Chapter 3
Lt. Breda and Jean Havoc stood inside the entrance of the supply tent, watching the back of the old Ishvalan woman as she toddled off across the hard-packed earth of the headquarters compound.
"Guess you're off her shit list," Breda commented.
Havoc snorted quietly, placing a cigarette between his lips and reaching for his lighter. "Yeah, now I can die."
The old woman peered around her with renewed interest, her eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her new glasses. She made little clucking noises of disapproval to herself as she hobbled along. All these soldiers! She shook her head, glaring at a couple of men in uniform. That one needs to stand up straight! Really! What would his mother say? That yellow-haired fellow is decent, I suppose, aside from being cheeky. I have half a mind to—
She stopped her dark ruminations as she saw Scar walking toward her. She considered him for a moment and raised her finger to catch his attention, but he quickened his stride, giving her a silent inclination of his head as he passed her. She watched him for a few more moments with a look of concentration on her face, her fingertips lightly pressed against her chin. Then she grimaced, shook her head, and continued on her way.
She passed the tall radio tower, giving it a withering look as though it was something someone had been playing with and had forgotten to put away. As she passed the front of the communications tent, she paused and used her stick to lift the flap. Peering in, she whispered a little "ah" of triumph and hobbled in.
Miles stood behind Karley, who was adjusting the knobs on the transceiver and listening intently to his headphones. He flipped a switch and slowly turned another knob. He grinned. "Perfect!" he pronounced. "West City Command Center, straight through and clear as a bell." He looked up at Miles. "Maybe it's not as hot today."
"Fat chance," Miles muttered.
"Yeah, I guess I got spoiled. The cold of Briggs was perfect for radio."
"You're doing fine, Karley. Let me know when—"
"There you are, young Attar!"
Miles' jaw clenched. "Shit!" he hissed under his breath.
Karley hunched over his transceiver and tried to look invisible.
Miles steeled himself and turned around. "Good day to you, Aunt Zulema."
"Hmph! What's good about it? I can't sleep on those cots! Not with my back! I could barely get up this morning! One of these fine days I won't be able to budge and no one will think to come and look for me and I'll just die there!"
Miles managed to not look optimistic. "I see you got your new glasses."
Zulema pushed the metal frames up on her nose. "Yes, yes." She peered experimentally around the tent. "They'll do, I suppose."
"They make you look ten years younger," Miles remarked. It was a safe enough comment. Ten years either way wouldn't make much of a difference.
"Hmph!" Zulema pointed her stick at him. "Enough of your cheek, boy!" A little smile pulled at her mouth, nonetheless. "So what are you doing here?"
"I'm working," Miles replied patiently. "Or, at least, I was. Now I'm talking to you."
"Eh-h!" Zulema exclaimed, her voice sliding up at the end of the syllable. It was a sound that Miles was beginning to hear a lot. It was a sound Ishvalans used to express a variety of things, such as astonishment, pleasure, being impressed, or in Zulema's case, sarcasm. "Too busy to talk to your old auntie, I suppose!"
"Was there something you wanted to talk to me about? Something specific, I mean?"
"Yes!" There were some folding chairs by a map-covered table off to one side of the tent and Zulema made her way to it, easing herself down onto one of the chairs with a soft groan. "That fellow," she mused.
"Which one?"
"Turyan's boy."
Miles frowned slightly. "Who?"
"Turyan Ruhad! Oh, my, yes!" Zulema rested both her hands on the top of her stick and looked off into the past as though it stood in front of her. "Wasn't he a pillar of the community?" She turned her eyes sharply on Miles. "He was chieftain of Kanda, you know! A venerable family! A noble house, you know!" she added.
Miles shook his head. "I don't know. I have no idea who you're talking about. Who is Turyan's boy?"
"That fellow you're so chummy with!" Zulema replied impatiently. "The fellow with the scar on his face! The priest! You know! Of course you know!"
"Oh!" Miles looked at her with new interest. He picked up another chair and put it in front of her. "Yes, him. Of course," he said, sitting down. "But he's not a priest anymore."
"He's not? Hmph!" Zulema ruminated on this for a moment. "Hmph! Well, I don't know what the world is coming to these days! Used to be—"
"What about him?" Miles asked, cutting her off gently. "His father was Turyan Ruhad, you said."
"I did! A very fine man, Turyan was. Two fine, strapping sons! But would you believe it?" Zulema cried, lifting a hand to the heavens to express her astonishment. "The younger became a priest, which is proper enough, but the elder was a bookworm! The one renounced worldly things, the other had his nose in a book day and night! Poor Turyan! Never a grandchild in sight!" She scowled and muttered, "If that cursed war never happened, who knows?" A look of real sorrow crossed her face for a moment, making her almost look younger. Then she hardened her features. "But there it is."
"So my friend," Miles said. "Turyan's boy. What is—"
"And then, of course, there was that terrible falling out he had with his sister!" Zulema went on, apparently nowhere near done yet. She shook her head. "Terribly headstrong, that girl! After their parents went to Ishvala's bosom, Turyan was head of the family. It went to him to find a husband for his younger sister, Zoya. But what did she do? She defied her elder brother and married some potter from South Kanda! A nobody! Oh, wasn't there a fight! The whole neighborhood heard about it! Turyan was livid! He disowned her and never spoke to her again! Not ever! Neither her, nor her husband, nor her children. A son and two daughters, she had. It was as though they never were." She heaved a sigh for the vagaries of human frailty. She shook a finger at Miles. "But that's what comes of improper behavior and not respecting your elders!"
Miles' head drooped between his shoulders. It was too damn hot for this. "Aunt Zulema, did you want to say something about the guy with the scar, or what?"
Zulema glared at Miles for a moment, then gave a little gasp. "Oh, yes! Him! Yes! I saw him just now as I was on my way here, and I said to myself, 'now what is that fellow's name?'"
Miles' head snapped up, his attention now riveted on her every word. "What is it?" he asked. "Do you know?"
Zulema looked annoyed. "No, I don't!" she snapped. "I can't remember! I thought you knew! That's why I came here!"
Miles put his hands to his face. "No, Aunt Zulema," he said, his voice muffled. "I don't know his name. He hasn't told me."
"Hmph! Well, that's odd, I must say. What do you call him?"
"A lot of things, just not to his face."
"Well, I simply can't remember! He never seemed to stay in one place. He was always buzzing around here and there. I don't think his father even knew, but he spent time with Zoya and her family. Both him and that brother of his, the scholar," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "And if he wasn't there he was out ministering, I suppose." She leaned forward and lowered her voice, her signal for conveying particularly juicy gossip. "He kept company with the vatrishi!"
Miles spread his hands. "That means absolutely nothing to me. What's a vatrishi?"
"Those people!" Zulema said with a nod and a knowing look. "They played music at weddings and festivals and the like. They lived on the outskirts in their camps, I suppose you'd call them. Very clever, in their own way, I suppose, but not much better than beggars. Not proper at all. No, no."
She held her arm out toward Miles. "Well, that's me for now," she said wearily. "I think I'll go back to my tent and have a nap, and when I wake up, I'll still be alive, with the help of God."
With a sigh of resignation, Miles stood up and dutifully took Zulema's arm, helping her to her feet. "You're probably going to outlive us all."
After seeing Zulema back to her tent, Miles returned to headquarters. He headed for the supply tent to fill his canteen up with water. Stepping into the relative cool of the tent's interior, he nodded to the men inside. Breda and the quartermaster were receiving that morning's shipment from Central Command, and Havoc was going through crates with "Havoc Sundries" stamped on them.
"Himself was just in here," Breda commented. He shrugged. "Well, a while ago. He was asking if we could get hold of school supplies."
Miles nodded. "Yes, I sent him. I told him you were the person to go to. And if you couldn't get what he needed, Havoc could, or so he keeps saying."
"Hey, I even gave him some books my mom sent," Havoc said. "She figured the kids here could use them."
"Thank you, gentlemen." Miles filled his canteen from the barrel and hooked it back onto his belt. "I'll go see where he's wandered off to. Carry on."
Breda saluted. "Sir!"
"See you later, Major."
Breda and Havoc returned to their work. "School teacher, huh?" Havoc said after a while.
"Guess so," Breda replied. "Can you picture Scar as a school teacher?"
"You mean, lurking up and down between the desks with a big, fat ruler in his hand? Hell, yes!"
Scar looked up as Miles approached. He was sitting on what used to be a low wall under the shade of a couple of trees.
"These are useless," he said, holding up one of the books Havoc had given him.
Miles took the book from him. It was a thin, hardbound book with a slightly tattered blue cover and bright, bold lettering that said My Little Blue Story Book. He opened it and flipped through the pages. In the very simplest language, the book told of the idyllic exploits of a trio of siblings, Tom, Susan, and Betty, as well as their small dog, Flip. The children lived in a large house in a verdant paradise. They had a lovely, smiling mother and a benign, wise father. Their entire family was blue-eyed and ivory-skinned. They apparently had sumptuous meals every day, and they didn't seem to have a care in the world.
"Well, this would certainly appeal to Amestrian children," Miles observed. "But yes, I see your point."
"I suppose we could do without books to start with," Scar said, taking the little reader back from Miles and putting it with the others. "We will eventually print our own, books that not only teach the children to read but teach them our language and our culture."
Miles nodded. "That's an excellent idea." He smiled slightly. "I've been learning a little more about Ishvalan culture on my own. Zulema is quite a fount of information."
"Don't you mean gossip?" Scar gathered up the books and stood up.
"Gossip has its place." Miles wondered if he should let on about what he knew. He decided to keep it to himself for a while.
They headed back to the communications tent. Karley looked over his shoulder as they entered. "I got through to Briggs, sir," he said with a grin. "The general sends her regards."
"How are they doing without me?" Miles asked with a grin. "Sorry. I mean us."
"Oh, well," Karley grinned back. "Apparently the place has lost some of its spark, but they're managing. The general said she'd be interested to hear how your first week has gone."
"If I make it through to the weekend, I'll tell her," Miles replied dryly.
Scar had gone over to the map table, setting down his collection of books. Miles joined him and slid a map out from under the others. It showed Ishval as well as a larger area to the west. He pointed to a line with hatch marks on it that curved close to the western border of Ishval. "They're repairing the railroad here. We'll be able to bring in supplies a lot faster once that's established."
"Along with a flood of tourists," Scar remarked.
Miles gave him an odd look. "What?"
"It was a joke, Miles."
"Oh." Miles smirked and shook his head. "Nice try." He unhooked the canteen from his belt and walked over to the tent opening. Lifting the flap and taking a drink, he looked outside. "Well, well," he said after a few moments. "Looks like he found a friend."
"Who?" Scar asked, still frowning thoughtfully at the maps.
"That Stanno character you were talking to the other day." Miles looked back at Scar. "Breda's been asking the Ishvalans what their professions are so he could see about getting government funding for them to start up again. Stanno told him he made cheese. What the hell is there to make cheese from out here?"
Scar's brow furrowed. "Goat's milk," he replied. "When there were goats here. But he's lying. He's a carpenter."
"A carpenter?" Miles frowned angrily. "That's just the sort of craftsman we need! What an asshole! Why would he lie about that?"
"Because he isn't going to go to any effort to cooperate with you or with the Amestrians," Scar said. He shrugged. "Because he's an asshole."
Miles looked back outside to watch the two Ishvalan men cross the compound. Dear General Armstrong, he thought. Summer camp is great. So far, I've met a crazy old lady and a lying asshole. Tomorrow we're going to make cheese from invisible goats. He sighed.
"Karley!" he called over his shoulder. "What time is it?"
"Twelve thirty-five, sir."
"I'm going to the mess tent. You coming?" he asked Scar.
"I suppose." Scar conveniently forgot his books on the table and followed Miles outside.
As they neared the mess tent, they could see Stanno and his friend a short distance ahead. Walking toward them was a young soldier. As if on a signal, the two Ishvalans parted just enough for the soldier to walk between them, but then they both slammed into him with their shoulders, knocking him on his back.
In mock astonishment, Stanno bent over the stunned Amestrian but made no attempt to help him get up. "Eh-h, how did that happen?" he exclaimed.
"You need to watch where you're going!" the other Ishvalan scolded. "Maybe you shouldn't be in a place where the sun can addle your brains."
As the two men laughed, the soldier scrambled to his feet with his fists clenched. Miles and Scar strode up to them as the two Ishvalans were just beginning to ball up their fists. Miles pushed between them.
"On your way, soldier," he said to the Amestrian.
The young man, shaking with anger, stood his ground. "But, sir, they did that—"
"I know what they did," Miles cut him off. "Back off. That's an order."
"You heard the man," Stanno said to the soldier. "Piss off!"
Miles turned on him. "What the hell is your problem?" he demanded.
Stanno gave a short harsh laugh. "My problem? Where do you want me to start?" He flung out an arm to indicate the soldiers that were starting to gather. "We don't need these Ammy bastards on our land again!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Miles could see that a sizable group of Ishvalans had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He glanced at Scar. The big Ishvalan stood behind Stanno with a dark, unreadable scowl on his face. The tension in the air was becoming palpable, and Miles sincerely hoped he could rely on Scar to keep this situation from getting ugly.
"What we don't need is grown men acting like children!" Miles told Stanno.
The major's strong, calm voice had no apparent effect. Stanno's friend jerked his chin at Miles. "How'd you manage to stay alive with that uniform on, eh?"
"Yeah, how about it, Major?" Stanno grinned unpleasantly. "Who did you sleep with?"
Miles froze. He could hear a collective gasp of outrage from the soldiers around them. He was truly torn between swallowing the insult and sending a haymaker across Stanno's smug face. Before he had to make that decision, Stanno was spun around and Scar had a fistful of his shirt. The two men glared at each other, and the deep seated anger in Scar's eyes seemed to come from more than just the offense against his friend. In a cold moment of realization, Miles started forward as he saw Scar clench his right hand. It might have just been to make a fist, but then again, it might not.
"Ran, tse, dre, ket!"
The compound was suddenly filled with singing and the rhythmic beating of a drum. Scar gave a start, his murderous glare at Stanno turning into a look of perplexity. Then he looked over at Miles, who wore much the same expression. Scar's attention was then arrested by something past Miles' shoulder, and the major turned around.
The crowd behind them, both Amestrians and Ishvalans, had parted to make a path for a tall, lanky Ishvalan man. He had a double-headed drum before him slung from his shoulders and he was beating it alternately on one side with a wooden spoon and on the other with a long, thin strip of wood. Both a long, silver braid and a long-necked stringed instrument bounced against his back. He was followed by a line of a dozen young women moving along with a half-walking, half-skipping step and holding hands. They ranged from a tall, slender young woman at the head of the line to a girl of about nine at the end. They were singing in what Miles guessed was Ishvalan, and they were accompanied by a collection of five young men playing various instruments.
They circled around the crowd, who backed away to let them pass. The girls smiled brightly as they sang, coquettishly glancing at whoever they danced by. Miles looked over at Scar to make sure he was seeing the same thing. By the look on his face, however, Scar appeared to be seeing more. He looked shaken, staring at the young musicians in utter disbelief.
The young woman led her line of singers to where Scar stood and briefly surrounded him in a circle. The leader gave him a joyful smile as she passed in front of him, as did the girl behind her. As they peeled away and moved on, Scar's eyes followed them with a kind of dread and a kind of hunger.
The man with the drum followed behind them, and as he passed Scar, he grinned and winked before moving on. After him, a young man playing a bagpipe stepped past Scar. He couldn't change his expression much as he blew into the mouthpiece, but he made sure to catch Scar's eye.
The Amestrians watched them with wonder, and many of them were either tapping their feet or nodding in time to the infectious rhythm of the drum.
The Ishvalans stared with even greater astonishment, as though unable to quite believe what they were seeing. Some of them even stretched their hands toward the young singers as though to convince themselves that they were real. The girls reached out to brush their hands as they passed by, as if to assure them. The Ishvalans' astonishment began to be replaced with smiles of delight.
The group moved to the center of the crowd and the girls paused in their singing. The man with the braid gave a rapid series of beats on his drum while the young man who had been playing a long flute stepped forward. He quickly slid the flute into his chuva and pulled out a shorter wooden instrument with a flared end like a horn. He raised it to his lips and blew a short, shrill cadenza, sounding like a very loud oboe. He played a slow melody, accompanied by the drummer and one of the string players. The tune grew faster, the drum pounding and the strings strumming along with him. This came to an end and the young man quickly switched back to his flute as the girls took up their singing again, finishing up with a decisive cadence of the drum. The soldiers broke into applause and whistles. The Ishvalans joined in the applause as well, but a strange sound emanated from among them, a kind of high, ululating cry. It came out in little tentative bursts, here and there, as something once familiar but long out of practice. The musicians laughed and answered back with the same sound, stronger and more confident.
The man with the drum stepped forward and bowed. As he straightened, he opened his mouth to speak, but the two lead girls from the line suddenly broke ranks. The bagpiper shoved his instrument into the arms of one of his companions with a discordant squawk and followed them. They ran straight toward Scar and threw their arms around him, laughing and crying at the same time.
"You made it!" the young man laughed. "You actually made it!"
"We missed you so much!" one of the girls cried, burying her face against Scar's chest.
Standing on her toes, the other girl grasped Scar's head and pulled it down so she could kiss the scar on his forehead. "Your poor face!"
The group's leader smiled over at them, then he spoke briefly to the other young musicians. He unbuckled the drum from his shoulder and pulled the stringed instrument on his back around to the front. With a nod to his musicians, they started up another song. This time the man sang by himself, and Miles was torn between listening to his clear tenor and watching the small drama beside him.
The three young Ishvalans, in roughly their early to mid-twenties, bore a definite resemblance to each other, probably siblings. Scar stood paralyzed, enveloped in their embrace and staring intently into each of their faces.
"God! My God!" he whispered. "I was sure you were dead!"
"We saw your wanted posters," the young man said. He glanced anxiously at Miles and his uniform. "You're not under arrest, are you?"
Miles grinned slightly as he took off his glasses. "No, he's not under arrest." His smile grew as the three took in his red eyes with startled looks. "I'm not taking him away. I brought him here." He gave Scar a wry look. "So he could at least do me the kindness of making introductions."
Scar glanced at Miles, slightly startled, as though he had forgotten he was there. Turning to the young man, he said. "This is Damyan." His eyes dwelled a little longer on Damyan's face. He was nearly as tall as Scar and had a handsome, pleasant countenance. "You look so much like Mattas!"
Damyan grinned, apparently pleased by this.
Turning to one of the girls, Scar said, "This is Naisha."
Naisha gave Miles a pert look. "Nice to meet you!"
"And this," Scar said, turning to the other girl who was wrapped around his arm. "This is Vesya."
"Hello," Vesya said softly.
Both sisters were remarkably pretty, but Miles' attention was immediately captured by Vesya, who he guessed was the younger of the two. She was a little shorter and noticeably a little curvier. Ishval was suddenly not so harsh a place.
"This is Major Miles," Scar told them. Then to Miles, he added in a tone that had not entirely lost its disbelief, "These are my cousins."
"Oh!" Zulema's rambling story flashed up in his mind. Zoya's children. Miles nodded to them. "I'm very pleased to meet you."
"Thank you so much for bringing Andakar back!" Vesya said.
For a moment, Miles couldn't take his eyes off the girl's face. She had given him the sweetest smile he could ever remember seeing, and until she demurely lowered them, her eyes held him captive. Then he realized what she had just said. He flinched and stared at Scar.
"Andakar?"
An unguarded look of anger, accusation, and embarrassment passed across Scar's face and he tried to temper his expression. He backed away from his cousins' embrace and they looked at him with puzzlement.
"What's wrong?" Naisha demanded. "Andakar, what's the matter?"
Scar nearly winced as though in pain. "That was—" he blurted out angrily. The siblings stared at him in astonishment and he lowered his voice, although it was still hard-edged. "That…was my name once."
Damyan and Vesya still watched him anxiously and Naisha frowned. "What do you mean, was? It still is!"
Scar shook his head. "No. I'm sorry," he replied with an effort. "I left that name behind me when I left Ishval. I'm not who I was. I can't be who I was."
Naisha's scowl grew deeper and she suddenly punched Scar in the chest. Scar gave a jump out of surprise rather than pain. "That's complete bullshit!" she cried. She punched him three more times for emphasis. "You're Andakar son of Turyan of the house of Ruhad!"
Damyan grabbed her wrist. "Nai, stop it!"
"No! You're our family!" She glared at Scar, and now Miles could see how far the family resemblance extended. Naisha had Scar's eyes. She apparently had his temper, as well. "You can't come back to us after all these years and pretend you're a stranger! That's what your father did to us and I won't take it from you!"
Scar flinched, and his angry frown softened, if only slightly. While the two of them glared at each other, another girl came hurrying up to them.
"Come on!" she urged the siblings. "Time for the big finish! Hi, Saahad Andakar!" she said to Scar, waving at him as though she were merely passing him on the street.
"You stay right there!" Naisha warned Scar over her shoulder as they jogged off to join the others. "I'm not through with you yet!"
As Scar glowered after them with a troubled look, Miles moved to his side. "Andakar, huh?" he said with a grin he could not suppress. "I like it. Better than Toby."
