Autumn had come. Despite his charcoal brazier Apelles felt the chill damp of the stone chamber high in the tower of Castle Armagh. The Firestealer crept toward the True Sun, and now both were in the sky together; the days grew short. Evening came and lamps had to be lit, but still there was work to be done.

  Armagh was three hundred stadia east of Castle Dravan, and nowhere near as comfortable; once again Apelles marvelled that Lord Rick would move so much of his household to this godless place. Truly there was no accounting for the ways of the starmen! Even so, Apelles was content, now that he was a consecrated priest of Yatar. The room’s present discomforts were small compared to those he’d endured as an acolyte. He was more concerned about his pen, which was made of soft iron and had a blunt point that scratched the paper.

  Despite the scratchy pen, Apelles worked steadily. He was careful not to make a blot. A blotted sheet had to go back to the pulp vats, and there was never enough paper no matter how hard the acolytes labored. It took time to pound logs to pulp, shred rags, then soak and stir and matt the resulting brew until it yielded thick sheets to be rolled out on sieves. It took even more time for the paper to dry satisfactorily. Then it had to be coated with a wash of clay and dried again. Making paper was no easy work; Apelles knew, because it had not been long since he had done it- until he had learned to read and write.

  He had learned his new work from Roman scribes, and he was proud of his knowledge. Work carefully, record everything; that was the way to control a nation. The power that he held was great, real power, power easily abused had he been so inclined; but he was a sworn priest of Yatar, a shepherd, not a wolf.

  He wrote steadily, and finally his desk was clear. He leaned back in his chair and smiled in satisfaction at his files. Truly they held power! Here, the manpower lists; names and locations of officers of the Army of Drantos, those on active duty and on leave, fit for service and on the invalid list, Over there were duties and taxes owed and paid; equipment issued; every detail. Some day he’d have the entire Army in his files, and then let the bheromen try to shirk their sworn service to the crown!

  He nodded soberly at that thought. Yatar save the Wanax! Some bheromen and knights resented young Ganton’s stay at the University, but Apelles knew the value of education, which gave even young swine-herds the power of writing...

  In another file were the names of every field in the Cumac region of County Cheim. Who owned them. Who worked them, and whether villein or free, and for what service or rent. What was planted, and what seed, and what fertilizer for what yield. Endless rows of words and numbers, carefully arranged.

  And in yet another file, the names of all the acolytes and deacons and priests and archpriests, those who would be promoted and those who would serve out their lives as laborers in Yatar’s fields and caves and monasteries...

  The caves were not in his files. Their locations, and what stores they held, and how thick the ice and ice plant; these were state secrets, and those files were kept by Archpriest Yanulf himself. Apelles had seen them, once; he’d have to be content with that.

  And here—

  The magic box made squawking noises. Apelles stared dumbfounded. One of his duties was to guard that box and listen for messages; but he’d had little regard for that task. Privately he would have expected Yatar himself to appear before a small box like that could speak to him.

  But it was speaking. First in the local Tran dialect, but wretchedly. “Ait, are there anyone there?” it demanded.

  Then in other languages Apelles didn’t know, but always demanding, insistent.

  When he shouted for a messenger there was real fear in his voice.

 

 

The voice on the transceiver was thick and sibilant with trillings and drawn-out vowels. Rick was certain he was speaking to one of the Shalnuksis. He had only seen the aliens on three brief occasions, all more than two Earth years in the past, but he had no trouble recalling them: humanoid, two arms and two legs, but with the wrong proportions. Shoulders too high, necks short or nonexistent. Short torso but long arms and legs. Three fingers and two opposed thumbs, thin lips surrounding a mouth too high in the face. Fleshy snout-slit instead of a true nose, almost like a vertical second mouth rising to eye level...

  The alien spoke in bursts. They’d done that before, Rick recalled; although not always. When they’d made set speeches the words flowed smoothly; it was when they engaged in spontaneous conversation that they hesitated.

  The transceiver was a simple device: a rectangular sealed box, with a grill on one face. Below the grill was a colored square. There were no other controls, not even an on/off button.

  He touched the control square. “Galloway here,” he said.

  “Ah,” the alien voice answered. “Captain Galloway.”

  “Is this Karreeel?” Rick asked. The name Karreeel translated to ‘Goldsmith,’ Inspector Agzaral had said. Karreeel had seemed to be in command of the Shalnuksi who’d hired him. At least he’d done most of the talking.

  “Karreeel is not here,” the voice said. “I am Paarirre. Captain Galloway, are you in control of your men?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where is Mr. Parsons?”

  “Dead,” Rick said.

  “Ah. And you have—gained political mastery of a—suitable region?”

  “Yes. We hold the area around this castle, and we are preparing to plant it all in suninomaz.”

  There was a period of silence while the aliens digested this information. Then: “Excellent. We have brought goods for you. Where do you prefer that we land them?”

  “North and east of this castle there is a high plateau,” Rick said.

  “We see it.”

  Aha, Rick thought. They know where we are. He nodded significantly to Mason, who solemnly responded. “It is a large plain. You may leave the goods at the southern edge.”

  “We will choose our own place on the—plateau.”

  “As you will, I prefer that you land at night, so that you are seen by as few inhabitants as possible. They have frightening legends about sky gods.”

  “We may—discuss—this later. For now, tell us: how large a territory do you control?”

  “How should I describe it?”

  “We understand all your—common units of measure. Use those.”

  Rick looked at Mason and shrugged. Best be somewhat truthful, he thought. Enough to show good faith. But don’t give them enough information to help pick targets for Shalnuksi bombs. “I hold the land for a hundred kilometers around this castle,” he said. “And I have an agreement with the neighboring kingdoms.”

  There was another pause. “Surinomaz requires much cultivation. Those who work its fields must be fed.”

  “I know. I can trade for food. But I must have more ammunition before I can take a larger territory. How did your troops do this in the past? You must have helped them directly.”

  There was another pause. “That is not your concern. Can you secure sufficient territory?” the alien voice demanded.

  “Certainly. I have that now.”

  “Very well. This night, when it is fully dark, will be-convenient to us. Come to the—plateau.”

  “I can’t get there that quickly,” Rick said. And since you know where I am, you must know 1 can’t get there by tonight.

  “You need not come at all.”

  “I have three kilos of partially refined suninomaz sap,” Rick said. “If you care to have it.”

  There was another pause. “The crop this—year—will not be of high—quality. Still, it may be worth taking. When you come to collect the goods we have brought, bring the suninomaz and the transceiver. Do not bring heavy weapons. We will be watching as you approach. Farewell.”

  “Tells us one thing,” Art Mason said. He followed Rick out of the chamber, enclosing the transceiver, and shut the door, just in case the push-to-talk switch wasn’t the only way the device could operate.

  “What’s that?” Rick asked.

  “They’re scared of our heavy weapons. We can hurt their ships.”

  “Seems reasonable,” Rick agreed. Les, the human pilot of the ship that had brought them to Tran, had acted the same way, insisting that the ammunition and the recoilless and mortars be kept separate when they unloaded. “I wonder what they’ve brought us? Whatever it is, we’d better get ready to ride.”

 

 

The escort was saddled and waiting. Beazeley and Davis, with Art Mason. Six Royal Drantos Guardsmen, and a dozen Tamaerthan mounted archers with Caradoc. A string of pack mules.

  Tylara nodded in satisfaction. “It says much for our rule. You go to bring as great a treasure as this kingdom has ever known, yet you feel safe with no more than a dozen lances.”

  Never thought of it that way, but I guess she’s right. “We should return in two days,” he said. “Sure you don’t want me to leave Caradoc with you?”

  “There is no need. The lands are quiet. I have more fear for you.”

  “Nothing will happen.” Not this time, anyway. He held her close for a moment.

 

 

The trail was wide enough for two abreast, and presently Rick found himself beside his captain of archers. Caradoc was singing. The words were in the Old Speech, but the tune seemed familiar to Rick. After a moment, Caradoc turned to Rick and grinned. “An air from our wedding dances,” he said proudly.

  “Ah,” Rick said. And aha. A song from the Top Fifty a couple of years ago. Gwen must have put new words to it.

  “With your consent, I would return to the University for the winter, lord,” Caradoc said.

  “Certainly. I’d intended for you to be with your wife.”

  “I thank you.” Caradoc grinned again. “It is doubly important now.”

  “Aha?”

  “Yes. As I left, my lady told me she believes that we have been blessed by Hestia.”

  “Congratulations.” And I really ought to cheer, Rick thought. This should make life with Tylara a bit easier...

 

 

There were a dozen cartons of cigarettes; a case of penicillin; ten bottles of Bufferin and four of vitamins; some needles and thread and sewing supplies including an ancient foot-powered sewing machine; baling wire and pliers, which Mason eagerly seized; a carton of paperback mysteries; and a box of random supplies with items as disparate as nutcrackers and soap. The rest was ammunition: cartridges for both the H&K and M-16 battle rifles, .45’s and 9 mm for the pistols and the submachine guns, grenades, mortar bombs, and fifty rounds for the recoilless.

  Tylara looked at the supplies with satisfaction. “Now they have come. Are they likely to come again this season?”

  “They said not,” Rick answered. “They won’t be here for a long time, possibly a full Tran year. They’ll probably come next fall, when we have a full crop of surinomaz.”

  “Then I wish to return to Castle Dravan.”

  “Need we go there?” Rick asked. “There is little to attack us from the west.”

  “I hear tales of Westmen in the High Cumac,” Tylara said. “More have been seen this fall than in the previous twenty years.”

  The Westmen were nomads who generally stayed on the high desert above the enormous fault known as the Westscarp. “If more come, Margilos should warn us,” Rick said.

  Tylara snorted contempt. In times long past, Margilos had paid tribute to the Five Kingdoms. Now it was in theory an independent city state famous for breeding centaurs. “I doubt they would,” Tylara said. “They’re half nomad themselves. Unless one believes the old tales.”

  Rick looked helpless. Tylara giggled. “It is said the men of Margilos have centaur blood, and there is much debate whether the first was begotten by a man on a centaur mare, or did a lady of Drantos enjoy the favor of a centaur stallion.” They laughed, then she said urgently, “It is not a joke one makes when men of Margilos are present. They are quick to anger, and when enraged they feel no pain. Like the centaurs they breed.”

  “I’ll remember. But surely you’re not worried about Westmen?”

 

 

“Then it might be better to stay here. We can’t be sure the Shalnuksis won’t come again until next year- and I don’t want them to know we value Castle Dravan. They may find out, of course. But why help choose targets for their skyfire?”

  “I do not disagree,” Tylara said. “Yet the risk is worthwhile. Armagh is no comfortable place to winter. I would be in Dravan before the thaws, and travel in winter is difficult.”

  Something in her voice made him turn to look at her. She smiled and patted her belly.

  “You too?” Rick demanded.

  She frowned.

  “Gwen is also pregnant. Caradoc just told me.”

  “Ah.” Tylara laughed. “That is one child of Gwen’s who will cost me no sleep.” Then she came into his arms. “This time it will be a boy. I know it. And our son should be born in his own castle.”

 

 

20

 

 

A hot wind blew down from the high escarpment. The day was already a scorcher, although it was only spring here in the foothill country. There ought still to have been a nip in the air. The hot air provided less lift for the balloon, too.

  “She looks ready to me, Murph,” said Corporal Walinski. “What about you?”

  Ben Murphy looked at the twelve-foot balloon. It was already straining at the ropes held by the two archers. He tossed one more fuel brick into the fire-basket underneath it, then gripped the main rope in both large hands. For a moment he glanced back into the wagon bed where Lafe Reznick was napping, but Lafe was still asleep. Or pretending to be. “Ready to lift,” Murphy reported.

  “Let go on the hold-downs!” shouted Walinski. The two archers let go and stepped back, while the balloon rose freely into the afternoon air. Murphy let the rope run through the blocks mounted on the wagon until the hundred-foot mark passed, then snubbed it around the cleat by the driver’s seat. The balloon was now high enough to be visible from the next village, but low enough to be controllable.

  “Think she’ll stay up long enough?” Walinski asked.

  “Yeah, if we give the pitch fast,” Murphy said. “We’re getting good at the spiel. Sure is hot, though.”

  “Compressive heating,” Walinski said.

  “Which?” And where in hell did Ski learn words like that?

  “They called it compressive heating back in Los Angeles,” Walinski said. “A special wind, a Santa Ana. Hotter’n hell, even in winter. And dry. Real dry. That’s what this is, I think. Comes down off those high deserts. As it comes down lower it compresses, just like the Santa Ana in L.A.”

  “Well, it sure makes it hot enough,” Murphy said. Winter had been wet in Drantos. Lots of snow in the east, not so much in the west. And nowhere near as cold as the locals expected, meaning the whole damn planet was heating up right on schedule as the rogue star came closer.

  Murphy pulled off his jacket and pulled his wizard’s robe out from under the seat. “Hey Lafe, better wake up. Duty time.”

  Reznick sat up sleepily. “Anything special about this village, Ski?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Same here,” Murphy said. “The standard routine.” He could damned near do that in his sleep by now. Take the wagon in. Use the balloon to get everybody’s attention, and show the wizards’ mighty power, then bring it down. Demonstrate magic, and let the deacons and acolytes of Yatar show the local clergy about sanitation. Make holy water by literally boiling the hell out of it! Ask about madweed. Do the crop survey—what was planted and how it grew. Tell ‘em about the new plows, and show the blacksmith how to make one. Have Lafe put on his weapons show, a demonstration of star weapons so they’d know what they’d face if they ever revolted against their rightful lord the Eqeta of Chelm. And—

  “Some new orders come by messenger this morning while you both was still in the sack,” Walinski said. “Find out about the Westmen.”

  “More been spotted?” Reznick asked.

  “They didn’t tell me nothing. Just orders.”

  Murphy sighed. If he’d been awake, he could have questioned the messenger. Fat chance Ski would ever think of doing that. Ski could fight, but he wasn’t much for questions. Wasn’t much for brains, for that matter. But he had seniority over Ben Murphy, because he’d stayed with Parsons and came over to Captain Galloway with Elliot. He hadn’t gone south and set up on his own.

  Can’t win ‘em all, Murphy thought. And Ski don’t give me much trouble, ‘cept when he’s drunk, and at least he knows it when he is. I’ve had worse bosses.

  He could remember better bosses, too. His luck had been strange, these past few years. Strange, but better than it used to be. There’d been a time when he had no luck at all. It was because of that time that he was on Tran, ten light years from home, calling himself Ben Murphy and playing wizard to the heathen, instead of following his father’s trade under the name his father gave him. Now at least things weren’t all running against him.

  He pulled on his robe, then picked up his assault rifle and kept watch while Walinski and Reznick put on their wizard suits. Walinski’s was by far the fanciest, since he was supposed to be the master wizard and Murphy and Reznick his journeymen, with the acolytes of Yatar to help them.

  Walinski had just finished dressing when Agikon, the senior acolyte, shouted in alarm and pointed upward. The balloon was wobbling alarmingly on the end of the rope.

  “Wind?” Murphy called.

  “Wind, hell!” Ski shouted. “Look!”

  A flight of arrows leaped out of the woods to the left of the road. Two hit, and the balloon wobbled again.

  Walinski unslung his battle rifle.

  “What’s to shoot?” Murphy demanded. “Probably some local kids. I’m surprised nobody took a shot at it before.”

  “Maybe. That was good shootin’,” Ski said.

  “Uh.” Come to that, it was good shooting. About as good as Tamerthan archers, and they were the best on Tran. “Ski, I don’t like this. Let’s laager the wagons out in the open field. Just in case.”

  “Well—”

  Murphy didn’t wait. He turned his wagon sharply and stood up, bringing his hands together over his head. He repeated the signal, then whipped up the horses. Lafe Reznick looked puzzled for a moment, then jumped down and ran back to the next wagon to urge its driver along.

  “Gonna feel stupid,” Ski muttered. “But we hafta patch the balloon anyway.”

  That was for sure. The balloon was losing altitude fast. Murphy looked back. The other carts were following, closing up as Ben sent his in a circular track. He was halfway into the field, the laager not yet formed, when he hit a soft patch of mud. The wagon stuck fast.

  “Holy shit, that’s all we needed,” Ski said. “We’ll have to patch the balloon just to lift us out of the mud.” He looked at Murphy. What did you get us into now?

  Murphy swore. He was about to jump down from the cart when a flight of arrows fell around them. Walinski screamed and reeled against the cart with an arrow sticking out of his face. One of the acolytes fell with an arrow in his chest. The horses were untouched.

  There was another flight of arrows. The Drantos Guards archers yelled and brought up their crossbows. Walinski was screaming his head off, clawing at the arrow in his face. He’d dropped his rifle. Murphy threw himself down into the wagon box and peeked over the edge, his rifle ready.

  “What the hell do we do?” Reznick shouted.

  “How the hell should I know?” Ben answered. There weren’t any targets. Murphy squinted, estimating the distance to the trees. Two hundred meters, near enough. He whistled. “That was long bow shot!” he shouted. “Even for Tamaerthans!”

  “Damn straight!” Reznick answered.

  Murphy thought about the implications. One of Captain Galloway’s high cards were those Tamaerthan archers. Used in connection with other troops they could be devastating, because they outranged everyone else. Drantos crossbows could carry about as far as Tamaerthan longbows, but they were slow to load, and nobody in Drantos really believed in long-range archery. Tamaerthan archers loved long-distance shooting. But those weren’t Tamaerthan troopers out there, so who were they?

  More arrows fell. By now everyone was behind a wagon or under cover, and nobody else was hit. Curious, Murphy thought. The horses and oxen pulling the carts hadn’t been touched. Not even Reznick’s centaur. Dobbin was cowering behind Lafe’s wagon, whimpering the way the animals did when something threatened them and they couldn’t fight or run away.

  About my own situation. Can’t fight and can’t run. Things were quiet now, but-”It’s a horse raid,” Ben called.

  “Yeah, that’s what I figure,” Lafe answered. “Somebody wants them beasts alive.”

  Murphy strained to see into the forest, but there was nothing visible. “Hell, maybe we ought to let ‘em have ‘em.”

  “Not Dobbin, they don’t.”

  “Probably don’t want him. Just want the horses and oxen. Probably too smart to want a centaur,” Murphy said.

  “Now you lay off,” Reznick said. “But we better do something here. Want me to look at Ski?”

  “Yeah, in a minute. You stay down just now, first things first. Move them carts! Murphy shouted. “Go around me! Laager those damn wagons!” Just because the lead wagon couldn’t move didn’t mean they couldn’t make a wagon laager. Murphy nodded in satisfaction. Agikon had caught on, and was bringing up the other carts. At least they’d have some cover—

  A dozen light cavalrymen burst from the woods. They rode crouched low against their mounts, most of their bodies invisible behind their horses. They didn’t look like anyone Murphy had ever seen.

  “Westmen!” one of the acolytes shouted.

 

 

Murphy snapped down the battle rifle’s bipod and rested the legs on the wagon seat. Ski was still screaming, but Murphy put that out of his mind along with everything else except his sight picture. Aim for the rider, but low enough to hit the mount if you miss. Get a good sight picture. Squeeze off a round. The first rider fell. Ben shifted targets. On the second shot both horse and rider went down. The rider leaped free, but Lafe Reznick’s burst took him in the chest. Ben looked up long enough to wave thanks.

  Shift aim again. Keep it smooth. Another down. Three shots for the fourth. Don’t rush it! Concentrate. New sight picture—

  The nearest enemy was no more than twenty meters away when Murphy shot him off his horse. Then, suddenly, the Westmen were riding back toward the woods. Murphy picked off one more rider, and a last one seemed to fall out of the saddle in sheer surprise.

  Then there weren’t any more targets. One of the downed riders tried to get up, but a crossbowman took care of him. Two more Westmen rode from the woods and grabbed a loose horse while Murphy was changing magazines. Then things were still.

  Not quite, though. Walinski was still yelling his head off. One of the acolytes was trying to hold him while another looked at the arrow piercing from near his left eye down across the cheek to come out at the neck. It was a bloody mess, but it hadn’t hit a major artery or Ski wouldn’t be able to yell.

  “Lafe! Go look after Ski,” Murphy yelled. “But be ready to cover me. Agikon!”

  “My lord!”

  “Take Lord Walinski’s rifle. Keep watch on the trees.”

  “Aye, lord.”

  The acolyte handled the H&K with confidence. Captain Galloway didn’t encourage training locals to use star weapons, but out here in the marches you needed all the help you could get.

  “The rest of you stand guard! I won’t be long.” I hope. Going out in the open is probably stupid, Murphy thought. But I’d best see what I’m up against, and maybe get some information the Captain can use.

  Murphy knelt by the six dead men while Agikon watched the forest. The closest man had a bronze sword, a thing he’d seen only in shrines to Vothan farther north and east. It was long enough to be used from horseback, and had gold wire wound around the hilt.

  The rest of the men were armed with short spears or light lances, and long wicked hornbacked compound bows, almost too big to use from horseback, only they sure could. They also had knives. Most had no armor, but one was wearing a mail shirt obviously made in Drantos. They didn’t have much clothing, breechcloths and a rough wool cloak, but just about every one of them had something of gold: an armlet, or a brooch, or just gold wire wound loosely around his neck.

  They were all muscle and bone, and it looked as if they hadn’t enough to eat for a long time.

  So these were the Westmen. Not many ever saw them. They lived in the unexplored high plains beyond the Westcarp, and few who’d entered their territory ever returned. Not that there was anything to go up there for.

  The last man lay too near the trees, and he could just lie there. Ben Murphy wasn’t about to get that close. But as Murphy turned away, the man leaped to his feet. He started to run toward him, but after a step he fell again. Ben whirled and leveled the rifle—

  “Mercy, I beg you!” the man shouted. “I am not one of-one of the Horse People!”

  “What the hell?”

  “Mercy!” He stretched out on the ground, reaching toward Ben, crawling painfully toward him. “Mercy!” he screamed again.

  Think fast, Ben. Maybe a trick. But—

  He went over to him. The man was bald, no better dressed than the Westmen—and he had no weapons at all.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ben demanded.

  “A priest of Vothan! Take me to your wagons, before the Horse People come to kill me!”

  “Maybe. What were you doing with the Westmen?” Murphy demanded.

  “I was priest of Vothan, at a shrine outside Margilos.” The man spoke haltingly, with good grammar but hesitating sometimes. “A fool of a merchant from the-south wanted a guide, to lead him to the—the Westmen, that he might trade for gold. The chief priest thought that a good thing, and ordered me to go, for I had been to the top of the Scarp in my ordeal. But when we went again, the Horse People sacrificed the merchant to Pirin the Thunderer and made me a slave.”

  “So what the hell are you doing here?” Murphy demanded.

  “The chief of the Red Rocks thought I brought him war luck, and now all the Horse People are coming down from the Westscarp. Above, all is heat and drying streams and death.”

  “Holy shit,” Murphy said. “They’re all coming down?”

  “Those who can,” the priest said. “So they brought me with them, slave and translator. I thought you evil wizards until I saw the blue robes of Yatar among you. Then I threw myself from the saddle and lay on the ground in hopes the Red Rocks would believe me dead. But I think my leg is broken.”

  A cool customer, Murphy thought. And a damned lucky find, a man who’s been up there with them horse archers for years. “Okay, Baldy, let’s get you to the wagons.” And away from them trees, which give me the willies. “Here, get up, lean on me. You’ll have to hobble.”

  It was slow going. When they were halfway to the wagons, Lafe Reznick came out to help. “What did you find?” he asked.

  “Priest of Vothan the Westmen kept as a slave. Could be valuable to the captain—”

  Suddenly Agikon was shouting, and before Murphy could see why, the acolyte fired five rounds, semi-automatic but so fast it sounded like full rock and roll. A horse screamed. “Lords, the Westmen!” Agikon shouted.

  There were a dozen of the light cavalry coming across the field at a gallop. Some had spears held low like lances. The others carried short javelins ready to throw.

  They seemed awfully close. People were yelling all around, and it was hard to concentrate. Wish I had a grenade, Murphy thought.

  “Don’t leave me!” the old priest shouted.

  “Get him movin’,” Reznick said. He unslung his rifle and knelt. “Go on, Ben, go like hell.”

  Murphy helped the priest toward the wagons. It was like a nightmare, the kind where no matter what happens you can’t move fast enough. He glanced back over his shoulder. More Westmen, maybe twenty of them, riding like hell straight toward the laager. “Let’s go, let’s go,” Murphy said. He pulled the old man along, heedless of the priest’s gasp of pain. As they reached the laager he heard Reznick’s H&K chatter at full auto.

  Murphy handed the priest to an acolyte. “Take care of him!” He ran back into the field. Reznick was changing magazines. He slammed the actuating lever home and fired again. The Westmen were galloping toward him, getting too close.

  “Run like hell, Lafe! I’ll cover you!” Murphy shouted.

  “Right!” Reznick turned and ran toward the wagons. Three of the onrushing horsemen let fly with arrows. Lafe stumbled and fell. He got up, not running as fast. The horsemen were getting closer and closer to him. Murphy fired over his partner’s head, full automatic, but the horsemen kept coming. Reznick stumbled again. “Ben, Ben, look after my wives—”

  He tried to get to his feet, but there were two arrows in his back. Murphy tried to ignore him, concentrate on shooting, cut down the horsemen before they could reach Lafe, but they kept coming, and one was getting closer and closer and his lance came down, and Murphy shot him four times but the lance came on anyway. Reznick turned in time to see it coming. He tried to dodge, but it hit him full in the chest.

  “You mucking bastards!” Murphy slammed a new magazine into his rifle. Agikon came up behind him with three of the archers and they fired another volley. There were only three Westmen left, but they kept coming until Murphy shot them all down.

 

 

Lafe Reznick was already dead when Murphy knelt beside him. Ben looked up at the sky, then muttered prayers he hadn’t remembered since he left home. He felt something snuffle against his neck and turned. It was Dobbin. The centaur must have broken his tether when he saw Reznick fall.

  The centaur bent down and sniffed at the blood on Reznick’s chest and face. His half-formed hands patted Lafe’s clothing clumsily, as if trying to tidy it. Then he reared, threw back his head, and let out a long, wailing scream. It reminded Murphy chillingly of the legends of the banshee.

 

 

21

 

 

Ben Murphy screamed curses to the sky. Then he went back to the laager. Dobbin could do as much for Lafe now as anyone. Scratch one man who’d do to ride the river with. The hell with that.

  Two archers were holding Walinski. Lafe had worked on getting the arrow out, but he hadn’t finished the job. First things first, Murphy thought. Methodically he gave orders. Collect all the enemy’s weapons and gear. Retrieve the balloon. Lighten the bogged-down wagon. And keep guard, there might be more out there. When the archers and acolytes started on all that, he had time to deal with Ski.

  “It’s going to hurt,” Ben said. “I got to cut it out of there.”

  Walinski screamed something.

  Ah, quit your bitching, Murphy thought. Why couldn’t it have been you? No, that’s not fair. Hell. He found a bottle of McCleve’s best tucked into Lafe’s gear, and brought it over to Ski. “Drink it!” he shouted. “Take a good slug. Right. Another. Now I’ll have one, gimme.”

  He took a drink from the bottle, then added a teaspoon of fine powder. It was made from madweed, and the old woman from the last village had sworn by it. Untested drug, Murphy thought. Probably the wrong thing to do, but what choices have I got? “Here, Ski, have another couple of slugs.”

  While Walinski drank, Murphy heated an iron rod in the wagon’s balloon firepot. When it was red-hot he took it and went back to Ski. “Gimme the bottle—”

  He handed the bottle to an acolyte and took a deep breath. Well, here goes—

  He used his combat knife to slice quickly down the shaft of the arrow, cutting open the tunnel it had made. Ski screamed again, and blood poured out. Too much blood. Murphy drew the heated iron rod along the wound. There was a smell of burning meat.

  Probably the wrong thing, Ben thought. God knows I’ve made a hell of a scar. But it’s got to be open. Too much risk of tetanus, and maybe the Westmen poison their arrows. Got to be- open and cleaned out and got to stop the bleeding.

  He used a Johnson & Johnson sterile dressing to cover the wound. There were a dozen in the first-aid kit, and when would there ever be more? And the bottle of peroxide was small, it would all be used treating Ski and the wounded archer.

  Ben Murphy felt a long way from home.

 

 

The village was about a klick away, and nobody had come out to help them. Murphy gave Walinski the rest of the bottle, and supervised getting the wagon train going again. They’d have to go in without the balloon, one wizard dead and another wounded; if they were going to impress the locals at all, they’d need all their gear. And a story. And meanwhile, somebody had to get word back to Captain Galloway.

  The hardest part was getting Lafe’s body. Dobbin stood guard, ready to fight anyone approaching.

  “We could kill it,” Agikon said; but when he saw Ben’s face, he shrank away in fear. “Forgive me, lord.”

  Murphy didn’t answer. He tried talking to the centaur in soothing tones. “This is me. I’ve ridden you a dozen times. I’ll take you back to Lafe’s wives, but you got to let me have Lafe. Come on, Dobbin, it’s all right.”

  Eventually he whimpered and stood aside, letting Ben and Agikon put Lafe’s body in the wagon. Murphy covered his partner with wizard’s robes.

 

 

The village, was called Irakia, aiid like all high plains settlements it had a wall. This far west it wouldn’t really be as much for defense against men as against a native beast called the gunkel, an omnivorous rodent the size of a dog, with an elongated body like a weasel, a scaly hairless tail, and armor plates something like an armadillo. It had sharp claws, big teeth, and a stink spray that wasn’t as bad as a skunk but more than enough to keep humans away from it. Unfortunately, the gunkel was perpetually hungry, stupid, and fearless, and it thought humans built houses to store food for it to eat.

  The wall had been supplemented by a hastily dug ditch. There was also a watch tower. The gates were shut, and there were no animals in the fields. The watch tower was manned, and through chinks in the wicker areas of the wall Murphy could see the glint of helmets and spear points.

  Murphy had put the robed acolytes in the lead wagon, and the gates opened quickly when they came near. A squad of villagers carrying spears and scythes came out to cover their entrance. One elderly man came to Murphy. He pointed to the wizard robes. “Where is your sky-beast?” he demanded.

  Aha, they’ve heard of our travelling magic show. “The Westmen slew the sky-beast with arrows,” Murphy said. “And they have killed others, and wounded the master wizard.”

  “An evil day. I am Panar, chief of this village. You are welcome here, lords, but I fear the Westmen will destroy us all.”

  Murphy patted his battle rifle. “Though there are many Westmen, still we have our magic,” he said. “The Westmen slew two of us and wounded my master, but we have killed all of the Westmen we have seen.”

  The caravan moved into the village. There was only one street, and the wagon train nearly filled it. The gates were hastily shut again.

  Most of the population crowded around them. A couple of pretty girls caught Murphy’s eye. Were they interested in having a child with sky-wizard blood? A lot of village girls were, which was one reason Murphy never married. Not like Lafe, who was happy enough with two wives, and what would they do now? They weren’t noble, except that Lafe made the locals accept them, and— The chief came back from seeing the gate closed.

  “Lord, Bheroman Harkon sent messages three days ago, warning us of Westmen in strong bands. He was leading his knights against them, and summoned the men of our village. Thus we have few fighting men, and could not come to your aid when we heard the battle nearby. Forgive us, lord.”

  Murphy waved his hands in a blessing sign he’d seen old Yanulf use. “No problem,” he said in English. “You are forgiven, and indeed had you tried to aid us you would all have been killed. How many lances does Bheroman Harkon lead?”

  “Lord, I do not know how far he proclaimed the ban,” Panar said. “I would guess no more than fifty.”

  Murphy nodded. No point in scaring people, but he could guess what would happen if the average Drantos heavy cavalry leader ran into a sizable band of Westmen. Those hornbacked bows would be punching his men at arms out of their saddles before they knew there was an enemy near them. The next Drantos bheroman would probably face Westmen armored with the spoils from Harkon’s army.

  “Has anyone told the Lord Eqeta?” Murphy demanded.

  “Lord, I do not know.”

  So it comes down to how smart Harkon is, and there’s no way I’m going to find that out from this group.

  “Lord, will you stay and protect us with your magic?” Panar asked. Some of the others crowded close to hear Murphy’s answer.

  The first levy of young men went to Harkon. There’s me, and there’s the secondary levy, not one whole hell of a lot to hold this place with if I’ve got to face any number of those Westmen. But what the hell, you knew the job was dangerous when you took it, Fred...

  “I will stay,” Murphy said. “But we must send messages to the Lord Eqeta. That is more important than our lives.”

  He’d expected opposition to that, but the village chief nodded sagely. “If the Lord Eqeta knows, we may yet be saved,” he said. He looked thoughtful, started to turn away, and finally turned back. “There are two young men here who have won many races. Their horses are very good.”

  Obviously the right troops to take a message, but what was Panar looking so nervous about? Hah. “I will not inform Lord Harkon that you did not send your best men,” Murphy said. “It is well for us that you did not.” He pointed to the wagon’s shadows. “When there is but one shadow, have them come to me. We will send them when it is dark. Meantime I will write a message for Lord Rick.”

 

 

He’s impressed, Murphy thought. Because I know Lord Rick, or because I can write? Don’t matter much. “Before then I must tend to the wounded, and all your women must watch, as must you and your village deacon.” This place would be too small to have a real priest. “We will show them the healing magic revealed by Yatar to High Priest Yanuif. For now, have them boil water.”

  “Aye, lord.” Panar left to give orders. Murphy was alone with Lafe’s body. Bloody hell, he thought. I’m not as young as I used to be. He looked over to the wagon where Ski lay in a drunken stupor, and envied him. There was a lot of the powdered extract of madweed in the medicine chest...

  Batshit, Murphy thought. Not that again. I took that trip back on Earth.

  Why not, though? You ain’t going to live through this anyway, might as well go out happy- That’s not happy, that’s dead already, and shut up, he told himself. Christ, Lafe, why you? You got me off the stuff. And into Africa. Damn this goddam planet, first Sindy and then Lafe— You found Sindy here, and you had a good year.

  Do you wish you’d never married her? No. But damn all, Ski looks happy. And it’s sure going to be tough without Lafe. Nobody to watch my back. Nobody I trust now, except maybe the Captain. Sure nobody else. Don’t trust Warner, Lafe said. And not Gengrich either. Lafe had been right about Gengrich. Maybe not the Professor, maybe Warner would do, but Lafe had been right, don’t trust anybody you don’t have to. They’d smuggled the 106 away from Parsons without letting anybody else know. “Keep a couple of aces,” Lafe used to say. “Can’t hurt.” Hadn’t hurt, either, and a fat friggin’ lot of good that does Lafe now. Jesus, God, are you up there? He was a good man. Please, somebody, remember that.

  An ugly column of smoke rose against the sky. One of the village women saw it and began to wail. Must be another village, Murphy thought. He called for Panar and pointed out the smoke to him.

  “Aye, lord, Katos lies in that direction.”

  Christ, what do I do now? I’m too damned tired to think. “What other villages are there near here?”

  “Four within one day’s ride, lord. Five, counting Katos.”

  “Forget Katos. Send to the others. Do not send your best messengers. Have all the people come here. They should bring their flocks and beasts and everything they have, food and fodder, and come here quickly where I can defend them with sky weapons.”

  “There is not room inside the wall for half of them!”

  “Well, we build a new wall, and a ditch.” That would keep the cattle from straying and the Westmen from riding up to the walls. They weren’t likely to be dangerous on foot. Except for those long-ranging arrows. But I’ve got three rifles, and maybe Ski’ll be able to fight.

  “Building a wall will take many hands from the crops,” said the chief.

  Jeez, the soul of a bureaucrat. “How many crops will you harvest if the Westmen burn you out and kill you all?”

  Panar shrugged. “What matter; if Lord Harkon does the same?”

  “The hell with Harkon. I speak with the voice of the Lord Eqeta.”

  The old chief spat into the dirt, then squinted into Murphy’s face. He said nothing.

  “Look, dammit!” Murphy said. He patted his rifle, then opened his wizard robe to reveal his pistol and combat webbing. “Watch!” He drew the pistol and fired at a gourd in a nearby market stall. Everyone turned to stare at the sound, so he blew another gourd away while they were watching. “There. That is small magic.” He patted the rifle again. “And this is big magic.”

  The chief nodded. “I have heard. You are a sky god.”

  “Not a god, but I know the sky magic.”

  “You know the Lord Eqeta, who is a sky god,” Panar said. “And that is enough. You will tell the Lord Harkon?”

  “I will.”

  “The messengers will go now.”

  “Good.”

  The chief left, and Murphy sat down in the wagon.

  A couple of village kids looked shyly at him, then dodged back into their home behind the market stall.

  A girl about sixteen walked by, carefully not looking at him, but she’d changed into her best clothes.

  My people, Murphy thought. He laughed at himself, but even as he did he thought of what he could teach the villagers about self-defense. Pikes and spears. Stand your ground against cavalry. Discipline and trust the man next to you, and you’re as good as any cavalry.

  He realized he was taking on a lot of responsibilities. The villagers would be grateful, but their lord wouldn’t much care for his giving military training to the peasants. But if that kept Ben Murphy alive long enough to get a message back, that ought to square things with Captain Galloway.

  What of Lady Tylara? What if the local lord didn’t like his villagers taking matters into their own hands this way?

  Ben laughed again. Too bad for Bheroman flarkon. The pike regiments had already taught peasants they could do things for themselves. Murphy wasn’t doing anything new. Besides, he was the great-grandson of a man who’d been hanged for shooting a landlord’s agent, and he wasn’t inclined to be very tender about landlords’ feelings.

 

 

PART FIVE

 

Principalities and Powers

 

 

22

 

 

Escorted by eight Royal Guardsmen on each side, the roasted stag marched up the aisle between the banqueting tables. Halfway to the high table, it stopped and bowed to Wanax Ganton. The two men under the draperies hanging from the platter were excellent puppeteers; the stag seemed alive, although, much to his host’s surprise, Ganton had personally speared it in yesterday’s hunt.

  Lord Ajacias beamed when Ganton acknowledged the stag’s obeisance. His daughter Lady Cara also saw that Ganton approved, and giggled. “Is that not marvelous, Majesty? Hakour our chef has been a good and faithful servant for many years, but he has never given us such a meal as this.”

  For the tenth time, Ganton wished that the Lady Cara seated beside him was instead the Lady Octavia Caesar. Octavia did not try to gain his favor. She did not always agree with him. Quite the contrary. She also did not giggle. And though her ankles were not so slim as the Lady Cara’s, Caesar’s granddaughter had far the best clothing on Tran, and wore her gowns and robes with a grace and dignity that suited- His thoughts were shattered by the metallic click of a star weapon made ready to fire. “HALT! WHO IS THERE?” the Lord Mason thundered in a voice like Yatar passing judgment. He came forward from his place at the end of the table, his rifle leveled at the stag, the small knife-bayonet, that was the word- pointed at the animal’s throat.

  “The stag!” The response was given by Hanzar, Guards Officer of the Day. The other Guards, splendid in their new clothing-uniforms, Lord Rick called them-presented their weapons.

  “What stag?” Mason demanded.

  “Wanax Ganton’s stag!”

  “Then pass, friend!” Mason acknowledged. “Make way for Wanax Ganton’s stag!”

  Then from within the stag a loud voice shouted “Long live Wanax Ganton!” Lord Rick himself leaped from his place to repeat the cry, and all the banqueters, two hundred and more, stood and joined the cheering.

  Ganton threw back his head to laugh with the others, but inwardly he could hear Lucius speaking in his ancient dry voice. “And in the midst of the triumph, at the time of a conqueror’s greatest glory, there rides in his chariot the lowest-born slave of the Empire, who never ceases to say, ‘Remember Caesar, thou art but a mortal man.’ The cheers of a throng are easily gained. Honor is more elusive.” He could hear the old man, and see Octavia nodding agreement- and also hear the Lady Cara giggle.

  The stag was brought forward to the salutes of the starmen and the Guards. Their—uniforms—green shirts and trousers, green jackets, black boots and black belts with sheathed daggers, silver badges on their black berets, made them look remarkably like starmen in the dim light. Lord Ajacias had done his best with candles and torches, but a hall large enough for two hundred was far too large to be lighted properly.

  Now the Guards, the starmen, and picked men from Lord Rick’s Mounted Archers and Hussars all came forward, presented their weapons, and crashed them against the floor while the stag and its table passed between their lines on its way to the sand pit between the banqueting tables. The men who’d animated the stag came out from beneath the draperies, and they were also in the uniform of Royal Guards. All presented their weapons, then saluted in the star-man’s manner. “Permission to withdraw?” Hanzar shouted.

  There was a long pause. Ganton realized that Lord Rick was staring at him. “Permission granted!” Ganton called, and guards and starmen and Tamaerthans all retired in a complex drill, halting in pairs and clashing weapons as others passed between them, twirling weapons as they knelt on one knee, then rising with more flourishes. They left the hall to the thunder of applause.

 

 

Morrone appeared from somewhere. He held a knife as long as an archer’s sword. As King’s Companion, it was his duty to carve and taste the first portion of all meat brought to the high table. Ganton had always thought his friend graceful, but now he looked just a bit awkward and unrehearsed after the performance of those soldiers.

  But first Yanulf. The Archpriest rose from his place opposite Ganton, and spread his arms wide. “Yatar, Great Skyfather, we thy servants give thee praise and thanks. .

  “Majesty?”

  His host was trying to get his attention. Ganton acknowledged him with a nod.

  “Majesty, the weapon carried by the starman who challenged the stag-was this the same weapon they showed this afternoon?” He shuddered. “Is it safe that such weapons be brought into my hall?”

  “Star weapons are safe while starmen are loyal,” Ganton said.

  “And are they loyal, Majesty?”

  “You saw,” Ganton said.

  “Aye, Majesty. I saw disciplined men perform well what they have learned.”

  “And—“

  “I say no more—”

  “I command you, speak what you think.”

  “I saw them loyal to the starman,” Ajacias said. “I saw them cheer my Wanax. But I have not seen them obey the anointed of Yatar.”

  “...and we thank Thee for the abundant rains of spring and the mildness of the winter,” Yanulf was saying. “And we beg Thy aid, that Thou might intercede with Hestia and all Thy great family, that our seed might not rot in the ground, but flourish and multiply, and our harvest be great that we may offer great sacrifice to Thee. And as The Time approaches, incline the hearts of our lawful rulers to know and do Thy will. . .“

  “You demand a demonstration?” Ganton asked. “They have come with me—”

  “Majesty, I demand nothing!” Ajacias protested. “I spoke only when commanded! Forgive me!”

  “There is nothing to forgive—”

  “…and let it be Thy will to aid us. Arise, lord, hasten to aid us, for our need is great...“

  “—and perhaps you have been of more service than you know,” Ganton said.

  One good thing about Yanulf. Lady Cara was silenced. She wouldn’t giggle while the Primate of Drantos invoked the blessings of Yatar. Indeed, she stared as if hypnotized—and yet she probably wouldn’t be able to remember a word that Yanulf had said. While Octavia would have been eager to talk, to discuss Yanulf‘s sermon and compare Yatar to the Roman Jehovah and his son Jesus Christ, to ponder the vision of Bishop Polycarp that the Christ was in fact the Son of Yatar, that Yatar and Jehovah were One—

  “-the Time of Testing cometh upon us. Woe to that man who fails to prepare. Woe to him, great lord or villein, who has not done the will of Yatar and laid by goods for The Time...“

  “I am told that smiths to the south have learned to make star weapons of their own.”

  Ganton pretended not to have heard. Ajacias would learn of the new weapons in due season. For now there was not enough firepowder in the realm to stoke all the guns for more than a few blasts. There was a shortage of ingredients, especially saltpeter. Ganton had learned how to make firepowder, but not-how to extract saltpeter from dungheaps. He wondered if he should not have paid more attention to that day’s lecture. But a Wanax was no mechanic!

  “And so we invoke Thy aid.” Yanulf’s prayer ended. Morrone attacked the stag as if it were his blood foe, then tasted the slice he carved and pronounced it good. And now, finally, the cooks’ apprentices could come out and carve the beast and all could get down to the serious business of eating.

  But Ganton couldn’t forget the idea he’d had while Ajacias was questioning him. There was one way to show all that the starmen were loyal to the Crown. If only Lord Rick would agree! But for now, there was dinner, and the giggles of Lady Cara...

  The Royal Guardsmen began a sword dance, complex beyond belief, with elements of Tamaerthan dancing mixed with something very like a polka. Their razor-sharp sabers flashed in the candlelight, earning the king’s applause.

  Rick Galloway watched with approval as young Ganton refused another cup of wine and asked for water instead. The king’s request probably shocked the steward, but it meant Ganton would have a clear head. He was going to need it to fend off Ajacias’s questions.

  “Boy’s learnin’ the king business,” Art Mason said as he took his place beside Rick. “And damn good thing you made ‘em put these tables up.”

  They were seated behind and to the left of the high table, in a place near an entrance. Rick had insisted that every entrance to the hall be blocked by a table with mercs and Royal Guardsmen, and to hell with protocol. “Yeah?” Rick prompted.

  “You been listenin’ to that Ajacias?” Mason asked. “Every question, everything he says, he tries to stir up trouble. That business about making star weapons to use with fireseed, he’s really trying to talk the kid into something. And when he’s not stirring up trouble or fishing for classified information, he tells how it’s time to make peace with the Five Kingdoms.”

  “You think he’s a traitor?”

  “Hell, Cap’n, you thought so or we wouldn’t be here.” Mason grinned. “I thought you was nuts, wanting to honor a guy that might be plotting against us, but I see it makes sense.” He pointed to the candles at every pillar. “Candles and new livery for the servants. Just those must have cost him a fortune.”

  Rick returned the grin and poured wine. “We needed to come north anyway,” Rick said. “We had to stay somewhere. Why not with Ajacias? Anyway, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” A good idea, but not mine, he thought. But nobody on Tran is going to know that. Except maybe Gwen. Who else ever read about Queen Elizabeth I, and her answer to plots?

  Silly plots, like Babington’s, she could leave to Walsingham and his secret police, who needed a spectacular success every now and then. More serious situations, involving persons of wealth and stature and importance, she took care of herself: her method was to visit them. As Parkinson, Rick’s favorite historian, had put it, they could hardly plot while she was there, and they were financially ruined by the time she left. Her visit to Euston Hall in 1578 rendered the Rockwoods harmless for at least a decade...

  And Lord Ajacias, a bheroman in the vital Sutmarg region bordering the Five Kingdoms, was far too important to accuse without evidence—or to be allowed to get away with treason.

  “Anyway, we got him on trading with the enemy,” Mason said.

  Rick nodded. Mason’s patrols had intercepted a pack train of hides and fine wine just as it reached the border. Not only did the hides have Ajacias’s brand, but the idiot had written a letter to the Wanax of Tameltemos inquiring about the last shipment and detailing what special payments were wanted. “Hang onto the smugglers,” Rick said. “We might not want to accuse Ajacias. Not just yet, anyway—”

  “Right.” Mason waved expansively. “He’s sure not going to hire many troopers this year. Not after two weeks of this.”

  “Yeah, but you know, he doesn’t seem to mind. Really acts like he’s being honored to have the Wanax here.”

  “Well, sure, he’d like his daughter to be Wannaxae.”

  “Fat chance,” Rick said. “What else did your patrols turn up?”

  “Confirmation,” Mason said. “Just like you thought, they’re raising armies in the Five Kingdoms. Just how big and what for I can’t tell. Too many cavalry screens. But they’re mobilizing. Funny thing, not so much cavalry as stores. Like they’re expecting a siege.”

  Rick shrugged. “The Time—”

  “Sure, but they’re increasing the garrisons, too,” Mason said. “Least I think so, but it’s hard to find out anything for certain.”

  “One more problem,” Rick said. He turned as his orderly came up behind him. “Yes, Jamiy?”

  “A message, Lord. From the Lady Tylara.”

  “Ah. Give it to me. Wait, I’ll move away from the table. Impolite to read while the Wanax is eating his dinner. Mason, if you don’t mind I’d rather you stayed here to watch out for the Wanax.” Rick got up from the hard bench with relief. The Guards started a new dance as Rick retreated to the corridor behind the banqueting hail.

  He broke the wax seals and unfolded the letter, noting that it was paper, not parchment. Fairly good quality paper, too; the University’s mills had got the knack of it now, so there were few ink runs mixed with her painstakingly written words. As he held the parchment close to the beeswax candles, he wondered how far the University’s research into illuminating gas had gone.

 

To the Lord Rick, Eqeta of Chelm, War Lord of Tamaerthon, Captain General of the Hosts of Drantos, Beloved of Yatar, from Lady Tylara, Eqetassa of Cheim and Justiciar of Drantos, Greetings!

  My beloved, your children and heirs are safe and well, and I trust this finds you the same. I am also well, though I miss you greatly and wish only for our reunion.

 

Rick nodded and smiled to himself. Leave it to Tylara to put things in that order. Titles. Health of the children. And only then the really important news, that she was all right.

 

The feud with the Mac Naile has proven more troublesome than I like. It is well that I have come, for this may yet become a challenge to Mac Clallan Muir. Aye, and there is worse, for there is murmur among the lesser clans that much booty may be found at your University. Thus must I strengthen its defenses, yet do so from afar so that it will not seem that Mac Clallan Muir holds sway in this place which you insist must remain above all clans and crowns.

 

And you’re doing the right thing even though you don’t agree with me about the University, Rick thought. Thank God I met you, Tylara. I’d better come up there now. It makes sense, it’s not just that I want to see you, my love—

 

My father sends his greetings, and his thanks that you have sent Makail his first grandson to visit him. Though he has not said so, you may be certain that he is even more grateful for my escort.

 

Eight mercs, Caradoc with two hundred mounted archers, and a hundred lances of Chelm chivalry. Tylara had been sure they would be more than enough to persuade the recalcitrant Mac Naile.

 

And though that dispute is I think soon ended, there are rumors of others, and it seemed to me that there must be a source to this strife. Thus I spoke with Corgarff, reminding him of your generosity in sparing his life, and of the loyalty of his sons, and of the devotion his new chief holds to you. In this way I persuaded him to tell what he knows of the Dughuilas affair. What he told me has earned him a visit by the headsman—

 

Oh, Lord! Rick thought. What—

 

--but mindful of your wishes, I have given him a second pardon, which will assuredly be his last.

  As you suspected, there was indeed a plot, with Dughuilas, and a highly placed henchman to Mac Clallan Muir, to the end that only the high-born would command, and all your work would be undone. Corgarff will not name my father’s traitor henchman, but says again and again that he knows not the name, only that he was assured that none of the conspirators bore ill will toward my father or myself, nor indeed toward you, but only toward the changes you make. As you are fond of saying, you may believe as much of that as you will; for my part I do believe it, or rather that Corgarff believes it.

  And there was yet one more conspirator, one that Corgarff actually met, but the man was hooded and the light dim, so that Corgarff would not know him, aye though he met him again. From his speech he seemed not of the Drantos nobles, yet certainly he was not of Tamaerthon, yet indeed he was a man of parts and gentle speech and ways. When I put it to Corgarff that the man was likely a priest, Corgarff seemed surprised, then agreed it was possible. You must speak with Yanuif and ask him to see to the loyalty of his archpriests, for there may be one who bears us ill will. The danger is small, now that his instruments are taken, but treason must never be allowed to pass unpunished.

  If there be time I will enclose more, telling you of my love, and of our children, for Lady Isobel ceases not to ask for her father, and is quite put out that you do not place her in her bed each night as was your custom. And I would have you do the same with me, each night aye and each day as well.

 

“My lord,” Jamiy said. “If you have a moment.”

  “Eh?” Rick looked up from Tylara’s letter. He’d been staring at it for a long time. His eyes felt the strain from the dim light, and he blinked several times. “What is it?”

  “Carlga the smith and Fnor the master miller would speak with you.”

  “How much did they bribe you?”

  “A silver each, lord.”

  “Ah.” Quite a tidy sum. “Their business must be important. Bring them.”

  Jamiy grinned and pocketed the money. Sometimes Lord Rick demanded a share of the bribes paid to get his attention.

  The miller and smith were in their finest clothing, with leather purses and jeweled peace-bonded daggers hanging from their belts. Men of substance, Rick thought.

  They stammered a bit, but their manners were good, and they were obviously accustomed to speaking to the nobility. Rick learned that the smith employed five journeymen and a dozen apprentices, while the miller was a town Councillor. Even so, they had difficulty coming to the point.

  “And the demonstration with the stag was indeed marvelous,” Fnor was saying. “The Royal Guardsmen in particular. Is there aught they cannot do?”

  “We have sons,” Carlga said. “The miller and I both. They would gladly serve in the Guard.”

  “And our hearts would be gladdened to see them so honored,” Fnor added.

  Aha. The point at last. Rick said nothing, and the silence dragged on. Can’t ask them direct what bribe they’re offering, Rick thought. How long do I have to wait?

  “Indeed, my heart would be so gladdened,” Fnor said at last, “that I would build a new mill beside my present mill, for there is ample water, more than ample now with the greater rains. I would build a wheel of the sort that your clerks describe, of the kind that the Romans have. Carlga will bring his forge to that mill, so that the wheel might drive his bellows and work trip hammers in the new manner. All this at our expense, and a year’s products of the mill and forge to the Guards.”

  Generous offer indeed, Rick thought. But year’s products be damned, what’s needed is a real hammer mill here where transportation’s hard to come by. There’s coal, and iron ore, and this is a damned good place for a foundry. Long way from any likely targets, too. Not likely to be bombed out.

  “Your forge is fired with wood?” Rick asked.

  “Aye, lord. I have heard of using blackrock, but I have never seen a forge like that. We tried once, but without success.”

  “There will not be many years before burning wood to make metal and glass will be forbidden,” Rick said. “As wood grows more scarce, you must learn to use blackrock.”

  “Where may we learn?” Carlga asked.

  “The travelling clerks will know, but there is a better way. Have you a son to follow in your trade? Excellent. Send him a year to the University near Tar-Kartos in Tamaerthon. There he will learn to use the blackrock, and much else.”

  “We would also learn the arts of making the—guns—which use firepowder,” Fnor added. “Master smith Carlga makes strong iron.”

  “Not all strong iron is strong enough,” Rick said. “The art of making guns is not so easily acquired.” Especially not here in a border county ruled by a possible traitor. “Nor can I promise your sons, nor any man, a place in the Guards,

  “Yet you need not look so downcast,” Rick continued. “The guards are sworn as brothers, and will accept among them none who have not earned their place, and who will not take the same oath to Vothan.”

  The men looked sobered at the mention of Vothan. Like his Earth counterpart, Old One-eye was more feared than loved. “But I can promise this,” Rick added quickly. “Let them present themselves to Lord Mason before the Wanax departs, and if they please him, we will take them with us; and if they—work hard—”  Dammit, what I want to say is apply themselves, but that sounds stupid in the local language—”if they will work and give their attention to the task before them, I doubt not they can earn a place in the Guards.” And take the first step toward ennobling their families...

  “So. Since I cannot grant what you asked, I cannot accept what you offer. Yet I wish the mill and forge to be built, and to that end I will loan half the cost from the Captain-General’s purse. You will repay the debt in iron, and the first fruits of the forge belong to the crown.”

  “Generous, lord,” Fnor said. “You deserve your reputation. And we will send our sons to the Lord Mason in the morning. Thank you, lord.”

 

 

Ganton sat cross-legged on the great bed, cradling a cup of wine in his lap and looking around the comfortable tapestry-hung room. It was, of course, Lord Ajacias’s bedchamber. Idly Ganton wondered where Ajacias was sleeping, and who he had displaced, and who that one had caused to move.

  Morrone was hovering at the foot of the bed, casting an occasional glance at the door. “Oh, go to whatever girl you’ve asked,” Ganton said irritably. “I can undress myself.”

  Morrone grinned. “Thank you, sire. But it would be best if I did my duty first.”

  “Then do it. Lord Rick received a message tonight. They brought it during dinner, and he went out to read it. My guess is that it came from the Lady Tylara, else why would they not wait until morning, or at least until dinner was finished?”

  “Yes, sire?”

  “If from Tylara, then it may have come from the University,” Ganton said. “I would know if it did.”

  “Aha. Majesty, had there been letters for you, they would have been brought by now.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Surely.”

  “Then Octavia has chosen not to write to me.”

  “You cannot be certain. Indeed, you do not know the message was from Lady Tylara, and certainly you do not know that it was sent from the University. Can you doubt that the Lady Octavia would take any opportunity to write to you? I cannot.”

  “Ah. You believe then that she does not dislike me?”

  Morrone shrugged. “What matter her likes and dislikes? I believe that she is intelligent. As to you— you brood too much. I am certain that my lady of the evening has a friend—”

  “But are you certain your lady mother did not play the Eqeta false with a panderer from the stews of Rustengo?”

  Morrone laughed again. As indeed, Ganton thought, he must, for if there were any hint that I was serious—I should watch my tongue, even alone with my only friend.

  Then Morrone’s laugh died, and his voice became very serious. “Are you certain that you are not getting yourself into more of a coil about the Lady Octavia than she deserves?”

  “And why do you reckon her desserts?” There was a hint of danger in Ganton’s voice.

  “Majesty, it is my duty to advise you.”

  Yes. It is, Ganton thought. And indeed, you were one of the few who supported me when I thought to bring the Lady Octavia north on this tour. But I did not, through the advice of the Lord and Lady of Cheim, and Chancellor Yanuif, and Camithon- “Advice! I hear nothing but advice, from my first visit to the jakes in the morning until you blow out the last candle at night! Only Yatar could listen to so much advice!”

  “Yatar does not need advice,” Morrone reminded him. “You do. Or you have said you do. You are of age now, and the time has passed when I could speak to you as once I did, but I will, once more. Ganton, my friend, if ever you wish my silence, you have only to say so, and I will remain your friend yet.”

  “Ach, not you also!” Ganton shouted. “They all say that! All, all, they threaten to withdraw their counsel, and though they do not always say so, it is in their minds, that my father lost his throne through failure to listen to his advisors. And yes, yes, that is true enough, but much of what I hear is senseless! Yet must I listen, and smile, lest someone with more power than wits be mortally offended! Surely there is more to being Wanax than this?”

  Morrone made a wry face. “I offered one of the rewards of majesty, and you made free to insult my mother for reply.” He grinned to show he wasn’t offended. “And there is little chance that Lady Octavia would ever know, though why you remain so tender for the feelings of Lord Rick’s hostage to the Roman alliance I will never know.”

  “Is she no more than that?”

  “How can she be else?”

  “If Lord Rick and Chancellor Yanulf think of nothing but hostages, why have they not gathered in the children of Publius’ dead sister?”

  Morrone shrugged again. “The discussion grows serious. Will you have more wine?”

  “Yes.”

  Morrone poured and brought the goblets to the bed. “Caesar’s other grandchildren are not important because they cannot be offered in marriage. Not when the eldest is five. While the Lady Octavia is ripe enough. Majesty, think you that I oppose your suit?”

  “Of course not.” Morrone had more than once been messenger when the University authorities tried to keep Ganton and Octavia apart.

  “For indeed, were she queen, the way might lie open to more than ever we dream,” Morrone said. “Rome itself.” He stepped back and raised his hand in the Roman manner, and there was no mockery in his voice at all as he said, “Hail, Caesar.”

  “Only if—only if Lord Rick permits it,” Ganton said.

  Morrone nodded. “Aye, for the moment the star-men hold power over us. But they will not forever mock the anointed of Yatar!”

  That phrase, and the way Morrone said it, reminded Ganton of something, someone else who’d said that in just that way, but the wine and the venison and the lateness of the hour overcame him before he could remember who it had been.

 

 

23

 

 

The morning ritual was the same here as at the palace. Rick dressed, put on armor, and with Mason beside him came out for his first appointments. His personal guards waited for him in the corridor. Today they were commanded by Padraic, the under-captain of the Mounted Archers. Four Guardsmen walked ahead, then Rick and Mason, followed by Jamiy and Padraic.

  Mason hadn’t much cared to have a new man armed and behind his captain, but he hadn’t any choice. Caradoc went with Tylara to the Garioch, and somebody had to be Mason’s second in command of the MP’s. Padraic, son of a Drantos lord and a Tamaerthan mother, knew the customs of both lands, and had been loyal since the archers were formed. There wouldn’t be anyone better. . . which didn’t stop Art Mason from worrying.

  Rick had no trouble reading his companion’s mind. Mason worried a lot about loyalties. At least, Rick thought, he understands why we’ve got to expand the leadership, bring in locals and govern by Tran custom and law, not just be a flock of wolves here. Mason understands. And Gwen. I think Elliot and Warner. The rest—well, the rest of them saw what happened when Parsons tried taking over by force, but I’m not sure how well they learned the lesson. And how loyal are they? To me, to anyone?

  They reached the chamber set aside for them by their host. Beazeley and four locals stood guard outside.

  “All secure?” Mason asked.

  Beazeley grinned. “Yes, sir, all secure now.”

  “Eh?”

  “Found two different listening places,” Beazeley said. “Alcove behind a tapestry, about like you’d expect. But something different.” He opened the door and led the way inside a stone chamber about twenty-five feet square. “Behind that tapestry, there, by the window. That was one. And see that picture there? Back of that’s a corridor. Real secret passage.”

  “Who was in there?” Mason demanded.

  “Unarmed clerk types,” Beazeley said. “Real anxious to prove they were unarmed, too.”

  Rick nodded. “I expect they would be. Have you secured that corridor, then?”

  “Yes, sir. I put two MP’s at each end of it. Nobody to go in without your permission. Rest of the room’s clean, as far as I can tell.” Beazeley laughed. “I didn’t look too hard for electronics.”

  “No. Thank you,” Rick said. “All right, we’ll deal with Lord Ajacias later. Meanwhile, Art, go escort the king, please. And I expect we’ll need wine, and a pot of that stuff that passes for tea. Morrone will have to see to that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mason said. “Okay, Jack, let’s go.”

  Rick paced around the room. It held a carved slab table, two side tables, three comfortable chairs, some benches, and a solid-looking cabinet that probably unfolded into a writing desk. On a whim Rick went to it and opened it. There were no dwarves inside, but it did have goose quills, parchment, and ink.

  “Make way,” someone called outside. The door opened, and Mason stood aside to let Wanax Ganton enter. Lord Morrone followed him in.

  “Welcome, Majesty,” Rick said.

  “Thank you.”

  Morrone gestured, and servants brought in wine and a silver service of the local equivalent of tea. It was bitter stuff, but it did have caffeine. If only the Shalnuksis would bring a few pounds of real coffee- “Thank you,” Ganton told Morrone. His voice held dismissal, and Morrone left Rick and Ganton alone in the room.

  “Your Companion was not overly pleased to leave us,” Rick said.

  “Nor your soldiers.”

  “Shall we sit?” Rick asked.

  “Thank you.” Ganton took one of the chairs.

  “Wine or tea?” Rick asked.

  “Wine, but it is not right that you—”

  “I have no fear for my dignity,” Rick said. He poured a goblet of wine and a large mug of tea and brought them to the table. The boy’s nervous, Rick thought.

  “I think we have not been alone since I came of age,” Ganton said. He smiled thinly. “Nor do my advisors approve now.”

  Why would they? Last thing any public official needs is to find out his sovereign is cutting deals the civil service doesn’t know about. “It is good to see you. You look well.”

  “Thank you. As do you.” He looked nervously around.

  “The room is safe, Majesty,” Rick said. “My soldiers personally removed the scribes Lord Ajacias had set to listen to us, and now they guard the passageway behind that picture.”

  “I see. Is that not a treason?”

  “Only if you wish it to be.”

  “But the law—”

  Ganton seemed very serious, and Rick suppressed a chuckle. “Majesty, law and justice may be served when there has been a crime that harms someone. Here there has been no harm, and thus the matter of treason may be left to expediency and advantage.”

  “Do you see advantage in accusing Ajacias?”

  “Not at present,” Rick said. “He seems popular with his knights and villeins. Who would replace him?”

  “My question exactly,” Ganton said. “Then that is settled.”

  There was a long awkward silence.

  “Lord Rick,” Ganton said. “The banquet last night was splendid. The guards, and the star warriors, all were magnificent—”

  “But?” Rick prompted.

  “But there were questions. Some asked—some asked if the starmen were truly loyal to me,” Ganton said with a rush, “And though I assure them they are, though I assure them you are loyal, though I believe this with all my heart, still will there be doubts.”

  Rick frowned. Just what was eating the kid? “I will not remind you of the proofs we have already given,” Rick said. “You must know them all.”

  “Aye,” Ganton said. “And yet still are there doubts! But—it came to me at the banquet. There is a way. If you could—if you could give me a star weapon. A small magic, not the large. The weapon that Lady Tylara used to kill Lord Parsons. And binoculars,” Ganton continued. “A different kind of magic. Together they would show—they would show that you do not fear to have your Wanax armed in your presence!”

  “Um,” Rick said. Oh, boy! The trouble is, it’s not unreasonable. Not the way he looks at it, not the way his Council will see it.

  “I can pay,” Ganton said. “I would not expect you to take the personal equipment of one of your warriors, but perhaps one would sell for much gold?”

  Hell’s bells, there’s half a dozen would sell every goddam thing they’ve got if Mason and Elliot didn’t hold equipment checks every ten-day, Rick thought. And I’m not sure some of ‘em haven’t sold gear already. We never did have a complete inventory of personal weapons and equipment.

  “This is no small request,” Rick said.

  “I know.”

  “By God, I think you do know,” Rick said. “But let’s be certain. You ask that I place my life—that of any of my soldiers—in your hands. Not just in law, but in plain fact. Wait—I would not interrupt lightly. I know that I have already done this, and deliberately. I do not keep a large bodyguard, I travel with the Court rather than stay in my stronghold of Dravan. But what I know may not be so plain to my soldiers. You ask that I show them that I trust you with their lives.”

  “Aye. A great favor to ask, yet one I think necessary, if I am truly to be Wanax of Drantos.”

  No question about that. Which means you’ve given me a decision to make. And you know that, too. Meanwhile, we’re making changes everywhere. Triphammers and water mills. Paper and ink. Deep plows. Fertilizer.

  “It is not a decision lightly to be made,” Rick said. “I must take counsel.”

  “But you will consider the matter?”

  “I will—”

  “Captain!” Mason’s voice came from beyond the door.

  What the hell? “With your permission, Majesty?”

  “I confess as much curiosity as you, my lord.”

  “Come in, Mason.”

  Art Mason came in quickly. Morrone followed before anyone could stop him. “Messengers, Cap’n,” Mason said in English. “From Murphy, up on the plateau. Peasant boys. They brought a parchment, but they’ve already told everybody in the castle. Horse archers from the high desert, Westmen. They attacked the wizard train. Killed Lafe Reznick and wounded Ski, chopped up a couple of villages, killed the local borderer baron. Everybody in the castle knows.”

 

 

Mason spoke too fast in the star language, and Ganton could catch only a few words. Outside he could hear people shouting in the courtyard, and someone ran through the corridors.

  “Lord Rick—”

  Lord Rick didn’t seem to hear. He took a parchment from Lord Mason and spread it out on the table. Ganton stood and moved closer to Rick. Neither Rick nor Mason objected, so he looked over Rick’s shoulder, and made a firm vow to spend more time at his English lessons when he went back to the University. If he went back, and that seemed more and more an impossible thought.

  Westmen. The word was a literal translation of the Tran term, and it leaped at him from the page. The Westmen had come to the southwest high plains. They’d come in strength, and had slain a bheroman and his knights, and—

  Lord Rick looked up to see Ganton trying to read.

  For a moment he hesitated, then handed the letter to Mason. “Read it to us,” he ordered. “Translate as you go.”

  “Uh, Cap’n—”

  “Please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mason cleared his throat and began to read.

  The news was worse than Ganton had imagined. Hundreds of Westmen, mounted archers, every bit as skilled as the dreaded Tamaerthan archers. There— there was nothing on Tran to match them! Nothing but star weapons. How many did the Westmen number? In the Tales of The Time there were stories of fierce monsters from the west, tens of thousands of demons mounted -on horses that ate human flesh. Could they be Westmen?

 

I regret to report that Private Lafferty Reznick was killed in action. I would put him up for the Legion of Merit if I could. He saved my ass, and more important he saved Baldy, this Priest of Vothan who lived with the Westmen for ten years and more, so I got good intelligence on the Westmen. If I get a chance before I have to send this off I’ll put down some of what he told me, but the most important thing is, there’s drought up there in their desert. They’re all coming down. Not so many right now, not more than a few hundred, but they’ll all come down sooner or later. God knows how many that is, but it’s a lot.

 

Corporal Jerzy Walinski has been severely wounded, and is not yet returned to duty, but is expected to recover. Four knights, three esquires, and nine men-at-arms with full armor, plus twenty-five farm boys of the local militia, are all that have come back from Baron Harkon’s force. I keep hoping there’ll be more, but I don’t think there will be. There’s no sign of the baron.

 

 

A star lord dead, another wounded, and of a bheroman’s forces not one of ten alive!

 

Ski can’t travel, and I don’t have enough troops to fight my way back to Castle Dravan. So I holed up here, and we’re digging in. I hope to God this gets through, Captain, because if it don’t, we’ve had it and no mistake. I can hold on for a while. This is no strategic hamlet, but I know a few tricks, and the villagers are willing to fight if somebody shows them how. Which is me, I guess, because there’s nobody else to do it, and I just hope that ammo holds out.

 

So I hope you can send me some help before it’s too late. I know you got troubles of your own, but you got to get here pretty quick if you want to see us alive. If you don’t make it, I’ll try to wreck the H&K’s before they get me.

 

 

Yours very respectfully, Benjamin Murphy do Dirstval, Onetime Private, U.S.A.

 

Mason finished reading and handed the parchment to Rick.

  “We must send aid,” Ganton said. “And quickly.”

  Lord Mason and Lord Rick were looking at each other. They didn’t seem to hear.

  Other parchments lay on the table. Maps, and a sketch of one of the Westmen. Ganton also noted the bow, longer and thicker than the horse bows of Drantos or the Five Kingdoms, or even of the Romans.

  “Your Lord Murphy seems a wise captain,” Ganton said. “I would honor him. With your permission.

  And a grant to the wives—” he could make himself say it now, although the idea had grated on him while Reznick was alive. “—to the wives of the Lord Reznick. Only upon your advice, my lord.”

  He had not forgotten. One of his first acts upon coming of age was a grant of land to Protector Camithon—which earned him the cold scorn of the Lady Tylara. Not that she objected to honors given Camithon, who was, after all, her general; but he was her general now that he was no longer Protector. Her advice and consent had not been asked, and that she was slow to forgive.

  Lord Rick said nothing.

  “Forgive us, Majesty,” Mason said. “We can—we can talk about that later.”

  “Aye.” Ganton went to the side table. Before Morrone could interfere, he poured three goblets of wine and brought them to the center table. “My lords,” he said, and set the goblets down. “To the memory of Lord Reznick.”

  They drank, and Rick looked up woodenly. “He came a long way to die.”

  “Aye,” Ganton said. “Yet the Chooser will find a man, however far he travels. But he will have an honored place in Vothan’s Hall, I think.”

  “Yeah.” Rick looked thoughtful. “Art, what can we send Murphy?”

  “Not a hell of a lot. You know what’s mobilized.”

  “You’ll have to go. He needs some quick reinforcements. Ammunition, and a mobile force.” Rick strode quickly to the door and opened it. “Jamiy!”

  “Sir!”

  “Alert Captain Padraic. The Mounted Archers will prepare to move out. Combat gear and rations.”

  “Sir!” Rick’s orderly ran off down the corridor.

  I wish I were obeyed as Lord Rick is, Ganton thought. And command as he does. He took no advice, no counsel. He needed none.

  “Your pardon, Majesty,” Rick said, as if suddenly realizing that Ganton was in the room. “It is best we act quickly. Have I your permission to alert your Guards? We should return to Armagh, and quickly.”

  “Armagh, my lord?” Ganton asked. “Not Dravan?” Lord Rick’s Castle Dravan was certainly the proper place to organize the defense of the High Cumac. One of the castle’s functions was to guard the passes up the Littlescarp.

  “Aye, sire,” Rick said. “But first there must be a Council of the Realm, and meetings with our allies of Tamaerthon and Rome. And I must see to the growing of surinomaz and other affairs at Armagh, which is as easy to reach from the, University as your capital of Edron. Thus I suggest you send word to summon the council to Armagh.”

  “It is hardly convenient,” Morrone said. “Nor comfortable—”

  “Murphy’s not very comfortable out there facin’ those Westmen,” Mason muttered.

  “Let us hear no more of comfort!” Ganton said. “My Lord Morrone, it is my will that the Council of Drantos be summoned to Armagh, to meet within the ten-day. See to it.”

  Morrone was about to reply, but Ganton’s look silenced him. “Aye, Majesty. Immediately.”

  Ganton wanted to leap and shout. He felt as he had the first time he had seen the sea, or bedded a woman. This was power, of the kind Lord Rick held, real power...

  “So that is done,” Ganton said. “Another thing, Lord Rick. Harkon’s stronghold. Westrook. A strong place, I have heard. With Lord Harkon dead, someone must hold it. Perhaps Lord Murphy should go there.”

  “That makes sense,” Mason said.

  “We don’t know the roads,” Rick said. “Not enough information to make a decision.”

  “Yeah, but it stands to reason a castle’s easier to hold than a village,” Mason said. “When we get back to Dravan, we can send up some of those new bombards, and gunpowder. Who’ll be in charge up there, now that the regular baron’s had it?”

  They speak to me as a companion, Ganton thought. Not as a boy, not as a king, but as a fellow warrior! They listen, and consider, and ask—

  “I believe Bheroman Harkon has a son not yet of age.”

  “Maybe Murph could take over that place,” Mason said. “He’s pretty sharp, Cap’n.”

  “We’ll see,” Rick said. “Time enough when we get him some ammo and find out what the score is.” Someone had refilled his goblet. He drained it and set it down. “So now we have Westmen.”

  “Yeah,” Mason said. “The Time’s coming. Weather’s gone crazy. Gotta raise madweed. Feuds in Tamaerthon. Clansmen eyeing the University’s wealth. Riots and migrations in the south. The Five Kingdoms raising new armies, God knows what for. So we get to deal with Westmen. Why not?”

  Rick joined Mason in laughter. Mason fetched the wine jug and poured the last into their three glasses. Ganton had never seen the starmen act this way before. This is what it is to be a man, he thought. To do what must be done, and know that you will, and that your companions will not fail you.

  And I am here with them, but can I do what I must? Can I do what they expect of me?

  Again they raised their glasses. “Why the hell not?” Rick said, and again they laughed, and Ganton drank with them, while inside he was afraid.

 

 

24

 

 

They rode hard through foothills covered with thorny scrub. Just before midday, the stark battlements of Castle Armagh loomed up ahead. Ganton- spurred his horse and rode up alongside Rick. “Not the most comfortable of places, but yet a welcome sight,” he said.

  “Aye, Majesty.” Forty miles in the saddle. Major Assburns. Not a joke to tell the king, but bloody hell my arse is sore!

  “Your County is peaceful,” Ganton said. “I had half thought so small a party might meet up with robbers.”

  “It could have been,” Rick acknowledged. The party they’d taken to visit Lord Ajacias in the Sutmarg had been enormous: Guards, Mounted Archers, Yanulf’s train of scribes and priests and acolytes, musicians, courtiers... The intention had been to eat up Ajacias’s substance, and they’d done that. There were only ten in the group riding to Armagh. The others had been sent back to the capital, or up the Littlescarp to aid Murphy, or, like Yanulf, followed at a more leisurely pace.

  “Perhaps messengers already await us at Ar-’magh,” Ganton suggested. “From the University.”

  “Possible,” Rick conceded.

  “By Yatar, I like this!” Ganton shouted. “To ride hard, all day and half the night! To eat venison roasted over a camp fire, and sleep in furs on the ground— hardships, but we do this as friends, without advisors, without endless ceremony. I have not felt so alive since—since I led men to battle!”

  “It can be a good feeling.” Until the battle’s over, and you have to look at the butcher’s bill.

  “I wish we had gone with the Lord Mason,” Ganton said.

  Rick shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “If the Lord Mason and the Guard cannot relieve the Lord Murphy, we two would be of little use.”

  Ganton nodded seriously. “Aye. We must needs send an army, and only you and I can arrange that, so we are needed here. I know this, but it galls me to send my friends where I cannot go.”

  “Me too, sire. But it’s part of leadership, to learn to be sensible. The semaphore will tell us when Mason gets back to Castle Dravan and is on his way here. Meantime, we have plenty to do.”

  “Aye.” Ganton stood in his stirrups and turned. “Hanzar!” he shouted. “Ride ahead and tell them the Wanax of Drantos comes to guest with the Eqeta of Cheim.”

  Rick shifted his weight again. At least one of his problems was about to solve itself. In an hour he’d get a hot bath, and there was still half a tube of Preparation H...

 

 

Sergeant Chester Waibrook came out of the low doorway followed- by two Guardsmen. Their backs were bent under the load of heavy crates wrapped in mylar sheeting. Walbrook sent the Guards ahead with acolyte torchbearers, then ticked off entries in his notebook. Finally he nodded to Rick. “That’s the lot of it, sir.”

  Rick turned to the blue robed priest. “You may seal the caves.”

  Apelles motioned to his acolytes.

  Rick suppressed a grin. Somebody’s got to work. Who should it be, me? Not that I won’t get my chance, with Mason coming in tomorrow. And the Grand Council of Drantos to meet in another ten-day. First things first, get this ammunition off to Castle Dravan. It’ll be needed.

  The door was heavy wood with heavily greased thick ironwork, set firmly into carved stone lintels deep in the bowels of Castle Armagh. “This is fine work,” Rick said. “I have not seen its like in Drantos.”

  Apelles nodded. “I too was impressed, lord, and wished to have another like it, but alas, when I inquired, I found that is not to be. The mason was from the southern Roman provinces, the lands south of Tamaerthon where Roman law is weak. He had got a Roman matron with child, but fled before he could be brought before the magistrates. How he came here I know not, but so I was told.”

  “And now?”

  Apelles shook his head sadly. “He had learned nothing, for he bedded the daughter of the local village chief. Her father and brothers killed him.”

  Sergeant Walbrook chuckled. “It happens. Too bad, though. That’s a good storage place for the ammunition.” He eyed Apelles, then changed to English. “Captain, are you sure you want these locals to guard our ammo?”

  “You have a better plan? Want to sit guard over it yourself?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It would be soft duty, but I can’t spare troops for that,” Rick said. “And the rest of this place is theirs anyway.” He turned to Apelles. “We can go now.”

  Apelles motioned to the acolytes. Two carried torches and led the way uphill. The rest fell in behind Rick, Walbrook, and Apelles. Mason would have a fit, Rick thought.

  The acolytes led the way up, then turned sharply left and down again. The smell of ammonia, always present in the caves, grew stronger. The trail narrowed. It was still a full yard wide, but seemed narrower because to their left was a sheer drop into black nothingness too deep for Rick’s flashlight to illuminate.

  Across the ten-yard gap was a rock wall covered with a bulbous slimy mass hung over with icicles and ammonia droplets. There was a slight wind through the cave, enough to bring in fresh air; otherwise they would not have been able to breathe because of the ammonia.

  “Hard to believe that damn iceplant reaches all the way up to the surface,” Walbrook said. “I reckon we’re three hundred feet down.”

  “Yeah, the root system is amazing,” Rick agreed. “I’m even more amazed at how it makes ice.” The local name for the plant was “The Protector.” It was sacred to Yatar; legend had it that the nearer the rogue star came to Tran, the more efficient the icemaking capabilities of the Protector. That was interesting enough that Rick had asked for weekly measurements, but so far the data were insufficient for any real conclusions.

  The acolytes hurried them through this area. The entrance and main corridor of the cave were far too large-to be kept secret, but somewhere nearby the cave branched into a labyrinth of ammonia-filled passages that only Yatar’s servants could enter. Grain and meat were stored there in the ice, gifts to Yatar-gifts to be returned from Yatar to his people during the worst seasons of The Time.

  “We have not guarded weapons before,” Apelles said. He paused a moment as if making up his mind. “And I am told it would be more fitting that those consecrated to Vothan One-eye guard your weapons.”

  “I have heard this also,” Rick said. Not least from the Vothan priesthood. “But the servants of Yatar have always held the Caves of the Protector, and have distributed the gifts of Yatar fairly and with honor. How should I change what has always served the people and the god alike?”

  Apelles bowed to acknowledge the compliment.

  Sharp lad, Rick thought. Get my opinion now, while nobody’s listening. Next he’ll try to get me to say it in public. He’s learning his bureaucratic skills— and I can’t even complain, since we brought in Roman scribes to teach them how to set up a bureaucracy.

  Christ, I hate paperwork! But we can’t live without it. It takes a quart of wheat every day to feed a man. A bushel of oats to feed a war horse. The food has to come from somewhere. Food, wagons, weapons, ammunition—all the details of keeping an army in the field, and then there’s food for all the peasants growing madweed. We’re getting very dependent on this bureaucracy, which means the priests of Yatar. So long as Yanulf is in charge of the Yatar cult in Drantos, that’s all right. But he won’t live forever...

  As they reached the cave entrance, a junior acolyte ran up to them. “Master Apelles,” he shouted. “Master, you are to tell the Lord Rick that the Lady Tylara has arrived.”

 

 

Tylara was lovely. She ran toward him, but before she could reach him they were intercepted by a tiny dark-haired bombshell. “Daddy!” she screamed. Rick scooped Isobel up and held her high, while she laughed, and her hounds bared their canine teeth and growled that anyone, even the master, would so treat their charge.

  “She’s grown so,” Rick said.

  “They do, lord,” Erinia the nursemaid said. She sniffed, her comment on men who let their children grow up without them.

  “And the boy?” Rick asked.

  “He sleeps, lord,” Erinia said. “As well, after a ride like today’s.” She spoke with a thick Tamaerthan accent, and her manners were of the clans, not the households of Drantos. There would be no point in asking her to fetch the boy; she’d let him see his son when he woke, and not before.

  There was no talking with Tylara, either, not while Isobel was there. She clutched at Rick and laughed, and when he put her down she held his legs.

  So little time, Rick thought. So damned little time to spend with them, and so much to do.

 

“How could I not come?” Tylara said when they were alone at last. “Dravan is our home, and these Westmen menace it. Should I then stay in Tamaerthon?”

  Rick laughed. “I hoped you would come.” He went to her.

  She returned his kisses, then pushed his hands firmly away. “Later. First we talk alone. Then with the Wanax. And then we bathe.” She kissed him again. “It will not be so long…

  “Long enough.” He went back to the writing table where her last letters lay. “The University,” he said. “You say it may not be safe.”

  She shrugged. “The minor clans and lawless ones see much wealth and few soldiers in a town bordered by wild hills and lochs. They dream of more booty taken in hours than they will see in their lives. Can you blame them for those dreams?”

  “Maybe not, but we can’t let it happen. Is it safe there?”

  “For the moment. Until Mac Clallan Muir must withdraw his men. Rick, that may not be so long, unless you have gold and grain to send. If they are to feed their children, the dunnhie wassails must go and work their lands. My father cannot forever keep them as Guardsmen, and he cannot send other clans whose chiefs have no love for this place where crofters are taught to defeat warriors.”

  “I know. I suppose the first thing is to send some Drantos troops to help keep watch. Only I’d want to send Chelm soldiers, and we’ll need them all against the Westmen. I’ll need Caradoc and his archers in the west, too.”

  “Strip away Caradoc’s archers, and your University will no last the season,” Tylara said. “Your star-men will needs be alert all the time, and even so there are few enough of them to face a thousand hillmen.”

  “The University must survive, Tylara.”

  She had been ready to reply, but something in his voice stopped her. “At the expense of our lands?

  “At all expense. Tylara, every six hundred years this planet, all of it, all its peoples, are knocked back into a dark age. That has to stop. Has to, and the University is the only way.”

  “Then we must find ways to protect our University,” she said. “It too will be part of our children’s rightful inheritance. We must preserve Chelm as well— and I doubt not that I have for a husband the only man alive who can do all that.”

 

 

The rooms were perfect duplicates of Rick’s office suite in Castle Dravan: small office with writing desk, larger conference room with slab table and side boards with wine cruets. The walls either had maps painted on them, or were smooth-surfaced and whitewashed for writing. A charcoal brazier stood in one corner, and a rack for cloaks and weapons in another. Apelles had even duplicated the carvings on the chairs...

  “Within a ten-day we meet with the Grand Council,” Rick said. “And before that, we’ll meet with Lucius and Octavia and Drumold. But you’re my council.”

  Tylara nodded agreement from her place at the other end of the table. Between them sat Elliot, Gwen, Warner, and Art Mason. “This is not the Council of Chelm,” Tylara said. “Nor any lawful group. Yet—”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. This was a meeting of the starmen who held the power of gods. For a moment she seemed very vulnerable.

  “I think you’ll like Octavia,” Gwen said. “That is, if you can get Ganton to spare her for a couple of hours.” They all grinned at that; they’d hardly seen her since she arrived with Gwen and Warner.

  First came reports. University research projects. The quest for movable type- “—but I wouldn’t print any books yet,” Gwen concluded.

  “Why not?” Rick asked.

  “Because the Shalnuksis can’t possibly misunderstand their significance,” Gwen said. “They’d know they were faced with a major outbreak of technology. God knows what they’d do.”

  “They may anyway,” Rick said.

  “Also, do you want to just throw all these changes at Tran?” Gwen asked. “You’re going to lose control of the situation anyway—”

  Rick saw Tylara’s frown.

  “—and some changes are more unsettling than others.”

  “I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, keep working on it,” Rick said. He sighed heavily. “We haven’t a lot of -time. Next order of business. Elliot, you were with Parsons. He tried to run things by force. I’ve used a different policy. What do the men think of my way, now that Parsons is dead?”

  “Cap’n, I was dead wrong about you, and I’ve said so,” Elliot said.

  “I’m not after an apology, Sergeant Major. I want an assessment of the situation.”

  “Sir.” He looked at the ceiling for a moment. “Colonel Parsons had not yet attempted to plant surinomaz, but it’s reasonable to suppose he’d have done no better at that than he did in holding the land,” Elliot said. “While he was in command, we lost Corporal Hartford to guerrilla activity. Five more troopers were severely wounded. A total of twenty-three successfully deserted.

  “Since you took command, Private Reznick has been killed in action, and three others have been severely wounded, all in battles. There have been no losses to guerrillas. Ten former deserters, eleven counting Mr. Mason, have returned to duty, and nobody has run off. Troop morale is high. We have over six hundred acres in surinomaz, and I guess there’s no revolt brewing out there even if the peasants aren’t too happy about growing the stuff.” He shrugged. “On the evidence, your way works.”

  “And the men realize that?”

  “Most,” Elliot said. “All that count.”

  Meaning there are things you aren’t telling me, Rick thought. But no point to that now. “The key to ‘my method’ has been to cooperate with the legitimate rulers here.”

  “You have done more than this. You have become one of us,” Tylara said.

  “The point is, I’ve tried to regularize our positions. One key to that is Wanax Ganton. Another has been the triple alliance of Drantos, Tamaerthon, and Rome.”

  “I would place your friendship with Yanulf and the Priesthood of Yatar at equal importance,” Tylara said. “Especially as The Time approaches. Husband, no one has more admiration for you than I. I also know that you do not recite your accomplishments to gather praise from us. What is it you wish to say?”

  “I have a policy question,” Rick said. “But I wanted everybody to look at it from the right direction. The question is—what do we do about Ganton?”

  “What should we do?” Gwen asked. “I mean, what are the choices?”

  “You’ve watched him with Octavia. That’s the first question, do we encourage this match? Beyond that. Do we want him to be Caesar?”

  “Does he want to be?” Gwen asked. “Not that it would be automatic. The position isn’t really hereditary.”

  “True,” Rick said. “Look, here’s the situation. The Westmen are coming down off their plains. Lots of them. They’re pretty good troops. Probably can’t take castles—” he looked to Mason for confirmation.

  “Not by storm,” Mason said. “Not stone ones, anyway. But they can wipe up anything else. Murphy had the best ditch, logs, and earth system I’ve seen on this planet, and he wouldn’t have been able to hold much longer—would have lost already if it hadn’t been for the battle rifles.”

  “So what’d you do with him?” Warner asked.

  “He’s set up in that castle Harkon used to have,” Mason said. “With a lot of peasants to guard. He’ll be okay until the food runs out.”

  “So we can hold castles, but not the land,” Warner said. “So how do we feed those people?”

  “Going to be worse than that,” Mason said. “Below the Littlescarp things are too wet. Up on the high plains, that hot wind that comes down from the desert is drying things out.”

  “Probably the source of some of our rain,” Warner mused.

  “Could be,” Mason said. “But for sure it won’t do the crops much good. I don’t know what the climate’s going to be like, but up in the high plains it’s been the driest spring anyone can remember.”

  Gwen was studying the map on the far wall. “Could we abandon the high plains?”

  “It is my land,” Tylara said. “Mine and Rick’s.”

  “It’s nobody’s land if there’s nothing to eat,” Rick said.

  “Captain, you have to hold it anyway,” Mason said. “Otherwise the Westmen will ride right across to the Littlescarp and come down into Drantos proper. I’d rather fight them up there where they don’t have so much room to spread out.”

  “The legends are relatively clear,” Gwen said. “The Westmen swept all the way to the gates of Rome during one of the times of turmoil. Possibly the last one.”

  “So we’ll have to stop them. Only who commands?” Rick asked. “Me?”

  “You can’t,” Elliot said. “The Shalnuksis are coming, and you’ve got to deal with them. And somebody’s got to keep the surinomaz crop growing-”

  “There’s the University situation, too,” Gwen said. “It really is getting serious.”

  “Tylara told me,” Rick said.

  “Yes, the minor clans see much booty and little danger,” Tylara said.

  “Which makes for sticky diplomacy with Mac Clallan Muir, and you’ll be personally needed,” Gwen said.

  “More than that, Captain,” Elliot said. “If you send a sizable army up into drought country, the logistics are going to get sticky. With Apelles and his clerks to help I can probably handle most of the administration, but somebody’s got to enforce our decrees. There’s nobody except you to stand up to the barons.”

  “Can Caradoc command?” Warner asked.

  “I suppose he must go,” Gwen said.

  “Yes, he’ll be needed out there, but he can’t be commander,” Rick said. “He hasn’t enough rank yet. We can groom him for promotion after this. But it’ll be a long campaign.”

  “Then you certainly cannot go,” Gwen said.

  “Yeah,” Rick said. “But more than one empire has come apart because it couldn’t solve the problem of nomad light cavalry. We’ve got better armor and equipment, but Murphy says there’ll be a lot of Westmen. It’ll take discipline to beat them.”

  “For a long war that requires discipline, count not on Drantos warriors,” Tylara said. “Even those of Chelm.”

  “That’s the problem. The Westmen won’t fight until they’ve got an advantage. We can win every ten-day and get nowhere, but any defeat can be disaster,” Rick said. At Manzikert the Byzantines won the day but at dusk became scattered. They were cut up in detail. After that Alp Arslan’s Turks ravaged Asia Minor so thoroughly that when the Crusaders went through a generation later they found brambles growing in what had once been thriving cities.

  “If you want disciplined troops, you need Romans,” Gwen said. “You could ask Caesar for a legion or two. Oh-of course! There are only two men in Drantos who could command Romans. You and young Ganton. And if he leads Roman soldiers in a successful battle, then he really is eligible to become Caesar.”

  Tylara looked at Gwen in surprise, then nodded agreement. “So this is what you meant when you began. When you asked what we are to do with Wanax Ganton.” She shook her head slowly. “To ask such a question is high treason-my lord, you have been with Ganton these past four ten-days. You must know better than we what we must do. As you always do.”

  “I don’t know,” Rick said. “But I don’t see we’ve much choice. Can we put together a disciplined force without Romans?”

  “Only if you lead it,” Tylara said. The others nodded agreement.

  “So we need Romans. Can anyone command except the Wanax?”

  “Only Publius,” Tylara said. “He might command both Romans and our bheromen.” Rick winced, and Tylara nodded agreement. “Aye, he is quarrelsome and likes not ‘barbarians.’ And I think he will like even less this conceit of Ganton as Caesar.”

  “There’s an understatement,” Gwen said. “But you won’t get Publius to come west anyway. He’s got all he can do as Marselius’s proconsul.”

  “I agree,” Tylara said. “But though Romans will obey their officers, the bheromen will not follow Roman legates. And we cannot trust the defense of our western lands to Romans alone.”

  “What’s the rest of it, Captain?” Warner asked. “You obviously thought this far already.” Elliot gave Larry Warner a sour look, but still nodded agreement.

  “First thing, if we’ve got Roman armies in the west, we want Dravan held by somebody trustworthy, which means Tylara.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  They all agree. Why not? They won’t be separated from their families. Well, Caradoc will. And Reznick’s kids won’t ever see him again. We didn’t even ask them. Rick lifted a small bag onto the table. “These are Reznick’s personal effects,” he said. “Some of the stuff goes to his wives.”

  “What’ll happen to them?” Warner asked.

  “Dirdre wants to take the kids and go stay with Murphy,” Rick said. He shrugged. “She thinks the kids will do better with their father’s partner. There’s nothing left for her back south, and she’s not happy here.”

  “That’s Honeypie,” Warner said. “What about Marva?”

  “She has no plans.”

  “They don’t have any status here in Drantos,” Gwen said. “Both would be welcome at the University, where it’s not so important-”

  “We’ll ask Marva. Dirdre’s pretty well decided,” Rick said. He opened the bag. “The point is, most of his personal gear goes to Dirdre and Marva, but we decide who gets star weapons.” He took out a .45 Colt automatic and opened the action. “Unless somebody objects, this goes to Tylara. She’ll need it.”

  Rick hadn’t expected any objections, and there weren’t any. He slid it down the table. Mason caught it and handed it on to Tylara. She let it rest on the table in front of her.

  “Lafe had another personal weapon,” Rick said. “This Browning automatic. I think we ought to give it to Ganton.” He worked the action a couple of times. “Nice piece. Elliot, do you think the troops will object?”

  “I was just wondering about that, Captain,” Elliot said. “No, I don’t think so. It makes sense, the way you’ve got things set up. We can probably outdraw him anyway.. .“

  “There is perhaps a better way,” Tylara said. “Have the Ladies Dirdre and Marva give it to Wanax Ganton in the name of Lord Murphy. If he accepts it before the Council it will settle the question of their nobility—and by inference, that of all the consorts of starmen.”

  “He’s sure not going to refuse,” Rick said. “You don’t mind this wholesale elevation of commoners?”

  Tylara laughed. “What was I, except the daughter of Mac Clallan Muir, until I married the Eqeta of Chelm? Of all on Tran, I am least likely to object to giving widows their rights.”

  “All right. That’s two problems done. One more. The University. I’ll send some Drantos troops up— maybe their officers can become students. But I’m also going to ask Marselius for a cohort of Romans.”

  Everyone looked at Tylara. She spread her hands. “I like not legions coming west, and I like this no more. Romans in Tamaerthon! But I see the need, and I believe my father and my brother will also. But there may be trouble with the other clans.”

  “Maybe some of them would like to volunteer for the war,” Mason said. “Come west with Caradoc.”

  “Why would they go?” Warner asked.

  “Loot.” Mason reached into his pocket and came out with a length of intricately plaited golden wire. “The Westmen carry everything they own, and most have some gold.”

  “That is well conceived,” Tylara said. “It may be that no small number of landless ones will come.” She laughed. “I think they will cause no problems in Chelm!”

  They’d sure as hell better not, Rick thought.

  “Might even settle some of them up there,” Mason said. “There’s lots of good land gone to ruin. Be more by the time the Westmen get done. Not much rain this year, but it’s good land even so. Parts are a lot like Tamaerthon.”

  “That takes care of some of the hotheads,” Warner said. “But what we really need is to unify Tamaerthon under Mac Clallan Muir.”

  “It will not be,” Tylara said. “There is too much jealousy. Lord Rick has brought a crown to the clans, but he cannot give it to my father. Nor can he take it himself.”

  “Not and work with Ganton,” Elliot agreed.

  Another problem, Rick thought. Like a ticking time bomb. Cross that one when we come to it. “We are agreed, then?” he asked. “Then I’ll send for the others.” One meeting done, two to go.

 

 

25

 

 

The field stank, and from within it came strange sounds: snarls, wild birdsongs unlike any Rick had heard elsewhere; mysterious rustlings of leaves.

  “I would go no closer, lord,” Apelles said. The blue-robed priest gestured expansively. “This hill is safe, but closer the wild things might reach us. Lamils, grickirrer, even the birds. When they have been long within the madweed, they fear nothing, and even a scratch can be death.”

  “Necrotic products,” Rick said. He took out his binoculars and examined the field of madweed. It seemed ringed with small rotting corpses; the lamils, which ate madweed pods and died in frenetic convulsions. O.D.’d on joy, one of the mercs said. The stench was overpowering even here, fifty meters from the field.

  In front of him were hundreds of acres of madweed, the largest patch anyone in living memory had ever seen. Keeping that patch growing took work; left to itself, madweed grew until choked out by a tough, thorny vine that acted much like a predator, living on the decay of madweed and lamil alike until it produced a tangle of poisonous madweed and thorny vines impenetrable to anything larger than a rabbit. One of the major tasks of Tran farmers was to root out the madweed and destroy it with fire while being careful not to breathe the smoke.

  Here they were required to grow it, and they didn’t like the job. That was obvious: from Rick’s hill he could see a dozen mounted men-at-arms watching the field, and he knew there were more nearby.

  Rick scanned the field. Peasants wearing leather leggings and aprons and thick leather gloves moved carefully with machetes. They trimmed pathways through the plants. Behind the machete wielders came women and children with hoes to chop out the vines and other weeds. Behind each group of women and children were adolescents armed with spears. Despite the thick leather armor they moved carefully and alertly.

  Rick dismounted and moved toward the field. Apelles reluctantly followed.

  “Must we get so close?”

  “Yes.” The whole damned country is in an uproar over this stuff. I can at least see it up close. Rick contemplated the nearest plant. Three stems formed a triangle nearly ten feet on a side, and rose over six feet high. The ground inside and around the triangle was thickly overgrown with spotted, scaly creeper. There were two dead lamils inside the triangular mass. Another animal, about the size of an Earth rabbit and very much alive, peered at them from the tangled edge of the madweed plant. Its face wore an expression of complete stupidity, almost a cartoon of idiocy. One of Rick’s troops had dubbed it “dumbbunny”; it wasn’t hard to see why.

  “Careful,” Apelles whispered. He held his staff like a spear pointed toward the animal. “Back away, slowly.”

  The young priest was very serious. Rick slowly drew his pistol and slipped off the safety as he followed instructions. After a moment the dumbbunny wriggled out of sight into the creeper.

  “The leaves are not yet strong and the seed pods not yet developed,” Apelles said. “I doubt that the grickirrer would have attacked us. But one does not know, and when they are mad from chewing the pods, they fear nothing. Of those bitten by them, one of three dies in agony.”

  Rabies? Rick wondered. No Pasteur treatment here, and McCleve didn’t know how to develop it. “Pretty hard on the harvest workers,” Rick said.

  Apelles nodded.

  “Who are they?” Rick asked.

  “Some are convicts promised a full pardon after two seasons,” the priest said. “Others are landless, who have been promised fields of their own. And slaves purchasing their freedom.”

  “It can’t be much fun.”

  “No, Lord. And even with leather greaves and leather aprons, we will lose some. That is why we need cavalry, to prevent them from running away.”

  “Be certain they know they’ll be rewarded,” Rick said. They reached their horses, and Rick mounted. “Give them plenty to eat. Tell them their families will be cared for if they are killed. And see that our promises are kept.”

  “Aye, lord,” Apelles said. “We do this already.”

  “Yeah.” Rick reined in and looked back over the fields. We reward them, but it still takes cavalry to keep them working, and I damned well don’t blame them.

  He rode back to the castle at a gallop.

 

 

Mad Bear of the Silver Wolf clan kept the old custom this morning. He rose well before dawn, when the Child of Fire and the Death Wind Bringer were still in the sky. They gave more than enough light to let him find the highest place near the camp. He climbed to the top of the rise, and there raised his lance to the east, west, south, and finally north from whence came cooling winds and gentle rains. Then he kept watch until dawn.

  He had not done this since before the Warriors’ Meeting of the Silver Wolves judged that the clan should move east, into the Green Lands. If human enemies came, the four warriors who watched by night would be enough to give warning. If other enemies came, no warning or battle would save his people.

  And perhaps there would be no demons. Certainly there could be none from the west, where the Death Wind already blew. Not even a demon could live in a land where no man could travel longer than his waterskins would last.

  Now the families who had chosen him leader were camped farther east. They had not yet gone down through the Mouth of Rocks and into the Green Lands themselves, but the grass was no longer a brittle brown stubble underfoot. The horses could carry their riders when needed, and the babies no longer wailed all the day at their mother’s dry breasts until they died. It might even be possible to take old Timusha along some days’ journey farther instead of leaving her to die. She had great wisdom. Something she knew might save all of Mad Bear’s people until they reached the Green Lands.

  So Mad Bear walked out under the night sky and kept vigil. He hoped it would prove a wise use of the strength he would need for the fighting that awaited them in the Green Lands.

  He was thirsty by the time the sun rose. He’d been much thirstier in days past, and compared to the ordeal of his initiation, this thirst was nothing. He watched as the Father Sun gave color back to the plains and drove away the Child and the Bringer and all the lesser stars. A light breeze puffed against his bare chest, bringing the scent of horses and dung fires and the sounds of the camp waking to the day. For a band which numbered no more than three bands of tents and thrice as many mounts, they made much noise. They would have to make less in the Green Lands, where they would have enemies again.

  After the horses were led out to graze, Mad Bear saw Hinuta climbing up to him. He would not have admitted it to anyone save the Father Sun, but he was glad to see that he carried a waterskin.

  “What news?” he asked, after drinking.

  “A rider has come from the camp of the Two Waters, a half day north of us. He bears a message from their High Chief. Will we ride with him as far as the Mouth of Rocks? If we ride well together that far, he will let us go on with him until we reach the other Silver Wolves.”

  “He is generous. Or has he too few warriors of his own?”

  “I think it is not weakness. If he lacks men to defend his women and horses, why let those not his clansmen in among them? That is turning the wolf among the newborn colts.”

  “True.” The people who followed Mad Bear had been chosen to be the last of the Silver Wolves to leave the clan’s ancient grounds. Someone had to do this, to perform the last sacrifices to the Sky Father and the Warrior, and see that the shrines were left clean and safe from defilement. The lot fell on Mad Bear and his people, and they called themselves honored, until they finished their work and learned that the rest of their clansmen were ten days’ march ahead of them. Try as they might, they hadn’t closed the gap.

  “It would also be admitting our weakness, to shelter under the wing of another clan,” said Mad Bear.

  “If they do not know of our weakness, they are more stupid than the ranwang.” Hinuta drew his sword and sat down to work on the leather wrappings of the hilt. It was one of only five swords among the twenty warriors who followed Mad Bear, won by Hinuta’s father from a Green Lands warrior many years ago. Hinuta took good care of it, although he could not use it with much skill. It would have been dishonorable to question his right to his father’s gift. Also, he was a good-natured, generous man, who would share his last mouthful of water or sack of grain with those in need.

  Mad Bear thrust his lance point-first into the ground and prayed for the Earth to strengthen it. Then he walked slow circles around it. It was certain that they would not overtake their own clan before they reached the Green Lands. They might even have to travel for some days in the Green Lands themselves before they saw another Silver Wolf. And they were only a hand of hands of warriors.

  In the Green Lands, it was said, the warriors lived in stone houses, hard to set on fire. When they rode out to battle, all of them carried swords or long lances, and wore iron shirts to cover their bodies. They were not cunning in war, so it was not hard to force them to fight against odds. Unless you could do that, however, they were very hard to kill. And each stone house might hold several hands of warriors, and there were many stone houses in the Green Land.

  It was still possible that the chief of Two Waters meant treachery. But it did not seem likely, as long as the rest of the Silver Wolves were far out of his reach, ready to take vengeance. It was very certain that the Green Lands did not seem a good place for a small band to wander alone. At least they should have a strong friend close at their backs.

  “We will ride with the Two Waters,” Mad Bear said finally. “Or at least we will, as long as no warrior of ours has an unjudged blood-feud with any warrior of theirs.”

  “The Two Waters people have long memories,” said Hinuta. “You should ask old Timusha. She will know.”

  That seemed good advice, but when they got back to camp they found the women keening around the tent where Timusha lay dead; she had never awakened. Mad Bear felt uneasy. To have her die as he was coming to ask her advice and wisdom seemed an evil omen.

  He would keep watch all tonight, with the point of his lance propped under his chin to prick his flesh if he so much as nodded. Perhaps Timusha’s death was a punishment for his not watching according to custom. He would also give her a horse sacrifice beside her grave, although she was a woman and not a warrior. He had been ready to listen to her as though she were a warrior, so perhaps it could be said that made her one.

 

 

The head of the column had vanished over the hills to the west before the rear guard left Castle Armagh. Within an hour the road was obscured by dust, and from the castle tower Rick and Gwen saw only occasional glints of sunlight on a helmet or pike—or caliver barrel. As the last troops left the castle, the semaphore towers linking Armagh with Dravan came alive, warning the garrisons ahead to be ready for the main army.

  For a while they had been able to see the flash of red at the column’s fore: Caradoc’s Roman cloak, a gift from Publius Caesar. With it had come other gifts for Caradoc: a new back-and-breastplate from Drum-old, and Tylara’s gift, a magnificent black gelding fit for a knight or greater. Mounted on his new charger and dressed in his finest, he looked every bit the warrior commander, and his troops liked that. Rick anticipated no problems promoting him after this campaign, and he looked forward to it. He could use another trustworthy general.

  Rick watched the Mounted Archers until they rounded the flank of a hill and vanished. Below in the castle courtyard, sergeants’ voices rasped. “Line up and keep your eyes front, you lamils! Now it’s back to work!”

  The newly raised Second Company of the Guards was about to march out for archery practice. So far they seemed to be shaping up fairly well. Certainly the cadre sent from Mason’s First Company was working hard enough! They had incentive, of course-the better they did, the more secure their promotions. When rank meant not only honor but a better chance for yourself and your family to live through The Time, you worked hard to hold on to it.

  It had been hard to persuade some of the veterans that there was honor in staying behind to train new troopers. They all wanted to go out with the column. Rick shook his head and turned back to watching the road.

  After Caradoc and his personal guard came more troops, mostly Romans under their legate Titus Frugi. Tylara had been surprised at Caesar’s choice of commanders, but Rick thought it made excellent sense. Frugi was a good general; and he couldn’t possibly be tempted to revolt when at the head of a single legion stationed deep within the territory of Marselius’s most powerful friends.

  Finally, nearly a mile behind the column’s point riders, rode Wanax Ganton with Camithon, Tylara and her children, and Lady Octavia. Perhaps because the ladies were traveling with him, it had not been dif~* ficult to persuade Ganton to take a safe place in the middle of the column rather than be at its front. “Roman generals do not risk their troops by acts of foolish bravado,” Rick had said, and perhaps that had also stung the young king.

  “He’ll do,” Rick said aloud.

  Gwen had put down the binoculars now that Caradoc was out of sight. She looked very attractive in her skirt cut off just below the tops of her boots. It would have been thought scandalously short, except that she’d started a new fashion; now half the young women of Drantos had whacked off their skirts. “Who’ll do?” she asked.

  “Ganton.”

  “I think you’re right,” Gwen said. “He seems sensible enough.” She giggled. “Handsome, too, but I feel sorry for his lady friend just now. I hope he doesn’t get over-amorous for a few weeks-not until he’s willing to take that pistol off! I’m sure he’d wear it to bed.”

  “I can’t imagine that Octavia is sleeping with him,” Rick said.

  “Not yet,” Gwen agreed. “But don’t make book for the summer. She likes him. Sure, he’s a good catch, and the throne of Drantos is probably safer than anything Caesar’s relatives can expect just now. But Rick, she really likes him.”

  “Interesting. He’s pretty thoroughly smitten too. Can it be we jaded old dynastic manipulators have made a love match?”

  “I hope so,” Gwen said seriously. She sighed. “Or do we believe in love matches any more?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. You’ve got Tylara—would you stay with her if she were a peasant’s daughter?”

  “Gwen, I hated seeing her ride off today!” And my children—

  “That’s not what I asked. You know damned well you wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t been important,” Gwen said. “Love and marriage. Or marriage and then love. Or just marriage. Any of those seems to work, doesn’t it?”

  The middle of the column vanished over the crown of a far hill. Just as they disappeared, Rick thought he made out long dark hair tossing in the wind, and a wave of her hand. He closed up the binoculars. “I thought you were in love with Caradoc.”

  “What’s love?” she asked. “I respect him. I care for him, and he protects me. Sometimes from myself.”

  The shadows were getting long. Rick led the way down from the tower. It stood above his apartments. An oil lamp had been lighted at his table, and a large pitcher of wine stood next to it. “Dinner in an hour or so,” Rick said. “Glass of wine first?”

  “Sure.”

  He poured and handed her a goblet. “I really thought you were in love with Caradoc.”

  “Oh, let it alone, Rick. I am, I guess. But—well it’s not really the same. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t get on a flying saucer for Caradoc. But he isn’t going to ask me, either. And what about you? Don’t you sometimes get enough of your raven-haired contessa’s dynastic ambitions?”

  “Come on, she’s wonderful! Who else could I trust to hold the strongest castle on Tran?”

  “So do you keep her for love or advantage? You needn’t answer. Just as I don’t have to answer you.” She sipped the wine. “This is quite good.”

  “Yeah, it turns out Sergeant Lewin used to live in the California wine country. He’s been giving them tips.”

  She sipped again. “Rick, when will they come?”

  “Who?”

  “The Shainuksis.”

  “I’ve got skywatchers looking for satellites from Tamaerthon to Dravan-you’ve got as good an idea as I have, Gwen.”

  “Mostly I’m reminding you of something. Wine. Hammer mills. Printing presses. If they see real changes on Tran, they’ll do a lot to wipe them out.”

  Rick sat heavily. “Yeah, I know. But we have to do something for these people! Gwen, I was out there in the surinomaz fields last week. Week. Hah. We don’t even have weeks. But I was out there, listening politely while Apelles told me about the cavalry patrols that herd the peasants back to work-have you seen surinomaz? I’d imagine working in that stuff is as close to hell as you can get. And I’m making people do it!”

  “Rick, you’ve no choice—”

  “Like hell I don’t. I could run. Vanish somewhere.”

  “That wouldn’t be very smart,” Gwen said. “In the first place, you wouldn’t like it much, hiding out. But suppose you did. Are you mad enough to suppose that one of your men wouldn’t try growing surinomaz? Or that any of them would be gentler than you? Do you really think anyone cares what happens to peasants?”

  “You do.”

  “Maybe a little,” she said.

  “I think that’s the worst of it,” Rick said. “Nobody really gives a damn. Even Tylara thinks I’m crazy, worrying about people who aren’t clansmen—”

  “It’s going to get worse, too,” Gwen said. “And you’re avoiding the subject, which is how far can you go in making changes before the Shalnuksis bomb you out?”

  “Yeah, but look, if we disperse knowledge far enough, the Shalnuksis won’t dare try to destroy everything. They’d have to drop enough bombs to make the planet uninhabitable, and that would ruin their little drug racket. They can’t risk that…

  “Can’t they?” She shrugged. “Rick, I don’t know. Les may have known, but he didn’t tell me that much.

  I do know the Shalnuksis are afraid of wild humans.

  Another thing, suppose what we do—”

  Her look of fear was contagious. Rick automatically lowered his voice. “Suppose what?”

  “That what we do gets back to the Confederacy. That they find out Tran exists. Then it wouldn’t be Shalnuksi businessmen we’d have to deal with. It might be somebody who thinks this whole planet is a cancer!”

  “Christ almighty! But how would they know?”

  She laughed. “A hundred ways. The Shalnuksis tell them. They send a human pilot and he tells them. Inspector Agzaral decides to make a new deal. Rick, I don’t know, I can only make guesses from what Les told me.”

  “Yeah. But—Gwen, I don’t know either, but I do know I’ve got to do something!”

  “To assuage your conscience,” she said. “You’re forcing the peasants to work the fields, so you need a higher cause to justify it.”

  “I—yeah, I guess that is it,” Rick said.

  “So why are you ashamed of being ethical?” Gwen asked. “For that matter, you have a higher cause. The University, for example. Rick, did you ever read a book called Connections?”

  “I saw several of the TV episodes.”

  “Well, I wish we had that book,” Gwen said. “But I can remember some of it. How glass-making led to a shortage of wood, and that made coal valuable, and coal mining needed pumps, and that resulted in the steam engine. And acetylene, and illuminating gas, and coal tar—Rick, we’ve already changed life on Tran, it’s just that you can’t see the changes from orbit. Unless you’ve studied Earth history, you wouldn’t see them no matter how closely you looked. There are a hundred students who think now. Maybe not well, but they ask questions, they wonder why things happen, and they know the difference between chemistry and alchemy. We’ll send them all over the planet.”

  “That’s your work.”

  “No, it’s yours,” Gwen said. “I know who keeps the University going. If it survives—”

  “Your University has to survive,” Rick said.

  “Ours. And I want it to, but we can’t be sure.”

  “How will they know?”

  “They’re not above capturing and interrogating you,” Gwen said. ‘Not at all.”

  “I know. But I’m not going near them without minigrenades. Their detectors don’t seem to find them—didn’t on the Moon, anyway. Pull the pin on one of those and they’ll have to scrape the walls.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “You’d do it, too. Will the others?”

  “Elliot will, I think.”

  “What if they take a local?”

  “They might do that. But most of the Shainuksis are lazy, Gwen. You didn’t know the local languages when you landed. How much time will they put in learning? And most locals don’t know about the University, and the ones that do don’t know where it is— how many can even read a map?”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said. She got up and paced around the room. “You—don’t even mind,” she said, “You like for me to know things you don’t.”

  “Sure—”

  “It’s not sure at all,” Gwen said. “All my life men said they wanted me to be smart, but when I showed I could do something better than they could, they left me.” She stood at the window and watched the darkening sky. “You’re not like that. Why?”

  “Too much to do, I guess.” He got up and joined her at the window, knowing what would happen next, not wanting it to happen but unable to stop himself.

  She turned toward him. “It wasn’t fair, you know.”

  “What wasn’t?” he asked.

  “Meeting Tylara just after we were put on this planet. Les—expected us to stay together. I think we would have, if we’d had a chance. If we hadn’t met her so soon.”

  “And?” He put his hands on her shoulders.

  “I have to go back to the University tomorrow.”

  She moved closer to him, and after that they didn’t talk at all.

 

 

He woke startled and sat bolt upright. Gwen was on the other side of the room, fully dressed. “Hello,” she said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To dinner, of course.” She came over to sit on the edge of the bed. “We’re both crazy, you know that? Caradoc would kill you. He’d have to try. And Tylara would have me boiled over a slow fire.”

  Rick shuddered. “Sorry. That image is just a bit too graphic. She might do it.”

  “Adds a bit of spice, doesn’t it? Stolen fruit’s the sweetest and all that.”

  “Gwen—”

  “No,” she said. “I do not want to talk about it. Rick, we’re not in love, but we’ll always be a bit special to each other, and in this crazy place maybe that’s all we can ask for. And now I’m going down to supper, and after a decent interval you’ll come join me, and we’ll just plain forget this happened.”

  “Do you want to forget?”

  “No,” she said. “No, my very dear.”

  “Would you get aboard a flying saucer for me?”

  “I don’t have to say.” She jumped away from him before he could catch her. “See you at supper.”

 

 

PART SIX

 

 

Wanax and Warlord

 

 

26

 

 

Tylara do Tamaerthon, Eqetassa of Cheim and Justiciar of Drantos, looked about the great hall of Castle Dravan with feelings of satisfaction. This was home as it should be, lacking only her husband. Her guards stood like statues along the far wall. The floors were newly scrubbed, the tapestries newly cleaned. Her well-trained servants were carrying away the remains of an excellent meal and had brought in flagons of the new wine. There was nothing to apologize for.

  Not that Wanax Ganton noticed. He had eyes only for the Lady Octavia, and might have eaten straw from filthy plates for all he knew. Soon enough he wou1d leave the table, to find some excuse to be alone with the Roman girl. Tylara smiled faintly. Octavia knew what she was doing. Or she’d better. She seemed genuinely to care for the young Wanax.

  And he for her. Tylara fingered the Colt at her waist. I believe he would give his binoculars for her though possibly not the Browning pistol, she thought. Rick wished me to encourage this match, but in truth I have little enough to do.

  Caradoc, with the young Roman officer Geminius, sat across from Wanax Ganton. The archer seemed nervous. Was it because he was at table with his superiors? Tylara didn’t think so. There was too much of Tamaerthon in Caradoc son of Cadaric; he wouldn’t be awed by royalty—especially royalty not officially present. Someone had told Ganton of a strange custom, incognito Rick had called it, whereby a Wanax might travel as an eqeta, or even a bheroman, and be treated as such, even though everyone knew he was really the Wanax. It seemed strange, but Ganton had insisted, and it seemed to work. Tylara doubted that Caradoc was much agitated by the Count of the North.

  And Caradoc certainly isn’t afraid of me, she thought. We grew up together. If my first husband hadn’t been shipwrecked in the Garioch, our friendship might have become something more than that. How little I knew, how few my ambitions as daughter of Mac Clallan Muir! I might easily have wed the son of my father’s henchman...

  A sudden thought struck her. Caradoc was one of two living men who had seen her naked. No, five if she counted the priests of Yatar who delivered her children, but why should she? They’d not looked upon her as men do at women. Nor had Caradoc, when he’d rescued her from Sarakos’s bedchamber. Involuntarily she shuddered at the memory of Sarakos and his crone torturer.

  My first time to lie with a man. She shuddered again. And to this day I must drink wine before I bed my husband, and that is shameful, for I love him as few women can ever have loved a man. Yet he knows, and he feels the loss. What can I do? Yatar has given us so much, we cannot complain that he holds back the final drops from the cup.

  But if Caradoc had not come when he did! Involuntarily she nodded in satisfaction as she remembered the dead guards outside her room. Caradoc had killed four soldiers and taken her away through secret passages, out of this very castle.

  “Coronel Caradoc,” she called, using the new title of rank that Rick had conferred on him. “You have won a great victory. Tell us of it. As hostess I command it.” And that’s why he was nervous! He doesn’t like to talk about himself, and of course he has to. “Footman! Fill Coronel Caradoc’s cup, that he will not thirst as he tells us of his victory.”

 

 

He tells the story well, Tylara thought. But he tells more than he thinks.

  The situation didn’t sound good at all. The Westmen rode where they wanted to go, and their horses were so much faster than Drantos horses that they could seldom be brought to battle against their will— and they would not fight willingly unless they held an advantage.

  “And so the Lord Mason conceived a plan,” Caradoc said. “I regret that he is not here to tell of it.”

  Mason and Camithon stayed at the new army camp on the high plains, while Caradoc and Geminius and a number of Roman supply officers came down to Dravan for supplies. There’d been no need for Wanax Ganton to come with Caradoc, but Octavia’s presence had been an irresistible attraction.

  “A wagon train,” Caradoc said. “With a cavalry escort, to travel north and west, riding quickly as if hoping to avoid the Westmen. And certainly it was a clever ruse, for within two days the Westmen saw us and began to stalk us.”

  And that must have been unnerving, Tylara thought. To be followed by enemies you could not strike...

  “At first they sought to draw the escort away from the wagons, to induce us to fight at a time and place of their choosing. Fortunately they did not succeed.”

  Not fortune, Tylara thought. Not fortune, but good planning. Most of the cavalrymen were either Romans or Guardsmen; there would be few of the armored nobility of Drantos in that group, not if Mason had planned it. Yes, and Ganton knows that. Does he understand why?

  “Arekor, the priest of Vothan who lived so long among them, said they do not like to fight at night. It is a matter of their gods and demons. Yet we did not know how much of this to believe, and we made camp more in the Roman manner than our own. But perhaps Arekor spoke truth, for although we heard their cries and saw their camp fires, we saw none of them at night.”

  He took another sip of wine. “Of course we had no real hopes they would attack a strong camp, and they did not. They waited until we had loaded the wagons and were well away from the camp, then struck at us to cut us off from it.” He paused to let a steward refill his cup.

  “Hundreds of them,” Geminius said. He was a young man, and his speech was careful and precise in the Roman manner. A young lordliñg, higher in rank than his years deserved, Tylara thought. Yet the other soldiers thought him competent enough. “I confess I was near unnerved,” Geminius continued. “By Lucifer’s hooves! They came swiftly toward us, a veritable flood, and there stood Caradoc, the only calm man in the column! On they came, and still Caradoc did nothing! I had thought we waited too long.”

  “The Lord Mason had said ‘Wait until you see the whites of their eyes,’ and in truth we came near that,” Caradoc said. “Then we threw off the covers from the wagons, and the archers and musketmen hidden inside them fired as if they were one man. The Lord Mason had said that first firing would have the greatest effect-”

  “By the Lord he was right,” Geminius said. “The slaughter among the horses was great. As great as when the Lord Mason used his star weapons at Pirion.”

  “You were at Pirion?” Wanax Ganton demanded. “With Publius?”

  Octavia laughed, then busied herself with a napkin.

  “Nay, lord, with Legate Valerius and the Eighth Legion,” Geminius said.

  “Hah!” Ganton banged his flagon against the table. “I led the chivalry of Drantos that day!”

  “Lord, I remember it. Was not your helm golden? Attended by a black-clad guardsman carrying a banner of the Fighting Man?”

  “Aye!”

  “And you rode next to a gold-bedecked barbarian riding a great black stallion and swinging the largest sword of my memory,” the Roman said. “He was attended by the Great Banner of Tamaerthon.”

  “Aye,” Ganton said. “I carried the banner of my house, not that of Drantos, for the Lord Rick was supreme that day. Ho, you do recall!”

  Unlikely, Tylara thought. But the story has been told often enough, and what detail would he not have heard by now? My father is easily enough described—

  Ganton’s face fell. “My only battle,” he said. “And I interrupt Caradoc telling of his victory. Forgive me, Coronel.”

  Caradoc looked embarrassed.

  They have had too much to drink, Tylara thought. I should end this night before one says too much.

  “Come, finish your tale,” Ganton said.

  “There is little more to tell,” Caradoc said. “As instructed, we fired at the horses. Westmen on foot are no match for Tamaerthan archers.”

  “Nor for Drantos warriors,” Geminius added.

  “Aye,” Caradoc said. “And then we brought forward the wagon with the Great Gun. Pinir the son of the smith fired it with his own hand, and lo! it did not burst. It made great slaughter among the horses of the Westmen, for it was loaded with all manner of small stones, aye and lengths of chain.”

  What Caradoc called the Great Gun was what Rick called a “four-pounder.” Tylara had three in the arsenal of Castle Dravan. More importantly, she had five larger guns capable of destroying siege towers. Dravan well defended had never been taken; held by a handful, it had stood against Sarakos until he brought up great siege engines. With the new guns even those would fail...

  “And thus we defeated them,” Caradoc said. “I fear it does not make a great tale.”

  “But a great victory,” Ganton said. “Would I had been there.”

  “You will see more of battles than ever you want,” Octavia said quietly. “And soon enough, 1 think.”

  “Lord, a great victory indeed,” Geminius said. “And by Our Lord’s death, more of a tale than Caradoc would have you know! The sound of the guns frightened our horses, and when the Great Gun was fired, many were in panic. Our victory was nearly defeat, for the Westmen began to circle and dart toward us, and there was naught to hold them save the Tamaerthan archers, for the guns are not quickly readied for another volley, and our own cavalry was useless! Aye, even Romans! My own units, I confess, veterans all, were in disarray.

  “Then suddenly, through the noise of battle, all could hear Caradoc. He vaulted into the saddle and rode round, rallying Roman and Drantos horse alike. ‘Follow me!’ he shouted in a voice like thunder, and he led us through and behind the Westmen, thus holding them in play until the archers and pikemen and musketeers could finish their death work. In truth it is Caradoc’s victory we celebrate here.”

  “Hah,” Ganton said. “And what have you to say of this, Coronel?”

  “Lord—”

  “Come now, my lords,” Tylara said. “In Tamaerthon it is the custom to boast of one’s deeds. It is not so in Drantos. Which customs would you have him honor, my Lord of the North?”

  Ganton took another deep drink of wine. “I will find bards to tell of his action, then,” he said. “He should be rewarded. Are there no bards to sing of this?”

  Octavia moved closer to Ganton. Tylara couldn’t hear, what she said. Suddenly Ganton shouted. “Aye! My lady, my lords, it has been greatly convenient to be here as a bheroman. I see, though, there are times when it is well to be Wanax.” He stood. “Morrone! Morrone, where are you? Ho, Guards! The Wanax of Drantos requires his Companion! Find Lord Morrone!”

  “Here, sire!” Morrone rushed into the hall. “Forgive me, I was napping in the corner—”

  “Cease prattling and fetch me my sword!” Ganton shouted. “Quickly, quickly!”

  “Aye, sire.” Morrone ran to the far end of the hall and returned with a broadsword.

  Ganton took it. “Coronel Caradoc, come forth! Kneel!”

  “Aye, sire—”

  “My lady, have I your consent?” Ganton shouted to Tylara.

  “Aye, sire!”

  “Then I, Ganton, Son of Loron, Wanax of Drantos, declare and proclaim Caradoc son of Cadaric worthy of the honors of chivalry.” He struck Caradoc on each shoulder with the flat of the sword. “Arise, my lord. You shall have suitable income as befits your new station; and henceforth you shall be known as Lord Caradoc do Tamaerthon.”

 

 

The pen wrote well. A space pen, Rick had called it when he gave it to her, but he had not explained what that meant. But it was certainly easier to use than a gull quill.

 

 

And so it was done. And I think well done, my husband. Caradoc has ever been a friend to this house, and I cannot believe that if Ganton gave him every honor within his gift he would change his loyalty. More, his interest runs with ours, as he is married to Gwen.

 

And a good thing, Tylara thought. Gwen must always be a temptation to Rick. She speaks his languages, and with her he can say what he will. Tylara looked to the mirror on the table. I think I am prettier than she. But- She looked to the bed and set her lips in a grim line. It is likely she is more skilled in the ways women attract men. Especially starmen. Yet men hold honor high. Surely Rick will not betray his friend and companion, his trusted henchman?

  He has known other women since we were married. It must be. But he has been careful. There have been no stories, nothing whispered through the halls. Two women have claimed to carry Rick’s bastards, but they have been proved to be liars. One could not have been in the same city with Rick when her child was conceived! And the other did not know of the strange surgery that prevails in his homeland.

  She thought of Rick with another woman, and writhed. No matter how hard she tried, when she imagined Rick straining and groaning with another, the face beneath him was Gwen’s. Enough! She lifted the pen again.

 

 

But though Caradoc has won a victory, I think the war goes not well. The Westmen ride where they will, and we hold only castles and walled towns. There will be no crops throughout much of the high plains. The Roman scribes will tell you what now is required to feed the army and its horses. I cannot think those numbers will please you, nor will they please the peers of Drantos. The taxes of this war, added to what you require to keep your fields of madweed, would have ruined us if we had not the new plows. They may ruin us yet, though the first harvest in the Cumac has yielded more than we previously took in two. And the new forges and foundries produce wagons to carry the grain, so that we are able to send it to the high plains for the army. Yet I fear there will come a time when we have not wagons, horses, and grain in the same place at the same time.

  The Westmen are the death of the earth. Arekor, the priest of Vothan who lived among them, has told Caradoc–Lord Caradoc!—that they do this from policy. They burn and destroy, and pull down not only buildings and walls, but the very terraces, and stop up wells; for they live on so little that they can live in devastated lands when none of their enemies can. Thus do they keep the lands above the Westscarp in desert, and thus will they make desert of our lands above the Littlescarp if we cannot expel them or kill them.

 

 

She set the pen down and got up from the table. The next part would be very hard to write. A flagon of wine stood on a side table near her bed, and she filled a goblet.

  I seldom drink wine, she thought. She looked at the empty bed. Except at night, before I go to my husband. Even now, even now, though he is gentle and kind and loves me. And though I love him with all my heart, I know I pleasure him little that way, though he says this is not so.

 

My husband, as you desired, we held a Council of Cheim to consider defenses against the Westmen. Hilon the blacksmith of Clayton, who sits in my council—

 

 

She frowned and crossed through the last two words.

 

--in our Council of Chelm, proposed that instead of supporting the army in the high plains, his town will buy the knowledge of how to make Guns, and pay to have the burghers taught in their use, and will buy firepowder.

  He spoke thus: “If we put Guns on the town wall, let the Westmen come to us. We will break their teeth. Much of that and they will cease to chew on us.” You may imagine this was not greeted with joy by bheroman Traskon son of Trakon in whose lands Clayton lies.

  For it cannot be long before the towns find ways to buy these Guns, and then they will be as safe as Dravan, and how will their lords rule then? And now I think, nor town, nor Dravan is safe! For I had believed that with the Guns Dravan would be safe from siege towers, yet how are we safe from Guns which can batter down our very walls?

  My husband, great and momentous changes are upon us, and I no longer know what I must do to protect our children. I have often thought you know not enough of Drantos and Tamaerthon and this world of Tran to rule it. Yet if you do not, no one does, for only you know what has been unleashed upon us and what I will live to see.

 

 

She tapped the table with impatience, searching for the words to tell him of her fear without sounding afraid. Finally she wrote again.

 

For now you are my life as never before. Always I have loved you. Now I must needs obey you, for I know not what else I can do to preserve what is ours. And though I have not always understood, yet I have tried to make your work my work, and your cause my cause; and now that must be so no matter how little I understand.

  My fear is that I shall be asked to do that I cannot do. But I am comforted, for you will never ask of me more than I can bear.

  My lord, my life, my love, I am,

  Tylara.

 

 

27

 

 

Rick cursed as he drank the bitter caffeine drink that for want of a better word he called tea.

  His orderly watched the footman carry out the soiled breakfast dishes, then turned back as Rick cursed again. “My lord?” Jamiy asked.

  “Nothing,” Rick growled. “Leave me.”

  “Aye, lord.” The orderly hesitated. “You are to see Chancellor Yanulf this morning.”

  “And then Sergeant Major Elliot, and after that I have letters to dictate,” Rick said. “Yeah, I know. Give me this much time.” He held his fingers half an inch apart, indicating about ten minutes: the time it would take for a standard beeswax candle to burn down that far. Time measurement was not very accurate on Tran...

  What the hell does Yanulf want, coming here from Edron without notice? I’ll find out soon enough. Another goddam day of work and another night alone. Why didn’t I figure a reason for Gwen to stay- Because, you damned fool, your wife would kill you. More likely kill Gwen, and it isn’t just a figure of speech. Besides, it isn’t Gwen you want, it’s Tylara. Remember?

  Yeah, and it really is. Only—

  Only nothing, buster. Forget it! What’s next? Your wife doesn’t understand you? Tell that one often enough, and it’ll be true. Or maybe that’s what you want? You could do it. You have the guns. Leave Tylara, go to the University and shack up with Gwen. You could change the whole history of the planet that way. Of course, all this stuff you’ve worked for goes down the tubes, but what the hell, a good lay is worth a lot, right?

  Sure, with Isobel and Makail growing up to hate me. There’d also be the Caradoc problem.

  “Hell,” he said aloud. “It’s not even tempting.” He drained the cup of lukewarm bitter tea.

 

 

Yanulf was attended by Apelles and two acolytes. The acolytes were dismissed at Rick’s study door, but Apelles came in with the Chancellor. Yanulf looked older, as if he’d aged a year in the past few months, but his voice was as hearty as ever. He greeted Rick warmly, and Rick stood to clasp the priest’s forearm before they sat at the conference table.

  “And what brings you from the capital?” Rick asked.

  “Not good news, I fear,” Yanulf said.

  “I didn’t think it would be.”

  “This could be a matter for the Eqeta’s Court,” Yanulf said. “It would have been, had not Apelles sent the matter to me.”

  Rick frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Technically, he has interfered with your justice,” Yanulf said. “Yet I see not what else he could have done.”

  Rick warily eyed the two priests. “Why not tell me?” he demanded.

  Apelles looked to Yanulf, then back at Rick. “It is a matter that I cannot resolve, lord.” He looked down at the table, then across at the maps, finally back to Rick. “A petition of right, on behalf of Nictoros, Priest of Yatar, was brought to me three ten-days ago. As is my duty, I sent forth writs inquiring into the matter, intending to lay it before you in open court.” He paused again.

  “And instead you wrote the Chancellor.”

  “No, lord.”

  “You just said you wrote to Yanulf!”

  “Aye, lord, but I did not write to the chancellor. I referred the matter to Yanulf, Archpriest of Yatar, for it is a matter which touches the very honor of our god!”

  O Lord, Rick thought. What are we in for? The classic confrontation between Church and State? Becket and Henry II, played out here? “Suppose you tell me about it.”

  Again Apelles looked to Yanulf, who nodded slightly. “Nictoros was born villein,” Apelles said. “Within the lands of Bheroman Enipses. During the rebellion against Wanax Loron, Nictoros fled the land and took refuge with Galdaf, Priest of Yatar.”

  “Many fled in those times,” Rick said. “And I think I see the problem. Enipses is a loyalist. Supported Ganton during the civil wars, supports Tylara and me now. The baron wants his villein back, and the church won’t turn loose their priest. That’s an easy one—

  “He was found to have both intelligence and a desire to serve Yatar,” Apelles said, “and was made an acolyte, and in due time consecrated as Priest of Yatar. He later found favor with Bheroman Enipses, who appointed him to be priest in his own household.”

  Maybe it’s not so simple, Rick thought.

  “The war continued. Wanax Sarakos, aided by the starmen serving Colonel Parsons, invaded the land and drove Bheroman Enipses from his castle. Nictoros remained, as was his duty, and tended the caves beneath the castle. He fled only when the usurper placed there by Sarakos dismissed him.”

  “He fled to Dravan,” Yanulf said. “And assisted me there. And learned from me. He learned much about the Time, and what must be done, and showed quick wit and understanding.”

  And you liked him, Rick thought. “I see.” He tried to keep his voice noncommittal.

  Apelles continued the story. “Then you, lord, defeated Sarakos and brought the starmen to your obedience. When Bheroman Enipses returned, he dismissed Nictoros as priest of his household, saying that Nictoros should have accompanied him to exile rather than remaining within the castle. Nictoros departed, but you, lord, were pleased to appoint him priest in the Eqeta’s free town of Yirik, where there are also extensive caves and a large temple of Yatar.”

  Rick looked to Yanulf. “I don’t recall the appointment. On your advice?”

  “Yes. The order was signed by the Eqetessa. I did not agree with Bheroman Enipses, but certainly there was no need for dispute. Yirik was without a priest, and I had high regard for Nictoros’s abilities.” Yanulf fingered the medallion hanging from his golden chain. “It was a mistake,” he said finally. “I should have sent Nictoros to a village beyond Enipses’s domains. Perhaps even outside Chelm. But I did not. Continue, Apelles.”

  “Then, lord, came your decree, requiring each bheroman to send laborers for the madweed. And other decrees, requiring grain to feed the madweed workers. These taxes fell heavily on Enipses, for he had lost many of his villeins during the wars, and thus last autumn much of his grain rotted unharvested before the rains destroyed it.

  “Then came the Westmen, and still more taxes; but meantime The Time approaches, and Nictoros attempted to prepare as commanded by Yanulf.”

  Uh-oh. I see it now, Rick thought. And—

  “Bheroman Enipses accused Nictoros of interfering with the collection of taxes; of taking grain belonging to the Wanax, which is a treason. But instead of applying to you for a writ to allow his constables inside Yirik, he waited with patience. This was rewarded, for Nictoros foolishly travelled beyond the town walls, and Enipses had men waiting, who brought Nictoros before the bheroman’s court. He was found guilty; and sentence of death was passed. But, because the grain taken was placed in the caves of Yatar, and because Nictoros was a priest, the sentence was remitted to enslavement.” Apelles shrugged. “He was sent here to labor in the fields of madweed. You may imagine my amazement when as I inspected the fields I was greeted in ways known only to the priesthood, and I was given a properly drafted petition of right.”

  That would be a surprise. The petition of right was a monopoly of the Yatar priesthood. It implored a ruler—bheroman, eqeta, even Wanax—to obey his own laws. It didn’t have to be granted, but once it was, the matter was for the courts.

  “I still don’t understand. If you present me that petition, I’ll certainly grant it. Let right be done. Then it’s a matter for judges. Bheroman Enipses may not like it, but—” He stopped, because Yanulf was shaking his head. “What now?”

  “If your judges examine the matter, they will find for Bheroman Enipses,” Yanulf said. “Nictoros does not deny taking grain gathered for taxes and placing it in the caves. Nor would he return it when Enipses demanded it. Nor did the bheroman enter the caves, nay nor threaten to, but with great respect pronounced that what was done was done, and new grain must be gathered for the Wanax.”

  “But he arrested the priest,” Rick said. “I see. But—if he’s guilty, whatever possessed him to send in a petition of right?”

  “Perhaps he believes he was right,” Yanulf said. “Perhaps I believe he was right. But it is not law.”

  “Tear up the petition,” Rick said. “I’ll issue a pardon. Or you can draft one for the Wanax to sign.”

  “Would it were so simple,” Yanulf said. “But it is not. The priests of Vothan know of this. They are asking Bheroman Enipses to dismiss all the priests of Yatar within his lands.”

  “In whose favor?” Rick asked.

  “Perhaps they will not be replaced at all,” Yanulf said. “Or perhaps by those who mouth the words of service to Yatar, but own allegiance to Bacreugh.”

  “Who the devil is Bacreugh?”

  “Bacreugh is a priest of Yatar, from an order formerly known mainly in Tamaerthon. He is allied with Mac Bratach Bhreu. A kinsman, in fact.”

  “I see. Drumold’s only real rival. But why is he followed in Drantos?”

  “He preaches words comfortable to the nobility,” Apelles said. “And he has made strong alliance with the priesthood of Vothan.”

  “More,” Yanulf said. “You have been told of the vision of the Roman Bishop Polycarp?”

  “Yes. Yatar and Jehovah are one. I wonder how the Jews will feel about that. . .“

  “What are Jews?” Yanulf asked.

  “Followers of Jehovah, but who believe the Christ has not yet come. They have strong dietary laws, and passionately believe there is only one God.”

  “There are no such in Drantos,” Yanulf said.

  “And now that I think of it, it’s not likely there are any on Tran.” Until now. How many of the mercs

  are Jewish? Bilofsky, I suppose. Lewin. Goodman. Schultz, only he’s still down south. None of them seemed particularly devout, but you never know.

  “The priesthood of Vothan laughs at Polycarp,” Yanulf said. “And they do not favor the Roman alliance. Now through the followers of Bacreugh they seek control of the caves of Yatar. Bheroman Enipses may well yield those under his castle.”

  “Bacreugh and his order should be suppressed. And the priests of Vothan made humble,” Ap’elles said.

  Oh, no, you don’t. You won’t get me involved in religious persecutions. “I do not agree. But were it desirable, it would not be possible. Vothan has powerful friends.” Including some of my mercs. They may not be believers, but they’re superstitious enough. And a lot of the army is devoted to Vothan, or at least scared of him.

  “You see now why this should not be seen in open court,:’ Yanulf said. “And why young Apelles referred the matter to me.”

  “Sure. You’re trying to undermine civil authority,” Rick said.

  “Nay, lord!” Apelles said. “We are loyal.”

  I’m sure you think so. But if nothing else, you’re inventing benefit of clergy, which apparently they don’t have here. Still, the priesthood of Yatar, as organized by Yanulf, is the nearest thing to a literate civil service I have. They also have a monopoly on paper. I can’t do without them.

  “First,” Rick said, “I hadn’t known how serious Enipses’s labor problem is. We’ll have to do something about that.”

  “At harvest time there will be labor shortages everywhere,” Yanulf said. “It has always been so.”

  Rick scribbled a note: “Get Campbell working on a reaper.”