Peculiar Soul

Chapter 110: Old Habits

Chapter 110: Old Habits

Our Gharic cousins give much attention to the field of civic law. It is not inaccurate to say that societies of men require laws to function, but the laws must change to suit the society. Ghars legal codes could fill a library, and each of her children have followed that example.

Yet our own are so short, barely worth binding together. Whence the difference? It lies in the goal of those laws. Gharic law exists to constrain the deeds of evil men, and to rebuke them for their excess. We have no need of such in Saf, for we do not have evil men.

Do not mistake me; we have men who commit wrongs like any other country. These we deal with by law. But the labyrinthine edifice of law that Ghar built to reconcile the existence of evil with good has no place with us, for we recognize the law as a compact between good men. For those who stray from the path, we have another text entirely.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

Thats the border? Michael asked, squinting. It did nothing to improve his sight, of course, but it felt correct.

Zabala nodded, pointing out across the low valley ahead of them. The hills there - I forget the name of the range, but theyre the traditional northern border of Ghar, from back before it was an empire. The placement isnt an accident; its about the only natural barrier dividing the peninsula from the continental mainland. During their last war, Ghar held Saf at this border for years. When those lines broke, they came to us for aid. He grimaced. You know the rest of the story from there.

And now theyre manned from the other side, Michael muttered. Fine. I imagine theres enough cover for a small, veiled group to slip through somewhere along the range.

Sobriquet nodded. Potentially. The Safid dont have Sibyl, but theyre not idiots; they will be watching with more than just eyes.Updated from

I expect theyll have their hands full with Ardans before long, Michael said. Given that this is the only spot to mount a defense, theyll contest the passage north.

Not too strongly, I think, Lars said. While the Ardans are still on the peninsula, resupply from the coast is trivial. If they bleed them some, then let them over the hills, theyll be complicating the Ardan supply train significantly. His fingers twitched, and a series of parallel furrows appeared in the dirt at their feet. I imagine theyll set up several lines, small skirmishes here and there to force the army to stop and fight. Slow them down, keep them from resting or regrouping.

His foot drew a track across the furrows, stopping fractionally at each one. By the time theyve done that dance five or six times, theyll be hurting some - and deep into Safid territory, with every scrap of food and kit passing over those mountains. Theyre going to have attrition problems with the obruor-touched men even without those complications; with them, the impact will quickly become ruinous.

Zabala shot him a look. If the obruor-touched men were the core of their fighting force, he pointed out. Which they arent. Theyre a placeholder, debatably-warm bodies to hold positions and stand guard. Their real offensive, defensive and intelligence power is in their ensouled corps, and attrition wont impact those to nearly the same degree. As long as they manage to serve Luc a hot breakfast each morning, theyll be more than a match for the Safid.

But it will serve to disorganize them, Michael noted. And given that Luc is such an important part of their force, it will fix him in place. There should be ample opportunities for us to take advantage of the chaos. He looked out at the hills. If we can get across and to the other side, we should be able to pick our moment.

Sobriquet made a face. And what are we going to do for supplies and shelter, while were there? Were leaving Ghar because the locals want our heads - or my head, at least. Our reception in Saf isnt likely to be much warmer, and well have worse than a mob coming down on us if were discovered.

But theyre not looking for us, Michael pointed out. And Saf should offer richer opportunities to resupply than weve found here. He grimaced. Half our food is still back at the safehouse in Gharon. Assuming Lars is right about their staggered defense, we should be able to lift rations and equipment from Safid caches.

Oh joy, more Safid rations, she deadpanned. It seems reasonable. Ill caution you that the Safid keep a much tighter grip on their countryside than youre used to in Ardalt. Theres a reason we always had trouble maintaining cells in their territory; they take matters of internal security very seriously, and their common people have a literally fanatic patriotism.

I imagine theyll have evacuated much of the border anyway, Michael said, though Sobriquet looked less than convinced. With any luck, well find a farmstead or hamlet we can use as a base.

He cracked his neck, then nodded. But first, we have to get there.

After the not-inconsiderable thought they gave to crossing the border, Michael was surprised to note that the frontier was unmarked and unguarded in the spot they picked to cross. In fairness to the Safid, they were far from any road, with Michael bending the short scrubby pines aside to create a track for their passage in the otherwise impassable terrain.

As a result their descent into Saf felt somewhat anticlimactic. It was a countryside that looked little different from Ghar, with no signs of habitation in the long valley that led northward to the plains. The coast road ran to their east, though, and once the curve of the land mellowed out they were able to turn their course towards it.

They did not advance far into Saf that day, since the light was waning. As darkness fell, Michael saw lights wink into being across the landscape. The small, warm light of cookfires came from a few isolated farms, while larger blobs of radiance sat farther distant.

Those will be the defensive lines, Michael said, lofting his sight upward. At least three groups that I can see, although theyre at the edge of my vision.

Sobriquet frowned. One of those is a town, not an army camp, she said. Although it seems to have no small amount of soldiers even so. I count a total of four encampments, including that one. Most of the troops are held in the farthest line, though - thats the one you cant see, its beyond a rise. The border and the two lines behind it arent manned to do more than delay the Ardans. She gave Lars an appraising look. You had them more or less figured out, it seems.

Lars flushed. It was the obvious strategy, he demurred.

Michael shifted his sight around, trying to get a better picture of the arrangements. I think well find it easiest around the town, he said. More food, perhaps some livestock - theres likely a stream there for water, too. Well rest here tonight, then approach cautiously over the next day or two to establish ourselves. It will be some time before the Ardans make it to the first line, but Id like to be in a position to watch their advance.

Morning came damp and chill, with a persistent fog obscuring their route forward. The distant camps were lost in it, the dead brush of the mountains glistening with cold droplets. The sun made itself felt only after several hours of wan half-light, during which they had descended into the flats and begun picking their way towards their destination.

Even with the burgeoning light, Michael found it hard to see far. Raising his sight up left the land swathed in white below him; they were all relying on Sobriquets direction as they drew closer to the road. She led them on a curving route that kept them off the ridgelines, pausing frequently to take her bearings.

How long until we reach their pickets, do you think? Michael asked during one of these pauses.

Michael watched the few he could see, shifting his sight around to get a better look. There were a trio of soldiers standing quietly at an intersection, either idle or at their post. As with the other Safid Michael had seen, they wore small veils that hung from the brims of their caps to cover their eyes.

Everyone in the town was veiled, in fact. The citizens walking by them lacked the neat black cloth across their eyes, but made do with a variety of wraps and gauzy coverings. Most of theirs hung down farther than the soldiery, in some cases covering their whole face.

None of them paused to speak to the soldiers as they passed. Their only reaction to the three was to dip their heads down until they were facing the dirt, or near enough as their burdens permitted. Those with free hands touched one to their brow. Only when they were several paces clear of the men did their posture straighten once more.

Michael relayed this to Richter, who laughed. Exactly, the cook said. They do like their soldiers, mind. In awe of them. But theyre beneath them, just like theyre beneath ensouled. Now - our villagers are beneath soldiers too; thats how it goes. They know who has the power. You wont catch anyone in Daressa gawping at a soldier, nor even in Ardalt. Savvy soldiers take food from the village stores like we do. They commandeer horses and stock like we do. But where an Ardan or Daressan will spit blood over it, the Savvies figure thats just the way it has to be.

They just put up with it? Michael asked, watching a woman duck her head, clutching her veil close to her face. Maybe a few, but there have to be some where it doesnt sit right.

Probably. Richter spat into the dirt. There were sometimes one or two folks who were quick to take off the veils when we showed up. Of course, as soon as you do that the other Savvies stop talking to you. No more temple food, no more friendly neighbors. He made a noncommittal noise. They put up with it because life is pretty good in Saf, from what I can tell. The soldiers dont take liberties. Everything works, everyone gets along, nobody goes hungry or sleeps rough. In short - good. The trick is that theres only one sort of good on offer.

Michael nodded slowly. That fits with what Ive seen elsewhere, he muttered. Youre either on the path, or off it.

I stop short of trying to understand their path nonsense, Richter said. Seems awful convenient for the folks at the top. Life might be a little fucked up back home, but at least we get to fuck it up as we please.

I can tell you that its not just an affectation, Michael said. Convenient or not, their leaders believe every word of it.

Richter gave an amused snort. I bet. Big shiny soul, people bowing and scraping wherever you go, Id believe some pretty crazy shit too if thats how it turned out for me. He nodded towards the village. Now those poor bastards down there - theyre impressive. Itd be a lot harder to keep faith in something if all it got you was an empty larder and a face full of dirt. Yet there they go. He made a dismissive gesture. Bowing away.

Michael watched them for a long moment. A pair of children ran past the soldiers, chasing each other with wild abandon. Their heads came down as they passed, then back up. They didnt even break pace.

Its not so strange, Michael said, his eyes still on the children. You tell a child who he is often enough, and hell believe you. Everything makes sense through that lens. Its comfortable. Something hell fight to defend, bad as it is. Honestly, I find it stranger that any of us manage to become something more.

Richter said nothing in response; Michael brought his vision back to find the soldier looking at the ground, radiating a mild discomfort. He smiled and shook his head. Im rambling, Michael laughed. Come on. Ive got the layout more or less figured; lets talk about getting some food.

It was a short conversation. They broke from their camp and moved as one towards the village; their need to remain veiled at all times meant that staying together was essential. It was no burden, though - the streets of the village were wide and uncrowded, making it easy for them to slip through to the temple at its approximate center.

The temple hewed to the same guidelines as the larger versions he had seen back in Daressa, built under the occupation. The building was white, with clean, simple lines. It was afforded a generous amount of space, and that space was swept clean of debris and refuse.

Cautiously, Michael sent his sight through the building and found it mostly-deserted; only one older man clad in white robes remained inside, sweeping the floor with unhurried motions. His veil was pinned back from his face, against his stringy grey hair, and his lips meandered in the slow hum of a tune only he could hear.

The front door was open, which was convenient. The larder was below the building, however, accessible through a stairway in the rear. That way was blocked by a heavy wooden door, which they would have to take care to open gently - Sobriquets ability to veil them was prodigious, but if they started destroying bits of the temple she would struggle to keep up.

He led the group inside through the open door, steering wide of the man with the broom. They circled around to the stairs, and made way for Sobriquet to lay her hand on the door. Michael waited for her nod, then touched his finger to the metal of the lock.

The iron resonated under his fingertip, and Michael knew the metal. There was nothing revelatory or profound about it; in fact, the mundanity of it continued to surprise him. Just as he could feel the position of his fingers or toes, he knew where the black iron lay.

He pulled the doors heavy bolt back into the lock, then withdrew his hand. The door drifted gently open. Sobriquet looked up at him and smiled, though Michael noted the tinge of sadness that clung to her at seeing his artifex soul. He reached out to squeeze her shoulder, then pushed the door open to go downstairs.

Despite it being winter, and the plain above being full of troops, the temples storeroom was admirably full. Grain and beans were in abundance, but Michael dismissed those in favor of more tempting prey. He shrugged off his pack to grab a small wheel of cheese, followed by a mismatched variety of sausages. Richter and Lars were eagerly lifting apples from a barrel, scattering the packing sawdust on the floor.

Michael sighed to see it; there was probably no hope that the Safid wouldnt notice the raid, but it would be good enough if they missed it until after he had left town. He turned his attention back to the food, finding a dusty shelf of Safid army rations. With a grimace, he added those to his hoard. The rations looked old, but he was confident that the tasteless bricks had a prodigious shelf life.

They took enough for a week, which Michael thought was fair - if they were still idling around this camp a week after this, then it was likely that food would be the least of their problems. A few empty, battered canteens joined the haul, and they turned back upstairs to leave.

The old man was still sweeping when Michael reached the top of the stairs. As the last of their party came up, he eased the door shut.

Perhaps there had been a draft, or a soft noise in its closing; perhaps the old man had one of those inexplicable feelings that informs a person when they are being watched. Whatever the case, he looked up from his sweeping a bare moment before the door had finished closing.

Michael saw immediately that the old man knew. The door had not unbolted itself at a stray gust. He could not see them, but his eyes fixed on the door with fear and shock.

The broom clattered from his fingers, bouncing on the stone tile. Sobriquet raised her hand, but before she could act against the old man he dropped to his knees, his hand snatching the veil across his face. In the next moment he had pressed his veiled forehead to the tile, bowing low.

Sobriquet paused, as bemused as the others.

Michael stared for a different reason; before, he had watched the bowing from a distance. Now the quavering man before him felt all too familiar in Sparks view. His heart sped as he lived a single memory spread over a thousand moments, of the air in a room changing as his father walked in.

Leave him, Michael rasped. Time to go.

Sobriquet gave him a questioning look, but found whatever answer she needed in the look on his face. She walked out the door, and the rest followed. Michael was last, stopping to look one more time at the old man pressed against the tile - doing what he knew was right.