Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  The colors swirled gently. Earth wasn’t really visible from that office, but a real-time holographic display was trivial among the honors and privileges earned by the man Rick Galloway had known as Inspector Agzaral.

  Even so, neither Agzaral nor any other human had earned the right to do what Agzaral did next. He opened his desk drawer and took out a small electronic device. After inspecting it carefully, he nodded to Les. “Hail, slave,” Agzaral said.

  “I greet you, Important Slave,” Les replied formally. He fell silent as Agzaral adjusted the electronic gear. After a moment, Les could hear faint voices: his and Agzaral’s, speaking meaningless pleasantries in the official Confederation Standard tongue for civil servants.

  Agzaral nodded in satisfaction and leaned back in his chair. “That should be sufficient,” he said. “Sit down. Have some sherry. I regret that the shipment of Praither’s Amontillado has been delayed, but Hawker’s is a substitute I have found acceptable. Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  Les waited as Agzaral poured sherry into a crystal glass, then solemnly tasted it. “Excellent,” he said. He glanced at his hands. No tremble. Voice all right. Emotions nicely under control. It was difficult to deceive Agzaral, but not impossible. “Pleasant enough trip going,” he said. “Dull coming back.”

  Agzaral smiled faintly. “Ah. You found it pleasant to learn that the woman was pregnant?”

  “How the hell—?”

  “Gently,” Agzaral cautioned. “That goblet would be difficult to replace. There is no cause for alarm. Our employers do not know. Your efforts to deceive the recorders were entirely successful with regard to the Shalnuksis. But tell me, did you really expect to deceive me?”

  “I’d hoped to.”

  “Unwise,” Agzaral said. “Most unwise. You would do far better to trust me.”

  “Trust you? How the hell can I trust you when I don’t even know what side you’re on?”

  Agzaral spread his hands wide and let them drop to his lap. “Side? You would seriously have me choose a faction? Now, when the alternatives are still forming? Try not to be too great an ass, my friend.

  “And don’t protest. When it comes to politics, you are an ass. I can admire your courage. Your skill with languages. Your prowess as a pilot, and—Yes. I envy your success with women. You even seem to understand some of Earth’s political quarrels. But when it comes to the important skills, the ability to know the High Commission and the Council—” He shrugged. “You’re an ass.”

  “At least I take a stand. I’m not a damned trimmer like you—”

  Agzaral laughed. “Some day one of your stands will be against a wall. As to being a trimmer, is it unwise to have every faction think I am its agent?”

  “When they find out—”

  “If,” Agzaral said. “And think upon it, my fellow slave. If you do not know which faction I truly favor, then they cannot know either.” He chuckled again. “So. You have taken a stand. Tell me where.”

  “Well—”

  “Come, come, a simple question. Which faction do you favor? Who is its leader? Which race champions your position?”

  “All right, so I don’t know,” Les said. “But I know this. I’m for leaving Earth alone. And Tran, too. Leave them develop by themselves.”

  Agzaral nodded. “The position taken by many of the more powerful Ader’at’eel. Unfortunately not all of them. They are joined by the Enlightenment Party of the Finsit’tuvii. But I fear that coalition is not the most powerful faction.”

  “Is that true?” Les demanded. “The Ader’at’eel want Earth and Tran left alone?”

  “Substantially. Of course they don’t know that Tran exists. But four of the Five Families do indeed support that position.”

  “Then—?”

  “But then there are the Fusttael,” Agzaral continued smoothly. “Their opposition is formidable. They hold no overpowering advantage, but they have the most strength at the moment.”

  “And what do they want?” Les demanded.

  “They want to destroy Earth . . .”

  “Destroy the Earth!”

  “More or less.”

  More or less. He looked at the holograph again. A beautiful planet, filled with humans. Wild humans, not slaves of the millennia-old Confederation. Humans who would soon burst into space, find their way to the stars—who were about to come uninvited into Confederate territory.

  More or less meant more. Bomb Earth civilization back to the Stone Age, and trust there’d be enough humans left for breeding stock. They only needed enough wild genes to temper the corps of slave soldiers. Enough to improve the breed of Janissaries . . .

  “What does the Navy think of this?” Les demanded. “Or your service?”

  “The opinions of slaves do not matter—”

  “Come off it.”

  “But certainly the Navy has divided opinions,” Agzaral said smoothly. “It is likely that some ships would refuse to take part in the necessary operations. But—enough would obey the orders.”

  “We can’t let that happen!”

  Agzaral spread his hands. “How do we prevent it? But I agree, it would be regrettable. And there is the third alternative.”

  Sure, Les thought. Human membership in the Confederation. Forced membership, imposed now while the Earth was helpless. A junior membership, with Earth controlled by the High Commission. Peace, unity, and—stagnation. A static society. Stasis for a thousand years. Still, it had to be preferable to bombardment and destruction . . .

  “The balance of the Ader’at’eel would bring Earth into the Confederacy now,” Agzaral said. “But enough of this. Your report. Will they be able to grow surinomaz?”

  “Possibly,” Les said. “Of course there will be the mutiny. It will be settled by now.”

  “Yes. With what outcome?”

  “Either of the mercenary leaders should be competent with those weapons against that population.”

  “Ah. So the survey ship will not be wasted.”

  “I think not. And the soldiers will want resupply. Ammunition, soap, penicillin—”

  “You understand their needs,” Agzaral said. “I will send you to Earth to procure for them. I recall that you enjoy that work.”

  “I’ll do it, but I want to pilot the ship that goes back to Tran.”

  “To what purpose?” Agzaral asked.

  “Why do you ask? I’m a pilot. I know Tran exists. Not too many pilots do. I’d think you’d want me to.”

  “It’s reasonable,” Agzaral said. “You will not be able to take the first ship, however. One leaves immediately. Piloted by Shalnuksis. Tran is not too far off their course, and they want to see for themselves how Tran has revived since their last series of visits.”

  “Last time they went there, they bombed out half the civilization. What will they do this time?”

  “On this journey, nothing—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Les said.

  “I know. But I have no better answer.”

  Les nodded in submission. “Is their first ship carrying supplies?”

  “A few. Whatever we had. The mercenary leader Galloway had made suggestions before they departed, you may recall. We used his list. Some of what they wanted was easily obtained. For the rest—your task, now.”

  “All right. Provided I get to go back myself.”

  “Why are you so anxious to go back?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might.” Agzaral was silent, obviously waiting for Les to speak, but Les said nothing. “Very well. I took the trouble to look up your ancestry,” Agzaral said finally. “Rather a lot of wild human strain.” He paused. “They’ll never allow the child to live if they learn of it.”

  “How will they learn?” Les demanded.

  “Gently.” Agzaral glanced at a timer on his desk. “We do not have much longer to speak freely. Let us not waste these minutes. They will not learn from me. But I must know what you intend.” He pointed to the Earth. “You ha
ve lived long among wild humans. In some ways you act like them. Many wild humans mate for life. This seems unnatural to me, but I know they do it. Is this your intent?”

  Les didn’t answer.

  “I must know.”

  “I don’t know,” Les said. “I’ve thought of it. Live on Tran, with Gwen and my children. Doesn’t that tempt you?”

  “Earth would tempt me more. But it is not so attractive that I would forsake what I have. Consider. The girl and the child may both be dead.”

  “You think that hasn’t haunted me ever since I let her go planetside?”

  “Yet she seemed competent enough,” Agzaral mused. “I expect she has survived. She may, however, have found another mate.”

  “Yeah. I thought of that, too.”

  “What will you do in that case?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  Agzaral nodded in sympathy. “Certainly your interest in Tran would be much abated?”

  “Yes. But I have to find out.”

  Agzaral looked at the hologram for long enough that Les saw movement in Earth’s clouds. Then spoke decisively. “You will have that chance,” Agzaral said. “I hope the knowledge pleases you.”

  PART FOUR

  INVADERS

  19

  Autumn had come. Despite his charcoal brazier Apelles felt the chill damp of the stone chamber high in the tower of Castle Armagh. The Firestealer crept toward the True Sun, and now both were in the sky together; the days grew short. Evening came and lamps had to be lit, but still there was work to be done.

  Armagh was three hundred stadia east of Castle Dravan, and nowhere near as comfortable; once again Apelles marvelled that Lord Rick would move so much of his household to this godless place. Truly there was no accounting for the ways of the starmen! Even so, Apelles was content, now that he was a consecrated priest of Yatar. The room’s present discomforts were small compared to those he’d endured as an acolyte. He was more concerned about his pen, which was made of soft iron and had a blunt point that scratched the paper.

  Despite the scratchy pen, Apelles worked steadily. He was careful not to make a blot. A blotted sheet had to go back to the pulp vats, and there was never enough paper no matter how hard the acolytes labored. It took time to pound logs to pulp, shred rags, then soak and stir and matt the resulting brew until it yielded thick sheets to be rolled out on sieves. It took even more time for the paper to dry satisfactorily. Then it had to be coated with a wash of clay and dried again. Making paper was no easy work; Apelles knew, because it had not been long since he had done it—until he had learned to read and write.

  He had learned his new work from Roman scribes, and he was proud of his knowledge. Work carefully, record everything; that was the way to control a nation. The power that he held was great, real power, power easily abused had he been so inclined; but he was a sworn priest of Yatar, a shepherd, not a wolf.

  He wrote steadily, and finally his desk was clear. He leaned back in his chair and smiled in satisfaction at his files. Truly they held power! Here, the manpower lists; names and locations of officers of the Army of Drantos, those on active duty and on leave, fit for service and on the invalid list. Over there were duties and taxes owed and paid; equipment issued; every detail. Some day he’d have the entire Army in his files, and then let the bheromen try to shirk their sworn duty to the crown!

  He nodded soberly at that thought. Yatar save the Wanax! Some bheromen and knights resented young Ganton’s stay at the University, but Apelles knew the value of education, which gave even young swineherds the power of writing . . .

  In another file were the names of every field in the Cumac region of County Chelm. Who owned them. Who worked them, and whether villein or free, and for what service or rent. What was planted, and what seed, and what fertilizer for what yield. Endless rows of words and numbers, carefully arranged.

  And in yet another file, the names of all the acolytes and deacons and priests and archpriests, those who would be promoted and those who would serve out their lives as laborers in Yatar’s fields and caves and monasteries . . .

  The caves were not in his files. Their locations, and what stores they held, and how thick the ice and ice plant; these were state secrets, and those files were kept by archpriest Yanulf himself. Apelles had seen them, once; he’d have to be content with that.

  And here—

  The magic box made squawking noises. Apelles stared dumbfounded. One of his duties was to guard that box and listen for messages; but he’d had little regard for that task. Privately he would have expected Yatar himself to appear before a small box like that could speak to him.

  But it was speaking. First in the local Tran dialect, but wretchedly. “Ait, are there anyone there?” it demanded.

  Then in other languages Apelles didn’t know, but always demanding, insistent.

  When he shouted for a messenger there was real fear in his voice.

  * * *

  The voice on the transceiver was thick and sibilant with trillings and drawn-out vowels. Rick was certain he was speaking to one of the Shalnuksis. He had only seen the aliens on three brief occasions, all more than two Earth years in the past, but he had no trouble recalling them: humanoid, two arms and two legs, but with the wrong proportions. Shoulders too high, necks short or nonexistent. Short torso but long arms and legs. Three fingers and two opposed thumbs, thin lips surrounding a mouth too high in the face. Fleshy snout-slit instead of a true nose, almost like a vertical second mouth rising to eye level . . .

  The alien spoke in bursts. They’d done that before, Rick recalled; although not always. When they’d made set speeches the words flowed smoothly; it was when they engaged in spontaneous conversation that they hesitated.

  The transceiver was a simple device: a rectangular sealed box, with a grill on one face. Below the grill was a colored square. There were no other controls, not even an on/off button.

  He touched the control square. “Galloway here,” he said.

  “Ah,” the alien voice answered. “Captain Galloway.”

  “Is this Karreeel?” Rick asked. The name Karreeel translated to “Goldsmith,” Inspector Agzaral had said. Karreeel had seemed to be in command of the Shalnuksi who’d hired him. At least he’d done most of the talking.

  “Karreeel is not here,” the voice said. “I am Paarirre. Captain Galloway, are you in control of your men?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where is Mr. Parsons?”

  “Dead,” Rick said.

  “Ah. And you have—gained political mastery of a—suitable region?”

  “Yes. We hold the area around this castle, and we are preparing to plant it all in surinomaz.”

  There was a period of silence while the aliens digested this information. Then: “Excellent. We have brought goods for you. Where do you prefer that we land them?”

  “North and east of this castle there is a high plateau,” Rick said.

  “We see it.”

  Aha, Rick thought. They know where we are. He nodded significantly to Mason, who solemnly responded. “It is a large plateau. You may leave the goods at the southern edge.”

  “We will choose our own place on the—plateau.”

  “As you will. I prefer that you land at night, so that you are seen by as few inhabitants as possible. They have frightening legends about sky gods.”

  “We may—discuss—this later. For now, tell us: how large a territory do you control?”

  “How should I describe it?”

  “We understand all your—common units of measure. Use those.”

  Rick looked at Mason and shrugged. Best be somewhat truthful, he thought. Enough to show good faith. But don’t give them enough information to help pick targets for Shalnuksi bombs. “I hold the land for a hundred kilometers around this castle,” he said. “And I have an agreement with the neighboring kingdoms.”

  There was another pause. “Surinomaz requires much cultivation. Those who work its fields must be fed
.”

  “I know. I can trade for food. But I must have more ammunition before I can take a larger territory. How did your troops do this in the past? You must have helped them directly.”

  There was another pause. “That is not your concern. Can you secure sufficient territory?” the alien voice demanded.

  “Certainly. I have that now.”

  “Very well. This night, when it is fully dark, will be—convenient to us. Come to the—plateau.”

  “I can’t get there that quickly,” Rick said. And since you know where I am, you must know I can’t get there by tonight.

  “You need not come at all.”

  “I have three kilos of partially refined surinomaz sap,” Rick said. “If you care to have it.”

  There was another pause. “The crop this—year—will not be of high—quality. Still, it may be worth taking. When you come to collect the goods we have brought, bring the surinomaz and the transceiver. Do not bring heavy weapons. We will be watching as you approach. Farewell.”

  “Tells us one thing,” Art Mason said. He followed Rick out of the chamber, enclosing the transceiver, and shut the door, just in case the push-to-talk switch wasn’t the only way the device could operate.

  “What’s that?” Rick asked.

  “They’re scared of our heavy weapons. We can hurt their ships.”

  “Seems reasonable,” Rick agreed. Les, the human pilot of the ship that had brought them to Tran, had acted the same way, insisting that the ammunition and the recoilless and mortars be kept separate when they unloaded. “I wonder what they’ve brought us? Whatever it is, we’d better get ready to ride.”

  * * *

  The escort was saddled and waiting. Beazeley and Davis, with Art Mason. Six Royal Drantos Guardsmen, and a dozen Tamaerthan mounted archers with Caradoc. A string of pack mules.

  Tylara nodded in satisfaction. “It says much for our rule. You go to bring as great a treasure as this kingdom has ever known, yet you feel safe with no more than a dozen lances.”

  Never thought of it that way, but I guess she’s right. “We should return in two days,” he said. “Sure you don’t want me to leave Caradoc with you?”