Kildar

by John Ringo

  "Not at all," Mike admitted. "Explain."

  "The Six Families have worked the fields for as long as anyone can remember," Genadi said, frowning in thought. "And, really, there hasn't been much change in their methods since the late middle ages, I swear. The plows are bit improved and they buy hybrid seeds, but that's about it. And even the hybrids they buy aren't the best, in my opinion. But they are cheap. They would be willing to work with modern machinery, but they have a deep belief that things like that are supposed to be owned by the land owner. Even the plows are owned by the bank, did you know that?"

  "No," Mike said. "I'm not sure what I'm buying, am I?"

  "No," Genadi said, sighing. "The land, the houses, the major tools, most of the livestock are all owned by the bank, by you if you purchase the farm. The Keldara own hand tools, their food, the furniture in the houses and the clothes on their backs. Oh, personal items as well. But everything else is owned by the bank. They buy seed on shares and owe shares of their output to the owner of the land. It works out to the owner getting about thirty percent of the material farmed and the Keldara getting the rest. They also have the right to farm small patches for themselves, three hectares per family, and to cut wood and gather certain items from the forests. They also have the right to run a few family owned livestock out with the owner's. They have the duty of fattening two of the steers per family for the use of the owner and the butchering of same. There are various other minor rights and duties. Now, the point is, these are rights and duties as seen by the Keldara. Some owners, notably the commissars, forced them to provide different support, to change their rights and duties. But as soon as the commissars left, they switched right back to the original custom. They are very custom bound, are the Keldara."

  "You say 'they'," Mike noted. "But they're your family, too."

  "I was more or less cast out when I challenged Otar," Genadi said, shrugging. "If you hire me, I can work there. I can act as overseer. But I'm not, technically, a part of the Families anymore. That will make it easier in a way."

  "What landmines do I really have to look for?" Mike asked. "Don't get caught alone with a woman, you said that."

  "Well . . ." Genadi said, sighing. "If you buy the farm, things will be a bit different. Frankly, the older members of the family have been whining for a Kildar for some time."

  "I'm not a lord or whatever," Mike said, definitely.

  "If you buy the farm, you'll be the Kildar," Genadi said, just as definitely. "And don't discount that. The Kildar can get away with things that regular mortals cannot. If you make a mistake in dealing with them, they'll be immediately willing to overlook it for the Kildar. The Kildar is more than a landowner. In ancient times . . ." He paused and frowned, then shrugged. "Well, the Kildar is an important man to the Keldara. You get the similarity in terms, yes?"

  "Yes, and they're not Georgian," Mike pointed out, wondering what Genadi had not said. "What about ancient times?"

  "That's . . . not something I can talk about," the man said, rubbing at his chest.

  Mike noticed that he had some sort of cord around his neck and wondered if his shirt hid an oddly shaped axe.

  "So, landmines," Mike said, changing the subject.

  "Debt," Genadi said, immediately. "The Keldara are very stingy and very loathe to assume any debt outside the Families. Even to the Kildar. And they won't take charity. If you buy farm implements, improve the houses, whatever, that is up to you. That is your responsibility. But . . . if the food runs short in summer, as it often does, they won't accept charity. And even if they are short, if they owe you foodstuffs they'll give them up rather than fail in a duty. That, to them, would be debt."

  "What about medical support or public works?" Mike asked.

  "There is no medical support," Genadi said, frowning. "The nearest hospital is Tbilisi. There's not even an infirmary. If anyone gets sick, they die."

  "That's got to change," Mike said. "I'll see about that."

  "You'll have a hard time finding a doctor that's willing to move up here," Genadi pointed out.

  "I might be able to get more help than you think," Mike said. "Public works."

  "Well, it depends on what you're thinking about," Genadi said, furrowing his brow. "What sort of public works?"

  "I'm thinking of putting in a small hydroelectric dam and plant," Mike admitted.

  "My, you are thinking big," Genadi said with a chuckle. "You'll have to pay the men to work on it. And I suppose you can work out some sort of an exchange if you intend to wire the houses."

  "I do," Mike said. "But that is for later. That caravanserai is too big for one person to manage it. I'll need some help, a cook if she can learn to cook my way, at least a housekeeper and maybe some maids, a gardener, things like that. Can I draw on them from the Keldara?"

  "They'd be insulted if you didn't," Genadi said. "But that doesn't fall in their shared duties so they'll have to be paid."

  "Of course," Mike said. "What about forming a militia? From the sounds of what Vadim was saying, the Keldara aren't pacifists."

  "Quite the opposite," Genadi said, chuckling. "They pride themselves on, well . . ." He paused again and shrugged. "They're not pacifists. In the spring they have tests of strength and wrestle to see who is best. The winner is called the Ondah and gets certain rights and privileges. Most of the men chosen to head the Families are former Ondah so people really strive to win. And there are old weapons stuck here and there. Sometimes we practice with them and we really practice with them. And you don't want to deal with an angry Keldara holding an axe. There is a technique to axe fighting and I think we may be the only people on earth that still practice it. If you wish to make a militia from the Keldara, they'll support it enthusiastically."

  "It's more than just getting handed guns," Mike said. "I was an instructor for American commandoes, what are called SEALs—"

  "Navy commandoes," Genadi said, his eyes narrowing. "I have heard of them."

  "If, and I say if, I form a militia, I'll expect them to train to American methods and standards," Mike said, his face hard. "That's a cultural thing as much as anything. It might require change in the way they do things, how they think about fighting. For one thing, it requires being able to handle it when someone tells you you're wrong and changing to the way that they tell you. Fighting and training with discipline. Will they be able to do that?"

  "I think so," Genadi said, carefully. "The Keldara . . . I think they can, honestly. They are disciplined. They're prickly about their rights and duties, but not that way."

  "Okay, I'm not going to promise anything to them," Mike said. "I don't think that it's good to make promises that you're not sure you can keep. But you can assume I'll make changes. The first is that you need some decent clothes. I'll take the cost out of your pay. And I've got to figure out how much to pay you and where to stash you until it's time to tell Otar he's redundant."

  "Be careful," Genadi said. "The man can be vindictive."

  "Well, I'm one person he won't want to cross."

  * * *

  Mike had stashed Genadi at the caravanserai, telling him to lay low, and settled back into the tavern in the meantime. The next evening he was contemplating his glass of beer, listening to Otar bragging, when he realized that there was one aspect of the village he'd neglected to check out: the brothel.

  He dropped a ruble on the table and walked out into the night, crunching through the snow as he walked down the street to the building Vadim had pointed out. He paused as he was leaving the parking lot of the tavern, then doubled back to his car, getting some materials out of it and putting them in a bag. Then he resumed his evening walk.

  When he got to the brothel he knocked on the door and was greeted by a short, fat man with a beaten look.

  "Good evening," Mike said in Russian. "I understand that this is a place a weary traveler can find friendship."

  "You must be the American," the man said, waving him into an entry hallway. "I am Yakov Belyayev. I have n
ot heard your name?"

  "Mike Jenkins," Mike said as the man opened the inner door.

  The building was obviously a house since the entry area was a sitting room. There was one man in the room sitting on a couch with a gorgeous blonde on his knee. As Vadim had mentioned, the girls, three brunettes, a redhead and the blonde, ranged from very good looking to, in the case of the blonde, just spectacular. They also were, uniformly, young; the youngest looked as if she should be playing with dolls, not sitting around shivering in a teddy.

  "Very nice," Mike said.

  "You may have your pick," Yakov said, dispiritedly. "Business is very slow. It always is very slow."

  "You have very pretty girls for a slow place," Mike said, looking the group over. The blonde looked at him and lowered her eyes demurely but he'd gotten just enough of a flash to know it was a total act. The eyes that had tracked to him were as cold as a shark's, cold enough that they were a little frightening. Not just resigned cold but the sort of look you saw on someone who'd seen too much combat and discovered they enjoyed killing people and breaking things. Mike occasionally saw the same look in a mirror and knew it was the outward expression of something he didn't want to get involved with. The blonde was a flat killer waiting for her chance.

  "Most of the girls are local," the man admitted. "I could sell them to the Chechens, I suppose, and sometimes I think I should. They eat more than they make most of the time. But it is the only business I know."

  "The blonde?" Mike asked, curiously.

  "Katya," the man said, sighing. "She was on her way to Eagle Market. I don't know how she ended up here. The man wanted to sell her for too little money for me to pass up. Spectacular, no? She could make good money in Bosnia, but she is here where all men can afford is a few kopeks. I have tried to sell her before, for her own good, but no one would take her. I don't know why, she is beautiful. And quite well trained. You like her?"

  "Pass," Mike said. "Besides she's with someone."

  "That is Marat, my doorman," Yakov said with another resigned sigh. "Why I have a doorman I don't know; I always answer it."

  "Being polite," Mike said quietly, turning away from the girls, "I understand there is a bit of problem with, well, body bugs."

  "It is hard to keep the girls clean," the man said, shrugging. "Hot water costs money, you know. And the price they want for the shampoos, it is terrible."

  "I see," Mike said, sighing. "Is there somewhere we can talk, quietly?"

  "This way," Yakov said, walking slowly to the back, his head down. He led Mike into the kitchen, which was dirty and deserted. Mike wasn't about to eat anything cooked in the place, that was sure.

  "I'm going to be staying for a while, as it turns out," Mike said. "The weather and all. And I'd like to have my ashes hauled, but not at the cost of lice and bedbugs and fleas. Not to mention the pox."

  "No pox," Yakov assured him. "The girls all use rubbers."

  "As you say," Mike said, not looking at the kitchen. "The point is," he said, starting to pull out stuff from his bag, "I'd be willing to front you the material to clean the girls up. Hell, I'll even pay you a few euros to make sure they have access to hot water and to make sure they use it. I'll be a major patron of your . . ." he paused and choked at the words "fine establishment," " . . . house. If the girls are clean. If not, I'll just stick to rosy palm and her five fingers." By this time he'd laid out six bottles of lice shampoo, bedding spray and pubic hair cream. "Do we have a deal?"

  "You are giving this to me?" Yakov asked, frowning.

  "Yes," Mike said. "And if I find out you resold it rather than using it, you won't have to worry about losing money. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes," Yakov said, nodding dispiritedly.

  "And make sure the girls have all the hot water they want," Mike said, pulling out a hundred-euro note. "This stuff works on first use. I'll be back in a day or two. If I see lice, I'll know you double-crossed me. You don't want to double-cross me."

  "Some of the girls may be . . . resistant," Yakov argued.

  "You're a pimp," Mike said, standing up. "That's your problem."

  Chapter Five

  It was three days before everything was arranged. He picked Genadi up on the morning of the third day, having him wait in the back seat of the Mercedes while Mike went in the bank. It was a lovely clear day, the last storm having just cleared off and leaving the sky a washed blue.

  In Mr. Mironov's office he found Vadim and Otar waiting, the latter looking puzzled.

  "Mr. Jenkins," Mr. Mironov said, standing up as he entered. "All of the transfers have been verified." He pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and slid them across the desk. "This includes an up-to-date inventory of all the materials entailed on the farms. That includes, by the way, the Rover of the overseer."

  Mike glanced at the inventory and then nodded.

  "And the deed?" he asked.

  "Here," Mironov said. "You sign here, taking possession, and I sign below, turning it over for the sum of one million euros. I took the liberty of escrowing that in one of our accounts and on your signature it transfers."

  "Works for me," Mike said, thinking about the interest the bank had probably accrued. He doubted he was going to see it. He signed on the line and then slid the paper back to Mr. Mironov.

  "And that is that," Mironov said with a sigh of relief. "You are now owner of the Keldara farm and all it entails, including the caravanserai."

  "Thank you," Mike said. "Mr. Tarasova, Captain Tyurin, I think we should go inform the Keldara that they have a new landowner."

  "You've bought the farm?" Otar asked, surprised. "I hadn't known you were even interested."

  "It seemed like a good deal," Mike said. "Could you perhaps drive ahead? I'd like to talk to the Keldara."

  As Otar left, Mike looked at Tyurin and shrugged.

  "You're ready?" he asked.

  "And eager," Tyurin said, grinning. "And thank you for the consulting fee. My wife appreciates it even more."

  "I'm sure I'm going to be doing plenty of consulting," Mike said. He'd already arranged with Mr. Mironov to have five hundred euros a month drawn out and prepared for the police official. When in Rome . . .

  They walked out to the parking lot and headed down the pass, Mike driving his Mercedes and Vadim his Rover.

  By the time they got to the Keldara village, the people were streaming out of their houses and gathering in the open area at the center. Mike parked well to the rear and got out, leaving Genadi in the car.

  "Keldara workers," Otar said, standing on a stone dais that looked like a mounting stand. "I have important news. The valley has a new owner." The overseer gestured grandly at Mike and raised his hand, getting a ragged and dispirited cheer. The day was clear and cold and nobody particularly wanted to be standing in the snow. But Mike sensed that they'd have been just as wary of cheering the overseer if he'd told them it was free beer and beef for the next year.

  Mike stepped up on the dais next to him and looked around at the faces of the people. Most of them had put two and two together and knew he was the lost American that had picked up . . . whatshername in the snow. With the exception of the children they looked . . . wary.

  "People of the Keldara," Mike said in Russian, since he didn't speak a word of Georgian yet. "I had merely intended to live in the caravanserai for a time. But with the caravanserai comes the valley. As you take your rights and duties seriously, I take mine seriously. And I will discharge one of them now."

  He turned to Otar and clapped him on the back.

  "Otar Tarasova, you have run these farms well for many years," Mike said, smiling. "You have done well by their owner and treated the Keldara with fair openhandedness." The latter had been tough to translate into Russian, but Genadi had helped him, laughing the whole time. "The years have been heavy upon you and you are worn by toil. Which is why I think it's time that you retire."

  "But, Mr. Jenkins . . ." Otar said, his face sliding from beaming smiles to ashen.


  "Not with nothing," Mike said, reaching into his jump bag. "In the United States, it is a custom that when you retire you are given a watch. This is the best watch I could find in Alerrso and I hope that when you look at it you always think of the good days in the valley of the Keldara." He handed him the watch and then dipped into the jump bag again, pulling out an envelope. "And so that you can buy your own farm, here is a small token of my gratitude. Furthermore, you may keep the farm Range Rover in token of my esteem."

  He helped the shaken man down and into the arms of Captain Tyurin. who led him over to the old, battered Rover.

  "People of the Keldara," Mike said, loudly. "Three cheers for Otar Tarasova! Hip, hip, HOORAY! Hip, hip, HOORAY! Hip, hip, HOORAY!"