Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Enough!”

  Tylara smiled. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I do not doubt your courage. I only warn you that if any harm comes to me, my Lord Rick will defeat your armies, and turn loose the clanless ones of Tamaerthon to pick Ta-Meltemos to bare bones, and this is as certain as anything mortal man can know.”

  “Your lord or the Wanax Ganton might not place so small a value on the lives and limbs of those I hold. Are you sure that you can speak for them?”

  “Hah. Who can speak for a Wanax? But do you think I have married a fool, or that I have lived with him these years and borne him his children, and yet do not know him? For him may I speak; and I tell you, he knows terrible things, and in his anger he will use them against all of you. You have doubtless heard that he and his men are not of this world. I tell you that is true, and I tell you beware harming what little he holds of value here lest he let this entire world go to its doom.”

  Strymon looked thoughtful. He took a paper from his glove, glanced at it, then returned it. “My lady, many have marched against me. None have returned. I stand on your land, not you on mine—”

  Tylara laughed. “Forgive me, Highness. Again I do not doubt your skills. Yet ask yourself this. Sarakos with the aid of the traitor Parsons was able to conquer Drantos, yet he could not hold it. Three days after Lord Rick killed Parsons he drove the host of the Five Kingdoms from our land. What can my husband do now that he has gathered his strength? I tell you that you do not know what you face.

  “Consider the star weapons, the least of which can strike down a man four stadia away. There is another, named for a king from another world, and with that Lord Rick can tear a castle gate to splinters from twice bowshot. How long can your castles stand against that?”

  “That will depend, I suppose, on whether there are more gates than this—Carl Gustav—has bombs.”

  Tylara’s bowels went cold. Strymon knew the very name of the star weapon! What else might he know? And from what source?

  For a moment she toyed with the idea of attempting Strymon’s life herself. Ridiculous. It is dishonor, and what he knows, his brother knows. “That is one of my husband’s weapons. He has more. Many more,” Tylara said. “Your spies have told you truly, that the star weapons are like bows—useless when there are no more arrows. It is even true that we do not have so many arrows as you have castles. We do have quite enough to batter down any castle unfortunate enough to shelter you or any of your family. And surely you have heard—no. I have said enough. But consider all these things, before you lift a hand against any of your prisoners.” She laughed. “My Tamaerthans in the hills will be flattered that you have found them so great a menace that you contemplate dishonor.”

  Tylara sipped wine and watched as Strymon poured more for himself.

  He took his time doing it, and when he turned, his face was expressionless. Then he smiled. “I knew it would not work. Matthias thought it worth trying. My lady, I contemplated nothing dishonorable, but could I have persuaded you I did, you might have given orders to your men.” He shrugged. “I owed the attempt to my soldiers.”

  Tylara began a smile, then wondered. Would this work against Morrone? But there was nothing she could do about that, at least not while Strymon was watching. Tylara sipped more wine and reached for a honeycake. She had not quite touched the plate when Strymon laid a hand on her wrist.

  “A moment, my lady. Where is the cat?”

  “You gave her a piece of cake, the shameless little beggar! I have not seen her since.”

  “Nor have I.” Strymon put the plate of cakes on a bench out of Tylara’s reach, looked around the room, then knelt down and looked under the settee. A moment later she heard a muttered oath, and he straightened up, holding the cat in both hands.

  The cat hung limp, eyes closed and bloody foam dripping from her mouth.

  22

  Strymon stared at the dead cat in horror. “Guards! To your prince!”

  The door crashed open and five of Strymon’s guards tried to come through a door that would have been snug for two. They regrouped and entered, Apelles behind them. One of the guards raised his axe and stared around the room for the threat to his prince.

  “Hold! Guard this lady!” Strymon gestured and the guard lowered his weapon. Two of the guards took positions at the head and foot of the settee. Two others ranged themselves on either side of the door.

  “Send for Gythras,” Strymon snapped. The fifth guard saluted and ran from the room. Apelles knelt to examine the dead cat.

  Tylara watched Strymon pace furiously up and down the room. He must be innocent. No man is that good an actor. Besides, he knows my death would not drive my archers from the hills. I am in danger, certainly, but not from him.

  The fifth guard returned with a blue-robed priest of Yatar. “Ah, Gythras.” Strymon gestured toward Apelles and the cat. “Find out what killed it.”

  Gythras knelt beside Apelles. The two healers poked at the cat and exchanged a few muttered words. Then Gythras rose and sniffed at one of the remaining honeycakes.

  “Goat’s-ear root, most probably, Your Highness. Its flavor is musky, but sweet enough to blend well with honey.”

  “Indeed,” said Strymon. Gythras picked up the dead cat and the plate of honeycakes and went out. Strymon nodded to his guards. They left, taking Apelles with them. The prince closed the door, pulled the bench close to the settee, and sat down.

  “My lady. I ask you to believe that I would not dishonor myself by an act such as this.”

  “I never doubted that,” Tylara said. “But I think less honorable men have power over one of your cooks.”

  Strymon smiled grimly. “The cooks will be questioned.” He opened the door and spoke to one of his guards. “Put all the camp cooks under guard. Bring the Master of the Kitchen to my tent and wait for me there.”

  “Your Highness.” The man saluted and left.

  “And until the cooks are questioned, you’d prefer that I not ask questions that you cannot honorably answer? Very well, Your Highness,” Tylara said. “But I urge you to take some thought for your own safety. Do we know whether the poison was meant for me or for you?”

  Strymon’s expression softened, and Tylara smiled back. No man, prince or not, can entirely resist hearing that a fair woman prefers him alive.

  “Both of us, I think. Last night I made no secret that I would visit you this morning.”

  Tylara nodded slowly. “Your Highness, if it is in your power, will you return my star weapon to me? The next attempt on my life will probably come with steel. I am a bedridden woman with only one hand fit for use, but with the star weapon in that hand I may give a good account of myself. Its—magic, let us call it”—he lifted one eyebrow at that, and she answered with a grin—“its magic is too weak for me to harm anyone outside this chamber. I could hardly injure your guards, let alone your host, and as for fighting my way out of the camp—I could sooner fly to Castle Dravan by waving my arms!”

  “You ask much.”

  “You risk much. If I am killed, you will never be free of suspicions.”

  “True.” He thought for a moment longer. “Very well. You may have your star weapon. With my thanks for the opportunity to examine it.”

  Of course Strymon would have taken the Colt apart. And ten crowns says it’ll come back with seven cartridges instead of eight. Ah, well. Rick always said it would not be very long before everyone knew the secret of firepowder weapons, and victory would go to whoever made the best use of what everyone had!

  Tylara spoke with elaborate casualness. “I trust you did so with due care.”

  Strymon tilted his head in an ironic little nod. “I am as you see intact. . . . Would you convey to Lord Rick my request that such a star weapon form part of your ransom?”

  “Yes, I can convey that request. But only Lord Rick can grant it.”

  “Of course.”

  “By Yatar and Vothan, Your Highness, I swear that none but your enemies shall face the magic o
f the star weapon as long as I am in your camp.”

  Strymon raised Tylara’s hand to his lips. There was a knock at the door. Strymon dropped her hand and stood, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Come.” The door opened and Apelles came in.

  “My lady, I—” he began.

  “It’s all right, Apelles. His Highness will grant us a few minutes so that you may tend my wounds.” She smiled up at Strymon. “He will bring my star weapon to me after I have dined.”

  “My lady.” Strymon nodded and left, and Apelles began to loosen the bandages on her leg.

  “Tell me, Apelles. How soon will I be able to walk again?”

  “At least seven days, my lady. Perhaps sooner, but I doubt it.”

  Tylara sighed. She might need the Colt as more than just a symbol of Strymon’s honorable intentions.

  * * *

  The lamp hanging by the door had long since burned dry. Tylara’s searching eyes found only darkness, yet she was sure she’d heard a sound, either from above or from outside the door.

  The sounds came again. Above and outside. Tylara drew the Colt from under the furs and snapped off the safety. A round was already in the chamber. She had only six others. Yatar grant that she should need no more.

  The sound from above now sounded like the scampering of rats. Then she smelled smoke. Had someone fired the roof thatch?

  A moment later—

  “Fire! Fire! Guards, save Lady Tylara!”

  The sounds outside turned into stamping feet and fists pounding on the door. Then—

  “No, Lady Tylara! Treachery, treachery, treach—!” Apelles shouted from outside.

  She could not let herself think of what might have happened to cut him off. She had the Colt raised and aimed as the door flew open and two men in the colors of Strymon’s guards plunged through.

  She shot the first man in the stomach and he slammed backward into the second to knock him off his feet. Outside the door a third man was gathering himself to leap over the two fallen ones, when yet another man seemed to fall from the sky onto him. The last man left on his feet was unslinging a short bow when Tylara shot him in the face.

  Apelles staggered into the room. Blood streamed down one arm but he held a knife in his good hand, and swore terrible oaths in most unpriestly language. A dozen and more of Strymon’s host ran up to the door. Apelles examined each before letting him in, but even so the room was suddenly full of people. Tylara snapped the safety on the Colt. Her hand was shaking so badly she was afraid she might fire by accident.

  She did not stop shaking until Prince Strymon appeared in a sleeping robe with a sword belted on over it. Gythras was behind him, followed by two servants laden with bottles and instruments. From overhead the crackling of flames gave way to the hiss of water, and Tylara smelled steam instead of smoke.

  The three would-be murderers who could walk were led away. As Gythras examined Tylara, Strymon kneeled over the two she’d shot. He frowned at the man with the belly wound, then went over to the one shot in the head.

  “All the gods be merciful! I did not think . . .”

  Two of the guards held up the dead man. He looked as Rick had told her to expect—a bloody hole in front, and the back of his head nearly blown away, so that blood and brains oozed down onto his clothes.

  Gythras turned away from his examination to stare. So did Apelles. Then Apelles took a stumbling step forward and toppled to the floor. Gythras turned to him, and muttered imprecations about priests who thought they were knights and didn’t have the sense to admit they were wounded.

  When Gythras had finished, litters were brought for both Tylara and Apelles. Gythras mixed a sleeping draught and handed it to her. As the bearers carried her out of the house, she fell asleep—but it was a sleep troubled by nightmares, in which Prince Strymon kept turning into the High Rexja Toris, into one of the Shalnuksis, and worst of all, into the Wanax Sarakos!

  It was the last that made her wake screaming and stay awake until just before the rising of the True Sun.

  * * *

  When Tylara awoke, the walls around her were canvas without windows and the door was a hanging now tied half-back. It revealed a patch of trampled bare ground with Strymon’s guards standing practically shoulder to shoulder. Beyond them she could see another tent striped in Strymon’s colors.

  It was clear that she had been moved into the royal compound. She might not be as safe here as Strymon hoped; not unless Prince Teodoros and his people had been moved out of the compound. Still, this was more evidence of Prince Strymon’s concern.

  Gythras arrived with a speed that suggested he had been waiting outside for her to awake. He and a priestess of Hestia examined Tylara from head to toe.

  “By the mercy of Yatar, she is unharmed,” Gythras said.

  “I thank my Lady Hestia—”

  It seemed to Tylara as if they were trying to reassure themselves as much as her. Well, they had some right in the matter; their fate would not be pleasant if she died, and her waking screaming must have been heard from one end of the camp to the other.

  They took their time, and when they left, Price Strymon himself entered. His hair was uncombed and he had not shaved. There was both soot and blood under his nails.

  He drew a stool close enough to the bed so that he didn’t need to speak above a whisper, and sat without asking her leave. After a moment he got up again and untied the hanging to close the tent door.

  “Your priest Apelles lives,” Strymon began. “He has a long and deep cut in his shoulder and arm, and has lost much blood. He has already told Gythras how to drive out the fester-devils from water, wounds, and bandages, and his wounds seem the better for it. He will still be writing letters left-handed for a time, though—unless his wounds fester after all.”

  “That is with Yatar and Hestia, is it not?” said Tylara. She sensed an uneasiness in Strymon that went beyond the danger to his honor.

  “It is, if Apelles and the other healers who have dealt with your wounded have been told the truth by the starmen. It is said that in casting out the fester-devils as Apelles taught us, we let in other and worse devils.”

  No need to ask who said that. She shrugged. “It is the way he treats me. Do you see me infested with devils?”

  “No— My lady, why would you allow your enemies to learn this great secret? If this is true, many soldiers will live who should have died. My soldiers.”

  “My Lord Rick has commanded that this wisdom—and much other that he knows—be given freely to all on this world,” Tylara said proudly. “He says that knowledge is not to be hoarded as a miser hoards gold, but spread to the winds.”

  “I—see,” Strymon said. “Now, my lady, are you well enough to discuss serious matters?”

  “I am quite well. Haven’t the healers told you?”

  Strymon reddened. “Forgive me, but in the night we heard you screaming—louder than the wretches we were questioning about the attempt on your life. Gythras would not tell me, but it seems to me—”

  “It was a nightmare, Your Highness. An old nightmare, from a time I thought I had put behind me—”

  The wide grey eyes were suddenly as cold and hard as the stones of Castle Dravan. “Then the tales of how Sarakos dishonored you are no tales.” It was not a question.

  Tylara swallowed twice before she could say, “No. But he is dead and food for worms.”

  “Worms that fed on Sarakos’ corpse probably died of it.” His face twisted. “I have never been wholly easy in my mind, over refusing to serve under Sarakos. Had I been there, I might have prevented—My lady, I can only beg your pardon. I gave too much thought to defending my own honor, and not to how I might defend that of others.”

  “You could not have known that Sarakos would be a fool as well as a brute—” she began, but Strymon raised his hand to stop her.

  “I cast nothing on the High Rexja, but his eldest son always behaved like one begotten in a kitchen-midden. I cannot in honor say th
at I should not have known better.”

  “Your own honor is pure as fire, Strymon. That makes you less than the best judge of those who have none.”

  Unbidden and surprising, but not unwelcome, an old thought entered Tylara’s mind. How would matters have gone, if Strymon had been willing to march against Drantos as a captain under Sarakos?

  Rather ill for Drantos, she suspected; the horse and foot of Ta-Meltemos would have given Sarakos a third again his strength, apart from Strymon’s skill. The contest in the field would have been foreordained. Yet without Sarakos free to indulge his bloodlust and treachery, might not more of the men of Drantos have seen surrender as an honorable alternative?

  And her own fate—what of that? She might not be a widow at all, for Strymon would never have done to her Lamil as Sarakos did, cutting his throat like a pig while a dozen men held him. Strymon would have faced Lamil in single combat, almost certainly defeated him, but left him alive if he was prepared to yield at all.

  If by some chance Lamil had died—Strymon would hardly have slaughtered the men of Castle Dravan. That would have left Bheroman Trakon alive to press his suit. Or perhaps Strymon himself would have courted her. His first wife had died bearing him a daughter, the year before the war began. She could see herself captured a little at a time by his charm, his grace, his good looks, his concern for her honor as well as his own. . . .

  And then what would have happened to the starmen, if she had not been in need of an ally to destroy Sarakos and regain Chelm, and if Sarakos had not been in need of someone like Colonel Parsons to put down the guerrillas in Drantos?

  Were the gods as capricious as that, in sending fates to men and women? And if they were that capricious, how could anyone be sure what they demanded?

  Another question for Yanulf—and now she realized that Strymon had begun an account of the night’s events, while she was lost in dreams of how things might have been.

  “—was able to buy men, but not men brave enough to simply storm into your room and shed your blood with their own hands. Had they done that, some would surely have died from the star weapon, but the rest would have killed you.