability of success, and I was immediately found wanting. By my own finger that fought and bled alongside me, at that. They trusted me to stand beside them in battle but not to lead them to prosperity. That spoke volumes about my success chances with other maniples and the likely quality of those willing. Plans would need to be adjusted.

The consequences of my unorthodox actions, no doubt. They knew I was strong — Hajar saw me best Lita’af Hikmat in a spar and I killed a barbarian champion in front of the maniple. Then there was a shiny Shattered Carapace on my sash — the proof of me killing a Creature and the main reason why I was marching in front of everyone, in direct view of the greeting crowd, and right underneath our standard. Yet I didn’t win my battles like a glorious General or a stalwart Manipular — the stereotypes they were ingrained to trust — but as an enigmatic Procurer with questionable tools at his disposal. Daimon or not, in their hearts, I was still a murk trying to don Domina’s kaftan. On the other hand, their salaries, rank, and status were the envy for a significant portion of the Emanai population and while death wasn’t a stranger to them, it wasn’t a stranger to others either. No, the readily available doctors and daily meal rations ensured that on average soldiers’ mortality was actually lower than that of a farmer. The less was said about veterancy premiums and a guaranteed land dole after ten years of service — the better. Spark or not, Emanai made sure its military wouldn’t be easily plucked for talent by anyone with two silver cuts to rub together.

“You can offer slaves instead of land,” Hajar tried to throw me a bone. “I am sure the boys would work quite earnestly if you promise them a good one in, say, five years? Didn’t you say that your Domina’s Manor was rich? What is two or four handfuls for someone like her?”

I hummed in thought. The first recruitment as a Manor and slaves were mentioned already. That also spoke volumes about how frequently I would be saying no in the near future. But should I try harder to recruit them? Could I afford to? Their discipline and willingness to stand strong in the face of danger was greatly welcome but it wasn’t a critical necessity for at least a year. More, if I manage to entice the Houses of War with our crafts. Their experience with drills was welcome too but it was not like Aikerim’s Manor was staffed with people who never saw Forest up close. Aikerim was a holder of a Shattered Carapace herself and either of her husbands left the likes of Hajar far, far behind in terms of military expertise. Not that I would insult either of them with the position of a guard captain, but Aikerim wasn’t willing to send our sadaq away without her oversight. At the same time, I wasn’t offering already generous wages because I was a nice person or had silver to throw away — I had to attract eager workers into ‘barbarian badlands’ and keep them there while we rapidly developed amenities, creature comforts, and other loyalty-inducing perks. Meanwhile, other Manors, possibly even the Kiymetl ones, would without a doubt keep an eye out for unsatisfied artisans with daimonic hands-on experience. Add to that the bulk purchases of foodstuffs to keep the settlement fed and multiply everything by the transportation factor. Was it a wonder that our early estimates were already at two tons of silver cuts in weight? Nowhere near a hundred and twenty tons as my possible punishment for failure but still a hefty price to pay for what was essentially the first year start-up cost.

“Free people of Emanai!” A booming melodious voice startled me from my contemplation. “Hear the Divine herald!”

My eyes focused on the faraway priestess standing on a temple balcony. Judging by the sudden tumult across the crowded plaza we were marching through, her voice was heard by everyone and spread faster than the speed of sound. The fabled air magic of Shebet, most likely.

The priestess took some time singing praises to our goddess, recited an abridged tale of our victory, and even made sure to mention the strategic genius of Sophia Chasya, who stood up to the barbaric menace and pushed the wicked cur back into the desolate steppes. Once the crowd was properly riled up with fervour, her tale went south and I felt my eyebrows rise.

Emanai was getting the entirety of Hilak.

That… that was news, alright. It seemed that the Divine game, in which I played the glorious role of an unpredictable murk pawn, had pretty big stakes after all. No wonder the Divine Heurisk was pleased with my performance.

Not too far ahead of us, in the wermage group, Irje turned her head and found my eyes. I shook my head, silently telling her not to worry too much. She was right to be concerned — a lucrative opportunity of such calibre would attract the talented, the smart, and the driven, drying our potential pool of recruits even further and occupying arms for a decade at the very least. The change of ownership wasn’t a simple switch one could simply flick over. The cities of Hilak would need to be ‘informed’ about the change of their sovereign, new tribute routes would need to be established, and the influential elites — purged from unfriendly elements. Plenty of silver and gold to be ‘found’, plenty of fertile land to be ‘liberated’. Judging by the jubilant cheers and excited murmurs, the warriors of two arms and the people of Samat were quite welcoming to the future ‘labour’. Nevertheless, there was a silver lining. The priestess spoke of a grand competition amongst the Houses of Emanai, promising Divine boons to the most successful subjugators of new territories. That would not only significantly decrease the level of scrutiny our Manor would be receiving and allow us to grow in a relative peace, if not outright obscurity, but a small part of me was actually wondering if this proclamation was somehow connected to the frantic eagerness with which the Houses of War chose to settle old scores. No, what was I thinking — this was a Decree from the Divine Heurisk. Not only everything was connected but there was a flock of dead birds somewhere, killed by this ‘stone’.

“Crooked luck,” Hajar spat on the ground. “Another season, and you would’ve gotten a better piece of land. You are a splinter in my ass and your tongue needs to be cut short by an elbow or two but this isn’t right.”

I chuckled. “Thank you, Hajar. You are a good woman and an honourable officer. But make no mistake — whether or not others think that I was cheated, I received exactly what I was asking for. My future Manor isn’t just some thousand oxen worth of ploughing land but an entire Bayan Gol’s worth, at the very least, including its hinterlands and legal status. Only the cities of Hilak could be compared in scale and I would never be granted one. The herald was clear — they would be distributed among the worthy Emanai Houses with each House receiving just one city to govern. I am no House and I would not dare to take the city promised to my Kiymetl benefactors… But I do have a favour to ask of you, Hajar Kishava. You are the holder of records for the finger’s fund, correct? The one that aids widows, maimed, and the like?”

Hajar rubbed her temples. “Our purse? Pray don’t tell me you are seeking that sort of aid.”

“That would be a rather silly thing to ask after my previous proclamations. No, not only would I not be taking anything from the fund, I will add my salary to it. I want you to contact those forced to rely on it in the past. Not just anyone but the ones you were truly sad to leave behind. Good, honourable men and women with crooked luck. Loyal warriors that were forced to put down their spears due to some injury or disease. Tell them they can have a bright future by my side.”

“…What are you plotting this time?”

I pulled up my sleeve and wiggled the fingers on my ‘missing arm’. “I am ‘plotting’ to acquire loyal people, Hajar. Nothing more but nothing less either. If I can’t get them with my word and decent wages; and as I am unwilling to purchase loyalty with the lives of other people, I will use my alchemistry to aid them so they can serve me in kind.” It was easy to keep my regenerating arm hidden during the march. While Hajar was seeking top-grade seed, I leveraged my accomplishments along with my battlefield Procurer promotion to spend the nights at my wives’ tent, both to regrow my arm in peace and to coax the trimmer blade from its grip on Irje’s wrist. Meanwhile, while we were able to outmarch the snow in the north, winters in the south were chilly enough to warrant long wide-sleeved kaftans.

Hajar mumbled a few colourful adjectives that I pretended not to hear and shook her head with a huff. “Anything else ‘young master’? Spark potions?”

“I am an alchemist, not a Divine.”

“What about the dead?”

“…I can’t resurrect dead people either, Hajar, and arusak-at are the specialty of your House, not mine.”

“Can’t do this, can’t do that. What a shoddy alchemist you are… I was serious about the dead, specifically the widows and orphans they left behind.”

“…as long as they know it is you who recommended them and it is your name they would tarnish with their misdeeds.”

“Trust me, they will know. I will not let them forget it! It’s settled, then. I will scribe the letters, but treat them well — I won’t send you lazy layabouts.”