Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “You mean that I summoned them against your advice,” Ganton said. “Do not bother to deny it. You may even be right. Yet my father lost his throne though failure to keep peace with the great lords of Drantos. It is an error I shall not make.”

  “Reckon it can’t hurt to have ’em here to keep an eye on ’em,” Mason said. “And even with ’em here, we’re spread pretty thin, keepin’ patrols going everywhere. Reminds me of Vietnam, some.”

  “I know not that place,” Camithon said.

  “No sir, I don’t reckon you would,” Mason said. “Thing is, we won every damn battle in Vietnam. Troop for troop we had the enemy out-matched every which way. Only one problem. We lost the flippin’ war.”

  “Some day you must tell me that story,” Ganton said. “Meanwhile, we have the chivalry here, and some will remain even after their time is expired. Not all are more concerned for rights than for the safety of the realm.”

  “Been more like that we wouldn’t have lost ’Nam,” Mason said. “And I reckon we need your heavies. Light horse can’t beat the Westmen. Knights can, if they stay together and fight together.”

  “And yet we plow sand,” Ganton said. “The Westmen avoid us. They burn and destroy, and run away when we ride after them. Are they so much better than we, that they lose no men to sickness?”

  Mason made an ugly sound, then shrugged. “They’re used to living on short rations.”

  Ganton turned to the maps on the table. He used his dirk to trace westward along a river bed. “I would employ the bheromen and knights in some useful endeavor.” He bent over the map. “The Westmen are said to have a great encampment here,” he said. “Will they defend it if we attack?”

  “We could ask that Arekor chap that lived with ’em,” Mason said. “But it probably depends on what we attack with.”

  Camithon fingered the scar on his cheek and nodded. “Aye, though I do not like to say it. They fear Romans more than us. Romans and Tamaerthan archers.”

  “Perhaps we could make them fight us,” Ganton said. “On terms we like.”

  “Wouldn’t mind seeing how,” Mason said.

  “Star weapons,” Ganton said. “Used against their horses in camp. They will come forth to fight if their horses die.”

  “Probably true,” Mason said.

  “You do not sound joyful,” Camithon said.

  “I keep remembering Vietnam,” Mason said. “The French were there before us. They kept saying that if they could just make the enemy stand up and fight, they’d have it made. Eventually they did just that. At a place called Dien Bien Phu . . .”

  * * *

  Camithon and Ganton listened as Mason told the story. Later, Ganton summoned a servant to bring wine, and they drank a toast to the brave legionaries and paras who died in the strongpoints with the strange names of Gabrielle and Isabelle and Beatrice.

  “Did Lord Rick then name his daughter for that place?” Ganton asked.

  Mason shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “There is more to this matter of forcing the enemy to fight than one may think,” Camithon said. “Majesty, it is my counsel that we withdraw. The Westmen will follow, and when they have come far enough we can bring all of our strength against a part of theirs. With the aid of the balloon we can find their weak points.”

  “The balloon is worth much, truly,” Ganton said. “Yet consider. It cannot move across the land like the—the helicopters Lord Rick had on his world. And any land the Westmen take they render worthless. If we abandon Lord Rick’s lands, perhaps he will understand—but will Eqetassa Tylara? Tell me, Lord General, do you wish to explain this strategy to her?”

  Camithon threw up his hands. “Shall we then risk all to avoid the wrath of one Tamaerthan—lady?”

  “They are my people,” Ganton said. “I am as sworn to defend them as they are to serve me. Is this not true?”

  “Aye—”

  “Then let us hear no more of withdrawal.”

  Camithon gently stroked his scar. “Then it is Your Majesty’s wish that we attack the camp of the Westmen?”

  “It is.”

  “I can but obey.” Camithon looked to the map. Mason had put small parchment squares on it, each representing a unit of the Royal and Allied forces. Camithon had never seen such a thing before, but it made planning much easier. “If we are to move westward and attack, it were well to take all our forces,” Camithon said. “All we can feed. And all the star weapons.”

  “Need some reserves to guard the supply route,” Mason said. And the ammunition, for that matter. “But we’ll want all the weapons.”

  “Let Westrook become the new supply center,” Ganton said. “It is a strong place, and I doubt that Lord Murphy would leave it to his companion’s widow if he were not certain of her abilities.”

  Mason nodded sourly. Her abilities my eye, he thought. I had a hell of a job gettin’ Murphy out of there, and even then he wanted to leave the flippin’ one-oh-six. Horse tradin’, with me, over what weapons to leave in that castle, just like it was his home. Hell, I guess it is. Murph’s found a home, and I doubt we’ll see much of him if he lives to see the end of the Westmen.

  “If Westrook is to be the supply center,” Ganton continued, “then we must advance through here.” He pointed on the map. “We will not want the Westmen to know what we are doing, yet we will wish to be certain that our wagons are not delayed at the river crossing.” He looked thoughtful, then nodded. “The Romans are good engineers. Let the Cohortes equitates carry timbers and all other things needful for quick construction of bridges here, and here. Our forces can come by many routes. The Westmen will not divine our intent, and we need not be so concerned for supply.”

  “An excellent thought,” Camithon said. He looked at the young king with new respect.

  “And I think we will not raise the balloon until after the attack on the camp,” Ganton continued.

  “Sure help the artillery to have it up,” Mason said. “For target spotting—”

  “Yes,” Ganton agreed. “And we shall do so. But think, it is too valuable to use as a lure, and when it is raised it will draw all the Westmen toward our main strength. Would it not be better to let them seek us as the star weapons fall among them?”

  Camithon frowned. “If the balloon is needed, we can guard it with a small band—”

  “No,” Ganton said. “Think, my lord. A small band will fall to roving Westmen, and there are sure to be such. If we leave enough men to guard it, we should leave them all—else we divide our strength. That is what the French did at this place, Dien Bien Phu, and we have learned the cost to them.”

  Christ on a crutch, Mason thought. Maybe the kid understands this stuff better’n me. Hell, I’m no officer. I’m an NCO who got lucky.

  Unconsciously Mason straightened as he turned to speak to the Wanax of Drantos.

  29

  The office was a penthouse on top of a two-story building, a veritable tower here. It was richly furnished, with thick carpets, elaborately carved furniture, and brilliant tapestries. Leaded glass windows looked out on green Tamaerthan hills to her left and a quiet quadrangle on her right. Gwen Tremaine had once seen National Geographic photographs of a European university rector’s office, and she’d had her staff make as near a duplicate as they could.

  The high-backed chair was large enough to swallow her completely, and since it faced the desk rather than a window, when she curled up in it she was utterly invisible from the outside. She tucked her feet up closer—

  And if you regress any further, you’ll be sucking your thumb, you twit! she told herself; but she didn’t move from the chair.

  Regression feels fine. Safe, even.

  Hah. You can’t run away from yourself, no matter how far you go.

  Thanks a lot. But it isn’t myself I’m running from. At least I can’t see the sky. She reached forward to the desk and lifted the note from Larry Warner. Her hand hardly shook as she read it.

  Gwen: A couple of the look
outs on Ben Hakon report seeing a “walking star” not long after dusk last night. From the path it’s got to be a satellite. I’m going into town about the reaper. Good luck.

  We’ll need luck, she thought. They’re up there looking for progress, and they’ll find it. Then the bombs fall. Glory, why shouldn’t I be afraid of the sky?

  It’s not the sky, it’s who might be in that ship—

  I’m not afraid of Les.

  No? Then who stuffed the transceiver into a bale of garta cloth, and what do you expect will happen when he calls and you don’t answer?

  I don’t know. Maybe he’ll go away and leave us alone.

  Oh, that’s what you want? I thought you wanted Les!

  Sometimes.

  Often.

  Often, she admitted. But mostly I don’t want to hurt the University. Or Caradoc—

  Or Rick?

  Or Rick.

  Because he’s saving the world? Or because there’s a chance, just a chance, that he might tell Tylara to go to hell and come shack up with you? Who do you want? Rick, Les, Caradoc—or all of them? At once or one at a time?

  “Shut up!” Her hands found a Roman crystal pitcher. She hurled it against the desk. It caromed off a stack of papers and shattered against the wall. Then she sat still for what seemed a long time despite the work she had to do.

  “My lady?”

  Gwen looked up to see Marva. “Yes?”

  “The Lord Campbell is here to speak with you.” Marva eyed the wine spilled on the desk and the broken glass on the floor. “Shall I have that cleaned?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Marva took a small bell from her sleeve. Two servant girls came in to mop up the floor as Marva tidied the desk and blotted wine from the papers.

  “Do you like it here?” Gwen asked in English.

  Marva hesitated. “Yes, my lady. It is”—she groped for the word—“useless to wish for what cannot be.”

  Whatever that is, Gwen thought. What might you wish for? Your husband again? Ben Murphy? Fortunately for me, you can’t have either one.

  Lafe Reznick’s second widow had become nearly indispensable, a combination of housekeeper, lady in waiting, secretary, and den mother. The students saw her as nobility, the widow of a star lord, yet someone they could speak with. Much information came to Marva, but she gave little in return, except to Gwen.

  “You may bring Lord Campbell now, if you please, my lady,” Gwen said.

  “Yes, my lady.” Marva ushered the servants out.

  Gwen patted her hair into place and tried to look calm as the red-haired engineering professor came into her office. “Yes, Bill? What can I do for you?”

  “Steel,” Campbell said. “I need a lot more, and I don’t have it.”

  “For the reaper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Larry’s gone into town about that—”

  “He won’t get anywhere. All the locals claim they’ve paid their taxes. They have, too. But Lord Rick wants a goddamn progress report every goddamn night! Now what am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to stop shouting at me and have some wine, to begin with.”

  Campbell started to say something, but caught himself. Then he grinned. “Yes, ma’am. What wine?”

  “Oh—” She pulled the bell cord. Marva came in almost instantly. She was followed by one of the girls with a new pitcher and goblets.

  “Good service,” Campbell said. “Thanks, Marva, I can handle things now.”

  “Yes, my lord—” Marva indicated a place for the tray, waited until the girl had put it down, and waved her out. “Will there by anything more, my lady?”

  “Thank you, no—”

  “I will wait outside.”

  “Cold one, that,” Campbell said when Marva had gone.

  “You’re not polite to her.”

  “The hell I’m not—”

  “You’re not,” Gwen said. “You call her by her first name—”

  “Just to be friendly. She speaks English—”

  “But she is not an American, Bill. You and I can talk informally, and you think because you say it in English you can talk that way to Marva, but you can’t. Bill, Caradoc calls me ‘my lady’ most of the time. And have you noticed the way Rick speaks to Tylara?”

  “Well, sure, but Tylara’s one of the great ones—”

  “Marva is noble,” Gwen said. “To you it may seem a little silly that she’s something special because your friend Lafe Reznick married her, but to her it’s not.” She threw up her hands. “Anyway, that’s why she seems cold toward you. Call her ‘my lady’ once in a while. She’ll warm up fast. Now what about your iron?”

  “The Romans have iron.”

  “I’m aware of it.”

  “Can you get me some?”

  “I’m also aware of what they’ll want. Guns and gunpowder, and we don’t have any to spare. But something just came in that may change things.” Gwen flipped through soggy papers on her desk until she found the one she wanted. “Intelligence reports. The Romans will have a big harvest this year, and they’re very low on slaves to bring it in. If you could have your reaper—”

  “If I can produce something that works, the captain will send it west. No matter how good I am, there won’t be enough equipment to send to the Romans. Not this year.”

  Gwen shuddered.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t trade them guns, and I can’t promise them a reaper. There’s only one thing I can send.”

  “Yeah.” Bill Campbell went over to the window and looked out onto the University quadrangle. He spoke without turning back toward her. “They tell me the life of a Roman slave isn’t so bad. No worse than peasants in Drantos.”

  “I’ll keep telling myself that,” Gwen said. “Maybe if I tell myself often enough, I’ll believe it. Meanwhile—”

  “Meanwhile I’ll send some troopers out into the Pirate Lands,” Campbell said. “Those people will drown or starve within the year anyway. Best to do it quick, before the so-called roads are too muddy. It’s starting to rain again.”

  “That should help the crops,” Gwen said. She smiled grimly to herself. Also, the clouds will hide the sky . . .

  * * *

  Mad Bear woke to the sound of screaming horses, but he could not comprehend. Walking Eagle, chief of the Two Waters, had been generous when Mad Bear’s band left him to return to their own Silver Wolves. His farewell gifts had included a barrel of the strong water the Green Lands folk made from grapes. It made men sleep sounder than beer or fermented mare’s milk ever could, and Mad Bear had sat late drinking with Hinuta.

  Another horse screamed in agony. Mad Bear leaped from his pallet. Then the sky itself screamed, and then there was a great sound, much like the sound the wizard-weapons made, and there was enough light to brighten the inside of the tent although the flaps were closed against the death bird. The captured slave woman squealed like a ranwang and burrowed under the hides.

  Mad Bear ignored her and grasped his weapons. He saw clearly now. The wizards were attacking the camp. Attacking at night. Walking Eagle had said the wizards controlled demons. Did they then own the demons which made the night dangerous for the Horse People? They seemed to have no fear of them.

  Well, the night will not be long. Suns climb the sky, and then we will have vengeance. He untied the tent flaps and went outside. Tents were burning, but the camp was lit brighter than burning tents could have made it. The sky screamed again, and there were more of the thunder sounds.

  “UP! UP!” Mad Bear ran among his people. “To arms! Or will you allow the wizards to slaughter you like wolves bringing down a sick horse? Up, up!”

  He was nearly trampled by a pain-maddened horse. It galloped past in panic, its mane on fire. Mad Bear leaped aside and fell, and again he heard the sky screaming. This time he saw it, a trail of fire across the night skies. It fell into the camp and there was more wizard thunder, with flame and smoke.

  The shaman T
angra’al rushed from his tent and raved at the skies. He screamed the old legends, of skyfire and folk who rode across the sky in iron chariots. They were stories from Mad Bear’s childhood, and he felt a tingle at his spine as he remembered; but he dashed at the shaman and struck him so that Tangra’al fell to the ground.

  “They are only men!” Mad Bear screamed to his clan. “Those who fought at the Wagon Battle heard the wizard-thunder and felt their flame, but the wizards died as easily as any of the Green Lands folk! Arm yourselves!” He ran through the camp shouting; but inwardly he was afraid. The sky gods had made themselves enemies of the Horse People and had sent the wizards against them. Why? First the lands turned brown and the Horse People had to flee to the east. Now they faced enemies who held the thunder. Why?

  But there was worse yet to come. Half a score of horses stampeded in panic and trampled his tent. Mad Bear knew that not all his warriors and few of his women had got out safely, and he cursed these foul enemies, wizards so evil they would turn the Horse People’s mounts against them!

  In time the wizard-thunder died away, and the Horse People were left to count their losses. From one trampled tent alone Mad Bear’s band pulled out a warrior and three women, two of them slaves, who would not see dawn. Another warrior had been thrown from a horse and struck his head. He lay mewling like a baby, and he fouled himself. All across the great camp it was much the same, and the toll among the horses was worse.

  But the sky brightened as the Father Sun approached. Soon the night watchers came in.

  There would be a battle. Riders who had followed the retreat of the wizards brought words that made that certain. There were many who followed the wizards. Grey Archers, devils in women’s skirts who could shoot as far and as straight as the Horse People. There were also many Riders of the Red-Cloak Chiefs, who fought as though one man’s thoughts guided all the horses and men of their war band. It was no shame to the riders that they had not dared follow closely. Yet they had followed.