Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 12



The night sky, although it had much less overall brightness than in Kolcorron, was spanned by a huge spiral of misty light, the arms of which sparkled with brilliant stars of white, blue and yellow. That wheel was flanked by two large elliptical spirals, and the rest of the celestial canopy was generously dappled with small whirlpools, wisps and patches of radiance, plus the glowing plumes of a number of comets. Although the Tree was not visible, the sky was overlaid with a field of major stars whose intensity made them seem closer than all the other heavenly objects, imparting a sense of depth to the display.

Toller was only accustomed to seeing those configurations when Land was at the opposite side of its path around the sun, at which time they were dominated and dimmed by the great disk of Overland. He stood unmoving in the dusk, watching starry reflections tremble on the broad quiet waters of the Orange River. All about him the myriad subdued lights of the Third Army’s headquarters glowed through the tree lanes of the forest, the days of open encampments having passed with the advent of the ptertha plague.

One question had been on his mind all day: Why should General Dalacott want a private interview with me?

He had spent several days of idleness at a transit camp twenty miles to the west—part of an army which, suddenly, had no work to do—and had been trying to adapt to the new pace of life when the battalion commander had ordered him to report to headquarters. On arrival he had been examined briefly by several officers, one of whom he thought might be Vorict, the adjutant-general. He had been told that General Dalacott wished to present him with valour disks in person. The various officers had plainly been puzzled by the unusual arrangement, and had discreetly pumped Toller for information before accepting that he was as unenlightened about the matter as they.

A young captain emerged from the nearby administrative enclosure, approached Toller through the spangled dimness and said, “Lieutenant Maraquine, the general will see you now.”

Toller saluted and went with the officer to a tent which, unexpectedly, was quite small and unadorned. The captain ushered him in and quickly departed. Toller stood at attention before a lean, austere-looking man who was seated at a portable desk. In the weak light from two field lanterns the general’s cropped hair could either have been white or blond, and he looked surprisingly young for a man with fifty years of distinguished service. Only his eyes seemed old, eyes which had seen more than was compatible with the ability to dream.

“Sit down, son,” he said. “This is a purely informal meeting.”

“Thank you, sir.” Toller took the indicated chair, his mystification growing.

“I see from your records that you entered the army less than a year ago as an ordinary line soldier. I know these are changed times, but wasn’t that unusual for a man of your social status?”

“It was specially arranged by Prince Leddravohr.”

“Is Leddravohr a friend of yours?”

Encouraged by the general’s forthright but amiable manner, Toller ventured a wry smile. “I cannot claim that honour, sir.”

“Good!” Dalacott smiled in return. “So you achieved the rank of lieutenant in less than a year through your own efforts.”

“It was a field commission, sir. It may not be given full endorsement.”

“It will.” Dalacott paused to sip from an enamelled cup. “Forgive me for not offering you refreshment—this is an exotic brew and I doubt if it would be to your taste.”

“I’m not thirsty, sir.”

“Perhaps you would like these instead.” Dalacott opened a compartment in his desk and took out three valour disks. They were circular flakes of brakka inlaid with white and red glass. He handed them to Toller and sat back to view his reactions.

“Thank you.” Toller fingered the disks and put them away in a pocket. “I’m honoured.”

“You disguise the fact quite well.”

Toller was embarrassed and disconcerted. “Sir, I didn’t intend any…”

“It’s all right, son,” Dalacott said. “Tell me, is army life not what you expected?”

“Since I was a child I have dreamed of being a warrior, but…”

“You were prepared to wipe an opponent’s blood from your sword, but you didn’t realise there would be smears of his dinner as well.”

Toller met the general’s gaze squarely. “Sir, I don’t understand why you brought me here.”

“I think it was to give you this.” Dalacott opened his right hand to reveal a small object which he dropped on to Toller’s palm.

Toller was surprised by its weight, by the massy impact of it on his hand. He held the object closer to the light and was intrigued by the colour and lustre of its polished surface. The colour was unlike any he had seen before, white but somehow more than white, resembling the sea when the sun’s rays were obliquely reflected from it at dawn. The object was rounded like a pebble, but might almost have been a miniature carving of a skull whose details had been worn away by time.

“What is it?” Toller said.

Dalacott shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody knows. I found it in Redant province many years ago, on the banks of the Bes-Undar, and nobody has ever been able to tell me what it is.”

Toller closed his fingers around the warm object and found his thumb beginning to move in circles on the slick surface. “One question leads to another, sir. Why do you want me to have this?”

“Because—” Dalacott gave him a strange smile—“you might say it brought your mother and I together.”

“I see,” Toller said, speaking mechanically but not untruthfully as the general’s words washed through his mind and, like a strong clear wave altering the aspect of a beach, rearranged memory fragments into new designs. The patterns were unfamiliar and yet not totally strange, because they had been inherent in the old order, needing only a single rippling disturbance to make them apparent. There was a long silence broken only by a faint popping sound as an oilbug blundered against a lamp’s flame tube and slid down into the reservoir. Toller gazed solemnly at his father, trying to conjure up some appropriate emotion, but inside him there was only numbness.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” he admitted finally. “This has come so … late.”

“Later than you think.” Again, Dalacott’s expression was unreadable as he raised the cup of wine to his lips. “I had many reasons—some of them not altogether selfish—for not acknowledging you, Toller. Do you bear me any ill will?”

“None, sir.”

“I’m glad.” Dalacott rose to his feet. “We will not meet again, Toller. Will you embrace me … once … as a man embraces his father?”

“Father.” Toller stood up and clasped his arms around the sword-straight, elderly figure. During the brief period of contact he detected a curious hint of spices on his father’s breath. He glanced down at the cup waiting on the desk, made a half-intuitive mental leap, and when they parted to resume their seats there was a prickling in his eyes.

Dalacott seemed calm, fully composed. “Now, son, what comes next for you? Kolcorron and its new ally—the ptertha—have achieved their glorious victory. The soldiers’ work is all but done, so what have you planned for your future?”

“I think I wasn’t intended to have a future,” Toller said. “There was a time when Leddravohr would have slain me in person, but something happened, something I don’t understand. He placed me in the army and I believe it was his intention that the Chamtethans would do his work at a remove.”

“He has a great deal to occupy his thoughts and absorb his energies, you know,” the general said. “An entire continent now has to be looted, merely as a preliminary to the building of Prad’s migration fleet. Perhaps Leddravohr has forgotten you.”

“I haven’t forgotten him.”

“Is it to the death?”

“I used to think so.” Toller thought of bloody footprints on pale mosaic, but the vision had become obscured, overlaid by hundreds of images of carnage. “Now I doubt if the sword is the answer to anything.”

“I’m relieved to hear you say that. Even though Leddravohr’s heart is not really in the migration plan, he is probably the best man to see it through to a successful conclusion. It is possible that the future of our race rests on his shoulders.”

“I’m aware of that possibility, father.”

“And you also feel you can solve your own problems perfectly well without my advice.” There was a wry twist to the general’s lips. “I think I would have enjoyed having you by me. Now, what about my original question? Have you no thought at all for your future?”

“I would like to pilot a ship to Overland,” Toller said. “But I think it is a vain ambition.”

“Why? Your family must have influence.”

“My brother is the chief advisor on the design of the skyships, but he is almost as unpopular with Prince Leddravohr as I am.”

“Is it something you genuinely desire to do, this piloting of a skyship? Do you actually want to ascend thousands of miles into the heavens? With only a balloon and a few cords and scraps of wood to support you?”

Toller was surprised by the questions. “Why not?”

“Truly, a new age brings forth new men,” Dalacott said softly, apparently speaking to himself, then his manner became brisk. “You must go now—I have letters to write. I have some influence with Leddravohr, and a great deal of influence with Carranald, the head of Army Air Services. If you have the necessary aptitudes you will pilot a skyship.”

“Again, father, I don’t know what to say.” Toller stood up, but was reluctant to leave. So much had happened in the space of only a few minutes and his inability to respond was filling him with a guilty sense of failure. How could he meet and say goodbye to his father in almost the same breath?

“You are not required to say anything, son. Only accept that I loved your mother, and…” Dalacott broke off, looking surprised, and scanned the interior of the tent as though suspecting the presence of an intruder.

Toller was alarmed. “Are you ill?”

“It’s nothing. The night is too long and dark in this part of the world.”

“Perhaps if you lay down,” Toller said, starting forward.

General Risdel Dalacott halted him with a look. “Leave me now, lieutenant.”

Toller saluted correctly and left the tent. As he was closing the entrance flap he saw that his father had picked up his pen and had already begun to write. Toller allowed the flap to fall and the triangle of wan illumination—an image seeping through the gauzy folds of probability, of lives unlived and of stories never to be told—swiftly vanished. He began to weep as he moved away through the star-canopied dimness. Deep wells of emotion were at last being tapped, and his tears were all the more copious for having come too late.