Guard Against Dishonor

by Simon R. Green

  "Take a seat, Captain Fisher," he said finally. "Glad to have you with us. I've heard a lot about you."

  "It's all true," said Fisher easily. She dragged a chair over to the desk, ignoring what that did to the carpet, and slumped gracelessly into it. The chair was a rickety antique, but more comfortable than it appeared. She looked sharply at ap Owen. "I take it you've heard the latest news about me?"

  "Of course," said ap Owen. "If it hadn't been for your recent… troubles, I'd never have got you on my team. Make no mistake, Captain, everyone here, including you and me and the six delegates, are all considered expendable. If these Talks work out successfully, fine; if not, no one's going to miss us. They'll just start over, with new delegates and new Talks. The odds are we're all going to be killed before the Talks are over. There are a lot of people out there who want us dead, for various political and business reasons, and I haven't been allowed enough men to ward off a determined attack by a group of lightly armed nuns. Had to be that way. The whole idea of this operation is to be unobtrusive and hopefully overlooked. Personally, I think it's a dumb idea, given the number of spies and loose mouths in this city, but no one asked my opinion. The point is that if things go wrong and our cover is blown, we are supposed to defend these Talks with our lives, and we probably will. Even though they and we are completely replaceable."

  "I see you're the kind of leader who believes in a good pep talk," said Fisher. "Are you normally this optimistic?"

  Captain ap Owen grinned briefly. "I like my people to know what they're getting into. Ideally, this should have been a volunteers-only operation, but since we couldn't tell them what they'd be volunteering for, there didn't seem much point. How much did they tell you about our situation here?"

  "Not much. Just that it was minimum security, with essentially no backup."

  "You got that right, but it's not quite as bad as it sounds. The Talks aren't actually taking place in the house itself, the building's far too vulnerable. Instead, a Guard sorcerer has set up a pocket dimension, linked to the house. It's been so thoroughly warded, a sorcerer could walk through this place from top to bottom and never know the dimensional gateway was here. Clever, eh?"

  "Very," said Fisher carefully. "But pocket dimensions aren't exactly stable, are they? If you know about my current problems, then you can understand that I'm a bit bloody wary about going into another pocket dimension."

  "Don't worry about it; once the dimension's been established, it's perfectly secure. The only reason Morgan's fell apart is because he designed it that way, with booby traps in case he was discovered. He didn't want any evidence surviving to incriminate him."

  Fisher looked at him blankly. "You mean it wasn't Hawk's fault after all? Then why didn't Commander Glen tell us that? He must have known… Damn, I've got to talk to Hawk!"

  She jumped to her feet, but ap Owen didn't budge. "Sit down, Captain Fisher. You're not going anywhere. No one here is allowed to leave these premises until the Talks are over. It's a matter of security. You must see that."

  "You can't stop me leaving."

  "No, I probably couldn't. But if you did leave, Glen would undoubtedly have you declared a rogue, and put out an order for your arrest. And how is that going to help Hawk?"

  Fisher glared at ap Owen, then nodded reluctantly and sank back into her chair. "That's why Glen sent me here, so Hawk would be left alone with his guilt. He's always easiest to manipulate when he's feeling guilty. Glen wants Hawk to go on believing it was his fault, so he'll be properly motivated to go after Morgan. Damn him!"

  There was an uncomfortable silence. When Fisher finally spoke again, her voice was calm and cold and very deadly. "When this is all over, there's going to be an accounting between me and Commander bloody Glen."

  "Assuming we get out of this alive," said ap Owen.

  Fisher glanced at him sharply. "You're a real cheerful sort, you know that?"

  "Just being realistic. Let me fill you in on the six delegates taking part in the Talks. They're a pretty rum bunch themselves, particularly the Outremer delegates. They were mad as hell when they arrived. Apparently it took them the best part of five weeks to get here through the winter weather, and that was before the worst of the storms hit. I don't see why they couldn't have just teleported in."

  "Teleports don't work that way," said Fisher. "It's hard enough to shift one person over a short distance. There isn't a sorcerer alive with the kind of magic it would take to teleport three people from one country to another. There are lots of nasty ways for a teleport to go wrong. Get the decimal point in the wrong place and you could end up appearing a hundred feet above your destination. Or under it."

  "I didn't realize you were such an expert," said ap Owen dryly.

  Fisher shrugged. "I've had some experience with traveling that way."

  "Actually, the weather is something of a blessing. The storms are keeping Outremer's more disruptive elements from getting here. Let's just hope the storms continue till the Talks are over."

  "Maybe someone should have a word with the city weather wizards."

  "No, low profile, remember? Nothing that would attract attention."

  "True. All right, tell me about the delegates. Who's representing the Low Kingdoms? Anyone I might have heard of?"

  "Maybe. Lord Regis is heading the home team. This is his house we're in. Mid-forties, old Haven Family, good reputation, with an impressive background in the army and the diplomatic corps. Can't say I warm to him myself. Smiles too much, and takes too long to shake your hand. Likes to clap you on the shoulder while looking you right in the eye. Hail-fellow-well-met type. He gets on my nerves something fierce, but he goes down well enough with the other delegates.

  "Then there's Jonathon Rook, representing the Merchants Association. Early forties, and better padded than the average sofa. He likes his food, does Jonathon. Sharp as a tack when it comes to business, but he does love a title. Practically milorded Regis to death this morning, while we were waiting for the Outremer delegates to show up. Word is he's angling for a Family marriage for his eldest, more fool he.

  "And finally, there's Major Patrik Comber. You've probably heard of him. Led his battalion into Death's Hollow to rescue a company of his men who'd been cut off by Outremer troops. Took on better than five-to-one odds, and kicked their arses something cruel. Won all sorts of medals, and a swift promotion. He also sacrificed a lot of good men in the process, but the minstrels don't usually mention that."

  Fisher grinned. "I can see you're going to be a real barrel of laughs on this job. How about the Outremer delegates? Do you like them any better?"

  "Not much. The leader is Lord Nightingale. Pleasant enough sort, but I don't think I'll turn my back on him. He's got cold eyes. Then there's William Gardener for the merchants, and Major Guy de Tournay. Can't tell you much about them. Gardener likes his drink and talks too loudly, while de Tournay's hardly opened his mouth to me since he got here."

  Fisher frowned thoughtfully. "Interesting that both sides have put forward a lord. The Quality aren't normally considered expendable. Particularly not someone as noticeable as Lord Regis. And from what I've heard, Major Comber's something of a popular hero at the moment. The Powers That Be must be taking these Talks pretty seriously."

  "Seems likely. Both sides have been losing a lot of men and equipment in the border skirmishes, and it's getting expensive. You know how the Powers That Be hate to lose money. Of course, they hate to lose face even more, which is why it's taken till now to set the Talks up."

  "All right. Fill me in on what security measures you've set up here. If we're not allowed to call attention to ourselves, it cuts our options down to practically nothing, doesn't it?"

  "You've got that right," said ap Owen grimly. "For all the good we'd be in a real crisis, we might as well not be here. I take it you spotted the plainclothes people outside? I'd be surprised if you hadn't; everyone else knows who and what they are. Luckily, they're just opt there for show. My real undercove
r operatives have been here for days, establishing their characters and getting to know the area. We didn't just choose this place on a whim, you know. Both the grounds and the surrounding streets are wide open, with nowhere to hide. The way we've got things set up, no one can get within a hundred yards of this house without being spotted a dozen times. And since we haven't a hope in hell of beating off an armed assault, at the first whisper of an attack, or even an intended attack, the plan is for all of us to retreat into the pocket dimension and seal it off.

  "In theory, we should then be perfectly safe. No one can get at us without the proper co-ordinates, known only to a top few people, so all we have to do is sit tight and wait until reinforcements arrive, and the emergency is over. Of course, there's always the very real possibility that the delegates themselves will seal off the dimension at the first whiff of trouble, leaving us out here to fight off the attackers. In which case, we get to earn our money the hard way. Got it?"

  Fisher nodded glumly. In other words, it was another damned watching brief. Lots of sitting around doing nothing, waiting for something to happen and hoping it wouldn't. It was at times like these that Fisher seriously considered the simple pleasures of a desk job, and the security to be found in lots of nice safe paperwork. Of course, she'd be bored out of her mind in a week… Ah well, if nothing else, she should be able to catch up on her sleep here. Working two shifts in a row had drained most of her strength, and helping Hawk drag survivors out of the tenement rubble had all but finished her off. She felt as if she could go to sleep right there in her chair, She caught herself slumping forward, and quickly sat up straight. Almost without realizing it, her eyes had been closing, and she'd actually come close to nodding off. That would have made a great first impression on Captain ap Owen. She glanced quickly at him to see if he'd noticed anything, but he was apparently absorbed in leafing through the papers on his desk.

  "Tell me about the Talks themselves," she said, to show she was still with it. "Are they making any progress?"

  "Beats me. I'm just the hired help round here; no one tells me anything. I'm not even allowed into the pocket dimension unless one of them calls for me, and though the delegates take an occasional break out here, none of them are much for small talk. As far as I can discover, their brief is to agree on a border frontier both sides can live with, and put an end to all those squabbles over which ragged old piece of map takes precedence. Both the Low Kingdoms and Outremer are going to end up losing some territory, so both sides are throwing in lucrative trade deals as sweeteners to help the medicine go down. Whatever happens, you can bet a lot of people living near the border will wake up one morning to find that overnight they've become citizens of a different country. Poor bastards. Probably end up paying two sets of taxes."

  Fisher frowned. "Those special trade deals are going to put a lot of noses out of joint in the business community. Nothing like a little preferential treatment to stir up bad feelings."

  "Right," said ap Owen. "And let's not forget, there's a hell of a lot of money to be made out of a war, if you've got the right kind of contacts with the military."

  "Any more bad news you'd like to share with me?"

  "You mean apart from political extremists, religious fanatics, and terrorists-for-hire?"

  "Forget I asked. Do you think it'll come to a war, if the Talks fail?"

  "I don't know… Countries have gone to war over a lot less in the past. The Low Kingdoms have traditionally preferred action to talk, and Outremer can be touchy as hell where its honor is concerned. I wouldn't be surprised if a war did break out, but then it must be said I have something of a vested interest in war. I've always made most of my living as a mercenary. I only ended up as a Guard because I'd spent too long between jobs and the money had run out. Ironic, really, that I should end up protecting Talks whose purpose is to keep me and my kind out of work. You ever been caught up in a war, Captain Fisher?"

  "Just once," said Fisher. "Several years back. It's funny, you know; at the time I would have given everything I owned to be somewhere else, somewhere safe. But now, looking back, it seems to me I've never felt so alive as I did then. We were fighting for great stakes, and everything I did mattered; everything I did was important. But I wouldn't go through it again for all the money in the Low Kingdoms' Treasury. I saw too many good people die, saw too many people I cared for hurt and maimed."

  "Did you win?"

  "Yes and no." Fisher smiled tiredly. "I suppose that's true of any war. Our side won in the end, but the Land was devastated by the fighting. It'll take generations to recover. I suppose you've seen a lot of war, as a mercenary?"

  Ap Owen shrugged. "More than I care to remember. One war is much like another, and the campaigns all tend to blur into each other after a while. Endless marching, rotten food, and lousy weather. Waiting for orders that never come, in some godforsaken spot in the middle of nowhere. And every now and again, just often enough to keep your nerves ragged, there'll be a sudden burst of action. You get used to the blood and the flies and seeing your comrades die, and there's always the looting to look forward to afterwards. I could have been a rich man a dozen times over, if I could have kept away from the cards and the dice and the tavern whores. I started out fighting for a cause, but that didn't last long. First thing you learn as a mercenary is that both sides believe they're right.

  "So why have I spent most of my adult life fighting for strangers? Because I'm good at it. And because, just as you said, you never feel more alive than when you've just cheated death. In its way, that feeling's more addictive than any drug you'll find on the streets." He broke off, and smiled at Fisher. "You're a good listener, Fisher, you know that?"

  Before she could say anything, a ring on ap Owen's finger pulsed with a sudden silver light, and he rose quickly to his feet. "That's the delegates' signal; they're going to take another break. Just stay back out of the way, for the time being. I'll introduce you if I get a chance, but don't expect any great show of interest. We're just hired help as far as they're concerned."

  Two footmen entered the study in response to some unheard summons, carrying silver trays laden with assorted delicacies of the kind Fisher hadn't seen in the markets for weeks. Whoever was funding these Talks obviously didn't believe in doing things by halves. The footmen put down their trays on the main table, by the cut-glass wine decanters, then withdrew without saying a word. Fisher decided they were probably real footmen, if only because of their supercilious expressions.

  Ap Owen stood before his desk, staring at the far wall. Fisher followed his gaze, but couldn't see anything of interest. She started to ask something, and then shut up as a door appeared out of nowhere, hanging unsupported on the air a few inches above the floor. It was plain, unvarnished wood, without pattern or trimmings, but its very presence was subtly disturbing. A mounting chill emanated from it, like a cold wind blowing into the room. Fisher's hand dropped to her sword, and she had to fight to keep from drawing it as the door swung slowly open.

  The delegates appeared through the doorway, chatting quietly together, and headed for the food and wine without so much as a glance at ap Owen and Fisher. The door shut silently, and disappeared. Fisher took her hand away from her sword. Ap Owen moved in beside her and quietly identified each delegate by name. Fisher looked them over carefully without being too obvious about it.

  Lord Regis of Haven was of average height and weight, and in pretty good shape for a man in his early fifties. He had dark, flashing eyes and a quick smile buried in a neatly trimmed beard. He used his hands a lot as he talked, and nodded frequently while he listened. Lord Nightingale of Outremer was twenty years younger, six inches taller, and muscular in a broad, solid way that suggested he lifted weights on a regular basis. Which was a little unusual. As far as most of the Quality were concerned, strenuous exercise was something best left to the lower classes. The Quality only exerted themselves in dueling or seducing. Usually both, as one often led to the other. Nightingale, on the other hand, l
ooked as though he could have picked up Regis with one hand, and torn him apart with the other. If Regis was aware of this, it didn't seem to bother him.

  The two traders. Rook and Gardener, were talking together quite amicably, smiling and laughing as they rummaged through the out-of-season delicacies on the trays. Fisher's stomach rumbled, but she made herself pay attention to the two merchants. William Gardener of Outremer was in his early forties, with thinning hair and a droopy moustache. He was skinny as a rake, but wore clothes of the very latest cut with casual elegance. Jonathon Rook was the same age, and dressed just as well, but had the kind of figure politely referred to as stout. His hands were weighed down with jeweled rings, and he paid little or no attention to the expensive food with which he was stuffing his face. Fisher moved in a little closer to listen in on their conversation. They both studiously ignored her, which suited her fine. It soon became clear that both merchants thought they had a lot to lose in the event of a war, and were pressing for peace at practically any cost. It was also clear they were finding it an uphill struggle.

  Major Comber and Major de Tournay stood a little way off from the others, talking quietly and only picking at their food. They were both in their late thirties, with short-cropped hair and grim faces. They'd swapped their uniforms for civilian clothes, and Fisher was hard put to tell which of them looked the most uncomfortable. They both glared at her when she got too close, so she didn't get to overhear what they were saying. She sensed, however, that neither one was too pleased with the way the Talks were going, from which she deduced that neither side had gained the upper hand yet.

  They all finally put down their plates and turned away from the table. Captain ap Owen coughed loudly, and then again, louder still, and having got their attention, introduced Fisher to each of them. Fisher bowed formally, and got a series of perfunctory nods in reply. Lord Regis smiled at her coldly.