“Not officially. I don’t have to appoint people to spy on their own countrymen. There are enough volunteers to come running to me with accounts of everything that goes on here. They’re gossips, and they’re nuisances. Occasionally, though, they tell me something important.”
“Well, what I meant when I said the Huns weren’t dumb was that they know that Kramer’s going to attack them when he has enough states on this side of The River under his belt. They must know he’ll move against them then so he can consolidate this whole area. They know it’ll be some years from now, but they know it’s coming. So, they might be receptive to some ideas I’ve been hatching. Here’s what we could do.”
They talked for another hour. At the end, Stafford said that he’d do what he could to develop Mix’s plan. It was a desperate one, in his opinion, chiefly because of the very little time left to carry it out. It meant staying up all night and working hard. Every minute that passed gave Kramer’s spies just that much more opportunity to find out what was happening. But it had to be done. He didn’t intend to sit passively and wait for Kramer to attack. It was better to take a chance than to let Kramer call the shots. Stafford was beginning to pick up some of Mix’s twentieth-century Americanisms.
Chapter 9
Intelligence reported that Kramer was not using his entire force. Though he theoretically had available enough soldiers and sailors to overwhelm both New Albion and Ormondia, in fact he was afraid to withdraw many from his subject states. His garrisons there were composed of a minority of men from Deusvolens and a majority of collaborators in the occupied states. They kept the people terrorised and had built earth and wooden walls on the borders and stationed troops in forts along these. The copias of most citizens were stored in well-guarded places and only passed out during charging times. Anyone who wished to flee either had to steal his copia or kill himself and rise somewhere else on The River with a new copia. The former was almost impossible to do, and the latter course was taken only by the bravest or most desperate.
Nevertheless, if Kramer weakened the garrisons too much, he would have a dozen revolutions at once.
From what Stafford’s spies said, Kramer had quietly taken two out of every ten of his soldiers and sailors in the subject states and brought them to Deusvolens and Felipia, the state adjoining his north border. His fleet was stationed along the banks of The River in a long line. But the soldiers and the boats might be amassed at any time during the night. What night was, of course, unknown.
“Kramer’s spies know that you and Yeshua and Bithniah are here,” Stafford said to Mix. “You think that he’ll attack New Albion just to get you three back. I don’t believe it. Why should you three be so important to him?”
“Others have escaped him,” Mix said, “but never in such a public manner. The news has gotten around, he knows it, and he feels humiliated. Also, he’s afraid that others might get the same idea. However, I think that he’s been planning to extend his conquests, and we’ve just stimulated him to act sooner than he’d intended.
“What he’ll do, he’ll bypass Freedom and Ormondia and attack us. If he takes New Albion, he’ll then start his squeeze play.”
Messengers had been sent to Ormondia, and the duke and his council had met Stafford and his council at the border. Half the night had been spent in trying to get the duke to agree to join in a surprise attack. The rest of the night and all morning had been taken up in arguing about who the supreme general should be. Finally, Stafford had agreed that Ormonde should be in command. He didn’t like to do so, since he thought the duke wasn’t as capable as himself. Also, the New Albionians would not be happy about serving under him. But Stafford needed the Ormondians.
Not stopping for even a short nap, Stafford then crossed The River to confer with the rulers of the two “Hunnish” states. Their spies had informed them that Kramer was planning another invasion. They hadn’t been much concerned about it, since Kramer had never attacked across The River. Stafford finally convinced them that Kramer would get to them eventually. They bargained, however, for the majority of the loot. Stafford and the duke’s agent, Robert Abercrombie, reluctantly agreed to this.
The rest of the day was taken up in making plans for the disposition of the Hunnish boats. There was much trouble about this. Hartashershes and Dherwishawyash, the rulers, argued about who would take precedence in the attack. Mix suggested to Stafford that he suggest to them that the boats carrying the rulers should sail side by side. The two could then land at the same time. From then on it would be every man for himself.
“But all of this may go awry,” he said to Mix. “Who knows what Kramer’s spies have found out? There may even be some in my own staffer among the Huns. If not, the watchers in the hills will have observed us.”
Soldiers in New Albion and Ormondia were scouring the hills, searching for spies. These would be hiding, unable to light signal fires or beat on their relay drums. Some would have slipped through the hunters to carry their information on foot or by boat. That, however, would take time.
Meanwhile, envoys from New Albion had gone to three of the states south of its border. They would attempt to get these to furnish personnel and craft in the attack.
Tom had, by the end of the night, been commissioned a captain. He was supposed to don the leather, bone-reinforced casque and cuirass of the Albionian soldier, but he’d insisted that he keep his cowboy hat. Stafford was too weary to oppose him.
Two days and nights passed. During this time, Mix managed to get some sleep. In the afternoon of the third day, he decided that he’d like to get away from all the bustle and noise. There was so much going on that he could find no quiet place to sleep. He’d go up into the hills and find a silent spot to snooze, if that was possible. There were still search parties there.
First, though, he stopped at Bithniah’s to see how she was doing. She was, he found, now living with a man whose mate had been killed during the River-fight. She seemed fairly happy with him. No, she hadn’t seen “the crazy monk,” Yeshua. Mix told her he’d seen him at a distance now and then. Yeshua had been cutting down some pine trees with a flint axe, but Mix didn’t know for what purpose.
On the way to the hills, he ran into Delores. She was on a work party which was hauling logs of the giant bamboo down to the banks. These were being set up to reinforce the wooden walls lining the waterside of New Albion’s border. She looked tired and dirty and not at all happy. It wasn’t just the hard labour that made her glare at Mix, however. Not once had they had time or the energy to make love.
Tom grinned at her and called, “Don’t worry, dear! We’ll get together after this is all over! And I’ll make you the happiest woman alive!”
Delores told him what he could do with his hat.
Tom laughed and said, “You’ll get over that.”
She didn’t reply. She bent her back to the rope attached to the log and strained with the other women to get it up over the crest of the hill.
“It’ll be all downhill from now on,” he said.
“Not for you it won’t,” she called back.
He laughed again, but, when he turned away, he frowned. It wasn’t his fault that she’d been drafted into a work party. And he regretted as much as she, maybe more, that they hadn’t had a honeymoon.
The next hill was busy and loud with the ring of stone axes chopping at the huge bamboo plants, the grunting of the choppers, and the shouted orders of the foremen and forewomen. Presently, he was on a still higher hill, only to discover that it, too, was far from conducive to sleep. He continued, knowing that when he got to the mountain itself, he would run into no human beings there. He was getting tired and impatient, though.
He stopped near the top of the last hill to sit down and catch his breath. Here the great irontrees grew closely together, and among them were the tall grasses. He could see no one, but he could hear the axes and the voices faintly. Maybe he should just lie down here. The grass was not soft, and it was itchy, but he was so fatigued that he wouldn’t
mind that. He’d spread out his cloak and put his hat over his face and pass out quickly into a much-deserved sleep. There were no insects to crawl over him or sting him, no pestiferous ants, flies, or mosquitoes. Nor would any loud bird cries disturb him.
He rose and removed his white cloak and placed it on the grass. The sun’s hot rays came down between two irontrees on him; the long grass made a wall around him. Ah!
Stafford might be looking for him right now. If so, it was just too bad.
He stretched out, then decided he’d take his military boots off. His feet were hot and sweating. He sat up and slid one boot from his right foot and started to remove the woven-grass sock. He stopped. Had he heard a rustle in the grass not made by the wind?
His weapons lay by him, a chert tomahawk and a flint knife and a boomerang, all in straps in his belt. He took all three out, laying the boomerang on the cloak, and he held the tomahawk in his right hand and the knife in his left.
The rustling had stopped, but after a minute it resumed. He rose cautiously and looked over the top of the grass. There, twenty feet away, toward the mountain, the grass was bending down, then springing up. For a while he couldn’t see the passerby. Either he was shorter than the tall blades or he was bending over.
Then he saw a head rise above the green. It was a man’s, dark-skinned, black-haired, and Spanish-featured. That wasn’t significant, since there were plenty like him in the area, good citizens all, some of them refugees from Deusvolens and Felipia. The stealthiness of the man, however, indicated that he wasn’t behaving like one who belonged here.
He could be a spy who’d eluded the search parties.
The man had been looking toward the mountain, presenting his profile to the watcher. Mix ducked down before the stranger turned his head toward him. He crouched, listening. The rustling had stopped. After a while, it started again. Was the man aware that somebody else was here and so was trying to locate him?
He got down on his knees and put his ear to the ground. Like most valleydwellers, the fellow was probably barefooted or wore sandals. But he might step on a twig, though there weren’t too many of those from the bushes. Or he might stumble.
After a minute of intent listening, Mix got up. Now he couldn’t even hear the noise of the man’s passage. Nor was there any movement of the grass caused by anything except the breeze. Yes! There was! The fellow had resumed walking. The back of his head was moving away from Mix.
He quickly strapped on his belt, fastened his cloak around his neck, and put the boot back on. With his white hat held by the brim in his teeth, the knife in one hand, the tomahawk in the other, he went after the stranger. He did so slowly, however, raising his head now and then above the grass. Inevitably, the followed and the follower looked at each other at the same time.
The man dropped at once. Now that he’d been discovered, Mix saw no reason to duck down. He watched the grass as it waved, betraying the crawler beneath as water disturbed by a swimmer close to the surface. He breasted the grass, striding swiftly toward the telltale passage but ready to disappear himself if the green wake ceased.
Suddenly, the dark man’s head popped up. Surprisingly, he placed a finger on his lips. Mix stopped. What in hell was he doing? Then the man pointed beyond Mix. For a second, Mix refused to look. It seemed too much like a trick, but what could the man gain by it? He was too far away to get any advantage by charging when Mix was looking behind him.
Trick or not, Mix had too much curiosity. He turned to look over the territory. And there was the grass moving as if an invisible snake were crawling over it.
He considered the situation quickly. Was that other person an ally of the dark man and sneaking up on himself? No. If he were, the dark man wouldn’t be pointing him out. What had happened was that the dark man was an Albionian who had detected a spy. He’d been trailing him when Mix had mistaken him for a spy.
Mix had no time then to think about how he might have killed one of his own people. He dropped down and began approaching the place where the third person was—had been, rather, since by the time he got there the unknown would probably be some place else. Every twelve feet or so he rose to check on the unknown’s progress. Now the ripples were moving toward the mountain, away from both himself and the dark man. The latter, as indicated by the moving grass, was crawling directly toward where Mix had been.
Tired of the silent and slow play, sure that a sudden and violent action would flush out the quarry, Mix whooped. And he ran through the grass as swiftly as it would allow him.
The afternoon was certainly full of surprises. Two heads shot up where he had expected one. One was blond, and the other was a redhead. The woman had been in front of the man as they had crawled and crouched and risen briefly like human periscopes, though he hadn’t actually seen them coming up to observe.
Mix stopped. If he’d made a mistake about the identity of the first person, could he be doing the same with these two?
He shouted to them, telling them who he was and what he was doing here. The dark man then called out, saying that he was Raimondo de la Reina, a citizen of New Albion. The redhead and the blonde then identified themselves: Eric Simons and Guindilla Tashent, also citizens of the same state.
Mix wanted to laugh at this comedy of errors, but he still wasn’t sure. Simons and Tashent might be lying so that the others would let down their guard.
Tom stayed where he was. He said, “What were you two doing here?”
“For God’s sake,” the man said, “we were making love! But please do not bruit this about. My woman is very jealous, and Guindilla’s man would not be very pleased if heard about this, either!”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Mix called.
He turned toward de la Reina, who was walking toward him. “What about you, pard? There isn’t any reason to say anything about this, is there? Especially since it makes all of us look like fools?”
There was another problem. The two lovers were probably shirking their duties. This could be a serious, a court-martial business, if the authorities learned about it. Mix had no intention of reporting it, but the Spaniard might feel that it must be brought to the attention of the authorities. If he insisted, then Mix couldn’t argue with him. Not too strongly, anyway.
He, Simons, and Tashent hadn’t moved. De la Reina was ploughing through the grass toward him, probably to talk the situation over with him. Or perhaps he thought that the pair wasn’t to be trusted. Which made sense, Mix thought. They could be spies who’d invented this tale when found out. Or, more likely, prepared it in case they were discovered.
But Mix didn’t really think this was so.
Presently, the Spaniard was a few feet from him. Now Mix could clearly see his features, long and narrow, aquiline, a very aristocratic Hispanic face. He was as tall as Mix. Through the bending grass Mix glimpsed a green towel-kilt, a leather belt holding two flint knives, and a tomahawk. One hand was behind his back; the other was empty.
Mix wouldn’t allow anybody to get near him who hid one hand. He said, “Stop there, amigo!”
De la Reina did so. He smiled but at the same time looked puzzled.
“What’s the matter, friend?”
He spoke seventeenth-century English with a heavy foreign accent, and it was possible that he had trouble understanding Mix’s twentieth-century American pronunciation. He was given the benefit of the doubt, though not very much.
Tom spoke slowly. “Your hand. The one behind your back. Bring it out. Slowly.”
He chanced to look at the others. They were moving toward him, though slowly. They looked scared.
The Spaniard said, “Of course, friend.”
And de la Reina was leaping toward him, shouting, the hand now revealed, clutching a flint blade. There were only a few inches showing, but there was enough to slash a jugular vein or a throat. If the Spaniard had been smarter, he could have concealed the entire weapon in his hand and let the hand swing naturally. But he had been afraid to do that.
>
Tom Mix swung the tomahawk. Its edge cracked against de la Reina’s temple. He dropped. The blade fell from his grip.
Tom called to the two. “Stop where you are!”
They looked at each other uneasily, but they halted.
“Hold your hands up,” he said. “High above your heads!”
The hands went up as high as they could go. Simons, the redhead, said, “What happened?”
“Get over under that irontree!”
The two started to walk toward the indicated place. An abandoned hut stood under it, but the grass around it had been recently cut. It had grown back to a height of a foot, enabling Mix to see if they carried weapons or not.
He bent down and examined the Spaniard. The fellow was still breathing, though harshly. He might or might not recover, and if he did, he might never have all his wits about him. It would be far better for him if he died, since he was bound to be tortured. That was the fate of all spies in this area who failed to kill themselves when facing inevitable capture. This one would be stretched over a wooden wheel until the ropes on his wrists and ankles pulled his joints apart. If he wouldn’t give any worthwhile information or he was thought to be lying, he’d be suspended naked over a low fire and slowly seared.
During his turnings on the spit, he might have one eye or both poked out or an ear sliced off. Should he still refuse to talk, he’d be taken down and cooled off with water. Then his fingernails and toenails might be pulled out or tiny cuts made in his genitals. A hot flint tip might be thrust up his anus. One finger at a time might be severed and the stump immediately thereafter cauterised with a hot rock.
The list of possible tortures was long and didn’t bear thinking about by any sensitive imaginative person.
Mix hadn’t seen the Albionians put any spies to the question. But he had witnessed some inquisitions while Kramer’s prisoner, and so he knew too well the horrors awaiting the Spaniard.
What could this poor devil tell that was worth hearing? Nothing, Mix was sure.
Riverworld Short Stories Page 7
