by David Drake
Center could have explained it to him. But, for whatever reasons impel a computer's inhuman mentality, chose not to.
It was an old custom. Recreated here on Hafardine independently, to be sure, but drawing its roots from ancient times and places. The Romans, too, had used the trick. Not, perhaps, to any great purpose-but who was to say how crazed their great ones might have become otherwise?
Always a slave, riding with the conqueror in his chariot at the triumph, to whisper in his ear: this, too, shall pass.
And if Kata whispered nothing, the hand did as well. Perhaps better. The hand, after all, served to remind the shoulder bearing the world's grief as well as its brutality, that triumphs produce many forms of madness-but all triumphs fade. Perhaps madness can, too.
PART V: THE MAN ALONE
Chapter 30
Helga turned away from the city lying below the hillside, sighing quietly. Franness was a beautiful town, especially now with the spring in full bloom. Like a pearl-and-red gemstone, tile roofs atop whitewashed walls, cupped in a low valley draped in green and all the colors of the flowers. Nor, from what she could tell at the distance, had the long months of the barbarian occupation produced any noticeable damage.
But the sight brought her no pleasure, and even less in the way of comfort.
Most of all, I miss Jessep. Even more, I think, than I miss my husband or my own father. Both of whom are right here She glanced down the back slope of the hill, where the army of the Paramount Triumvir was erecting its field fortifications. Very extensive, those fortifications were; as they needed to be, given the size of the army.
— but might as well be on one of those "planets" Adrian insists the moving stars really are. Maybe he's right, who knows? Big balls of rock or spirits of the gods, it hardly matters to me. Either one of them is untouchable.
Gloomily, she studied the army camp without really noticing any of its details. Her mind was still focused inward, awash in memories of Jessep's warm presence and Ilset's frequent gaiety. But Jessep and Ilset were gone, now. The Paramount had ordered his Special Attendant to the eastern provinces, to give Forent Nappur what aid he could in bringing that region out of a state of chaos. They were low-born easterners themselves. If anyone could cajole or convince or swindle-or just break the heads, where needed-of those headstrong commoners recapturing their yeomanry, it would be men like them.
Helga understood the logic of her father's command. Just as she understood the logic of everything he did these days. But she didn't have to like it, or the way that logic was turning her father into a grim and forbidding presence-and had deprived her of a substitute in Jessep. Much less the way it had turned her own husband into someone who, for all that he moved and talked and walked about-even made love to her, now and then-reminded her more of a statue than anything else.
A voice startled her. "Oh, give it a rest, girl. Men are men, it's the way it is."
Arsule was huffing her way up the trail. Just behind her, walking with far greater ease, was Jeschonyk's former concubine Kata. Arsule had more or less adopted the slave girl, unofficially-and had already announced she would adopt her, once her husband had the good sense to extend the emancipation throughout the Confederacy. Or, at least, make manumission something feasible, instead of the tortuous legal process which had so far stymied even the wife of the Paramount.
Arsule reached the crest and took a few triumphant breaths. Then, slapped a hand on her rump. "There's advantages to having a meaty ass-your father damn well dotes on it-but rigorous exercise is not one of them. However, I thought this would be a good time for us to talk. Which we need to-and you, I think, much more than me."
She fluttered her fingers toward the army camp. "Forget all that, would you? Nothing you can do about it, and all this fretting and glumming you've been doing is not good. Not for you, not for anyone else."
"There's no such word as 'glumming'," replied Helga, a bit sullenly.
"Of course, there is. I just used it, didn't I?" Arsule gave her that sideways cock of the head which Helga still found a bit weird. After all these months of close proximity, Helga had gotten accustomed to Arsule's multitude of mannerisms, quirks and eccentricities. But only… more or less.
"Fussing over the decline of the menfolk, are we? And just what did you expect would happen, silly girl? They're not actually monsters, you know; it'd be easier for them if they were. Just men trying to play the part, and getting worn down by it in the process. Especially when it goes on, month after month, with no end in sight."
She straightened her head with a jerky, bird-like motion. "Oh, to be sure, this nasty business here will be settled soon enough. But there'll be something else come along right after, you can bet on it. The eastern provinces will dissolve into sheer anarchy; there'll be another rampage of starving ex-slaves somewhere in the west-or here, more likely. Plague, pestilence, that's guaranteed. Another pathetic uprising by some piece of the aristocracy still intact. Easy enough to crush, of course, but crushing doesn't really come all that easily to our sort of men. Praise whatever gods may be. Which," she said firmly, "brings me to the subject at hand."
She beckoned Kata forward. Helga was shaking her head, trying to follow the-as usual-convoluted route which Arsule's thoughts always seemed to take.
"What are you talking about?"
Arsule's eyes widened, as a polite person's will do when someone asks them a particularly inane question.
"Religion. What else? You and I are going to become fanatics. Well… devout converts, anyway, if not outright fanatics. Not overnight, of course. Men aren't that stupid. And we happen to be cursed by an especially shrewd pair of them, to boot. So we'll have to ease our way into the thing."
She waved her hand, forestalling Helga's little splutter of Protest? Disbelief? Reacting to Arsule, it was always hard to say.
"But that's for later. Tactics can wait. Right now, you and I have to decide which flavor we'll pick. You take one, I'll take the other. Between us, we'll drive my husband and yours so mad with aggravation they'll forget their other woes. You watch."
Helga wasn't even spluttering, now. Just gaping at Arsule as if she was faced with a lunatic.
"Oh, close your mouth. You look silly." Arsule took a deep breath. "No, I am not insane. Most everyone thinks I am, of course. But I'm always a bit puzzled why they never seem to notice that I'm about the only woman in the world who almost always gets what she wants."
Helga's jaw snapped shut. She squinted at Arsule suspiciously.
Now that she actually thought about it "It's an act? "
Again, the fluttering fingers. "Oh, who knows? Act a part long enough, and it's hard to tell any more where the person leaves off and the act begins. Which, my dear girl, is precisely the danger we face today. Not with us, but-"
She pointed a finger toward the army camp. "Those two. And their cohorts and conspirators, of course. But if we can keep Verice and Adrian this side of their act, we'll have done well enough. That much, at least, you can rely on men for. Keep them in line, and they'll right quick do the same for their underlings."
She swiveled her head and beamed at Kata. "So. Which flavor do you want? Personally, I recommend that you take up the 'Young Word.' It's a far more passionate creed than the cult of Jassine, so I think it'd suit you better. And I'm probably too old anyway for all the rigorous debates you'll have to sit through, after you milk Kata for all she's worth and then hire a dozen or so of the best Emerald philosophers to give it all a respectable polish and proper terminology. Whereas-"
Now she was beaming at Helga. "I think the cult of Jassine suits me to perfection. It's a small cult, neglected, praised in theory but scorned in practice. In short, exactly the kind of project I've taken up with, oh, must be a hundred unknown artists I've championed over the years. A good two thirds of whom, by now, are rich and famous."
Helga was not often speechless. But this was one of the times. Arsule drove on in her inimitable manner. Silence didn't deter the woman's
torrent of words any more than loud conversation could. Or, thought Helga wildly, a volcano could.
"Between you and me-our patronage, I should say; we mustn't be immodest and claim everything; prophets and sages and scholars do have their place, after all-we'll have driven that nasty Wodep and all the rest of the sorry louts into semi-oblivion within a decade. Our husbands will shut us up in seclusion, naturally, now and then-gods, we'll drive them insane, it'll be such fun-but who cares? Toman used to do that with me every couple of years or so. Never lasted more than a few months, though. Actually, I found it rather restful. Then, of course, you and I will have to fight it out. But I don't foresee that being a major problem, either. If we've done our job properly-main thing is getting the very best philosophers to parse the rhetoric-we should manage a suitable compromise. Kata thinks so, anyway."
Shyly, the blonde slave smiled at Helga. "It's the saints, you see. The Young Word himself talked about them."
She closed her mouth. Helga's half glare, half goggle intimidated her in a way it couldn't Arsule.
"Don't let her intimidate you, Kata," snapped Arsule, "even if she is wearing that silly sword."
At last, something Helga could grapple with. "You don't 'wear' a sword, Arsule! You 'bear' one."
Arsule sniffed. "Men 'bear' a sword, girl. You wear one, whether you like it or not. It's past time-you've got two children now! — you stopped this foolishness. And why do you insist on it, anyway? It's boring."
Helga choked on a laugh. However different they might be in almost every other respect-birth and breeding, just for starters-in this, at least, Arsule and Ilset were much alike. She could remember Ilset saying to her, once: Why in the name of the gods would you want to? I mean-when soldiers get into their own lingo-gods, and they say women are boring!
"So!" pronounced Arsule. "Are you willing to stop being lazy and go to work? I warn you, girl, if you keep lounging about much longer your brain will get as heavy as my ass. And a lot fatter! At least my butt gets some exercise, which your brain certainly doesn't."
Helga's mounting irritation was suddenly broken. Not by Arsule's frown and torrent of words, but by the look of half terror/half excitement on Kata's face.
Gods, the girl's looking forward to it. A slave. An illiterate barbarian, to boot.
She looked down at the army camp. Tomorrow morning, the siege of Franness would begin. She could see that Adrian already had the handful of big siege guns at the gate, ready to be hauled out on the morrow. And, turning her head, she could see that the berms where those guns would be positioned were already finished and being guarded by several battalions.
And what do I have to do with all that?
Nothing.
Gods, she's right. I'm bored stiff. No wonder Adrian doesn't listen much to me anymore. I haven't got anything to say except what he already knows.
"What are 'saints'?" she asked.
Kata launched into a somewhat incoherent explanation, which was not helped any by the fact-soon obvious even to Helga-that the Reedbottom originators of the Young Word creed had all the usual sense of "logic" typical of barbarians anywhere. As sloppy as a pig trough.
"Never mind," she said at length. "Come back with me to the camp and we can talk about it more this afternoon. Maybe I'll be able to follow things better with a cup or two of wine. Adrian will be busy all day anyway."
To Arsule: "So let me understand you. You're thinking that Jassine… but what about her priests?"
"Priests! They're all dependent on the state purse anyway, Helga-the cult of Jassine more than any of them. They'll trot into line, watch if they don't." More charitably: "Besides, Jassine's priests tend to be a fairly self-effacing sort, as priests go. Some of them are even quite pleasant fellows. I know, I've been spending a fair amount of time with them lately."
Arsule started to add something else, but closed her mouth. Which was something of a miracle in its own right.
Helga chuckled. She could just imagine what Arsule had been about to say. While you've been idling about contemplating your miseries.
"Oh, why not? If nothing else, it'll give me something to do. " She placed a hand on Kata's shoulder and turned her back toward the trail. "Come on, girl. You can keep talking. That might slow us down enough to allow my blessed stepmother to keep up."
Behind her back, she heard Arsule sniff. "Hmph. Technically, I'm your mother. All the laws say so! Do try to show a certain modicum of respect, will you?"
There came another rapid set of sounds, ending with a thump. Helga turned around and saw that Arsule must have slipped.
"I admit it's sometimes a bit difficult," Arsule grumbled, as Helga helped her back onto her feet. "But, as I said, having a hefty ass helps. Matrons would be lost without it."
She gave Helga a half smile/half leer, and then swatted her on her own rump. "Gods, your butt's almost as solid as a man's. But don't worry, girl. By the time you need it, you'll have a proper ass."
As they resumed their downward progress, Arsule's voice provided a steady accompaniment. "All those hours, just sitting on couches… the only exercise trying to keep philosophers from each other's throats… good thing they're such a weedy and wheezing bunch, for a girl as strong as you it'll be easy… remind them of the grisly fate of a certain band of pirates, now and then, that'll help…"
Late that night, after Adrian returned to their quarters to get a few hours' rest before the trials of the morning, Helga insisted on making love. Adrian was willing enough, for all his tension. He didn't have all that much choice anyway, since-for the first time in weeks-Helga was being aggressive about it.
Afterward, as they lay in each other's arms, contently exhausted, Helga began casually mentioning some parts of her day's conversation with Kata.
Adrian was more-or-less oblivious to it, at first. But, after a while, his scholarly instincts were aroused, as Helga had known they would be.
She could see him frowning in the dim light thrown out by the small lamp in the bunker, as he stared up at the wooden logs which formed the rough ceiling.
"Doesn't make sense, Helga. Blithering barbarians! How can a man be both a prophet and the manifestation of a god at the same time? One or the other, fine, but not both. "
"Well, it didn't make a lot of sense to me either. But Kata says-"
After a while, Adrian's lips quirked wryly and he gave his head a little shake. "Gods, what a tangled mess. As much rhyme and reason as a bramble bush. But… for a moment there… Heh. If I didn't know better, I'd swear I was listening to one of the Hallert school."
"Hallert? Who are they?"
" 'Him,' not they. Hallert's been dead for, oh, must be a century and a half, now. He was one of the founders of the Numerology School, which is still very prominent in the Grove. Hallert himself broke away, though, early on. He got obsessed with geometry instead of sticking with straight Number and Form. The convoluted stuff he came up with! I can still remember the headaches it gave me as a student. One of my tutors belonged to his school of thought."
Helga rolled her head into his neck. "What was his name?" she murmured. "The tutor, I mean."
"Schott. Kerin Schott. Nice enough old gent, mind you. Still pretty spry, too-at least, he was several years ago. Smart old man, no doubt about it. But, gods, what an obsessive maniac. Show him anything in the world, and he'd immediately try to figure out how it was all a manifestation of geometry."
"Really? How odd." She planted a wet kiss on the neck. "Introduce me to him, why don't you? When we get back to Solinga. I've always found geometry a bit interesting myself."
Adrian gave her shoulder a warm squeeze. "Certainly, love, if that's what you want. Though, I'm warning you…"
But he fell asleep before he could do more than start warming up to the warning. Which, the more she heard, warmed Helga herself.
Fit a saint into the kaleidoscope, no sweat. I'll bet that old man eats kaleidoscopes for breakfast. If I can just get him interested in the problem…
Chapter 31
The sounds now coming from behind the walls of Franness were those of gunfire-and velipads squealing with pain and fright, and men shouting in anger. The kind of bitter rage that comes from betrayal, not the simple fury of battle.
We've underestimated Prelotta all along, Raj Whitehall admitted. What a brilliant bastard. The number of barbarian warlords who can understand the difference between a defeat and a partial victory-which is all he can hope for now-are as rare as hens' teeth. Even rarer are the ones who can calculate it beforehand. Which he obviously did.
For a moment, Adrian was distracted by an idle question. What are "hens"? But the meaning of the expression was obvious from the context, and he was doing his level best to keep his thoughts concentrated. That was hard enough, under the circumstances. yes. that is why he built those new fortifications. i was wrong.
That admission of error, coming from Center, almost amused Adrian enough to break through the bleak shell which had surrounded him for days. Center had stated-with his customary "stochastic certainty"-that the purpose of the new outer wall which Prelotta had built on the northern side of Franness had been… nothing, really. Just the ignorance of a barbarian chief, fumbling with the concept of siege warfare for the first time. One wall good, two walls better. "Probability 68 %, ± 17."
The real purpose of the wall was now obvious. Adrian didn't know whether to bless Prelotta or curse him.
Inside that new outer wall-but kept out of the city proper-were the thousands of Southron cavalrymen, mostly Grayhills, who had been driven by Demansk's relentless campaign this spring to seek shelter from the storm. The only real shelter, of course, being the major walled city in the south under Southron control.
Franness, still the "new provincial capital" of the Reedbottoms-and with Prelotta himself, according to all spy reports, still resident. Along with most of the ten thousand men he had brought north with him the year before.
