by John Dalmas
"If he had to shoot him," the CIC continued, "he should have shot him in the leg. I want the killer arrested and charged with regicide. When you have him, I want his immediate superior arrested. And Captain . . ."
He turned to an aide. "What was the name?"
"Captain Feelans, sir."
"Captain Feelans. And when Captain Feelans has been arrested, I want you to turn yourself in for arrest. To Provost Marshal General Bronswo." He gestured with his head toward a burly, graying officer.
"Yes sir!" The colonel saluted, about faced, and left the throne room.
The CIC looked around, then turned on his heel and stalked out, the others following closely. They left the building, and the CIC ordered a sergeant to lead them onto a safe section of the west wall, then dismissed the man. He stood looking out across the city at the harbor. There wasn't a ship afloat, except for some small Djezian sloops and fishing boats tied to the wharf. All that was visible of the invasion fleet were masts protruding above the water at various angles.
"The Imperial Grand Fleet," he said drily, "and most of our munitions. We'll have to see what we can salvage. As it stands, we have enough ashore to last for perhaps two or three days of serious fighting."
He turned to Kryger. "How did this happen?"
Kryger's guts knotted. "Sir, I have no idea."
"No idea." The CIC's mouth twisted slightly, and his voice became ironic. "I know I didn't sink them, and I'm sure the admiral didn't. Or the seamen. Do you suppose it could have been the droids?"
Kryger's mouth opened slightly, but he could think of nothing to say.
Abruptly, loudly: "You were here! On the site! You were supposed to know what was going on! That debacle out there took a lot of preparation! And tons of explosives! How could they do that? How did they get the explosives? You should have gotten wind of it!"
Another thought struck him then. "You must have had a serious information leak! What kind of security did you have here? They couldn't have done something like this without knowing we were coming! Well in advance!"
Kryger began to see a glimmer. But it would make no difference.
For several seconds, Marshal Dersfolt, Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Army of Invasion, glared at Kryger, the glare reducing to a look of grim disdain. He turned once more to regard the wreckage of the fleet, and when he spoke again, his voice was casual. "General Bronswo, arrest Lord Kryger for neglect of duty leading to gross disaster." He glanced back over his shoulder at Kryger. "Your court martial will be at noon today, your execution at sundown."
Seventy-Three
The manor house was built of stone and designed to be defended—almost a castle, but painted sky blue with yellow trim. Its nearly level grounds covered several acres, landscaped and tended. There were neat lawns; evergreens shaped by gardeners' shears. And broadleafed trees with massive boles, their crowns spreading vivid gold, flame, crimson, yellow-green, for here autumn's brush stroked weeks later than on the leeside of the mquntains.
This baronial manor was the eighth the barbarians had taken, but only the first on the coastal plain, which extended from here for more than a hundred miles west. They'd crossed rugged mountains at the headwaters of the Hasannu River, and followed it; the mountain clans, awed at their numbers, let them pass without war. The mountain stream became a river, the mountains foothills. Then they'd passed through rolling piedmont that went on for more than a hundred miles—Gorrbian country, much of the land cleared of woods and in places badly gullied, used more for grazing than for crops. There'd been towns, rich manors, and they'd had skirmishes occasionally, but no real fight. The people said their regular forces had been called away to fight the Maklanni, leaving only a militia.
And finally, this manor had had no fighting men at all. The people said their militia had been called west to help fight a new enemy, had left only two days before.
Just now the manor's tended lawns were occupied by warriors of the Kinnli Innjakot, with their gear and cooking fires, absorbing the early sunshine after a chill night on the ground. On the land around them were some five thousand more of various clans and tribes. Killed Many had told them they must sleep in the open, for they were warriors at war, not conquerors whose work was complete.
Killed Many too had slept on the ground. Now he squatted with the tribal chiefs by his cookfire, breakfasting on fresh roast. After weeks of sparse trail fare, his warriors had been eating well; gleebors were plentiful in this country, and no trouble to kill.
Killed Many's strong teeth wrenched off another mouthful. He chewed thoughtfully, his attention on something beyond the food, then glanced around at the chiefs who shared his fire.
"We will move on when we have finished eating," he said. "We have two armies to defeat, and if we stay here long, the warriors may become disobedient and ransack the buildings. They will take everything they like, and will not want to leave it behind. They will carry it with them, worry about it and fight over it, and cease to be warriors."
Spear Breaker, chief of the Tchook, grunted. "I have told my warriors that it is all theirs now," he said, "and to leave it here. I told them they need not take it with them to possess it."
At times like this, among the gathered chiefs, Eltrienn Cadriio listened and learned, seldom saying anything unless asked. He knew a great deal about the barbarians, but not yet enough to venture needless comments.
He hadn't foreseen some of the difficulties Killed Many had had. The barbarians had no tradition of a central chief, and their adjustment was not complete. Their first loyalty was to their clan chieftains, then to their tribal chiefs, and Killed Many held them only by the oaths those chiefs had sworn to him.
He'd had no defections, but twice it had been close. Once he'd had a clan chieftain executed by strangulation for refusing to obey an order. And when the chief of the entire Aazhmili tribe had called him a liar, he'd knocked the man down, then had drawn his sword and struck his head off. Both troubles had been with the Aazhmili, the most difficult of the tributary tribes.
Each incident, in its turn, could have begotten an intertribal war, but the Innjoka and Tchook had stood by him, while the northern tribes had kept aloof.
After having the chieftain executed, he'd outmaneuvered the clan warriors, telling them to name three men fit to command their clan. They'd have done this anyway—chosen candidates and discussed them. But now in choosing them, they were doing what Killed Many had ordered them to do. Then he'd stepped in and named their new chieftain from among the three; they could hardly reject the man they'd named first. Then Killed Many had taken the man's oath of loyalty and declared him chieftain, establishing a major precedent: The high chief can appoint clan chieftains.
Later, when he'd struck dead the tribal chief of the Aazhmili, he'd told the Aazhmili clan chieftains to name three of their number who they'd be willing to have as chief. "Swims in Winter" was the first named, and the one they'd agreed on most quickly, so Killed Many took his oath and declared him chief, praising him extravagantly.
Clever as it was, Eltrienn recognized, none of it would have worked if Killed Many hadn't been a rare and remarkable man. Few people, even Aazhmili warriors, could stand against his will. Apparently, even in his absence it wasn't easy to take a firm counter stance, and to stand against him in his presence was very difficult. The few who had, usually were in such an agitated state that they couldn't speak or act intelligently.
He wasn't sure how Ettsio Torillo had done it, or Sallvis Venettsio. Perhaps it was their foreignness.
Now Killed Many looked across the fire at Vessto. "Speaker With Hrum," he said, "why is it that these Djez so fear your people and this strange new army from the other side of the ocean, that they left this place undefended against us?"
"They do not fear us Hrummeans," Eltrienn answered. "They simply wish to take our land from us, and they know it will take a very strong army to do it. But the army from across the ocean they do fear. It is very big, has strange and powerful weapons, and t
hey fear it will make their people slaves.
"While they know your people only as raiders. They have never seen you as an army. They believe that if they defeat the strangers from across the ocean, they can then easily drive you away."
Killed Many regarded Vessto almost broodingly. "And what do you think, Speaker With Hrum?"
Vessto replied calmly, almost blandly. "The strangers from across the sea will be defeated. Because you will join with the Djez to beat them, despite their loud-barking stick weapons that shoot farther than the bow, and their fat iron logs that sound like thunder and destroy walls at a distance. You will fight them in the great Djez village, at night, where their iron logs and stick weapons are of less avail. Also, the strangers do not have swords. And while they can use their stick weapons as short spears, they are not skillful at it, easily losing heart. They much prefer to kill at a distance, which you will not let them do."
"How far away are these foreign soldiers?"
Vessto seemed to look inward a moment. "They are still at Haipoor, the great Djez Village, about a hard three-day march along this river. And what they are doing there will make them much more dangerous, unless they are stopped."
"Why should we not let the strangers and the Djez kill each other off? Then we can more easily beat the winner."
Vessto's gaze was steady on his own. "Because then the strangers would beat the Djezians. And later they would fight you in the countryside instead of in the village. The advantage would be theirs. But the great reason is that Hrum-In-Thee will make sure you fight them now."
Killed Many's face was impassive; it would be impossible to know his thoughts by his expression. "While you are prophesying," he said, "prophesy me this: Will I rule the Djez?"
"Not at this time. But you will go home with much booty, and kaabors to carry it. More important, you will take much knowledge home with you, and steelmakers, and many honors. It will have been the greatest raid of all time. And by then you may decide you do not wish to rule the Djez."
Killed Many took his eyes from the sage and stared off westward. Sometimes he believed this man's pronouncements and sometimes not. Before the others he professed to set great store by them; they helped him rule. But always he followed his own judgement; now he must decide.
After a few minutes during which none of them spoke, he brought his attention back, and standing, looked around. "We will make common cause with the Djez against this army from across the ocean," he told the chiefs. "Have your warriors form the marching order. We will not stop to cook till evening. A great army stands three days ahead; we will fight it and earn much honor. Speaker With Hrum will tell us more at the end of this day."
The chiefs dispersed then, and the Cadriio brothers drew apart. "The Almites are still at Haipoor?" Eltrienn asked. "Why is that?"
"I don't know." Vessto grinned then. "Hrum doesn't tell me everything."
"And the thing they're doing? That will make them much more dangerous?"
"Hrum didn't tell me that, either. But I got an impression of them working at their ships, which are sunken. Their fleet lies on the bottom of Haipoor Harbor."
Eltrienn stared at him, then shook his head and went over to pack his packsack. It had never before occurred to him to wonder: How could an adept, how could anyone, know the difference between whispers and pictures from Hrum and one's own imaginings?
Seventy-Four
All the way to North Cape, the breeze was out of the south, and the three schooners made slow progress tacking against it. Their sullsi, Sleekit among them, had gone northward to join their kin and tell a story such as none had heard before, and the serpents likewise.
At North Cape they spent a night and part of a day, and replenished their water, then continued toward Theedalit.
Juliassa's recovery was slow at first, and mostly she'd stayed in bed, eating what was brought to her, though the night at North Cape seemed to strengthen her. Often she stared long at her hand mirror and the deep and vivid scar creasing neck, jaw, and nose with purplish red.
As they sailed up the firth, Brokols, informed by royal courier of the sighting, and transported by hansom, was at the wharf on crutches. Leonessto was there too, and they stood together, Brokols grinning broadly as the ship approached. After a few moments he could see Juliassa at the rail, and waved wildly. She waved back, but without enthusiasm. She's been sick, he decided, and it was a long hard mission.
She was the first off the vessel though, except for the sailors who'd jumped down to set lines on the bollards. Brokols crutched rapidly along the wharf to meet her, while Leonessto walked more slowly to let them finish their greetings. Brokols had almost reached her before he noticed, and the grin slid off his face.
"Juliassa!" he said. "Hrum but it's good to see you again!" He embraced her with one arm; she held her body stiff. Then, "What happened?"
"We found Tirros," she answered, "or he found us. I don't know how he missed my throat. It's what he went for."
"Oh, darling!" Brokols said.
"Then he jumped overboard and Sleekit killed him. Sleekit's sword was full grown, and he ran him through." No tears welled; her eyes were dry, her words brittle. "He'd always done cruel things, from the time we were little. And now . . ." Her lips closed, tight and thin. Brokols didn't know what to do, so he hugged her again, and that was the right thing, for her rigidity lessened and she hugged him back, a brief stiff squeeze.
Leonessto had stopped some yards off and hadn't heard. Now Juliassa looked at him, and he started over. Then his eyes saw the scar, and shock flashed in them. "What happened?!" he asked.
"Tirros," she said. "He'd been driven to sea in a small boat, by a storm, and we came across him. It was night, or nearly, and the men who took him aboard didn't know who he was. He looked different—filthy, long-haired, half-starved. And somehow he learned I was on board. He hid himself away from me, in the hold I suppose, until he saw his chance.
"We were setting the mines, had set most of them, when he tried to kill me, but I screamed and he fled, jumped overboard. Sleekit caught him in the water." She gripped Leonessto's hand then. "He's dead, father."
Then, at last, she did begin to cry, a few silent tears. The amirr couldn't speak, just nodded, his own tears flowing, and Brokols' started too. The three of them stood weeping, others skirting them widely as they disembarked and left.
"Well," said Leonessto after a long minute, "shall we go to the palace? Your mother will want to welcome you."
* * *
Brokols and Juliassa had their noon meal with her parents, then went home. It was at home that she broke down, wept hard and loud, the violence of it shocking Brokols clear of empathy, though not of sympathy. He held her, patting her clumsily while she soaked his shirt with tears. Afterward they bathed, then made awkward love. After that, as they lay relaxed, she seemed—not entirely different from the girl he'd known. She commented on how active he was with his leg still splinted. "What does the healer say about you crutching around so freely?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. About the time you left, Panni came to see me. Asked me questions. When he'd gone, my leg felt distinctly better."
She turned onto her stomach and raised up on an elbow. "What kind of questions?" There was an unexpected sharpness in her words. "Give me an example."
"Well, the last one he asked was what a broken leg might be used for." Brokols shrugged slightly where he lay. "And every time I answered, he asked it again. After awhile I was giving some very strange answers, and feeling better and better. And Panni was grinning! Finally I said a broken leg could be used for staying home, and I got chills from head to foot. He laughed out loud, bid me sleep well, and left."
Brokols paused, giving her a chance to react. She didn't, beyond turning pensive. He leaned toward her and kissed her. "Maybe we should send for Panni, if he's willing to come. Send a hansom; I'd almost bet he's never ridden in one. Perhaps he could heal the wound that Tirros gave you—not on your neck and face, but on your heart."
"Perhaps," she whispered. "But right now I want to be alone with you. And let you remind me that fucking can be an act of love."
Seventy-Five
Eltrienn stood looking at the Gorrbian camp a mile away in the hazy autumn sunshine. Farther, by about two miles, was the city. Killed Many called a break for eating; his signalman raised the curled horn he carried on a lanyard and blew a pattern of sonorous peals.
"You will speak with their commander for me then," Killed Many said to Eltrienn.
"Right. We'll go now; we've eaten on the road. We'll see what we can arrange with him."
The two Hrummeans shrugged out of their packstraps, and lightened, left, intermittently jogging. Eltrienn had kept his sword but left bow and arrows behind. Vessto had only the knife he used to cut his meat with. Nearing the Gorrbian encampment, they saw a party riding out in their direction. It came a hundred yards, men stopped and waited. Nearing, they could see a husky young captain in the lead, his hostility undisguised. He didn't wait for introductions.
