Lord of Janissaries

by Jerry Pournelle

  No one spoke. Whatever doubts remained, no one would give them tongue in front of a Wanax who had clearly made up his mind.

  Ganton called his staff officers to arrange foraging parties and other details of battle. Tylara drew her cloak more tightly about her.

  Drumold stood. “You’re exhausted, lass. Come.”

  She remembered her father leading her from the tiny council fire to a tent that seemed miles away. She remembered his laying her on a bed as if she were a child, and pulling furs over her until at last she stopped shivering. She remembered swallowing most of a cup of hot wine. Then she remembered nothing more.

  * * *

  The True Sun had risen and nearly set again when Tylara awoke to see her father sitting beside her bed. His eyes were red with lack of sleep, and for the first time she saw how much of the grey in his beard had turned to white.

  She smiled. “Thank you, Father.”

  He smiled back. “And what good would I be, lass, if I couldna help ye in a time of need? The gods willing, I’ll be ready to hand for many a year yet.” He handed her a bowl of porridge and watched as if determined to force it into her by sheer will. When she had emptied the bowl, Drumold took it from her, stood up, and went outside briefly. When he returned, the smile was gone.

  “This is the Wanax’s own tent, so I much doubt there’d be any ears about that shouldna be. Still, best to be sure. . . .”

  The frown deepened. “Daughter, there have been rumors of what ye did near the end of the battle. Or rather, rumors of what ye wouldna do, which is to let yourself be saved to fight another day. I ask ye for the truth.”

  Tylara wanted to weep with sheer relief, to learn that her father had guessed so little of the truth, and that little something she could talk about freely. A moment later she was weeping in her father’s arms.

  When she was done, he found a cloth to wipe her face and pulled a stool close to the bed. “I willna say that a lost battle is nothing. But no orders of yours began that battle. ’Twas Morrone, who never did know the value of the clansmen. I am thinking that the Wanax will have aye to say to him on that.”

  “But, Father, I obeyed him.”

  “I should hope ye did! Would ye be like Dughuilas, always disputing orders until someone sent him to dispute wi’ Vothan?”

  Tylara shuddered, but Drumold did not notice. “I’d disown ye, an’ ye did that! Daughter, I’ve gone myself where you went the day of Piro’s Hill. Aye. Long before you were born, I led the clansmen against Roman slave raiders. I led them back too, but many fewer than I led out.

  “I thought the gods had turned from me, and long I stood on the great cliff looking down at the sea. But I could no hear the gods’ voices clear, only my own shame, and it seemed a coward’s deed, to run away from only that.

  “So I walked away from the cliff, and when next I led the clansmen forth, the Romans bled a much as we. That was when I fought side by side with your mother’s kin, and how ye came to be.”

  “But—”

  “Hush. Your luck’s better than mine. I had to wait half a year to know my luck had turned. Ye charmed the very man who took ye prisoner, until now he’s thinking after giving away his whole victory!”

  “It may be a false promise.”

  “Hah. Your brother said it. Who last fooled you? Lass, lass, you must no think less of yourself than you are worth. Modesty is no virtue for those who lead good men to war.”

  25

  The wide valley was green with maize not yet high enough to form ears. Tents stood at each end, green and white at the north, blue and gold to the south. As the True Sun stood high overhead, a single trumpet sounded in the southern camp, to be answered by one from the north.

  Ganton mounted carefully. Vaulting into the saddle is all very well, but this is no time to break a leg. Or be in pain.

  Drumold was helped to his saddle by Balquhain.

  “I like this not,” Hilaskos said. He glared at Drumold.

  Ganton ignored him. He signaled to his squire to raise the banner of the Fighting Man and ride ahead. Ganton and Drumold followed.

  “Be careful of the corn,” Ganton said.

  Drumold nodded. “Aye. An’ this goes not well—”

  If this doesn’t go well, there won’t be anything standing here, or in a dozen other valleys.

  A party of three rode toward them from the other end of the valley.

  “We’re out o’ range o’ their bows,” Drumold said.

  And the center is beyond range of both. But Drumold has a point. I wonder what orders he has given those clansmen of his? “By Yatar, he’s brought Apelles!”

  “So ’tis no trick,” Drumold said. “Or Strymon’s the greatest fool in nine kingdoms.”

  Ganton’s squire reached the tiny flag the scouts had set twenty paces short of the field’s center. He halted, and Ganton rode on ahead. Drumold waited with the squire.

  “Hail, Prince Strymon.”

  “Hail, Wanax Ganton.”

  He dresses well. Ganton smiled grimly. His own armor was still stained with dust from the trail, and the golden helmet tied to his saddle had dents from battle. Despite the protests of his bodyguards he’d left his axe and carried a jewel-hilted sword of state, not really fit for war, but otherwise he looked very much the commander of an army.

  If Strymon wore armor, it was concealed under his green and white surcoat and scarlet silk cape. His sword was hilted in amber, and he wore gold rings on fingers and ears.

  No helm or shield. Ganton relaxed. He unslung a flask from his saddle horn. “Wine, my lord?” He poured into the goblet that hung from his saddle, drank, and turned the goblet over to show it was empty.

  Strymon grinned. “With pleasure, Majesty.” They came closer together. Strymon accepted the flask, drank deeply, and returned it. “Excellent wine. I should have my vintners speak to yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  Strymon’s grin faded. “If the Time leaves any grapes at all in our lands. Your pardon, Majesty, but we have little time this day. The High Rexja’s army approaches, and much of his vanguard will be in my camp by tomorrow night.”

  Ganton shrugged. “Highness—your army is in my lands, not mine in yours.”

  “Yes. I received my orders, and I obeyed them—”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Yes. You know, then. Orders signed by Wanax Palamon, but never written—never understood by him.”

  “In a word, orders from Toris.”

  “Or Issardos.” Strymon shrugged. “Does it matter? The question now is, can we come to terms we can both accept? I confess, Majesty, that I have always been a simple soldier. I am not accustomed to thinking like the Wanax of Ta-Meltemos. War has been my profession. Now I must think of my people.”

  “I see you have brought Apelles.”

  “Yes. He has much experience at—what he calls administration. I have learned much from him. Majesty, I know his true loyalty is not to me.”

  “Nor to me,” Ganton said. “Apelles serves Yanulf, who may be my chancellor, but who is first and always Highpriest of Yatar. You could have chosen a worse advisor.”

  Strymon shrugged. “Except for military officers, there is no one in my camp I can trust not to give first loyalty to Chancellor Rauros or his master Issardos.”

  “Highness, if you wish the services of Apelles for the future, I am certain Yanulf will give his consent.” He’d better! “This is an odd moment. We each have an army. We each believe we would win victory were we to fight.”

  “And we would each lose no matter who has won,” Strymon said. “Were it not for the Time, it would be—interesting to see whether your guns could make the difference. I tell you this, no army of mine is going to ride down this valley against nine of those monsters.”

  Ganton grinned wryly. “Your scouts are better than I had thought. But we have eleven.”

  “Nine. One has lost a wheel, and another was overturned in a river last night.”

  Yatar, Christ, a
nd Vothan! “I—see. Thank you, my lord. Battle between us might be more—interesting—than either of us would like. But your army must leave my Realm!”

  “Of course. That will not be as easy to accomplish as I would like.” Strymon’s voice dropped even lower. “Majesty, less than half my troops are of Ta-Meltemos.”

  “Issardos again.”

  “Yes. I see now that he schemes to make the High Rexja into a Great King of Kings, and I have been his catspaw. Majesty, all of the chivalry of Ta-Meltemos will follow me north, but the rest probably will not.”

  A problem I cannot solve for you, my friend. “Where will you go?”

  “To the Green Palace, to send Rauros packing! I see my duty is to take the throne, in fact if not in name.”

  “A hard decision.”

  “Not so hard. My father will not know the difference.”

  “I grieve for you.” My father knew he had been cast out. You’re lucky, my friend. “Now to terms. You will withdraw your army. Ta-Meltemos will give no more aid to the Five Kingdoms in war against Drantos, and will send aid to Drantos in war against anyone but the Five Kingdoms.”

  Strymon considered. “I can agree to this. In return, you seek no reparations for damages done in this campaign, and you will share your knowledge of the Time with us.”

  “That is easier to agree to than you think,” Ganton said. “Even if we all stand together, few enough will survive the Time and the skyfire that follows.”

  “Those stories are true, then?”

  “You will learn.” Ganton raised his voice. “Apelles.”

  “Majesty?”

  “Prince Strymon, may he approach?”

  “Certainly. Apelles, if you please.”

  Apelles rode up to join them. “Majesty. Highness.”

  “Apelles, from the moment that Prince Strymon’s army marches northward and out of Drantos, you will share with him all your knowledge of the Time, and of our preparations for it, saving only what you may know of our recent troop movements.”

  “All.” Apelles tilted his head to one side. “All?”

  “All. Including the sky box that talks, and the great sky-ship you have seen. All.”

  “I gather I am not to go home so soon as I thought,” Apelles said dryly.

  “I am certain that Yanulf will consent,” Ganton said.

  Apelles grinned. “So am I. Majesty, I must send letters—”

  “Of course. We will send apprentices and a priest to aid you, as befits your new station.” And Yanulf will make you a bishop at least, or he’s going to find it harder to collect his tithes.

  “May I offer advice, Majesty?” Apelles said.

  “Why do you think you’re here? Speak!”

  “I do not care for the reports I receive from the Green Palace,” Apelles said.

  “What do you know of my father that I do not?” Strymon demanded.

  “Only that Rauros grows more bold. Highness, think upon what might happen if a messenger brings a Royal Writ under the Great Seal, accusing you of treason. Or accusing Wanax Ganton of atrocities and demanding that his lands be laid waste. Or—”

  “I see. I must return at once.”

  “Highness, you cannot,” Apelles said. “Without you, your army will put this land to the sword.”

  “Then what must be done?”

  “Send Prince Teodoros. At once.”

  The lady Tylara does not think much of Teodoros. How can I say this?

  “Apelles, my brother is loyal, but he—”

  “Is no statesman,” Apelles said. “True. He will need good advice, which we must be at pains to send often. But I see no other way.”

  Strymon looked thoughtful. “It may be enough. I suppose you can suggest an advisor to accompany him?”

  “Prakes, Priest of Yatar,” Apelles said.

  “Um. I would have thought him young, but yes, he has my brother’s respect if any churchman does. A convert to the new faith, I believe—”

  I would wager half a kingdom he is a convert, Ganton thought. “Highness, I see we must move swiftly. Shall we bring witnesses to our agreement?”

  “I am ready. Yon squire is Bheroman Tarmon do Karimos. I am afraid I cannot trust many more of my officers to know our terms.”

  “Bring him then. I will summon Drumold, and we five will be witness enough.”

  * * *

  “You are mad!” Bheroman Darkon pounded on the council table. “Withdraw? Nonsense. We lost time while you were enthralled by that highland witch, but we can still thrust to the walls of Edron in a ten-day!”

  Strymon stared at the map on the table, then lifted his eyes to scan the faces of the dozen lords and officers around him. He thought most approved of Darkon’s speech. “Perhaps, if the weather holds,” Strymon said. “And what then?”

  “Then we will have won!”

  “We will have won nothing. Edron will not fall to threats. Let me remind you, my Lord Darkon, it is they, not we, who have the guns.”

  At least two barons muttered approval.

  “Then we must destroy them in the field. Kill or capture that boy king of theirs. That will certainly bring us victory.”

  “It is easy enough to speak of destruction, and I do not doubt we could hurt Ganton badly. But my lords, the trick is to avoid being destroyed ourselves. You’ve heard the reports of our scouts. Before he left us so strangely, Matthias told us what guns and star weapons can do. Ganton seeks no battle. He will choose a strong position and make us come to him. My lords, I doubt no one’s courage, but this is no way to make war.”

  “If you hadn’t stopped here,” Darkon said.

  “My lord,” Strymon said gently, “I was ordered to remain here to await the High Rexja’s army.”

  “So we serve fools—or—” Darkon caught himself.

  Pity. Had he said “coward” I could have killed him with honor. “I will not hear that said of our high king,” Strymon said. “Nor yet of me, and I would be a fool to remain here facing the host of Drantos on its own terms. Captain Ninas, how long will the fodder last?”

  “Highness, no more than a ten-day. Even now we feed the horses but seven pecks of the eight they need.”

  Bheroman Abados grunted. “And meanwhile Ganton’s tame wolf Morrone rages through my lands. Whatever the rest of you do, I want permission to take my forces home and put a stop to that.”

  “Granted,” Strymon said.

  Some of the others glared.

  “My lords, many of your homes are far from here. Think upon the Time.”

  “Legends,” someone said.

  “It is legend that the seas rise? That the rains come late, then beat the crops into the ground? The Demon Sun is no legend.” Strymon shrugged. “I do not know what the other kingdoms will do, but Ta-Meltemos cannot afford war with men when the very gods war with one another across our lands!”

  “You seek peace without the High Rexja’s permission!” someone shouted. “Treason!”

  “The High Rexja is not yet Great King,” Strymon said. “And who here wants him to be? My lords, do you all wish to be slaves to Issardos?”

  “By Vothan, it is treason!” Darkon shouted. “Guards! Treason, treason!”

  “My lord, I think you do not wish to shout so loud, lest my guards believe you threaten me,” Strymon said carefully.

  Darkon dashed to the tent doorway. “Soldiers! Hear me! Prince Strymon abandons the High Rexja!”

  A dozen troops in the green and white of Ta-Meltemos charged forward with drawn swords. Strymon held up his hand. “Let him speak,” he said.

  Darkon opened his mouth to shout, and saw that everyone within earshot wore green and white. “I see.” He turned to Strymon. “Will you let me address the troops in assembly, then?”

  Strymon grinned. “Certainly, my lord. As soon as we are across the border.”

  INTERLUDE

  LUNA

  Agzaral sat across the table from the three Shalnuksis. “My thanks, Excellencies, for setting t
he cabin temperature for human comfort.”

  “You are welcome,” Karreeel answered.

  Agzaral had dealt with Shalnuksis long enough to recognize the tone. They wanted something. It would take some time to find out what. Shalnuksis were long-lived and had a great deal more patience than humans.

  They had arrayed themselves in their traditional pattern. Karreeel, the only one Agzaral had much experience of, sat in the middle chair. That meant the others outranked him. The Shalnuksis to his left wore the silver-blue tunic of the Council of Merchants. Badges of civic achievement decorated his collar. Agzaral knew nothing else about him except that his name was Lyaaarin.

  The third Shalnuksis was Tsirovv, one of the nine members of the committee known as the Sentinels of Governance. Shalnuksi government was complex, with a multiplicity of officers and officials, and a Grand Council that was in theory supreme. The Sentinels were something between Ephors and ombudsmen, and were supposed to represent the best of Shalnuksi business ethics.

  Agzaral smiled to himself. The best in business ethics did not prevent the Sentinel from coming to Luna to negotiate what was, after all, if not a criminal activity, then certainly one the Shalnuksis did not care to have come to the attention of the Confederation and its Council.

  Tsirovv was nearing the end of a long career, begun in the year Louis XIV of France died. He was one of the few living Shalnuksis with a reputation for statesmanship. His presence on this unexpected delegation to Luna could mean anything. The matter is more important than I had thought.

  Agzaral’s smile was exaggerated. Shalnuksis did not easily read human expressions; best to make them unambiguous. “Excellencies, how may I serve you?”

  Karreeel made some entries in the portable computer on the table in front of him and inclined his head toward the Councilor. The Councilor contracted his nasal slit, the Shalnuksi equivalent of a frown.

  “Do you wish to claim that the additional heavy weapons and ammunition were procured and shipped to Tran by the Slave Les without your knowledge?”

  “Should I? Excellencies, my time is yours, but surely you have not come all this way to discuss trivia. I sent Captain Galloway most of the equipment he requested, including ammunition, toilet paper, a product known as ‘Preparation H,’ and cartons of a particular brand of cigarette. I believe you have an inventory. If not, I can provide one. Are you suggesting I have overcharged you?”