Polo Shawcross: Dragon Soldier Page 10

  I was past any understanding and Archie ordered the rest of the squad to carry me out the back and put me under a tap. Ross suggested they drown me. The sergeant wouldn’t tear up the form nor could I use my considerable wealth to escape. I tried, or at least Ross tried on my behalf while I was hosed down in the rear courtyard of the inn next door.

  As the sergeant kept repeating, although officers could buy out of commissions or pay coin to be away from the front, the rules for enlisted men were different. Ross even quietly offered the sergeant his bodyweight in golds but it was useless. Eventually he gave up and took charge of the paperwork. The bodyguards hustled me, squelching and dizzy, back to the Lady of Starshore.

  ****

  Chapter 13 - The Fruits of Idiocy

  So drunk I literally couldn’t stand, I didn’t know I’d joined the Army of the North as an enlisted man - thankfully in the cavalry - and was to go north for basic training, to Redhampton in the Kingdom of Blackrock.

  If I didn’t, I would go to gaol for more than the time I’d signed up for, losing my duchy, title, everything I owned. That was the penalty across all the kingdoms for anyone who deserted the army. I wasn’t the first person to do something asinine while drunk and have to live with the consequences.

  There would be time to reflect on my stupidity, three years to be exact.

  ****

  When they got me back to the yacht I felt awful, wanting to weep, head in my hands and a bucket between my knees.

  “So,” said Ross, “the notorious Duke of Starshore is now Trooper Polo Shawcross.”

  “Aye,” I said with a groan, “I’m just eighteen and officially an idiot.” Then I started throwing up again. All of the men, sailors and soldiers, kept shaking their heads at me.

  When I finished throwing up into a bucket on deck, they helped me downstairs to the ducal cabin, where I sat on the floor of the bathroom. It was handy for the toilet and I was throwing up again. Even when I stopped being sick people kept banging on the door to check I was alright, so eventually I took some willow-bark tea for my head, showered, and tried lying down.

  Everything spun round so I sat at the desk for a while. People kept opening the door. They would see me slumped in the chair, bucket by my side, though it was clean by then and empty, shake their heads and withdraw again. As my almost incomprehensible journal of the day reminds me, I was utterly incapable. Despite throwing up I was still plastered.

  Needing air, I staggered back above-decks then to the ship’s rail. The green water looked inviting. I thought about throwing myself in but could swim, so probably best not to try in harbour. Besides, in daylight the ducal guard would only rescue me. It was late summer, a beautiful day. The wind snapped at the furled sails and rigging, tugging at the gulls hovering hopefully by. The ship clucked and chinked to herself, rising and falling on the light swell.

  Any more of that kind of thing and I would have to crawl to the solidity of land, but until then I sat on the rail and hung onto a handy bit of rigging. I pretended to be fine, sucking air into my lungs and praying Haka took me quickly. The captain walked past. During the celebrations for my ducal investiture, several people at parties hadn’t used coasters under their drinks. The marks had been polished out but the captain was still annoyed with me.

  “Don’t you be sick on my ship,” he said, in that slightly guttural Kavar accent, “it will eat at the finish of the wood.” A lecture ensued. The ship was a legacy of our forebears, not mine to abuse, more mine to care for in trust for the next generation.

  I nodded weakly once or twice. Yes, I croaked, coasters were important, cork mats more so. Finally the captain moved on. It was gratifying how loyal he was to his adopted duchy, but there was more than just the yacht’s varnish to worry about. Several times during our rather one-sided conversation, I nearly threw up on him.

  The bodyguards were huddled on the other side of the yacht, smoking and talking and shaking their heads at me every so often. Sailors went past doing the same.

  Ross and Archie were respectively captain and lieutenant of my Duke’s Guard, the team of elite veteran soldiers accompanying me on what had proved to be a very short sailing holiday. Ross had dark hair and eyes, Archie was a redhead with They all showed metallic or crystalline patterning in the iris. They walked over to me, looking worried. I nearly threw up all over again at the sight of their faces. They shook their heads at me too, as annoyed with themselves for not noticing I was doing something stupid as with me for doing it.

  “Don’t,” I said, “I know. I’m an idiot.”

  “Yes,” said Archie. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Still, he tricked you, the smug bastard.”

  “Aye,” said Ross, sighing, “tricked us all. Pleased with landing a known hero, and a duke, no less, as an enlisted man. He knew exactly who you were.”

  “Not to mention,” said Archie, “he said it was a public relations triumph for the army.” Ross laughed. I sighed. Then I groaned. My unsavoury reputation was going to be the death of me. Possibly literally.

  “We could have offered that sergeant the duchy,” Ross said, “but the bastard wasn’t going to tear up those papers.” He shook his head, looking solemn. “Sorry about offering so much on your behalf, Polo, figured you could swing it.”

  “Aye,” I said, “I would have tried the same if I could stand.”

  “Or speak,” said Archie, smiling, being helpful as always.

  Ross had offered the sergeant a fortune, but it was true I was rich. Even if my own ducal coffers didn’t have that much, and I was pretty sure they did, I was owed a favour by a king who could afford that kind of bribe. Come to think of it, I was owed favours by more than one king and some crown princes. Yet there I was, not even afternoon teatime and I’d destroyed my life.

  “I know you didn’t want to join the army,” Ross said, “but you’ve got the skills to survive.” I managed a self-pitying grunt in reply. The willow-bark tea was barely staying down and my head was thumping horribly. I tried to pay attention. “It’s no use acting out and hoping they’ll throw you out,” Ross was saying, “you’re liable to spend so many years in the stockade you’ll be an old man before they let you go. You can run to Kavarlen.” I looked up at that. They looked at each other. Ross frowned. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said, and Archie shook his head. They began listing all the reasons a man might prefer the army to Kavarlen. I knew most of them.

  By all accounts Kavarlen was a horribly uncivilised place. No running water, awful food, and the religion had an aversion to cleanliness. The Kavar women were noted for the thick and luxuriant moustaches they grew. That last part I was pretty sure my father made up, but that was the sum of my knowledge about the Kavar. I had met one of their diplomats at Court in Sendren. He seemed quite normal and hadn’t smelled at all, though I didn’t know him well.

  However I remembered meeting his wife. The diplomat’s wife wasn’t particularly hairy but perhaps she trimmed or waxed whilst in Sendren. I had an affair with her, though I tried not to do other men’s wives - without their permission - at least not more than one night. Or weekend. Occasionally I made exceptions. The diplomat’s wife smelled fabulous, was quite deliciously bent, and at first I didn’t know she was married. How do you resist a woman who asks for directions to where in the gardens she can find a cucumber then when you ask her why she needs one, tells you the truth? When she invited me to join her, I simply said yes please and completely forgot to check her marital status.

  The diplomat’s wife and I hadn’t discussed the Kavar religion but apparently it was enough to deprave anyone. Me, I was born that way. Perverted, not religious. Kavarlen’s quaint plumbing, lack of decent cuisine, and awful torture festival of a religion went against everything I stood for. I liked hot running water, good food, a belief system that didn’t bother me if I didn’t bother it. Usually Thet and the rest only came calling if you called on them, no matter what people like my father thought.

  Could I or should I run to Kavarl
en? I didn’t think I could ever get used to a disembowelled god. Maybe that was why they didn’t like plumbing. No real point if your internal bits weren’t connected to the body’s outlets. Ross distracted me from my intestinal ponderings.

  “I have a second cousin in Kavarlen,” he said, “if you really want to go. He’s wanted for murdering his brother. Not much doubt he did it to inherit the duchy.” I nodded. Carefully, I didn’t want my head to fall off. “So don’t trust him as far as you can throw him.”

  “Miri Westwych was going there,” I said, “looking for a sire. With her not being able to marry anyone here unless she wants a baby with flippers.” I saw Ross’s look. He’d lived through my crush on Miri. I had pined. “Not,” I added hastily, “that I would go there for her.” I’d indulged in a one-nighter with Miri only two weeks ago. Now I thought about it, all my experiences with Miri were one night only. I sighed. It must have looked like I was going to take the Kavarlen option.

  “You’ll be giving up everything, mind,” said Archie. “We can’t help you and nor can anyone else, or risk arrest too.” I waved a hand to shoo the idea away.

  “It’s alright,” I said, “I don’t want to go.” They thought I was lying to protect them.

  “We’d cover for you best we could,” said Ross, “but Archie’s right, we’ve got to be seen to be co-operating with the law or we’ll be in the stockade.” Especially on the northern border, the army was like an extra government, but I hadn’t realised how much power it had over the unenlisted.

  “They can arrest you even though you’re not in the army anymore?”

  “Aye,” said Ross.

  “Suspicion of aiding and abetting a deserter,” recited Archie, “shall entitle the Army of the North to arrest and detain any suspects, military or civilian, to aid in any investigations, before handover to civil authorities for investigation of any civil crimes.” He sighed. “All they need is a suspicion.”

  “What Archie’s trying to say,” said Ross, “is it’s best not to end up in the stockade. They’ll beat the crap out of you until they get bored.” Once they got bored, as I’d find out, they’d beat you for that too.

  “I’m not going to Kavarlen,” I said. I tried to smile. “I’ll do my tour. It’ll be fine.”

  “That’s the ticket,” said Ross, and Archie nodded.

  “You’re going to have to give me tips,” I said, “but for now could someone get me some water? I’m afraid to move in case I’m sick again.”

  They gave me lots of water to drink and I managed to keep it down. Maybe the hangover wouldn’t be too bad. I had a smoke of mindweed and that eased the pain further. Well brought up, I retreated to my cabin to begin the rest of my breakdown in private, taking a clean bucket to put next to the bed. I shut the door, careful not to scream or make other noises that might alert everyone to my real state of mind. Personally, I knew I was going to die. Perhaps I should make a pre-emptive strike and kill myself. For being such a complete and utter idiot, I deserved death.

  I remembered how nasty I was the last time I saw Azrael, when he was just an idiot like me. Maybe our fight wasn’t all his fault. Hadn’t we both been drunk? Like me when I signed up for the army? In my diary I wrote down those thoughts, maudlin as they were, and noted my options for flight. Running was problematic unless I left the kingdoms completely.

  My home kingdom of Sendren was one of the old kingdoms, all at war with Sriama in the north. They contributed to the Army of the North with men, equipment, horses, supplies and coin. The Army of the North didn’t just stay in the north but protected the coasts and the hinterlands too, so there were army bases everywhere. While the people liked soldiers, they didn’t like deserters. To compound the difficulties I’d face if I ran, commoners were shorter and tending dark, being tall and blonde I stood out. Blood couldn’t disappear as a peasant might.

  Along with my distinctive looks, running from the army was even more difficult as I was personally famous for some distance in every direction thanks to Rags to Riches and Jealous Love. The anonymous writer would have another chapter to add then their franchise would be over because my life was over.

  Nine-sided idiot Polo Shawcross died,

  In his first engagement with the enemy,

  Sadly, horribly, stupidly and pointlessly.

  The End.

  There were too many -ly words to be comfortable with but I was indeed an eighteen-year-old boy and melodramatic with it. I left the journal sitting on the desk and stretched. I would sleep before daring to think again. Like most cabins at sea, the room was small compared to land-bound housing but it was a stateroom for a duke. Several portholes rimmed with bright brass let light into a space that was made and furnished with no expense spared. Like some exquisite jewelled box, every surface was set with rare wood, exotic inlays, gems and ores, all polished for centuries. I sighed.

  It was hard to remain pessimistic when basking in the gentle glow of the decorated woodwork. I was careful settling in, sure if I scratched anything the captain would have me thrown overboard. The bucket was next to the bed where it would be handy, then I shed my clothes in the direction of the nearest chair. I was about to flop onto the mattress and despair for a while, when Cree appeared. He did so vividly, standing in the bed up to his hips, something a being-not-in-body doesn’t think unusual. I jumped backwards.

  There simply wasn’t the space for that kind of reaction. The back of my head clouted the lovely polished hardwood, hard enough to stun me a little. I slid down the wall, squeaking where bare skin met varnish. Cree looked at me, his lips twitching, and moved backwards to a less disconcerting position, at least in his mind, sitting cross-legged and levitating over the foot of the bed. I rubbed my head and groaned. He was probably going to lecture me. He was. He shook his head at me before he began.

  Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I tell you to sober up before you decide.

  “Did you say that?” I said aloud, hoping I wasn’t concussed because I was too woozy to do anything about it. “I could hardly hear you.” I thought about getting up but felt dizzy.

  A voice inside me said I was an idiot and was going to die. It was one of the usual voices I’m told everyone has in their heads. They parrot families, teachers, advisors, mentors - the good with the bad - like some crazed filing system that might return anything depending on one’s state of mind. They might show spite, flattery, encouragement, something else entirely, or all that and more at the same time. Some people had to shout over the top of their voices, not realising they were the only ones who heard them. I always argued with my negative voices, but this time was losing the debate.

  Cree had reminded me that I had been the stupidest I had ever been, in a short but brilliant career that had reached such heights of idiocy as trying to pick up a live if small dragon with my bare hands, having sex with my best friend’s mother, something Crown Prince Azrael was still touchy about even though it was years ago, and making an enemy of Young Perry, the prince second-in-line to the throne.

  Luckily, I hadn’t yet alienated the king. Uncle Theo was still fond of me, but it looked as if my friendship with the Crown Prince himself was over. What had I done? It was all Azrael’s fault, the bastard. He was a convenient person to blame and I would have hit him if he walked through the door. I sulked about how if I wasn’t drinking to forget our friendship was over I never would have signed up for the army.

  That reminded me, I’d signed up for the army. I groaned and put my head in my hands. Gods, what an idiotic thing to do. My mind went round and round in a loop of self-pity, forgetfulness, remembrance and more self-pity. I thought about curling up on the floor but crawled into bed and wished Cree would just go away.

  You’re not going to die. I put a pillow over my head.

  “Go ‘way!” I said aloud, from under the pillow. “Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to read minds?” I remembered someone else who read minds. Lilith the Dragon queen read mine rather well. Gods, that copper hair and those
eyes, like blue-green pools. Lilith was-

  Polo, said Cree, interrupting my fantasy, if you want to associate with Lilith, learn to screen your thoughts. She’ll have you opened up like an oyster. You don’t want to give a woman like that so much power over you. He paused. Unless you enjoy being a sock-puppet? He had a point. Stupid as I was, I knew Lilith was dangerous.

  “Make up your mind,” I said in a belligerent tone, “am I an oyster or a sock-puppet?”

  “Are you alright, Polo?” said Archie, and I stuck my head out from under the pillow. He smiled from the door. “Ross said I should check on you.”

  “Fine,” I said, only partly coherent, “tripped getting bed.” Archie went away. I thought about Lilith. I wanted to sleep and a fantasy about her seemed a nice way to go. She could have me with a blink of her eyes. The rich emerald iris had a sparkling ring of sapphire blue, like a mountain lake or maybe an ocean, and she had beautiful copper-coloured hair. Was that her natural colour? Was she married?

  Someone told me once, said Cree, Lilith keeps men the way other women keep lapdogs. At first they’re favoured pets, then she neuters them.

  I laughed aloud then had to stop, until the bed stopped rocking and my head stopped spinning. The door opened again.

  “I’m fine,” I said. The door closed. Gods, who cared if she used me? I didn’t mind. Besides, only one night would be optimal. Maybe that way she wouldn’t eviscerate me too badly. The time I saw her in person and as Cree said, she read my mind, she also let me use her blood to live. The lines of her throat had caught my eye. She had been wearing an open-necked shirt and the idea of running my tongue down-