"But suppose I'm wrong. Suppose the situation continues with nothing being done to settle theBorder States? SupposeMaisir does move into Kait? TheBorderStateshave always been a buffer between our kingdoms. But what if this ends? Maisir also lays claim to Urey.

"If they sent armies throughSulem Pa.s.s, with the intent ofoccupying Urey, would we be able to stop them? More importantly, since none of us seem to think of ourselves as Numan-tians these days, but as Kallians, Darans, Palmarans, Cimabuans, would we have thewill to stand against Bairan?

"What do you think, Damastes a Cimabue?"

I considered what I would say carefully. Tenedos had said much, but one thing he had not told me is who he thought might reign in Numantia. But then, as I thought on, he did not need to.

I finally thought I had the right words.

"I think I've heard too many 'if's,' " I said nervously. "And I'm afraid of running into troubleif I start thinking that far ahead, and will be like a man who lets his midday meal be poached by his cat while he's worried about whether his dog might steal the steak he has planned for dinner."

Tenedos looked at me silently for a very long time, then suddenly and unexpectedly burst into laughter.

"Legate," he said, "if anyone ever says to me that Cimabuans are not subtle, but blockheads who can speak only the truth, I shall laugh them out of my presence.

"That was the best nonanswer to a question I have ever heard outside the court of the Rule of Ten.

"You will do very well, Damastes. Very well indeed. So let's start thinking about our midday meal, which is a violent little province called Kait, and how we can keep most of its inhabitants from killing each other and also Numantians, as well as keeping our own heads fairly well connected to our shoulders."

The next day, we rode into Sayana, capital of theBorderStates.

FOUR.

The Tiger at Night.i.t hardly seems fifteen years ago, as I look back on that young legate, riding beside a master magician whose life I'd saved, my still-bloodied saber in its sheath, looking down from the roadway at those ominous spires of Sayana in the distance, and tasting adventure in the soft breeze.

Who was I? From where hadI come?

In spite of the turns of fortune, I consider myself the least remarkable of men. I never thought of myself as having been gifted by the G.o.ds, as some others have claimed about themselves.

I am taller than most, it is true, nearly a head taller than six feet. Some have said my features are well made, but I have never been able to prate about how handsome I am. In truth, in the pier gla.s.s I think myself rather plain.

My hair is blond, and I wear it long, even now when it is sadly thinning on top. I have always preferred to be cleanshaven, finding a beard not only a collector of strange debris, but also something an enemy can use as a deadly handhold in battle. I shall add, since I intend to be as honest as I know in this memoir, that there's a bit of vanity in this, since my face hair grows like a bramblebush, in knots and tangles. When bearded, I look less an imposing leader than a wandering men-

dicant, a roadside holy man who's chosen the wrong byways to carry his begging bowl down.

I am, as is obvious from my name, from the jungledprovinceofCimabue. There may bethose who do not know the reputation my people have, or the many jokes that are told about our laziness, our unreliability, our dullness and general shiftlessness. Let but one j.a.pe suffice: The Cimabuan who sat up until dawn on his wedding night, because the seer who performed the marriage ceremony told him this would be the most wonderful night of his life.

Those tales are not, by the way, told in the presence of Cimabuans more than once, since we also have the not undeserved reputation for being frequently short-tempered and implacable in our wrath. I myself spent many hours stable-cleaning as punishment detail at the lycee for having repaid such "jokes" with my fist My family has always been soldiers, serving either our own state or, more often, Numantia, always remembering the days when the countrywas a country, with a king, no matter how evil, instead of a collection of states, each ruling itself badly and seeking any opportunity to do harm to its neighbor.

We were land rich, our estate covering many leagues of hilly forest. The land was worked by freeholders, long beholden to my family, since Cimabue has few slaves. It is not that we are opposed to slavery, since all men who are not fools know that when the Wheel turns a slave may be reborn as a master, so one lifetime spent under the lash matters little, and may serve to teach the soul what errors he committed to be so punished.

Our villa was less a house than a run-down fortress, having been built generations earlier by the first of our family to use his sword and army pension to carve holdings from the jungle, defending it against the savage tribes that have now retreated far into the mountains where no man dares disturb them further, since they are armed not only with savage cunning, but also with dark magic pulled from the earth and blessed by Jacini herself.

Even with little money in the coffers my family lived comfortably, since we grew all that could be desired for the tabler.

*and had enough herd animals, mostly zebra, cattle, and half-tame gaur used for hauling and plowing that only children and the beasts' drovers could safely approach. A caravan would come through our lands twice a year, and we could trade for the other items-cloth, steel, spices, iron-we could not pull from our own land.

I was the youngest child, following three sisters. I was, they say, a very pretty babe, and so, in a normal household, would have most likely grown up cosseted, frail, and gentle.

My father, Cadalso, would have none of that, however. In the army, he'd seen many battles on the Frontiers, in the Border States, and, in spite of not having any friends in high places, what soldiers call a "priest," was able to reach the rank of captain before losing his leg, and hence being forced to retire, at the famous battle of Tiepolo, ironically a battle fought not against a foreign enemy, but between Darans and our fellow Numantians, the Kallions.

He insisted I be raised as a soldier. That meant mostly outdoors, in all weathers, from the brain-baking Time of Heat to nearly drowning in the typhoons of the Time of Rains. When I was but five, I was taken to one of the estate's outbuildings, a small structure with only two rooms: bedroom and ablution chamber.

This was my sanctuary, and no one would be allowed to enter without my permission. I would have no servants, and was expected to turn the vine- and filth-covered building that I suspected had once been a cowshed into living quarters proper for a soldier, and an officer to boot.

I started to protest, looked once into my father's eyes, fierce behind the great prematurely white beard that covered his face, and knew there was no use. Cursing, perhaps crying, I set to work, sweeping and scrubbing. Then I had to take the few coppers he gave me and bargain for my furniture-a cot, a small chest, and an open wardrobe. Father gave me a table of great age that took two men to carry into my rooms.

I was never permitted to slack off. Father inspected my rooms daily, and on the results depended what I would be allowed to do that day.

*This, I realize, makes him sound like several species of tyrant, but he was not. I can never remember him raising a hand to me, to my sisters, or to my mother, Serao.

He explained his actions: "You are my son, my only son, and you must learn strength. I sense there are trials ahead for you, and while these will build your thews, you must also have power within. Even the smallest wolf cub must learn to snap before his pack will welcome him and teach him to hunt."

I did not realize until later, when I found real love myself, how close he and my mother were. She had been the daughter of a district seer, a man with a small reputation for honest spells and refusing to work magic that would harm any person, no matter how evil. I know my father could have done better- in our province a soldier is well thought of, and many landowners are proud to give their daughter to a man of arms, particularly if he hails from the area and also owns property. But my father said that when he first saw Serao, a.s.sisting her father as he blessed the seeds in the Time of Dews, he knew there could be no other.

She was a quiet, gentle woman, and when they married she struck a pact with Cadalso: All that happened outside the household was his responsibility, all within was hers. This bargain was held to, although I can remember times when a particularly incompetent cook or drunken groom would bring a flush to either's cheeks, and they would be forced to bite hard on the words that wished to come out.

I loved them both very much, and hope the turning of the Wheel has taken them to the heights they deserve.

As for my sisters, not much need be said. We fought each other and loved each other. In time, they made good marriages-one to a village subchief, one to a fairly wealthy landowner, and the third to a soldier in our state militia, who the last I heard had risen to the rank of color-sergeant, and now manages the family estates. All have been blessed with children. I shall say no more about them, for their lives have been fortunate by not being touched by history. The G.o.ds let me send gold when I was rich and powerful, and granted them safe and comfortable obscurity when Emperor Tenedos and I met our downfall.

I am told most boys go through a time when they want to be this, be that, be the other thing, from wizard to elephant leader to goldsmith to who knows what. My mind never spun such skeins for me. All that I ever wanted to be was as my father had dreamed: a soldier.

On my name day, I was taken to a sorcerer my father particularly respected, who was asked to cast the bones for my future. The sorcerer cast once, cast thrice, and then told my parents my fate was cloudy. He could see I would be a fighter, a mighty fighter, and I would see lands and do deeds unimag-ined in our sleeping district That was enough for my father, and enough for me when I was told later.

Just before her death a few years ago my mother said the wizard had finished his predictions with a quiet warning. She remembered clearly what he said: "The boy will ride the tiger for a time, and then the tiger will turn on him and savage him. I see great pain, great sorrow, but I also see the thread of his life goes on. But for how much farther, I cannot tell, since mists drop around my mind when it reaches beyond that moment."

That worried my mother, but not my father. "Soldiers serve, soldiers die," he said with a shrug. "If that is my son's lot, so be it. It is unchangeable, and one might as well sacrifice to Umar the Creator and convince him to return to this world, take Irisu and Saionji to hand, and concern himself with our sorrows." That was great wisdom, she knew, and so put the matter aside.

Somehow I knew as a boy what skills I must learn, and what talents would be meaningless. I learned to fight, to challenge boys from the village older and stronger than I, because that was how a reputation was made. I was always the first to climb to the highest branch or leap from the tallest ledge into a pool or run the closest past a gaur as he snorted in his pen.

I listened hard when the hunters taught me archery, when my father gave me lessons of the sword, when stablemen taught me how to ride and care for a horse.

One of the most important things I learned from my father, although he never advised me of this directly, was that the best weapon for a soldier was the simplest and die most universal. He taught me to avoid such spectacular devices as the morn-ingstar or battle-ax for a plain sword, its hilt of the hardest wood without device, faced with soft, dull-colored metal that might serve to hold an enemy's edge for a vital instant, its grip of roughened leather, preferably sharkskin, and its pommel equally simple. Its blade should be straight, edged on both sides. It should be made of the finest steel I could afford, even if it meant borrowing a sum from the regimental lender. The blade should not be forged with sillinesses like blood runnels, since those do not work and only weaken a weapon's strength, nor should it be elaborately engraved or set with gold. My father said he knew of men who'd been slain just for the beauty of their sword-an entirely ridiculous reason to die.

It should be neither too long nor short; since I became taller than most men when fully grown, I prefer a blade length of three inches short of a yard, and the weapon to weigh a bit over two pounds.

He added that if I were to become a cavalryman, I'd likely be given a saber. Most nicely I'd have to carry it until I achieved some rank or battle experience, but then to consider well before I kept the weapon. It was his experience that a saber was very well and good for wild swinging in a melee, or for cutting down fleeing soldiery, but afoot or in a man-to-man contest, he'd rather have a bow and fifty feet between him and his opponent than the most romantic saber. This was but one of the quiet lessons I absorbed from him, one of those that kept me alive when all too many lay dead around me.

I pushed my body to the limits, running, swimming, climbing, paying no attention to the tear of muscles and silent scream of exhaustion, but forcing myself to go one more hill, one more lap across the pool, one more hour of sitting, shiver- *ing, in the blind with my sling beside me while rain seeped down and the geese did not appear.

One thing came naturally: I loved and understood horses. Perhaps at one time I have been one, since when I was first taken to the stables as a babe, and my father held me up in his arms to see the great beast, I called out, as if recognizing an old friend, and, I was told, the animal nickered a response, trotted across the yard, and nuzzled me.

I don't glorify the animals particularly. I know they aren't terribly intelligent, but what of that? I don't consider myself a sage, either, and some of the finest men I've had serve under me, serve to the death, would be hard pressed to remember today what their lance-major told them last week.

Riding was another part of my schooling, being able to ride a horse bareback, with a saddle, or with the bare blanket and rope bridge someone said the nomads of the distant south preferred. I learned how to make a horse obey without having to use the cruel curb bit, and my spurs had b.a.l.l.s on their tips instead of spikes. Some horses became almost my friends; others, while not quite enemies, were not ones I'd readily choose to saddle up for an afternoon's outing.

It was graven into my soul that your horse always conies first: It's watered, fed, groomed before its rider dares provide for his own comfort, or that man is less than a beast himself. I was cursed later by my men for driving them to their currycombs and feedbags, but my regiments would still be mounted long after other units were afoot, their horses foundered, cut into the stewpot, and they themselves stumbling along as common infantrymen.

I spent hours in my father's stables, learning everything I could from old grooms, knowing my fate as a soldier might depend on these beasts. I learned to treat their minor ailments and even, when one of our horses fell desperately ill and a seer would be called, I found a place to lie atop the rafters so I could watch what medicines he compounded, and what spells he cast. Of course, since I have not a single trace of the Talent, when I tried them nothing happened, but at least I was learn-

ing how to pick a true magician from the crowd of charlatans that crowd around an army on campaign.

Isa, G.o.d of war, who some say is an aspect of Saionji herself, also gave me talents. I grew tall and strong, with a voice other boys listened to and enough brains so they would follow me.

I loved to hunt, not for the kill, although that is the satisfaction the G.o.ds give for a task performed well. I would take bow, arrows, a small knife, tinder, and steel, and set out into the jungle. I would be gone a day, or a week. My sisters and mother would worry, my father pretend unconcern. If I were to be eaten by a tiger, men the sorcerer had been wrong and it was the tiger's lifeline that stretched long.

Far away from our estate and the surrounding villages, I learned the real skills of soldiering: to be content while alone; to be unafraid, or at any rate to stay calm when night closes down and the forest noises are very dangerous, even though most of them come from creatures that would fit in the palm of your hand; not to be choosy about your food and to be able to live on raw fish, partially cooked meat, or the fruits and plants around you; to be able to sleep when drenched to the bone and the monsoon pours.

Most important of these is always to think of the next step-to be aware that if the rock you jump to is slippery and sends you sprawling, you could be crippled, far from any help. Or that the cave that looks so inviting a shelter from the thundershower may hold a sun bear, and what then, my lad? All of these things I learned well, and they saved my life many times in the years that followed.

There were two other "skills" that are commonly thought of as soldierly that my father spoke little of, but I also familiarized myself with. One came naturally, but I failed at the other.

The latter was drinking. All men know soldiers are sponges, sops around anything fermented or distilled, and I fear it's more than true for most. But not for me. The smell of wine or brandy turned my stomach as a lad, which is hardly uncommon. But the smell or taste never became more attractive as I aged. When young, hoping to learn the skill, I forced myself to drink with my fellows, once as a boy when we found a wineskin that had fallen off a merchant's cart beside the track, and the second time at the lycee, when we cadets finished our first year of studies. I never made a boisterous a.s.s of myself as others did, but became very sick early on and crawled off to be rackingly ill, and then had a sour gut and a huge drum in my head for two days as reward. Of course I never say I do not drink, since the world pretends to respect but actually feels uncomfortable around an ascetic, but I will carry a single beaker of wine for an entire evening without anyone noticing that I but touch it to my lips. I drink small beer by choice, and even water when I'm a.s.sured of its purity. There have been a few times as an adult I've gotten drunk, but they were the exception and even more foolish than when I was a boy.

The other soldierly virtue or vice is, of course, whoring. s.e.x came early to me, and was the hidden blessing of my tiny house in the jungle, since I was alone with no nurse, mother, or busybody of a servant to keep me chaste. Perhaps my father knew this when he gave me those two rooms whose memory I still treasure.

Village maids, more likely infatuated with the idea of bedding the son of the lord than having a real l.u.s.t for me, would creep into my quarters at night and teach me what they knew. After some time and several girls befriending me, I was able to return the favor of instruction.

There would also be the girls and young women of the caravans. Once trading was finished, there would be a feast, and as often as not the end of the evening would find one of them slipping into the shadows with me.

I remember one such night when a young woman came out with me. Her husband, a great oaf of a silk merchant, had inhaled three wineskins and subsided into a snoring, blubbering pile not long after the sun went down.

She told me, and it might well have been a lie, she'd been sold to him against her will. I said nothing, for such was and unfortunately still is the custom in too many parts of our land.

She asked if I knew what could be done with silk, and I laughed and said I might be from the country, but was hardly that much of a fool. She smiled privately and suggested perhaps there were uses I was still unaware of, such as for wall-hangings and, she ran her tongue over her lips, other places in the bedchamber.

I expressed interest, feeling my c.o.c.k stir against my loincloth. She disappeared into her wagon, and came out in a few moments with a pack.

No one noticed as we left the village square and went to my cabin, being deep in their own vices. She was, of course, telling the truth-there were many, many uses for the silkworm's death I wasn't aware of.

I did know how coa.r.s.ely woven veil, showing more than it conceals of brown flesh, with only a candle to illuminate, can dizzy the mind.

But I knew nothing until that night of the touch of a silk whip, nor how silken restraints can send a woman's pa.s.sion into flame.

We were resting, curled around each other's bodies, sticky with love, when the tiger coughed.

Her body tensed against me.

"Can he get in?" she whispered.

To be truthful, I didn't know. There were iron bars across the windows, and I knew those to be impregnable. The door was heavy cross-braced lumber, and barred, but I'd seen a tiger kill a bullock with one smash of its paws, then effortlessly pick the beast up in its jaws and leap a nine-foot fence.

But I knew enough to he.

The woman's breath came faster as we heard the tiger pace around the walls. My c.o.c.k came hard, and I rolled atop her, her legs lifting as I rammed into her, thrusting as she pumped her hips against me, back arched and hands pulling at my b.u.t.tocks, the beast outside, and its scream against the night, silencing the monkeys, burying her cry as our sweating bodies became one and I poured into her.

We waited until dawn before I took her back to her wagon, and carried a cudgel with me. We saw the tiger's pugmarks in the mud, but he was long gone. She stopped me when we came*in sight of the caravan, and giggled. "We don't need to tell them just how you fought the tiger," and pointed at my body.

I saw the nailmarks and bites on my chest, and knew there were others hidden under my loincloth.

She laughed once more, kissed me, and was gone.

I spent the day away from my family in the jungle. I sometimes think of that woman, and wish her well, hopingJaenmade her happy and has given her a long life, and her husband many wineskins for blinders.

So love has been a fine friend, but the soldierly pastime of going into rut anytime there's a female of any age within a league, no. I've not only avoided embarra.s.sments, but disease as well. My father once said, in one of his few references to s.e.x, after making sure neither my mother or sisters were in earshot, "Some people will put their c.o.c.k where I would not place the ferrule of my staff," and he is certainly correct.

I've also heard it said when a man makes love all the blood rushes to the lower half of his body, thus explaining why men cannot f.u.c.k and think at the same time, which sounds quite logical.Jaenknows I'm hardly innocent of that charge. But enough of that.

If it sounds as if I have been bragging, I do not mean to do so, for I have many weaknesses, which should be obvious, considering my present position here on this lonely island as an exile who can expect only death to improve his lot and give him a chance to return to the Wheel and expiate his deeds in another life.

I am but a poor reader, and have little patience with the pleasures that come from listening to the sagas, scholarly debate, or seeing dancers portray the deeds of men. Painting, stone-carving, all these things I can praise, but there is none of the heart's truth in my words. Music alone of all the arts touches me, from a boy tootling on a wooden whistle to a single singer accompanying himself on a stringed instrument to the intricacies of a court symphony.

Philosophies, religions, ethics, all these things are for wiser heads than mine.

At one time I would have said my greatest talent, though, was one Laish Tenedos said was the most important of all. I was gifted with good luck, something all soldiers must cany with them.

Now?

That proud claim has surely been proven a joke, one that would make the monkey G.o.d Vachan, G.o.d of fools, G.o.d of wisdom, shrill laughter and do backflips in wicked glee.

One further thing I learned from my father was always-always -to obey the family credo:We Hold True. When I swore an oath of fealty to Laish Tenedos within my heart, long before I placed the crown on his head, it was to the death. It is ironic that my vows to him were never equally honored. But that is as may be, and Tenedos is answering for that sin.

I knew, when I approached seventeen, I would enter the army. I a.s.sumed I would travel to the nearest recruiter, and take the coin as a common soldier. If I worked hard and mightily, I might be fortunate enough to find a commission and perhaps end my days at the same rank my father reached. This was the highest I dreamed, at least that I'd admit to. Of course there was always the grandness of somehow leading a forlorn hope, coming to the notice of a general and being promoted on the battlefield. But truthfully I knew my most likely fate would be to end my days as a hard-bitten sergeant, such as I met from time to time in the villages. Still more likely was that I'd be taken by Isa on the battlefield in blood, or in barracks from one of the diseases all armies carry along with sutlers and wh.o.r.es.

In theory, I should have been able to apply for one or another of the lycees that produce officers, since our family is more than n.o.ble enough to qualify. But the old proverb applies, and my family, and in fact the entire district of Cimabue, was far out of sight and mind of the powerful ones who ruled the army from Nicias.

I didn't care. I suppose this must be counted another of my failings, that I've never been one to think highly of someone*merely because the Wheel's turnings makes him the son, or her the daughter, of a grand family. In fact, in spite of my former t.i.tles, and my marriage, being around such people makes me a bit nervous, although I've learned to disguise it.