“And you can believe as much of it as you want to,” Reznick said. He paused a moment, then matched Murphy’s grin. “And we both sure as hell want to believe a lot of it.”
“Yeah. Let’s go.” He led the way through the open gates.
The courtyard behind the gates smelled of burned gunpowder. It was packed with people. Archers in kilts held them back to make a lane that Murphy’s party could ride through. “Like MPs,” Murphy said.
“Big deal.” Reznick squinted upwards. “Don’t look now, but there’s a sniper up in the tower over the gate.”
“Yeah, I spotted him. Don’t matter. There’s a dozen of those archer types on the wall up there, too. There’s sure as hell only one way to play this now.”
The wall ahead of them was taller than the first, and the gateway through it was so narrow they had to go single file. The gate itself was a long mazelike corridor, with two twists barely wide enough for their mounts. Then they came out into an inner court, empty except for half a dozen richly dressed courtiers.
“Welcome,” one called. “In the name of Wanax Ganton, welcome to Castle Edron. I am Parilios, Chamberlain to Wanax Ganton and servant to the Lord Protector, in whose name I bid you welcome yet again.”
“Sounds good so far,” Murphy said. “Uh—we have come at the invitation of the lord Rick, Eqeta of Chelm, Great Captain General of the Forces of Drantos, Colonel of Mercenaries . . .” He gave the last title in English. “We are Benjamin Murphy do Dirstval and Lafferty Reznick do Bathis, Merchant Traders of the Sun Lands.”
“The lord Rick is here and awaits you eagerly,” the chamberlain said. “He has been foretold of your coming. He bade me say that his food will be no more than filling for his belly, and his drink no more than moisture for the tongue, until he has spoken with you at last.”
“Fat chance the captain ever said that,” Murphy said sotto voce. “Bid the Wanax, and the Lord Protector, and Lord Rick a thousand thanks in our names, and tell him that we came in haste to his summons.”
There was more ceremony before they were invited to dismount. Eventually they were led into an antechamber. A cheerful fire blazed at one end of the room, and there was a table laid out with wine and food. Washbasins stood on a sideboard. “I will leave you to refresh yourselves,” their escort said. He turned a pair of identical sand glasses, and took one with him. “I will return when this is done.” The chamberlain bowed and left them.
The women began to chatter, but Murphy made a sharp gesture, and they fell quiet. He eyed the glass. “About twenty minutes. We going to take the women in with us?”
“Why not?” Reznick demanded.
Murphy shrugged. “This is royalist country,” he said. “Not like the south where we were. And the girls aren’t exactly out of the nobility—”
“Dirdre and Marva are now,” Reznick said. “Married me, didn’t they? That makes them as good as anybody.”
“Okay if you say so. Wonder where the bloody plumbing is?”
“Through there, I’d say,” Reznick said. He walked over to a small curtained doorway and looked inside. “Yep. Looks to me like it hangs out over the town. Shall we go relieve ourselves on the commoners?”
* * *
“Cap’n?”
Rick Galloway turned from the window as one of the skyrockets burst in crimson. “Yes?”
“Two things,” Art Mason said. “Lady Tylara says you’re supposed to be downstairs enjoying the fireworks—”
“Hell, I know that,” Rick said. He lifted a crystal goblet and tossed off the full cup of wine it held. “Three days we’ve been on display. Tylara likes all the fuss.” He grinned slightly. “Isobel really is a beautiful little thing. I guess Tylara’s earned all this glory. But why she wants it is beyond me.” He poured another drink.
Mason shrugged. “I never claimed to understand women.”
“What was the other thing?”
“Murphy’s here.”
“Murphy?”
“Private Ben Murphy,” Mason said. “Along with Lafe Reznick. Two of the troops that ran away south with Warner and Gengrich. They just showed up at the gate, dressed up like rich southern merchants and attended by some women and bullyboys. Murphy told the officer of the guard that he’s got a present for the Eqeta of Chelm, the great Captain-General of the Host of Drantos—”
“Humph.”
“Hell, he’s layin’ it on thicker’n glue, Cap’n. But I think you’ll like the present. It’s all wrapped up in silk and gold cloth, but it’s about yay long and maybe this big around—”
“The recoilless!”
“Could be,” Mason said. “It just could be. Anyway, he’s downstairs in the entry hall. I checked with Elliot and we had the chamberlain give him wine and some chow, and I figured I’d better get you before that Camithon gets at him.”
“Yes. Good thinking. I’ll come.” He started toward the door.
“Not without we dress you proper,” Mason protested. “Wait, Cap’n. I’ll help you into your armor.”
“I do not need armor.”
“Hell you don’t,” Mason said. “Cap’n, now dammit I mean it, don’t you go down there without your mail shirt. Here, take the pistol off. That’s it. Now duck—” Despite Rick’s protests, Mason eased him into a shirt woven of tiny metal rings.
“Damn thing’s too heavy,” Rick said.
“Wasn’t heavy it wouldn’t do much good,” Mason said. “Here, lift your arm—” Deftly he buckled Rick’s pistol and combat knife under his captain’s left arm. “Now you look proper.”
“And feel like an idiot.”
“No, sir.” Mason was emphatic. “You gotta be practical.”
I’ve been practical all my life, Rick thought. I do the sensible, practical thing, and I feel like a coward half the time.
Mason saw Rick’s expression. “Cap’n, you don’t know what Murphy wants. I grant you, he probably didn’t come to make trouble. Not coming inside the gates like that. But Christ, Cap’n, this whole place is about to explode. Ambassadors from both Roman outfits. That diplomat from the Five Kingdoms, he’s nothing more than a spy—hell, they’re still technically at war with us! Not to mention our own nobles. Wasn’t an hour ago I had to disarm two of those barons, Dragomer and Kilantis—”
“Who?”
“Couple of the barons who went over to Sarakos,” Mason said. “Took advantage of the amnesty after we beat Sarakos. They come from the north central hills.”
“Yeah. I remember,” Rick said. “Hard to blame them for going over, being that close to the Five Kingdoms and all. Why disarm them?”
“Fighting over something. I didn’t bother to find out what. Just got their dirks.”
“They drew steel in the palace?”
“Yeah.”
“Where was Wanax Ganton?”
“Up watching the fireworks,” Mason said. “Hell, Cap’n, if they’d drawn weapons while the kid or the old geezer was there I’d’ve done a lot more then disarm them, you know that.”
“Yeah. Sorry. All right, let’s go.” He led the way to the thick nail-studded door and pulled. It opened slowly. It ought to, Rick thought. The damn thing must weigh five hundred pounds in this gravity. One heavy mother. There were men outside the door. Rick nodded to Jamiy, his orderly, and the brace of Guardsmen. Then he turned to the fourth man who stood stiffly aloof from the others. “Captain Caradoc.”
“My lord.” Caradoc was dressed in bright-colored kilts. He wore a jewel-handled dirk at his waist. A bow and quiver hung over his shoulder. He was no older than Rick. Caradoc bowed deeply, and waited until Rick returned the greeting before straightening.
“It’s good to see you again,” Rick said. “How went your journey?”
“Well enough, my lord. I had fast horses and Yatar’s favor.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Rick put as much warmth in his voice as he could. More than once Caradoc had saved Rick—and his family. Caradoc was really Tylara’s man, henchman of her father,
son of one of her father’s subchiefs. Loyal men high in the Tamaerthon clan system were rare . . .
“We’ll go down to audience hall,” Mason said. One of the guards went ahead at a trot. The second walked ahead of Rick. Mason walked alongside Rick, with Jamiy and Caradoc following.
All this rigmarole just to go downstairs, Rick thought. Places of honor and all. And yet there really are damned few I can trust to walk behind me with weapons.
They went down a narrow stone stairway to a broad hall hung with tapestries, then along that to an arched entry into a much larger chamber.
Rick had just gotten inside when he heard a gravelly voice call, “Make way. Make way for the Wanax of Drantos.” A party came through another entrance. First two men-at-arms. Then the King’s Companion, Morrone, a lordling Rick found a bit pretentious. Next came Camithon, the scar-faced Lord Protector.
“Who ranks who?” Mason asked in English.
“I’ll have to think,” Rick said. It was a hell of a complex question. As Protector, Camithon ranked everyone except the king. On the other hand, before he became Lord Protector he’d been Tylara’s general, and he held most of his lands as a mere bheroman in her service. If that wasn’t complex enough, Rick and Tylara were technically host and hostess here, since Wanax Ganton had generously offered his palace to Tylara during her confinement and delivery. Which made Camithon guardian to Rick’s honored guest—
“My lord,” Camithon growled. He bowed slightly. Rick bowed in return, then bowed even deeper to Ganton as the boy came in.
“Majesty,” Rick said. “I trust you have enjoyed the celebrations.”
“We have,” Ganton said. He looked around at the minor nobility and others who had come into the hall.
The boy’s all right, Rick thought. Got a pretty level head. And he listens to Tylara. Then there’s the rest of these. Half of ’em want to make me a god, and the other half want to put a knife in my ribs. “Majesty, I would ask a favor,” Rick said. “The use of your hall to receive these starmen.”
“This is your house,” Ganton said ritually. “I wear no crowns while you and your lady are here. I would ask that you allow me the pleasure of watching you receive your friends.”
“Certainly, sire. And my thanks.”
One end of the room was dominated by a throne on a high dais. Below that was a lower dais with less elaborate chairs. Yanulf, chief priest of Yatar Dayfather, was already there. So was Sigrim, high priest of Vothan One-eye, Chooser of the Slain. They did not rise when Rick came to the dais. As he took his seat on the lower platform there was a stir at the door. Tylara had arrived.
She looks pale, Rick thought. She’s still so damn beautiful it almost hurts to look at here, though. Her raven black hair shone as always, and her eyes were startlingly blue. There wasn’t much to show that she’d been through a difficult labor, forty hours in the house of Yatar. Rick shuddered at the memory. If he’d lost her—
He couldn’t follow that thought. “Sweetheart,” he said in English. Then more formally for the court, “My lady. Will you join me?”
“Thank you.” Her voice was like ice, and there was winter in her smile as she sat beside Rick.
Christ. I didn’t send for her, Rick thought. I should have, but I just forgot. But—“I am pleased that you were able to join us. When you did not come I worried.” And that ought to make her wonder. “Chamberlain, summon our guests if you please.”
“You sent for me?” Tylara demanded.
“Benjamin Murphy do Dirstval and Lafe Reznick do Bathis, Star Lords and Merchant Traders of the Sun Lands,” the chamberlain announced.
“Ah,” Rick said to himself as Murphy came in. I remember him now. Belfast Irishman. Made a bundle playing poker until most of the others wouldn’t play with him. Nobody thought he was cheating. Just good. Good man with the light machine-gun, too.
He couldn’t recall very much about Reznick, except that he always teamed with Murphy.
Murphy and Reznick came to the dais, followed by two women and four men, obviously armed servants. The men carried something heavy and bulky wrapped in silk and cloth of gold. They reached the dais and looked at Rick in mild confusion. Then Murphy stamped to attention and saluted.
Automatically Rick returned the salute. Then he laughed. “You’re supposed to bow or kneel or something,” he said in English. He heard a strangled grunt from Tylara as she suppressed a laugh. “Welcome to my house.” Rick changed to the local dialect and raised his voice. “It is good that we meet again. Your other friends among the starmen will welcome you also.”
“Yeah, well, I’m happy to be signing up with you again, Captain,” Murphy said. “And I’ve brought you something—”
“Yes. I’m damned glad to get the recoilless back. That is the one-oh-six, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.” Murphy turned and gestured. His companions unwrapped the tube. Another took the cover off the tripod stand, and clapped the barrel onto it.
“You’ve trained them to use it?” Rick asked.
“Not really, sir,” Reznick said. “But they have seen us use the thing.”
“Yes. We’ll continue this in private,” Rick said. “Meanwhile, there’s a ceremony. We’ll coach you.” He motioned to Murphy to kneel, and said in the local language, “We will accept you to our service. Do you offer me service, of your free will, according to the customs and uses of this land?”
“We do,” Murphy and Reznick said in unison.
“Then your enemies shall be my enemies, and who wrongs you wrongs me,” Rick said. He held out his hands. “Place your hands between mine. There. Now repeat after the chamberlain . . .”
* * *
“Thank Ghu that’s over,” Rick said.
“Who is Ghu?” Tylara asked seriously.
“Uh—a local deity back on Earth. Probably no jurisdiction here.” He watched Murphy and Reznick leave the audience hall, and felt an overpowering urge to go with them. Fat chance, he thought. Now that the fireworks are over we have to go show Isobel off to every goddam bheroman and knight in the joint, and get the king’s blessing and—”You needn’t smirk about it,” Rick said.
“Your desire is obvious,” Tylara said. “It will do you no harm to be patient. Tonight you must be with me.”
“Yeah.” It was important. Tonight’s ceremonies were supposed to be fun, but they would also mark his formal acknowledgement of Isobel’s paternity. Until he did that, she was officially no more than a little bastard.
And Isobel was the most beautiful little thing he’d ever seen, and he certainly wanted everyone to know she was his—which still seemed like a miracle—but Lord, Lord, those lords were dull. . . .
2
“What now?” Reznick asked.
“The first thing I want is a drink,” Ben Murphy said. They were led through corridors, then up stairs, then down a flight. “And I think I’m lost. Ho, guide there, where are our companions?”
“Your ladies have been shown to their chambers. You are wanted in the orderly room.” The trooper who led them obviously spoke no English; but they had no difficulty recognizing the last two words.
Reznick laughed. “Just like the real army.” They followed their guides until eventually they were led to a stone doorway guarded by two kilted archers. Murphy nudged his companion. “More of those MPs. Okay, let’s go in . . .”
“Hats off in the orderly room,” a voice said in English.
“Bat puckey,” Murphy muttered, but he took off his hat. He stared at the heavily bearded man who’d spoken. The man stared back, grim-faced. “Who—Warner? Larry Warner?”
“Sure is.” Warner grinned broadly. “Here to welcome the geeks bearing gifts. How are you, Ben? Lafe? You’re looking good. New beards and everything.”
“Warner, for God’s sake, we thought the locals took you off to sell you.”
“They did. Sold me to Lord Rick.”
“You look pretty rich,” Reznick said. “For a slave.”
“I’m no
slave,” Warner said. “Fact is, I’ve got the softest duty there is. Here, have a drink.” He poured generous dollops into silver cups. “Go on, drink up.”
“Yeah—” Murphy drank. “Holy Mother, Larry, what is that stuff?”
“Potent, eh? You bet your arse it’s potent. That’s McCleve’s work. Can you imagine him doing without a still?”
“No. What’s the old lush doing now?”
“He’s Professor of Medicine at the University of Tran.”
“The which at what?”
“Professor of Medicine. At the University. Of Tran.”
“Tran’s the name of the whole goddamn planet,” Reznick protested.
“Right on,” Warner said. “And now it’s got a university. Come Murphy, surely you’ve been hearin’ of the University?”
“Oh, crap,” Reznick said.
“Yeah,” Murphy agreed. “One of the best things about staying down south was not having to listen to your crazy accents—Hey, what are you doing?” Warner had gone to the door and was gesturing to the guards outside.
“Sending for the MPs,” Warner said. “You man, get the Corporal of the Guard.”
“What for, because we didn’t like your stupid accent?”
“No, you’ll see, it’s nothing to worry about. A detail somebody forgot to attend to. Anyway, about the University. About half-teaching and half-research. McCleve teaches the acolytes of Yatar about sanitation and cleanliness. I teach math. Campbell does engineering. Even the Captain takes a stint at teaching. But mostly we’ve got teams of students and acolytes doing research. Soap. Substitutes for penicillin. Grinding microscope lenses. Figuring out how to make nitric acid. All kinds of stuff. And history, too.”
“Professor,” Murphy said. “We used to call you ‘Professor’ back in Africa.”
“Now it’s for real,” Warner said.
“So just where do you fit in?” Reznick demanded.
“Think of me as a kind of warrant officer,” Warner said. “That’ll be close enough. Ah. Here’re the guards. Corporal, these star lords have not had their weapons peace bonded.”
Lord of Janissaries Page 24
