Against the Tide of Years

by S. M. Stirling

  “ I don’t understand, man,” the blacksmith said.

  His shop was cluttered with work, mostly the finer ornamental type of wrought iron in various stages of completion. Walker lounged back against the doorpost; it was hot in there, with two big hearths and three smaller ones. All of them were glowing with coke fires, made from Istrian coal.

  Work’s kept him in good shape, though, Walker thought. Especially for a man in his fifties, now. His son was a nine-year-old miniature of his father, without the little granny glasses; he’d been proudly pounding on a miniature anvil until the king and his guardsmen arrived.

  “I’m retiring you, John,” Walker said patiently. He smiled like a wolf at the spurt of fear in the blacksmith’s sad russet-colored eyes. Well, he’s learned his lesson.

  “ No, no, nothing nasty,” Walker laughed. “ I’m just letting you retire. You’ve taught my people everything you know, and I don’t trust you enough to put you in an executive job. So you’re history here.”

  “ You’re letting us go, man? ” the Californian said incredulously.

  “Not back to Nantucket, of course. You know too much. Otherwise, yes, anywhere in the kingdom—provided you let me know. Hell, I’ll throw in a land grant up in the hills if you want; you always were into that organic gardening horseshit, weren’t you? And a pension.”

  Martins put the hammer down on his twister anvil and drank a dipperful of water from a bucket. “Yeah. Well, thanks, man. I’d like to get out of town, yeah. It ain’t the best place in the world to bring up kids.”

  “Afraid they’ll get contaminated, eh? ” Walker laughed. He pushed himself upright. “If you get tired of rusticating, you can move back here. I’ll even reserve a place in the guard regiment for your little Sam here, if he wants it.”

  Martins’s face tightened in mulish stubbornness. Walker was still laughing as he walked out to the waiting carriage. John-taunting was an old sport. Not his favorite, but he’d miss it, in a way.

  “Lord,” Ohotolarix said in the bright sun outside. “A runner from the palace. Gla has fallen.”

  “Good news!” Walker said. That was the last rebel stronghold in Boetia, up by Lake Copais. “That leaves Thessaly, and once we’ve shown them the error of their ways, we’re recovered from my late lamented father-in-law’s flying leap.”

  Ohotolarix shuddered slightly. Walker could see his thoughts: The sacrifice of a chief is powerful magic. Too many others had thought so too, and it had set his plans back a year or more. Still, he wasn’t in that much of a hurry.

  He climbed into the open-sided carriage and signaled the driver. Iron-shod hooves clattered on the stone pavement, and the vehicle pulled away, with six mounted guards on either side. Walker linked his hands behind his head, blinking up into the cloud-speckled sky, humming.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Kenneth Hollard said, feeling an almost irresistible impulse to cover his eyes and scream.

  Raupasha was riding a horse around the exercise circle of Ur Base; she looked up and waved at him, smiling brightly. He had expected to see her in the saddle, since he’d given orders that she be allowed to train in riding. He hadn’t expected to see her taking her retrained chariot pony over the obstacle course. She was laughing as she cantered, collecting the horse with rein and knees. It leaped, and she shifted her weight easily as it came down, leaning back slightly to steady it.

  Oh, thank you, Jesus, Hollard thought, breathing again, as visions of falls and broken necks fled. At least she hadn’t tried it with her reins knotted and arms crossed, the way officers and scouts had to.

  “ Lord Kenn’et!” she said, guiding her mount over to the adobe wall that surrounded the practice yard.

  A grinning noncom took her bridle. “ Not bad, Princess,” he said.

  The troops were making something of a mascot of her—the news of who’d killed the king of Assyria had spread quickly, and the story of her rescue was suitably romantic. Her looks don’t hurt either, he thought. She was wearing Marine khakis, her long black hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her cheeks were flushed with fresh air and exercise.

  “How is the princess doing? ” he asked the Marine instructor.

  “Not bad, sir. Good sense of balance, and she knew horses already.”

  Raupasha nodded as she swung down from the saddle. “Horses . . .” A pause while she searched for English words. “Horses part of . . . family.”

  Her accent was thick, but he was impressed with the progress she’d made in languages, too. Sabala was twining around her ankles, looking up with notice-me-please body language and wiggling even harder when she reached down to pat him. In the Akkadian they shared she went on:

  “ We had a few old chariot ponies on the estate—as old as me, or almost; the Assyrians didn’t want any of the old mariannu families to have teams. Sometimes we’d hitch them up and I’d drive, with my foster father teaching me.” A smile. “ While I was in the chariot, I was a Great King like Tushratta, in the days when Egypt itself feared Mitanni.”

  A cloud passed over her face for a moment, the gray eyes darkening. “My foster father was a good man; perhaps he indulged me too much—treating me like the son his lord had wished and hoped for.” Then she smiled again. “It is good to see you again, Lord Kenn’et. The gods send you good fortune.”

  “And you, Princess. They have sent us good fortune, as a matter of fact. Our . . .” I don’t think “commodore” has a precise equivalent, he thought. “Our war commander has arrived safely back in Nantucket.”

  She put a hand on his sleeve. “ That is good to hear, Lord Kenn’et. We have never met, but I owe this Marian-Alston also a great debt; and your . . . Chief ”—she used the English term—“Jared-Cofflin also.”

  And you can pronounce their names better than mine, Hollard noted absently; nobody in this area could handle the th at the end of “Kenneth.”

  They turned and walked back from the stable complex along one wall of the base toward the central square and the command buildings. Ur Base was less crowded now, with most of the troops up north and most of the basic construction finished. However, there were still plenty of locals around, hired to work or sent to learn, and the streets were thick with wagons and carts. The guards at the entrance to the praetorium brought their rifles up to present arms as he passed, and he returned their salutes.

  “Shall we play the chess again, Lord Kenn’et?” Raupasha asked gently.

  Quick at picking up moods, this girl, Hollard thought. The went to his office and set out the board; there were plenty of board games here, but no others quite like this one.

  “ You are troubled,” she said after a while.

  He started out of his concentration and looked at the board. I win in five moves, he thought. He was a fair-to-middling player; the Arnsteins beat him like a drum, but he’d improved a good deal since he started playing with them. Raupasha had natural talent; she thought ahead and didn’t have trouble holding different alternatives in her head.

  “ Yes,” he said.

  “ Why are you troubled, Lord Kenn’et? ” she said.

  “ I’m a little . . . uneasy,” he said. “ I promised you protection—”

  “And you have given it,” she said.

  Hollard sighed. “Well, they’re talking about asking you to do something for us,” he said. “ I’m not sure how compatible it is with what I promised you.”

  “You are a man of honor,” she said firmly. “What is it that they—the lord Arnstein and his lady?—plan? ”

  “ They want to put you on the throne of Mitanni,” he said bluntly after a long pause. There was no way to sugarcoat it.

  The olive face went pale, and her hands gripped the table until moons of white and pink showed in her nails. Her voice was calm when she went on: “ Tell me more, Lord Kenn’et.”

  “ You’d be a tributary of Babylon.” That meant more or less a client state, in local terms.

  She nodded. “ I understand, Lord Kenn’et. King Shuriash must see to his
own land’s welfare. He could not afford to see Mitanni rise as it once was, or we too would be a threat.”

  She looked down at the table. “ I am not . . . not sure if such a thing can be. We do not—did not—shut women of rank away like animals, as the Assyrians do. Yet we have no tradition of ruling queens. Do you Eagle People? ”

  “ We don’t have kings,” he said.

  She nodded; he’d explained how the Republic worked, although she’d found it stranger than atoms or germs. He continued: “But we don’t bar any post to a woman. The question is, though, how your people would regard it. The whole object of this—from our point of view—is to find some way of bringing peace to the river district. The Arnsteins think that your people, the Hurrians there, would accept anyone connected with your old royal house, because they hated the Assyrians so.”

  Raupasha leaned her chin on a palm, her feathery-black brows coming together in a frown of thought. “ That may be so. But the walls of the kingdom”—he puzzled at that and then realized she meant something like “structure of the state”—“were beaten into dust. Rebuilding them would be a long work.”

  “We’d help,” Hollard said. “What we need most right away is an end to internal fighting and help with our war on Walker.”

  Abruptly Raupasha smiled, then laughed. It was an infectious urchin grin. “Right now, Lord Kenn’et, my sovereign majesty is such that I can’t even stop Sabala from piddling on your floor.”

  “Goddam!” Hollard said. He was laughing himself as he picked the puppy up and headed for the door.

  The third man staggered off with a small shriek; he’d have been screaming louder if he’d had the breath for it. His two predecessors were lying on the ground, one vomiting weakly, the other spluttering and beginning to regain consciousness as one of his friends flipped water in his face from a canteen.

  The gathered Babylonians she was supposed to train in modern infantry tactics were watching her with round eyes; not many had seen one of the Eagle People before at close range. She’d offered a thousand pieces of silver and a chariot to anyone who could pin her shoulders to the ground. Experience had shown it was best to get the bull-baboon macho nonsense out of the way right off.

  And none of them have seen the Empty Hand in action before, Kathryn Hollard thought grimly, wiping the blood off her skinned knuckles. I am getting so tired of having to beat truths into these brainless dickheads before they’ll listen to me.

  There were about a hundred of them, and they were supposed to function as cadre for the First Kar-Duniash Infantry. They were dressed in a local version of Islander uniform, pants and shirt and jacket, although the color was earth-brown rather than khaki proper. All of them were young and fit, which was helpful, and all of “good family,” which was something of a drawback.

  We should have started with peasants; at least they’re used to doing what they’re told, she thought.

  “That should settle the question of whether it hurts your honor to serve under a woman,” she said dryly. “Any more volunteers? ”

  A vigorous shaking of heads. “ Now your prince will address you.”

  Kashtiliash’s chariot drew up; he was in the same uniform, with a few additional touches—gold scales on the shoulders, for instance. Their eyes met for an instant, and one of the Kassite’s eyelids drooped in a suspicion of a wink as he inclined his head toward the injured men.

  Well, he knows what I’m thinking. Kathryn fought down her grin. I think I’m falling in love. Christ, I’m an idiot. And I don’t give a damn.

  “Men of Kar-Duniash,” he said. “ You have been chosen to be first to receive the fire-weapons of our allies. This is a great honor to you and your kindred.” The young men perked up at that. Honor meant fame, not to mention estates and gifts. “ In your hands will be the fire-weapons that swept the hosts of Asshur aside like sheep and ground the walls of their cities into dust.”

  A cheer broke out, and Kashtiliash raised a hand. “Cheer not! Here you will work, under the orders of the great warrior Kat’ryn-Hollard, who fought with me against the Assyrians and cut down assassins as they strove to end my life. He who does not obey, does not toil, on him will the wrath of the king descend. Hear and obey!”

  The recruits went on their bellies, and Kashtiliash continued in the same vein for a while. She grimaced slightly; it would take something like this to get the scions of the kingdom’s noble families doing what they were told, but generations of Yankees rose up in her blood at the sight.

  “On your feet!” she commanded, when the prince’s chariot was dust down the path toward the walls of Ur Base.

  “ Now we start the training,” she began.

  A voice from the ranks interrupted her. “ When do we get the weapons of fire? ”

  “You. Step forward.” A young man did, an eager grin on his face. “ The weapons are called rifles,” Hollard said.

  “ When do we receive the rifles? ” he asked.

  “ First lesson. Sergeant Kinney!”

  The noncom trotted forward, a large sack of wet sand in her hands.

  “ Front and center . . . what’s your name? ”

  “Addad-Dan, O Commander.”

  “ The first lesson, Dan, is that you speak when you’re spoken to!”

  The boy flinched. Sergeant Kinney walked behind him, opened the pack laced to his webbing harness, and dropped the sack inside. Addad-Dan staggered and grunted as the weight slammed onto his shoulders and gut.

  “Twenty-five circuits of the parade ground!” Kathryn barked. “At the run, recruit! See to it, Sergeant.”

  “Ma’am, yes ma’am!”

  Kinney was grinning, and she had a rifle sling with a loop wound around her right hand. “All right, hero, let’s go for a stroll.” Whack of the flat leather across the legs. “Move it!”

  Kathryn Hollard set her hands on her hips and looked out over the shocked faces. “Here, there is no rank,” she said. “None of you has earned any rank. Here, you are not the sons of great men; here, all you maggots are equally worthless! Your highest hope is to become a soldier—then, maybe, you may think of becoming officers. There are three things a soldier must do: he must obey, he must value his mission before his comrades, and he must value his comrades before himself.

  “ There are three skills a soldier must command: he must be able to march, to shoot, and to dig. We’ll start with marching.” She pointed off across the fields to a low ruin mound, a shapeless hill of weathered mudbrick where a settlement had once been. It was just visible on the edge of sight.

  “ You see that? We’re all going there. Form up!”

  She sighed at the shambling chaos that resulted. This is going to take a lot of work.

  She suspected that her brother-commander had given her this assignment as something between a joke and a punishment; if she liked the locals, she was going to get a bellyful of them.

  Well, at least I’ll get to see Kash fairly often. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Colonel Brother Godalmighty Kenneth Hollard.

  “ Beautiful work,” Kenneth Hollard said.

  He swung the Werder to his shoulder and sighted. A squeeze of the trigger and . . . crack. There was a slight tink sound as the spent shell hit the packed clay behind him. The target at the other end of the range flipped backward, then up with a white board pointer showing where his round had hit—a couple of inches left of the center of mass, or what would be the center of mass if that was a man and not a human-shaped cutout.

  Hollard felt a slight glow of pride; that would have put a man out of the fight for good and all, and at six hundred yards, too.

  “ Let me try, Lord Kenn’et! Let me try!”

  “Ah . . . well, no reason why not, Princess,” Hollard said. He ran her through the firing drill, which was simple enough.

  They really did come up with something that’s simpler to use than the previous model, he thought. From his reading of military history, that was a small miracle in itself. Of course, with Commodore Alston
in charge . . .

  Raupasha brought the weapon up to her shoulder eagerly, but she took the time to aim, and squeezed carefully. She was wearing Marine khakis without insignia and a floppy-brimmed campaign hat with the right side pinned up; wisps of fine black hair had escaped from the thong that held her long mane in a ponytail. Hollard smiled at that, and at her frown of total concentration.

  Crack.

  The target flicked up; the bullet had gone squarely through the head. Hmmm. Not bad at all, at three hundred yards.

  “No, no, no!” he said aloud. “Don’t show off. Through the center of the body, always. Heads are too easy to miss.”

  She gave him an urchin grin. The noncom who brought her more ammunition was grinning too.

  Hollard sighed and turned to the Guard commander who’d brought in the cargo and reinforcements; Victor Ortiz had the shield and four gold stripes on his cuffs and epaulettes that meant captain’s rank in the Guard, equivalent to Hollard’s Marine colonelcy. They moved a few paces away. The firing range was too far from the riverside wall of Ur Base to see the masts of the three-ship flotilla, but he knew the crews and the base’s laborers were hard at work. Another battalion of Marine infantry, heavy weapons to match . . . and a lot of long flat crates with Werder rifles in their coats of grease for his command, surplus Westley-Richards from the Republic’s militia for their allies. More crates as well, Werder ammunition, and machinery for the ammunition shop.

  “ Praise the Town Meeting, from whom all blessings flow,” Hollard said, his voice a mock-pious drone for a second.

  “Praise the Chief and the commodore, who kicketh the Meeting’s lazy butt and getteth them to move,” Ortiz said, and raised his brows in a question.

  “Yes, Ms. Raupasha does speak some English now,” Hollard replied.

  “ I see . . . I’ve been briefed, of course.”