The Legend of the White Wolf

They weren't his trousers. The summons from the General hadn't come until this morning, a full day after the incident, and Beris had used the nervous waiting time trying to get his kit in order. The oil stain on his trousers was permanent, he concluded after sweating over it half the night, and the washerwoman refused to release his other trousers. But Sergeant Manek was a man both compassionate and orderly. His trousers were impeccable, and he offered them willingly. Sergeant Manek was also a man both short and broad, Beris reflected ruefully as he tugged his tunic down to cover the bunching at his waist. A lieutenant might be only as good as his sergeant, as the saying went, but it would certainly be nice if they were the same size.

He rubbed his helmet one last time with the corner of his sleeve, straightened the plume with short soft strokes, stuck the helmet under his left arm at the proper and required angle, and knocked firmly, twice, on the General's office door.

"Come!"

The office was dark, the windows half-curtained and the desk lamp cold. The General stood at the window, hands clasped behind him, watching the parade ground intently, as if the fate of the Empire and of himself personally depended on the flawless execution of the next evolution. Beris marched smartly to position, centered on the desk and two paces from it, and snapped to attention. The highly polished wooden slats of the floor clicked satisfyingly with his precision. The General paid no heed.

After several minutes, Beris wondered if he should clear his throat or speak. After several minutes more, he considered leaving the office and trying the whole thing again. Just when he was about to move -- whether to leave or merely to relieve his muscles he himself was not sure -- the General sighed.

"Beris m'Lobik, I see you," he said, still staring out the window.

"As ordered, sir!" Beris barked in the short, clipped Voice of Response, every sound distinct and coming from just behind his teeth. Beris hated the Voice of Response. It felt like he was spitting out the words. He wanted to roll them over in his mouth, taste each sound, savor it, before he sent it flowing out into the world.

The General turned around slowly, one eyebrow raised. "This is not the parade ground, lad."

"No, sir," Beris said in his normal voice.

"Good." The General shuffled some papers around on his desk. "Have you heard from your uncle lately?"

Beris shifted slightly in surprise. He quickly readjusted the helmet under his arm. "Sir?"

The General pulled out the chair and dusted it off, but made no move to sit. "My own uncle is old, and will die soon. I hope yours is well?"

Beris swallowed before speaking. "I expect he is well, sir. I should have heard were it otherwise."

"Indeed you should," the General chuckled. "Then you have not heard from the North for some time?"

"No sir." When the General remained silent, Beris felt compelled to expand. "I send a letter to my uncle once a year, reporting my progress, sir. He responds to each."

"And this year's letter?"

"Is not due for a month or two, sir."

The General lowered himself carefully into his chair and leaned forward, his forearms plowing aside the papers he had just arranged. "A month or two, eh? Well, lad, how would you like to deliver your report in person this year?"

This time Beris actually started, and the helmet nearly deserted him. This was beyond anything he expected, or even suspected. Discipline had been breached, certainly, there was no denying that. But it was a minor breach, involving only himself; it did not affect his men, or the performance of their duty -- though they had let the messenger through more or less unchallenged --

"Sir! You're not ... you're not sending me home!"

It was the General's turn to be taken aback. He looked up, his mouth half open, at the distraught young man before him. "You don't want to go home?"

"Not this way, please, sir. I could never face my uncle again if you send me home like this."

The General shook his head sharply, as if clearing his ears. "Send you home like what? What are you talking about?"

Beris opened his mouth, closed it, and quickly pulled himself back into rigid attention. "Begging the General's pardon; I do not wish to leave the Legion, and ask the General to reconsider his decision."

The General slowly sat back, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. Then he laughed. He stood up and came around the desk. "At ease, lad, at ease." He took Beris by the elbow and led him across the room to a pair of padded chairs flanking a low table on which stood a teapot in a flowered cosy. He pried Beris's helmet from under his arm and pushed Beris toward a chair. "Sit down," he said. "Take a load off your mind."

Beris blinked at the General. "Then you're not -- This isn't about ... yesterday?"

"Sit down, I say. No, I rather think I'm not. And yesterday? Yesterday? Ah, yes, of course it's about yesterday."

Beris sat down. He was only slightly reassured, and more confused than ever. "I mean, I thought ..."

The General laughed. "You thought I was going to kick you out of the Legion for being lax on sentry duty? In the middle of the day, in the middle of the Empire, in the middle of peace? Damnation, lad, I wouldn't want you in my legion if you liked gate duty. It's no place for a warrior, and no warrior would want to be there. I've done it myself enough to know it numbs your mind and gnaws your belly. It's miserable duty -- enough for the imperials, maybe, but nothing for us. Let them guard themselves a little, even if it is a feather pillow."

Beris ventured a smile. "Then, sir, what ..."

"What do I want with you? Why, lad, I'm going to punish you." The General shook his head sadly and poured Beris a cup of steaming tea. "Discipline was breached, as you know. And though the breach itself is meaningless, it reflects badly on you, on me, and on the Clan. It cannot go unpunished. That you must admit."

"Of course, sir, but ..."

"Drink your tea and stop calling me sir." The General poured himself a cup and held it to this face, inhaling deeply. "Really clears the head, this." He snorted out the steam. "So, young Beris m'Lobik, I am going to punish you for your shocking lack of military bearing. I am sending you home. Not in disgrace as you imagined, but on an errand and with a message. Do you think I am too harsh?"

Beris took a sip of the sharp, sweet tea and studied the man opposite him. Toras ng'Artu Etavo was a legend in the Legion, and a legend in the Clan, an accomplishment itself worthy of legend.

He was an age-mate of Beris's uncle, but looked older, his face a weathered map of the rugged terrain he had seen in forty years with an army in the field. His nose was long and straight, like Beris's uncle's but unlike Beris's own; his eyes, like Beris's, were set deep above high, sharp cheekbones -- his was the classic face of the Eda warrior. His right eye was blue and bright, his left clouded and dim, with a deep red scar above and below, tracing the path of the blade that had blinded it. His broad brown hands, though touched with palsy, seemed still strong enough to crush the tiny teacup cradled in them had they not been constantly on guard and diligently gentle.

Beris considered what to call him, since he could not call him "sir." The General's informality seemed to preclude "general," and they were not familiar enough -- or equal enough -- to use "Toras ng'Artu." The General's mother and Beris's grandmother were sisters -- or was it the General's grandmother and Beris's great-grandmother? In either case, he could not remember what the relationship was called. In desperation, Beris fell back on the basics: the General was an age-mate of his uncle.

"No, uncle," he said. "That doesn't sound harsh at all."

The General nodded. "No, it doesn't sound harsh. But it might be harsh by the time it's done."

Beris sat forward in the chair and set his cup carefully on the table. He liked the sound of this, at least, even if he couldn't see what the General was driving at. Two months of feather pillow duty in the Capital was more than he could stand, by at least a month. He needed the field.

The General chuckled. "That got your blood going, didn't it?"

"There's a chance of action, then, uncle?"

"Not the way you're thinking. At least I hope not. More a reconnaissance than anything, I suppose. How many men do you have in your feyadin?"

Beris paused to think. He knew the composition of his unit, the names of the men, their ages, their capacities, their faults. But he did not know -- and could not imagine -- why the General had used the Clan word "feyadin" rather than the Imperial "unit." He banished all expression from his face and answered slowly.

"I am assigned thirty-two men in four squads. One full squad is on leave. Another is detached to the Emperor's navy. Three of my men were wounded in action against the Indra and are in hospital; two were killed and have not been replaced. I have, then, eleven men of my unit under my command."

The corners of the General's mouth twitched down. "Eleven of your 'unit,'" he said. "How many Eda?"

Beris kept his face impassive. Issues of race, though certainly present in the Legions, were never expressed aloud. "I have one man from Carmig and two from the Capital," he said. "The rest are, I believe, Eda."

The General chuckled. "Spoken like a diplomat, young Beris. Very well. Eight, then. Of those, how many Etavo?"

This time Beris did not hesitate. "Itself, or subsidiary clans as well?"

"All."

"Six."

"And the other two?"

"One Bertuk and one Kressan. Both subsidiary."

The General nodded. "Good. You anticipate my questions." He sipped at his tea and stared into the bottom of the cup. "Bertuk will do," he said into the steam. "Kressan will not. So, a feyadin of seven. Not large, but I think it will do. Yes, it will do." He looked up at Beris and smiled. "Beris m'Lobik, you will take seven men with you on this reconnaissance. They should be volunteers; I leave it to you to see they are the right seven."

Beris reached out and touched his teacup, but did not pick it up. "And my sergeant," he said.

"Your sergeant? Was he not already accounted?"

"You asked only of my men, sir."

The General quirked his right eyebrow and slowly tapped his cup. "Yes, a diplomat. Tell me about your sergeant."

Beris stirred, trying to think what the General would want to hear of the inestimable Sergeant Manek. "He was born on a farm down south. Subsidiary to Carmig, I believe."

"Not Etavo, then."

"Not himself, but his children are."

"Oh? And how did this come to be?"

Beris smiled to himself, thinking of Manek's comic telling of the tale. "Twenty years ago, it must be now, he married the daughter of a dependent of his lieutenant at the time. Etavo, of course."

The General frowned at his tea. "Indeed. And this marriage, is it still valid? And sturdy?"

"Oh, yes, quite sturdy. She bosses him terribly, and he says it's good training for the men. He means --"

The General grinned. "Yes, I know what he means. How many children?"

"Two sons and two daughters."

"And who is the uncle of the children of your sergeant?"

Beris fidgeted. "I do not know, uncle."

"Oh?" The General finished his cup of tea and poured himself another. "And yet you claim they are Etavo."

"They are," Beris nodded. "My uncle recognizes their claim."

"Does he indeed? I suppose he knows who their uncle is?"

Beris stared at his toes. "Yes, sir, I expect he does."

"Tell me at least, if you can, the name of your sergeant's oldest son."

Beris flushed at the heavy sarcasm. "He wasn't named after me, of course, but his name is Beris."

"That's all?"

"Beris d'Manek Kriask."

"Ah," the General smiled. "A Kriask. Several of my own dependents are of Kriask. Perhaps they will know the uncle's name. I shall ask." He settled back in his chair and sipped his tea.

"Sir?" ventured Beris after a time. "Uncle? May I ask what this is all about?"

"Hmm? Oh, in a moment, of course. How does your sergeant feel about his children being Kriask?"

"Feel?" Beris screwed up his mouth in thought. "He has been in the Burning Wind over twenty years, without a word said against him. His son Beris will be of age shortly, and he has asked me to do what I can to help join the Burning Wind as well. But I can't rightly say how he feels about it."

The General nodded sharply and stood up. "You've just said," he said. "Your sergeant goes." He wandered back to the window and watched the parade ground for a bit. "You ask what this is all about."

Beris had risen hastily when the General stood, and now hovered uncertainly beside the chair. "Yes, please."

"You know of the Imperial trading policy in the North?"

Beris hesitated slightly. "Yes."

"You don't sound sure. Do you or don't you?"

"Yes, sir. I know it quite well."

"Do you then know of the factory at Keep Etavo?"

Beris clutched at the back of the chair to keep his hands from shaking. "Yes."

"Then you know how important it is that the Emperor maintain there a factor he can trust."

Beris did not trust himself to speak. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, What happened?

The General turned from the window; the sun directly behind him cast him in shadow, so Beris could not see his face. "You will escort the new factor north, lad. Deliver him safely to Etavo, and be sure he is safe when you leave."

Beris cleared his throat, but not enough to keep his voice from breaking. "The new factor? What happened to the old one?"

The General sighed and picked up a paper from his desk. "That you must find out."

"I beg you, General, tell me what you know."

"He is dead. That much is certain. He was killed, and his stores destroyed, and the factory burned to the ground."

Beris recoiled as if from a blow. "No," he breathed. "It cannot be."

The General looked up sharply. "What's that, lad? What cannot be? Speak up."

"What was his name, sir, the factor who was killed?" Beris dared not look at the General, sure somehow that by not looking he could prevent the words he dreaded from leaving the General's mouth.

The General consulted his paper. "A garun, a Southerner. A trader, it says, called Grivas." The General stared at the paper in silence, then looked up slowly at Beris. "Grivas Lobick."

Beris's shoulders slumped. He slowly twisted around and sank into the chair, sitting silent with his head in his hands. The General set the paper down and crossed the room. He laid one hand on Beris's shoulder and the other on top of Beris's bowed head.

"Idiot! I should have seen it: m'Lobik," he said to himself, and then to Beris, "I'm sorry, lad. Truly I am. I didn't know; it didn't occur to me until this moment that he might be of your kimpa."

Beris shook his head violently. "He was my father's brother," he said, wiping his eyes. "We garun don't have kimpas, sir. He was my family; he was my uncle."

The General's hands leaped from Beris's head and shoulder, and the old warrior stared down at the young, a look almost of revulsion on his face. Then slowly he knelt down in front of the chair, his joints cracking, and took Beris's face between his leathery palms. He wiped the tears away with his thumbs, and forced Beris to look into his eyes.

"Look at me, Beris m'Lobik Etavo," he said, his voice harsh, stressing each element of the name. "Listen well, and never forget. He was not your uncle. He was not. He was garun, an outlander, nothing more than that. Your uncle is the Etavo, of the Clan Etavo, as you perhaps one day will be. Your uncle is Eda, as you are, a warrior of the nation. Your uncle is not an outlander, is not a trader, and is not dead. Do you understand me?"

Beris held the old man's gaze, tears drying in his eyes. He swallowed heavily and nodded. "I am a warrior of the Eda," he whispered. "I am sorry, uncle; I forgot myself."

The General patted him roughly on the cheek and heaved himself to his feet. "The proper thing to call me, young pup, is 'cousin,' since you do not know how we are related. 'Uncle' is too great a burden for any but your real uncle to carry." Walking slowly, tiredly, the palsy evident in his hands, the General returned to the window and the last rays of the dying sun. "Come see me in the morning if you truly are a warrior. And have your feyadin ready to leave."

Beris waited until he was sure his legs were steady and his eyes were dry. Then he got up, fetched his helmet from the table where the General had set it, and headed toward the door. He had clearly been dismissed; there was no need for a farewell. He was halfway through the door when the General called.

"Beris."

Beris turned eagerly. "Yes, sir?"

"When you next come see me, don't wear your sergeant's trousers."