Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Who will win this war?” Wilno asked.

  “I don’t know. For all our sakes, it had better be Captain Galloway.”

  “You cannot give him greater resources?”

  “Not more than I have already sent. His problem is that he casts his nets very wide indeed. He is not content merely to secure a small area and grow surinomaz. He seeks to spread civilization across much of the planet.”

  “This Galloway is not a typical mercenary soldier.”

  “Obviously.”

  Agzaral and his companion watched in silence until Les finished with technical details of the status of his ship, and a polite farewell. The screen went grey and the robed man turned to Agzaral.

  “He is being rather discreet.”

  “I imagine there had been some developments which he did not wish the Shalnuksis to know about at this point. I can hardly imagine anyone of Les’ intelligence trusting their judgement. Can you?”

  The other man smiled faintly. “Hardly. But I can hardly imagine anyone of your intelligence not trusting a classmate with the information needed to carry out his assignment. Yet it has happened. So perhaps Les—”

  “Wilno, what makes you think I am not trusting you with necessary intelligence?”

  “What makes you think I’ve forgotten the time you wanted me to make a diversion while you reprogrammed the mess computer? I might have been thrown out of the Academy for that!”

  “True. But you were not, and you must remember why?”

  “Indeed, you retrieved that situation in your inimitable manner. As you always do. But this time you will be light-years away during the crucial moments of whatever it is you want me to do.”

  Wilno was smiling, but Agzaral was not deceived. Wilno was trying to keep the atmosphere pleasant out of old friendship, not out of weakness.

  He would have to put the full details of the Tran situation in the hands of someone not already part of his plans. This was a moment he’d known for some time would come; he could not regret too much that it had come so soon.

  “It is important, what I am asking of you.”

  “I suspected as much. You aren’t the sort to spend your leave traveling a hundred and seventy light-years on four different ships over a trivial matter.”

  “It is also secret.”

  “If it involves the Shalnuksis, how could it be otherwise?”

  “Very well. What I want you to do is serve as weapons officer aboard the Shalnuksi ship they will send against Tran when they believe they will obtain no more surinomaz. It may be a crucial task.”

  “As usual, the Council knows nothing of this?”

  “As usual, some know and some do not. Wilno, we are both committed. The future of our species is no small matter.”

  “No. But why do you believe we are crucial to that?”

  “Because we are.” He handed Wilno a plastic envelope. “Put this in water for a minute, then play the disk inside. It will tell you most of what you need to know. If you need any protection for your viewer—”

  His companion laughed. “Thank you, but there is no need for your skills. Confederate Intelligence pays little attention to the Houses of the Guides. If we were annoyed we would not be so useful.”

  The controlled anger in Wilno’s voice and the eager way he reached for the envelope gave Agzaral more hope. He let none of it show on his face as he walked to the door of Wilno’s chamber.

  * * *

  The red dwarf sun of D’Jorr was touching the peaks of the mountains on the horizon. The valley below the viewing gallery was already in shadow, but sun still blazed from the snow near the summit of the great triangular peak across the valley. A dancing plume of snow trailed from the summit like a feather from a war helmet.

  Higher still, a vapor trail crept across the sky, with a golden glint at its head. Human or Confederate? At this distance it was impossible to tell. Agzaral decided to have his eyes examined soon. He would not again need the keen sight of his youth, but he would need every year left to him. It would be as well to lose none of them getting new eyes.

  Probably Confederate, he decided. Few humans came to these mountains, which ranked above the Himalayas for both height and splendor, except the Guides and some hardy climbers. Both came on the ground. On the other hand, the flying city of Nesha was barely an hour’s flight beyond the horizon. Doubtless there would be some Galactics aboard it who had never seen the mountains and would now be taking the chance to fly over.

  “A beautiful view,” said a soft voice behind Agzaral.

  He turned to see Wilno. The Guide had taken off his red robe and boots and wore only undertunic, kilt, and sandals. His expression was unreadable.

  “Very. Earth’s Himalayas and Chrin’s Giants are almost as splendid.”

  “I have never seen either. Nor do I really need to, after seeing these. I fell in love with this view when I was only a lay servant. I think I would have stayed on in the House even if I had never risen higher, if only to look at the mountains at sunrise and sunset.

  “Let us go to my quarters.”

  When they were alone, Wilno’s smile broadened, until it was an old familiar grin. Agzaral had seen that look when Wilno took a choice assignment from a rival.

  “I would judge that you find the mission worthy of your attention?” Agzaral asked.

  “You’d have to shoot me to keep me off it now.”

  “Our Shalnuksi friends may yet save me that trouble.”

  Wilno shrugged. “Then I die in battle. Better than dying here as Chief Guide, and a damned sight better than dying in some Slave hospital or by my own hand!”

  Agzaral could find no reply to that. He knew even better than Wilno the toll suicide took among the Slaves of the Confederation. However light his chains, a slave was still not a master, even of himself.

  “Questions before we settle details,” Wilno said. “I think I understand why you don’t want Les for the job. Even a Shalnuksis might be suspicious of his presence on the bomb ship. Also—I can see circumstances under which our interest lies alongside the Shalnuksis. You may wish Tran bombed.”

  “Reluctantly.”

  “I would be as reluctant as you. Let us not think of such unpleasant things.”

  “And your other question?”

  “Is there any chance that our grey-skinned friends will be able to come up with someone for the job themselves?”

  “A small chance. If their Intelligence somehow concludes that the secret has leaked out, they may override the Council of Merchants.”

  “Why don’t I believe you’ve told me everything?”

  “I have told you all I know. Wilno, I am doing all I can. All that anyone in my position can do.”

  “And you fear it is not enough.”

  Agzaral spread his hands. “There may be ways to obtain more resources.”

  “My friend, it is no great matter to deceive the Shalnuksis, but robbing them is something else entirely.”

  Agzaral smiled.

  Wilno shrugged. “Since I have known you, Agzaral, I have had many complaints, but boredom has never been one of them.”

  PART FOUR

  THE ROYAL

  SACRIFICE

  18

  Gwen Tremaine’s Diary

  Almost summery weather today, even by the standards of Iowa. By the standards of Tran, it’s a blistering heat wave. I’d try introducing the bikini or at least the sunback dress, but who’s going to spend money on clothes useful maybe ten years out of every six centuries?

  Lunch with Larry Warner, who turns out to be riding off on the mission to Margilos with Rick and a whole bunch of the other rough-and-tough types. I asked him why, when the Margilans are supposed to be hostile and the rule is “No University People in Combat.”

  He said the Margilans have promised the mission safe-conduct, and by all reports they have an ironbound sense of honor that won’t let them do anything to guests who don’t insult them. I asked him if he knew all the things Margilans cons
ider insults, and he decided he’d better keep his mouth shut. As if he could.

  Apparently having the Westmen dumped on them was more of a fight than the Margilans liked, and they want to find out if this was part of some new policy toward them, or just the fortunes of war. So maybe the Margilans aren’t so dangerous, but then there are stray bands of Westmen. Larry says the expedition will be armed to the teeth. I hope so. We need Rick. For that matter I need Larry.

  Even if the risk was a lot greater, Larry says it would be worth it to visit Margilos. Apparently they have some very unusual methods of gold-mining, plus hot springs where they can dump the gold if the city is in any danger. Also, they can do things with centaurs nobody else can, like teaching them to use simple weapons.

  After the second cup of wine I realized that I was going to miss Larry a lot. So I kissed him goodbye. He turned red and didn’t kiss me back, but he didn’t back away either. I have the feeling that Larry is settling into kind of a brotherly attitude toward me, which is better than nothing. Besides, suppose he was just as indispensable to Rick’s plans but a real slimeball like Alex Boyd? Boyd’s going to Margilos, and if the Margilans want to string that one up for messing with their women I hope somebody invites me!

  Later—A letter from Octavia, sent from Benevenutum. The visit to show Publius his grandson Adrian was a great success. Maybe that will mellow Publius. I know Rick hopes so.

  Rick. What’s wrong with him? The servants tell stories. He hasn’t been alone with Tylara for a year. A year. Rick’s a normal man, he must hate that. And don’t get ideas, Tremaine. . . .

  Of course the Roman matrons are tongue-clucking the way the Drantos ladies used to, only it’s “Octavia’s barbarian husband” instead of “the Wanax’s Roman wife.” At least Octavia has learned to laugh at the old biddies.

  Old. None of them are really old. This place ages people. It hasn’t done that to me yet. Has it?

  Publius is quite the proud grandfather. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. I guess knowing his line won’t die out makes a big difference to him. Even if it does have to be passed on through his daughter. Note: Be even more careful with Catwin than with Les and Caradoc. As long as Caradoc’s only legitimate child is alive, that family has got an obligation to help you, or at least not help your enemies.

  Still Later—Mortimer Schultz dropped in. He says Diana is doing fine; Campbell expects the kid any day now. Mostly he wanted to talk about printing presses. I admit I groaned when he started off, because he’s kind of obsessed with getting moveable type introduced before the skyfire falls, but this idea made a lot of sense.

  He thinks we should make up several portable presses, with all the metal parts bronze so they won’t rust, and train a couple of dozen acolytes of Yatar as printers. Then we store the presses in the Caves of the Preserver along with everything else we want to keep safe from the bombs. When the fallout’s gone and it’s safe to come out, we can start on printed books. The Shalnuksis won’t be back for a long time. . . .

  I suspect there are a few holes in that plan, and it probably gives the priests of Yatar a monopoly on printing. Does that matter? Schultz is right, moveable type is one thing that’s got to survive the Time, however we manage it. I asked him for an estimate on labor and materials, and I’ll write to Yanulf as soon as I get it.

  And now Rick is gone to Margilos, Larry with him, and Les is God knows where, and Caradoc’s dead. When will Rick be back? And when he comes back—enough. Back to work.

  * * *

  Elliot reined in close and spoke low. “Colonel, something’s got Sam spooky.” He indicated the older of the two centaurs the Margilans had given him as goodwill gifts.

  Larry Warner eyed the sling hung round Sam’s neck. “Still don’t know if I want to trust those things with weapons.”

  “My problem, Professor,” Elliot said.

  It could be bigger than that, Rick thought. Most of the Guards felt the same way Warner did. But no doubt about it, Elliot was proud of Sam and wasn’t going to part with him. And we trust dogs with teeth, don’t we?

  Sam wrinkled his nose and swung his greying head from side to side. His hands clenched into fists. Pete, the younger centaur, wasn’t sniffing the air but Sam’s nervous excitement had made him skittish.

  “Badger-bear? Cat?” said Rick.

  “This isn’t cat country. Or wasn’t last year.”

  “Yeah. A lot of the wild herds have come north. If the cats have followed them . . .”

  The greatcats were larger than mountain lions and would attack a mounted man if they were hungry enough. “Okay. I don’t want to stop, this close to Westrook.”

  “Sir!”

  Rick lifted his canteen. Nearly empty. Well, it wasn’t far to Westrook, and there were streams. He shifted in the saddle. Twenty-five miles a day in armor. But tonight he’d be in Murphy’s castle, with bath—hot water! And maybe Murphy had some Preparation H left—

  Sam screamed and reached for his sling. He plucked a stone out of the cloth bag hung below the sling. Pete threw up his head, and waved his arms. He backed away to give his mentor and friend room to use his sling.

  “Sam! Hold!” Elliot shouted.

  Dust rose at the crest of the next hill. Half a dozen leather-armored men on scrubby ponies rode into view.

  “Westmen!” one Guardsman screamed. Another nocked an arrow and started to draw before his sergeant stopped him.

  “Skirmishers left and right!” Elliot commanded. “Colonel? How you want to handle this?”

  “Hold what you’ve got,” Rick said. He pointed. The Westmen hadn’t moved from their hilltop, and no more came to join them. The Westmen held at the hilltop until it was clear that everyone had seen them. Then they came down at a fast walk. Just beyond longbow shot they stopped and waited again.

  “Odd enough,” Elliot said. He lifted his binoculars.

  “You know it.” And thank God there aren’t more of them. In the previous Time six hundred years before, a Westman army washed clear across Drantos and almost to the gates of Rome itself.

  “The one in front’s got his hands out. And Colonel, none of them have drawn weapons.”

  “I see that,” Rick said.

  “Big wads of turf on their lances, too. I got no experience with Westmen, but these sure don’t look hostile.”

  Mason rode up. “Cap’n, I think they want to parley.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “But what about?” Elliot demanded.

  “I don’t know, but it can’t hurt to find out,” Rick said.

  Mason frowned. “Okay, Captain. Not you. I’ll go talk to them—”

  Three more horsemen rode over the crest of the hill. They were mounted on full-sized horses and wore Drantos clothing and armor. The leader carried a Westman bow, and reined in to speak briefly with the Westmen before he rode on toward the column.

  Curiouser and curiouser, thought Rick.

  “Those are Murphy’s troops,” Mason said. “He got Westmen for allies?”

  “Sure like to ask him a couple of questions,” Elliot said.

  Me too.

  The three men rode up to Rick. “Lord Murphy bids you welcome to his lands and hopes you will avail yourselves of the hospitality of Westrook.”

  “Now just a goddamn minute—” began Art Mason. Rick raised a hand.

  “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us who you are? And of your friends there.”

  “I am Etro, son of Panar, headman of Irakla, steward to Lord Murphy. This has been my reward, for fighting well when the Westmen came to Irakla in the year of the Wanax Ganton’s great victory on the—”

  “Who the hell are those Westmen?” Rick didn’t realize that he’d shouted, but Etro looked stunned and Sam reached for another stone for his sling.

  Elliot gentled the centaur. Etro stammered, “My Lord Eqeta, they are not enemies! These are warriors sworn to the Chief Mad Bear. Mad Bear found enemies among his own people and fled here.”


  The Guardsmen who weren’t looking at each other in confusion were glaring at Etro.

  A strange enough story, Rick thought. A Westman chief seeking sanctuary? Or alliance? There’s more to learn about Tran than I thought. Or Ben Murphy’s a damned fool. Or both.

  Only one way to find out. Rick waved the column forward.

  * * *

  Mad Bear stood a bowlegged five and a half feet tall. His skin was the color of the leather trousers and tunic he wore, and his head was bald except for a single grey-shot scalplock. Bone and gold wire ornaments dripped from both tunic and belt, and a Drantos-style dagger rode on his right hip in a gilded horsehide sheath.

  He looked as if he could have been dropped into the front rank of one of Genghis Khan’s armies with nobody the wiser.

  Rick couldn’t help wishing that when Mad Bear was putting on all his finery for the Great Chief of the Stone Houses, it had also occurred to him to bathe. Or else that this meeting was taking place outdoors with Mad Bear downwind, instead of in Ben Murphy’s study. At least Westrook’s thick stone walls kept out the worst of the heat. I could use a bath myself.

  Mad Bear was speaking through an interpreter. Rick recognized the Margilan priest of Vothan. He’d been a slave among the Westmen for ten years until Ben Murphy rescued him during the Hooey River campaign. Since then he’d served as a combination of chaplain, administrative assistant, and translator to Murphy. Ben reports everything, but I could sure use that man back at Armagh. Oh, well.

  “So it came to New-Grass Time,” Mad Bear was saying. “Once more I was hailed as chief of all the Silver Wolves. So by the gods and the laws I could do nothing but what I did, when the warrior Chintua slew a man of the tent of Walking Stone. He slew the man honorably, for the man had said Chintua was not father of his sons, and then struck the first blow.

  “Yet Walking Stone would not come forth to avenge his tentman. Instead he sent a hand of men against Chintua by night and slew him, then carried away his body so that his kin could not honor it. Chintua’s spirit and body alike died that night.