The Tyrant g-5

by David Drake

  He pointed out the window. "Listen to those chimes, Trae. That celebration's not being faked. You're not only my son, but you're the one who just rescued thousands of their kinsfolk from Preble. Wedded, the day after tomorrow, to the surviving unmarried daughter of the previous dynasty. As good a guarantee as my new subjects could ask for. So long as they obey Demansk, that same name will be their shield."

  Trae stared out the window. After a moment, his shoulders slumped a little, as a man's will when he accepts something inevitable. Demansk was relieved to see the familiar wry twist come his son's lips. If nothing else, Trae would always have his sense of humor.

  "Did Gellert prescribe this too?"

  Demansk shook his head. "Not hardly! I don't need mysterious spirits to teach me statecraft, Trae. I learned the principles of that from my own grandfather."

  Trae's eyes moved to Jirri. The girl was now clumsily trying to disguise her fingers. But since she only had a thin sheet of paper and a tunic which was not much thicker to hide them in, she wasn't having much success. The expression on her face was one of extreme distress. Her first meeting with her groom! And she was filthy!

  The wry smile widened. "A practical lass, is it? Well, that's good. You'll need to be, poor thing, married to me. " He gave his sire a look which just bordered on derision. "Or did my scheming august father neglect to mention to you that I was a complete eccentric?"

  He stepped over to her and held out his hands. "Stop fidgeting, dammit. It's silly. As good-looking as you are, girl, you'll be bearing our first child within a year-and that'll be a lot messier than a little ink. Show me the fingers."

  She did as her husband-to-be commanded. Demansk, watching, thought that her instant obedience was only partly the result of Islander custom. Jirri's eyes, staring up at Trae, were still wide. But Demansk could detect the first traces of trust coming into those dark orbs.

  "I'll scrub them," whispered Jirri. "Right away."

  Trae clucked his tongue. "Just for a little ink? Scrape those pretty fingers raw? I don't think so, girl." He gave her a smile which was a weird cross between a comfort and a leer. "Come the night after tomorrow, I'll be wanting those fingers soft and supple, damned if I won't."

  Jirri choked down a laugh. There was some embarrassment in the sound. But there was also more a trace of anticipation.

  "I've got some stuff that will work a lot better than pumice and oil," continued Trae. "You should see the crap I get on my fingers. Ha! You will be seeing it, soon enough. I'll have the cleansers brought up to the palace."

  And then, even Trae was at a loss for words. Demansk left them there, two youngsters staring at each other. Given the nature of the times, he thought that dirty hands were an appropriate way for a husband and wife to get introduced.

  Thicelt was waiting for him in his own quarters. Not in the private chamber where Demansk slept and where he'd spent hours studying Gellert's missive, but in the great outer salon which Demansk used for meetings with his close advisers.

  "They sound good, no?" asked Sharlz, gesturing with his head to the windows. "I think they've got every chime in the city ringing."

  Demansk nodded. "Yes. And now comes the hardest part. Waiting."

  Thicelt studied him. Then, glanced at the door to Demansk's private chamber. Sharlz had never read Gellert's treatise, but he knew about it.

  "It all depends on him now, I suppose."

  "Not quite." Demansk lowered himself onto a couch and stretched. He was actually looking forward to the next few days, however much his son and about-to-be daughter-in-law might be full of trepidation. A traditional celebration, with the gaiety and feasting, would be a pure pleasure. And, in truth, he really could afford to ease up for a bit.

  "Not quite," he repeated. "If Gellert fails, I think I could still manage the thing. But it'd be the difference between ruling a realm and ruling a ruin."

  He stared out the window. His view was not of the harbor, but of the mountains behind Chalice. Almost the exact opposite direction from the one where his and the world's fate would be largely decided in the next few weeks. But Demansk wasn't even tempted to crane his neck and look toward the south.

  That wouldn't do any good at all. He'd only be staring at a wall, in any event. What Demansk needed, now more than ever, was simply a measure of serenity. And for that, his window suited him perfectly. In the center of his view was the Peak of the Sun God, rising majestically into the heavens. With, as always since Demansk had arrived at the archipelago, that steady, steady, steady plume.

  "It's a good sign," pronounced Thicelt. He was speaking of the nearby chimes, of course. But Demansk, staring at silent smoke in the distance, found himself in full agreement.

  PART III: THE INVADER

  Chapter 21

  It's always like this, lad, said Raj. Don't let anyone ever feed you any crap about how much more natural it is to live in a state of barbarism.

  Adrian was about to protest that he'd never thought any such nonsense-nor, whatever other silliness they sometimes spouted, had any of the philosophers of the Grove. But, catching the little echoes which lay behind Raj's words, he said nothing. Whitehall, he realized, wasn't so much speaking to him as to himself. During the centuries in which the long-dead general's "spirit" had lived side by side with Center, the ancient battle computer had presented to Whitehall the entire panoply of human history, beginning with its origins on a far-distant planet called Earth.

  Adrian had never heard of Earth until his ghostly companions told him about it. The birthplace of the human race, apparently-and, certainly, the birthplace of every stupid notion that had ever infected the species.

  Did people really think there was such a thing as a "Noble Savage"? he asked, half-incredulously.

  Oh, yes. At least one entire school of thought, with plenty of offshoots. Needless to say, not people who'd ever witnessed what you're seeing.

  Adrian didn't really appreciate that last remark. He was having a hard enough time controlling his stomach as it was. Their column was passing through a village which had been ravaged recently by Southron cavalrymen ranging far ahead of the main army, and the leavings of their atrocities were scattered everywhere. Men tortured in the most hideous ways imaginable-the same for the women, with rape added into the bargain-children slaughtered, cottages burned.

  There was not even any point to most of the butchery. Abstractly, Adrian could understand murder and rape. But why expend the time and effort to kill a peasant by flaying him alive? And why, after gang-raping his wife, impale her in such a grotesque manner? Or scatter the entrails of an infant so small that a quick sword slash would have killed him instantly?

  The thing about a barbarian's life is that it's barbarous. It's not that these men are intrinsically any more evil than civilized people, it's simply that there's nothing else to serve as a counterweight. None of the cultural overlay which-sometimes, at least-a civilized society instills in its members. So when they do go on a rampage, they exhibit all the unthinking glee in cruelty that a five-year-old boy does playing with insects.

  I didn't, protested Adrian. He averted his eyes from a woman's naked corpse hanging from a nearby tree. She'd been suspended upside-down and then He struggled fiercely for a moment, trying to keep from vomiting. I didn't torture insects, he repeated, protesting.

  He could sense Whitehall's shrug. Plenty of "civilized" boys do, lad. Lots of them. But as they age, they're taught that people are not insects. Whereas for a barbarian, anyone not of "our people"-which is the same as "the" people-is usually considered no different from an animal. Except that most barbarians don't treat their animals this badly. Not even close.

  "Fucking savages," hissed Helga. She was riding next to him, at the head of the column, on her own velipad. Unlike Adrian, Helga was not trying to avoid looking at the carnage. She had a stronger stomach than he did, as he'd learned soon after making her acquaintance.

  "Complete animals." She gave Adrian a look which was not filled with admiratio
n. To put it mildly. "I hope you and Father know what you're doing," she growled. "Me, I'd rather see these bastards destroyed root and branch."

  To Adrian's relief, the column was leaving the remains of the village. The road-a typically good Confederate one, even here-was reentering one of the small forests which dotted the landscape of the southernmost province of the Confederacy. This province, being one of the "marches," was relatively underpopulated. The reason for which, of course, was precisely the danger of Southron raids.

  But this was a full-scale invasion, not a raid, and the villages this far from the frontier were not really alert the way the settlements near Kellinek's Wall had been. The core of the Southron army was moving very slowly-much more slowly than Confederate infantry would have done-because of their cumbersome wagons. But a good two thirds of the barbarian force came from tribes other than the Reedbottoms, and weren't hampered by Adrian's "gun-wagons." They were ranging far ahead and scattering out, following their usual customs, despite all of Adrian's protests to Chief of Chiefs Norrys. So they fell on unsuspecting villages like a sudden nightmare; a human tidal wave from a burst dam, drowning peasants caught by surprise on a flood plain.

  Not that the alertness of the soldiers guarding the Wall had done them much good. The Wall had been erected by Speaker Kellinek a century earlier, and had never been designed to stop this kind of invasion. Kellinek had simply aimed to create something strong enough to deter small raids, and act as a tripwire against large ones. The job of the Wall's garrison was merely to slow down an invader long enough for the regional governor to bring up the mighty power of the regular brigades.

  The Wall was really just a turf mound with a wooden palisade. Every few miles, a small garrison-not more than a hundred, usually-was stationed at a wooden fortress with a watchtower. The major weapon they possessed were a couple of ballista mounted on the towers.

  Between Adrian's gunners and the numbers which Norrys commanded, the barbarians had had no difficulty breaching the Wall. Adrian's arquebusiers had slaughtered any Confederate soldier bold enough to remain in the towers or stick himself far enough above the palisade to cast a missile. And while the Southrons had no real notion of "siege warfare," they numbered perhaps twenty thousand, in addition to the ten thousand Reedbottoms under Prelotta's authority.

  The aversion of Southron warriors to menial labor did not extend to warfare. Thousands of them had readily dismounted at Norrys' command and built log-and-earthen ramps which enabled them to storm the palisade. Working with the most primitive possible tools, yes, nothing more than axes and crude shovels-but even working with such, thousands of men can erect a ramp in a few hours. Especially with Adrian's gunners providing them with covering fire.

  Thereafter, given the gross disparity in numbers, the Confederate soldiers manning the Wall had been butchered. Along with, needless to say, all the civilians in the settlements which had appended themselves over the past hundred years to the fortresses.

  The Wall had been overwhelmed in a single day. By the next morning, thirty thousand Southrons were pouring into the southern provinces of the Confederacy.

  The only survivors, except a few who managed to flee on velipads or find hiding places in the forests, had been those overrun by the Reedbottoms. Prelotta's men treated their captives brutally, but they didn't kill them. That was at their chief's command. Which had been occasioned not by any "humanitarianism" on his part, but cold-blooded calculation. Prelotta wanted slaves, not useless corpses. the first step forward in the rise of civilization, commented Center, as bizarre as it may sound. enslave people instead of slaughtering them. and do it systematically.

  Adrian pondered the computer's words. Slavery was a familiar enough practice among the Southrons. But it had what you might call a "casual" nature. Most slaves were members of another tribe captured in the course of the barbarians' incessant internecine warfare. Treated savagely, at the time of capture-but then, usually within a generation, absorbed into the capturing tribe. The slaves were more in the nature of trophies and personal servants than a labor force subjected to systematic exploitation.

  Prelotta, Adrian knew, intended to change that. The other Southron tribes had joined this great invasion for the customary reasons-loot, and the prospect of "martial glory." Only Prelotta was thinking further ahead than that. He intended to occupy this territory, and remain there after the other tribes returned south for the winter. Prelotta was thinking like a conqueror, not a raider-and for that, he needed a subject labor force.

  Helga was still glaring at him. Adrian tried to think of what he might say to mollify her, but the only words which came to him were… best left unspoken.

  This is really no different from what your father's doing in the islands, love. In principle, at least. Use a conquered land's resources and labor force to enhance your own power and wealth. Um. Granted, the methods are dissimilar. Um. To put it mildly.

  The methods are what matter. A civilized conqueror-one, at least, who's willing to think like a civilized man-can substitute mercy for cruelty and forethought for rapine. So, in a generation-even less-Verice Demansk stands to rule over a realm even richer than it was, and with a subject population that is not really that discontented with its new rulers. Because they, too, are sharing in the new wealth. And even enjoying their new status, if the conqueror is a very intelligent man. Which we think Demansk is.

  Then, with his usual wry humor: But I agree that your lady love probably doesn't want to hear it, at the moment.

  To Adrian's relief, Helga's angry expression faded and was replaced by simple sternness. "Leaving aside everything else," she grumbled, "these savages are going to be so much pig feed once Tomsien gets here with a real army."

  She turned in her saddle and cast a sour glance back at the huge plodding column of Reedbottoms in their war wagons. "Unless this fancy scheme of yours works. I have my doubts. Savages are savages, I don't care how fancy their weapons are. No staying power, once they hit something tougher than a village of peasants."

  Adrian cleared his throat. "Well… that's a bit uncharitable. They're quite courageous, you know. If that weren't true, the Vanbert regulars wouldn't use them as auxiliaries." He decided it was time to point out that Helga was being a bit self-righteous. Pointing ahead: "Tomsien will have several thousand tribesmen under his own command, you know, in addition to his ten brigades of regulars."

  Helga didn't seem much impressed. Nor, to be honest, was Adrian himself.

  Ten brigades, the gods save me. Even allowing for most of them being understrength, that's still something like fifty thousand men. The biggest army ever fielded in the history of the world, leaving aside the tales in ancient legends.

  You won't have to face that many, countered Raj. If I were in Tomsien's place-and I've been there, lad-I wouldn't be bringing more than six of those brigades. That'd be more than sufficient, under normal circumstances. Which these aren't, because of the Hussite tactics you'll be using. But Tomsien won't understand that. In fact, he probably doesn't even know about it. From what I can tell, at least, he's been incredibly lax about gathering intelligence.

  Center interjected. always a mistake, dealing with barbarians. especially because spies are so easy to hire. one tribe will readily spy on another, and vice versa, for a small amount of money or trade goods. but tomsien suffers from the typical arrogance which afflicts empires in decline.

  Again, Adrian chewed on Raj's words. He was inclined to trust the former general's assessment. Adrian had gained a lot of experience over the past two years, but he knew full well that he wasn't and never would be Raj Whitehall's equal as a military leader. Still…

  But why not bring all ten? I would.

  It was always a little weird "hearing" a disembodied and ghostly snort of derision. But that was surely what came to his mind from Whitehall.

  Stop thinking like "you." You wouldn't have been squeezing your provinces dry the way Tomsien's been doing. You've got the mind of a scholar and an artisan, not a
n imperialist grandee. tomsien can't afford to strip his provinces of his troops, echoed Center. he'll likely have rebellions springing up all over the place. as ruthlessly as he's been ruling his provinces, he may get them anyway-even with four brigades in place to suppress them.

  He'll sure as hell get them after he's defeated in battle.

  Which remark brought everything back full circle. Adrian sighed. "After he's defeated"… easy for Raj to say. But Whitehall was a ghost, when all was said and done. Defeating Tomsien's great army would have to be done in flesh and blood-with Adrian himself the key to it.

  "I hope you and Father know what you're doing," repeated Helga, in a tone which was still surly.

  "So do I," muttered Adrian Gellert, former Scholar of the Grove. "So do I."

  Chapter 22

  "At least take soldiers with you," protested Kata.

  Ion Jeschonyk gave his young concubine's cheek a little pat. "T'would be unseemly, girl. Dignity, you know? A Councillor's got to have it, at all times-to say nothing of a Speaker Emeritus and a Triumvir-or his reputation is ruined. Not even Marcomann went to Council meetings with a bodyguard."

  Jeschonyk saw no reason to add: Of course, Marcomann was a lot younger than I was, and a deadly man with a blade in his own right. Not to mention being six feet tall, with shoulders like a greatbeast.

  Kata was not going to be brushed off. Jeschonyk had suspected as much. She didn't usually accompany him as far as the front gate when he left his mansion. "I don't care. The city's not the same any more. The street gangs are everywhere, now-all the servants say so-bolder than ever. And-and-"

  She groped for words. Kata's cloistered existence-using the term "cloistered" loosely-didn't really give her much of a clear understanding of Vanbert's politics. But even a young concubine, whose life experience since her capture from barbarians at the age of fourteen had been restricted to a wealthy nobleman's villa, could sense that the capital had become dangerous. Even for a man as powerful as Jeschonyk. Perhaps especially for a man like Jeschonyk.