Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “There’s a catch. I could never see you again. But I could set you up. Not so rich that people would notice, but comfortable. Gold—”

  “Gold. You trying to buy your way out?”

  “No! I mean—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just something I thought of. I couldn’t hide you from Agzaral, but I think I could talk him into letting you alone.”

  “But I’d never see you again.”

  “Probably not.”

  “So. I go to Earth and hide, live on your money and not see you. And do what? What would I be? Les, even a kept woman gets to see her lover once in a while.” Then she laughed. “Besides, if you’re going to send me back to Earth, I want more than gold.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know they have a complete Ptolemy’s Life of Alexander the Great here on Tran?”

  “You mean Arrian’s?”

  “No, Ptolemy’s. The one written by Alexander’s own best general and half-brother after he was King of Egypt. Arrian probably used it, but on Earth it’s been lost for centuries. Octavia gave Ganton a copy as a wedding present. There are a thousand other pieces of classical literature I could sell for a fortune. Do you know I spent a whole afternoon reading a Latin translation of Aeschylus’ The Myrmidons? Mary Renault got it almost exactly right in The Mask of Apollo, when Nikeratos puts it on at Delphi.”

  “Now I know you’re crazy.”

  “Why? Who would know? I’m sure classical scholars and universities would put a fine smokescreen against any awkward questions.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. If it wasn’t fine enough—Agzaral wouldn’t hesitate to send agents to Earth to kill you and the children. Kill you and disintegrate your bodies, so nobody would find anything suspicious in the kids’ DNA.”

  “He wouldn’t!”

  “Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe. But somebody would. Gwen, I don’t know what they’re going to do about Earth, but if your people learn about the Confederation it could—Look, one faction wants to destroy Earth now.

  “Even if nothing happened to Earth, the secret of Tran would be out. Then the Shalnuksis would have to cover their tracks. Gwen, they have a weapon that could make the True Sun go nova.”

  “Good God. You’re—no, you’re not joking. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going back.”

  Thank the Light. “Why not?”

  “Because I’d rather have you once every couple of years than never, you goose.”

  She came to his arms and he held her tightly.

  Tran’s your home, and you’re important here. But maybe I am part of it.

  “Just come back. Please.”

  “I’ll always come back.”

  The nightmares were still close, but they knew what would drive them away, for a while. Dreams and nightmares alternated through the long Tran night.

  * * *

  Gwen woke to find an empty bed and a pillow wet with tears she was quite sure weren’t all hers.

  I’ve lived through plenty of mornings without you. What’s one more?

  She slipped out of bed and stepped into the outer chamber. Marva was asleep in her bed and the children in theirs, with the maids on their pallets.

  Gwen clapped her hands. “Up, up, everyone. Rise and shine.”

  6

  The mist was closing in and the track underfoot was even worse than Gengrich remembered it. Well, he hadn’t approached Castle Zyphron this way since early summer, before the Westmen invasion up north, and there’d been a hell of a lot of rain since then. No wonder the track had potholes you could damned near bathe in!

  Alex Boyd, riding beside him, frowned at the hills slowly disappearing behind the grey wall of mist. “Arnie, if I remember right the track runs along the side of one of those hills. There’s woods upslope, enough to hide a whole battalion.”

  “Ambushes?”

  “Could be.”

  “What about riding downhill, off the track?”

  “You could swing it in good weather. I’ve done it myself, riding light. With the grass wet, the ground soft, and the horses tired—no way.”

  It seemed like a good idea when they started off in the morning, on the last day’s march homeward. Why not approach Castle Zyphron from the west, to smoke out any bandits who might have thought there was safety in a place the Lord of Zyphron would never think of looking? They’d certainly chased enough of them out of other places; the city council of Valus would be happy as a grig with the heads they’d sent in.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now that the autumn rains had started the notion didn’t look so good. Progress came a yard at a time, even when they dismounted and led the horses through the worst of it. Now it was mid-afternoon, visibility was going to hell, they were still seven klicks from the castle, and there wasn’t a dry campground in sight. No dry wood, either.

  They’d better move on and try to make it home tonight, or there were going to be seven hundred men thoroughly pissed off at one Lord Gengrich do Zyphron, former Corporal, U.S.A. Come to think of it, he was fairly pissed off at himself. This stuff is worse than the ’Nam highlands. Should have expected it. “Alex.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The men won’t like sleeping out in the wet this close to home. Take Clayton and Green and a double load of ammo and fifty men and ride up ahead. Picket the road every couple of hundred meters. If that smokes out an ambush, we can come up and bail you out. If it doesn’t, we can push on through.”

  Boyd nodded slowly. “If you say so—”

  “What’s buggin’ you, Alex? The ammo?”

  “Yeah. I don’t mind shooting it off, but risking its being captured . . .”

  “Got any better ideas?” Boyd shook his head. “Then move it. We sure don’t want to be out here in the dark.”

  “Aaaa-men, brother.”

  Gengrich watched as Boyd rode off to round up the other two mercs for his fire team and pick a half-company of locals. He spat into a clump of sheepdog bush beside the track. Never knew what officers did. Until I had to be one.

  Christ, for a nickel I’d give it up. Except that doesn’t work either. Bad enough taking care of two thousand people, but damn all it’s worse being alone. Goddamn crummy planet.

  A snatch of song ran through his mind. Something he’d seen on an arts channel movie. “And it is a pleasant thing, to be a pirate king.”

  Flipping bullshit it is!

  At least the harvests hadn’t been too bad, which had bought him a little time to play what was now really his only card. He didn’t know what good would come of sending an embassy north to Ganton’s wedding, but old Daettan had a reputation for being a pretty smart bargainer.

  No harm asking. Maybe the captain will take us all back. Only what happens if he wants just the mercs and none of the locals? What in hell do I do then?

  When Alex’s patrol rode through Gengrich ordered the others to dismount and lead. “Save the horses.” There were grumbles, and some arguments. One of his NCOs shouted and he heard blows.

  No flipping discipline, and what do I do about that? Pirate king my ass.

  * * *

  It was just enough darker to notice when Gengrich heard the shots. Six that sounded like one of the H&Ks and another that sounded like a .45. That meant trouble unless it was Green firing; he had a bad rep for being trigger-happy.

  “Red alert!”

  Gengrich heard the order relayed as he swung up into his saddle. If it was Green wasting ammo again, he’d just made a real good down payment on being the first merc to really smoke for screwing up—

  “Bandits!” somebody shouted, invisible in the mist ahead. Then two more bursts and a lot of wordless yelling, some of it not even sounding human.

  Gengrich felt his hands quiver the way they always did when he knew a firefight was coming. It never bothered him once he was doing some personal shooting, but sitting and watching or even worse listening always got to him.

  “First and Fourth Companies,
mount up! Second and Third Companies, take the flanks and advance for dismounted action!” Please God the horseholders knew their business and all the bandits were up front and not lurking down here ready to grab the mounts.

  Gengrich drew his sword and dug in his spurs. Gravel flew as he came level with the captain of Fourth Company. As the mounted column got into motion, it made enough noise to alert any bandits for miles around. Not enough to drown out more bursts of firing up ahead. Gengrich concentrated on controlling his horse with one hand. He could now manage a horse if he kept his mind on it, although he suspected that most of the born-in-the-saddle types among the locals still sniggered at him behind his back.

  He was so busy with his mount that he didn’t notice the battle noises getting louder. Suddenly they were all around him, and he saw Alex Boyd down on one knee behind his dead horse, one arm dangling useless, firing his pistol with the other hand.

  Gengrich opened his mouth to shout to Boyd. Before he could take a deep breath not just the battle noises but the battle itself was all around him. A stand of scrub oak spewed ragged figures in all directions. The captain of the Fourth Company flipped backward out of his saddle, his face mashed into jam by a flail. Someone leaped into the emptied saddle and started to turn the mount’s head, then screamed even louder and fell under its hooves as Boyd shot him in the belly.

  Two other bandits closed in on Gengrich. He slashed down at the head of the one in the lead. The man’s long dagger gashed his boot as the sword came down. The man tried to slash again as he reeled back, his skull split open, then crumpled. The other bandit let out a scream that turned Gengrich’s stomach and leaped like a frog, left hand gripping the bow of the saddle and the right the horse’s reins. As Gengrich realized the bandit was a woman, she brought the knife in her right hand around toward the horse’s neck. His swordcut only gashed her shoulder, but it broke her grip in time to save the horse. He made another wild slash at her and felt it hit something, but didn’t see what happened to her after that. The bandits who’d run past him came running back, and after them some reinforcements from the First Company.

  The bandits didn’t wait around for the full four companies to come up; they scattered with what they’d managed to grab or strip from the dead. Gengrich was just starting to think of casualty reports when he heard four evenly spaced rifle shots from back where the horses of the dismounted companies were being held. He was turning his mount when he heard a horse’s scream, another shot, then silence. He waited while the silence dragged on, then sighed. Whatever it was back there, it wasn’t a full-scale attack on the rear.

  What the bandits up in front had done was bad enough. Joe Green was going to have to be trigger-happy with his left hand; somebody had hacked off the first two joints of his right index finger. Alex Boyd would be out of action for a while with a broken arm; that was a mace. Twelve of the locals were dead and about twenty had reported wounded, which meant probably twice as many needing the medics. The local habit of proving your guts by not reporting wounded wasn’t quite as bad as it was before Gengrich trained the medics in antisepsis; now you could prove your guts by letting boiling water be dumped on your wounds. You still got a lot of people walking around with legitimate Purple Hearts and never saying a frigging word!

  The bandits left fourteen bodies behind, and any of them who lit out with a bad wound was probably going to die, but they’d also made off with a dozen weapons and five horses. No star weapons or ammo, thank God; Gengrich still knew that Alex Boyd had come too damned close to being a prophet instead of just a casualty.

  A scribe was getting the figures down on a wooden tablet when Private Alan MacAllister rode up the track. “That’s wrong,” he said, pointing at the figures.

  “Yeah?”

  “I got five more back there. They tried to come through the horses. I think they were in a hurry.”

  “They probably were. We weren’t exactly running a resort up here.”

  “I know. Like I said, I got five more back there.”

  No time to send somebody for a body count, and no need either. MacAllister was about the surliest merc in the whole outfit and always had been. He was also the best and coolest shot Gengrich had ever known, and was real sticky about an accurate count of his kills.

  So that meant nineteen bandits in return for a dozen locals down plus two starmen and twenty-odd locals hurt. With the loot they’d snagged, the bandits might be calling it a victory.

  Victory. Right. Who was that guy who said, “Give me another victory like this and I’m dog meat”?

  * * *

  The rising wind whipped the flames of the torches on the gate towers but the light rain wasn’t enough to put them out. Helmets and shield bosses glistened as the sentries presented arms. Gengrich returned their salutes and rode on through the smelly darkness of the gate itself into the courtyard of Castle Zyphron.

  Behind him rode the mercs, the wounded with the medics and stretcher-bearers, and his own personal bodyguard. The rest of the column would probably already be settling down in New Zyphron, which was their fancy name for the walled camp at the foot of the hill.

  At least they’d take care of their horses and armor before they went looking for wine and an audience. He’d made it a rule from the first, that a man who neglected his mount joined the infantry and a man who neglected his armor or weapons joined the bandits. He’d had to fight twice, once against six men, before he made that rule stick, but that was the last bit of trouble.

  Frank Guilford came up, saluted, and went off to triage the wounded without waiting for a reply. After him came the seneschal, Master Arranthos. Master Arranthos. Damfino master of what. Some city guild until politics got him. He sure don’t talk about it.

  “Master Khemos thinks that the south gate must be braced, at least, to see the winter through.”

  “Can’t he finish the repairs?”

  “The foundation on the left side needs work. The ground will be too wet for safe digging until the frosts come.”

  After that it would be too hard, of course. A sweet set of choices—override a master mason, start work and risk Khemos quitting or people getting killed; block off the castle’s escape hatch to mounted men for the rest of the winter; or do nothing and watch the gate fall on somebody’s head in the first blizzard.

  “Give Master Khemos my compliments and tell him to brace the gate.” Read that in a novel once. Sure comes in handy.

  This far south a light-infantry army that didn’t need forage for cavalry or a siege train could campaign damned near all year ’round, but that wouldn’t be a menace to Castle Zyphron. They couldn’t be in real hot water before spring, and then if they did have to get out in a hurry it’d be for good and damned sure they wouldn’t be riding!

  “Yes, my lord. The Lord Holloway says he expects the forge to be fit for the making of—guns—in another ten days. He asks whether you wish iron or bronze guns.”

  Now that was almost good news! Siggie Holloway was just as good a blacksmith as he said he was, and ready to bust his tail in the bargain. Once they’d decided that their gunpowder was good enough to use in guns, he’d rounded up the people and the tools without anybody having to ride herd on him.

  Bronze or iron was still a question. Iron they had, but nobody on Tran seemed to know how to cast it, except maybe the Romans. They’d have to use guns hammered together out of wrought-iron bars; they’d be heavy mothers and likely to blow up in your face if you gave ’em a dirty look.

  Bronze could be cast, and that meant lighter, stronger guns that wouldn’t rust. But both bronze and the bronzesmiths would have to be imported from Rustengo. Who in hell do we know in Rustengo besides Mort Schultz? Have to ask around. Guess we’ll have to make peace with Schultzy. But not just yet.

  “Iron, I think. We have the men with the art of working it, and it is easier to come by. We’ll need a lot.”

  Arranthos gave Gengrich’s H&K a pointed look. “The star weapons seem to wield great power, though th
ey are small.”

  Why try to bluff? “That is true. They are also made with starmetals that may not exist on this world, and with magic that none of the starmen know, not even the Lord Rick.”

  Arranthos looked thoughtful. “Very well. Lady Helena asks that you see her as soon as your duties permit. Your son Dan has been sick with the lung-fever these past three days. Lord Guilford does not hold out much hope.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  Gengrich briefly closed his eyes and tried not to sway in the saddle. It was all just too damned much. Dan was such a likable baby, with his mother’s blond hair and his father’s dark eyes, and Helena had gone through hell having him. She was so proud, too, because Erika had a girl, then miscarried so that she couldn’t have any more. . . .

  Pneumonia didn’t care whether you liked somebody or not. All it cared about was whether there were any drugs to fight it off. There weren’t and there weren’t going to be any, and that was that, although Frank had done some pretty good work with home remedies picked up from the local mid-wives.

  “Forgive me, my lord, that I brought—”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault. Tell Lady Helena I’ll be with her as soon as I’ve prayed to Hestia.” And washed up, but I can’t get them to understand about that.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Gengrich dismounted and strode off toward the shrine of Hestia without noticing if his squires caught his horse. Please, God or Hestia, or Somebody, don’t let Dan die. What did he do to anybody?

  Maybe Hestia would answer.

  And maybe Elliot would fly down from the sky in a balloon with a case of penicillin and a case of Lone Star beer.

  * * *

  Dan died just before True Sun-rise the next morning. The last thing on Tran or any other world Gengrich wanted to do was stay in the sickroom looking at his son’s body. But Helena was crying so hard he didn’t want to leave her alone.

  Hell, even Erika was crying. Maybe that meant he wouldn’t have woman troubles with Erika crowing over her rival’s losing Dan. . . .

  By late morning Helena was cried out. Gengrich staggered into his chamber and collapsed on the bed. He didn’t bother taking off his boots, but he did grab a jug of Guilford’s Private Stock. It was about eighty proof and tasted even worse than Gengrich felt.