Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  “We hoped we would be able to join you and give your weapons their new strength before this battle. However, when we reached you the enemy was already attacking. It seemed better not to wait. The Lord Rick often quotes an old commander of his, the High Rexja Napolyon—‘Ask me for anything but time.’ ”

  So the captain was claiming to have served under Napoleon was he? When bigger and better whoppers are told . . . Anyway, that explained the other star weapons. Wonder how many rounds the captain sent, and what orders he gave Bisso about issuing them?

  All around the battle was dying down. Most of the Romans had ridden off in pursuit. A lot of the Tamaerthans had dismounted, to loot the bodies and if necessary make sure the bodies were properly dead. They’d posted about half a squadron of sentries, though, and they were bringing the loot to a central collecting point. The captain had done a good job with these people, which was really no surprise but nice to see all the same.

  For the first time in longer than he wanted to think about, Gengrich felt safe.

  They were bringing in Joe Green’s body tied over a mule. As they did, Schultzy rode up, with blood on his Rustengan armor. He gave Boyd a sour look as he dismounted; Gengrich wondered if Alex had been sniffing around Diana again. Better ask, but not here. Right now Gengrich wanted to say goodbye to Joe Green. Joe hadn’t been any Audie Murphy, but wasting ammo was his only real vice. Otherwise he’d been reliable and hardworking and sensible, never making any trouble. Damn all. Another hour—

  Gengrich walked up to the mule carrying Green’s body. A man in peasant clothing stood on the far side, another at its head. A couple of boys were playing kickball with a bound-up leather jerkin whose owner would never need it again.

  “Bring the body to Lord Brentano, fellows. He and Lord Green were comrades.”

  “Yes, my lord—”

  “Look out, Lord Gengrich!”

  The high-pitched shout had Gengrich jumping back from the mule before the man on the far side came in under its belly and out with a knife in his hand. The blade leaped up, seeking a path under Gengrich’s armor and into his belly. As the blade rose, one of the boys suddenly flung the kickball. It hit the man in the head, making the knife thrust miss.

  The man at the mule’s head had also drawn a knife, but now the mule was rearing. It threw him off balance. By the time he was steady on his feet, Gengrich had his Colt out. He shot the man in the chest as the first man closed for another stab. The boy ran up to the mule, vaulted over it with his hands on Joe Green, and slammed his bare feet into the back of the first man’s head. The blow knocked the man sprawling. The thongs holding the body broke, and body and boy together tumbled down on top of the man. Gengrich stamped hard on the man’s wrist. The knife dropped to the ground.

  Now two more men were running toward Gengrich, and a third was unlimbering a crossbow. Teuthras spurred toward the archer, sword swinging down, and flew out of the saddle with a quarrel sticking out of his chest. His fall wasn’t all bad; it gave Boyd and Schultz a clear field of fire at the other two. Who hit which man first was never clear and didn’t matter anyway; both went down.

  This left the archer, who was ten feet from a stray horse and already on the move, reloading and recocking his bow as he ran. Too many people around him for gunplay, too, and none of the dumb bastards were lifting a finger to stop him!

  “Grab that man, you—!” yelled Boyd.

  The other boy caught up with the fleeing man as he reached the horse. The crossbow twanged and a quarrel tore into the boy’s belly, but he already had his arms around the man’s thigh. Then his teeth sank into the leg, through leather and into flesh. The man screamed and beat at the boy. For a moment his head was clearly silhouetted—and a moment was all MacAllister ever needed for a clear shot at longer ranges than this. The man’s head snapped back and he fell off his horse on top of the boy.

  “Medics!” yelled Schultz.

  Gengrich said nothing. He really wanted to go off somewhere and have that case of the shakes. He knew he ought to see how Teuthras was—although any man who was sitting up already and swearing like that couldn’t be too badly hurt.

  What he was going to do was ask a couple of pointed questions of a young lady named Monira. Brushing off Boyd’s hands and several other people asking questions, he strode toward his horse.

  * * *

  “The one by the mule was Alanis, from what you say. The other was Cyra.”

  Was there a moment’s hesitation in the level voice, or a flicker in the steady blue eyes? Gengrich thought he detected both. And did that mean the disguised girl who’d taken out the crossbowman at the cost of her own life was somebody Monira didn’t know? From another House of the Wolf?

  The idea that more of these pint-sized assassins were running around loose made Gengrich ill. Should he dose Monira with more babble juice?

  No point. It would be Captain Galloway’s problem soon enough. But there was one question Gengrich had to ask.

  “Why did—your friends save me?”

  For a moment it looked as if Monira was really going to smile. But she only shrugged. “It was our duty, now that it serves Lady Tylara that you be alive. We swore an oath.”

  We swore an oath. And because they’d sworn an oath, some of those kids had come all the way south to take him out, and others had come south after them to hide among his men, watching him without being detected ever since last winter. How many were there? He knew he’d never get an answer to that question.

  At least there was one question he didn’t need answered. What would have happened to him if they’d decided it was their duty to keep trying to kill him? He knew that too well.

  He started to say, “Thank you, Monira.” The words stuck in his throat. He had to get out of here, out of this dark smelly wagon where Monira and Euris sat half-naked in moldy straw with about as much expression as a couple of goddamned temple statues!

  Gengrich was twenty yards from the wagon and bumping into Schultz before he knew where he was. Schultz grabbed his arm.

  “Good Lord, Arnie. You look like your own ghost.” He lowered his voice. “Find what you were after?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “You look like you could use a drink. Here.” He held up a flask and pulled out the cork. “McCleve’s Best Panther Piss. I traded Jack Beazeley for a couple of jugs.”

  “Thanks. Ah. Good stuff. How’s Teuthras?”

  “Frank says he’s got a couple of cracked ribs and a concussion. He got those falling off his horse. The crossbow just gouged the skin over his ribs. Frank’s disinfected it already.” Schultz grinned. “The guy nearly took Frank’s head off when he said he might miss the big battle. Said that was to call him as weak as a woman.” The grin faded. “I didn’t tell him the ‘boy’ who avenged him was a girl.”

  “How—?”

  “She asked for the knife. We let the other one use it. Mind if I have that back?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Schultz gulped from the flask, then stoppered it. “Arnie, do you suppose you could lean on Alex to stay away from Diana, before I have to? If I don’t, her family will take a hand.”

  “I told Vinicianus—”

  “Screw your Roamin’ Roman. Diana says the last couple of times Boyd dropped around, Vinicianus was with him. Didn’t lift a finger to stop his hassling her, either.”

  “Schultzy, if you’re trying to make trouble—”

  “Arnie, Horny Alex’s already doing that, with your Roman advisor backing him up. I’m trying to stop trouble.”

  Gengrich reached for the flask again. “I’d better talk to both of them.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  Gengrich drank. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, to play Schultzy and Vinicianus off against each other for the job of—oh, call it grand vizier. If Vinicianus was putting Boyd up to something that could get him shot—not that Alex ever needed much putting up where women were concerned. . . .

  Not my problem anymore. The p
rodigal’s home and Daddy, you take over!

  14

  “Welcome, Lady Tylara. Did you have a good journey?”

  Tylara stopped at the threshold of the rector’s private chambers and let Lady Siobhan take her cloak. It was the first time she’d visited the University since Les’ return; had Gwen added any more luxuries and would it say anything if she had?

  I must not go about looking upon Lady Gwen as an enemy whose strengths and weaknesses I must spy out. She is no fool; if I do this she will know and tell Rick. And if by some strange working of fate she is in truth not my mortal enemy . . .

  A strange working of fate that would be, indeed, unless my husband is not as other men are.

  Tylara forced a smile, before the silence grew too long. “Well enough. At this season it is no great hardship to travel any distance. I confess I will not be unhappy to live to see the days when Tran has the—freeways—of Earth.”

  And that is to admit a weakness, and to Gwen! Must I seem a witling?

  “Let’s hope we all live that long. Would you like some tea, or would you prefer wine? I have some sherry I’ve been saving for an occasion, and I think this is one. It’s a dark, sweet wine, stronger than ordinary vintages.”

  “Thank you, my Lady Rector. I will have a glass.”

  One glass of anything should not weaken my wits or lower my guard, unless the gods have already seen fit to do it.

  “Lady Siobhan. Two glasses of the Bristol Cream—oh, and bring that letter you received yesterday from Lord Mason.” The girl went to a carved cupboard by the window and pulled out an Earth bottle and two Roman glasses.

  “She reads English very well now,” Gwen continued. “I wish I had half her talent for languages.”

  Do you need that, when you have—other talents? No, that is not just. None of the men she seems to attract can be wound around her finger by no more than a whore’s arts.

  That is why it is so hard not to fear her. Bedsport is one thing. A true meeting of minds is far more. And since Rick and I have not had either since mid-winter . . .

  “Thank you, Lady Siobhan.” The sherry was indeed stronger than common wine. Tylara sipped cautiously, not sure she cared for the sweetness. “Is Lord Mason well?”

  “Oh yes, my lady. Or at least, he was when he penned the letter, some twelve days ago. I pray that nothing has happened to him in that time.”

  The look on Siobhan’s face was unmistakable. So Lord Mason’s suit is succeeding, is it? Well, both could do far worse, she one of the greatest of the Star Lords and a good man for a husband, he a granddaughter of faithful old Camithon for a wife. And my husband—

  For a moment Tylara could not complete the thought. Then she forced her wits onward, like forcing a skittish horse across a swift-flowing stream.

  My husband will be happy. Did he not say once, “Art Mason’s got to limit himself to officer-class ladies from now on. No more barmaids. In fact, he really ought to get married.”

  And am I so lost to loyalty and good sense that I wish my husband to be unhappy? Especially in a matter so nearly concerning one of his most trusted men, to whom I owe no small debt myself?

  “Pour yourself a glass, Siobhan, and sit down,” said Gwen. “Let’s not stand too much on ceremony.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” The girl didn’t take the drink, but sat down, unfolded three pieces of paper, and began to read.

  “To my dear Lady Siobhan, greetings and hopes that you are as well as I am.

  “By the time you read this, we may have fought the great battle against the horde of the Prophet Phrados. Certainly it will be fought sooner rather than later. They have eaten the country bare behind them, and have no way to go but forward. Nor can they move east into the Roman Provinces, not without leaving us free to strike at their flank and rear.

  “Publius Caesar seems to doubt this last. He has kept three of his six legions in the Provinces, together with several cohorts of garrison troops and some thousands of militia. To do him justice, he may fear rebels or bandits as well as Phrados, and does not wish to admit it. In his position, I suspect I would do much the same.”

  Hah. He fears unfriendly eyes will read his message. Unfriendly, or a stranger. Who in Caesar’s camp knows English? A starman hired from the south, one of the deserters? It could be. And Gengrich.

  Will Lord Gengrich be truly loyal? He has been pardoned, but will he do treason anew? And if he is, what does that say about my husband’s notions of how to deal with traitors?

  And mine?

  As before, the answer was silence.

  Siobhan went on. “However, we have enough here to do the business. Two legions of cavalry, one of pikemen, the Tamaerthons, the Drantos knights and infantry, Gengrich’s men, and contingents of infantry from Rustengo, Vis, and a baker’s dozen of other towns and small cities, plus the—my lady, what is—?”

  “The artillery. That’s the large firepowder weapons.”

  “The artillery, the star weapons, the balloon, and a few tricks the Captain General undoubtedly has up his sleeve. That’s forty thousand men and a lot of weapons most of the horde has never even heard of, let alone faced. They have a hundred and twenty thousand, or so we’ve heard from the last batch of scouts, but only about a quarter of that is much more than an armed mob. . . .”

  As Siobhan continued, Tylara more and more ceased to listen. Instead she tried to imagine her husband’s face as he planned the battle. As hard as she tried, she could imagine nothing except the cold mask that he had worn since mid-winter. Aye, worn even those few times they shared a bed, as though only his body touched hers, while his mind was somewhere else, with someone else. . . .

  What else could he be hiding behind that mask, other than such a shift of allegiance? If by some mischance the secret of the Children of Vothan had been discovered, surely he would have had the wits to see that this was a matter they could discuss as equals. They had a common interest in seeing that their plans and the future of their children were protected from the consequences of Gwen Tremaine’s not being a chaste woman—or at least being chaste only by the customs of an Earth she would never see again.

  If Rick had been silent for so long, there could be only one reason—that what was dividing him from her was a matter on which no words would make the slightest difference. There could be only one such matter.

  Am I helpless in the face of this change of allegiance?

  Perhaps not. But I must move cautiously. If Rick has hidden his heart so well for so long, it could be that he is now as skilled in dissimulation as any Tran lord. Skilled in our ways of intrigue. How otherwise could he have devised so wise an end to the problem of Lord Rand? The man who saved me would not have been so wise.

  If wise as Tran lords, than—as ruthless? It has been known, to use the children by the first wife as hostages to secure acquiescence in a second. As long as the second is fertile. Which, Yatar help me, Gwen certainly must be. . . .

  Has my husband finally succeeded in frightening me?

  The gods have mercy, yes.

  She shivered.

  “Lady Tylara, are you cold? Here, Siobhan. Pull the shutters and make up some tea.”

  Even worse, I must endure this intriguer’s hiding her triumph behind a mask of graciousness!

  * * *

  The bonfires at either end of the bridge and the torches held by the sentries showed the last wagons more than halfway across. The floor of the bridge was sagging to within a foot of the water, but with the extra boats tied in place a few days ago the bridge was holding.

  Rick still didn’t uncross his fingers until the last wagon had rumbled off the bridge onto the north bank of the Dnaster. He turned, to see Drumold looking at him with what seemed suspiciously like a smile.

  “Ye have the air of a man who is hoping that a man ye have to trust really knows what he’s doing.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “To one who knows ye well enough, Rick, I canna say that you are any great hand at h
idin’ your thoughts.”

  I am better than you think, my friend, Rick mused, or you and I would not be standing on this hillside, having this amicable discussion.

  “Well, I’m not surprised that Lord Holloway knows his business. He’s almost as good an engineer as Lord Campbell. I was surprised how many suggestions he made. He wasn’t the only one of Gengrich’s men who did more than I expected.”

  “Mayhap Gengrich knows that his fate is now linked to yours, and would rather stand than fall.”

  “Likely enough. He never was stupid.” Maybe, just maybe Gengrich would be smart enough to play it straight from now on, and the secret he held would never come out.

  That’s hoping the horse will learn to sing with a vengeance, and is there going to be anything left of your marriage even if Gengrich keeps his big bazoo shut for all time to come?

  Don’t work yourself into a stew over that, or Drumold will notice enough to ask questions you’d rather not answer.

  The torches were now moving onto the bridge. Some of the sentries were kneeling, tools in hand, while others held the torches.

  “We’re going to dismantle the bridge into four sections tonight. Tomorrow night we tow it downriver and reassemble it under the walls of Vis. It would be too hard to defend where it is. Also, if we fight where I expect to and we do need to retreat, we’ll have a shorter and more easily defended route to the bridge.”

  “Best not mention that to Publius Caesar.”

  “What kind of fool—?”

  “Can you no tell a jest when ye hear one?”

  “Sorry.” Got the windup. Shouldn’t show that, to Drumold or anyone else. “Has Publius said anything new that he shouldn’t have?”

  “Not since the last Council of War.” At the last council Publius had brusquely suggested that all the contingents of cities and towns claimed by Rome should fight under Roman command or not at all. He’d at least had the sense to leave it as a suggestion, but tempers had been frayed all the same.

  “Publius cannot control his tongue.” Drumold looked thoughtful. “Yet he might do us no small favor if ye asked him fairly. I have read over the muster roll of Gengrich’s men. He has some twelve-score men of the Clan Mac Brayne and the Red Mac Beans among those who follow him.”