Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Yes, sir.” The guardsman gestured, and two of his troopers used thick line to tie Murphy’s sword into its scabbard. They finished with an elaborate knot. Then the corporal took out a thin copper dish of red wax. He melted the wax over the lamp on the orderly room table and sealed the knot with a flat lens-shaped stone. Then they began working on Reznick’s weapon.

  “What the hell’s this for?” Reznick demanded.

  “Orders,” Warner said. “Here, have another drink, and I’ll tell you things.” He waited until the locals had finished their business and left. “Officially, this whole palace is under the king’s peace,” Warner said. “No challenges can be issued here. In fact, though, there’s lots of nobles with the hereditary right to fight their enemies even on palace grounds. But they can’t challenge one of you to immediate combat since you’ve got your weapons bonded.” Warner shrugged. “Protects you and the locals both . . .”

  “What about—” Murphy cut himself off.

  “Pistols?” Warner asked. “You’ll turn those in here and now. Uh—I got to search you, too.”

  “You and which army?” Murphy demanded.

  Warner shrugged. “Thought you’d rather have me do it than Mason,” he said. “But if you’d rather deal with Mason. Or Sergeant Major Elliot—”

  “No way,” Murphy said. “I’ll sit still for it. Here.” He took out a .45 Colt Mark IV automatic and laid it on the desk. “My combat knife too?”

  “No, you keep that for your own protection. I expect you’ll get your pistol back in a couple of days, too, after you’ve learned a little about life here.” He eyed Reznick suspiciously. “Lafe, I expect you’ve got a hideout gun somewhere. Let me give you some good advice. Be damned careful whom you kill, self-defense or not. The clan system is really strong here. You kill one guy and you got a hundred relatives after your blood. Not to mention the Captain if you knocked off one of the people he needs.” Warner wrote out a receipt for the firearm. “Now you, Lafe.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Reznick said. He laid his .45 on the table. “Okay, what now?”

  “Now I take you to the party,” Warner said. “And try to brief you on all the stuff that’s going on. Not that you’ll understand it. I don’t understand it myself, and I’ve been around a year.” He paused. “Why’d you come in, anyway?”

  “Seemed like a good idea,” Murphy said. “It’s getting messy down south. Sea raiders. Big wagon trains coming north, lots of weapons and bringing their whole families and damned well going to find a place to live. Looks like things are really bad a thousand miles south of us. Famine, war, plague—you name it.”

  Warner nodded. “We’d heard some of it. ‘The Time approaches, when the seas shall rise.’ ”

  “They have, too,” Reznick said. “About half of Rustengo’s docks are awash, and the harbor area is salt swamp.”

  “It’ll get worse,” Warner promised. “Still, you guys had a good setup. Got titles and everything.” He chuckled. “I don’t remember Dirstval giving out city knighthoods to mercenaries.”

  Ben Murphy chuckled. “Yeah, but I like the ring of it. ‘Benjamin Murphy do Dirstval’ sounds better’n Private Murphy, CIA . . .”

  “So why’d you give up all that?”

  “Did we? You told that MP we were ‘star lords.’ I heard you.”

  “Well, it’s a little complicated,” Warner said. “Far as the locals are concerned, you’re important merchant traders from the south. That’s near enough to noble, up here. But I’d act real respectful to Sergeant Major, was I you. And Art Mason’s an officer now.”

  “Suits us,” Reznick said. “We want to get along here.”

  Murphy nodded agreement. “Yeah. It’s pretty bad down south, Larry. Damn all, it’s getting worse, and nobody down there is going to watch our backs. We had each other, and Lafe’s wives, and nothing.” He stopped for a second, then went on. “Used to be, I had a wife. Nomads killed her. Lafe and I hunted the bastards for a ten-day. Hell with that. Anyway, one day the pistols will run dry. Or somebody’ll catch us and torture us for our secrets. You heard the fables, about what they do to the Little People here?”

  Warner nodded. “Grim fairy tales indeed.”

  “So when we heard Colonel Parsons had bought it, and the rest of the troops was doing all right and there wasn’t even any war to fight—well, I figure Cap’n Galloway will take care of us. He always tried when we was back home.”

  * * *

  They stood on the balcony behind the musicians and looked down at the grand hall with its kaleidoscope of colors. The granite walls had been hung with tapestries and rich colors, but the place still had a fortresslike look to it. Nearly everything on Tran did.

  The musicians seemed in good form. Someone had brought up wineskins, and clay goblets were going around freely. Every few minutes someone raised a toast to the Infanta Isobel, and everyone had another drink. The music seemed mostly strings and drums, with little of the thin reedy wails that Murphy had become used to in the south. Most of the music was incomprehensible, but sometimes they struck up tunes Murphy recognized. “The Girl I left Behind Me,” the drinking song from Student Prince, “Garry Owens”. . .

  Murphy estimated three hundred people were crammed into a hall built for half that many, and all were wearing their best clothes, which meant the most colorful.

  “There’s a hell of a lot of those MPs out there,” Reznick said. “Who are they?”

  “Well, technically they’re guardsmen to Mac Clallan Muir,” Warner said.

  “Mac which?”

  “Mac Clallan Muir. Look, Captain Galloway—there he is, recognize him?—Captain Galloway married the lady Tylara do Tamaerthon, widow and dowager countess—well the local title is Eqetassa, but that’s pretty well countess—of Chelm. That made the Captain Eqeta. Lady Tylara’s father is an old clan chief named Drumold. Tamaerthon has a goofy system of titles that nobody understands, but Mac Clallan Muir is Drumold’s most important one. He made his son-in-law his war chief.”

  “War chief,” Reznick said. “Of what?”

  “In theory, of all of Tamaerthon,” Warner said. “In practice, Captain Galloway’s war leader of all the clans that’ll take orders from Drumold. That’s most of ’em, but not all. There. That’s Drumold over there.” He pointed to a man in bright kilts studded with silver pins. He wore a dozen gold bracelets, and several gaudy necklaces. Warner noticed Murphy’s grin. “Yeah, I think so too, but you better never say nothin’ he can hear. Old bastard’ll split your liver in a second, and don’t think the Captain would do much about it, either.

  “Anyway, back to the MPs. As war chief of the clans, Captain Galloway was entitled to a bodyguard. What he did was have Art Mason recruit a whole mess of ’em, lots more than anybody expected, and use ’em for military police. Not just young nobles, either. Kids from different clans. Even clanless ones, and freed slaves—”

  “So now the only clan they’ve got is Captain Galloway,” Murphy said.

  “Yeah. Exactly,” Warner said. “Smart of you.”

  “Just like us,” Reznick said. “But where do we fit in?”

  “Sort of like a headquarters company,” Warner said. “First thing is you’ll probably be posted back to the University and told to write down everything you remember. Everything. Then there’s the traveling schools. You’ll learn about them. Main thing to remember is that Captain Galloway’s our boss and we’re all right if we don’t forget it.”

  “But these MP types. Excuse me, but this is Drantos. Tamaerthon isn’t even a part of this kingdom, is it?”

  “No. But remember they’re supposed to be Captain Galloway’s bodyguards, and he’s the host this ten-day. Outside the palace Art’s MPs wouldn’t have any jurisdiction ’cause we’re not in Tamaerthon, but Lord Rick—that’s what they call the captain here—theoretically put them under the command of the Lord Protector. That one.”

  He pointed to a big scar-faced man with a perpetual scowl. “So they’re keeping order in the k
ingdom as well as in this palace,” Warner finished.

  “And Corporal Mason takes orders from that Protector guy?”

  “Major Mason. Sure he does,” Warner said. “Sure.”

  “Christ, this is worse than the south,” Reznick muttered.

  Warner laughed. “Just getting started, Lafe. See those two? There, and on the other side of the room—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Romans. The one on the right is ambassador of the Emperor Flaminius—”

  “And the other one from Marselius,” Murphy finished. “Yeah. We’ve got a lot to tell the Captain about that situation.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  Murphy looked thoughtful. “Larry, not that we don’t trust you, but the only thing we got left to deal is information. How about I tell the Captain, and he tells you?”

  Warner chuckled. “You’re learning, Ben. You’re learning. Shall we go downstairs and join the party? Your ladies and friends will be along in a minute. Try to stay sober, and for God’s sake don’t insult anybody.”

  3

  Rick’s head was bursting. Hangover remedies didn’t work any better on Tran than on Earth. Not as well. There was precious little aspirin on Tran, and a lot more fusel oils in the liquor.

  “Two hours and I’m for the Grand Council,” Rick said. “Holy Yatar, my head is killing me—”

  “You earned it,” Tylara said. “I thought you had determined to drink all the wine in Edros.”

  Close to right, Rick thought. I don’t do that too often, but last night—Oh, well. What’s really irritating her is that I was too drunk to pay attention to her after the party. “You will come to Grand Council, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Shall I accompany you now?”

  “I think no,” Rick said. “I think I’ll get more information if I talk to them in English.”

  “As you will.”

  “Dammit, I’m not keeping secrets from you.” He went to put his hands on her shoulders, but she seemed to draw away from him. “All right. I’ll see you in Council.” He left the bedroom hoping that she would call him back, but she said nothing.

  * * *

  He went downstairs to the stone chamber he’d had fitted out as a situation room, a copy of his offices in Tamaerthon. There were maps painted on three walls; the fourth was blank white, with charcoal nearby to write with. A big wooden slab table filled the room’s center. Benches surrounded it; benches weren’t comfortable, and that made for short meetings. In contrast, Rick’s chair at the head of the table had been specially carved for him, with padded seat and thick arm rests. If need be he could outsit those who argued with him in this room—

  “Ten-shun!” Elliot commanded as Rick came in. The troopers around the table stamped to their feet. Murphy and Reznick seemed a bit surprised, but they didn’t object. Rick said nothing until he had taken his place at the table’s head and sat down. Then he nodded. “At ease,” Elliot said.

  “Thought we left that crap behind with Parsons,” Murphy muttered.

  “That’ll do,” Sergeant Major Elliot said sharply. He didn’t like people who talked back to officers. Elliot’s idea of perfection was an officer who knew his place commanding troopers who knew theirs. Of course the sergeant major was indispensable under any such scheme . . .

  “Two reasons for this meeting,” Rick said. “To find out what you know about the southern situation, and to bring you up to speed about the mission here. I’ll start off.”

  Only where? he wondered. There’s so damned much they don’t know. So damned much I don’t know. Humpty Dumpty told Alice to begin at the beginning and go through to the end. Then stop. But if I do that I’ll be here all day.

  “First, the basic mission hasn’t changed,” Rick said. “We’re here to grow crops for the Shalnuksis, and if we don’t grow their damned surinomaz they won’t trade with us, meaning no more modern conveniences. So we’ve no choices there.”

  “Captain, are you sure those—those saucer things are coming back?” Murphy asked.

  “Not entirely,” Rick said. “But they told us they were, and they left communications gear. The pilot told Gwen Tremaine that the surinomaz crop was important, both to him and the Shalnuksis.” And he left her a transceiver. Left her pregnant, too. So now she’s got a year-old kid with no father within light-years.

  “The trouble is,” Rick said, “that surinomaz isn’t easy to grow. The locals call it ‘madweed’ and they hate the stuff.”

  “Uh—”

  “Yes, Warner?”

  “Captain, just ’fore I left the University, we got reports about witch women and shamans who used madweed for a useful drug.”

  “We’ll want to check that out. Bring it up in the Science Council meeting.” Another meeting, after the Grand Council. All I do the whole day through is sit in meetings—”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyway. We need a lot of the stuff, and people don’t want to grow it. Land’s limited. With that rogue star coming close the growing seasons will be longer, and we can get more food out of each acre—but somebody’s got to feed the people who grow madweed for us. For years. We’ll want at least four years of bumper crops of the junk.

  “So that’s one problem. We need peace, only that rogue star is playing merry Hobb with the whole planet. I saw your reports, Murphy. Migrations. Wandering tribes in the south. I’m not surprised—fact is, it’s going to get worse. What’s the chances of holding off the migrations at the borders of the city-states?”

  “Not much, sir,” Murphy said. “If we could have done it, I would have, rather than come up here.”

  Rick nodded. It’s like a ball of snakes, he thought. “What if I sent a big force? Twenty mercs and a couple of thousand local warriors?”

  Murphy shrugged. “I don’t think that would work very well,” he said. “First thing, the city-states might not let your troops through without a fight. But even if you made some kind of alliance with them, there’s not much for a defensible border down there.”

  “That was my impression,” Rick said. He pointed to one of the maps on the wall. “But it also looks as if eventually there’ll be impassable swamps to the south, after the Demon Star melts enough ice to get the seas up forty or fifty feet. Until then we’ll just have to do the best we can. Now what do you hear of the Roman situation?”

  “Stand-off,” Murphy said. He turned to Reznick and got a nod of confirmation. “At first Marselius was winning. Had new tactics that I reckon he learned from you. But now old Flaminius has recruited some new legions and called out his reserves, and he’s holding his own.”

  “Okay. I’ll want all you know about that. Order of battle, force levels, anything you’ve got.” Rick glanced at his watch. “You’ve got about an hour. Tell me.”

  * * *

  Drumold drew himself to his full height, resplendent in bright kilts and golden bracelets. There was no doubt that he spoke not as Rick’s father-in-law, but as Mac Clallan Muir, Grand Chief of the Clans of Tamaerthon.

  His words echoed through the council chamber. “Man, are ye altogether daft?”

  Rick tried to smile. It wasn’t easy. The echoing voice hurt his head. For a moment he wondered just how many wars had begun because some king or general had come hung over to an important council meeting. Tylara’s father had his rituals, and this was one of them; but there were plenty in the Grand Council who didn’t know Drumold. For that matter there were plenty who did, and who might make political capital out of even the appearance of a quarrel between Rick and Drumold. “No more so than yesterday, I think. And today I am better informed.”

  “Och, perhaps I spoke in haste,” Drumold said.

  Lord, do I sound that grim? Rick wondered. He looked to Tylara, but her look was no help this time. Often she could interpret the impact Rick was making; despite her youth she’d had a lot more experience leading these hotheaded people than Rick had, and she’d presided over her own Councils before Rick ever met her.


  “Yet,” Drumold was saying, “let us think clearly what we want, and how best to get it. So long as Marselius and Flaminius make war, they cannot send one legionary against us. Let them make peace—or let one side win—and where are we? Rome has long claimed the whole of Tamaerthon. Och, aye, there was a time when they claimed Drantos, indeed all this world of Tran. And will Marselius be such a friend and ally once he is undoubted Caesar and has no need of us?

  “My Lord Rick, you propose to make an end to this war, even spend our blood and treasure to do it! I say you have not been well advised, and I understand it not.”

  There were loud murmurs, but no more than Rick had expected, given the number of people packed into the room: so many that the table, the largest in all of Drantos, could not hold them, so that many of the lesser mobility, as well as commoners, sat in chairs set in rows stretching all the way to the far wall.

  The table itself held too many for a sensible meeting. The young Wanax Ganton, nominally in charge but delegating that to Rick; the Lord Protector Camithon, scarred face glaring at anyone who opposed him or forgot the least courtesy due the king; three of the five great counts of Drantos, four counting Rick and Tylara. Like William-and-Mary, Rick thought. Rick-and-Tylara, a two-headed monster to rule Chelm. Some of the wealthier bheromen and knights. Guildmasters. All to represent the Kingdom of Drantos.

  Then the priesthoods. Old Yanulf, splendid in blue robes, scowling because the Council bickered instead of getting on with preparations for the Time. Sigrim, high priest of Vothan One-eye, Chooser of the Slain, a warrior god everyone feared and few loved. Florali, the elderly lady—Rick though of her as a vestal virgin although she was a widow—to represent Hestia, the Good Goddess of grain.

  The composition of the Council came from long tradition. Men had died contesting the right to sit in Council. Reducing its size was nearly impossible. King, lords, commons, and priestly orders together made up the Great Council of Drantos, an unwieldy structure at best; but there were lots more at today’s meeting. Drantos was allied with Tamaerthon. Some of the Tamaerthan clansmen put it more bluntly. Tamaerthan warriors, led by Lord Rick, had only the year before saved Drantos from occupation by Sarakos, Heir Apparent of the Five Kingdoms, and despite the relative sizes of the two lands many clansmen thought Tamaerthon was and ought to be the senior partner. Certainly Tamaerthan chiefs and warriors must sit in the Grand Council. Consequently, one side of the table was filled by kilted hill tribesmen, scarcely thought more than barbarians by the great ones of Drantos—but they kept those thoughts to themselves.