by David Weber
Several of those estates had once been independent towns. Now they were simply manors, owned outright by Spring Flower and his handful of favorites, like Qwaidu, and the grand duke didn’t much care if the serfs he bound to his estates had once been free peasants, or even citizens of one of the chartered towns. They were ready hands and strong backs; that was all he cared about. In fairness, many of the involuntary serfs had decided the survival of their families under his protection was more important than any niggling questions about whether or not they’d been bound to the land legally. The ones who disagreed learned quickly that it was wiser not to argue the point, whatever they might feel about it. The smarter ones learned by example. The slower ones became the example.
By now, Spring Flower’s grand duchy had swollen to almost a hundred thousand square miles, stretching well over two hundred miles east of Fangkau—farther than the city of Shaiki—and as far south as Kaisun. That was a staggering amount of territory, more than enough to merit its designation as a grand duchy. It took a large army to protect that vast a domain, too, and Spring Flower’s originally modest force had grown accordingly. By now, Qwaidu had over seventy thousand men under his command, with a solid core of ex-Spears fleshed out by new recruits. Quite a lot of those onetime civilians had been caught up in his sweeps outside the grand duchy and decided they’d rather serve in the army than break their backs on someone else’s acres. Besides, Qwaidu’s men got first call on food, clothing … and women. For those who were married, the army provided their families with security and at least some luxuries. For those who weren’t, there was a ready supply of comely wenches, and those who didn’t come willingly could always be … convinced.
But there was one annoying fly in Spring Flower’s ointment. The Chynduk Valley had defied every attempt to bring it under his protection. He’d even offered the Valleyers generous terms, only to have them rejected. And the two expeditions Qwaidu had mounted against them had been disasters. It was probably as well that none of Spring Flower’s potential rivals realized how badly his troops had been hurt after the second invasion attempt. Qwaidu might not know who the Valley’s new military commander was, but he knew he wanted the bastard dead.
Not as badly as Spring Flower wanted him dead, however. It was bad enough that the Valley’s prosperous farms, grist mills, and labor force remained out of reach, but the grand duke could have lived with that. It was the Valley’s example he couldn’t tolerate. Despite all efforts to suppress it, the word had spread that the Valley continued to defy him, and every few months some clutch of serfs would flee the land, trying to reach the Chynduk’s promised freedom.
Most never made it, but the need to make examples of those who’d made the attempt was a constant, niggling waste of useful labor. Worse, some of them did evade pursuit, like the six or seven hundred serfs who’d just escaped Captain of Foot Rung. And, even worse, Rung’s lead squadron had lost over a hundred men in a bickering, running fight with Valleyer infantry. According to Rung, they’d killed twenty or thirty Valleyers in return. Personally, Qwaidu doubted they’d gotten even a dozen of them. He’d fought those bastards himself, and he knew the terrain between Ranlai and the Valley. Besides, Rung had captured only a handful of weapons.
“Your Grace,” he said finally, looking up from the map on the table between them, “chasing serfs after they’ve already run for it is … not the best approach. Most of the time, they get a head start before we even know they’ve run. If they’ve planned it properly, they can be halfway to the damned Valley before we find out about it! And we’re using up horses we can’t afford to lose, especially with winter coming on. Now, winter also means we should see a drop in things like this—nobody wants to be caught without a roof when the snows hit—but they’ll start up again as soon as the ice melts. And as long as the Shan-wei–damned Valley’s out there, we’ll keep right on seeing this kind of crap.”
“Well, so far your attempts to deal with the Valley haven’t been very successful, have they?” Spring Flower observed in an unpleasant tone.
“No, Your Grace, they haven’t. And they won’t be, at least until sometime next year. We’ve got the manpower. What we don’t have are the weapons. In fact, the damned Valleyers have better weapons than we do. I have to wonder if they’ve gotten that rifle manufactory back into operation.”
Spring Flower’s teeth grated almost audibly. The Chynduk foundry was another reason he wanted the Valley. The thought that a mob of commoners and outright serfs might have put it back into production and be using that production against him was enough to make anyone’s blood boil. On the other hand—
“So you think you’ll be able to do something about the situation ‘sometime next year’?”
“We may be able to, if His Majesty and Earl Snow Peak really can get a few thousand new-model rifles through to us,” Qwaidu said. “We can’t unless they do, so a lot depends on how likely that is.”
He paused, arching one eyebrow, and Spring Flower shook his head irritably.
“I can’t say for sure. I believe they’ll make every effort—all my sources in Yu-Kwau agree on that. Whether or not they’ll be able to get them past the damned Charisians and that miserable son-of-a-bitch Rainbow Waters is another question. I think the odds are at least fair, especially if they grease the right palms between Zhyahngdu and Dosahl. And—” he shot the baron a level look “—a lot will also depend on how ominously you can loom down on the southern border to keep those bastards’ fingers out of the pie when the time comes.”
“That’s essentially how I read the probabilities, as well, Your Grace. And if we can get modern arms into the men’s hands in any sort of numbers, the situation in the Valley will change radically. In the meantime, though, I think we need to focus on sealing it off from the outside. I don’t like the idea of tying down permanent garrisons out in the middle of nowhere, but Captain of Foot Rung has a point. Fifteen hundred men permanently based between the Yang-zhi Farm and Zhyndow would make it impossible for anyone to get in—or out—of the frigging Valley that way. And the other end’s already closed. Or can be, easily enough.”
Spring Flower nodded slowly. The town of Ky-su, at the northern end of the Chynduk Valley, was far beyond his own current frontier, but Zhynzhou Syang, once a mere captain of swords in the Emperor’s Spears, had become yet another of Harchong’s warlords and made Ky-su his stronghold. His “Barony of Cliffwall” was tiny and had yet to be recognized by Yu-kwau, but so far he’d made it stand up against all comers.
“I knew Syang before the Rebellion,” Qwaidu continued. “I know damned well he wants the Valley even worse than we do, but he also knows he doesn’t have a hope in hell of taking it out of his own resources. On the other hand, he knows how much influence you have in Yu-kwau, Your Grace. I think there’s the possibility of a … cooperative effort that would help all of us.”
.VI.
Merlin Athrawes’ Suite, Royal Palace, City of Gorath, Kingdom of Dohlar.
Merlin Athrawes sat on the balcony, gazing out across the roofs and walls of Gorath as the Dohlaran capital drowsed under the warm afternoon sun. The city walls weren’t the only part of Gorath which had been built out of the famous “golden stone,” and the light poured down like honey on the city streets and the broad, slow-moving ribbon of the Gorath River and the parkland which followed much of the river’s course. Gorath—especially its architecture—reminded him a lot of cities Nimue Alban had seen in northwestern Spain or on the plains of Italy back on Old Earth.
It was actually quite beautiful. He understood why Dohlaran painters loved the light so much. And it was enough to make him feel even more homesick than usual for the murdered world of Nimue’s birth.
He was alone on the balcony, parked in a comfortable lounge chair with a mug in his hand and a pot of cherrybean on a small spirit burner at his elbow. It was very quiet with both Nynian and Stefyny absent, and the suite felt empty without them. Sebahstean hadn’t been able to accompany them to Gorath at all; mi
dshipmen and junior lieutenants in the Imperial Charisian Navy went where their ships went, not where their families went. But his sister and Nynian had abandoned Merlin today, as well, accompanying Alahnah to an afternoon tea with the women of the Mahkzwail and Whytmyn clans. Sharleyan had been invited, but she and Cayleb were deep in meetings with Fern, Dragon Island, and Rahnyld and had been forced to decline.
Merlin, as a mere male, had been pointedly—although politely, he conceded—excluded from the invitation.
He’d wondered if Hailyn Whytmyn and Stefyny Mahkzwail might have made an exception in his case if they’d known about Nimue Alban.
Probably not, he’d concluded. And just as well, really, when he thought about it.
And so he sat on the balcony, drinking his cherrybean, soaking up the sun, and generally consoling himself in the absence of the women in his life. Whatever it might have looked like to a casual observer, however, he wasn’t looking at the city at all, at the moment. He was watching something very different, and he exhaled noisily as the take from the SNARC above the Chiang-wu valley came to an end.
“Impressive,” he said out loud, since there was no one to hear him. He took another sip of cherrybean. “That man’s impressed me from the very beginning.”
“Syngpu?” Nahrmahn’s voice said in the back of his brain.
“No, Helmuth von Moltke,” Merlin growled. “Of course Syngpu!”
“I fail to grasp why you so persistently rise to his baiting, Merlin,” another voice said. Owl had finally become accustomed to addressing Merlin by first name rather than his rank, at least on informal occasions. It had only taken the AI ten or twelve years.
“Surely you are aware that he knew precisely who you referred to?”
“Of course he is!” Nahrmahn chuckled. “That was the entire point of his comeback. And a nicely ironic one it was, too, considering von Moltke’s birth class. Although, actually, now that I think about it, he has shown much of the same talent, hasn’t he? And despite the … geographical limits of the Chynduk Valley, he’s probably had even more impact on West Haven than even von Moltke—the elder, I mean—had on Europe.”
“Tell me you already knew who I was talking about and didn’t dive into the library base for a little fast research!” Merlin shot back with a grin.
“Unfortunately, in this case he did,” Owl said before Nahrmahn could reply. “He and I came across von Moltke—both uncle and nephew, actually—while performing research for Duke Serabor.”
“Really he’s more like the elder than the younger, though,” Nahrmahn said thoughtfully. “I’m not comparing their situations, although as I say, his impact on North Harchong’s got to be at least as significant for West Haven as the unification of Germany was for Europe. And the one thing Syngpu’s never going to do is waver back and forth between options like von Moltke’s nephew did. Once he makes up his mind, he’s pretty damned … formidable about sticking with it.”
“You’re right about his impact, but I wonder how many people realize how big a part he played in launching the entire Rebellion?” Merlin mused.
“Not a lot, and a lot of those who did know are dead now.” The rotund little prince’s avatar shook his head sadly. “There’s been a lot of that going around.”
“And there’ll be a lot more if that bastard Spring Flower and his pet Qwaidu ever break into the Valley,” Merlin said more grimly.
“They’re not going to do that tomorrow or even the day after tomorrow,” Nahrmahn pointed out. “In fact, Owl and I estimate it’ll be at least a couple of years—minimum—before someone like Spring Flower or Qwaidu could seriously threaten them, barring anything neither of us can foresee at the moment.”
“Granted. But if Spring Flower ever does get his support base built up enough, he’s going to have to try. It’s the way his mind works. He can’t afford to have the Valley sitting up there on his flank like some sort of promised land for escaped serfs.”
“This notion of just sealing both ends of the Valley would defang a lot of that.”
“Nahrmahn, you used to be a prince. Tell me just locking the door is going to make someone like this bastard decide to let sleeping Valleys lie!”
“No, not so much,” Nahrmahn conceded, and Merlin snorted.
“The good news is that Syngpu and the others have such a robust support base in the Valley,” he said after a moment. “And the fact that Syngpu is probably about two thousand percent better as a commander than Qwaidu or anyone else on Spring Flower’s payroll. The bad news is that the Valley’s on its own and Spring Flower’s power base just keeps growing, Nahrmahn.”
Merlin shook his head, blue eyes darker even than usual. The warlordism in Central Harchong was as bad as ever, just different. The small fry were being choked out as the big fish swallowed up the little ones. It was a slow process that chewed up and spat out a lot of human beings, and the chaos of every-man-for-himself wasn’t coming to an end anytime soon. Indeed, it was likely to continue for years, yet. It was, however, becoming apparent which players were most likely to survive at the end of the day, and Spring Flower, unfortunately, placed high on that list. Which meant that, eventually, he and Qwaidu would try to press home a campaign up the Chynduk.
“The terrain’s on their side, and their weapons are at least as good—better, actually.” Nahrmahn, Merlin thought, sounded like a man trying to cheer him up. “In fact, if Spring Flower’s impatient enough to push Qwaidu into a premature invasion attempt, the losses might just open the door for some of his own competition to hit him from behind with hopefully fatal consequences.”
“Which is exactly why they’re coming up with this strategy, instead,” Merlin said glumly. “I wish Star Rising and the others would get more aggressive about pushing on to Cliffwall Pass!”
“There’s no question that that’s where they’re headed eventually,” Nahrmahn pointed out.
“No, and I understand all the reasons to be cautious, just like I understand why staking a formal claim to Shang-mi’s likely to have … significant diplomatic repercussions, let’s say. I don’t really have a problem with methodical advances. In fact, I’m all in favor of not biting off more than they can chew! I just wish they were biting off those mouthfuls a little closer together. What I’m afraid of is that if they wait too long, they’ll have to settle for the western end of the pass. I hate the very thought of what Spring Flower and Qwaidu will do if they break into the Valley, but the long-term implications for the United Provinces are just as bad, in a lot of ways. They need the eastern end of the pass if they really want to use the Chiang-wus as a defensive bulwark. The high road through the pass is almost eight hundred miles long, Nahrmahn! Think of all of the defensive positions that would give them. But if they wait too long, Spring Flower’s going to have exactly the same advantages against anyone going the other way.”
“I know.” Nahrmahn nodded again. “And Koryn’s training cadre’s bringing them along pretty well, I think, with exactly those points in mind, whether he’s fully discussed them with Star Rising or not. A lot depends on timing, of course. First because I don’t think the UPPM’s up to campaigning across that much distance, if only because of how much area they’d have to hold after they got there. They need at least another couple of years to train more men just to have the warm bodies, let alone find them weapons! And, second, because moving troops over that kind of distance is so time-consuming. Their ability to respond quickly to any aid request from the Valley—or any suggestion from us that they ought to be making contact with the Valleyers—is likely to be pretty arthritic.”
“Exactly the reason I’m fretting,” Merlin agreed. “Just getting the lines open as far as Shang-mi, so they could ship the troops by rail at least that far, would be an enormous help, and I know you’re right. They can’t go a lot faster than they are. It’s just that.…”
He fell silent for a long moment, then shook his head sharply.
“Damn, I don’t want to see those people go down, Nahrmahn
! I know no one in the circle does, but they’re such decent people, and I’ve seen way too many decent people get ground up in the gears.”
“I know,” Nahrmahn repeated, smiling sadly at his friend. “I know.”
“What we need,” Merlin said slowly, “is some sort of … rapid response plan to have waiting if the Valley’s situation changes suddenly. Something that could buy the Valleyers the time the UP needed to advance to them—assuming we can talk them into it.”
“I believe that’s called ‘magic,’” Nahrmahn said dryly, and Merlin chuckled humorlessly.
“I’ll give you that. But ‘magic’ is what we Charisians do on a routine basis, isn’t it?”
He took another swig of cherrybean and leaned back, cup in his right hand, tapping the tip of his nose with his left index finger while he pondered. Then, gradually, his eyes narrowed and the finger-tapping slowed. It stopped, and Nahrmahn’s avatar cocked his head.
“Since Nynian isn’t here, I’ll take it,” he said.
Merlin blinked at him, eyebrows arched, and the Emeraldian grinned.
“To quote her favorite question, ‘What have you thought up this time?’”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a fully formed plan just yet,” Merlin said, with a slight answering smile and a pronounced glint in his eye, “and to make it work—if we can make it work—we’ll need to … point some things in another direction. Have to get started on it pretty quick, too, actually. Not that that wouldn’t be worthwhile in its own right, now that I think about.…”
His voice trailed off and Nahrmahn glared at him.
“It’s my job to infuriate people with tantalizing hints, not yours!” he growled. “I don’t appreciate your stealing my small amusements, Merlin!”
“What?” Merlin blinked, then grinned at him. “Sorry! Not that you don’t deserve to get a little of your own back, from time to time. But I wasn’t really trying to be mysterious. It’s just that it’s occurred to me that sometimes when there’s an obstacle in the way, it makes more sense to go over it than through it.”