Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  You call marrying Les a wedding?

  You want to argue with Yanulf? Or Les?

  The voice was silent. Gwen blinked, thinking that maybe she wasn’t going to cry after all but glad that here on Tran there was no mascara to run if she did. Drantos women used no makeup, although they did use perfume. They were better off than the Roman ladies, who used cosmetics McCleve had said were mostly lead-based. A good thing Octavia seems to be adopting the Drantos custom, but then at nine Tran or fifteen Earth years old she hardly needed makeup.

  Octavia and Ganton made a handsome young couple, no doubt about it. Octavia would never be beautiful. But she’s tall! With that red hair and those legs everyone notices her. And she may not be through growing! Ganton looked almost too hefty in his royal robes, but Gwen had seen him working out in the courtyard with that battle-axe of his; she knew all that bulk was iron-hard muscle.

  The tears threatened again as Gwen thought of Octavia’s luck—from hostage to queen in a single year, and from a dynastic match to a love match. She’d been more or less handed to Ganton like a suckling pig on a platter, but she’d found she could love him, and now she would have him by her side every day and night.

  Gwen had picked her own husband, got on board a flying saucer because she loved him, and now she was going to have him with her about a month out of every two Earth years.

  Not fair, dammit! So who said the Universe is fair? Or cares?

  “—I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of Yatar Dayfather, Christ His Son, and the Blessed Hestia Mother of Christ. Amen.”

  The tears overflowed. Gwen didn’t fight them, because she saw that Tylara was crying too.

  * * *

  The wedding party flowed out to the sound of drums and trumpets. A Guards captain shouted importantly.

  “Gunners! Salute!”

  Goddamn twenty-one-gun salute. Sure wish I had that much gunpowder at Westrook. I got a feeling I’ll need it.

  The cannon drowned out the thump of the Guards’ boots and the thud of their musket butts as they formed a double line from the cathedral door to the waiting carriage.

  Ben Murphy waited, hand on the hilt of his sword, until the man beside him started to move toward the aisle formed by the Guards. Lord Enipses. I think. I sure better start learning all the names and faces and estates. Another part of good manners I never thought of. But bad manners can sure get you killed. And I always thought being a landlord was easy.

  It looked as if half the high muckety-mucks in the kingdom were coming to stand between the Guards. Not just the Drantos nobles, but Romans too, Publius and Titus Frugi, to start with. Mercs. The Captain, Elliot, Art Mason, and the rest. Except for the guys with scoped rifles up in the towers.

  Ganton and Octavia reached the top of the great stone stairway. Rick nodded to Elliot.

  “Wedding party—draw—swords!”

  Murphy drew, pulling the draw slightly to keep from ramming the sword’s point between Hilaskos’ teeth. What sounded like a whole battery of guns went off. Murphy could smell powder smoke. Then people were cheering, Ganton was lifting the veil from Octavia’s face and kissing her a lot more enthusiastically than ceremony required, and the newlyweds were marching down the stairs under the arch of swords.

  Murphy kept eyes front but knew when Ganton and Octavia reached the courtyard gateway and the crowd out in the capital streets saw them. Even Elliot couldn’t have out-shouted that cheering. Then each pair in the arch in turn sheathed their swords, as Yanulf and Polycarp came down the aisle. It looked as if Yanulf were supporting the Archbishop, but both of them were smiling and looked as if they’d just married off favorite children. Murphy found himself reaching for rosary beads he hadn’t worn since he was a boy as he went through a Hail Mary he hadn’t said more than a couple of times since.

  Maybe old Polycarp had really had a vision from Somebody Upstairs. Even if there wasn’t anybody upstairs to send visions, it made sense if Rome and Drantos were going to be allies.

  It’s got to be better than Ulster. Lord God. Anything is.

  * * *

  The Roman buccinae bellowed, the drums rolled, and the Praetorian cohort just ahead of Art Mason stepped off. He looked back along his mounted Guardsmen formed up in a column of fours. Sharp troops. Maybe not up to what the Romans can do, but sharp enough considering they were plowboys a year ago.

  “Pass in review!”

  The crowd cheered as the Praetorians came out onto the field. It sounded just like a football crowd back home—and come to think of it, they’d have called this real good football weather, back home. With a little imagination Mason could think he was in the grandstand, watching the Sailors take the field for the kickoff.

  Make that a lot of imagination. The sky was the wrong shade of blue; the hills beyond the Edre were the wrong colors, the smell on the wind was roast meat, gunpowder, wood smoke, and unwashed people, and the music wasn’t any brass band that ever showed up at a football game.

  The signal gun bellowed. Thank God they were just using a little one-pounder and weren’t firing the bombards anymore. They must have used up half the gunpowder in Drantos in salutes.

  Art Mason raised his sword and swept it forward in command. “Drantos!” He gave a touch with his spurs and the horse moved into a swift trot. The Praetorians were taking their own sweet time, as if they wanted to tell all the barbarians that nobody made them move faster than they wanted to. For a minute Art was afraid he’d have to order the Guards down to a walk. But then the Praetorians were clear. The bright tapestries of the reviewing stand were coming up on the right.

  His sword went up, trumpets blared, and the platoon sergeants shouted, “First Guards, eyes—right!”

  Mason’s sword dipped in the royal salute, until the point was aimed at the ground. As the Guards trotted past the reviewing stand, he wished he’d seen more movies with cavalry parades. Guess those Hollywood budgets didn’t run to enough trained horses. Or riders . . .

  There was the little king, in armor now with that gold helmet he favored. They’d never let him give it up even if he wanted to; after the Hooey River everyone thought it was lucky. Same thing with that battle-axe of old Camithon’s.

  Octavia—she looked like she was walking on air, with a smile too big for her face. Publius was grim, Titus Frugi was smiling, and they weren’t looking at each other even though they stood side by side. The captain looked worried, but on a big day like this he always did. Lady Tylara—she looked like she’d been crying. . . .

  And no guesses. Mason had gone as far as he could with guessing. Maybe too far. Damn all.

  A coded message. In a code none of Mason’s clerks could read. None of Apelles’ people either. And none of the captain’s. What in hell was Lady Tylara doing, sending a message the captain couldn’t read?

  Lady Tylara at the University to Castle Dravan—and just in time for somebody to reach that town where Caradoc was killed. In a damn funny riot.

  I don’t much believe in that riot.

  And now what? Tell the captain he’s maybe married to Lady Macbeth? Shut up and soldier!

  They were coming up to the corner of the reviewing field. Kitchen lads and girls were running from the roasting pits to the Guardsmen’s tables. They all stopped to cheer, and Mason acknowledged.

  “Left wheel!”

  The Guards pivoted expertly, from column of fours to company order, each quartet of horses turning as if they were tied together.

  A damned good outfit, and the Second Guards were shaping up almost as well. Their cadre had missed the Hooey River and nobody was letting them forget it, so they were training the Second Guards as if they were going to have to win the next big fight singlehanded.

  A good outfit. I’m married to the outfit.

  Maybe it’s time for more than that. We’re not going home. No way. Tran or no place, and damn I’m getting lonesome.

  And suppose you find one like the Lady Tylara?

  There’s some
thing to be said for being single.

  * * *

  Tylara stood at the edge of the bed. Her fur-lined chamber robe covered her from her throat to the floor. Rick remembered better times, when she’d worn a sheer garta cloth nightgown. Of course the weather was warmer then, and she’d had three goblets of good wine, but—

  She smiled lightly. “My husband. You have not properly celebrated the Wanax’s wedding.” She held out a wine goblet.

  He tried to smile in return as he took the goblet and touched hers with it. “Thank you.”

  “You are troubled.”

  “Some. Mostly trying to decide what to do with Harvey Rand.”

  “Rand. The Star Lord in the attempt on the Lady Gwen.”

  “Him. I think I have a solution, but as Justiciar of Drantos any case involving a nobleman could end in your court.”

  “Yes, if he demands.”

  At least you don’t question that he’s noble. I’d hate for that question to come up. “We can’t just hang him.”

  “To be sure. It would be work for the headsman.”

  “Not that either. He’s got friends.”

  “I had thought he might,” she said.

  “And there’s Gengrich. I need every soldier I can get. Thing is, if you have enough problems they can solve each other.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  He grinned. “I thought it might work this way. Harvey gets fined the blood price for the dead sentry, and double that for not thinking ahead. Since he hasn’t got anything but his uniform, I’ll pay the fines. Then he owes me.” Rick drank half the wine. “Good stuff.”

  “What will you demand in repayment?”

  “Well, I thought a Tran year in the madweed plantation garrison. Nobody wants that job, but it has to be done. Even Rand’s friends can see that.”

  “He will also be a long way from the men of Eqeta Rudhrig.” Her smile had faded.

  “Exactly. So when Gengrich comes in, he’ll want to bargain. Rand can be another chip I hold. If Gengrich wants his title recognized he’ll have to assume responsibility for Rand. Pay his fines.” Rick shrugged. “There’s even some justice in it. Madweed guard duty’s nothing soft.”

  Tylara stepped back a pace. “A wise solution, my lord. You have learned the laws and ways of the great lords very well indeed.”

  “Yeah, I thought—hey, what’s wrong?”

  “What makes you think there is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know, you just seem—”

  “There is nothing wrong, my lord.”

  Rick got up and went to her. He put his arms around her and tried to draw her to him. After a moment he went back to the bed. “Sure. Nothing wrong.”

  She snuffed the last candle and lay down with her back to him.

  Now what? Another nightmare about Sarakos? She was all right for a minute there. Did I put my foot in it about the laws? Or what?

  “Tylara, what have I done now?”

  “Nothing. Good night, my lord.”

  Something about Gwen? I should put a medal on Rand for trying to snatch Gwen?

  He lay in the dark and tried to sort memories, of Tylara and Gwen, and finally he got up and found the pitcher of wine his orderly had left for him.

  * * *

  “My lord husband!” Octavia put down the hair brush but did not giggle, as much as she wanted to. She knew that Ganton did not like women who giggled.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “I have won my wager with the Lady Gwen.”

  Ganton frowned. “A wager?”

  “Yes. I fear you might think it unseemly, but—”

  “We both owe the Lady Gwen much. Even if it is unseemly, I will hold my tongue.”

  “Your word of honor?”

  “By Yatar, Christ, the honor of the throne of Drantos, my love for you, and my feet which are beginning to freeze, I swear to do no harm to the Lady Gwen by word or deed.”

  “Very well. She wagered that you would wear your Browning when first you came to my bed.”

  Even in the candlelight she could see Ganton’s face turning red. Then he threw back his head and howled with laughter. When he could speak again, he shrugged.

  “The Lady Gwen has a most unwomanly mind. I think I am well enough armed.”

  “So it would seem. But any weapon must be well wielded.”

  “It shall be, and at close quarters.”

  “Then let the contest begin!”

  5

  The narrow streets of the Outer Castle were better lit than usual tonight, although not like last night. Then there’d been bonfires on every corner, candles in every window, and torches in the hands of half the revelers staggering from drink to drink. Big send off for the royal wedding. Not so big for me, on my last night here.

  One house was brighter-lit than most. Les stopped below an open window. Voices were singing in English.

  What shall we do with the Wanax Ganton?

  What shall we do with the Wanax Ganton?

  What shall we do with the Wanax Ganton,

  Early in the morning?

  Give him a ladder as a wedding present.

  Give him a ladder as a wedding present.

  Give him a ladder as a wedding present,

  Early in the morning.

  The Earth mercenaries, of course. With Jack Beazeley’s song about Ganton’s wedding. Beazeley had been more than a little nervous when he got a royal command to sing it for Ganton. By the time he got to the verse that went, “Wrap their kid in a purple diaper,” Ganton had been laughing so hard he had to call for wine when he got his breath back.

  Four Guardsmen saluted at the door to Gwen’s house and passed him inside; two more escorted him up the stairs. As he knocked on the door to the private chambers, Les was beginning to wonder if they were going to tuck him into bed. Then he heard Gwen’s voice.

  “Come on in. I’ve given Lady Marva the night off.”

  Les swept Gwen into his arms. It was quite awhile before he could say anything that wasn’t muffled in her hair. Eventually he broke away and poured wine. “Have you heard about the Great Council meeting?”

  She nodded. “Larry Warner was by earlier and told me all about it. They’re up to letting a woman be Rector of the University, but not up to letting her represent it on the Great Council.”

  Les’ wine cup paused on its way to his lips.

  Gwen frowned. “Les, are you jealous of Larry Warner?”

  Les emptied the cup and he set it down with a steady hand. “You wouldn’t be flattered if I said I was. I wouldn’t be telling the truth, either. I may let myself be jealous someday, when I can be a full-time husband, but now, when I’m on Tran once a year if I’m lucky . . .

  “Sorry. You must have been thinking about that even more than I. Here.” He put an arm around her and let her cry on his shoulder. When she stopped, he kissed her. “You’ve just made my point for me. When I’m fifty light-years away and you need a shoulder to cry on, why not Larry Warner’s? It’s a damned sight safer than Captain Galloway’s.”

  “Ugh.”

  “My sentiments exactly. I don’t know if Tylara’s a good friend, but she’s a bad enemy. You know she’s been trying to pump me about the Galactic Confederation, outside of the Inner Council?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised. She is one shrewd lady.”

  “My opinion is you could put her down in a howling wilderness, and inside of five years she’d be running the place. She might have to convince the local headman that he needed a raven-haired concubine, but that wouldn’t stop her.”

  “She’d probably create a vacancy among the concubines. What did you tell her?”

  “Not much. I’m not convinced she’s given up trying to hijack my ship. Rick has already told her more than I would.” He shrugged. “Not that I know much to tell. That’s Agzaral’s department.”

  “If you’re not careful she’ll learn more than you know.”

  “Yeah. Look, maybe I don’t think enough ab
out local politics. Somebody tried to kidnap you last night.”

  “No, that was thieves—”

  “No. Not thieves. One of them was from Earth. One of Gengrich’s people. Galloway has him in a cell. Gwen, Gengrich, or somebody close to him, wanted you.”

  Her eyes seemed twice as large as usual. “Why?”

  “Because you’re such a damned good university administrator? Hey, it’s all right. I don’t know why. The Earth guy says it was so they’d have a better bargaining position with Rick. Me, I think they wanted your transceiver as much as anything. So they could bargain directly with the Shalnuksis.”

  “Oh. But—Gengrich couldn’t have hoped to get away with that.”

  “They aren’t sure he had anything to do with it. Right now Galloway suspects the captain of the ambassador’s guards, Aidhos do Viz. They don’t have any evidence that would justify arresting a diplomat, but they’re pretty sure he was in on it. He’d be high in Lord Gengrich’s favor if he got you, and if he failed Lord Gengrich could disavow him.”

  “Gengrich is going to be dangerous, if he commands loyalty like that.”

  “Captain Galloway thinks so too.”

  “All right. And they asked you not to tell me. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks for not listening to them.”

  “I did listen to them, for a while. Then—well, everybody talks about Lady Tylara’s pride, but they don’t know you the way I do.” He kissed her.

  She held him until he broke away. “Look, we have to talk,” he said.

  She held him. “So talk.”

  He broke away and went to the door to look outside. The four Guardsmen were at the end of the hall. “My lord?”

  “Nothing. Stay on watch.”

  “Les, what—”

  “Want to be sure no one’s listening.”

  “The Guards don’t understand English—”

  “It isn’t the Guards I’m worried about.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Look, I think I’ve worked out a plan. I can take you back. You and the kids. To Earth.”

  She ran toward him, then stopped at his look.