by David Drake
observe, Center said.
Sesar Chayvez stood before his patron. The plump little man was sweating as Tzetzas sat leafing through the documents in the file before him.
“And here, my dear Sesar, we come to your signature, right next to that of then-Brigadier Whitehall and Mihwel Berg of the Administrative Service, on the bottom of this requisition order. Authorizing the exchange of worthless trash for goods from my estates in Kolobassa District.”
His voice was light, even slightly amused. “An exchange which, since the hardtack in question was useful only for pig feed and the coal unsalable in an exporting center like Hayapalco, cost me approximately fourteen thousand gold FedCreds. Not to mention the expenses for repairing estates ruined when Whitehall quartered Skinner mercenaries on them to . . . shall we say, motivate the staff to cooperation.”
“Your Most Excellent Honorability,” Chayvez said, twining his fingers together.
His eyes flicked around the room, on the cabinets of well-thumbed books, the curios, the restrained elegance of the mosaic floor. Oddly, that was mostly covered with a square of waxed canvas on this visit. He swallowed and forced himself to continue:
“The . . . the hill-bandit of a Descotter occupied my headquarters with troops loyal only to him!” he burst out. “One of his thugs started to strangle me with a wire noose until I signed. What could I do?”
“Oh, I can understand your fears,” Tzetzas said, waving a deprecatory hand. Chayvez began to relax. “In fact, it isn’t the first time that Whitehall and those ruffian Companions of his have caused me substantial trouble. They brutalized a number of my placemen and employees in Komar, when stationed there. Brutalized them so thoroughly—I believe they began to skin one of them—that they revealed far, far too much, and I was forced to turn over all my investments in the province to the Chair to avoid serious disfavor.”
Barholm had been quite annoyed. The scheme had involved holding up the landgrants usually given to infantry garrison troops, and then pocketing the revenues from the State farms. It might have gone unnoticed if Raj Whitehall hadn’t been sent to bolster that particular frontier against the Colony.
Chayvez nodded enthusiastically. “The man is a menace to peace and orderly government, Your Most Excellent Honorability,” he said.
“True. You will understand, then.”
“Ah . . .” The plump provincial governor hesitated. “Understand, Your—”
“Yes, yes. That I cannot have my servants more afraid of Whitehall than of me. I believe his tame thug began to strangle you?”
A shadow moved from a corner of the darkened room. It grew into a man, a black man in a long dark robe. Not from one of the highly-civilized city-states of Zanj; his tribal scars showed him to be from much farther south and west, from the savannahs of Majinga. The slave was nearly two meters tall, with shoulders like a bull moving beneath the cloth of his kanzu. His tongueless mouth gobbled in thick joy as he closed his fingers around the little man’s neck and lifted him clear of the floor. Chayvez’s arms and legs thrashed for a moment, beating at the boulder-solid form of the black and then twitching helplessly. The massive hands clamped tighter and tighter, closing by increments. When the neck snapped at last the bureaucrat had been still for several minutes. Urine and other fluids dripped to the waxed canvas on the floor.
“Wrap the body, and drop it in an alley,” Tzetzas said, in a language quite unlike the Sponglish of civilization. The mute bowed silently and bent to his task as the Chancellor turned up the coal-oil lamp and took another file from the sauroid-ivory holder on his desk.
Raj met Tzetzas’s eyes and inclined his head. The Chancellor matched the gesture with one almost as imperceptible and far more graceful.
Barholm explained to Raj: “There’s been another outbreak of the anti-hardcopyist heresy down in Cerest. It’s nothing serious; just a boil. When you’ve got a boil on your bum, you lance it and ignore it.”
There were shocked murmurs; Raj touched his own amulet, a gold-chased chipboard fragment blessed by Saint Wu herself. “Wasn’t that heresy anathematized two centuries ago?” he said.
“Yes, but it’s like black plague, always breaking out again,” the Governor said. “This time they’re taking a new tack; calling circuit diagrams themselves ‘false schematics’ and corrupted data, not just denouncing allegorical representations. We can’t afford trouble in Cerest—”
Raj nodded; a good deal of the capital’s grain was shipped from there, and the Tarr Valley was the trade route to the rich tropical lands of the Zanj city-states. Or at least the only route that didn’t run through the hostile Colony.
“—so I’m sending a brigade and a Viral Cleanser Sysup to purge their subroutines of heresy for good and all.” He shook his square-jawed head; there was more silver in the black hair than Raj remembered. Being Governor was a high-stress occupation too.
observe, Center said.
Blinding sunlight in the main square of Cerest, a prosperous-looking provincial capital. A domed Star Temple, with the many-rayed symbol atop it; the square bulk of a regional Prefect’s palace across from it, fountains and arcades all about. A crowd filled most of the open paved space. It moaned as men—and a few women—were led out to a long row of iron posts set deep in the pavement. They shook their heads and refused the offered Headsets, symbolic connection to the Terminals of confession; two spat at the officiating priests. The soldiers hustled them on, supporting as much as forcing. Most of the prisoners’ bare feet showed oozing sores where their toenails should have been.
The iron posts were joined in a complete loop by thick copper cables; the ends of the cables disappeared into a wagon-mounted box with an external flywheel belt—driven by the power take-off of a steam haulage engine. As the steel chains bound them to the posts, the prisoners began to sing, a hymn in some thick local dialect Raj couldn’t follow. Out in the crowd others took it up, men in the rough brown robes of desert monks, women in the archaic jumpsuits and tunics of Renunciate Sisters, then the ragged dezpohblado crowd of town laborers. An officer barked an order and the troops blocking off the execution ground formed, the first rank dropping to one knee, both leveling their rifles.
The belt drive to the generator whined, and a hooded executioner put his hand on a scissor-switch. The Sysup in his gold-embroidered overrobe stood in the attitude of prayer—one hand over his ear, the other stretched up with its fingers making keying motions—and then swept it down. The man in the leather hood matched his gesture with a showman’s timing, and blue sparks popped from the dangling cables. The prisoners stopped singing, but they could not scream with the DC current running through their bodies, only convulse against the iron poles.
A rock arched through the air and took one of the soldiers in the mouth. He collapsed backward limply; there was no motion from the others besides a ripple of movement as they closed ranks. They were Regulars, dragoons. . . .
More rocks flew. Raj could see the officer’s lips move silently, in a prayer or curse. Then he shouted an order:
“Volley fire!” An endless line of white puffs, and the crowd recoiled, all but those smashed off their feet by the heavy bullets. The soldiers worked the levers of their rifles, reloaded. Another order, and they began to advance in a serried line, bayonets advanced.
Raj blinked. As always, the holographic vision lasted far less time than it seemed. Chancellor Tzetzas was steepling his fingers:
“. . . necessary measures, true. Cerest Province is far too valuable to risk.”
Especially with what our dear Chancellor makes from the chocolate, torofib and kave monopolies, Raj thought ironically. And I’ll bet he fiddles on the share the fisc is supposed to get.
probability 97% ±2%, Center said. however, total receipts to the fisc have increased while he holds the monopolies, due to volume growth.
“Still, undertaking another campaign at this time—when, as I mentioned, we have yet to recoup the expenses of the last, well . . .” There was a spare gestur
e of the long hand.
Mihwel Berg, now Administrator of the Southern Territories, sniffed; he was a mousy little man, and watching him defy Tzetzas was like seeing a sheep turn on a carnosauroid. “Your Excellency, I might point out that all out-of-pocket expenses for the Expeditionary Force have already been recouped, with plunder, sale of prisoners, and other cash receipts alone leaving a surplus of no less than seven hundred fifty-four thousand FedCreds to the fisc. Gold.”
Barholm sat straighter, casting a sidelong glance at his Chancellor. That was a considerable sum even by the Civil Government’s standards. The Governor might be obsessed with reclaiming the territories lost to the Military Governments centuries ago, but he was keenly aware of financial matters.
“Furthermore, and even without the invaluable services which Your Excellency’s tax-farming syndicates provide to the fisc, the first six months’ revenues from the Southern Territories under Administrative Services control, annualized, are tenth out of the twenty-two Counties and Territories currently under effective Civil Government control.
“And,” Berg went on, warming to his topic, “that does not include the revenues from estates confiscated from deceased or captured members of the Squadron—which amount to nearly half of the arable land in the district, if we include the one-third confiscation of Squadron nobles who surrendered before the collapse and, of course, the Admiral’s own lands. Ex-Admiral, that is. That revenue alone will double the overall receipts from the Territories, and this is after we deduct lands to be deeded to peasant militia, infantry garrison plots, and estates to support the Church. Furthermore, the Territories have much untapped potential neglected under the Admirals. If our Sovereign Mighty Lord will examine the proposals—”
He slid a package of documents across the table; Barholm untied the ribbon and began riffling through them with interest. Tzetzas’s fingers crooked like talons. The Chancellor usually had a say in what reached the Governor’s desk, and he valued that power. Governor Barholm was a hard-working administrator, and an enthusiast for useful public works.
“—a railway to the saltpeter mines alone would increase the total yield of the Territories by fifteen percent”—saltpeter was a Chair monopoly, and the deposits south of Port Murchison were the richest in the known world—“besides making economical the copper and zinc deposits there, closed for three generations. There are also irrigation works to be brought back into operation, road repairs . . . Your Supremacy, launching the Expeditionary Force was the most lucrative stroke of policy any Governor has made in two hundred years.”
Klosterman pulled at his muttonchop whiskers. “Still, even if the Colony is quiet, I’d not like to take too many troops away from the border,” he said. The Master of Soldiers’ last regional field command had been of Eastern Forces. “Ali’s no fool, but he’s vain, and he’s vicious as a starving carnosauroid to boot.”
Barholm shrugged. “He may have killed his brother Akbar, but they’ll take a while to recover from their civil war.”
Good fortune had given the Civil Government four strong Governors in a row, with no usurpations or civil conflicts—the primary reason for its current strength and unprecedented prosperity—but disputed successions were a problem both the Civil Government and the Colony were thoroughly familiar with.
observe, Center said.
A one-eyed man stood among burned-out ruins. Raj recognized him instantly: Tewfik bin-Jamal, son of the late Settler of the Colony, and commander of all his armies. Raj had lost one minor battle to him, and won a major one by a thin margin; and every day in his prayers the general thanked the Spirit of Man for the Colonist superstition that made Tewfik ineligible for the Settler’s throne because he lacked an eye.
The stocky, muscular body filled the regulation crimson djellaba with a solid authority, and the Seal of Solomon marked his eyepatch. Officers of the Colonial regulars and black-robed personal mamelukes followed the Muslim general as he stalked through the shattered building. He kicked at a frame of cindered boards; they slid away in ash that drifted ghostly under the bright sun, revealing the warped brass and iron shape of a lathe. Other machines stood amid the ruins, as did the cast-iron poles that had carried the drive shaft from a steam engine.
Tewfik’s face was impassive beneath his spired spike-topped helmet, but the grip of his left hand on the plain wired brass hilt of his scimitar was white-knuckled with the effort of controlling his rage. The Colony armed its forces with lever-operated repeating carbines, and the machine shops that turned them out were a rare and precious asset. Now there was one less.
He turned; the viewpoint turned with him, staying behind his left shoulder. Beyond the fallen door-arch of the factory were more ruins, then intact buildings, and a long slope down to a great river. Flat roofs and minarets, smokestacks, towers glinting with colored tile, narrow twisting streets and irregular plazas around splashing fountains: Al Kebir, the capital of the Colony and the oldest city on Bellevue. Half a dozen huge bridges crossed the river, and the water was thronged with lateen-sailed dhows and sambuks, with barges and rafts and steamboats. Across the river was a burst of greenery, palms and jacaranda trees, and a great interlinked pile of low, ornately-carved marble buildings taking up scores of hectares before the sprawl of the city resumed. An endless low rumble carried through the air, the sound of a million human beings and their doings, pierced through with the high wailing call of a muezzin.
The robed men sank to their knees in prayer; Tewfik waited an instant as his attendants spread a prayer rug before he bent his head towards the distant holy city of Sinnar, where the first ships to reach Bellevue had carried a fragment of the Kaaba from burning Mecca.
When he rose he turned to the man in a civilian outfit of baggy pantaloons, sash, turban and curl-toed slippers. At his finger’s motion two of the mameluke slave-soldiers—one blond, one black, both huge men moving as lightly as cats—stood behind the civilian. The heavy curved swords in their hands rested lightly on his shoulders.
“Sa’id—” the man began.
Prince. That much Raj would have known, but as always Center somehow provided the knowledge that made the Arabic as understandable as his native Sponglish.
“Prince,” the man went on, “what could we do? Your brother Akbar’s followers came and demanded the finished arms; then the household troops of your brother Ali attacked them. We are not fighting men here.”
Tewfik nodded, his hand stroking his beard. “Kismet,” he said: fate. “When the kaphar, the infidels of the Civil Government, slew our father, it was Akbar’s fate to reach for power and fail”—and leave his head on a pole before the Grand Mosque—“and yours to repair the damage as quickly as may be. If I thought you truly responsible, I would not threaten.”
The manager nodded unconsciously; if Tewfik thought that the staff were dragging their feet, there would have been another set of heads on a pole some time ago.
“How long?” Tewfik asked, his voice like millstones of patience that would grind results out of time and fate by sheer force of will.
“If the Settler Ali, upon whom may Allah shower His blessings, advances the necessary funds, we will be turning out carbines again in six months,” he said.
Tewfik’s right hand rested on the butt of his revolver. One index finger gestured, and the mamelukes pressed the factory manager to his knees with the blunt back edges of their scimitars. The blades crossed before his neck, ready to scissor through it like a gardener’s shears through the stem of a tulip.
“Six months!” the man cried; he ripped open his jacket to bare his breast in token of his willingness to die. “Prince Tewfik, we are adepts of the mechanic arts here, not dervishes or magicians! Machine tools cannot be flogged into obedience—six months and no more, but no less. May I be boiled alive and my children’s flesh eaten by wild dogs if I lie!”
“That can be arranged . . . if you lie,” Tewfik said somberly. The man met his eyes, ignoring the blades so near his flesh. The Colonist general sighed a
nd signed the swordsmen back. “There is no God but God, and all things are accomplished according to the will of God. In the name of the Merciful, the Lovingkind, I shall not make you bear the weight of an anger earned elsewhere. Come, my friend; rise, and we will speak of details over sherbert with my staff. Soon the Dar ‘as-Salaam will need the weapons. There is a great stirring in the House of War.”
Raj nodded. “Ali will wait; a year, maybe two if he has enough sense to listen to Tewfik.
“Still,” he went on, “the Brigade’s a more serious proposition than the Squadron was. They’ve been in contact with civilization longer, and they do have a standing army of sorts; plus they’ve some recent combat experience.”
Mostly against the Stalwarts in the north; those were savages, but numerous, vicious and treacherous to a fault.
“Also the Western Territories are bigger—not just in raw area, the population. Not so much desert. I’d say for a really thorough pacification . . . forty thousand troops. Fifteen thousand cavalry.”
There were outraged screams around the table. “Out of the question!” Tzetzas barked, startled out of his usual suavity, and Barholm was looking narrow-eyed.
“That would be a little large,” he said carefully. “Particularly as we’re hoping that General Forker won’t fight.”
“Sovereign Mighty Lord, Forker may not fight but I doubt the Brigade will roll over that easily,” Raj said.
“Fifteen thousand is about as much as we could spare,” Barholm said, tapping a knuckle against the table to show that the question was closed. “That proved ample for the Squadron. Another battalion or two of cavalry, perhaps more guns.”
The ruler leaned back. “Besides that,” he went on, “General Forker—” the Brigades ruler kept the ancient title, although in the Western Territories it had come to mean king rather than a military rank “—is by no means necessarily hostile to the Civil Government. He spent better than a year negotiating for help while he was maneuvering to replace the late General Welf.”
