Chapter 16

A tall bleak man in a uniform approached a couple of soldiers that were standing over a fire. A kettle on top was brewing something with an uncharacteristic, though quite off-putting smell. They were sitting on some sacks laden with what must have been rice or wheat and having a smoke, sharing a pipe of what one knowledgeable in the art of uwe smoking could make out to be stale uwe. They were unaware of the tall man coming their way with their backs turned to him. They were admiring the ships loading and unloading their cargoes in the distance of the harbor, with the suns setting down one after the other, painting the sea mauve and bloody red, the sails casting their last shadows for the day. Their calm reverie was broken by a harsh, raspy voice:

"What's in that kettle? Smells worse than the cow dung you're smoking. Is it to cover that gods-awful stench you're giving off? Last time you bathed, it must've been when the midwife rinsed off your mother's blood."

One of the two soldiers turned around and with a fleeting look of small surprise offered the pipe to the tall man, in spite of him sounding provocatively belittling. The other soldier remained indifferent; his head seemed to follow a flock of seabirds in the distance, swooping over the sea probably hunting fish, or perhaps idling away their time just as they were. The tall man was now standing with one foot on a stack of sacks. He took the proffered pipe and drew a quaff of smoke savoring it before exhaling slowly, and then spoke to the two soldiers:

"Truly, worse than cow dung. I'd have you flogged but I'd be wasting the procrastinators' time on some thickset pachyderm hides."

The one soldier that still hadn't turned to look at the man and was gazing at the harbor almost sleepily asked him, his tone of voice revealing a genuine ignorance:

"What's a pachyderm, dekar?"

"From what I'm told your wife for one, and perhaps your mother too."

With that, both the dekar and the soldier who offered him the pipe laughed heartily. The other soldier seemed taken aback by the incongruous humor and shuffled himself on the sack uneasily, responding with childlike bitterness:

"Well you can have your laughs for dinner, cause I ain't serving you no Mott's famous Langarfan stew tonight."

The dekar, their squad leader, went wide-eyed in apparent disbelief and a wide grin appeared on his face:

"That's the stench? Lanra ... Langar ... Whatever, that's supposed to be stew? Mott, save us the trouble and run us through with a sword right here were we sit. I'd wager it's faster and less painful for my innards. Can't speak for Lanris here, he seems to be brave or stupid enough to eat that snot of yours. I think it's because he's stupid."

"Let's just say it's an acquired taste, dekar."

"Where did you acquire it then? The swamps?"

The dekar broke in laughter once again, but this time Lanris did not accompany him but instead turned and replied casually:

"No joke dekar. It is an acquired taste. It's taken me the better part of four years now to finally begin to enjoy Mott's cooking. So don't spoil it. As they say, dig in or get out."

"There'll be no digging in for dekar Pirru tonight. Or ever. I'll leave those lowly menial tasks to you two men. Or what remotely resembles men. Ha."

Dekar Pirru shook his head, grinning at the same time. Mott was now stirring his broth with a thick wooden stick that just seemed to have been lying around handily. Lanris was putting some fresh uwe in his pipe. Dusk was upon them, the smoke from their kettle barely visible. Dekar Pirru seemed suddenly engrossed with thought with his gaze stuck on the boiling kettle and his eyes seemingly out of focus. Lanris took notice, waved his hand to check if indeed the dekar was in touch with his surroundings and found out that was not the case. He said with some lack of conviction:

"Dekar?Dekar Pirru?"

The dekar slowly turned his gaze to Lanris and made a sort of grumbling sound with eyes focused once again and a furrowed brow. Lanris continued:

"You seemed lost in thought. What's on your mind? New ways to drill us to death? Make us more miserable? Take away our cir rations? What is it that's had you daydreaming?"

"Hmm? I'm not daydreaming, mind you. Plain old bothers, that's all. This mobilization. Doesn't seem right. Not to me at least. You think this is all well and dandy?"

The dekar was standing upright again with arms folded, the sheath of his sword dangling about his belt, his expression a bit sour. Lanris on the other hand seemed quite relaxed, resting on the sacks nonchalantly and seemingly more concerned about the serving time of Mott's stew. He took a drought of smoke from his pipe, before answering his dekar without turning to look at him:

"Not my place to tell, dekar. I just sharpen my sword, fill my pipe and gulp down what Mott fancies each time. Though his menu is kind of repetitive. It must be the fourth time in a row we're having stew," said Lanris with a mixed feeling of resignation and indifference.

Mott interjected abruptly, as if he were chiding Lanris:

"Fifth time in a row. I'm getting us some karch tomorrow. Makes fine soup. You can piss off if you don't like karch soup, rummage about the camp and see what you find. Perhaps you'll find a nice boot to munch on."

Lanris leaned over and slapped Mott on the shoulder jovially. He was smiling when he said:

"That'll be fine Mott. Karch soup's fine. Don't get jumpy on me. If I can eat the sludge they serve on marches, I can sure as hell eat some of your cooking. It's not a gray ooze and that's enough in my book to make it a gourmet dish."

Lanris intoned the somewhat haughty word with a certain character and an outlandish accent that made everyone laugh, especially Mott whose sullen mood was eased and was now up on his feet again, stirring his stew with a certain air of culinary dexterity. Around them more campfires could be seen, soldiers like them who were about to cook something of their own, usually broths of wheat or barley which were the main staple food the army provided.

They were about to relax from the exercises of the day, as well as their other various duties. Some would eat something quick before heading off for sentry and patrol duty and some very lucky few would rest their aching muscles, have a pipe and perhaps something to fill their bellies and then sleep heavily until the next morning.

Some would have made their own arrangements concerning food, perhaps going out of their way to procure some meat either by hunting or by making certain trades, sometimes of a dubious nature. Most of the soldiers that did so, traded wine for meat or eggs. Wine and spirits were strongly forbidden but vinegar was allowed to be carried, as it was a proven and allowed way of cleaning up wounds as well as widely used in the soldier's personal hygiene. At least for those that had one.

Some had a knack of mixing some vinegar with wine right before consuming it, in case some of the officers or procrastinators were making their rounds checking up on morale, or discipline in the latter case. It marred the quality and taste of the wine, but that was usually low to begin with anyway. Some had dubbed it winegar, and the name was in wide use throughout the army.

Even the officers partook sometimes, as it was known to them that the morale and cohesion of an army was far more important in battle than mere discipline and adherence to Law. It might be a sin, they knew, but who went through life as immaculate and free of sin as in their day of birth?

And as long as those buffoons, the procrastinators, were none the wiser, everything worked almost as it should; the army served its Castigator and the Pantheon in a most untroubled fashion. After all as some of the older officers used to say, 'you can't make soldiers out of men if you don't break open a few casks first.'

Mott announced with some enthusiasm in his voice:

"Ready to serve! Dekar, you sure you don't want some of this? Works wonders for the stomach."

The dekar was sharing some of Lanris' pipe when he replied after exhaling thoroughly, wisps of smoke coming out of his mouth and nose:

"I'd rather not empty it right now, if that's what you mean. You can relish it all by yourselves. Don't let me stop you."

Mott simply shrugged and went to his backpack to fetch his canteen. Lanris did so with languid motions, certain that the broth in Mott's kettle would not disappear any time soon.

They each helped themselves to a serving and sat down on the ground with their backs against the sacks. They split some leftover bread-pie from their midday meal, and each began eating from their canteens. Mott was clearly more than pleased with the quality of his cooking, gulping spoonfuls away with vivid enjoyment. Lanris seemed much more reserved in his appreciation, and looked simply thankful for having something other than the drab, gray gunk the army called food to fill his stomach with.

Pirru was looking idly at them while they were having their supper, and after a while he said:

"You know, I heard the Castigator came around to visit the day before yesterday. No pomp and ceremony though. If that were the case I'm sure everyone would have known. We'd probably still be marching up and down parading our asses off."

Lanris paused momentarily and furrowed his brow before continuing to eat slowly, more so because he wasn't too fond of Mott's stew rather than because he was savoring it. Mott on the other hand was scraping the last spoonfuls from his canteen, and was quite possibly going to refill it soon. Dekar Pirru went on:

"I see that didn't get your attention, did it? Nothing short of your discharge papers would, I guess. The thing is, seems he had a talk with the General. Didn't last long. Short and to the point, his staff officers seem to say."

Mott was up on his feet once more, pouring some smoking hot stew in his canteen. He asked Pirru while sitting down to enjoy it:

"So, did word get out of what they talked about? Perhaps his Piousness had gotten word of a fine chef among the Army's 5th, and wanted some of my recipes?"

Lanris threw a sideways glance at Mott, before throwing a piece of bread-pie to his head as well. He did not add a verbal insult though, and kept trying to consume the broth left in his canteen. Pirru grinned at Mott's comment and said with a slight edge of worry in his voice:

"No, I'm afraid his Holiness has not expressed any sort of death wish. I'm sure you'd be happy to serve in that case. In the most literal sense. Word around the staff officers is there has been a change of plans."

Lanris left his canteen unfinished, broth and bread-pie still mixed inside. He placed it near Mott, who surely would not let it go to waste once he emptied hiw own canteen once more. Lanris wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and started filling his pipe from a pouch he had not opened before. He asked Pirru then:

"Dekar, how come you got by all these news? It's not like you to run around staff officers like Himmdal and Rynse do. You've said it yourself; if we even get a whiff about you sucking up to a staff officer, we can strip that dekar badge ourselves. So shall we each grab an arm and do the deed?"

Dekar Pirru looked at Lanris with one eye pointing a finger at him, his rasp voice making the threat almost believable:

"Wise-guys get picket duty on the northern face. I'll make sure we stick you on the fence itself. You'll make a good scarecrow."

Lanris lit up his pipe nonchalantly. Mott was taking care of Lanris' leftovers and Pirru went on:

"As I was saying, word is easy to go around. I didn't fetch coffee and wash uniforms for the staff officers to get by that important piece of intelligence. I used my cunning and my sharp mind. As well as some coin that I'd won on the zar game the night before. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

Mott put down Lanris canteen empty and burped loudly, feeling his stomach with one hand. He turned to look at his dekar with an evident smile of satisfaction on his lips, and said:

"So you went to the 'Cent."

Pirru started to say something in an apparent protest, probably a mild reprimand, but Lanris added behind a small cloud of pure uwe smoke:

"Yeah, he went to the 'Cent. Probably ripped him off too. Like the last time when he asked ten coin for some real Iolathan wine that turned out to be vinegar. Not even winegar, mind you. Plain old vinegar from the pharmacium stores. He even had the nerve to insist that it was a vintage bottle that had could be easily mistaken for vinegar by someone who wasn't a connoisseur. I think he meant you, dekar."

"You can make a fool of me all you like Lanris, but I won't be on the earthworks tomorrow morning, digging up dirt like some soldiers I happen to know."

Mott was enjoying a bit of rest, one leg propped up against the other and hands behind his head, his back flat on the ground. He added with a naive feeling of surprise:

"Oh, you mean Guilemont and Howe? I knew you didn't like them a great deal, but putting them on the auxiliaries list; now that must mean they really pissed on you proper."

Lanris was hugging his face with one hand, always surprised at the ways Mott could sound like a complete dolt. Pirru went on:

"Something like that. Anyway, yes, I went to the 'Cent. 'One hundred per cent guaranteed' Tibodot, the little rat. But I got my coin's worth now. He wasn't selling cow dung this time. I asked the Centarch somewhat sideways if all was going as planned, and he too said there was some upheaval upstairs. Some stuff would be put on hold until further notice. That's probably the reason I'm not putting the pair of you on auxiliary tomorrow. The auxiliary's been abandoned. All men are rotating back in their usual duties, as per regulation. Lanris, you are lucky bastards."

Lanris took a quaff from his pipe, savored it and exhaled; the smell of fine uwe smoke wafted through the air around them. He said to Pirru:

"Actually, I learned about the auxiliary from a guy I trade regularly with at the 4th. He comes up with uwe, I come up with ... Stuff. Told me the auxiliary's gone starting from tomorrow. So, I figured you couldn't push us into something worse than what we're already at. Didn't hear about the Castigator or the General though."

"You should've pushed for rank, Lanris. Field Maggot Lanris has a ring to it, doesn't it? Anyway, spare me the dung talk. I got some details on that meeting as well. 'Cent says that we're waiting for some new marching orders."

"Not the Widelands then?", Mott cut in with enthusiasm, a glimmer of hope in his words.

"Can we ever be sure? If the marching orders do not explicitly say 'Widelands', they could well be saying 'No-man's land', or 'West of the City of Pyr', or 'Middle of Nowhere'. It still wouldn't change much, would it? All it means, is there's something serious going on."

Mott cut in again, this time with puzzlement in his voice:

"Where's Sirius going to? Got transferred, like he wanted? Steam-gunner Battalion?"

Pirru sighed, before uttering a mild curse concerning Mott's mother. He went on, concentrating his focus on Lanris who was now listening more intently, having sat up and facing the dekar. He offered his pipe to Pirru who refused it with a slight nod, and went on:

"Mott, just shut up and go to sleep. As I was saying, there's a lot going on. I just hope the General knows his stuff so we don't end up on the wrong side of the turf."

Lanris thought a while about what dekar Pirru had been telling them, and said with an air of indifference about him:

"Well, going into the Widelands seemed strange. But orders are orders, right? So now, when we get new orders, they'll still be orders. I don't think it changes anything. About me at least. As long as I get my uwe and even if I have to put up with Mott's cooking, it doesn't mean much. Just one thousand four hundred and thirty one days to go, dekar. That's all that counts for me."

"You're all the same, you conscripts. You just want to get on with your lives, like it gets any better out there. Still, I don't blame you. If something's going to kill you, it doesn't really matter where that will happen. I just happen to find change a bad thing, that's all."

"You're not trying to drag me down in one of your morose spells, are you?"

Pirru nodded while shrugging, an almost disarming and childlike reaction from a dekar well-nigh six feet tall. After a short silence was observed, he grinned to Lanris before replying:

"I got wine. Not winegar, but real wine."

Lanris forehead creased in a conspirator's furrow:

"How did you get by that, I wonder?"

The dekar replied in a hushed voice, a measure of pride in his words:

"Smuggled some from the centarch's cabinet. This stuff is guaranteed."

Lanris scratched his chin thoughtfully while he seemed to contemplate the risks involved, and said:

"I see. So, we're both risking forty lashes."

Dekar Pirru waved a hand dismissively and replied:

"Twenty for me, I'll pull rank."

They both laughed, somewhat bitterly despite themselves. Pirru checked hastily around, not really bothering to indeed look for procrastinators or senior officers lurking in the dark, but rather as an instinctive reaction to fear of getting caught. He reached into his uniform and produced a small leather flask, no bigger than their issued water flask. He unsealed it and gave it to Lanris. He said with a wide grin of accomplishment:

"Smell that? Pure Decau wine."

Lanris took a whiff, grimaced and shuddered reflexively. He gave the flask back to Pirru with exasperation in his voice:

"Gods dammit dekar, why the hell does the centarch buy his stuff from 'Cent? That's winegar."

Pirru looked genuinely surprised. He took a small sip from the flask and gulped it down. His face lit up with a look of recognition:

"It really is winegar. Seems the centarch bought 'Cent's dung speeches as well. But still, it's better than nothing, right?"

Lanris had a sour look on his face, but he nodded in agreement:

"Guess it is. Lemme have a swig."

Pirru handed the flask of winegar to Lanris. Mott could be heard snoring smoothly. A rather unfamiliar voice was suddenly heard from the edges of the darkness around them:

"Let me see that flask, dekar. I hope it's not winegar, is it?"

"Dekar Pirru and Private Lanris of the 5th, under the command of Cilliarch Romentho Isoract were put to the sword today at dawn immediately before roll call, by a squad of procrastinators. Expeditious procedures were followed and their files of death were officially sealed by both the Procrastinator's Office and the Strategium Proper. Private Mott of the 5th, was given fifty lashes and almost bled to death for, and I quote: 'Not being vigilant enough in the persecution of vile deeds that promoted sin, incurred the wrath of the Gods or were an affront to the Pantheon and the Ruling Council'. He was not allowed to return to his duties as an active soldier and as such was denied of medical attention. He was rotated to the work gangs as per the Cilliarch's orders. Also, Cilliarch Isoract relieved centarch Littmo from his duties and has petitioned that he be discharged dishonorably. The winegar in question seems to have been stolen from the centarch's personal cabinet, from what the procrastinators' investigation revealed."