March Upcountry im-1

by David Weber

  Matsugae had been laying out Roger’s bedroll when the company commander entered the room. He looked up at the captain and winked, but Pahner just shook his head.

  “Not really, Your Highness. It’s a fort designed for visiting dignitaries. We can defend it even if the King turns on us, and he doesn’t have to worry about us trying to take over from within. The gates in the tunnel may seal us in, but getting in here without our permission would be hard. For example, that door is offset so that you can’t get a good run up with a ram. I’m happy with it.”

  Roger turned away from the view and looked at the Marine. The captain stood in the pool of shadow cast by the camp light in the corner, and his face was obscured. Not that Roger could have gotten anything from seeing it; except when he was really enraged, Pahner was very hard to read.

  “Do you think Xyia Kan would turn on us?” the prince asked. The idea surprised him. The Q’Nkok monarch had seemed friendly enough to him.

  “I didn’t think there was a toombie onboard the DeGlopper, Your Highness,” Pahner said bitterly, and Roger nodded.

  “What are we going to do about it?” he asked reasonably.

  “Get our stuff traded, get the supplies we need, and get out of town as fast as possible, Your Highness,” Pahner said, and Roger nodded again and clasped his hands behind him.

  He started to reply, then stopped himself. O’Casey’s little lecture had been perking at the back of his mind, and he decided that now was a good time to start biting his tongue. And he had no specific problems with what Pahner had just said, only vague reservations. Until and unless they became more specific, it would be much smarter to just let it ride.

  “I suppose we’ll see tomorrow,” was all he said.

  “I’ll go see about the arrangements downstairs then, Your Highness,” Matsugae said. He’d set up the prince’s sleeping area and laid out a fresh uniform.

  The sight of the uniform sent a fresh prickle through Roger from the itch down his back, and he felt a sudden overwhelming desire to get out of the armor. The equipment had a cooling unit, so he hadn’t suffered from the heat and humidity as much as the rest of the company, but it was still uncomfortable to wear hour after hour.

  “I’m going to get out of this damn armor and have a good rubdown with a cleaning cloth,” he announced.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the captain said, with a faint frown.

  “What?” Roger asked, stripping off the uniform.

  “Well, Your Highness,” the captain said carefully. “You might see about your rifle first.”

  The officer chuckled and shook his head at the prince’s frown. “Just thinking of an old service poem, Your Highness. It ends ‘mind you keep your rifle and yourself just so.’ ”

  Roger nodded. “I take your meaning, Captain.” He glanced at the weapon and nodded again. “I know better than to go to bed with a fouled weapon; you never know if you’ll wake up with a banshee in your tent. I’ll take care of that first. But I’m not sure I’ll be down for supper. I might just have a ration and go to bed.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Pahner said. “If not tonight, I’ll see you in the morning. We should discuss the audience beforehand.”

  “Agreed. In the morning then.”

  “Goodnight, Your Highness,” Pahner said, and vanished into the shadows.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Roger bowed to the king and presented his documentation as a member of the Imperial Family. The piece of paper was in Standard English, utterly unintelligible to the locals, and he had no idea if it was a protocol that they observed. But the king looked it over, and it was certainly impressive enough with its gold lettering and vermillion seals. He handed it back after several moments, and Roger launched into his prepared speech.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, throwing back his head and interlacing his hands behind him. “We visit you from a distant land. In our land we have come far in the areas of technology, the knowledge of making things, yet we continue to seek more knowledge of all aspects of the world, and that search often takes us upon long journeys. We set out on such a voyage of discovery, but our ship was blown far off course, and we crashed on the eastern shores of this land.”

  Eleanora O’Casey stood back and watched the prince’s performance. The toot seemed to be adequately translating the speech into the clicks and growls of the local dialect. It was impossible to be certain without any reliable native to return the translation, but Roger had tried most of it out on Cord, who had pronounced it fit, so it should be okay. At least so far there’d been none of the laughs or grimaces which were normal signs of a flop.

  “The eastern shores are beyond the high mountains,” Roger continued, gesturing out the windows which ringed the throne room. The room was near the pinnacle of the citadel, and had high windows on every side to catch the breezes. It was, for Marduk, remarkably cool and comfortable, with a temperature that couldn’t have been much over thirty degrees Standard.

  The throne itself was elevated and elaborately carved out of some lustrous wood. The room was paneled in carefully contrasting multihued and grained woods, and each panel was itself a work of art. The panels depicted scenes of everyday Mardukan life, alternating with images of the various gods and demons of the local pantheon. Given the monsters the local wildlife gave the natives as models, the demons were particularly good.

  It was a beautiful and obviously expensive display, and, just as clearly, no expense was spared for the security of the king. The walls were lined with guards in the same leather apron armor as the ones who’d escorted the humans to the palace, but this armor was reinforced in strategic spots by plates of bronze. And instead of clubs, these guards carried spears that were nearly three meters long. Those spears were apparently designed not only for stabbing, but also for slashing, given the keen edges of their broad, meter-long heads.

  “We traveled over those mountains,” Roger was continuing, “for we do not share your form or your desire for damp and heat, and met upon the edge of them with my good friend and companion, D’Nal Cord. He has since guided us to your beautiful kingdom, where it is our desire to trade and prepare for a great journey.”

  The prince had a deep, rich baritone which had been trained (often over his strenuous objections) as an oratorical instrument, and it seemed the Mardukans responded to oratory in many of the same ways humans did. O’Casey had begun to develop a feel for Mardukan body language, and the speech had so far evoked a positive response. Which was good, because Roger was about to shock them.

  “We know little of your lands, but we do know a place where a trading mission from our own land exists. It is a long journey from here, which will take many, many months. And it will take us through the lands of the Kranolta.”

  The group of Mardukan nobles gathered at the audience began to buzz with conversation, and there were occasional grunting laughs, but the king simply looked grim.

  “This is sad news,” he said, leaning forward in the throne. His son, sitting on a stool at his feet, on the other hand, looked very excited at the pronouncement. But he was young. “You know that the Kranolta are a vast and fierce tribe?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Roger nodded gravely. “Nonetheless, we must pass through that region. Far to the northwest lies an ocean we must reach. I have spoken with Cord, and he tells me that most of your trade goes to the south. As you know, the ocean in that direction lies several months’ journey further away. We . . . don’t have that much time.”

  “But the Kranolta are fierce and numerous,” Xyia Kan’s son put in. He glanced at the team of armored Marines, and tapped his half-hand fingers nervously.

  Roger had been surprised by the amount of backstage negotiations which had gone on to set up this meeting. Pahner and O’Casey had been up half the night negotiating with the local equivalent of the palace chamberlain about who was going to be allowed into the king’s presence.

  The problem was the guards.

  Pahner wasn’t about to let Roger wander into t
he king’s presence without at least a squad of guards. First of all, it wasn’t done. A member of the Imperial Family didn’t meet with a barbarian king without some retainers. But even more to the point, there was no reason at all to trust the monarch, so both protocol and sense dictated having guards in attendance. But the locals were no dummies. It was clear that the town was highly factionalized, and the king had long since mandated specific limits on the number of guards permitted in his presence.

  Commoners and merchants weren’t allowed to bring guards or weapons of any form into the royal presence. Nor were members of the lesser houses of the city-state. The heads of the Great Houses who made up the town council could each bring up to three guards, but no more than fifteen total as a group. Since the council numbered fifteen, it had become the custom for each counselor to bring a single guard as a token of his status. Which meant that Pahner’s insistence that it was impossible for the prince to travel with less than eight guards was a major sticking point.

  The number finally settled on was five, and despite the stubbornness with which he’d held out for eight, Pahner had to admit that Roger in armor and Julian with his Bravo Team, also fully armored up, probably had the king’s guard outnumbered.

  Hell, they probably had all of Q’Nkok outnumbered!

  “Even with your fierce guardians and your powerful weapons, you will surely be overwhelmed,” the king commented now, in apparent agreement with his son.

  “Nonetheless,” Roger said grimly, “it is to the north we must go. We will try to make peace with the Kranolta.” He shook his head and clapped his hands by his waist in an attempt to replicate the Mardukan version of a shrug. “But if they will not have peace, then we will give them war to the knife.”

  The king clapped his upper arms and grunted in agreement.

  “I wish you luck. Well it would be to be rid of the Kranolta. They have never attacked this side of the mountains. Indeed, they have been much weaker in my generation than in my father’s. But the mere fear of them keeps many traders from coming up the river. Any aid we can give you will be proffered.”

  He looked around the throne room and grunted again.

  “And speaking of war to the knife, I fear that I know why D’Nal Cord is back so soon.” The words were strong, but the intent appeared to be friendly. “Come forward, counselor and brother of my friend Delkra, and tell me what transgression has brought you from your beloved forest hell this time.”

  Cord strode forward gravely, and raised his hands towards the monarch.

  “Xyia Kan, I greet you in the name of The People and the name of my sibling D’Net Delkra. I bring sad tidings of continued cutting beyond the Treeline. Further, much of the last shipments of spears and javelin heads have been of unacceptable quality. I am deeply grieved to inform you that my nephew and apprentice D’Net Deltan was killed when the spear he was using snapped. It was of inferior quality, or he would still be alive.”

  The shaman stepped forward and carefully withdrew a reversed spearhead from his cloak. He handed it to the king, who examined it with care. On the surface, it appeared to be good iron, but one tap on the arm of the throne revealed the rotten tone of poorly smelted material, and Xyia Kan’s expression was grim as he set it down and gestured for Cord to continue.

  “This has gone beyond the pale.” The shaman clapped his hands emphatically. “There is now a blood debt.” He clasped his hands gravely and looked at the floor.

  “I am now . . . asi to this young prince. I go with him on his quest to reach Far Voitan and the fabled lands beyond. I shall not be here to see the results if this is not resolved quickly and clearly.” He looked up again and clacked his teeth in anger. “But, yes, I would think that if the words sent back are once again simple platitudes and promises that it will indeed be war to the knife.

  “And the burning of Q’Nkok will rise to the sky to mingle with fallen Voitan’s.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Xyia Kan entered the audience chamber and ascended his throne. The Council had been summoned immediately at his insistence. And, also at his insistence, the single traditional armed retainer of each councilor had been stopped at the chamber door. The only visibly armed Mardukans present were his guards, lining either side of the room, where, at a single gesture from him, they could stop the intrigues that were plaguing him in their tracks forever.

  And insure the end of his dynasty.

  Once he was settled, he simply sat and looked at them. Just . . . sat. He let seconds tick by, then a full minute. Two minutes. Even the hardiest of his councilors looked away, confused and perplexed or confused and angry, depending upon their personalities and exactly how much they understood about the stakes for which they played, under the insulting weight of his baleful gaze. He felt the tension singing about him, but he made no move to break it until, finally and somewhat predictably, W’hild Doma burst with fury.

  “Xyia Kan, I have a House to manage!” he snapped. “I don’t have time for games. What is the meaning of this?”

  Since Kan was particularly furious with the W’hild, he almost cracked. He wasn’t furious because the house-leader had switched out good weapons in the tribute for bad. Among other things, if that had been done in the House W’hild, the monarch was virtually certain Doma was unaware of it. No, he was furious because Doma, whom he trusted to be both capable and loyal, had let someone sucker his House so thoroughly.

  But he managed to not even flinch, simply looked at the fulminating W’hild and stared him down. Doma was hardly the sort to cower, but even his angry eyes finally fell under the unrelenting weight of Xyia Kan’s, and the heavy silence returned until, finally, the king relented.

  He leaned sideways and spat on the audience chamber floor.

  “Women!” he snarled. His councilors, already simultaneously uncertain and angry, looked at one another in confusion, and he spat on the floor again.

  “Women,” he repeated. “All I see before me are stupid women!”

  This time, there was no confusion. Fury at the carefully chosen insult overwhelmed any other emotion, and three or four of the councilors actually came to their feet. Fortunately, Xyia Kan had warned his guard captain, and his warriors’ spears remained at their sides, but his own hands slammed down on the arms of his chair.

  “Silence!” The pure venom of his wrath sliced through the shouted posturing of their outrage like a whetted spearhead. “Be seated!”

  They sank back into their chairs, and he glowered at them.

  “I’ve had another visit from D’Nal Cord. He will be leaving for good when the humans leave, for he is now asi to the human leader.”

  “Good!” W’hild shot back. “Maybe with Cord gone, Delkra will understand that we cannot control every peasant who sneaks into the forest!”

  “Delkra will have our heads!” Kan snapped. “It has been Cord restraining his brother all along, you fools! Without him, the X’Intai will roll over us in a day! Either I must have more guards, or I must have command of the household guards in the event of an attack!”

  “Never!” P’grid shouted. “If the barbarians attack, however unlikely that is, the Houses will provide for their own defense, as always. It is the duty of the King to protect the town as it is the duty of the House to protect itself. This is as it has always been!”

  “In the past, we weren’t looking at being overrun by the X’Intai! And if you think that after having a spearhead break and kill the son of Delkra, the protege of Cord, that they are not going to attack, you are a greater fool than even I believe you can be!”

  “Spearheads break,” P’grid said with a grunt of laughter. “One less barbarian for you to lose sleep over.”

  “Especially spearheads like this!” the monarch snarled. He whipped out the offending weapon and hurled it at the floor, and it shattered, scattering splinters of iron among the councilors.

  “Where did that come from?” Doma demanded sharply. “Not out of the last shipment!”

  “Yes,
Doma,” the king retorted. “Out of the demon-cursed shipment. Your demon-cursed shipment. That you were responsible for! I ought to send the X’Intai your head!”

  “I am not responsible for this!” the councilor shouted. “I shipped only the finest wrought iron spearheads. I took a loss!”

  “Nevertheless,” the king said flatly, “this is what the X’Intai received. And what killed Deltan. So if anyone has anything to say about this, now would be a good time!”

  Again there was much glancing around, but none of the eye contact seemed to mean much. And not many of the eyes were willing to meet Kan’s. Finally, Kesselotte J’ral clapped his false hands.

  “What would you have us say, O King?” he asked. “Would any of us jeopardize this fair city? The city that is our home, as well as yours? What purpose would it serve?”

  “Most of you would sell your mothers for a hunk of scrap bronze,” the monarch hissed. “Get out of my sight. I doubt that we’ll have another council meeting before the X’Intai come over the wall. And woe betide you then, for the gates of this citadel shall be shut against you!”

  “—shall be shut against you!”

  “Interesting,” Pahner said. The video from the nanitter bug was extremely grainy. There was only so much any system can do with a nanometer of visual receiver, but the audio enhancement at the receiving end did a much better job with the sound. “Hmmm. ‘It was an August evening and, in snowy garments clad . . .’”

  The nanite transmitter resembled, in many respects, a very small insect. It could move itself, not just stay in one place, and this one had jumped from the spearhead Cord had given Xyia Kan to the king’s ear. From there, it was party to every conversation the king had, and it had made it evident that the king was either on the level or a very good actor.

  “I think he’s serious.” O’Casey wiped her face with a cloth that came away sopping with sweat. “I can think of a double-blind situation where he might be trying to crack the Great Houses through the threat of Cord’s tribe, but I don’t believe that’s what he’s trying for two reasons. First, he sounds awfully angry, and I don’t think he’s that good an actor. And second, even if he was, any attempt like that would be terribly risky. He’d have to have a second force available to act as the cavalry. Where is it?”