Chapter Thirteen Neta
Chapter Thirteen
Neta
Though Neta couldn’t say she and Xopil were friends, she sought him out immediately after the witch’s trial. He was one of the first to leave the building, and she caught him with his plump, bronze-skinned wife, Tlastisti, just off the road, visibly shaken.
“You said she healed you most of the way,” Neta said to him. “But those wounds can still get infected. Are you able to get the salves needed to prevent that?”
“We’ll find a way,” Xopil promised.
Neta snorted, dug into her pocket, and tossed him a small coinpurse. “Consider it an apology for not getting to you sooner.”
She’d known Damani and Rathara were up to no good. They’d spent the last several days glaring at both her and Xopil, making snide comments but not having an opportunity to touch them. Not since the last time they tried to fight Neta; she’d broken Damani’s arm and Rathara’s nose.
She had noted their absence almost immediately after Xopil broke his spear, just not soon enough. Part of her was relieved that Khana had been there, though she was annoyed the witch hadn’t actually stopped the attack.
Perhaps Neta should have found some private method of dealing with it, rather than immediately dragging the problem to the chief. Her frustration over Damani and Rathara had gotten the best of her, and it wouldn’t have been the first time her superior officers had let their behavior slide. If every soldier was dismissed for bullying those with Reguallian and Tlapharian blood, there would be no army.
Neta had been certain she’d done the right thing, right up until Khana had begged to be executed rather than returned to the Reguallian empire. That would be bad enough, but now most of the town wanted her dead or gone anyway, despite Phramanka’s ruling.
Well. What was done was done. Now they had to live with the consequences, whatever those were.
Xopil stared at the pouch of money in his hands. “Are you sure? You’re not an officer; you get paid just as little as me.”
She gave him a droll look. “My mother is one of the town’s wealthiest landlords and store owners. I can spare a few coins.”
She didn’t bring up her father’s Old Family status. That man had never given her any sort of help.
He tucked the bag away, under his bloody armor. “Thank you, Neta.”
She waited outside, letting the town hall empty before going back in. Despite overlooking militia companies (which each consisted of about fifty soldiers), midyas were not assigned their own offices per se. Not like maverstis, who overlooked battalions (typically seven or more companies). But midyas had access to financial and personal records of soldiers, which were stored in the back rooms of town hall.
As Neta suspected, Ghrahanu was there, shuffling through records hanging from shelves made of elk and yak bone, his hair the same dark gray as the stone walls. Paper was a rarity in these parts, so the records were kept through a complicated series of knots and beads on strings. It was how the town kept track of harvests, trade agreements, legal disputes, and soldiers.
“Midya,” she greeted.
“Don’t,” he ordered.
She frowned. “Don’t what?”
“If you’re coming to say, ‘I told you so,’ I don’t want to hear it.”
She had warned him about Damani and Rathara multiple times. He’d always brushed her off.
Being right left a sour taste in her mouth. It shouldn’t have taken a man almost dying to get this handled. “I merely wanted to ask you something, sir.”
“Yes?” he asked, tired.
“What’s the plan for preventing the next attack?”
“The next attack?”
“This will happen again.”
He snorted. “Did you miss the trial? The chief stripped them of all honor and dignity. Others will know not to make the same mistakes.”
“No, they won’t.”
He frowned.
She considered her words carefully, knowing they might be her last as a soldier. “I’ve served in this military for five years. I have had to deal with Damanis and Ratharas through that whole time, and even when a commander punished them, there were always more. And frankly, most commanders let them go with a slap on the wrist, if anything. Usually, those aggressors would beat whoever reported them, and the cycle began anew. So there will be another attack, and the next victim might not be lucky enough to have a witch nearby.”
Ghrahanu sighed. “What should I say, Neta? Soldiers are supposed to trust each other. If you can’t do that, maybe this isn’t the career for you.”
“I disagree. I think I can help fix a glaring problem in our militia. Reguallians and Tlapharians make up a third of our forces, yet only a handful of them are serjis, and none of them are midya, never mind maversti.”
He scoffed. “Are you suggesting I promote you?”
“I suggest you promote someone with Reguallian blood who has seen combat, was commended by the chief herself for said combat, and has proven resilient to the anti-foreigner nonsense that plagues this whole town,” Neta countered.
“No.”
She gritted her teeth. “Why?”
“Are you questioning your commander?” he snapped.
“Yes. Why?”
He glared at her. She didn’t budge. The line between a Ghuran soldier’s right to speak up over an unjust order and insubordination was thin.
Thankfully, it seemed she hadn’t crossed it.
Ghrahanu huffed. “This whole thing started because so many people hate Reguallians. They fear your empire. I don’t want to know what consequences will come if I promote one to serji, even if she is Old Family.”
“It’s not my empire, and I can handle those consequences.”
“Not happening.”
“Sir–”
“No.”
Frustration bubbled in the back of her throat. She should’ve been promoted to serji two years ago. Half of her company had been killed in that battle, so some rank shuffling had happened, anyway. Yet here she was, still stuck in place.
Others with Old Family blood could just bat their eyes, and they’d have titles and honors thrown at them. But Neta, born not of her father’s wife but a “Reguallian whore” did not have that privilege.
Briefly, she considered taking the matter to Chief Phramanka, but immediately dismissed it. The chief was an ally to use sparingly, especially since the two of them weren’t particularly close. She was barely friends with Sava. She couldn’t use that type of political leverage for her own advancement without wearing thin what goodwill she had with them. She’d spent almost a year teaching Sava sign language, and that hadn’t gotten her any advancement or favors, either. They clearly weren’t going to give it to her.
And they shouldn’t. Neta wanted to earn her promotion. If she got it because she whined to the chief or taught a few signs, that would undermine her for the rest of her life.
Ghrahanu turned away, clearly done with the conversation. “Let things settle down a bit, first, and we’ll discuss the topic again. Who knows – war is usually the best time to get promoted, and we might be in one soon.”
Serji Athicha waited for her in the hall. Though they had been in the military for as long as Neta, they were leaner and trimmer, and had studied archery rather than the far more common and easily-accessible spear and axe. Athicha was never seen without a wool scarf wrapped securely around their neck, even in summer. The fancy one – which they brought out for special events – even had painted bone and stone beads knitted into it, matching the ones braided in their shoulder-length hair.
All right? Athicha signed.
Annoyed , she sighed back. A handful of her Cituva relatives were deaf. In fact, about one in twenty Ghura went deaf in their twilight years, and one in thirty were born without hearing at all, making sign language a fairly common second language in the town.
Athicha wasn’t deaf, only mute. But Neta still preferred to sign with them. It made their conversations feel special, more intimate.
I say raising me can help. Midya say no, she explained. There was no sign for “promotion.”
The serji gave an annoyed look. Your midya idiot .
She chuckled. Athicha was so vocal about their annoyance with some of the officers, and she’d always found that deeply amusing. Attractive, even. So, she tugged on their scarf and kissed them. Athicha backed her into the wall to deepen the kiss until they both paused for breath. Unfortunately, they couldn’t linger.
Should go back, she signed, reluctantly prying herself from her lover. Being caught kissing in public wouldn’t improve her chances of promotion.
Athicha stole one more kiss before letting her go. Be safe, they signed. If no safe, then destroy.