Tension permeated the room. I felt it pressing against me like an overfilled water-skin about to burst. A maelstrom of expressions, surprise, anger, concern and contemplation crossed the Generals’ faces. General Rasmussen of MD–7 whispered into his adviser’s ear, the General’s cheeks turning as red as his hair and mustache. I leaned forward in my seat and saw Brazell struggle to keep his face neutral as delight tweaked at his features.
Instead of erupting, the tension simmered, and leaked away as the Commander ignored it by beginning the meeting. Items related to MD–1 were the first order of business, to be followed by each district in order. As a bottle of General Kitvivan’s special white brandy slid around the table, the Generals discussed snow cats and mining rights.
“Come on, Kit. Enough about the cats. Just feed them up on the pack ice like we do, and they won’t bother you,” General Chenzo of MD–2 said in exasperation, running a meaty hand through his moon-white hair. His full mane stood out starkly against his tanned skin.
“Feed them so they’ll get healthy and fat and start breeding like rabbits? We’ll go broke supplying the meat,” Kitvivan shot back.
My interest in the proceedings waxed and waned depending on the subject. After a while I began to feel light-headed and warm as the brandy influenced my body, since protocol dictated that I swallow when tasting for the Commander.
The Generals voted on various topics, but the Commander held the final vote. Mostly he ruled in favor of the majority. No one ventured a complaint when he didn’t.
Commander Ambrose had lived in MD–3, scratching out a meager existence with his family in the foothills of the Soul Mountains. Nestled between the mountains and the ice pack, his home was atop a vast diamond mine. When the rich find had been discovered, the King had claimed the diamonds, and “allowed” the Commander’s family to live there and work in the mines. He lost many family members to cave-ins, and to the damp and dirty environment.
As a young man seething at the injustices of the monarchy, Ambrose educated himself and began preaching about reform. His intelligence, bluntness and pervasiveness gained him many loyal supporters.
My mind focused back on the meeting when the Generals reached issues regarding MD–5. General Brazell caused a considerable stir. Instead of sliding around his best brandy, he sent a silver tray containing what looked like small brown stones. Valek handed one to me. It was a round drop of Brazell’s Criollo.
Before protests about ignoring tradition could escalate, Brazell rose and invited everyone to take a bite. After a brief moment of silence, exclamations of delight filled the war room. The Criollo was filled with strawberry brandy. I gave the Commander the all-clear sign so I could savor the rest of my morsel. The combination of the sweet, nutty taste of the Criollo mixed with the smooth texture of the brandy was divine. Rand would be upset that he hadn’t thought of mixing the two, I supposed, then regretted feeling sorry for Rand as I envisioned his deceitful face.
After the praise died down, Brazell made the announcement that the construction of his new factory was complete. Then he went on to more mundane matters of how much wool had been sheared and the expected output of the cotton plantations.
Military District 5 produced and dyed all the thread for Ixia, and then sent it to General Franis’s MD–3 to be woven into fabric. Franis nodded his head in concern as he wrote down the figures Brazell quoted. He was the youngest of the Generals, and had the habit of tracing the purple diamonds on his uniform with a finger whenever he was concentrating.
I dozed on my stool as fuzzy thoughts gathered like storm clouds in my mind. Strange dreams about brandy, border patrols and permits swirled like snowflakes. Then the images turned bright and sharp as a picture of a young woman dressed in white hunting furs snapped into my mind.
She held a bloody spear high in the air in celebration. A dead snow cat lay at her feet. She slammed the tip of her weapon into the pack ice and drew a knife. Cutting a slash in the cat’s fur, she used a cup to collect the blood that spilled out.
She exalted as she drank, scarlet rivulets spilling down her chin. I heard her thoughts clearly in my mind. “No one has managed this feat,” she thought. “No one but I!” she shouted over the snow. Her exhilaration filled my heart. “Proof that I am a strong cunning hunter. Proof that my manhood was taken from me. Proof that I am a man. Men will not rule me any longer,” she cried. “Become the snow cat to live with snow cats, become a man to live with men.”
The hunter turned her face. At first, I took her to be the Commander’s sister. They shared the same thin delicate features and black hair. She wore power and confidence like a cloak. Peering at my dreaming self, her gold almond-shaped eyes drove through me like a lightning strike. Sudden recognition that she was the Commander jerked me awake. My heart pounded and my head thumped and I realized I was staring directly into Mogkan’s searing gaze. He smiled with satisfaction.
The Commander’s reason for hating magicians was as clear to me as glass. He was a she, but with the utter conviction that she should have been born a man. That cruel fate had chosen to burden him with a mutation that he had to overcome. And the Commander feared that a magician might pull this secret from his mind. Pure foolishness, I thought, shaking my head to dismiss the whole crazy notion. Just because I had dreamed about a woman didn’t mean that the Commander was one. It was absolute nonsense. Or was it?
Rubbing my eyes, I glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed that I had fallen asleep. The Commander stared off into the distance, and Valek sat stiff and alert, scanning the room, seeking something or someone. General Tesso had the floor.
Valek pulled his gaze back to the Commander, and bumped his arm in alarm. “What’s going on?” he whispered urgently. “Where were you?”
“Just remembering a time long ago,” the Commander said in a wistful voice. “More enjoyable than listening to General Tesso’s excruciatingly detailed report on the corn harvest in MD–4.”
I studied the Commander’s features, trying to superimpose the woman from my dream. They matched, but that meant nothing. Dreams twisted reality and it was easy to envision the Commander killing a snow cat.
The rest of the meeting continued without incident, and I dozed on my stool from time to time, untroubled by strange dreams. When the Commander pounded his gavel, I was awake in an instant.
“Last item, gentlemen,” the Commander announced. “A Sitian delegation has requested a meeting.”
The room erupted with voices. Arguments sprang to life as if the Generals were picking up an old debate right where they had left off. They discussed trade treaties, and quarreled about attacking Sitia. Instead of trading for goods, why not take them? they argued. They wanted to expand their districts and gain more men and resources, ceasing all worries about Sitia attempting to attack Ixia.
The Commander sat in silence and let the flow of advice wash over him. The Generals settled enough to proclaim their beliefs about allowing the Sitians to come. The four northern Generals (Kitvivan, Chenzo, Franis and Dinno) didn’t want to meet with the delegation, while the four southern Generals (Tesso, Rasmussen, Hazal and Brazell) favored a summit with the Sitians.
The Commander shook his head. “I acknowledge your opinions about Sitia, but the southerners would rather trade with us than attack us. We have more men and metal. A fact they are well aware of. To attack Sitia we would expend many lives and large sums of money. And for what? Their luxury items aren’t worth the cost. I’m content with Ixia. We have cured the land of the King’s disease. Perhaps my successor will want more. You’ll have to wait until then.”
A murmur rippled through the Generals. Brazell nodded in agreement, with his thin lips anchored in a predator’s smile.
“I have already agreed to meet with the southern contingent,” the Commander continued. “They’re due to arrive in