The huge soldier glanced around the room nervously. ” ‘Tis just tha I don’ know wha ta ‘spect, sar. No used ta thet. Man o’ my station does no speak privately with na gen’ral, naebit less na Triumvir.”
His head jerked a bit, as if he was sternly reminding himself of a silent vow. When he spoke again, the thick accent was almost gone and the clean-speaking sergeant of the drama was back.
“Sorry, sir. I imagine the Triumvir would like me—me and my squad—to serve him as bodyguards. That’s what my men were thinking, anyway. In the new times a-coming, you’ll be having some use for a bigger guard, they’re thinking.”
Demansk was not surprised to discover that the sergeant had mentioned this upcoming private audience with his men—nor that the squad had apparently spent some time discussing the matter. The squad was the basic unit in the Vanbert army. Except in cases of extreme casualties, soldiers usually served their entire twenty-five-year stretch in the same squad. Half of the men in it would be related by blood, and almost all of them would come from the same village. “Squad deep” was the way Confederate veterans would refer to a man or thing which could be completely trusted.
What Demansk did find a bit surprising—and certainly interesting—was the actual assessment the squad had made. “New times a-coming,” indeed. As an officer, even a popular one, he was and had been for years insulated from the quiet thinking which percolated through the ranks. But he’d never made the mistake which many officers made of not realizing that such thinking was going on.
The perspicacity of the squad, and the obvious intelligence of its sergeant, crystallized a decision he’d been weighing in his mind. As it happened, he had originally intended to use them as bodyguards. But he decided he had a better purpose for them.
First, though, he had to see how far he could push the matter.
“And what do you think of such ‘new times’ yourself, Sergeant?”
The giant stared at him for a moment. Then, sloping his shoulders like a greatbeast leaning into a load, he said softly: ” ‘Twere—it was—a sad day for my folk when Old Marcomann died, sir. Say what they will about his so-called ‘tyranny,’ but it never touched me or mine. Except to lighten the taxes and give a poor man a chance. All of which went like the dew when the sattra—uh, noblemen and their Council got back on top of things.”
The choked off word had been sattrasacht. An old word in the eastern dialects, it translated as “gutworms”—a type of intestinal parasite which was prevalent in poverty-striken agricultural regions of the Confederacy. It was the private term which the Confederacy’s peasantry used to refer to the Vanbert aristocracy.
“Marcomann did leave something of a mess behind, Sergeant.” Demansk’s words were spoken in the tone of an observation, not a reproof.
The sergeant shrugged. Then, for the second time that day, Demansk saw the little gleam in a troll’s smile.
“Yes, sir. But me and my boys figure you’re a lot smarter than Old Marcomann, even if he was a great man and all.”
Demansk nodded abruptly. “Done, then. I’ve a different job for you than bodyguard, Sergeant. I need you to keep an eye on Willech’s old regiments for me, especially the Fourth Jallink. I’ll give you and your squad the authority to sit in on all staff meetings, armed, and oversee everything they do.” He stifled a yawn. “It’s too late tonight to go into the details—truth is, I have to figure them out myself—but that’s the gist of it.”
The uncertainty was back on the giant’s face. So was the accent in his voice. “Tha will no hart’ly allow no sergeant na ‘is squad to do thet, sar.”
“Three things, Sergeant. First, let’s start with your name. What is it?”
The sergeant blinked. “Ma name? ‘Tis Forent Nappur, sar.”
“Second. I’ll need you to keep that accent under control. Outside of your squad quarters, at any rate. Can you do that?”
Another blink. “Ah—yes, sir. I can do that. Sorry, sir. I’m just a bit unsettled at the moment.”