Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  He’d had no answer to that. Perhaps it would help if she came. Perhaps not. He had no way of knowing how much they could find out from orbit. Certainly Armagh appeared to be an important place. At the moment the castle was crammed from rafters to cellars with household goods, supplies, animals, and people. There were courtiers and cooks, administrators and acolytes, scribes and scullerymaids, judges, journeymen, apprentices, and masters of nearly every trade; even two dozen of the Children of Vothan in training for domestic service, and several of their teachers.

  There was nothing better than oil lamps and bonfires for light, but even so, Armagh ought to be visible from orbit. Every room and courtyard blazed as they celebrated the news of the great victory. The Westmen were driven from the land, and even now the Alliance army was escorting them northwards, out of Drantos, into the wild lands to the northwest, lands nominally part of Drantos but long ago claimed by Margilos on the one hand and the Five Kingdoms on the other. Let the High Rexja have both the disputed lands and the Westmen. Perhaps it would keep him too busy to annoy Drantos.

  One problem down, another to go. The flying saucer didn’t look like it was doing anything. Gingerly Rick detached Tylara’s hand from his arm and walked toward the craft. “Hi!” he called. “Hello, the ship.”

  It could have been the ship that brought him to Tran. Certainly it was more like that than like the sleek craft that had rescued the mercenaries from their African hilltop. Even in the dim light of the Demon Star he could see that the hull showed stains, patches, and dents. There were bulges and flutings in random places on its surface. Les had once told them the ship that brought them to Tran was chartered; perhaps this one was also, or it might have been the same ship.

  The whine muted and died, and the ship settled more heavily on its large circular landing feet. There were small crackling noises as it crushed the fragrant Tran shrubbery. A small square opened near the saucer’s top, and the hillside was bathed in yellow light. Rick moved closer, carefully keeping his hands away from the .45 in its shoulder holster.

  A rectangular hatchway opened into a gangway. The inside of the ship was bright with the yellow light the Shalnuksis seemed to favor. Rick could see crates and packages, a lot of them, many painted olive drab.

  “Good evening, Captain Galloway.” The voice boomed out unexpectedly, startling Rick. It was the same cold, impersonal voice he’d heard on the transceiver. It sounded like a recording, or perhaps like something synthesized on a computer. Its tones told him nothing about the person—or being—who spoke.

  “Good evening,” he said. He was surprised at how dry his mouth had gotten.

  “You see we have brought you—supplies. Have you brought the—work crew—as instructed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Have them bring the surinomaz.” The hatchway Rick was watching closed, and another, smaller doorway, leading into a much smaller compartment, opened about forty-five degrees around the base of the ship. “Captain, you will oblige us by remaining where you are, while others bring the surinomaz.”

  He felt rather than heard Tylara come up behind him. Then she took his arm. “We will stand here together,” she said softly.

  “A—noble sentiment,” the impersonal voice said. “Very well. Instruct your crew to hurry. They are to carry no metal into the ship. Is that understood?”

  “Right.” He turned to face down the hill. “Elliot, get the stuff loaded in that open compartment. Make sure the troops leave all their metal behind. Daggers, armor, everything. Make it sharp.”

  “Sir! All right, you sons, move it.” There was a cacophony of sounds from lower down the hill, then Elliot’s voice rose above the chatter. “Move it now, or by Vothan you’ll be in the madweed fields before the True Sun is high! Move!”

  The clerks and apprentices scurried up the hill. They were led by Apelles, who looked like a man not entirely successful at trying to be brave. None of them had been armed, so it didn’t take them long to shed all of their metal. Then they carried the semi-refined madweed into the small cargo compartment.

  “It is not a large amount,” Rick shouted. “The rogue star isn’t close enough yet. Next year is supposed to be a better crop.”

  “We know,” the ship answered.

  Rick and Tylara watched as the cargo was loaded. Finally Apelles came out and signalled they were done.

  “Now stand clear,” the voice called. The compartment door closed. The whining noise rose in pitch.

  “I had thought they had goods for us,” Tylara said. “Will it rise now?”

  “I don’t know,” Rick said. He turned away from the ship.

  “Remain there, Captain. If you please.” This time the voice sounded different.

  Rick stood with Tylara for what seemed a long time. Then the first compartment door opened again. “Your men may now begin to unload. They will stay on this side of the ship, and they will not carry weapons. You will remain where you are.”

  “All right. Elliot, move ’em.”

  This time there was no argument from the work crew. The clerks and apprentices sweated and strained to get the boxes outside the ship. Others brought up mules and began to lash gear on their pack saddles.

  Rick could see most of the cargo as it came out. A lot of it was ammunition. One crate was labelled “Armor, Body, Ballistic Nylon, Personal Protective.” Another was unmistakably Johnny Walker Black, and two more bore Meyers Jamaica Rum labels. There was a case of Camel cigarettes.

  Elliot came out grinning. He was holding a portable typewriter. “Carbon paper, too!” he shouted in triumph. “And a Carl Gustav recoilless.”

  “Just like Christmas,” Rick answered with a grin. He didn’t move from his place in the circle of light. “Tylara—they didn’t say you have to stay here,” he said softly.

  “They did not,” she answered.

  “Hey, I love you.”

  “I think perhaps you do,” she said. She squeezed his arm.

  “Talisker Scotch!” Elliot shouted. “And Rennault fifty-year-old cognac! Can’t say they don’t pay for what they get!”

  Oh, they pay, Rick thought. They understand about not binding the mouths of the kine that tread the grain. But they won’t take us home, and they gave us damned little choice about coming here.

  * * *

  The ship was unloaded, and most of the gear sent down the mountain on mules. The hatch closed, but the bright light from near the top of the ship continued to flood the hill with yellow light. Then the whine rose in pitch and became louder and louder. The ship seemed to lift slightly. It hung for a second, then rose swiftly and almost vertically into the dark sky.

  “It is gone,” Tylara whispered. “I had—you had told me. But until I saw—”

  Rick laughed. “I know,” he said. “Back on Earth I wouldn’t have believed it.” And I knew about airplanes, and radio, and—

  “Rick.” Tylara spoke quietly, but there was an urgent note in her voice. She tilted her head. “Look.”

  His eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark, and at first he couldn’t see what had alarmed her. Then it became clear. There was a man standing beyond where the ship had been. He wore a Burberry raincoat and Irish tweed hat, and beside him stood a plain Samsonite suitcase. An instrument about the size of a small briefcase hung from a strap over his left shoulder. It glowed with faint lights from dials on its face.

  The man waved. “Hello, Captain,” he said.

  It was Les.

  * * *

  “He is but a man,” Tylara whispered.

  “Yes. He is the human pilot who brought us to Tran.”

  “You know him—then he is—”

  “Yes. The father of Gwen’s child. Tylara, do nothing. Say nothing, except to be polite. I don’t know why he’s here—but that box he’s carrying can talk to the ship, and that ship could destroy this whole world.”

  “But if the box were destroyed?”

  “Then those in the ship would do whatever they wish.”
/>   “I see.” She released her grip on his arm and fell silent.

  “Sergeant Elliot!” Rick shouted.

  “Sir!”

  “Clear the hill. Move everyone out, then come back for me.”

  “Sir.”

  “Sorry about the housekeeping,” Rick said. He moved toward Les. “Welcome to Tran.”

  The pilot nodded. “It appears that you have come up in the world since last we met.”

  Cold, Rick thought. Cold and haughty, as if he is master here. I suppose he is. “Let me introduce you to my wife. Tylara do Tamaerthon. Countess of Chelm and Justiciar of Drantos.” He used English and spoke rapidly despite Tylara’s frowns.

  “Making you what?” Les demanded.

  “Eqeta—that’s count—”

  “I know the title.”

  “Eqeta of Chelm, and Captain-General of Drantos.” No need to tell him about Tamaerthon at all. Or the Roman alliance. Let him find out for himself—or not find out, which would be better.

  “Ah. But I forget my manners.” The pilot turned to Tylara and extended his hand. After a moment she gave him hers, and he bowed and kissed her fingers. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Tylara,” he said. His accent was not good, but the language was recognizably Tran local.

  Usually Tylara was as resistant to male charms as a suit of armor, but she smiled warmly and thanked the starman. An act, Rick wondered? Or was she really impressed? Les was certainly handsome enough, and trying to be charming, but still—“How long will you be with us?” Rick asked.

  “That depends,” Les said. “I’ve come for my wife. Gwen must have told you I would come.”

  “She wasn’t always sure she believed you,” Rick said.

  “Ah. Yeah, she had a right to her doubts,” Les said. “That’s over now. Where is she?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  Les eyed Rick thoughtfully in the dim light. “So she told you she has a transceiver,” he said. “And you want me to believe she’s alive and it’s working.”

  “She’s all right, and the transceiver works to the best I know,” Rick said. “I take it Gwen didn’t answer you, then.”

  “No. Now where is she?”

  “That sounds very much like a demand.”

  Les shrugged. “Take it any way you—no. Eqeta Galloway, I would count it a very great favor if you would conduct me to my wife.”

  “A couple of questions, first,” Rick said. “As for example—do your employers know you’re here?”

  Les looked startled, then laughed. “I take it you mean, did I jump ship? No. My landing is—authorized, and the time I will stay on Tran is up to me.”

  And I can believe as much of that as I want to, Rick thought. But there’s no point in standing here on a hilltop. “Welcome to Chelm. I trust you will do us the honor of being our guest.”

  “Thank you. But now that I’ve answered your question—where is my wife?”

  Persistent chap, Rick thought. And maybe not quite as cool as he wants us to think—

  “The Lady Gwen is well,” Tylara said. “And your son is safe and well and under our protection.”

  The light was too dim for Rick to be certain, but he thought the pilot’s face showed joy. His voice, though, remained unchanged. “My son. What did Gwen choose to name him?”

  “Les,” Tylara said.

  Les turned to Tylara, but before he could say anything, she said. “The Lady Gwen is married to Lord Caradoc do Tamaerthon, a knight in my service. He is one of our most trusted captains, and my husband and I are very much in his debt.”

  “Married,” Les said.

  “Last autumn,” Tylara said. “She believed that you were dead or had forsaken her.”

  “Well, I’m not, and I didn’t,” Les said. “And now I’d like to see her. If you please.” His voice grew more stern. “Do you think I’d have come back to this—to Tran—for any other reason?”

  Tylara shrugged. “I do not know the duties of those who serve the—Shalnuksis.”

  “So. You’ve told her everything,” Les said.

  “Shouldn’t I?” Rick asked.

  “I don’t know.” Les shrugged.

  * * *

  “It’s walk, ride, or wait all night until I can send for a sedan chair,” Rick said.

  Les laughed. “I’ll ride, if the horse is tame.”

  “It’s a mule,” Rick said. “More surefooted for this mountain trail. And it’s certainly gentle enough. All right, Sergeant Major. Lead the way. Sergeant Frick will bring up the rear. And spread right out, gentlemen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Elliot said. He rode on ahead, and Frick dropped back, so that Rick, Tylara, and Les rode alone.

  “You have them well trained,” Les said.

  That didn’t seem worth answering, and Rick said nothing. The trail was steep and frightening if you didn’t trust the mules; the trick was to let the animals pick their own way and pace. Les seemed to be doing that.

  They reached the bottom, and the trail widened. “All right,” Les said. “Where is Gwen? And this—Caradoc.”

  “Lady Gwen is—in another part of the country,” Rick said.

  “And Lord Caradoc is a soldier,” Tylara continued. “He is with the army in the west.”

  “Hah. Good battle, that,” Les said.

  “You watched?” Tylara asked. “But—” She fell silent.

  “Saw some of it,” Les said. “So. That’s fortunate. Lord Caradoc is off to war, and Gwen is home alone. Good. If he stays out of my way, I won’t go looking for him. No trouble at all, that way.”

  “He is her husband by Tran law,” Rick said. And that sounds foolish.

  “And I’m her husband by Earth law,” Les said. “Does he have more right than me?”

  You don’t have any rights at all, Rick thought. You certainly didn’t marry her. But it will be better to pretend.

  “The case must be heard by the priests of Yatar,” Tylara said. “Do you not understand? The Lord Caradoc is our captain. A knight sworn to our service—”

  “And under our protection,” Rick said reluctantly. Christ, this is going to be rough.

  “I have no wish to shame the man,” Les said. His words came slowly, as if forced. “Nor—nor do I bear him ill will.”

  The hell you don’t, Rick thought.

  “I do not wish to be disrespectful of your law,” Les continued. “But I will see my wife.”

  “She is far from here,” Tylara said. “The roads are poor, bandits are numerous, and our army has been sent against the Westmen. It will be no easy journey, and we would do the Lady Gwen an ill service to send you without proper escort—”

  Les laughed, a short sharp sound. “An escort won’t be needed,” he said. “Tell me where to go, and I can call the ship.”

  35

  There were only the three of them at Rick’s conference table. Tylara sat at his right, and Sergeant Elliot on his left, leaving the long table nearly empty.

  Like to have more, Rick thought. But who? Art. Larry Warner. Maybe one of them could think of something—

  “If you’re going to let her know, you’d best get the message out now,” Elliot said.

  Rick nodded. The semaphore line to the University wasn’t finished. Messages had to go part way on horseback, and even with relay stations spaced Pony Express-style that took time. “I think we won’t,” he said. “What could I put in a message, even a coded one?”

  Elliot gave him a significant look. So did Tylara.

  Yeah, Rick thought: “Keep your pants on.” I can just see me sending her that message. Hah.

  “You learn anything from him?” Elliot asked.

  “Not much we don’t know,” Rick said. “The council or whatever it is that governs the Confederation is still divided over what to do about Earth, and doesn’t seem to know about Tran. Which means the Shalnuksis have a free hand, but we don’t have to worry about the council sending the galactic navy. Not just yet, anyway.”

  He took Tylara�
�s hand for a moment. She gave an answering half smile. He’d spent three hours trying to explain what he knew about the millennia-old Galactic Confederation and its human Janissaries, but she still didn’t understand. That’s all right, Rick thought. I don’t either. And what the hell, Tylara has more experience unravelling plots than I do. Maybe she can understand a confederacy of a dozen or more star-faring races. According to Les, they haven’t changed in five thousand years, mostly because of human slave soldiers.

  It sounds nutty. It would sound nuttier if I didn’t know the Turks used slave soldiers and administrators to run their empire. They called them Janissaries, and their empire stayed together for centuries.

  “What about that Agzaral guy?” Elliot asked. “Is he on our side?”

  “Don’t know. Les won’t say much about him. One thing’s sure, he’s playing a deep game,” Rick said. “He knows about Tran, but his bosses don’t. Yet he’s a cop. Or something like a cop, anyway.” Rick shrugged. “I don’t even know how much Les knows. Maybe he’ll tell us more.”

  “Yeah, if he lives long enough,” Elliot said. “Christ, Cap’n, why’d it have to be Caradoc he’s gonna put horns on? Nobody else is near that popular with the army. Even the mercs like him.”

  Tylara frowned. “Is it so certain that Lord Caradoc will be dishonored? Why do you think so ill of the Lady Gwen? Surely she knows what must be.”

  How do I answer that? Rick wondered. No way to tell her how I know. “Girls on Earth do not think as the women on Tran do. Les was her first love, and he will be insistent. Yet, you may be right. It may be that Lady Gwen will refuse his advances, at least until the case can be heard by a court.”

  “Fat bloody chance,” Elliot muttered.

  “You have knowledge?” Tylara asked.

  “Some,” Elliot said. “Look, I don’t want to tell tales, but before she married Caradoc—”

  “Yeah?” Rick demanded.

  “Well, one night I heard shots from her room,” Elliot said. “I came in to find Gwen breathing hard, Larry Warner with his hideout pistol, and Caradoc waving a bloody big knife. They straightened it all out, but—”