33 Military Camp, Alamont Reach

As night settled over the training camp near Bora's Bastion, comforting fires burned brightly; off-duty soldier-recruits sat around the blazes, telling stories of their home reaches. Mess tents served generous portions of porridge, bread, and cheese—the bounty of Alamont. The first-year recruits were exhausted from vigorous practice sessions, while the more hardened ones enjoyed the quiet time with their comrades. In recent months, however, the campfire groups had grown smaller, the cliques tighter, as suspicions spread like rot through their ranks.

Mateo felt the dark mood, like jagged cracks in a pane of windowglass. An army whose soldiers mistrusted their comrades was already defeated….

After the former ra'vir Tira had explained the suffering the Teacher inflicted on captive Tierran children—pummeling them, torturing them, and forging the ones he didn't murder into fanatical tools of assassination and sabotage—Mateo had a much better idea what drove those traitors. He even felt a hint of sympathy for them. It wasn't their fault that the evil Curlies had turned them all into venomous snakes that slithered back into the Aidenist fold.

But he also recalled what they had done to the Tierran military commanders at the Ishalem wall, how they had burned the Arkship, how they fostered a general fog of anger and suspicion among the entire Tierran populace—and his sympathy faded. They had to be found and stopped.

During the past few weeks, he had kept the ra'vir girl's revelation secret from all but Anjine and a select few of his commanders, letting everyone else imagine his romantic or paternal connections to her. Only his most trusted men were aware of the scheme the girl had suggested. He was confident. He knew there were more ra'virs in his army. Having confessed and helped Mateo, Tira felt frightened for her life.

Inside his command tent now, he sat in a canvas chair behind the field table. Whale-oil lamps shed a glow as bright and welcoming as any fire; having grown up in Calay, Mateo didn't mind the fishy smell the oil exuded. Placing his elbows on the hard planks of the table, he regarded the young recruit who sat across from him. Mateo kept a firm sense of authority about him, and the trainee viewed him with respect.

This young man, Rickar Fenn, came from one of the smaller islands in Soeland Reach. Having heard gruff Destrar Tavishel's accounts of battles at sea, Fenn was anxious to fight the Curlies. At the end of his training, he hoped to be assigned to one of the Soeland patrol ships; in the meantime, though, the young man had to learn how to fight alongside the rest of the Tierran army, wherever the battles might take him.

When Mateo called him into the command tent, Rickar Fenn was nervous, but he relaxed as their conversation continued. The young man finished the proffered cup of wine. “I swear to help you root out the evil followers of Urec, sir, wherever they may be.”

“That's what I am personally asking every soldier.” Mateo took the smallest sip from his own goblet; he had already spoken to eleven young men so far, and he had many more meetings scheduled before he could retire for the night. He couldn't drink too much. “I'm glad we've had this chance to get to know each other. Dismissed. Now, would you please send in…” He paused to look down at his list of names. “Dawson Orin, from Erietta.”

“Yes, sir.” The trainee hopped to his feet and pushed the tent flap aside. On his way out, Fenn walked with a jaunty stride; if nothing else, the recruit's enthusiasm would boost morale in the training camp.

Mateo set the bottle of wine on the side of the table, turned the label out of view, and set an empty goblet next to it. Within moments, the next young man poked his head inside. He had shaggy brown hair and a thin face. “Excuse me, Subcomdar? Dawson Orin, reporting as you requested.”

“Come in. I'm trying to meet as many of my troops here in Alamont as I possibly can. We'll all depend upon each other in days to come.”

Self-consciously, Dawson ran his fingers through his hair and brushed the front of his uniform tunic. He took the indicated seat across from the field table as Mateo studied his ledger book. “So, you come from Erietta Reach, near Peliton?”

“Nearer the coast than the river, sir. There aren't many towns worth the name, so I had to put something on my recruitment papers. I was eager to join the army, of course.”

“Of course. Would you care for a glass of wine? I want this to be an informal conversation.”

The young man's eyes lit up and he nodded, amazed by his good fortune. “Yes, sir, I'd like that very much.”

Mateo handed him the empty goblet. “This is your second year in the army, is it not? Or your third?”

“Second, sir. I was first assigned to Corag Reach, and then Alamont. Next year, I'll be home in Erietta.”

Before pouring, Mateo casually turned the wine bottle so Dawson could see the label. He topped off his own glass, inspected the bottle, and smiled. “This wine was confiscated from a Uraban ship in our waters. Tavishel took the whole crew prisoner, appropriated their cargo. It's what the Curly merchants deserve, if they try to trade above the Edict Line.” Mateo shook his head. “I just opened the bottle this evening. The wine is quite good, though I have no idea where it's from.”

He extended the bottle to pour for Dawson, but the young man's eyes were fixed on the incomprehensible Uraban lettering. He raised his hand abruptly. “On second thought, sir, maybe I shouldn't. I'm exhausted after a long day of training.”

“Come now, how often do you get a chance to talk with your commander like this, and enjoy the spoils of Uraba?” Mateo poured wine into the goblet. “Drink up.”

In numerous camps across Tierra, his loyal field commanders were doing the same thing, meeting with their troops, having similar conversations.

The young man stared. “I'm afraid I can't, sir, I… I've decided not to have any drink until I've completed my prayer cycle for the holidays.”

“Only a moment ago, you were glad to share a cup with me.”

“My apologies, sir. I-I appreciate your generosity.”

“Of course you do.” Mateo whistled sharply, and the quietly waiting soldiers—all survivors of the Ishalem battle—burst in through the back flap in the tent. “Arrest him. He has already condemned himself in my eyes.”

Dawson sprang to his feet. “I don't understand!” He thrashed his arms as the soldiers grabbed him. “What is this, sir? I'm a loyal recruit, I—”

“No one else here can understand Uraban scribblings, but you recognized that this mark here”—Mateo tapped his fingertip against the brown glass—“denotes ‘slow poison.'”

Out of the twelve recruits Mateo had interviewed so far, only Dawson Orin had reacted to the writing on the bottle, believing the confiscated wine to be deadly. Yes, Tira had been right….

As the guards pulled the young man toward the tent's rear flap, so that other camp members could not see him, Dawson spat a stream of incomprehensible words, Uraban curses, which were cut off as soon as the men wrestled a gag into his mouth.

“We've caught a spy.” Mateo sighed, but he did not feel triumphant. “And now, alas, our army is also decreased by one.”