The servant's eyes widened when he saw the ring.
"Immediately, sir."
"Tell her it-is a matter of life and death," King added.
16
Grayson followed his guide down the winding stairway. The old man walked slowly, but the light here was so dim that even with a far younger and more nimble guide, Grayson would have had to move with caution. The ceiling was low enough that he had to stoop to keep from hitting his head. The stone walls were dank with moisture.
It had not, after all, been luck that had brought Grayson together with Victor Wallenby on the stone wall along the statue garden. Wallenby had seen Grayson making his way from the alley where he had escaped the Marik soldiers, and had been sufficiently intrigued by the younger man's appearance to decide to investigate more closely.
"Of course, I knew you were needin' help," Wallenby had explained when Grayson found him again in the park. "I could tell you weren't from around here."
"But how did you know?" Grayson had asked in exasperation. He'd looked around the plaza area at the other civilians, most wearing shapeless, homemade clothes identical to his own. "I'm dressed just like a farmer . . ."
"Ah!" Wallenby's eyes had twinkled. "But that's just it, young feller. You obviously weren't a farmer. Look at those hands! Not a callous on 'em."
'Oh, come on! You couldn't have checked my callouses from across the street, when you said you first saw me!"
"Nope. But I could see a young guy dressed like a farmer. And I asks m'self . . . why's a young buck come to town wearin' his everyday work clothes from the farm?
An old guy like me . .-. sure! I wear this because it's comfortable . . . and I'm too old to play dress-up! Your father, forty standard years old and hands calloused like these"—he held up his own gnarled hands—"Who does he have to impress with his clothes? But you? I could see as the farmer's son, maybe . . . but not in that outfit. No, the farmer's son would wear his good clothes to come to town. Impress the girls! Show off to the other farmers' sons how much money he has in his pockets! You? You don't even have pockets in those baggy things!"
"So, how did you know I was looking for the Steiner . . . ah . . . representative?"
"The Steiner spy? I didn't know, for sure. But I figured it had to be either the Davion or Steiner folks. They both have their businesses here, in the central part o' town. I didn't figure you were lookin' for the Liao spy. He's clear over by the spaceport. And the Kurita spy, well, she does her business out in the well-to-do part of town . . . and if you was to wander in over there wearing hick clothes like those, I'd figure you were a lot crazier than you looked! Course, she's got a place in town—or had one, until yesterday afternoon—but she still mostly caters to the rich folks. I doubt that you could get past her front door looking like that."
"Well, I'm not interested in any spy of Kurita's. Or Liao's. I was told that a man named Jenton Moragen might be able to help me, but when I found his place closed up, I thought I'd try Wilkis Atkins."
"Steiner or Davion . . . right. I knew it! I had you spotted from the moment I laid eyes on you! You are new at this kind of thing."
The twinkle in the old man's eye robbed his words of any offense, and so Grayson smiled. "I'm afraid so. You claimed you could help me. Can you tell me if Moragen was arrested? His emporium was closed."
"Yep. Marik soldiers went in and shut him down two days ago. But he'd heard they was comin' and lit out before they got there. Same for Major Atkins."
"Why did the soldiers close them down?"
"I dunno . . . except that something hellacious big has been happening here, ever since the Marik troops came in. I wouldn't wonder if the Marik generals have something big cooking here, and they don't want the other House governments to get wind of it. Of course, the best way to stir up a feller's interest is to try to arrest all his friends in the very town where you're tryin' to keep a low profile, but . . . Well, governments ain't generally known for their brains, I guess."
Grayson had stared at the man, hands on hips. "But who the hell are you, anyway? Another spy?"
Wallenby had broken into laughter at that. "Hell, no! But I got eyes, ain't I? They ain't shut down yet! And this is a small town ... for all that, it's the biggest city on Helm! I've lived here all my life, which is sayin' something, and when you've been in a small town that long, you get to know everyone. Lots of people from out of town are here the past few days, o' course, but you were different . . . dressed like something you weren't."
"But you know the Steiner representative."
"Yep. Know him well."
"I don't suppose you know what's been going on, here? Why all the Marik troops ... the fighting out at Durandel?"
"Nope."
"Can you get me in to see Jenton Moragen?"
"I dunno. I'll have to talk to him, see if he want's t' see you. As you can imagine, they're both a bit hesitant about talkin' to strangers, just now. Who should I say is callin'?"
Grayson hesitated. If he told Wallenby his true identity, the old man might be tempted to turn him over to the authorities in hopes of a reward. He didn't want to believe that of the friendly old man, but he'd been badly shaken by how easily Wallenby had seen through his disguise, and he didn't want to take any chances.
"I'd really rather not say. I know Moragen is taking a chance if he sees me. As far as he knows, I'm with Marik counterintelligence. The hell of it is, I learned his name from a Lieutenant Gainsborough, on Janos Marik's staff!"
Wallenby's bushy white eyebrows crowded toward the top of his forehead. "Tell you the truth, old Jules Gainsborough's word'll get you farther with Moragen than lots of others. He wouldn't have told you about either Jenton or Wilkis if he didn't think you had a reason to know. Tell you what. You stay here and let me make a call. Don't talk to anybody." He'd leaned forward on his walking stick, his eyes laughing. "There's too damn many spies loose out on these streets, and you never know when you'll find y'self talkin' to one!"
Fifteen minutes later, Wallenby had returned, and the two men had walked east, toward the part of town dominated by the old AgroMech industrial facility. The place where they were meeting Moragen wasn't within the plant itself, but located in an AgroMech storehouse close by, where the heavy farming machines were arrayed for inspection and sale by the company that manufactured them. A palm electronic key won them admittance to the main warehouse, a dimly-lit room dominated by row upon row of huge, spindle-legged agricultural 'Mechs. Another locked door had led to a narrow hallway, then to a spiral stairway running down a dank stairwell with wet stone walls.
The room at the bottom looked as though it had been carved from native rock, and it was chilly so many meters below the level of the street.
Two men waited under the pale light of a ceiling fluorostrip, seated at a plastic table in an otherwise empty room. One of them caught Grayson's attention immediately—tall, silver-haired, hawk-nosed, and lean, he had the look of a MechWarrior. The man opposite him was small and plain to the point of dumpiness. He was bald and rubbed the palms of his hands slowly back and forth in an incessant revelation of the strain he was under.
Wallenby gestured toward the nervous one. "This, sir, is Jenton Moragen, of Moragen's Emporium. This other gentleman is the director of Skyway Travel, citizen Wilkis Atkins. Or should I say 'Major'?"
The one identified as Atkins turned his mouth in a sour expression. "I'm not sure you should say anything, Wallenby, in front of this person." Atkins looked sharply at Grayson. "Who are you, sir?"
Grayson took a deep breath. If he had been betrayed—again—there would be no help for him here. He would have to assume that these men were who they claimed to be. If they were deceiving him, he could not see their purpose. Marik soldiers could have taken him easily while he sat in the park, a waiting for Wallenby's return. The thought that Wallenby had gone to call the soldiers had turned that fifteen minutes wait into an eternity.
"My name, gentlemen, is Colonel Grayson Carlyle. Until yesterday, I
was lord of the landhold at Durandel, Helmbold. My regiment, the Gray Death Legion, is encamped some distance from here, near what is left of Durandel. I am here to try to learn what ..."
He broke off as both Atkins and Moragen rose to their feet.
"Carlyle!" Moragen said "I told you, Atkins! I told you it had to be him ..."
But Atkins was descending on Carlyle, his forefinger raised. "You . . you scum! You have the audacity to seek us out here . . . now?"
Even Wallenby looked shocked. "Him!" was all he said.
"Whoa, there, people," Grayson said, moving back a step. "Every since I arrived on this planet, people have been treating us like renegades, like outlaws, but I can't figure out why. Why not let me in on the secret! Just what the hell is going on around here, anyway?"
Atkins stopped short. "What? You don't know?"
"Damn right, I don't know! That's why I sneaked in here, why I wanted to see you! Somehow, we seem to have pulled the whole Marik army down on our heads . . . but we don't know how, and we don't know why! I came here to talk to you, Moragen, to try to get passage offworld for my people." He didn't mention the loss of the DropShips—there was no reason to admit that particular weakness—but it was common for mercenaries to dicker with prospective employers over transportation.
"You Dastard," Atkins said. "You're going to stand there and deny what you did on Sirius V?"
Grayson felt himself growing cold all over, as though suddenly transported to the chill surface of that ice-locked world. "What did I do on Sirius V?"
"You murdering bastard, you accepted the surrender of the city of Tiantan! You negotiated the surrender, trooped aboard your DropShips, and then blew the living hell out of all five city domes! Damn you, your 'Mechs were holographed smashing through the rubble after the explosion! You blew open five domes! There were twelve million people in that city! Women! Children! Old men! Babies! The ones who didn't fry when you blew the domes choked to death in the frigid, poison air. Have you tried breathing ammonia at fifty below, mercenary? It's not healthy!"
Grayson listened to Atkins' diatribe with growing horror. "I give you my word, Atkins, this is the first I've heard of this," he said when the Davion agent had run out of breath.
"And what is the word of a renegade merc worth these days? I hear they're still digging frozen bodies out from under the rubble. They're finding survivors, too. That you can believe. You might have wiped Tiantan off the map, Carlyle, but you missed enough people that they'll be able to nail you flat out on the ground! And God, I hope they do it . . . if I don't do it first!"
"Hey! Listen to me, man! We took the surrender of the city! We turned command over to the Duke of Irian! We talked to the man's headquarters from the jump point days later, and everything was fine!" Grayson's horror took an even keener edge at the memory of his communications people aboard the Phobos unable to find the Tiantan transmitter carrier wave, and that no one in the Duke's command had wanted to talk with him. He remembered the peculiar behavior of Lord Garth, and struggled to fit that behavior into the pieces of the puzzle that he was hearing now.
"You're saying someone set you up?" Atkins said. "For God's sake, Carlyle, why would anyone do a thing like that? Listen! Your 'mechs were holographed! Your DropShips were holographed! I've seen them, with the Tiantan domes burning on the horizon behind them! The story's been running for two days over the Helmdown news services! Don't you bother to monitor the news?"
Grayson shook his head. In point of fact, BattleMechs were not generally equipped to picked up televised signals. The Deimos or the Phobos could have done it, but there had been no reason at the time. They had been too busy dealing with the Marik forces at Durandel . . . and later, at Cleft Valley.
"I don't care what was photographed," Grayson said. "Photographs, even holographs, can be faked by computer manipulations."
"Your 'Mechs were seen attacking the ruins, Carlyle."
"Witnesses can be bought, dammit! Or they can be misled! My God, someone is trying to destroy the Gray Death by turning us into outlaws . . . and I can't get anyone to believe me!"
"I don't think anyone is going to believe you," Moragen said quietly. The disdain was heavy in his voice. "You were assigned here as our protector, but that kind of protection we can do without! And I can assure you that House Steiner will want nothing to do with a man or a unit capable of such a monstrous act!"
"The same goes for House Davion, Carlyle. I won't even put in the request, because I know what they would say. Hanse Davion doesn't associate with renegade city killers!"
Grayson thought that Atkins was about to attack him then and there, but the big man seemed to relax slightly. "You can take your filthy so-called regiment and hike it," Atkins said. "Civilized warriors will have nothing to do with you now. Get out of my sight!"
Grayson turned to Moragen, but the small man folded his arms. "I suggest you leave, Carlyle. I am not a violent man, but your actions at Sirius V ignore every tenet of modern warfare ... of common decency! There was no reason to destroy that city ... no reason to massacre those people! Your actions have placed you outside the pale of civilized men . . . and of law."
The silence that followed was as cold as the glacial ice on the mountaintops of Helm. The behavior of the Marik BattleMech forces on that planet was explained at last. The Conventions of War dictated certain formal ways for troops to behave toward one another in war, but renegades—city killers—they were beyond the pale of even unspoken and unwritten laws.
Wallenby had been silent, too, as he led Grayson back to the stairs to the surface.
"Wallenby . . . you believe me, don't you?" he said, stepping out into the light. There was no response, for the old man had already vanished back inside the warehouse, leaving Grayson alone in the lengthening shadows of the Helman afternoon.
17
Grayson waited as long as he dared at the rendezvous, but when Alard King did not show up, he returned alone to the Valley of the Araga.
Upon his arrival, word spread quickly through the encampment along the banks of the Araga River. The Gray Death Legion had been proclaimed as renegades—an outlaw regiment—and the Marik forces were trying to hunt them down. It was small consolation, but now that they knew the "truth," other pieces of the puzzle no longer seemed so strange. They understood Colonel Langsdorf's unorthodox tactics of seizing Durandel's military and civilian leaders, the sort of treatment usually reserved for renegades or rebels, and not for respected military adversaries.
When Alard King returned to camp nearly three hours later, he was piloting a stolen civilian skimmer, and bearing the same news as had Grayson. And more.
"I think I know why Marik is interested in this planet," he'd said, and so Grayson had called a meeting of the regiment's senior people.
"We all know that the Star League was the last time mankind even came close to having a single interstellar government," King began. "Many of the Houses we know today . . . Kurita, Marik . . . they were part of the structure of the League."
"Some of them thought they were the League," Clay put in.
"Yeah, well, in 2786, Minoru Kurita started the First Succession War by declaring himself First Lord."
McCall folded his arms. "We all ken our history, laddie."
"Helm was an important target when Kurita led his fleets against the Marik Commonwealth. There was a League naval base here, at Freeport, and a storehouse of military weapons intended for the League forces.
"Now, when the Star League dissolved, there was quite a vicious political fight within the Free Worlds League over who would get those weapons. Kurita moved to grab them while the squabbling was still going on."
"Yes?"
"They weren't there."
"That's right," Grayson said. "They were probably moved someplace else, after being split up into a dozen smaller caches that fell, one by one, to various contestants in the war."
"Maybe." King smiled. "That's what everybody thought."
"Go on."
"Kurita wrote a report on his action for his council back on Luthien. He proposed what you did . . . that the cache had been removed."
"So?"
"So, the cache couldn't have been moved!”
“Why not?"
"Think about it! We're not talking about ten or twenty BattleMechs. We're talking about hundreds! Enough for a regiment . . . for ten regiments! No one knows how big that cache was! Tanks! Heavy artillery! Ammunition! Do you know how heavy a 'Mech repair gantry is?"
"I have some idea," Grayson said drily.
"The garrison commander on Helm was a House Marik officer, a major in command of an engineer battalion. Apparently, he was a Star League idealist, too, one who wanted to see the League reborn to its old glory.
He had already put off the various Marik commanders by suggesting that they settle among themselves who had the proper authority to remove the weapons before he relinquished control to them. By invoking chapter and verse of certain military articles, he was able to stop them from walking in and carrying everything off."
"So why couldn't he carry everything off?" Clay asked.
"What would an engineering battalion commander use for ships?"
There was a stunned silence. King paused, then plunged ahead. "The officer—his name was Edwin Keeler, by the way—Major Keeler had been ordered to provide a garrison force for Helm, but he had no ships. Even if he had, he wouldn't have had access to a fleet big enough to transport even a fair percentage of the weapons elsewhere. And at the time, Kurita's invasion fleet was closing in. All available ships were elsewhere—fighting at the front."
The Price of Glory Page 17