Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  The attacker was small enough to lift from the floor. Schultz picked him up by the groin and threw him against the stone wall. The grip relaxed and he brought the Star to bear, thought better of it, and smashed the barrel into the attacker’s throat. Not too hard. Not to break anything. Then he brought the butt of the weapon down on top of the assassin’s head.

  Suddenly the hall was filled with guards. They eyed his pistol warily.

  “Schultzy?”

  “I’m okay, Alex. I heard Arnie call from in there. Tell these jokers I’m not an assassin.”

  “Oh, shit. Joe, stay here and square it. You can see what Schultzy caught.” Boyd ran on down the corridor.

  “What did you catch?” Green asked. He lifted the hood from the nearest attacker. “Christ, he can’t be more than twelve.”

  “Twelve or fifty, he damn near killed me,” Schultz said.

  The other two were maybe a year older. One was a girl. Both were dead or dying.

  “Good shooting,” Green said.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Like Cui Nol.” Green turned to the guards and pointed at the younger boy. “Tie him up good. If he dies I’ll kill the man who killed him. If he gets away I’ll go after families.”

  “Rough,” Schultz said in English.

  “Arnie’s been after a live one. We owe you, Schultzy.”

  “A fat lot of good that’s going to do Dylos,” was the answer Schultz wanted to give. He swallowed it. Instead he bent over the dying boy. The crossbow was only a little one, the kind used for small game, but the quarrel had gone deep into Dylos’ unprotected chest.

  “You did well, Dylos. Your family will be proud.”

  “No family, Mas—No family. Only you. So—didn’t want to dishonor—you. Herald’s honor too. Can’t—distrust men by—wearing—”

  Blood trickled from the corner of Dylos’ mouth and his eyes rolled up in his head. The hand Schultz was holding twitched a couple of times, then went limp.

  Schultz was still holding that hand when Boyd came up beside him. “There’s another of them in there with Gengrich. Girl about fifteen. She’s alive. Good figure, too.”

  Alex always did have woman problems. That was just too bad for the girl; nobody forced her to make a living sticking knives into people.

  “How’s Arnie?”

  “The girl nicked him a couple of times with a poisoned knife. Frank’s in there with him now. Says it doesn’t look serious.

  “It looks like the girl was the primary,” Boyd went on. “These three were back-up and guard. They came up the wall on a rope with a hook on the end. Set fires in the kitchen and the south gate with volcano-bush resin in cubes, then used the confusion to make their move.”

  Schultz wasn’t sure whether he was hearing things or Boyd had gone crazy. “Alex, they’re kids! Just what the hell is going on around here?”

  “Schultzy, we’ll tell you as soon as we know ourselves.”

  * * *

  Gengrich winced as Frank Guilford pulled the last strip of bandage off his left arm. “Can you make a fist?” the medic asked. Gengrich winced again but succeeded.

  “Good.”

  “What about delayed effects?”

  “Not with hydras bane sap in this dosage. You’ll have scars, but you got off real light.”

  Gengrich hoped Frank knew what he was talking about. His arm and thigh looked and felt as if a red-hot poker had been laid along them.

  “It’s the oil,” Frank said. “That sap dissolves in oil. Your fancy bubble bath saved your ass, or anyway your leg.”

  Gengrich sipped from a cup of hot wine and gritted his teeth as Guilford cleaned the wound and applied a freshly boiled bandage. Finally the medic was done.

  “You won’t be wrestling anybody for a couple of weeks, and I’d go easy on the wine. Now I’ll go make up more babble juice.”

  “I still say wring the little bastards dry without any juice,” said Alex Boyd. “Give me the girl.”

  “For Chrissake let’s not start that again,” Gengrich shouted. “I want them alive. Not just to talk, alive to take to the captain, dammit.”

  “I won’t kill her,” Alex said. “She might wish I did.”

  “Maybe you would,” Guilford said. “Alex, you didn’t get a good look at that girl when I was treating her. I don’t know what happened, but she’s been to hell and come back. I’d bet you’d lose interest before she said a word—”

  “Now listen, you goddamned—” began Boyd.

  “Can it, both of you,” said Gengrich wearily. It was an old quarrel between Guilford and Boyd. “You got anything else to say, Frank?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay. Dismissed.”

  Guilford went out. Gengrich ignored medical advice and poured himself more wine. Over the rim of the cup he saw Schultz and Vinicianus trying to pretend they hadn’t heard Guilford and Boyd shouting at each other.

  At least it was a change from trying to pretend they didn’t see each other. Vinicianus didn’t want Schultz in this little council of war. And bull shit. Schultzy saved my ass. He can sure as hell find out what he saved it from.

  Vinicianus still looked daggers at Schultz when he thought Gengrich didn’t see.

  “Okay. We’ve got the goods on the Lady Tylara and her mean little kids. But damn all, the only way the captain’s going to believe this is to talk to those kids. I mean it, Alex, we got to keep them alive. That means no rough stuff, and no ‘killed while trying to escape.’ ”

  “That could mean asking people to get killed to save those little bastards.”

  “So what? Give ’em a hero’s funeral. But keep those kids, because that’s our only ticket into Galloway’s service. And don’t you forget it. We are agreed, aren’t we? We go north as soon as the captain will let us?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Boyd said.

  “What’s in it for the Guilds?” Schultz demanded.

  “Safe passage north. We’ll escort as many craftsmen as will come. And negotiate with Galloway for you.”

  Schultz thought for a moment. “We can live with that.”

  “Right. Face it, the captain had three times the balls and twice the brains Parsons thought he did. Now we’ve got us an ace in the hole, ’cause the captain’s lady has screwed up but good. Here’s to Lady Luck, also known as Tylara do Tamaerthon, Eqetassa of Chelm and Mrs. Rick Galloway.”

  They drank the toast. By the time Schultz went over to the fireplace to heat more wine, they’d roughed out a text of the letter that would go north.

  “I’ll write it myself in Tex-Mex. Larry Warner knows that and I don’t think anybody else does. Certainly none of the locals. Larry’s got his head screwed on the right way; he’ll see that it gets to the captain. Marcus, your people can get a letter into the University without too much trouble, I suppose?”

  Vinicianus smiled thinly. He had stayed soberer than usual when the wine was flowing freely; Gengrich could recall his taking only two cups. Was having a rival going to cure his boozing?

  “If they cannot, then I have spent much gold to very little purpose.”

  Over the second batch of wine they roughed out a treaty between the Lord of Zyphron and the Free City of Rustengo and any allies that either party wanted to include.

  “Your people and Rustengo,” Vinicianus said. “But not the Roman provinces.”

  “Which are?”

  “The boundaries are not agreed. But if you include as your allies people Marselius Caesar thinks are his subjects, it can do no good and may do much harm.”

  “Leave ’em out,” Gengrich said. “Don’t cost much. We don’t control much of the old Roman territory anyway. The thing is—” He hiccoughed and drank again. “The thing is, find out what people want and push where it gives. And maybe you’ll get lucky. We just did.”

  11

  “. . . problemas formidables por el capitan. Yo creo que el capitan es un hombre muy sensible, y el capitan esto tambien comprende. Es imposible que el capitan no
vide una ruta que no me permitera la silencia sobre la muerta de los caballeros Cara—y Duig—. Usted sabe ques los fueron.

  Su amigo

  Arnold G

  Larry Warner laid the second page of Gengrich’s letter on top of the first. This was the third time he’d read it. The initial shock had worn off, but his hands weren’t any steadier. Problemas formidables indeed. For the captain, the University, and everybody else. He didn’t need much help from either his imagination or the chilly room for his hands to shake.

  At least he could do something about the chill.

  “Hamar!”

  The boy’s head popped around the door. “Yes, Lord Warner?”

  “More wood for the fire, and a pot of McCleve’s Best.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  He didn’t really want to get drunk. Can we trust Arnie? He tried to remember what he knew about Gengrich. Not a lot. Good man in a fight. Medium on leadership. Talked us into running away from Parsons, but couldn’t hold the group together. Not officer material. Hah. Maybe not, but he’s sure got an officer’s problems now!

  And so do I. What the hell do I do with this thing? Who do I tell?

  The candle on Warner’s desk burned steadily, without guttering or flaring. Funny how something as simple as twisting three strands to make a wick could make such a big difference. It had all been trial and error, too; he couldn’t have explained exactly what difference it made to save his life. Didn’t matter. University-made candles brought a hell of a profit, and would until the local chandlers figured out the secret. They will, too. That’s one bit of knowledge we don’t have to try to spread.

  Warner realized he was holding the two sheets inches from the candle. A little closer to the steady flame, and this particular hot potato would be ashes. And what the hell good would that do? If Arnie can write a letter in Tex-Mex to me he can write one in English to the Captain. Or in local to any damn body he feels like.

  One thing sure. It’s no bluff. Gengrich named too many people, places, and dates to be making this up.

  Warner put the letter down and looked up at the sooty ceiling. He knew he probably had what Gwen called his “Why me, God?” expression on his face. That was certainly how he felt.

  Speaking of Gwen—what about telling her? Warner got up and began to pace the length of the room. It’s her fault. In a way. Marrying Caradoc, then running straight back to Les when he showed up.

  She’d screwed up, and got a damned good man killed. That would always lie between her and Warner now. He’d be polite to her, no problem with that, but nothing else, and she’d notice it. She’d start to worry, then maybe start to prod, and if she didn’t get answers would they be able to work together? The captain was going to have a few things to say to both of them if they mucked up the University.

  A knock on the door.

  “Come in, Hamar.”

  The boy set the pot of homebrew on the desk, piled the armful of logs on the fire, then came back to fill Warner’s cup. It was silver, commissioned from a Roman soldier who’d been apprenticed to a silversmith before he joined the legions. Lovely work, with centaurs and horses chasing each other around the rim. Probably cost a thousand or more back home.

  Back on Earth, you mean. Tran’s home now, Tran or nothing. And Tran’s not so bad. Consider the bracing climate, the quaint customs of the natives, the chance to sample genuine medieval living, the spice of danger to keep you from going soft, the headaches caused by women who can’t keep their pants on . . .

  Warner swigged down his wine. Oh well, there was always one thing to do with a hot potato: pass it up the chain of command. That meant Elliot. Let the sergeant major worry about it. Let him tell the captain.

  “Here’s to the chain of command!”

  * * *

  Mason pulled his chair out and turned it so that he could sit with his feet toward the fire.

  Elliot handed around cups of herb tea well laced with McCleve’s Best. “Not bad stuff, Professor,” Elliot said. “I expect the major can use a bit more of that.”

  “Damn straight. The passes are full of snow. They say this is a mild winter.” Mason drained half the cup. “Hate to see a bad one. Now what’s all this about?”

  “In a minute,” Warner said. He refilled the cups.

  “Where’s Gwen?” Mason asked a couple of swallows later.

  “Interviewing her new—guess you’d call it office manager,” said Warner. “Not a secretary—that means a scribe to the locals, and that’s not work for a noblewoman. This girl’s a granddaughter of old Camithon.”

  “Is she good-looking?” asked Mason.

  “What’s the matter, Major?” said Elliot. “Another suit fall through?”

  “Top, it never got off the ground in the first place,” Mason said. “What I really need is a professional matchmaker. Or better yet, a Polaroid camera.”

  “You’d have to be careful taking pictures,” said Warner. “Somebody could decide the camera was stealing their souls.”

  Elliot laughed. “The Ay-rabs believe that. Least the Yemeni did. Hadn’t heard they think that here.”

  “Neither have I,” said Warner. “But an awful lot of the locals still believe that what was good enough for great-grandma is good enough, period. Hell, talk to some of the local chandlers about my new candle wicks. I figured they’d copy them just for the money, but naw, they waiting for a sign from Yatar—”

  “Okay, you got good candles. And I didn’t ride through half the snow on Tran to hear about them. Spit it out, Professor.”

  Warner sighed. “Yeah.” He pulled out the two sheets of parchment covered with tight handwriting. “It’s in Tex-Mex, so you’ll have to trust my translation.”

  “I can read that lingo too, Professor,” Elliot said.

  “I guess Arnie didn’t know that.”

  “Arnold Gengrich doesn’t know anywhere near as much as he thinks he does,” Elliot said.

  “So one of you read it to me.”

  “I’ll do it.” As Warner finished each sheet he passed it to Elliot.

  Art Mason got up and poured another cup of tea. “Read that way to you, Top?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yes, sir. Elliot’s all of a sudden glad he’s not in charge. Mason turned to Warner. “Think he’s bluffing, Professor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He’s not. I found out a few things on my own.” He looked significantly at Elliot, who nodded. “No bluff, and he’s got all the proof he needs.”

  “Does the captain know yet?” Elliot asked.

  “Not yet. Unless Larry sent in a report—”

  “Not me,” Warner protested.

  “We have to tell him.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major, we have to tell him.”

  “Major, we ought to have told him the instant you found that damned Wolf House.”

  “Maybe. Warner, who else did you talk to about this?”

  “Nobody.”

  Mason raised one eyebrow. “Not even Gwen?”

  “No, sir. I figured this one was too big for me to handle.”

  “You figured right,” Elliot said. “You go on keeping your mouth shut around Gwen and I’ll begin to think you’re as smart as you say you are.”

  Art Mason paced the length of the room. “Okay. Larry, you’re coming to Edron with us. Find yourself a good reason. The captain will be there if we leave now. You know Gengrich better than the rest of us. How much time do you reckon we have?”

  “Awhile. Until spring, I’d guess. Arnie knows we can’t march in the winter. He wants to come back, not mess us up.”

  “It could mess things pretty good if we say ‘Come back, all is forgiven,’ ” Elliot said. “He set up on his own. Did a good job, too. Bring him back and he gets a lot more firepower. Do we trust him with it?”

  “Don’t know, Sergeant Major. But what are our choices? Suggestions, Top?”

  A long silence. “None, sir.”

  “Okay. Another thing. No semap
hore messages on this. None. If any more code clerks desert, the system comes apart.”

  “Yes, sir,” Elliot agreed.

  “Anything more? No?” Art held out his cup. “How about a refill, Professor. Leave out the tea.”

  * * *

  They were a long way from Earth and military formalities, but Warner, Elliot, and Mason stood at attention in front of Rick Galloway’s desk. Rick laid the parchment sheets aside and regarded them coldly.

  “Okay. You aren’t the first to hide something from the Old Man. I don’t need excuses or apologies. What I need is answers. Mason.”

  “Sir.”

  “You say the House of the Wolf was abandoned just after you went in there. They didn’t care dick about the oath you made them take. Right?”

  “Looks that way, Colonel.”

  “Any chance of finding the Children?”

  “No sir. The trail’s cold and there’s been new snow. I put Beazeley and the Intelligence people on it, and that’s about all I can do without turning out enough manpower to make people curious.”

  “So they could have gone anywhere. Including south.”

  “Yes, sir,” Elliot said. “Which means Gengrich may have more to worry about than he knows.”

  “Holy—we can’t alert him,” Warner blurted. “Least I don’t know how. The semaphore system—”

  “I thought of that,” Rick said. “But thanks for bringing it up. You three made one good move there. None of this goes onto the semaphore. Elliot, we’ve got to restructure that system. Beef it up. I want it tougher, and more secure. And under our exclusive control.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get on it.”

  “There’s maybe one way to find them,” Mason said. He fell silent.

  “Spit it out.”

  “If we knew where to look.”

  “Oh.” Rick thought about that. “She would know, wouldn’t she?”

  “It’s a safe bet, sir.”

  Art looks relieved. Why? Because I’m taking it so well. Oscar time, Galloway. “The question is, do I let her know that we know?”

  “Nobody can decide that but you,” Warner said. Elliot glared at him.