Hope Rearmed

by David Drake

  Raj finished his mug of cider and sighed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Well, Messers,” he said. “No rest for the wicked. I’ve an uneasy suspicion that some of the Brigaderos at least realize we’re not going to curl up somewhere cozy in front of the fire until the rains stop.”

  “Those who aren’t too busy dealing with each other,” Bartin Foley said. He handed his bowl back to Fatima with a smile of thanks.

  “Even if most are politicking, that leaves an uncomfortable number otherwise employed,” Raj said. “Gerrin, you have the main column for the rest of the day. Major Clerett, you and I will—”

  Filip Forker, ex-General and no longer Lord of Men, stuck his head out the window of the carriage.

  “Faster!” he said, coughing into a handkerchief. What a time to have a headcold, he thought.

  The road northwest from Carson Barracks had been paved once, very long ago. Even now chunks of ancient concrete made the light travelling coach jounce as it rocked forward through a dense fog. Moisture glittered in the moonlight on the long white fur of the wolfhounds and streaked the carriage windows. There was a spare hitch behind, another carriage with his mistress and the essential baggage, a light two-wheel wagon for the gear, and an escort . . . although the escort was smaller than it had been a few hours ago. Much smaller than it had been when they left the city, although he had promised rich rewards to any who stayed with him until they reached his estates on the Kosta dil Orhenne in the far west.

  Some would stay, because they had eaten his salt. There was a bitterness to seeing how few felt bound to him.

  “Why aren’t you going faster?” he called to the driver.

  “It’s dark, master, and the road is rough,” the man replied.

  Even his tone had changed, although he wore an iron collar and Forker had the same power of life and death over him that he’d had before his impeachment. For a moment Forker was tempted to order him shot right now, simply to demonstrate that—but he had few enough servants along. Let a flogging wait until he reached his estates, among the Forker family’s military vassals. He would be secure there. . . .

  Men rode across the road a hundred meters ahead. They were wrapped in dark cloaks, but most of them held rifles with the butts resting on their thighs. The clump at their head had naked swords, cold starlight on the edged metal.

  Forker swallowed vomit. He mopped at his raw nose and looked wildly about. More were riding out behind him, out of the eerie forest of native whipstick trees that covered the land on either side. The officer of his household troopers barked orders to the handful of guards who’d remained, and they closed in around the carriages, pulling the rifle-muskets from their scabbards. Hammers clicked as thumbs pulled them back, the sound loud and metallic in the insect-murmurous night.

  “Halt,” the leader of the cloaked men said.

  “In . . .” Forker began, hacked, spat, spoke again: “Ingreid Manfrond promised me my life!”

  “Oh, General Manfrond didn’t send me to kill you,” the man said, grinning in his beard. “The Lord of Men just told me where I could find you. Killing you was my own idea. Don’t you remember me? Hereditary Captain Otto Witton.”

  He rode close enough so that the riding lanterns on the coach showed the long white scar that ran up the left side of his face until it vanished under his hairline. It was flushed red with emotion. His dog crouched, and he stepped free.

  “Just a little matter of wardship of my cousin’s daughter Kathe Mattiwson—and her lands—and she was promised to me, and she wanted me, you bastard. But you assumed the wardship and sold her like a pig at a fair, to that son of a bitch Sliker. Get out of there.”

  Forker found himself climbing down to the roadway without conscious decision. Thin mud sucked at the soles of his gold-topped tasseled boots.

  “An, ah, an honorable marriage—”

  “Shut up, you little shit!” Witton screamed. The scar was white against his red face, and his sword hissed out. “Now you’re going to die.”

  The houseguard captain stepped between them. “Over my dead body,” he said, calmly enough. The tip of his own sword touched the roadway, but his body was tensed for action the way a cat’s does, loose-jointed. There were hammered-out dents in his breastplate, the sort a full-armed sword cut makes.

  “If that’s how you want it,” Witton said.

  He looked to the men sitting their dogs around the carriage. “But it’d be a pity, the Brigade needs all the fighting men it can get—this little Civvie-lover will be no loss, though.”

  “The Brigade doesn’t need men who’d let their sworn lord be cut down by thirty enemies on the road,” the retainer said. “He may be a cowardly little shit, but we ate his salt.”

  It said a good deal for the situation that Filip Forker ignored the comment. Instead he squealed: “That’s right—my life is your honor! Save me and I’ll give you half my lands.”

  The captain looked over his shoulder at Forker, expressionless. Then he turned back to Witton.

  “A man lives as long as he lives, and not a day more,” he said. “Sorry to miss the war with the Civvies, though.”

  “You don’t have to,” Witton said. This time his grin was sly. “An oath to a man without honor is no oath. We won’t overfall your gold-giver with numbers. I’ll challenge him here and now; you can be witness to a fair fight.”

  He stepped closer and spat on Forker’s boot. “I call you coward and your father a coward, and your mother a whore,” he said. “You’ve got a sword.”

  The guard captain stepped back, his face clearing. Both men were wearing blades, neither had armor, and they were close enough in age. If the former monarch was weedy and thin-wristed while Witton looked as if he could bend iron bars between his fingers, that was Forker’s problem; he should have been in the salle d’armes instead of the library all those years.

  Forker looked around; the code said a man could volunteer to fight in his place, but it wasn’t an obligation. Some of his men were smiling, others looking away into the night. None of them spoke.

  “It’s time,” Witton said, thick and gloating. He raised the blade. “Draw or die like a steer in a slaughter chute.”

  “Marcy!” Forker screamed, falling to his knees. There was a sharp ammonia stink as his bladder released. “Marcy, migo! Spare me—spare my life and everything I have is yours.”

  Witton’s smile turned into a grimace of hatred. Forker shrieked and threw up his arms. One of them parted at the elbow on the second stroke of Witton’s earnest, clumsy butchery. The stump of the arm flailed about, spurting blood that looked black in the silvery light. That jerked the attacker back to consciousness, and his next blow was directed with skill as well as the strength of shoulders as thick as a blacksmith’s.

  “Book-reader,” the warrior said with contempt, standing back and panting. Thick drops of blood ran down his face and into his beard, speckling the front of his fringed leather jacket.

  The dead man’s servants came forward to wrap the body; it leaked blood and other fluids through the rug they rolled it in. Forker’s mistress looked on from the second carriage; she raised the fur muff that concealed her hands to her lips and stared speculatively over it at the guard captain and the heavy-set assassin.

  Witton spoke first. “I hope you don’t feel obliged to challenge,” he said to the guardsman.

  The retainer shrugged. “We were contracted, not vassals. He fell on his own deeds.” A wintry smile. “I guess there won’t be much trouble finding a new berth for me and my guns.”

  His expression grew colder. “Although if I catch those pussies who bugged out before we got this far, I don’t think they’ll ever need another gear-and-maintenance contract as long as they live.”

  The fog had turned to a light drizzle. Witton lofted a gobbet of spit toward the body the servants were pushing into the carriage. The wolfhounds in the traces whined and twitched at the smells of blood and tension, until the driver flicked his whip over their b
acks.

  “Can’t blame them for not wanting to fight for Forker,” he said.

  “Fuck Forker,” the guard captain said. “My contract was with him, but theirs was with me.”

  Witton nodded. “You can sign up with my lot,” he said. “I’m down twenty rifles on my assigned war-host tally.”

  The guardsman shook his head. “Wouldn’t look good,” he said. Witton grunted agreement; a mercenary’s reputation was his livelihood. “We’ll head back to Carson Barracks, somebody’ll sign us on for the duration, maybe the Regulars. Figure the call-up’ll come pretty soon anyway, might as well beat the rush.”

  He turned and called orders. His men eased back the hammers of their rifles and slid them into the scabbards on the left side of their saddles. There was a moment’s pause as one man bent in the saddle and grabbed the bridle of the dogs pulling the baggage wagon, turning it around, and then the fading plop of their dogs’ paws.

  Witton waved the carriage with Forker’s body onward. They’d take it back to his ancestral estates for burial, although even in this cool weather it’d be pretty high by then. He had no problem with that, after his second-in-command down the road made a search for the getaway chest with the money and jewels Forker would undoubtedly have been carrying. He looked up at the second carriage. The woman there lowered the fur that hid her face and gave him a long smile. The maid cowering beside her was obviously terrified, but Forker’s ex-mistress was a professional too, in her way. Huge violet-colored eyes blinked at him, frosted in the fog-blurred light of the moons.

  And quite spectacular. Well, the little bastard had been General, no reason he should settle for less than the best. He wiped at his face, smearing the blood, and smiled back while his hands automatically cleaned and sheathed his sword.

  “This should be very useful indeed,” Raj said.

  The estate was well off from the army’s line of march, in a district of rolling chalk hills. There was little cultivation, but the ground was mostly covered with dense springy green turf, and grazed by huge herds of sheep and large ones of cattle; pigs fed in the beechwoods on the steeper slopes. Evidently the land hereabouts was held in big ranching estates and yeoman-sized grazing farms rather than let to sharecroppers; the manor they’d just taken was surrounded by outbuildings, great woolsheds and corrals and smokehouses, a water-powered scouring mill for cleaning wool and an odorous tannery off a kilometer or so. The cured bacon and barreled salt beef and mutton would be very welcome. The herds would be even more so, since they could walk back to the main force.

  The bolts of woolen cloth woven in the long sheds attached to the peon village would be more welcome still. It wasn’t raining right now here, and the soil was free-draining. The air was crisp, though, the breath of men and dogs showing—and a lot of his soldiers were patching their pants with looted bed-curtains. This area would give every man in the army another blanket, which might make the difference between health and pneumonia for many. Enough for jacket-linings too, if there were time and seamstresses.

  “I hope everything is satisfactory, sir,” Cabot Clerett replied. The of course it is and why are you meddling? were unspoken.

  Cabot Clerett’s respect for Raj’s abilities as a commander was grudging but real.

  “Quite satisfactory,” Raj replied. I’m glad I don’t hate anyone that much, he added to himself.

  only partly hatred, Center’s pedantic machine-voice said in his mind. a large element of fear, envy and jealousy as well.

  Tell me, Raj thought.

  Cabot envied everything from Raj’s military reputation to his wife. Suzette could play him like a violin, of course, and that was probably all that had kept Cabot from goading his uncle into a disastrous recall order for Raj. Not that it would take much goading; Barholm Clerett’s paranoia went well beyond the standard Gubernatorial suspicion of a successful commander.

  That doesn’t mean I have to like it, Raj thought. Then: back to the work of the day.

  The lord of the estate had surrendered promptly and been given receipts for the supplies the 1st Life Guards were methodically stripping from the barns and storehouses. Clerett’s men seemed to be well in hand; they were helping the estate’s serfs load the wagons, and keeping the lined-up manor staff under their guns, but nothing more. Undoubtedly a few small valuables would disappear, not to mention chickens, but nothing in the way of rape, arson or murder was going on. Pickets were posted, keeping the surroundings under observation. . . .

  Raj’s eyes passed over the lord of the manor, a stout Brigadero in late middle age, standing and ignoring the troopers guarding him with a contemptuous expression. It was mirrored on the hatchet-faced, well-dressed matron at his side. Three younger women with children looked only slightly more apprehensive. One twelve-year-old boy with his tow-colored hair just now grown to warrior length and caught with a clasp at his neck glared at the Civil Government commander with open hatred. More Brigadero women and children clustered in the windows of the manor, or in medium-sized cottages separate from the peon huts.

  “Right, we’ll pull out,” Raj said.

  It took considerable time to get the wagons and bleating, milling, mooing herds moving down to the road that rolled white through the chalk hills. From the look of the grass, and the iron-gray clouds rolling overhead, there had been as much rain here as in the valley where the army toiled south toward Old Residence. The chalk soil didn’t vanish into mud the way bottomland clay did, since it was free-draining, but it would be awkward enough. Many of the Life Guard troopers had been vakaros back in Descott or the other inland Counties; they swung whips and lariats and yipped around the fringes of the herds.

  “What bothers me is where all the men are,” Raj said. “Not just here, but the last couple of manors in this area and the bigger farms.”

  The two officers rode at the head of a company column of the 1st upslope from the road, out of the milling chaos of the drive and the heavy stink of liquid sheep feces. Other columns flanked the convoy as it drove downward.

  “Well, they’ve been mobilized,” Clerett said.

  Raj nodded; that was the first thing Ingreid had done after he took the Seat. The rally-point named was Carson Barracks, in the circulars they’d captured.

  “That might be where the nobles’ household troops have gone,” he said. “I don’t think they need big garrisons here to keep the natives in line.”

  The peons in the manors had looked notably better fed and more hostile to the Civil Government troops than most they’d seen. Herding is less labor-intensive than staple agriculture, and produces more per hand although much less per hectare.

  “The problem is,” Raj went on, “that this is a grazing district.”

  Clerett looked at him suspiciously. Raj amplified: “It’s too thinly peopled to shoot the carnosauroids out,” he said.

  The younger man nodded impatiently. “Lots of sign,” he said.

  Strop-marks on trees, where sicklefeet stood on one leg to hone the dewclaw that gave them their name. There had been a ceratosauroid skull nailed over a barn door at the last manor, too: a meter long counting the characteristic nose-horn, and the beast would be two meters at the shoulder, when it ran after prey with head and tail stretched out horizontally over the long striding bipedal legs. Shreds of flesh and red-and-gray pebbled hide had clung to the skull.

  “Nice string of sicklefoot dewclaws beneath it,” Raj went on. “You’re a Descotter too, Major.” More of one than Barholm, he thought.

  The Governor had spent almost his whole life in East Residence, while Cabot stayed home in the hills to keep the Cleretts’ relations with the Descott gentry warm. It was no accident that the County which provided a quarter of the elite cavalry also supplied the last two Governors.

  Clerett’s face changed. “Vakaros,” he said. Cowboys.

  Raj nodded. Ranching meant predator control on Bellevue; and giving rifles and riding-dogs to slaves or peons and sending them out to ride herd was a bad idea, generally sp
eaking. Most of the bond-labor at the estate they’d just left had been there for processing work, putting up preserved meats, tanning hides, and weaving, plus gardening and general chores. There had been a number of barracks and cottages and empty stables surplus to peon requirements, and a lot of Brigaderos women of the commoner class. The herdsmen were gone.

  “That’s why all the estate-owners here seem to be Brigaderos.” In most of the country they’d passed through the land was fairly evenly divided between Brigade and civilian. “Brigade law forbids arming civilians. I don’t think they enforce it all that strictly, but most of the vakaros—whatever they call them here—would be Brigaderos as well.”

  And there was no better training for light-cavalry work. Keeping something like a ceratosauroid or a sicklefoot pack off the stock tested alertness, teamwork, riding and marksmanship all at once. Not to mention fieldcraft and stalking.

  “Shall I spread the scout-net out wider?” Cabot said.

  Raj stood in the stirrups and gave the surroundings a glance. None of the canyons and badlands and gully-sided volcanoes that made much of Descott County a bushwacker’s paradise, but the bigger patches of beechwood and the occasional steep-sided combe in thick native brush would do as well.

  “I think that would be a very good idea, Major Clerett,” he said.

  Marie Welf—Marie Manfrond now—lay silent and motionless as Ingreid rolled off her. The only movement was the rise and fall of her chest, more rapid now with the weight off; she lay on her back with her hands braced against the headboard of the bed and her legs spread. Blood stained the sheet beneath the junction of her thighs, and some of the scented olive oil discreetly left on the nightstand, which had proven to be necessary. The high coffered ceiling of the General’s private quarters was covered with gold leaf and the walls with mosaic; they cast the flame of the single coal-oil lamp over the bed back in yellow lambency.