“I sent—”
“Never mind. I know,” Warner said. “The Romans sent word. They’re on their way in now.”
“Who?”
“Cap’n Galloway, Lady Tylara, and a starman.”
“A star—man?”
“Yeah. All human. I described the Shalnuksis to the centurion, and he said it surely wasn’t one of them.”
“Larry, you shouldn’t have described—”
“Oh, shove the secrecy up sideways! It’s their planet, they have a right to know what’s threatening it!” He gripped his hair with both hands.
“You’ll be as bald as Telly Savalas if you go on doing that,” she said. She giggled despite herself.
“Good to see you laugh,” Warner said. “Now you keep your head and let me worry about mine.” He drew his binoculars from beneath his professorial gown. “They ought to be just about at the town gates,” he said. “Should be able to see ’em from your balcony there in a minute. Gwen—it’s probably Les.”
“I know.”
“What’ll you do?”
“That’s what I don’t know.” She eyed him warily. “Are you about to give me advice?”
“No, ma’am.” He winked at her. “You have to play this hand yourself, and I don’t need to say it’s important. Naw, all I was going to say is if you need somebody to watch your back, I’m available. I won’t draw on the Captain for you, but short of that—”
“Larry, that’s sweet of you.”
He laughed. “Now that’s just what a tough merc turned professor wants to be told,” he said. “Sweet, for God’s sake!”
* * *
She’d sent Larry away, and was alone on her balcony as the party rode in: a dozen Romans, Rick and Tylara, and a third who sat his horse like a sack of potatoes.
He can’t do everything.
He can blow your University right off the map.
They dismounted and entered the building. She went back into her office and stood near the desk. What can I say? What do I want to say? Why—
Too late for thought. There were sounds outside, then her door opened.
He came in alone. Over his arm he was carrying—
“Oh, no!”
She’d imagined this meeting for two years. She’d thought of being haughty. Imperious. Sexy and seductive, at least as much so as she could be. Tearful. Scornful. Cool, the University Rector.
She’d never imagined that she’d collapse in laughter. She threw back her head and roared, and had to lean against the desk for support.
He held his smile until she was finished. “Well, you did ask if I would buy you a grass skirt,” he said. “So I got you the best I could find.” Then his control gave way, and he began to laugh, and she joined him, and they kept each other howling. Whenever one would slow down, the other would point to the skirt and they began again, and . . .
And then he was close to her. She wasn’t sure what happened next. She didn’t think she’d moved toward him, but there she was, and his arms went round her, and their lips met.
“Les—”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He held her in an iron grip, but there were tears in his eyes, and suddenly everything was the way she’d dreamed it might be, back when she had good dreams.
The grass skirt fell to the floor.
* * *
Rick’s apartment was on the top floor of the University guest house, and the window looked out across the quadrangle to the town beyond.
In the traditional manner of Roman soldiers, the University cohorts spent much of their time building. The Roman camp was surrounded by coal-fired baths. A line of stone buildings was springing up next to it, while on the campus itself the Roman engineers had laid chalk lines to mark a new quadrangle.
The University was growing, but the sight could not cheer Rick. The axe would fall, and all too soon.
Meanwhile, he had a kingdom to administer. He hefted a stack of reports the Roman clerks had brought in. They had arrived by the Express Post that morning.
The most interesting was Art Mason’s report.
“The Westmen are moving north as agreed. It won’t be long before they’re out of our territory altogether, and the only question will be whether they take on Margilos or the Five Kingdoms.”
Tylara read over Rick’s shoulder. She laughed haughtily. “If the Westmen attack Margilos, there will be fewer Westmen to reach the Five Kingdoms. They are as mad as the Westmen, those warriors of Margilos. And I think the Westmen know this.”
“Good enough,” Rick said. “So they’ll go past Margilos and on into the Five. That ought to keep the High Rexja busy for long enough to get this Roman alliance firmed up. Once Ganton marries Octavia—”
“Um-hummm,” Tylara said. “Did you arrange for the Romans to hail our Wanax as Imperator?”
“No, ma’am, he got that one on his own.”
“You surprise me. True, I had not thought to arrange it, but when I heard, I believed you had. Perhaps Yatar does watch over us more thoroughly than we know.”
Rick turned back to Mason’s letter and read aloud. “Wanax Ganton proposes Ben Murphy as bheroman at Westrook. The Bheroman Harkon left a six-year-old kid, but Honeypie has just about adopted the kid, and she and Murph will be married as soon as he gets your consent, which I’d advise you to give. I think Murph can do a good job of holding the plains here. He likes it.”
Murphy’s first home, Rick thought. A long way from Belfast . . .
“A lot of the smallholders were killed by Westmen,” the letter continued. “Some of the landless Tamaerthan troops like the weather up here, and they’ve petitioned to take over the ownerless farms. Murphy wants to let them do it, and it looks like a good deal to me, but of course it’s part of Lady Tylara’s county. If she approves, we can get started fast.” Rick looked up at Tylara. “Well?”
“I consent,” she said. “Should I not?”
“No. It’s a good plan. Here’s to Bheroman Murphy.” He read the rest of Mason’s report. “There is no longer a threat from the Westmen. Wanax Ganton has decided that his bheromen are able to escort them with Roman help, so we are returning to Dravan. The Tamaerthans who aren’t staying up here want to get home, so Caradoc has taken them on ahead. You can use the semaphore to Dravan if you have other orders for them.”
“They will not be long in Dravan,” Tylara said. “Caradoc will not wait for orders. He will bring the Tamaerthan troops home—here! He will come here unless he is told not to come. And what reason could we give?”
“I don’t know.” Rick opened another pouch and took out still more reports. “Here’s one for you,” he said absently.
Tylara didn’t answer. Rick looked up from his work. She was standing at the window. “He will learn soon enough,” she said. She stared gloomily down at the campus and town. “He will learn, and this will all be destroyed.”
“Perhaps not,” Rick said. “Look, Les agreed to stay in the guest house. If Caradoc doesn’t actually go looking for witnesses—”
“My husband, my love, you are not such a fool,” Tylara said. “Caradoc’s clansmen will learn. How could they not? Last night they visited the baths together. They were alone inside for time enough to grow three pair of antlers on Caradoc’s forehead. You have sealed the town gates, and closed the semaphore, but it will do no good. He will learn.”
“But what can I do?” Rick demanded.
“I do not know.” Tylara sighed. “We need a miracle. Perhaps Yatar will send one.” She stood a few moments longer at the window. Her hands were balled into fists. She drummed them against the window ledge. Then she came back to the desk, suddenly calm again. “Meanwhile, I must send a message to Dravan, and the semaphore office will not accept it without your approval.” There was a brittle edge to her voice.
“Sweetheart, I didn’t mean the restrictions to apply to you,” Rick said.
She held her hard look for a moment, then smiled. “I know, my love. You have much to concern you. S
till, I must see to our house, and quickly, so may I trouble you to put that in writing?”
“Sure.” He sat at the desk and scribbled out an authorization. “I was hoping to keep anyone from telling Caradoc,” he said. “Stupid, of course. But it does put off the evil day. And maybe the horse will learn to sing.”
“Horse?”
“Old story,” Rick said. “Very old. A thief was about to be executed. They did that in a particularly painful way in old Persia. Before they took him away, he told the Wanax that he could teach the Wanax’s favorite horse to sing hymns, if the Wanax would give him a year.
“The Wanax took him up on it, and pretty soon, there was the thief down in the stables every day, grooming the horse and singing to it. His buddies told him he was crazy.
“‘That may be,’ the thief said. ‘But I have a year, and who knows what will happen in that time? The king might die. The horse might die. I might die. And who knows, maybe the horse will learn to sing . . . ’”
Tylara giggled, then nodded more soberly. “Yes. Time is always valuable,” she said. “But I fear that time alone will not save us.”
“So do I,” Rick said. “But I don’t know what else to do.”
“You will do what you must,” Tylara said. “That I have known all my life, and learned again from you. We do as we must.”
* * *
The four sat at Gwen’s conference table: Rick and Tylara, Gwen and Les.
“It’s just possible,” Les said. He whistled, a long falling note. “Weee-ew. You’re sure going for broke. Steel mills. Coke ovens. Printing presses. A full University. If the Shalnuksis find out—Rick, I don’t know what they’ll do if they find out.”
“But you can help us hide all this,” Gwen said.
“I can try,” Les said. “And as I said, it’s just possible, as long as Inspector Agzaral doesn’t change sides, and he doesn’t look like he’s going to. Yeah, we’ve got a chance—”
“We,” Gwen said. “You meant that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Les said.
And that’s clear enough, Rick thought. He’s on our side as long as we’re on his. And meanwhile Caradoc’s coming back with the army.
He looked across the table to Tylara. She sat stiffly alert, cold, almost indifferent. Yet she was polite to Gwen when she spoke to her, and even encouraged Les to believe his attempts to be charming had succeeded.
Just what the hell game is she playing? Rick wondered. And what good does it do me to worry about it . . .
There were shouts outside, and they all rushed to the penthouse balcony. Far across town there was a pillar of black smoke. “Have the Romans organized fire departments?” Rick asked.
“Sure,” Gwen said. “But they won’t be needed there. That’s the chimney in the coke oven. It catches fire every ten-day.”
The office door opened, and Marva came in. “I do not wish to disturb you, my lady, but there is a message from the semaphore. It is marked urgent, and Lord Warner told me to bring it to Lord Rick immediately.”
“Thank you,” Rick said. He took the message paper. Tylara stood next to him and read as he did.
REGRET INFORM YOU LORD CARADOC DO TAMAERTHON KILLED IN STREET RIOTS ONE MARCH FROM DRAVAN. COURT OF INQUIRY HELD BY WANAX RULES ACCIDENTAL DEATH BY FALLING. I AGREE WITH THIS VERDICT. WANAX HAS PROCLAIMED THREE DAYS OF MOURNING AND WILL PERSONALLY COMMAND FUNERAL GAMES. WANAX HAS GRANTED LIFE PENSION AND TITLE TO CARADOC’S CHILD.
AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
MASON.
Rick stared uncomprehendingly at the paper. He felt Tylara’s hand on his arm.
“What is it?” Gwen asked.
“Bad news,” Rick said. As he said it he felt waves of relief wash over him. He was ashamed of that. Yet—“Bad news,” he said again. “Lord Caradoc is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes,” Tylara answered. “Your husband, my lady. He died in our service, and whatever honors the Wanax has not granted I will give from my purse. Husband, come, and leave the Lady Rector to her grief.” She turned and marched from the room.
Gwen looked from Rick to Les. The pilot opened his arms, an almost imperceptible gesture, and she moved toward him.
Rick carefully closed the door as he left the room. We’re saved again, he thought. For a while, at least. A good man has died, but that accident has saved more than Caradoc alive ever could. We have Les, and with his help the Shalnuksis won’t destroy everything. Knowledge will survive.
When he reached the quadrangle, they’d put out the fire in the coke oven.
BOOK II
STORMS OF
VICTORY
PART ONE
SEARCHING
1
“Turn out the guard! Corporal of the Guard, Post Number Twelve!”
Rick Galloway turned toward the window and frowned. Sounds of shouting and running men floated up from the cobblestoned courtyard six stories below. “What in hell?” Rick muttered. Then he shrugged. “Guess I’ll find out if I need to know. Okay, Art, what’s next?”
“Next you get your armor on. Flak jacket first, then the mail.”
“Christ, Mason! I’ll roast. Look, I don’t have to wear this tonight.”
Art Mason spoke slowly and carefully. “Colonel, why do we have to go through this every week? You’re not leaving this room without armor, not without you sending me to the brig first. Look, we’ve got that nice Kevlar jacket Les brought you. Only thing like it on this planet. And don’t ask me who’s going to shoot you. You know damn well the little king has that Browning.”
“Ganton wouldn’t shoot me.” Rick held out his arms and let Mason help him into the Kevlar vest, then the fine chain mail shirt that covered it.
“I grant you that, Colonel. But I can think of some in his court who’d be glad to borrow that pistol. With or without Royal permission.” Mason tugged on the straps. “And I grant you that Wanax Ganton needs you. The problem is, he knows he needs you. Kings don’t like that. Neither do teenagers. We got a teenaged king, and if you know what he’s going to do, you’re doing better than me.”
There were more shouts from below. “Sergeant of the Guard! Post Number Twelve. Officer of the Guard! Post Number Twelve.”
“That sounds serious,” Rick said.
“Yeah, maybe I better have a look.” Mason glanced at his watch. “Better not. Can’t let the troops think I don’t trust them. Follow procedures—”
“Yeah. Follow procedures.” Rick laughed, then went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. The table was massive, carved from a wood that had never grown on Earth. The goblets were gold, hammered with scenes of men riding centaurs and hunting strange beasts. Rick handed one to Mason. “Here’s to proper procedures.”
“Yeah.” Mason sipped at his wine, then frowned as Rick drank his in a gulp. “Colonel, you drink too damned much.”
“You sound like my wife. Are you my wife?”
“No, sir.”
“I could say it’s none of your business.”
“No sir, you couldn’t,” Mason said. “Very much my business. Anything happens to you, and I’m supposed to be in command. Only you know damned well it won’t work that way. Sergeant Major Elliot will choose your successor, and it may or may not be me.”
“Well, nothing’s going to happen to me tonight,” Rick said. He poured another goblet of wine and sipped at it. “We were drinking to proper procedures. Ever think where we’d be if we’d followed procedures? What the hell is the procedure for meeting a flying saucer?”
“Yeah. Well, we managed all right,” Mason said. “Bloody good thing it came along.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Guess, hell, Colonel. We were goners, and you know that better’n me.” Mason swept his hand in a wide gesture to indicate the stone walls, tapestries, fireplace, and primitive furnishings of the room. “This may not be all we ever wanted, but it’s sure as hell more’n the Cubans would have given us.”
“Yeah, I know
, Art, but . . .” Rick let his voice trail off as he heard more shouts from outside. “Think we ought to look?”
“No, sir,” Mason said. “Fact is, that’s your biggest problem. Colonel, I grant you we’d have been finished a dozen times without you, and not much gets done except it’s in your name—but that doesn’t mean you got to do it all yourself. Procedures. Make policy, approve procedures, and then let somebody else do the work. You’re going to wear yourself out if you keep on the way you’re going.”
Rick sat at the massive table and fingered a stack of documents. An ornate dagger served as a paperweight. “Think I wouldn’t like to? Only how in hell can I make policy on stuff we’ve never done before? None of us have any experience handling primitives. And Romans. And barbarians. And—”
“Well, yes, sir, but—”
“And not even the locals have any experience living with a rogue star coming. Just legends.” Rick tossed off his goblet of wine and poured another. “Policy! Procedures! The whole goddamn planet’s going to hell, and all they’ve got is a bunch of legends. Legends and us. And we don’t know what we’re doing.”
Mason shrugged. “Colonel, for somebody who don’t know what he’s doing, you’ve done damned well. You must be doing something right, even if I do think you work too hard and drink too much.”
“I’ll—”
There was a loud knock at the door.
“Yeah?” Mason called. He took out a .45 automatic and glanced at the loads before returning it to its holster. “Who’s there?”
The voice belonged to Rick’s orderly. “The Star Lord Les wishes to speak with the Marshal of Drantos.”
Mason looked at Rick. Rick shrugged, then nodded. Mason went to the door, looked through the peephole, then opened it.
The man who entered was shorter than Rick, about Mason’s height. He didn’t look much different from the other two. A starman, Rick thought. A real one. Not a cheap imitation like me. So how should a starman look? God knows his bosses look weird enough.
“Hello, Les. Wine?” Rick offered.
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