Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  “It can’t last,” O’Casey supplied for him. “Eventually she’ll either break their control, or—if it’s a direct drug or toot control—it will get found out.”

  “So what does that tell us?” Roger said again. “Assume they think I really am dead.”

  “I think it’s obvious that that’s exactly what they think, Your Highness,” Kosutic put in. “DeGlopper was the first bead in the magazine, and they obviously think they got us. What I don’t know was whether they intended to make you the fall guy all along, or if this was some sort of ex post facto brainstorm.” The sergeant major snorted a bitter laugh. “You know, from a purely tactical viewpoint, you gotta love it. Look at it—they’ve got the perfect Overlord of Evil! They can keep right on chasing you for decades as a way to maintain the ‘threat’ that justifies whatever ‘emergency measures’ they decide to take, and they know they can never catch you, because you’re dead!”

  “The sergeant major is right,” O’Casey agreed. “And if they think you’re dead, and they’re worried about the Empress slipping out of their control, they have to be angling for an Heir. Probably another one by New Madrid.”

  “And if they don’t get an Heir and mother suffers a tragic accident anyway?” Roger asked. “Uncle Thorry, right?”

  “The Duke of San Cristobal, yes,” O’Casey agreed. “But—”

  “But he’s damned near senile, and never bothered to have children,” Roger completed. “And after him?”

  “At least a dozen claimants,” O’Casey said. “All with more or less equal claims.”

  “Jackson’s not in that group,” Roger amused. “But he’s close. And given his position of advantage . . .”

  “It’s probable that the Throne would fall to him,” O’Casey said. “But whether or not he could hang onto it would be another matter. Given all of the other competing heirs, it’s almost as likely that the Empire would simply dissolve into warring factions. The rival cliques are still out there, you know, Your Highness.”

  “Arrrgh.” Roger closed his eyes and rubbed his face. “Julian, what’s the dateline on the first news story that said Mother was something like ‘alive and recovering’?”

  The sergeant did a quick scan and pulled up an article.

  “Nice word choice, Sir. ‘Alive and should fully recover from her wounds.’ Two months ago. Three days after the attack.”

  “Now those must’ve been some tense days,” Roger said with a lightness which fooled none of them. “And I thought being on Marduk was a bad thing. We have seven months.”

  “Aye,” Pahner agreed. “The child must be born of her body.”

  “Which means she at least has to be alive when the can is cracked,” Roger said.

  “Well, technically, yes,” O’Casey said. “But, it’s possible—”

  “Under other circumstances, maybe,” Roger cut her off. “But not these. If she dies before they have an acknowledged Heir to the Throne, then—like you just said—odds are the entire Empire could fall apart on them.” He shook his head. “No, Eleanora. For right now, she’s their trump card. With the child born and well, proven to be of her genetics, while she’s still alive to confer legitimacy on their regime, they’re covered. Then Mother dies, Jackson becomes Regent, and from there he can do as he wishes. But she has until the child is born to be relatively safe. Which means we only have seven months until my mother’s life probably isn’t worth spit.”

  “Agreed,” Pahner said. “At the same time, Your Highness, we have to get through our other problems before we can do anything about that one. We’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Indeed, Captain. Indeed.” Roger sighed sadly. “Well, if it were easy, they wouldn’t pay us the big bucks.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Harvard Mansul was lurking just outside the conference chamber when the meeting broke up.

  The journalist rarely asked the prince any questions, preferring to pump the junior Marines and the Mardukan mercenaries, who were more than willing to share their stories. And, of course, he had not been invited to attend the command staff meeting, itself. But he was getting hours of video of the prince, and it was beginning to bother O’Casey.

  She stepped out of the meeting room just as Mansul started to dart off after Roger, and she stuck out an arm and grabbed him before he could get away. He looked at her in some surprise, but the chief of staff had developed remarkably sinewy arms during the trek across Marduk, and he was wise enough not to resist as she dragged him back into the now empty room.

  “We need to talk,” she said pleasantly.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” the photographer said. “I’m trying to stay out of the way.”

  “And you’re succeeding,” she noted. “And I know that this is a heck of a story. But it’s not necessarily one the IAS can publish when we get back.”

  Mansul sighed and nodded.

  “I understand that. But do you know what the prince intends to do? Is he going to contact the Empress when we return? How are we going to return?”

  “That’s . . . not settled yet,” O’Casey temporized. “But . . . You do understand why we’ve got to start excluding you from some meetings?”

  “I understand,” Mansul repeated. “But this isn’t just a good story, you realize. This is history unfolding. And what history! I mean, this is the best story in a thousand years! He could play his own leading man!”

  “What do you mean?” the chief of staff asked.

  “Come with me,” Mansul said, and took her arm. “I want to show you something.”

  He led her out of the door and towed her down the corridor, asking the occasional guard for directions to the prince.

  They finally found him out on the battlements, conferring with the local Shin leadership. The skies, as always, were gray, but the brilliant pewter cloud glare of Marduk’s powerful sun was near zenith and the day was bright—hot, and almost dry at this altitude. The prevailing wind in this area came down from the glaciers up-valley, and on some days it built up to a near-gale. Today it was running about thirty kilometers per hour, and the prince’s hair had come unbound. It streamed sideways in the wind as he and the native leaders conferred, gesturing at the distant battle lines.

  “There,” Mansul said.

  “What?”

  “That’s what I brought you to see,” he replied. “Nobody sees it. I want you to look at the prince and tell me what you see. Take your time.”

  “I’m very busy, Mr. Mansul,” the chief of staff said. “I don’t have time for games. It’s Prince Roger.”

  “This isn’t a game, Ms. O’Casey,” he said seriously. “Now look.”

  O’Casey looked at Roger. He was talking with the Gastan and one of the other Shin warlords, accompanied by Pahner and Kosutic, the still barely mobile Cord, a group of Vashin and Diaspran bodyguards, and Dogzard.

  “I see Roger and company,” she snapped. “What about it?”

  “Describe him,” Mansul said quietly. “As if you were writing the article.”

  “A tall man . . .” she began, and then, suddenly, stopped.

  A tall man, darkly tanned by alien suns, a sword on his back and a pistol at his side, his unbound blond hair streaming in the wind. He was surrounded by a group of powerful, intelligent, capable followers who were not just willing to follow him anywhere, but already had—and would again, at a moment’s notice, even knowing the impossible tasks they faced. His face was young, but with almost ancient green eyes. The eyes of a man who had already strode through a dozen hells. . . .

  “Oh . . . my . . . God,” she muttered.

  “Now you understand.” The journalist’s whisper was an odd mix of delight and something very like awe. “This isn’t just the story of a lifetime. This is the story of a century—possibly a millennium. You couldn’t pry me off with a grav-jack.”

  “That’s . . .” She shook her head, trying to clear the vision. “It’s just Roger.”

  “No. It’s not,”
the journalist said. “And, trust me, you aren’t the Ms. Eleanora O’Casey I had a passing view of at the palace. You’ve survived, Ms. O’Casey. Sure, you were protected, but are you ready to tell me you’re the same person you were before this tremendous trek?”

  “No, I’m not.” She sighed at last, and took one more look before she turned away. “But it’s still silly. I don’t care what he’s become, he’s still Roger.”

  “This is silly,” Roger muttered. “I take it back. There is such a thing as too much overkill.”

  They were observing the Krath siege lines from the top of the western wall, trying to determine if there was anything Roger’s force could add to the defense. Pahner had dragged all the senior commanders, along with the main “battle staff,” up to the battlements with them for a good hard look. And it didn’t look good.

  “Yes,” the Gastan said with a gesture of amusement. “It is a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

  It looked very much as if Kirsti had moved its entire army in toto up to the plain. From the mountains, standing beside Pedi’s turom cart, that army had looked like a large ant mound; from the walls, it looked like . . . an immense ant mound.

  The tent city at the rear measured nearly four kilometers on a side, broken into three distinct camps with regular roads and well laid out garbage and personal waste management. The latter seemed to be primarily trucked out, rather than simply dumped into the river, which struck the humans as the best field hygiene they’d come across yet. On the other hand, it was apparent that the majority of the forces weren’t spending much time under canvas.

  A regular siege had been laid on in front of the Shin citadel. Dozens of separate zig-zagging communications trenches led forward from the area of the Krath encampment to a much larger trench parallel to the walls. The parallel trench was covered by stout wooden palisades, and bombards fired occasionally from emplacements along the parallel. But the bombards in use were on the small side; they were still far enough from the fortress that they were barely in range; and there weren’t very many of them. Coupled with their low rate of fire, their impact on the defenses was marginal . . . so far.

  Despite the indications that the Krath were here for the long haul, they seemed quite prepared to settle things more quickly if the opportunity offered. And they obviously considered that they had the manpower to explore . . . more direct and straightforward alternatives to battering a way through stonework with artillery. A frontal assault—or, more precisely, another frontal assault—had obviously been tried earlier in the day, and the dead hadn’t been cleared away from the base of the walls yet.

  The forces arrayed against the Shin were enormous. Between the rear of the siege works and the tent city, there were blocks and blocks and blocks of infantry. So many that all most of them could do was sit on the ground, awaiting their next orders. There literally wasn’t room to use more than a fraction of them against the fortress at any given time.

  “There are at least two hundred thousand troops in view,” Julian said, consulting his toot. “It looks like that could be another sixty thousand in Queicuf and the wing forts, and an unknown number in the tents.”

  “Worse than the Boman,” Rastar muttered. “These bastards are organized.”

  “The majority of them return to the tents at night,” the Gastan said. “They’re as much for warmth as for cover, and they have to clean their pretty armor, don’t they?”

  “I suspect that they wait until they return to do their business, as well,” Honal commented. “Otherwise, they’d be up to their knees in shit by now.”

  “If they just charged all at once, they’d overwhelm you,” Pahner said, ignoring the side conversations.

  “Possibly,” the Gastan replied with a gesture of resignation. “And possibly not. Moving them all forward at once is . . . a bit of a challenge. It takes a lot of tricky coordination. And they’d have to stack themselves on top of each other to get to the top of the wall. We’re the Krath’s prime source for any number of raw materials, including wood, so they’re having a bit of trouble finding sufficient materials for enough ladders. Then, even if they took the fortress, they’d have to manage the groups that were in it. They’ve taken sections of the wall before, but those Krath who seize them just mill around on top, wondering what do next until we counterattack and kill them or drive them off. They’re perfectly willing to keep trying assaults on the off-chance that one may work—they’ve certainly got the manpower for it!—but they’ve also fallen back on more complicated means.”

  He waved at the palisaded parallel . . . and at the trenches zig-zagging forward from it. It was obvious that the smaller trenches had perhaps another fifty to seventy-five meters to go to reach the point at which the next parallel would be cut, that much closer to the walls.

  “They’ve been moving the siege lines forward steadily,” the Gastan said. “They won’t have to get a lot closer to bring their bombards into effective range. When they do, they can pound us hard enough to cause a breach. Then they’ll pour their troops through, and it will all be over.”

  “Not much I can add,” Fain said. He’d been doing a few calculations on the back of the wall, and now he dropped his piece of charcoal and dusted his true-hands, body language distinctly disgruntled as he contemplated the figures he’d scrawled across the stone. “Each of my fellows would have to kill fourteen hundred of them. I can’t guarantee anything over a thousand, unless we get more ammunition.”

  Pahner had been rubbing his chin in thought. Now he pulled out a piece of bisti root and cut off a sliver.

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” he told Pedi’s father. “We need to take the spaceport, and from what you’ve said, it’s not all that long a trek from here. If we took it, we could come back with all the firepower we need to clear out the Krath.”

  “It’s a point,” Roger agreed. “A couple of cluster bombs would be a treat on these guys.”

  “That would be . . . difficult,” the Gastan said coldly. “I have a hard enough time convincing my people that it’s worth fighting the Krath at all, especially given the reason that they sit on our doorstep. If you were to go, for whatever reason, I doubt I could continue to ensure your safety. Or that of my other human guests.”

  Pahner sighed, nodded, and slipped the slice of root into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, then shrugged.

  “I suspected it would be something like that. Okay, let’s try a few ‘old-fashioned’ remedies first. If those don’t work, we’ll think about alternatives.”

  “I guess that’s about our only option,” Roger agreed. “On the other hand, sooner or later, we’re going to have to move on the port, anyway. I truly hope taking it won’t be as tough as it could turn out to be when we do get around to it, and I think we need to think about that simultaneously. Armand, you and I need to concentrate on ways to deal with the Krath. But while we get fully up to speed on the local situation and the balance of forces, Julian, you need to start massaging the data Jin gave us. We need a way into the port.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the NCO said doubtfully. “If there are any of us left to take it.”

  Roger tried not to let his amusement show as he watched Pedi and the still limping, very slowly moving Cord jockey for precedence through the door. The Marines had already swept the other side, and even including Despreaux and Pedi, Roger was probably the most dangerous person present. But the precedence of security was everything.

  “I’m sure we’re all friends here, Pedi,” he said, placing a hand on her back as she passed him. Then he drew his hand back and looked at it oddly. Her back had felt . . . lumpy. If she’d been a human, and if it had been her front, instead of her back, he would have thought he’d accidentally put his hand on a breast. But the feel had been firmer, like a large blister. Or a tumor.

  Whatever it had been, Pedi shied away from the touch. Then she seemed to recover her customary poise.

  “And we were sure the High Priest would never have your
party attacked in his presence, Your Highness,” she said. “My duty to my benan is clear. It is my responsibility to ensure the room is safe. Not the Marines’.”

  “And it is mine to ensure that it is safe for you, Roger.” Cord’s voice still wheezed alarmingly, and Roger shook his head.

  “You need rest, old friend,” he said. “You can’t guard me if you’re as weak as a day-old basik.”

  “Nonetheless, it is my duty,” Cord said, trying unsuccessfully to conceal how heavily he was forced to lean upon his spear for support.

  Roger paused in the doorway and turned to his asi. He looked up into the face that now seemed familiar, rather than alien.

  “Cord, I need you for your advice more than your guarding. And I need you well. Respect my opinion in this; you need to rest still. Get your strength back. I hate to mention it, but you’re not as young as you used to be, and you need more time to recover. That was a bad wound, so rest. Go to Mudh Hemh. Have a mud bath. Get some sleep. I have the Marines to cover me, and I’ll come to Mudh Hemh myself, as soon as the last of these negotiations are complete.”

  Cord regarded him impassively for a long moment, but then made a gesture of resignation.

  “It is as you say. I cannot perform my duties as I should in this condition. I’ll go.”

  “Good!” Roger clapped him on the arm. “Recover. Build up your strength. You’ll need it soon enough.”

  “Good morning. My name is Sergeant Adib Julian, and I will be giving the first briefing on suggested tactics for relieving the Krath problem,” Julian said, looking around the room. The hall was near the center of the Shin citadel and was large enough to accommodate all of the prince’s commanders and the senior Shin warlords.

  The latter were an extremely mixed bag. Some of them were from groups that were in long-term close contact with the Krath, and those were fairly “civilized.” They’d turned up wearing well polished armor and seemed to be following the briefing with interest. They seemed especially fascinated by the hologram of the force structure the NCO had thrown up. However, many of the other chieftains were obviously from “the back of beyond.” The latter were notable for their lighter and less well maintained armor, and the wide separation the Gastan had instituted between the groups—and between some of the clans within each group, for that matter—suggested that some of them would rather beat on each other than on the Krath.