| Fantasy Fiction posted March 21, 2015 | Chapters: |
...20 21 -21- 21... 
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A Ruse By Any Other Name
A chapter in the book THE TRINING Book Three
Ex-General Doctrex (Part 2)
by Jay Squires
THE LAST SECTION FROM PART 1:
I fanned through the sheets until I found one that was plain, pulled it out, and then removed a quill and the ink jar, setting them between us on the seat. With the top closed it made a perfect surface on which to write. “It won’t take me long to finish this, Colonel. If you’ll send someone to get Garvin, I’ll make the proposal to him. If he refuses, we’ll always have plan b to fall back on.”
“You mean ...?”
I nodded, and the color left his face.
“Oh, but I think he can be persuaded, General Doctrex,” and following a wry grin he added, “and as his supreme colonel ...”
“I’d rather we don’t resort to that. I’ll just talk to the lad ... and let it just be a yes or a no.”
His mouth gaped open.
I laid the sheet atop the box I held in my lap and removed the stopper from the ink bottle. “If you will send for Medic Garvin ...”
As I started the letter, he dispatched one of his men to go back inside the cave and bring Garvin to us.
BOOK III
Chapter Twenty-one
(Part 2)
Thinking of Garvin, I smiled as I wrote at the top of the sheet, “To: Braims Glassem,” and beneath it, “From: General Doctrex.”
I rolled the quill between my thumb and forefinger, and out of the corner of my eye watched Zarbs doing his best to look inconspicuous—if not a trifle bored—in the midst of his surveillance. I cleared my throat, and reached for the ink jar. I brought it and an extra quill to the seat on the other side of me, and then I turned even more obliquely away from him so my left thigh was pressed against the edge of the seat.
“Oh, I didn’t—” he started and then faded.
“Yeah ...” I said. "You didn't."
“Dear Braims,” I wrote. Pondering what I wanted to say, I scratched a spot under my lower lip with my thumbnail, and stared out past a clump of brush to miles of grey, smoky plains. I wanted to introduce Garvin to him but subtly enough that when Zarbs read the letter—and I knew it would be pushing my luck not to let him read it—suspicions wouldn’t be aroused.
I pictured Garvin in front of Braims' tent, bending from his saddle, his arm stretched down, the letter clutched in his fingertips. Braims would take it, study his name on the seal for a brief but troubled moment. Even before opening it, he would probably give the messenger another cursory appraisal, his incisive mind racing. He would break the seal, open the letter and begin reading, looking up from it, from time to time. More than anything, I was certain in the moments after the intent of the letter sank in, and his eyes raised and found Garvin’s, there would be something silently affirming going out between them in that singular instant their eyes would lock on each other's.
There was really nothing I could tell Braims, in the letter, about Garvin.
During the two days that Garvin and I had shared that room, we were bonded by a single need, which was to nurse Jed to health, but on the day he had introduced the narcotic to Jed’s unguent, allowing him the blessing of sleep, we permitted ourselves the luxury of relaxing and over a very short time got to know each other. Sitting on the floor, our backs against the uneven surface of the farthest wall from the door, we still spoke in hushed voices.
I found Garvin's curiosity and enthusiasm to be unbridled. He seemed inordinately interested in the military life in the southern provinces, particularly the role of the medic. When I told him how much he reminded me of our medic, Braims Glassem, I couldn't help but notice a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. His eyes grew large as I told him some of the stories about Braims. Garvin’s appetite for detail-atop-detail was staggering.
He nodded solemnly when I told him, in a voice just above a whisper, that the medical profession transcended warring factions, power and territorial domination—that he and Braims and the rest of the medics were in the honorable business of saving lives, not taking them.
“If our situations were different,” I went on, “I’d have been honored to have had you, alongside Braims, as our troops’ medic. And ...” I added, studying him closely, “I know Braims would have been thrilled with you as his partner.” I read in his expression that he was touched, almost to the point of tears, by my words.
Encouraged by his openness, I decided to probe (whether it was my subconscious mind guiding me or a healthy dose of serendipity), for little tidbits from his personal life. I wondered now if I was being directed to prepare for today's opportunity.
Garvin, I discovered, was not married, had no family. He never knew his father. His mother raised him as an only child until she died a year before. He was alone, without relatives, but too old to require care or supervision.
It was because of his rootlessness that he volunteered for service in the army, knowing—if the word on the streets was correct—he would be conscripted soon anyway, along with all other young and able men.
As I formulated my letter, scraps of my conversation with Garvin wafted in and out of my mind. I stopped several times, with quill poised above the sheet. Yes, this could work.
I dipped the nib in the ink jar, tapped off the excess. If he seizes the opportunity—if he wants it to work—it will work. If he doesn’t, then at least the bodies will be retrieved, and he will return to his camp after a successful mission. And I'll know I gave him a chance. I brought the nib to the paper, aware of Zarbs’ wandering eyes, and kept my shoulder in his line of vision.
Dear Braims:
You will find the bodies of three soldiers, wrapped individually in sheets, and buried under reeds and leaves in the north-eastern section, by the shore of the watering pond. The messenger will guide you there. I have verified they are wearing their identification tags on chains around their necks, but inside their uniforms.
Please see to it that the men are buried in the manner worthy of the Kabeezan Military. Speaking only with knowledge about my courier, Jed, whose body is one of the three, the singing of My Kabeez would be a lovely tribute to his memory. I’m sure the spirits of the other two, Karule Barsach and Erel Fozzen, would find it an equal honor to be remembered by the singing of our anthem.
The messenger delivering this missive to you is the medic who cared for Jed during his final hours. I know you will treat him with the dignity and respect he deserves, now and after he leads you back to the bodies.
I have one final request (though I expect you to regard it with all the seriousness of my final order to you). I am a prisoner of the Far Northern Province military. As such, I am fortunate to have been conferred the respect befitting of my rank. They will not harm me unless you are foolhardy and attempt to intercept my transport to Glnot Rhuether. That is my order to you. Do not make such an attempt.
May it be perfectly clear to you that the above is my last order as General of the Kabeezan Military. At this reading, my rank is retired and the next in the chain of command will lead the troops for the remainder of your mission.
Be brave.
Your enduring brother,
Doctrex.
I replaced the stopper in the ink jar, laid the quill beside it and presented a stoic face to Zarbs.
“You are finished, sir?”
“I am, Supreme Colonel Zarbs.”
“I suppose you would expect I’ll need to read it.”
“Oh?”
“Well ... yes, I really must, General Doctrex.”
I held it out to him. “Don’t smear the ink, colonel.”
“We could blot it.”
“Or you could just be careful.”
He held the page gingerly by the edges, his eyes stopping immediately at the address and salutation, then jerking along each line. It was interesting to see the places his eyes lingered longer than at others. I anticipated, while making note of this, what he felt was important. When he got to the bottom, I asked if he had any questions.
“Thank you,” he said, with a weak smile. “Well ... well, it was good that you understand we are treating you with the respect afforded your rank.”
“Colonel,” I said, fixing my unblinking eyes on his, “I lied. Okay? Any other questions before Medic Garvin gets here?” I knew he had been employing every method he could imagine to ingratiate me, so my words deflated him. I waited for him to recover. It took a moment.
“Yes, General Doctrex ... well ... at the top, you prepared this letter to be read by—” he read from it— “Braims Glassem. Not being, um, critical, sir, but you didn’t include his rank.”
I knew if he didn’t mention it here, he would when it was folded over and sealed with Braims Glassem on the outside. I took on a look of amused bewilderment. “Braims, colonel! Braims. The rank just below general. Braims Glassem.” I chuckled and shook my head.
“My apology, sir. I’d never heard of that rank.”
“So, if that’s all, we can seal it.” I reached out my hand.
“Well, I was wondering, sir ... you did use a lot of space explaining how to treat the messenger. What if, after all this, he decides against it?”
“I sincerely hope he doesn’t, Colonel. But, it could happen, I suppose. If it does, like I said, I would just have to take the bodies with me to appeal to the Almighty Master Glnot Rhuether’s humanity. You know,” I added, as though I had a flash of insight, “that might be best anyway. It would certainly be the quickest way.”
“Sometimes there—there are more important things than quick,” he stammered. “They should be buried among their fellow countrymen. I’m sure Medic Garvin will—” He looked away from me and at the cave entrance. Then, he smiled, happy, I was sure, because the conversation had been momentarily deflected, “... And there they are, General Doctrex!” He pointed toward Garvin and the soldier who had retrieved him, coming up the ramp leading from the cave. The soldier was talking to him; Garvin appeared bewildered, or perhaps just concerned, but facing straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to what the soldier was saying.
Zarbs caught Garvin’s eye and motioned him over. The soldier returned to his crossan.
Garvin saluted. “Yes, sir, Supreme Colonel Zarbs. You called for me, sir.”
“Yes, General Doctrex has a proposition for you. He suggested it to me and I authorized it, if you are agreeable to it.”
Garvin glanced at me and then at Zarbs before bringing it back to me. “A proposition, sir?”
I called him around to my side of the wagon. I told him where we were going to deposit the bodies, but that the Kabeezan army needed to be notified so they could retrieve them. When I finished, he again let his eyes drift to Zarbs who was brushing some lint off the leg of his uniform and didn’t look up.
“So if I may ask, General Doctrex,” he said, bringing his gaze back to me, “what is the proposition?”
“We need you to take the message to Braims Glassem, Medic Garvin.”
“To Braims Glassem, sir?”
“Braims is his commanding rank,” Zarbs interrupted, evidently proud of his new knowledge.
Garvin turned a bare flicker of a smile my way but it vanished when he came upon the stoniness of my expression.
“Will you remember the rank and name, Garvin—the name of Braims Glassem?”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Can you repeat it?”
“Braims Glassem, sir.”
“Will you do this?”
“Am I likely to be killed, sir?”
“I wouldn’t ask you to volunteer if I thought you’d be killed.” This was met with silence, so I added, “Do you believe me, Garvin?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!” Zarbs jumped in to say. “Then it’s settled. Is there anything special he needs to take? Just his weapons?”
“No, Supreme Colonel Zarbs. No weapons.” I turned back to Garvin. “You need to wear your medic uniform with the insignia on it.”
“It has a red ‘M’ on the front and on the sleeve.” Garvin said.
“Yes, I know,” I told him, though I had forgotten the details. I remembered an important part of my military education at Camp Kabeez concerned the ‘unwritten law’ on the neutrality of the medic. “Your uniform will be your ticket to safety, Garvin. There is a deep brotherhood among medics of the armies of all the provinces.”
“Yes ... Well,” said Zarbs, “while you go get your uniform on, I’ll have your crossan saddled and ready. We really must hurry. Excuse me, General ...” He spun away from us on his seat and held up his index finger, “Soldier! Yes, you—come here.”
While he was thus occupied, I leaned over and whispered to Garvin, “Braims will take care of you ... if you choose to stay. Tell him I suggested it.”
Garvin pulled back and his eyes whipped immediately to Zarbs, who was still finishing up with the soldier; he turned back to me and nodded, mouthing his “Thank you.”
THE LAST SECTION FROM PART 1:
I fanned through the sheets until I found one that was plain, pulled it out, and then removed a quill and the ink jar, setting them between us on the seat. With the top closed it made a perfect surface on which to write. “It won’t take me long to finish this, Colonel. If you’ll send someone to get Garvin, I’ll make the proposal to him. If he refuses, we’ll always have plan b to fall back on.”
“You mean ...?”
I nodded, and the color left his face.
“Oh, but I think he can be persuaded, General Doctrex,” and following a wry grin he added, “and as his supreme colonel ...”
“I’d rather we don’t resort to that. I’ll just talk to the lad ... and let it just be a yes or a no.”
His mouth gaped open.
I laid the sheet atop the box I held in my lap and removed the stopper from the ink bottle. “If you will send for Medic Garvin ...”
As I started the letter, he dispatched one of his men to go back inside the cave and bring Garvin to us.
I fanned through the sheets until I found one that was plain, pulled it out, and then removed a quill and the ink jar, setting them between us on the seat. With the top closed it made a perfect surface on which to write. “It won’t take me long to finish this, Colonel. If you’ll send someone to get Garvin, I’ll make the proposal to him. If he refuses, we’ll always have plan b to fall back on.”
“You mean ...?”
I nodded, and the color left his face.
“Oh, but I think he can be persuaded, General Doctrex,” and following a wry grin he added, “and as his supreme colonel ...”
“I’d rather we don’t resort to that. I’ll just talk to the lad ... and let it just be a yes or a no.”
His mouth gaped open.
I laid the sheet atop the box I held in my lap and removed the stopper from the ink bottle. “If you will send for Medic Garvin ...”
As I started the letter, he dispatched one of his men to go back inside the cave and bring Garvin to us.
BOOK III
Chapter Twenty-one
(Part 2)
Thinking of Garvin, I smiled as I wrote at the top of the sheet, “To: Braims Glassem,” and beneath it, “From: General Doctrex.”
I rolled the quill between my thumb and forefinger, and out of the corner of my eye watched Zarbs doing his best to look inconspicuous—if not a trifle bored—in the midst of his surveillance. I cleared my throat, and reached for the ink jar. I brought it and an extra quill to the seat on the other side of me, and then I turned even more obliquely away from him so my left thigh was pressed against the edge of the seat.
“Oh, I didn’t—” he started and then faded.
“Yeah ...” I said. "You didn't."
“Dear Braims,” I wrote. Pondering what I wanted to say, I scratched a spot under my lower lip with my thumbnail, and stared out past a clump of brush to miles of grey, smoky plains. I wanted to introduce Garvin to him but subtly enough that when Zarbs read the letter—and I knew it would be pushing my luck not to let him read it—suspicions wouldn’t be aroused.
I pictured Garvin in front of Braims' tent, bending from his saddle, his arm stretched down, the letter clutched in his fingertips. Braims would take it, study his name on the seal for a brief but troubled moment. Even before opening it, he would probably give the messenger another cursory appraisal, his incisive mind racing. He would break the seal, open the letter and begin reading, looking up from it, from time to time. More than anything, I was certain in the moments after the intent of the letter sank in, and his eyes raised and found Garvin’s, there would be something silently affirming going out between them in that singular instant their eyes would lock on each other's.
There was really nothing I could tell Braims, in the letter, about Garvin.
During the two days that Garvin and I had shared that room, we were bonded by a single need, which was to nurse Jed to health, but on the day he had introduced the narcotic to Jed’s unguent, allowing him the blessing of sleep, we permitted ourselves the luxury of relaxing and over a very short time got to know each other. Sitting on the floor, our backs against the uneven surface of the farthest wall from the door, we still spoke in hushed voices.
I found Garvin's curiosity and enthusiasm to be unbridled. He seemed inordinately interested in the military life in the southern provinces, particularly the role of the medic. When I told him how much he reminded me of our medic, Braims Glassem, I couldn't help but notice a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. His eyes grew large as I told him some of the stories about Braims. Garvin’s appetite for detail-atop-detail was staggering.
He nodded solemnly when I told him, in a voice just above a whisper, that the medical profession transcended warring factions, power and territorial domination—that he and Braims and the rest of the medics were in the honorable business of saving lives, not taking them.
“If our situations were different,” I went on, “I’d have been honored to have had you, alongside Braims, as our troops’ medic. And ...” I added, studying him closely, “I know Braims would have been thrilled with you as his partner.” I read in his expression that he was touched, almost to the point of tears, by my words.
Encouraged by his openness, I decided to probe (whether it was my subconscious mind guiding me or a healthy dose of serendipity), for little tidbits from his personal life. I wondered now if I was being directed to prepare for today's opportunity.
Garvin, I discovered, was not married, had no family. He never knew his father. His mother raised him as an only child until she died a year before. He was alone, without relatives, but too old to require care or supervision.
It was because of his rootlessness that he volunteered for service in the army, knowing—if the word on the streets was correct—he would be conscripted soon anyway, along with all other young and able men.
As I formulated my letter, scraps of my conversation with Garvin wafted in and out of my mind. I stopped several times, with quill poised above the sheet. Yes, this could work.
I rolled the quill between my thumb and forefinger, and out of the corner of my eye watched Zarbs doing his best to look inconspicuous—if not a trifle bored—in the midst of his surveillance. I cleared my throat, and reached for the ink jar. I brought it and an extra quill to the seat on the other side of me, and then I turned even more obliquely away from him so my left thigh was pressed against the edge of the seat.
“Oh, I didn’t—” he started and then faded.
“Yeah ...” I said. "You didn't."
“Dear Braims,” I wrote. Pondering what I wanted to say, I scratched a spot under my lower lip with my thumbnail, and stared out past a clump of brush to miles of grey, smoky plains. I wanted to introduce Garvin to him but subtly enough that when Zarbs read the letter—and I knew it would be pushing my luck not to let him read it—suspicions wouldn’t be aroused.
I pictured Garvin in front of Braims' tent, bending from his saddle, his arm stretched down, the letter clutched in his fingertips. Braims would take it, study his name on the seal for a brief but troubled moment. Even before opening it, he would probably give the messenger another cursory appraisal, his incisive mind racing. He would break the seal, open the letter and begin reading, looking up from it, from time to time. More than anything, I was certain in the moments after the intent of the letter sank in, and his eyes raised and found Garvin’s, there would be something silently affirming going out between them in that singular instant their eyes would lock on each other's.
There was really nothing I could tell Braims, in the letter, about Garvin.
During the two days that Garvin and I had shared that room, we were bonded by a single need, which was to nurse Jed to health, but on the day he had introduced the narcotic to Jed’s unguent, allowing him the blessing of sleep, we permitted ourselves the luxury of relaxing and over a very short time got to know each other. Sitting on the floor, our backs against the uneven surface of the farthest wall from the door, we still spoke in hushed voices.
I found Garvin's curiosity and enthusiasm to be unbridled. He seemed inordinately interested in the military life in the southern provinces, particularly the role of the medic. When I told him how much he reminded me of our medic, Braims Glassem, I couldn't help but notice a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. His eyes grew large as I told him some of the stories about Braims. Garvin’s appetite for detail-atop-detail was staggering.
He nodded solemnly when I told him, in a voice just above a whisper, that the medical profession transcended warring factions, power and territorial domination—that he and Braims and the rest of the medics were in the honorable business of saving lives, not taking them.
“If our situations were different,” I went on, “I’d have been honored to have had you, alongside Braims, as our troops’ medic. And ...” I added, studying him closely, “I know Braims would have been thrilled with you as his partner.” I read in his expression that he was touched, almost to the point of tears, by my words.
Encouraged by his openness, I decided to probe (whether it was my subconscious mind guiding me or a healthy dose of serendipity), for little tidbits from his personal life. I wondered now if I was being directed to prepare for today's opportunity.
Garvin, I discovered, was not married, had no family. He never knew his father. His mother raised him as an only child until she died a year before. He was alone, without relatives, but too old to require care or supervision.
It was because of his rootlessness that he volunteered for service in the army, knowing—if the word on the streets was correct—he would be conscripted soon anyway, along with all other young and able men.
As I formulated my letter, scraps of my conversation with Garvin wafted in and out of my mind. I stopped several times, with quill poised above the sheet. Yes, this could work.
I dipped the nib in the ink jar, tapped off the excess. If he seizes the opportunity—if he wants it to work—it will work. If he doesn’t, then at least the bodies will be retrieved, and he will return to his camp after a successful mission. And I'll know I gave him a chance. I brought the nib to the paper, aware of Zarbs’ wandering eyes, and kept my shoulder in his line of vision.
Dear Braims:
You will find the bodies of three soldiers, wrapped individually in sheets, and buried under reeds and leaves in the north-eastern section, by the shore of the watering pond. The messenger will guide you there. I have verified they are wearing their identification tags on chains around their necks, but inside their uniforms.
Please see to it that the men are buried in the manner worthy of the Kabeezan Military. Speaking only with knowledge about my courier, Jed, whose body is one of the three, the singing of My Kabeez would be a lovely tribute to his memory. I’m sure the spirits of the other two, Karule Barsach and Erel Fozzen, would find it an equal honor to be remembered by the singing of our anthem.
The messenger delivering this missive to you is the medic who cared for Jed during his final hours. I know you will treat him with the dignity and respect he deserves, now and after he leads you back to the bodies.
I have one final request (though I expect you to regard it with all the seriousness of my final order to you). I am a prisoner of the Far Northern Province military. As such, I am fortunate to have been conferred the respect befitting of my rank. They will not harm me unless you are foolhardy and attempt to intercept my transport to Glnot Rhuether. That is my order to you. Do not make such an attempt.
May it be perfectly clear to you that the above is my last order as General of the Kabeezan Military. At this reading, my rank is retired and the next in the chain of command will lead the troops for the remainder of your mission.
Be brave.
Your enduring brother,
Doctrex.
I replaced the stopper in the ink jar, laid the quill beside it and presented a stoic face to Zarbs.
“You are finished, sir?”
“I am, Supreme Colonel Zarbs.”
“I suppose you would expect I’ll need to read it.”
“Oh?”
“Well ... yes, I really must, General Doctrex.”
I held it out to him. “Don’t smear the ink, colonel.”
“We could blot it.”
“Or you could just be careful.”
He held the page gingerly by the edges, his eyes stopping immediately at the address and salutation, then jerking along each line. It was interesting to see the places his eyes lingered longer than at others. I anticipated, while making note of this, what he felt was important. When he got to the bottom, I asked if he had any questions.
“Thank you,” he said, with a weak smile. “Well ... well, it was good that you understand we are treating you with the respect afforded your rank.”
“Colonel,” I said, fixing my unblinking eyes on his, “I lied. Okay? Any other questions before Medic Garvin gets here?” I knew he had been employing every method he could imagine to ingratiate me, so my words deflated him. I waited for him to recover. It took a moment.
“Yes, General Doctrex ... well ... at the top, you prepared this letter to be read by—” he read from it— “Braims Glassem. Not being, um, critical, sir, but you didn’t include his rank.”
I knew if he didn’t mention it here, he would when it was folded over and sealed with Braims Glassem on the outside. I took on a look of amused bewilderment. “Braims, colonel! Braims. The rank just below general. Braims Glassem.” I chuckled and shook my head.
“My apology, sir. I’d never heard of that rank.”
“So, if that’s all, we can seal it.” I reached out my hand.
“Well, I was wondering, sir ... you did use a lot of space explaining how to treat the messenger. What if, after all this, he decides against it?”
“I sincerely hope he doesn’t, Colonel. But, it could happen, I suppose. If it does, like I said, I would just have to take the bodies with me to appeal to the Almighty Master Glnot Rhuether’s humanity. You know,” I added, as though I had a flash of insight, “that might be best anyway. It would certainly be the quickest way.”
“Sometimes there—there are more important things than quick,” he stammered. “They should be buried among their fellow countrymen. I’m sure Medic Garvin will—” He looked away from me and at the cave entrance. Then, he smiled, happy, I was sure, because the conversation had been momentarily deflected, “... And there they are, General Doctrex!” He pointed toward Garvin and the soldier who had retrieved him, coming up the ramp leading from the cave. The soldier was talking to him; Garvin appeared bewildered, or perhaps just concerned, but facing straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to what the soldier was saying.
Zarbs caught Garvin’s eye and motioned him over. The soldier returned to his crossan.
Garvin saluted. “Yes, sir, Supreme Colonel Zarbs. You called for me, sir.”
“Yes, General Doctrex has a proposition for you. He suggested it to me and I authorized it, if you are agreeable to it.”
Garvin glanced at me and then at Zarbs before bringing it back to me. “A proposition, sir?”
I called him around to my side of the wagon. I told him where we were going to deposit the bodies, but that the Kabeezan army needed to be notified so they could retrieve them. When I finished, he again let his eyes drift to Zarbs who was brushing some lint off the leg of his uniform and didn’t look up.
“So if I may ask, General Doctrex,” he said, bringing his gaze back to me, “what is the proposition?”
“We need you to take the message to Braims Glassem, Medic Garvin.”
“To Braims Glassem, sir?”
“Braims is his commanding rank,” Zarbs interrupted, evidently proud of his new knowledge.
Garvin turned a bare flicker of a smile my way but it vanished when he came upon the stoniness of my expression.
“Will you remember the rank and name, Garvin—the name of Braims Glassem?”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Can you repeat it?”
“Braims Glassem, sir.”
“Will you do this?”
“Am I likely to be killed, sir?”
“I wouldn’t ask you to volunteer if I thought you’d be killed.” This was met with silence, so I added, “Do you believe me, Garvin?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!” Zarbs jumped in to say. “Then it’s settled. Is there anything special he needs to take? Just his weapons?”
“No, Supreme Colonel Zarbs. No weapons.” I turned back to Garvin. “You need to wear your medic uniform with the insignia on it.”
“It has a red ‘M’ on the front and on the sleeve.” Garvin said.
“Yes, I know,” I told him, though I had forgotten the details. I remembered an important part of my military education at Camp Kabeez concerned the ‘unwritten law’ on the neutrality of the medic. “Your uniform will be your ticket to safety, Garvin. There is a deep brotherhood among medics of the armies of all the provinces.”
“Yes ... Well,” said Zarbs, “while you go get your uniform on, I’ll have your crossan saddled and ready. We really must hurry. Excuse me, General ...” He spun away from us on his seat and held up his index finger, “Soldier! Yes, you—come here.”
While he was thus occupied, I leaned over and whispered to Garvin, “Braims will take care of you ... if you choose to stay. Tell him I suggested it.”
Garvin pulled back and his eyes whipped immediately to Zarbs, who was still finishing up with the soldier; he turned back to me and nodded, mouthing his “Thank you.”
 Recognized |
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