Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Because making it would mean yet another war,” growled Yanulf. “The Time approaches, with the gods only know what perils and horrors yet unrevealed, and this Council would advise the Wanax to throw away blood and treasure on a petty dynastic quarrel!”

  “If it gives us the land that it seems we shall most surely need, how can it be petty?” said Ganton.

  “We might lose,” Yanulf said. “If we can gain what we need in peace, can any cause be great enough to be worth yet another war? We must certainly send an army south to deal with those fleeing toward the city-states. We are certain to hear more from the Westmen. Will we advise His Majesty to the folly of new wars when the old ones may not yet be done?”

  “That may be wisdom,” Ganton said. “What say our Roman allies?”

  “I do not think that the High Rexja will give us more than a pittance, without our paying a price greater than we can afford.”

  “Greater than another war?” muttered Yanulf.

  “More than likely,” said Lucius. “Toris may have given no further offense, but neither has he made peace. If he sincerely wished it, he could have had it anytime during the past year.”

  Ganton looked thoughtful. “True. If an offer had been made we—the Wanax would have put it before the Council. None was made, yet we have no further quarrel with the High Rexja.”

  “As I thought.” Lucius spread his hands. “Then it seems most likely that the High Rexja only wishes to choose his own time for avenging Sarakos. Why should the Wanax wait for the blow to fall, rather than unsheathing his own sword and ending the menace of the Five Kingdoms at a blow?”

  Not at a blow. And what’s your game, anyway? Rick wondered. One guess: peace between the High Rexja and Drantos might turn into an alliance. Would turn into an alliance, if Rick gave the Five Kingdoms any star wisdom, let alone a University. That was an alliance that could turn against Rome—and for all that Lucius was trustworthy enough to be sitting on the Inner Council, he was still friend and counselor to Marselius Caesar.

  Marselius was growing old, his son Publius was a good soldier but had more than his share of enemies. Ganton had been hailed by a Roman legion as “Imperator”—worthy to command Romans—and was about to marry Caesar’s granddaughter.

  An alliance with the Five Kingdoms could tempt the Wanax of Drantos to the purple, unleashing another civil war on Rome with the Time closer than ever. A war between Toris and Drantos, on the other hand, could keep Rome’s two most formidable rivals chewing on each other for long enough to let Marselius put things in order. Perhaps long enough for Marselius to retire in favor of Publius.

  You knew Lucius wouldn’t give disinterested advice. Disinterested be damned, is it good?

  Rick turned that question over in his mind as the debate went around the table. Lucius was pro-war. Yanulf of course was against it. So were Gwen and Warner, although the Professor seemed rather lukewarm for peace. Why? Warner liked his post at the University. What else did he want?

  Another question they never raised in ROTC classes on leadership, and one with no answer for now.

  Elliot was in favor of war, as long as they first settled accounts with Gengrich and the rest of the mutineers who were still in the south. Rick had the feeling that Elliot didn’t much care whether that settlement left Gengrich and his men alive or not. The Sergeant Major was loyal to Rick and his plans and knew Gengrich’s ten men might make a difference in carrying them out. He was also too good an NCO to be very happy about depending on men who’d already mutinied once. In his books they couldn’t be trusted not to do it again.

  Tylara was blunt. “It will take more than one defeat to make Toris give up the idea of taking our lands. Every High King for two centuries has known that Drantos and Chelm were once a sixth Kingdom, and dreamed of making it one again.”

  “Toris is old and by all reports feeble,” said Yanulf. “Will such a man do more than dream? Will he not rather concern himself with assuring the peaceful succession of his last surviving son, Prince Akkilas?”

  “He will best assure that by taking Drantos and avenging Sarakos,” said Tylara. “His eqetas and bheromen will not swallow their defeat forever. If Akkilas comes to the High Throne as the conqueror of Drantos, his way will be easy. If not, the warriors of the Five Kingdoms may turn to one who will give them that victory. There is Prince Strymon, heir to Ta-Meltemos, and he is only the most formidable out of several captains.”

  “War now. Peace now,” Ganton said. “Can we win if we strike now? How much aid will Rome give us?”

  He’s forgotten the myth about being Count of the North or whatever. That’s the king talking, and a nervous one at that. And what the hell’s keeping Art?

  “I can convey a request to Caesar,” Lucius said smoothly. “But I cannot make promises—”

  “Convenient enough,” Tylara said.

  “But what shall we do?” Ganton demanded.

  “Send commissioners to Toris,” Rick said. “And others to Rome. After tomorrow it should be more difficult for Caesar to refuse a request from our Wanax.”

  “He cannot honor a request for soldiers he does not have,” Yanulf said. “Rome must look to the south. As must we.”

  And that’s for sure. Plenty of danger of there. Not only the hordes of refugees. There were also rumors of a fanatical religious leader, who was welding the horde into a crusade against the new idea of Christ as the Son of Yatar. Rick hoped the rumors were just that; religious warfare was one ingredient the Tran stew didn’t need.

  “There is another thing,” Warner said.

  “Yes?”

  “By all reports, the Westmen are marching north as they agreed, after the Wanax’s great victory at the Hooey River.”

  “True enough,” Rick said.

  “I’d guess they’ll bounce off Margilos and head right into the Five Kingdoms. Toris can probably beat them, but I bet it’ll take a year to drive them out.”

  “A year in which the Five do not become stronger,” Tylara said thoughtfully. “This is welcome news. We have, then, a year—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Elliot got up with a frown. He came back to stand next to Rick. “Beg pardon, Colonel. Art Mason’s outside. Wants to talk to you. Seems like there’s trouble in the Outer Castle.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Assassins. One sentry’s dead already. He’s alerted the ready platoon and Ben Murphy’s on hand with a bunch of his men.”

  “Good. Who’d he leave in command?”

  “Morrone.”

  “Oh, crap.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I better go look. We’re not going to decide anything here anyway.”

  And Tylara won’t care where I am. God, what happened to us?

  3

  “Okay, Art, what is it?”

  “Damfino. Look, Colonel, I wouldn’t have called you but you said I should if I didn’t know what’s going on—”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t. There’s a dead sentry. Professional job of killing him. Too damn professional to be a blood feud. But we’ve looked, and we can’t find one damn thing.”

  “Looked. Looked where?”

  “Well, you know, all around out there. It’s the Outer Bailey, it’s a warren. Nobody ever found anybody in that place. Look, you wanted me to tell you what’s happening. I did. Now get back to your meeting. I can handle it.”

  “Sure you can, but I’m damned sick of meetings. Let’s go look.”

  “Well—I guess I got enough troops.”

  Rick laughed. “Art, if we don’t have enough firepower between us to handle anything this bunch of primitives can throw at us—”

  “Primitives.”

  Okay, so I don’t talk that way usually. So I’m getting sick of some of the Mickey Mouse crap. “Let’s go look.”

  * * *

  “Whose quarters?” Rick demanded.

  “Nobody yet,” Mason said. “Not this house. But over there is Da
ettan of Dirstvaal, and over there is the place Gwen and Warner share—”

  “Eh?”

  “Gwen and Warner. And some of the other University people.”

  “Who’s in there now?”

  “Hell, Colonel, I don’t know. Their people I suppose—”

  “Let’s go check.”

  “Eh?”

  “Call it a hunch.” Call it that Tylara’s acting funny, and she’s scared of Gwen, but I’m damned if I’ll tell you that. “Let’s look.”

  “Okay. Lugh.”

  “Sir.”

  “Take some troops around back of that house. Lord Rick and I are going to search it.”

  Lugh’s eyes widened slightly, then he grinned. “Sir.”

  “Don’t think anybody but us could get away with looking into her place,” Mason said.

  “Rog. Maybe not even us. But here goes.” Rick waited until Lugh and his Guardsmen had deployed around the house. “Okay.”

  Mason banged on the door. “Open in the name of the Guard.”

  He waited and banged again. “Nobody home.”

  Rick lowered his voice. “Bullshit. She’s got half a dozen servants. So does Warner. Somebody’s in there to unbolt the door.”

  Mason whistled, low. “Sumbitch. Goddamn, Cap’n, you’re right. So what do we do?”

  “Knock one more time and act like we’re going away.”

  “Right—” Mason pounded once more. “Nobody home,” he said loudly. “Let’s go—”

  They walked around the corner of the vacant house. The dead sentry still lay there, now covered with some guardsman’s cloak. “Sir?” Mason said.

  “First. Get five mercs back to the Council room, and nobody leaves there until I get back. Nobody. Alert your guardsmen and have them take over the corridors, but when I get back to that chamber I want Elliot and the troops with rounds chambered.”

  Mason nodded slowly. “You sure—”

  “Who gives a shit about sure? Better to be ready and not need it—”

  “Sir.”

  “And who the hell did you send down here to take charge? Not Morrone—”

  Mason looked pained. “No, sir. Murphy held the fort until I could get Henderson. He’s in back—”

  “Right. Get him over here and get on your way.”

  Rick watched Mason go around the house. It’s probably all bat turds. But suppose it’s not?

  “Colonel?”

  “Right. Henderson, go get me one of the Daughters of Yatar. In full robes. A short one.”

  “Sir?” Corporal Henderson frowned. “Uh, Colonel—”

  Rick consulted the papers Mason had left him and pointed. “Down there. That house. There ought to be a dozen of them. I just want one. Get a couple of footmen while you’re at it. And don’t forget, a short Daughter of Yatar, in robes.”

  “Sir? Yes, sir.” Henderson bolted off. Rick chuckled to himself.

  * * *

  “Okay, here’s the drill,” Rick said. “My Lady Iris walks behind the troops. Lady Gwen copied her robes of office from the Daughters of Yatar. In this light nobody’s going to know it’s not Gwen come back from Council. You two footmen, go up, bang on the door, and shout to open in the name of the Lady Rector. Then get the hell out of the way.”

  The footmen glanced at him nervously. Then they looked at the squad of determined guardsmen and star lords, and looked resigned.

  “If anything happens”—he turned to Lady Iris—“anything at all, forget your dignity and get the hell behind somebody and stay there.”

  “Certainly. I take it you do not mind if I pray?”

  Rick looked at her closely and laughed. “For all of us, if it please your ladyship. Okay, troops. Let’s do it. And remember. We want live ones.”

  The footmen went to the door and knocked. “Open for the Lady Rector.”

  For a moment nothing happened, then a light flared inside the house. Shutters above the door opened, and a torch was thrust out. A muffled voice shouted, “My lady!” and the shutters closed again.

  So. There is someone in there. He waited until he heard the door unbolted. It seemed to take forever, then it opened. He dashed forward and threw himself against it. “Inside! Move!” he shouted. He felt the door slam into whoever had opened it.

  That one’s out of action. He left him for the followers and dashed to the next room. Rick heard motion and whirled. Someone had been standing at the doorway and had swung a bludgeon at him. “Stand!” The man raised the club.

  Rick lowered his aim point and fired at the groin. The .45 flared in the dark, and the man doubled over. That’s two. How many? He moved on through the room. The last room was the kitchen, and it was empty.

  Behind him his troops poured into the house. “Gotcha!” Henderson shouted.

  That’s that one. Rick found the stairs. They’ll be alerted and ready. I should wait for troops. Or burn the place and be done with it. We’ve got two, and both will live long enough to answer questions.

  And you’re a track star.

  This is stupid. He darted up the stairs. At the top he continued, but kept low, diving across the floor to hit and roll. Two figures loomed behind him.

  Rick fired once between them. “Move and get your testicles shot off.”

  Everything froze for a moment. Henderson and the others were running up the stairs. Then one of the men turned—

  Rick moved without thought, diving into the man, knocking his outstretched arm up. Three gunshots thundered in the enclosed space. Henderson and his troops came fast. There was another shot, and one of the guardsmen fell. Henderson threw Rick’s opponent against the wall. Someone swung a club and the other enemy went down.

  A torchbearer climbed the stairs. Long before he got to the top Rick looked at his prisoner, nodded, and said, “Private Rand, I believe—”

  * * *

  “You can talk to me, or the royal executioners. Just one thing. Once I turn you over to them, I can’t get you back.”

  “Hell, Captain, I’ll talk to you. Just give me a second to catch my breath.”

  Harvey Rand didn’t look much like a Star Lord. He was bearded like most Tran nobles. His clothes were the remnants of Tran finery, but they had seen much better days.

  Rick fingered the Walther PPK they’d taken from him. It was clean and well greased. “How much ammo does Gengrich have left?”

  “Not a lot, but he don’t tell me—”

  “Mason, maybe you better alert the executioner.”

  “Captain, dammit, I’ll tell you what I know!” Rand shouted. “You don’t want me to make things up—”

  “Don’t,” Mason said.

  “So what were you doing here?” Rick demanded.

  Rand looked resigned. “Trying to—look, it was a snatch job. Kidnap the lady that runs the University.”

  “Gwen Tremaine. Why?”

  “Look, can I have a drink?”

  “Sure.” Rick gestured to Mason. “And have a seat.” He indicated the bench beside the oak table. “Just remember, my office is a hell of a lot more comfortable than where they’ll take you if I get tired of listening. Now what’s all this about?”

  “Arnie wants to come in.”

  “Good. We want him. What’s that got to do with Gwen Tremaine?”

  “What do we come in as?” Rand asked. “Not just us. Our friends. Wives. Relatives. There’s a lot of us.”

  “And Gwen?” Rick kept his voice deceptively calm.

  “Bargaining chip. Figured if we had her you’d listen while we talked status.”

  Rick’s orderly came in with a pitcher of wine and goblets. Rick poured three. Mason shook his head and stood in the corner. “I’ll pass.”

  “Christ, Art, you don’t have to worry about me,” Rand said.

  “It’s Major Mason.”

  “Well smell—yes, sir. Major Mason.”

  “And don’t play games, Rand.” Art Mason sounded tired. “Bargaining chips are fine, but who did you mean to bargain with?”<
br />
  Rand looked scared.

  “Thought so. Colonel, they want to grow goddamn madweed and sell it direct.”

  “Cut out the middlemen, so to speak,” Rick said. “That true, Rand?”

  Rand gulped wine. “Yes, sir.”

  “What made you think it would work?”

  “We—”

  “Who?” Mason demanded. “One of my troops?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Bull shit. You’ve got a spy in the University. Right in Lady Gwen’s office, probably,” Mason said. “That’s one of mine, and I want the son of a bitch dead. If I can’t have him I’ll take your balls to make a purse out of.”

  “Dammit Major, I don’t know! Gengrich knows, but I don’t.”

  “And he sent you—”

  “No.”

  Mason started to say something, but Rick gestured him to silence. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “Gengrich don’t know nothing about this.”

  “I think you’d better explain.”

  “I’m trying to! Look, we’re all in the same racket, right? Only you’re doing better than the rest of us. But we’re all in the same damn boat.”

  “On the same planet,” Rick said. “So?”

  “Captain, we never deserted from you. After Parsons ran you off, we ducked out on him. By the time you were back in charge we had things going down south. Now you get stuff from that flying saucer, and we get dick. Dammit, that ain’t fair.”

  Mason snorted.

  “Well, okay, Ar—Major. You ducked out with Captain Galloway. Smart move. We cut cards on that. Remember?”

  “Damn all. He’s right, Colonel. I forgot. Rand was one of them that volunteered to go with you, only Elliot wouldn’t let but one go.”

  “Okay. How does that change things? Who the hell are you working for?”

  “Some locals. Daettan of Dirstvaal.”

  “Gengrich’s ambassador.”

  “Well, yeah, only—look, Colonel, there’s a lot of them. Locals. They’re scared. They figured if they had Gwen, they’d have a chance. We could trade her to Gengrich. Or you. Or something.”

  “In other words,” Mason said, “Gengrich is running out of ammo, has a lot of locals mixed in with his troops, and ain’t got a pot to piss in.”