by Mary Gentle
The Dark kobold gibbered. “Tyrant! Dictator!”
Ashnak’s powerful head swivelled, taking in the recalcitrant kobolds of the Blasted Redoubt and the stubborn trolls of the Horde, the mutineering witches of the wastelands, and the revolting wild orcs of the mountains.
“‘Tyrant’…”
He let his gaze travel from the furious white wizard to the comatose former High King; from Shazmanar’s Snake Priests to Gyzrathrani’s wary warriors, from the elves of Thyrion to the halfling bankers of the Ferenzi suburbs, and the city stockbroker-dwarves.
“Yo! I like the sound of that.”
Orcish voices bawled “Yo!” across the Opticon. Marines beat the butts of their rifles against the floor. Magorian woke up long enough to mutter, “Damned greenies!”
“Let me tell all of you something about orcs.” Ashnak’s smile was almost affectionate. “If you’re born an orc, every race’s hand is against you. Every Dark Leader that happens along thinks, I need an army, what about a few thousand orcs? They’re brutal, efficient, cheap, and there’s always plenty more where they came from.”
Oderic sneered, “Foolish creature, what else is there to do with you? You live in filth, you are filth.”
Major-General Barashkukor stepped forward, protesting. “Anyone would think orcs lived in Pits by their own choice.”
“Dammit, we do!” Ashnak thumped his fist on the stone arm of the Throne. “I’m prone to be an orc! I came out of the Pit the nastiest, toughest object you could ever wish to see—the necromancer’s army made me a junior sergeant on the spot. I fought my way up to captain in the Horde; I’ve held command of the marines; now I’ve got the Throne of the World, and I’m keeping it! You ain’t got the orcs to kick around anymore!”
Voices screamed in unison:
“Orcs out! Orcs out! ORCS OUT!”
Ashnak gazed down at five hundred rioting Dark and Light delegates with the identical desire for dead orc in their glowering eyes.
“I don’t think it’s a popular decision, sir,” Wing Commander Chahkamnit remarked.
“I’m not asking them to like me! Time for a couple of volleys into the crowd,” Ashnak purred. “How convenient that we’ve got all the ranking delegates from the Northern and Southern Kingdoms in the same room—”
“FREEZE, MOTHERFUCKER!”
Ashnak saw first the glint of the Brandiman Enterprises camera in the gallery below the wall-maps and then the sunlight flashing from the muzzle of the sniper’s rifle beside it, held by a halfling in the red habit and wimple of a Little Sister of Mortification.
Ned Brandiman kept his eye to the sights. “Make a move, orc, and I’ll blow your heart out.”
The orcs around the Throne shuffled back from Ashnak.
He glowered and opened his mouth to bellow.
Another voice called, “Not so fast, orc!”
The Opticon fell silent. Ashnak gazed towards the open doors. A small, curly-haired figure stood in the gap, the light of the sun behind him.
The figure moved forward, black silhouette becoming a halfling in the velvet doublet and gold fillet of a Graagryk prince. The sun shone down on his black curls, streaked with grey, and his hands that he held out empty before him.
“Gentlemen,” Will Brandiman said. “Let’s be sensible about this.”
The Prince of Graagryk walked with an easy swagger, thigh-length cloak swinging with the weight of coins sewn into its hem. He kept one hand on the swept hilt of his rapier as he marched down the aisle between the benches and halted before the orc Supreme Commander. He turned to face the delegates.
“Commander Ashnak would do a fine job as Regent.” Above protests, Will added, “even though I have experience of him as my stepfather, I still say that. But—if he took the job, he’d have to kill most of you to do it. Because none of you will be ruled by an orc. Right?”
Yowls of agreement echoed from the Opticon’s dome. Ashnak snarled, brass-capped tusks flashing. He stood up, great-shouldered and powerful, the sun gleaming from his insignia of rank. “Asshole halflings!”
“I am,” Will Brandiman said, “a reasonable halfling. So are we all—elves and Men, kobolds and Undead—so are we all reasonable beings. Gentlemen, ladies, we’re a Parliament. It’s our job to debate, to discuss, to agree, to compromise. Am I right?”
Two or three voices dissented, the rest murmured agreement.
“We’re civilised people,” Will continued, striding to stand on the edge of the marble dais, a move that still didn’t put him on a level with Ashnak. The great orc glared and fingered his pistol.
“We’ve civilized people, and the days of warfare are over. Commerce needs to continue, trade needs to flourish, harvests need to be—er—harvested,” the Graagryk prince said. “I suggest we delegate the post of Regent to a compromise candidate who shall be acceptable to us all.”
A much-battered dwarf elbowed his way out of a crowd of Undead. Zhazba-darabat drew himself up and with dignity remarked, “President.”
“Pardon?” Will said.
“Not ‘Regent,’ sir. President.”
“A compromise President,” the halfling reiterated, “whom we can all find acceptable.”
“I’m going to make you eat your own testicles!” Ashnak snarled.
“I knew you’d come round to my way of thinking.” Will Brandiman’s eyes flickered to the gallery.
Ashnak’s command officers went into a huddle behind the Throne. The phrase “not the Way of the Orc!” drifted out of the group. A fist went up, and came down on the commissar’s head.
“Behold!” Will shouted.
Another figure appeared in the Opticon’s doorway, silhouetted against the light.
Will bellowed, “I suggest for Ruler—President—of the World, one whose allegiances are to both the Dark and the Light. People of the South and North, give your support to the one best able to preside over a World Parliament and a Federation of All Races.”
The figure became a short-haired halfling in a smart dovecoloured executive suit and gloves, high heels tapping as she walked down between the rows of benches.
Ned Brandiman cried from the gallery, “Magdelene of Graagryk!”
Ashnak strode out to the centre of the floor, furiously chewing his cigar, and glaring down at Magda Brandiman.
“See!” the female halfling cried, before Ashnak could speak. “Ashnak the Great Peacemaker concedes to the forces of democracy!”
There was a silence. The Dark delegates looked at each other, and then at the Light delegates. The Light delegates looked at High King Magorian, and then at each other. They all looked at Ashnak.
“Long live President Magda!” Albert van der Klump, shop steward, took off his top hat and unhooked his thumb from the armhole of his waistcoat, and waved his fat cigar enthusiastically. Cornelius Scroop, Chancellor-Mage of Graagryk, and Militia Captain Simone Vanderghast pounded the backs of the seats in front, starting a roar of applause that spread rapidly across the Parliament.
Scanning the benches, Ashnak began to count the many, many faces who had at one time or another been customers of Magda Brandiman Enterprizes, Ltd.
“Well, my love.” The female halfling held up her pipe-weed holder for him to light her thin cigar. “That was the longest twenty minutes of my life…”
His pointed ears ringing with the cheers reverberating through the Opticon, Ashnak stared through the many hats tossed into the air. The gallery was empty now.
“Just to get your attention, my love,” Magda apologised sadly. “No one will ever accept the rule of an orc. You know that. Prejudice is stronger than guns.”
“But—!”
The great orc’s shoulders fell very slightly.
He nodded to his edgy troops to stand down.
As delegates across the Opticon sat down, or recovered their chairs and benches and sat down, Magda Brandiman turned to the House.
“I don’t look on this as a position of power,” she said, her rich voice echoing. �
�I’m thinking of it as a business opportunity. Factories, industrial bases—all the kingdoms can be as rich as Graagryk! Everyone can share the economic boom!”
Magda drew on her pipe-weed and expelled a plume of smoke.
“And pleasure is my business, too. If we work at it, we can make this land the pleasure capital of the world! There are whole territories in the Black East and the Drowned Lands of the West to be opened up. We can build a city worthy of the name, and we can all share in its riches! And no more of this antiquated Dark and Light nonsense—it’s bad for investment.”
“MAGDA! MAGDA! We want Magda! WE WANT MAGDA!”
Will swept the velvet cap from his greying curls, leading the cheers that rang out until they shook the dust from the Opticon’s bookshelves. Magda went into the crowd, shaking hands and smiling professionally.
“Shee-it!” Ashnak reached up and wrenched his jacket collar open. Buttons spanged off and lost themselves on the marble tiles.
The High Wizard Oderic hitched up his long white robes and sat down on a corner of the dais beside Ashnak. Dispiritedly he conjured a pipe, pipe-weed, and a match.
“That does it! I’m—hkk! hakkk! hk!—I’m retiring.” The High Wizard glared up at the orc. “I’ve had enough. Going to write my book. Always said I would; now I will.”
Ashnak fingered one hairy nostril. “What book’s that, then?”
“The history of an Age,” Oderic said, puffing smoke-rings that lurched, lopsided, into the air. “I’m going to tell the real story about halflings, orcs, the Dark Lord, and the final victory. The halflings are going to be cheery and moral and know their place; the orcs will be cowardly, and they’ll lose; there won’t be any mention of arms trading, and at the end of it the Dark Lord will be male, and very, very dead!”
The great orc suddenly snorted. “Nahhh.”
The white wizard coughed, and finally smiled. “But you see, master orc, Good is triumphant. In a somewhat unorthodox manner, I grant you, but nonetheless—Order is restored.”
“Bah!” Ashnak stomped away across the Opticon.
“…But it’s disgraceful,” Political Commissar Razitshakra protested, pointing at the orcs who, with assault rifles slung across their shoulders, were happily mingling with the parliamentary delegates. “The grunts don’t seem to mind peace at all!”
“Hey, m’man.” Lieutenant-Colonel Dakashnit’s rich tones echoed under the domed roof. “Soldiering’s much more fun when no one’s shooting at you.”
“Supreme Commander, sir!” Lugashaldim saluted skeletally. “Sir, Madam President Magdelene has asked if myself and Commissar Razitshakra can be seconded to her, sir, on temporary duties. She wants us to head her secret police.”
“Police?” Ashnak exclaimed.
“Uniformed officers of visible integrity who keep the government in power,” Razitshakra explained. “She’s not having any of them, sir. Just secret police. That’s the same as regular police, but without the uniforms and the integrity.”
The great orc sighed gloomily.
“Got some news, man.” Dakashnit saluted lazily. “Seems as how not all of the Bugs have left with the starship. But no need to worry, S.C. It’s Hive Commander Kah-Sissh and his squad who’ve stayed. They want training.”
“They want our training?” Ashnak asked.
“Yes sir! Well—that and the tea. Permission to turn ’em into Bug marines, S.C.?”
Ashnak growled, “Hell, why not? What does it matter now?”
He tugged at the crotch of his combats. Then he reached across, removed Major-General Barashkukor’s braid-encrusted peaked cap, and tapped his cigar ashes into it.
“Didn’t want to be World Ruler anyway,” Ashnak grunted. “It’s a Staff job.”
“Ah. Stepfather…”
Will Brandiman, standing just out of orc’s reach, cricked his neck to look the great orc in the face.
“You little rat!” Ashnak hissed.
The halfling beamed up at the orc who towered over him. “Think of this as being our revenge on you, Ned and I, for the dungeons of Nin-Edin.”
“Damn you!”
“Quite probably,” Will agreed. “But the moral is—don’t fuck us over. Ever. Halflings have long memories, master orc. But you’ll have enough time to think about that. Since you’re not going to be occupied with world government.”
The great orc stood under the circular hole in the Opticon’s roof, bathed in sunlight. A slight odourous steam rose from him. He wiped his nose, and his eyes glinted as they fixed on the colonel-duchess.
“Hellfire! She didn’t take much persuading to do this,” Ashnak said bitterly.
The halfling raised a small eyebrow. “She didn’t take much persuading to save your ass. She didn’t take much persuading to do the only thing that would stop you being lynched. Oh, and you would have been lynched—Ned and I would have made sure of that. But…”
Will Brandiman waved his hand at the Opticon floor below the Throne of the World. Five hundred Dark and Light Parliamentary delegates elbowed each other in the rush to speak to Magda.
Orcs in camouflage fatigues with assault rifles stood in clusters, at ease, drinking from their water bottles. Each grunt carried with ease the weight of weapons, spare magazines, and grenades.
“If you’re so pissed off,” Will said softly, “waste her. You’re armed. You could still stage a violent coup. But you’ll have to take Mother out first. So go ahead—do it.”
The orc did not move.
“You’re a marine.” Will’s tongue flayed. “That’s what marines do, isn’t it. Go ahead! Take power.”
The strings of the halfling’s ruff already trailed loose. He scratched irritably at the embroidery-stiffened collar of his doublet. Will looked towards the Order of the White Mages’ wizards shuffling about in the background, hastily repossessing the onyx and diamond crown. A priest of the Sun gabbled his way through the coronation oath.
“I can’t.” Ashnak shoved his hand deep in his combat jacket pocket, brought out another cigar, and bit off the end. He spat on the Opticon’s tiled floor. “Damn it, halfling, I can’t.”
“That’s what I thought,” Will said smugly. “Villains always fall short of the mark at the end.”
“Fuck off and die.”
Ashnak straightened his shoulders, chewed his unlit cigar, and watched as, to the cheers of both sides of the House, in the Opticon of Ferenzia, upon a Throne older than cities, Magdelene Amaryllis Judith Brechie van Nassau of Graagryk, Duchess and Colonel, took her place as President of the United Northern and Southern Kingdoms and effective Ruler of the World.
13
The autumn sun burned the dew off the stone walls inside Ferenzia’s colossal stadium, the largest in the Southern Kingdoms. The cheering grew louder as the whup-whup-whup of a Bell Iroquois HU1 helicopter thrummed above the velvet-draped stone tiers. The roar of the marine march-past and All Forces victory tournament echoed to the skies. A single-prop Ferenzi airship puttered in, wavering as the Huey passed it, sporting a contingent of elf musketeers.
“My hero!” a northern dwarf breathed, her hands clasped to the breast of her shining mailcoat, over her rippling beard.
Major-General Barashkukor, in formal black combats and Stetson, strode forward from among a crowd of dwarf and halfling females, flowers in their beards and hair, respectively. They scattered rose petals over the small orc and blew kisses.
He waved the mob away as he approached Madam President Magdelene’s box, and saluted his Honorary Colonel. “Magnificent show, ma’am.”
The World President sat on the straight-backed chair overlooking the arena, her many advisors one row behind. The female halfing wore a peach-coloured executive suit and gloves and a small hat with a spotted veil.
“Make the most of it, Major-General. It’s probably the last one.” Magda Brandiman regarded the sunny ranks of citizens with a jaundiced eye. “The House had the nerve to pass the Marine Reserve Force (Disbandment) Bill today. Not a thing
I could do. The defence budget is slashed by 50 percent because the marines are ‘uneconomic’ without a war.”
“We could always start one, ma’am,” Barashkukor suggested thoughtfully.
“With what?” She leaned her chin on her hand. “You’re running low on equipment from Dagurashibanipal’s hoard, and arms factory production is being cancelled from the beginning of next month.”
“Oh.”
“My sons have left the city,” Magda sighed. “Last heard remarking that they’d robbed the Blasted Redoubt, outwitted the Dark Lord, and out-thought the marines, so what is there left to do? There are no worthy adventures left for them.”
She cast a sardonic eye up at the orc.
“I know how they feel, Major-General. I miss adventuring. I haven’t done anything seriously illegal for months. Only politics, and every politician is crooked, so that hardly counts. You see, it’s become my business to support the status quo. More and more responsibility piled on…That means it’s me who has to worry about whether Ashnak—”
She broke off in mid-sentence.
The small orc smoothed down the bare breast of his tunic.
“Would have liked a medal,” he said. “Sure General Ashnak would have awarded me one, if circumstances hadn’t intervened.”
His lower lip began to quiver.
Magda waved her advisors away and leaned forward. “Tell Magda all about it?” she invited.
Barashkukor sniffed. “I’m worried about my beloved general, ma’am! He’s up north in the Nin-Edin fort, brooding, he won’t give the marines orders, he just shuts himself up all the time, and now—”
“He’s either going to retire gracefully or he’s going to wreak bloody revenge,” the World President said. “I know which my money’s on. It’s me who has to worry about it. And…Barashkukor, I haven’t seen or heard from Ashnak in a month.”
The small orc wiped his nose.
“You have now, ma’am. That’s why I’m here. I’ve just had a message through from the north. It wasn’t very clear, ma’am. The general is calling a meeting, wants you there too—he says he’s going to make some kind of an announcement.”
