Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  That could be a lot. The city’s walls really weren’t in too great shape; a general who didn’t care about casualties could probably storm the city outright. The Rustengans couldn’t march out and fight in the open either, not if the other side had any good cavalry. From what Schultz knew about the Sunlands and the rest of where the refugees came from, the Prophet wouldn’t have any now, but if he got some of the better local mercenary outfits on his side . . .

  Maybe that was why he wanted Gengrich. Arnie had some fair to middling cavalry of his own. More dragoons than cavalry, but not bad. He also had a lot of contracts with other mounted mercenary outfits.

  Mort, you better get up north to Castle Zyphron and lay all this on Gengrich, before that Prophet gonef sends him an offer he can’t refuse.

  It would be a lot harder to make peace with the Captain if Gengrich signed up with somebody fighting the Captain’s new religion. Arnie has to know that. If he doesn’t—

  If he doesn’t, we’re both finished.

  Damn the Prophet anyway! Going north meant leaving Diana. It meant leaving the shop right when things were about to click on moveable type—and that would guarantee him red-carpet treatment from the Captain. For him and anybody he wanted to bring along. It meant leaving his century, right when they were beginning to shape up. . . .

  Arnie, you’re going to owe me one. Hope you figure that out.

  * * *

  It was so dark under the trees that Matthias didn’t see the sentries’ lanterns until a moment before they challenged him.

  “Who is there?”

  “The True Servant.”

  “Thank Vothan! We were beginning to worry, my lord. Is all well?”

  Matthias dismounted without answering, and took a bowl of hot soup from a man-at-arms. Tonight’s march would be no easy task, but there was no other way to get safely into the hills by daybreak. Bandits would not trouble eighty armed men. At least no small band of them would, and Lord Gengrich and his allies had left few large ones.

  A good war captain, Gengrich, by all appearances. Could he be turned against his Captain General? Then the Five Kingdoms could crush the starmen and their allies one by one. But it must be done quickly, before everyone was overtaken by the Time.

  The cult of Yatar had its records of the Time. So did the Priests of Vothan, although they did not boast of them. In the Time, the lands of the Five Kingdoms would grow strong—and the hordes from the south would come. So said the records.

  As the men-at-arms began beating out the campfire, the horses suddenly neighed in a ragged chorus. The air grew still. Matthias felt a moment of dizziness. Then the ground quivered. It felt as if he stood on the back of a large animal.

  “Forget the campfire!” he shouted. “Lead the horses out of the trees!”

  By the time they were out of the trees, the campfire was only a dim glow in the distance. A hasty count showed that all the men and horses were safe. Anyone coming on the remains of the camp would think bandits had struck.

  Matthias swung into the saddle and led the way northward. His head held confusion. When the very earth under men’s feet betrayed them, was this a time to do the will of men who seemed to worship nothing but their own magic, and led others to do the same?

  And if their magic is a gift from the gods?

  He rode on without answers. The trail led steeply uphill, and it took all his skill and attention to keep his seat.

  No more earth shocks came, but when they reached the open hills, it was snowing.

  INTERLUDE

  LUNA

  The man Rick Galloway knew as Inspector Agzaral studied the telltales on the device clipped to the underside of his desk and smiled to himself. For the next hour anyone listening would hear only meaningless pleasantries. When the office door opened he rose and went more than halfway to greet the woman who entered. He raised her hand to his lips, an act that would have astonished both humans and nonhumans who knew him. It would not have surprised those who knew of his relationship with Jehna Sae Leern, but there had been no such person of any race in forty Terran years.

  “You haven’t changed much,” she said. She glanced at his desk.

  “We can talk,” he said. “Or—”

  “Later.” She smiled.

  “How was the Council meeting?”

  “To anyone but us, entirely routine.”

  “So. There was pressure on anyone to declare their position on the future of Earth.”

  “Nothing overt.”

  “No faction believes it has won, then.”

  Jehna smiled. “You can see the sun by daylight. And yet, I sensed that some were waiting. To pounce, to change sides—I don’t know. Is there anything in those decanters?”

  Agzaral chose a Waterford decanter and two Scandinavian glasses in the shape of dragons. “A new sherry. I think you’ll find it drinkable.”

  “I’d rather have whiskey.” They raised their glasses. Jehna tossed hers back stiff-wristed. “Free stars.”

  Agzaral glanced at the telltales on his desk. “Free stars! Are you mad?”

  “I think not. If I read the meeting right, we may have opportunities. Better than in the past five hundred years.”

  “A long time.”

  “I mean it. At least three of the Five Families might be glad to see Earth humans burst into space on their own. It’s all on the tape. Listen, then tell me.”

  “I’ll listen. But why might they want that?”

  “Ennui. Look at it through their eyes. A lifetime of centuries with everything the same at the end as at the beginning. They don’t even have to work at it. You and I do it for them.”

  “War as a cure for boredom. Interesting. But the Ader’at’eel are beyond that.”

  “Are they? Listen to the tapes and say that again. I don’t say they want war. They’re just bored, and not too concerned about the Confederation. Did you ever see a film made on Earth called La Dolce Vita? It may be a disease of ruling families of every race. Everywhere.”

  “Are the Ehk’mai among the Three Families who feel this way?”

  “Ah. I think you do understand.”

  “Perhaps. Have they prepared to take advantage of the instabilities—Hah. Put wild humans in space and none of us can know what will happen.”

  “Isn’t that what we want? The only really predictable thing is stasis. Anyway, I don’t know what the Ehk’mai have planned.” She grinned. “You expect me to know a lot. Courier First-Rank isn’t even the highest human rank in the service of the Ehk’mai.”

  “But can you find out?”

  “I have some access to both humans and Ader’at’eel at the proper level. Is it wise to ask such questions?”

  “We have to know. It will be dangerous to ask?”

  “Of course, and since when have you become protective?”

  “Merely concerned with timing. One wishes to choose the most profitable moment to go—‘in harm’s way’ is the phrase an Earth sailor once used.”

  Jehna smiled. “K’yar, you are not deceiving me, let alone yourself. You are worried—for me, and for what the Ader’at’eel might be plotting.”

  Agzaral sipped his sherry. “That may be.” He looked thoughtful, then decisive. “At all events, this is not the proper time for you to go in harm’s way. You wouldn’t learn enough. The time will come, and now I think sooner than we expected.”

  “You sound almost—pleased.”

  “Does this surprise you?”

  “Somewhat. You have always been the perfect cynic. Now you seem to be welcoming a situation that could force you to choose sides.”

  “You are surprised that I can see the sun by daylight?”

  “It isn’t that clear to me.”

  “Perhaps it will be clearer once you have seen a film I have for you.”

  “A film?” She raised one eyebrow. “From Earth?”

  “Not that kind. You would not believe how Terran erotica has deteriorated in the last few years. Most would nauseate anyone
but sadists, and bore them.”

  “You intrigue me!”

  “I’d be a poor host if I didn’t.” He turned off the scrambler and rose. “Come. The caviar is Persian, but the smoked salmon is Fortnum’s best. There’s an extra side of it for you.”

  * * *

  The film had been shot against a green-sprayed wall of lunar rock. Les was holding up a photograph as he talked.

  “Gwen isn’t the only one who bounces back when she’s knocked down. Take Jack Beazeley. His hobby is folk singing, and he’s missed having a guitar. So he learned to play the lyre, and rescored a lot of songs for it. Then he sat down with an instrument-maker and described a twelve-string guitar. You see the results. I don’t think any Earth folk singer would recognize it, let alone be able to play it, but I’ve heard Beazeley give a two-hour concert on it. Next time I’ll bring a tape of his less ribald compositions.”

  Les stopped smiling. “I think the Shalnuksis badly underestimated what they turned loose on Tran. There’ve been a few duds like Parsons, but most of Rick’s people are turning out to be the sort you don’t want mad at you. And they’ve been turned loose on a planet that was settled with fairly tough people to start with—people who’ve been systematically selected for survival qualities by a hostile environment and periodic doses of A-bombs.

  “If I were one of the Shalnuksis, I’d be frightened, but I’m not one of those sons of bitches. I’m proud to be human and proud to be Gwen’s chosen mate. I’ll always be proud of these things, whatever happens to me or to Tran.”

  The screen went blank. Jehna picked up a forkful of sachertorte, then put it down.

  “So that’s Les.”

  “An interesting specimen, isn’t he? Not particularly discreet, but—”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “To see if he’s irresistible?”

  “Jealous, K’yar?”

  “Envious, rather. Les—I believe the phrase is ‘has to beat women off with a club.’ ”

  “In that case I’d rather meet Gwen. He’s obviously found her irresistible.” Jehna finished the torte and rubbed her stomach. “I shall have to fast halfway to Aderat to lose the weight your hospitality has put on me.”

  “If you find yourself a trifle full—”

  “Satisfying one appetite doesn’t satisfy all of them, my friend. You knew that once. Have you forgotten?”

  He rose and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, and took her neck in his teeth. When she gasped he put his hands on her hips. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

  “I see you haven’t.”

  She slipped out of her robe and he saw that she still swam and sunbathed nude; the long limbs were as brown and supple as ever. He moved against her. They both knew that they were in danger, and as usual this was exciting her.

  Danger was too constant a companion to excite him but he didn’t object to its effect on Jehna. He would not forget their interlude in Seoul in 1950, the last time he and Jehna went Earthside together. . . .

  As desire replaced thought, Agzaral could not help wondering whether Les had stumbled on an important truth. Had the Shalnuksis conjured up a danger to the whole Confederation?

  INTERLUDE

  GWEN TREMAINE’S

  DIARY

  25/Mists/Ganton 2—Routine University business all day—inspecting the firewood and coal supplies and sending for more, reading reports, sitting on a court of inquiry on two legionaries found drunk in the women’s quarters, etc., etc., ad nauseam.

  Day only redeemed at the end by dinner with Larry Warner. He’s got a positively courtly manner now, and a slight potbelly that he’s fighting by working out with the Romans every morning. He’s also obviously still interested in me, but not pushing it.

  Just as well. The loneliness hasn’t hit yet, but it will, after the child comes.

  Should I have told Les about the child? He was frank enough with me about the kidnap attempt. I just don’t know how much he will tell me. He says he doesn’t want me to worry. If he keeps enough secrets about the Galactics I won’t have to worry, I’ll be dead! I don’t know, but at least there won’t be any question about whose kid this one is!

  So far no morning sickness, so I haven’t had to tell anyone but Marva and Sergeant McCleve. He’s going to be really handy to have around if I have another hard time; he’s reinvented obstetrical forceps. That could do almost as much for a population boom as antisepsis.

  Back to the dinner. Larry read me a letter from Lance Clavell, our new Ambassador Extraordinary, Plenipotentiary, etc., to the island city-state of Nikeis. It sounds like a cross between Venice and Mont-St. Michel. Better than Venice. High ground. Won’t sink. Or get flooded in the Time. I’d sure like to see their arsenal. Larry heard they can work on a dozen ships at a time.

  For the record, Nikeis is governed by a Council of Guilds and merchant houses. Sounds like Venice again. They’ve got a figurehead Eqeta and some theoretical allegiance to Drantos, but I notice Drantos doesn’t collect taxes there! And the last time their Eqeta defied the Council they got a new one. The old one and his heirs went off a cliff as a special sacrifice for good weather. . . .

  The Nikeians import most of their food, but they do grow some in terraces. Larry got figures for yields so high we don’t really believe them. If it’s true, we want to know how they do it. They use fertilizer, mostly from guano deposits on the Glacier Coast. We’ve asked Clavell to negotiate for a shipload for the University experimental farms. Larry Warner says he wants to see Marva’s face when she learns she has to find storage for ten tons of seagull dung!

  Clavell says that his assistant and chief of staff Clarence Harrison is “getting enough action for a whole platoon.” It seems Nikeis was once saved by an admiral who also had lost his left hand. Not many people believe Lord Harrison is really this character come back, but a lot of people think he has mana.

  There’s a rumor that Gengrich had Captain Aidhos do Vis executed for “dishonoring” the Embassy to Ganton’s wedding. I said, “Good riddance to bad rubbish” before I could stop myself, which made Larry give me a really odd look. I’d completely forgotten I’m not supposed to know that Aidhos was trying to kidnap me. I will not kick all overprotective men in the shins. I will not kick all overprotective men in the shins. I will not kick all overprotective men in the shins. . . .

  Anyway, Larry said Aidhos probably deserved what he got, but he hoped the man didn’t have any family who’d think they were now at blood-feud with Gengrich. From what I’ve heard of Gengrich he’d check that. How could he have lived this long and not known that much about local customs?

  Larry knew Arnold Gengrich in Africa. After he talked about him for a while I said Gengrich sounded like an intelligent street gang leader. That got me another funny look, then Larry said that’s just what Arnie used to be. Sounds like he’ll fit right in, if Rick can talk him into coming back.

  We ended the dinner when the candles began to gutter and smoke. Larry says he’s trying to invent a clean-burning candle, and I promised to remember anything I could about candlemaking to help him. Oh, if we only had a couple of copies of The Way Things Work. The Foxfire Book would be even better.

  PART TWO

  DISCOVERIES

  8

  Mason squinted against the glare of the sun from snow-covered hills. Then he raised his hand against the icy wind. “First and Second Platoons, form a mounted perimeter around the farm. Third and Fourth Platoons, prepare for dismounted action. Platoon leaders, this is a battle warning.”

  Mason pounded his numb hands together as the order passed back along the column. Tran cold-weather clothing was pretty damned good for a medieval society, and the Guards and starmen got the best. Mason had better: a polystyrene leotard and vapor-barrier aluminized cloth over that. Put that under furs and you’d be warm in a blizzard.

  The perimeter platoons moved out at a walk. They churned up fresh snow that fell back like sprays of tiny jewels. Come on, come on. Let’s get this o
ver with.

  He kept hoping he was wrong about this old manor farm. Maybe nobody’s here. Or they bugged out already. They had time since the scouts found this place.

  A manor not on the registry, with no clear ownership. Land not only not cultivated but gone to thorns. Nothing else like that within a day’s ride from Castle Dravan. No manor lord, it had to be directly held by the Eqeta. Or the Eqetassa . . .

  Let’s hope they bugged out. It could get sticky if they’re still here.

  “What the hell is this place, Major?” Jack Beazeley had no real trouble saying “sir” to Art Mason, for all they’d been friends before Mason’s commission. He’d say “sir,” but he’d still ask questions.

  “Jack, I damn well don’t know. I got a hunch—”

  Beazeley waved to indicate the Guardsmen surrounding the place. “Sir, you got more than a hunch. Just how much trouble do you expect? Sir.”

  “None at all, or maybe a lot.”

  “A lot. Lot as in mercs with ammo?”

  “Huh? Naw. Not that. Locals, but damn good locals.”

  “Okay, as long as I know what to expect.”

  “I’ll go in first.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Corporal, I’ll go in first.”

  Beazeley shrugged. “Yes, sir.”

  The perimeter was formed, two lines of Guardsmen. One line faced in, the other outward. More troops held positions as reserves. Musketeers unslung their weapons while their loaders drove in the rests and nervously counted the charges on their bandoliers.

  “We’re set to take on a whole damn army,” Beazeley said.

  “Yeah. And it won’t be that.” He rose in his stirrups. “Sergeant Bisso!”

  “Sir.”

  “Stay out here. You’re in charge. Anything happens, report to the colonel. Take live prisoners if you can. That may not be easy.”

  “Sir.”

  Bisso was a sergeant when I was a corporal. Don’t seem to bother him a lot, but anything he knows, Elliot’s going to know. Just as well, I guess.