What is taking Sharku so long? Regiment Leader Ufthak asked himself again. Didn't I give Chief Assault Leader Valnar orders to have Sharku brought to me the minute he entered the Citadel?
He, First Citizen Ansel Diettinger, and Gimli the Archivist had watched from Quilland's Tower as Sharku, Regiment Leader Sharku or whatever he called himself these days, had broken through the cattle's earthworks. Special night-vision goggles supplied by Techmaster Thorin from the Vaults had made the entire spectacle visible to even Gimli's failing sight. At least some good had come out of this debacle; he wondered what other delights were hidden in those Vaults? I'll have to question this Techmaster myself.
By Sargun the Mad, what is taking Sharku so long? Maybe someone had told him about his son? Gizmore or somesuch name, brained by his own grandfather and not expected to live. Would Sharku go to see the brat and its mother? Before coming to me? I hope not: we don't have time for this nonsense. Sharku has formed an unSauron-like attachment to this cattle woman; maybe I should have thought more about that before putting my votes behind his candidacy.
His Deputy had put it to words first, "Ufthak, do we really need this Sharku? He lacks discipline."
"Patience, Balzar. Sharku has many followers among the troopers and women, especially the tribute cattle. And he is popular with the veterans."
"Yes, Second Rank, thanks to our diligent work on his behalf. Without our efforts, who would have read his discourses? Or cared?" He frowned. "Perhaps we should have thrown our support behind Deathmaster Ghâsh?"
"Ghâsh may be the better tool. However, it was Sharku who predicted the Bandari connection to the Valley revolt." He smiled. "Providing us with the first opportunity to pry power out of Cyborg hands in several lifetimes. No, Balzar, like it or not, Sharku is the best counter to Cyborg Rank Bonn we have."
"We cannot forever prevent the Council from appointing a new Battlemaster to act for the First Citizen." He made that latter title a curse. "And it will be Bonn, I think. Who else is there?"
"Bonn did himself no favors by promising amnesty to the cattle in the Keep."
"And gained new popularity when he personally shot them down."
"All true. All the more reason why we must support Sharku. There is no other choice. Bonn and Sharku are here. Ghâsh is not. No, my friend, it is Sharku or Bonn, and we know which we prefer.
"Let Sharku be Battlemaster and send him to spend his seed subduing the cattle. In the Valley, then in the Steppes, and when that is finished he can be sent to the Pale. Work enough for several lifetimes."
"And we rule the Council and the Citadel in his name," Balzar finished. "And here he comes."
Mumak entered first with four rankers with Assault Leader battle tabs and well used weapons. They looked around the room, then the four rankers took places one in each corner. "Clear," Mumak called. "Now, Regiment Leader Ufthak, what's this about work that takes lifetimes?"
Sharku followed his Deputy, flanked by two of the largest Soldiers Ufthak had ever seen. Identical twins at that. Cult of personality, an inner voice warned. "I was just telling Deputy Balzar that it would take several lifetimes to subdue all the wayward cattle both in the Valley and on the steppes."
"It won't take more than a T-year to break the Valley, not with fifty thousand nomads stirring up trouble. The Valley cattle will submit again to our authority soon enough. A task for Regiment Leader Guthril, I think."
The decisiveness in Sharku's voice and manner was new. So was his appearance. His face had changed, planed to slopes and angles, by too little sleep, not enough food, and too many weighty thoughts. Things seen that other men were blind to. His hair had turned steel gray, and he looked a decade older. And dangerous.
"We have been building support for your return," Ufthak said quickly. Too late to support Bonn. Too late for anything. If you mount a tiger, you ride. He looked significantly at Balzar. "You have our full support. For anything."
"So we have heard," Mumak answered. "But where are Deathmaster Sharku's supporters?"
"Deathmaster!" Balzar exclaimed. "The Council appointed Ghâsh Deathmaster. Is he not still alive?"
Ufthak looked sternly at his subordinate. Fool. Land gators have more brain.
"Deathmaster," Mumak said easily. "Yes, Ghâsh lives. But the Soldiers of the Citadel, not old men and Supply Techs, made Sharku Deathmaster. They raised him then, and can again." Mumak smiled ooldly. "The Soldiers proclaimed him Deathmaster after our great victory over the Klephti."
"Who are they?" Balzar asked.
Mumak looked at Sharku. "Deathmaster, I have just discovered the proper Ranker to tame the Valley. It is time he learned its geography and cattle."
Sharku nodded.
Regiment Leader Ufthak smiled uneasily. "Yes, it appears my Deputy has spent too much time at the Citadel." Balzar started to speak, but Ufthak silenced him with a glare. "You must understand, Deathmaster, matters at the Citadel have been in flux since the death of Battlemaster Carcharoth and the attack on the Inner Keep. Which I must tell you, has come to a most satisfactory conclusion, if you have not heard. All the strange cattle are dead."
"So I've heard. I must thank the Breedmaster for organizing such an effective defense."
Balzar barked in laughter. "A few hundred cattle, against fifteen thousand Sauron breedmates and children. What other outcome could there be?"
"Once again, you underestimate these Bandari barbarians. They are not the usual cattle. They are warriors. The casualties could have been in the thousands instead of the tens had they time to set their bombs."
"Cattle are cattle."
"A T-year in the field will widen your experience, Balzar," Mumak announced. "Deathmaster, why not let the Regiment Leader's Deputy mount a raid on the Pale? A quick training ground for rusty veterans."
"Rusty, my ass!" Balzar shouted. "As a Chief Assault Leader, five years ago I practically exterminated the Red Ch'in when their clan left the upper steppes."
"Yes, a valiant foe. How many effectives did they muster against your battalion; ten thousand, fifteen? We left that many dead in skirmishes against the New Soviet Men."
Balzar's face turned red and he was cut off in mid-shout by Regiment Leader Ufthak. "Silence, Deputy. You forget, these men have just returned from battle. A battle to save your hide. Show them the proper respect. These are our friends and allies."
"It is time to call a meeting of the Council," Sharku said. "There are many things that need to be addressed."
"It may take a T-day or two, maybe more. We no longer have a full roster. Some died as volunteers in Sauron Town and Nûrnen. Others on the Wall and in the Keep. I need to spread word of your victories. Gather support from the uncommitted."
Sharku rubbed his eyes. "Do what is necessary, but do it soon. I am low on patience. This is not a time for politics as usual."
"Yes, Deathmaster. I will call your supporters together and call a meeting. You can speak—"
"Mumak will speak for me. I need to talk to the Breedmaster, see my family, and get some sleep."
"You don't know?" Ufthak asked.
"What?"
Balzar turned his head to hid a grin. "Deathmaster, it is my sorrowful task to inform you that your son, Gimilzor, may be dead. He was seriously injured by one of the cattle during the attack on the Keep. A cattle who called himself Gism or—no matter. He was killed by Battlemaster Carcharoth's pet, a wild Sauron called Dagor."
"Dagor the son of Juchi? The one we brought to the Citadel?"
"Yes. You now have reason to be glad you brought him," Ufthak said. "He saved your son, Deathmaster. And was recognized as a Soldier by the Breedmaster's daughter. The pretty one, not the traitor Sigrid."
"Gasim," Mumak said.
Sharku nodded silently.
The others looked a question.
"Gasim is the boy's grandfather," Mumak said.
Sharku's face was as still as if set in ferro-concrete, like the walls of the Citadel. "I must speak to my wife." He turned and left, flanked by the giant twins.
"I understand, Deathmaster. You have our utmost sympathies," Ufthak said to his back.
"Yes, yes," Deputy Balzar added, no longer bothering to hide the smirk that twisted his lips.
Mumak waved, and the four Assault Leaders followed Sharku. Mumak waited until they left the room then turned to Balzar. "After this Bandari mess is over, I want to see you on the mats."
"And if I don't show?"
"Then I'll hunt you like the cow you are and take your head for my trophy room." Mumak spun and left the room.
"Fool," Ufthak hissed. "You've undone months and months of valuable work. You'll be lucky to keep enough rank to lead an expedition to the Pale. You may end up going as a Trooper. Now get out of my sight before I rip off your impetuous head myself!"
When Balzar left he carried with him the thousand yard stare of the shell shocked or soon-to-be-dead.
Chaya waited impatientiy. Her son was dead, and Aisha held all her hopes for a new generation. When? The birthing seemed to take an eternity.
But as she waited she sent her orders. This band to the east. Another to guard the great battering ram and take their place when the first crew tired. Or died.
Warriors came for orders. And the others, the shamans, mullahs, imams, priests, and bishops, even one who called himselfayohtollah came to hear of her visions. They demanded them, visions of victory, and she gave them what they wanted, stories of the glorious sack and ruin of the Citadel.
And in her heart nothing remained but ashes.
The night is endless, and I am frightened.
Frightened for more than herself, but that was reason enough in itself. She had not been eating, had not been exercising or resting properly; and, at her age, a Sauron was simply a machine clanking and rattling toward its inevitable breakdown, a disastrous breakdown if Sigrid's words were true. Breakdown, the word Sigrid used was overload, ruin of judgment, ruined thoughts, disaster for herself and all her children.
She was cold now: my blood is too thin. Or perhaps too thick. Does Sauron blood fail as other blood fails? Sigrid would know, but Sigrid was where she must be, at the birthing. Karl knew medicine, but he did not know Sauron women. Only one in this encampment would know how to save Aisha and her child. Of the reasons she had allowed Sigrid to live, that was the most important.
Since leaving the Pale, she had known what it was to prophesy, for her consciousness to split away from her waking self, to see farther, then return and walk alongside herself until she thought, surely, that she must already be mad. Yet no one else thought so—except for Sigrid.
She wished she had the Cyborg here again. Young as Sigrid was, her pale, terrible disapproval would suffice to force Chaya back into self-command. But Sigrid was tending Aisha, and Chaya was afraid.
The curse of blood lay on all her kin. For the first time, she allowed herself to remember: Karl had lost his first wife in childbirth. Her own mother by adoption had miscarried on the steppe and would have had no child at all had she not rescued Chaya from the culling-ground of Angband. Her son Barak's wife had all but died trying to give their house children. And Aisha—Chaya had talked to farmers about livestock, had read the mediko's records, had listened to Sigrid enough to fear what could go wrong. Haven was harsh enough on those of unaugmented background. But the blood, the fearsome Sauron blood . . . even Badri had been part Sauron. What treacheries in the blood had been wrought for her daughters, Chaya and Aisha?
All night long, men and a few women had ran in and out of the room, some of them shouting, some of them bearing blood scent. Why, then, did she shudder this time when the outcry rose outside the doors, when the doors slammed open, and the woman in her bloody robe ran in wailing?
Surely, not from surprise.
"Aisha, khatun, the khatun Aisha!"
Shulamit burst in a moment later.
"Shuli?" Chaya's eyes devoured the girl. "Is my sister still alive?"
"I don't know!" Shulamit blurted. "They—Karl and her—he screamed at her 'Give me the fucking knife!' And then there was blood all over . . ."
"Aisha's Sauron," Strong-Arm Jackson snapped. "She can control her own bleeding."
"She said she wouldn't!"
"It would kill the child," Chaya said. Aisha had defied Karl to give him this child—and to give Juchi a grandchild. Chaya well knew that she considered it worth her life.
The chair crashed onto the stone floor as Chaya rose.
"Take me to her. Now!"
Shulamit ran as fast as her sturdy legs could pump, but Chaya could run faster. It was torture restraining herself. Let her act as guide to whoever might follow.
"Where?" she threw at the struggling girl.
Shulamit pointed and gasped out sketchy directions. Robes flying, Chaya set herself to run as she had not run since she was a girl. The people whom she passed seemed scarcely to move, except to open their mouths in amazement as the prophet of the Seven raced by them, her long hair escaping her braids to whip at her face and shoulders, her robes flying out like wings. Past a house gutted by fire. Past a square, where five Turks sat devouring an entire sheep. Past a file of Bandari who didn't even have time to shout a greeting. Bandari on their way, praise Yeweh, home.
Like a Sauron—a Cyborg—Chaya tracked Aisha. First, using Shulamit's directions. And then, by sight, by sound, by visions. The reek of blood smelled much like her own. And the wails of the women outside the birthing room . . . Aisha's deathbed, she knew as soon as she heard the mourning chorus rise.
"Stay back!" That was Karl's voice, but almost unrecognizably hoarse. From what? Grief? Even mortal grief could not account for the undertones. Chaya smelled it in the air, under the blood. Fear.
"Stay out!" Sigrid's voice commanded from behind the pathetic barrier of a locked door. A kick slammed it open.
"Yeweh!" What need had they of the Red Room in the Citadel? They had a red room of their own here, blood on the bed, blood on the walls, blood all over everything but the pallor of Aisha's face. A glance confirmed it. Her niece and sister was quite, quite dead. She did not look peaceful, but astonished: they died hard, those of her blood.
Karl looked like a creature from the pits of Hell or the Barad-Dûr of Sauron legends—splashed with his wife's blood, his face ashen where it was not red-smeared, his eyes burning. Clutched against his heart, though, was the child whom Aisha died to bring to life. Naked, still, and still smeared with the fluids of her birth. A healthy girl.
"Keep the Cyborg away," he appealed to Chaya. "She wants to steal the child. I tell you, I will not permit my daughter to be used, I will not—" Karl produced a scalpel from somewhere—please Yeweh, not anywhere it could have harmed the child.
Chaya whirled on Sigrid. "Let him be!" Sigrid was standing nowhere near the child. She indicated that fact with the lift of a brow. She was as bloodied as Karl, Chaya noticed distantly, particularly about the hands. Her face had a peculiar, white, set look.
It looked disturbingly like Aisha's. If anything, Aisha's had more life in it.
"She'll tell you," Karl said rapidly. "Ask her, she'll tell you, the child has Sauron blood—Soldier blood—she'll think she's its logical guardian. Ask her, Chaya. Ask her!"
"It would," Chaya mused, "be logical . . ."
"Oh," said Sigrid with irony that was mildly surprising in a Sauron, even this Sauron, "it would be perfectly logical for me to try to steal this child out of its own father's hands, while he brandishes a scalpel. And logical beyond belief for me to seize it and take it—and where? I can hardly imagine that any of your people would be delighted to see me in possession of their prophetess-apparent."
Karl's face had gone livid. Chaya spoke quickly, harshly. "Let be, girl. Let be! Can't you see he's mad with grief?"
"I see," said Sigrid, "that the child needs a nurse, and the father will allow no one near it, even to wash it."
"She means to steal her," Karl said. "She won't have her. I won't let her."
"Then," said Sigrid with as much emotion as Chaya had ever heard in her—something like a wintry ghost of passion—"at least permit someone to look after her."
Why, thought Chaya, the woman cared. Maybe only for the genes the child carried—but they mattered to her. "Karl—" Chaya said.
Karl's eyes widened and moistened. "It was placenta previa," he told Chaya as if excusing himself. "My Aisha could have stopped the blood . . ."
"But the child would have died, and she had made her choice a long while ago? Was that it, Karl?" Chaya asked gently.
She had never seen him look so bad. Not after the worst massacre on the way to Nûrnen. Not even the nightmare hours after he returned to Strang and discovered that his first wife had died giving birth. That time, he blamed himself for abandoning her. This time, Chaya realized, he blamed himself for Aisha's death.
"You are acting like a fool," Sigrid said, cold again. "The child suffers while you indulge yourself, mediko."
"Her name is Ruth!" Karl shouted.
"Ruth bat Aisha, fan Haller," Chaya confirmed. She had thought Aisha might have wished to name the child after their mother; best, though, that that name disappear into time and that the girl be called Ruth after the Judge who had been a bridge between two nations.
"Ruth." Sigrid nodded. Her eyes had a look to them; processing the datum, Chaya realized. Entering it in the files.
The safety of an assault rifle clacked as it was snapped down to full automatic.
"Stop right there," Strong Arm Jackson said, long after both women froze. He leaned against the doorpost, his rifle trained on Sigrid's gravid belly. His nostrils flickered at the blood.
Sigrid looked from her belly to the rifle's barrel to the Edenite's face. Her eyes were full of cold laughter. "You, too, Edenite? But then, of you I might logically expect it. The Jackson paranoia is notable even among the Edenites."
Another rifle-clack. Shulamit, at Strong Arm's side. Her hands were careful on the rifle she had won from a Sauron, but her eyes blazed with eagerness.
Sigrid laughed outright. "Oh, now I have all my enemies in one place! A study in paranoia. And you thought," she said to Chaya, as if to the one reasonable person there, "that I could possibly be so stupid as to steal the child now?"
Sauron logic, and bitter as gall—bitter as poison. As bitter as the truth that Chaya made herself face. Sigrid's people valued children as highly as any people on Haven. Higher, maybe, since their Race and its continuance was so deeply ingrained in their psychology. Danger to a child might be the one thing a Sauron would avoid at any cost And if that was so . . .
"Let me through," she ordered. Chaya stalked past the others to Karl. "Will you let me hold my niece? She is blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, and you and I are kin." She took up the child Ruth. She was very warm and did not fuss in Chaya's arms. Chaya stepped back out of the path of fire.
"Give me that blanket," she ordered. Chaya washed and swaddled Ruth. Her own tears mingled with the water of die child's first bath. A miracle of newness, this baby, this blend of all their bloods: Sauron, steppe, and Pale.
But she was more than a blend—she was herself. So little, so pretty. If I were even five years younger, child, I would not yield you up.
A miracle that the sight and touch of this child could make Chaya wish to go on living.
"Karl," she said, her voice tender. "Come see your daughter."