Hope Rearmed

by David Drake

  “Ser.”

  Raj shot upright, hand going to the pistol beneath his pillow. Suzette sat up beside him, a gleam in the darkness of the room. The voice came again from outside the door.

  Raj padded over to it, pulling on his uniform trousers. “Yes?” he said, walking out into the ready room.

  “Shootin’ in t’ barb camp,” M’lewis said.

  “The Skinners?”

  “Barb guns, ser,” the ferret-faced scout said. There was burnt cork on his cheeks and a black knit cap over his hair; the testimony was first-hand. “Purty heavy, then dyin’ away.”

  “Shall I beat to arms, mi heneral?” Tejan M’Brust asked; he was officer of the night watch.

  Raj blinked and looked out the window. Maxiluna three handsbreadths from the horizon, near the Saber. Four hours until dawn.

  “No,” he said. “Let the men get their sleep.” To M’lewis. “Keep an eye on things, but don’t interfere unless they move out of their camp.”

  Raj waited impassively, seated at the head of the long table. It was an hour short of noon; formalities with safe conducts and protocol had eaten the hours since dawn. The common room of the inn was severely plain, whitewashed stone walls, hearth, long table, all brightly lit through tall windows flung open to the mild humid air. The inlaid platinum mace of office lay in front of Raj; his personal banner and the Starburst of Holy Federation stood against the wall behind him, but otherwise he hadn’t made any effort to fancy it up. Some of the officers standing behind and to either side of him were talking softly. Cabot Clerett was stock-still but fairly quivering with tension. Once or twice Raj thought he was actually going to walk out on the ceremony, and only a word from Suzette in his ear calmed him down a little.

  At last a snarl of Brigade kettledrums sounded outside, answered by a lilt of bugles. Boots crashed to earth as the honor guard presented arms. Bartin Foley’s clear baritone announced:

  “Her Illustriousness, Marie Welf, Provisional Regent of the Brigade. His Formidability, Teodore Welf, Grand Constable of the Brigade.”

  Foley marched through, saluted, and dropped to parade rest beside the door.

  “The Heneralissimo Supremo; Sword-Bearing Guard to the Sovereign Mighty Lord and Sole Autocrat Governor Barholm Clerett; possessor of the proconsular authority for the Western Territories; three times hailed Savior of the State, Sword of the Spirit of Man, Raj Ammenda Halgren da Luis Whitehall! The Heneralissimo will receive the Regent and Grand Constable. Enter, please.”

  The two young Welfs walked in proudly, Marie’s hand resting on her cousin’s good arm. Raj raised a mental eyebrow as he watched the woman’s cold hawk-face; beautiful enough, but Ingreid might as well have taken a sicklefoot to his bed, if it had been against her will. They halted across the table from him; Teodore bowed, and Marie made a formal curtsey. Silence fell, until breathing and the low tick of a pendulum clock in one corner were the loudest sounds.

  Raj took the victor’s privilege. “What of General Ingreid Manfrond, who I assumed ruled the Brigade?” He kept his voice carefully neutral.

  “Ex-General Ingreid has been deposed by the assembly-in-arms,” Teodore said, meeting Raj’s eyes levelly. “For treasonous incompetence. Civilian authority has been vested in Marie Welf as nearest in blood to the last legitimate General, and military authority in myself. Ingreid Manfrond was placed under arrest last night. Unfortunately, he killed himself before he could be brought for trial.”

  Raj nodded; Marie Welf was wearing a black ribbon on one arm in formal token of mourning. She was also wearing the ceremonial laser-pistol of the General’s over a gown stiff with gold embroidery and silver lace.

  “I take it this embassy is recognition of defeat?” Raj went on.

  Two more stiff bows. This time Marie spoke, in a husky contralto. “Heneralissimo, as the Brigade’s armies are still in the field, I request terms of surrender equivalent to those given the Squadron nobles who surrendered before the final battles in the Southern Territories.”

  Ah, shrewd, Raj thought. Technically reasonable, and it would preserve two-thirds of the landholdings of individual Brigade members, rather than the one-third he’d been granting up to now.

  “I’ll certainly recommend those terms to the Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said judiciously. Whoever ended up as Vicerigent out here was going to need the Brigaderos in a not-too-sullen mood. “And I’m sure those of my officers with influence at court will as well.”

  That was Cabot Clerett’s cue. After an embarrassing pause, he spoke in a tone suggesting that the words were being dragged out of concrete:

  “I will certainly recommend that course to the Sole Rightful Autocrat.”

  Raj resumed: “Unfortunately, pending confirmation from East Residence all I can accept is unconditional surrender.”

  Marie stiffened, but Teodore leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Very well,” she said bleakly, and drew the ancient laser. She stepped forward to lay it on the table before Raj; Teodore followed with his sword.

  Raj nodded, smiling. It took several years off his face. “I’ll have rations sent to your camp immediately, Grand Constable,” he said. “We’ll return the men to their homes as rapidly as possible. Please, be seated.”

  Suzette went round the table to draw Marie Welf to a chair. “I have been looking forward to meeting you in person,” she said. “This is Colonel Clerett, nephew to the Governor . . .”

  The citizens of Carson Barracks watched in silence as Raj Whitehall rode through the gates, following the Starburst flag of the Civil Government. Their silence seemed more stunned than hostile, as they crowded thickly before the low squat buildings and the barbaric ornament of gilded terracotta; lines of infantry kept them from the pavement. Paws thudded, the ironshod wheels of the guns rumbled over granite paving blocks and the hobnailed boots of marching foot soldiers crashed down. The column was thick with banners, color-parties representing all the units. The cheering started as the color party trotted into the central square; it was packed with the orderly ranks of the Expeditionary Force. Bannermen peeled off to stand before their comrades as Raj rode on to the steps of the palace, beneath the three-story columns shaped in the form of Federation landing boats.

  The noise beat at him like surf as he pulled Horace to a halt. Teodore Welf stood to hold his bridle as he swung down; Raj waited until Suzette’s fingers rested on his swordarm before he began to climb the steps. The mace of office and symbol of the proconsular power was in the crook of his left elbow, responsibility heavier than worlds. The Companions followed him in a jingle of spurs on marble.

  He stopped at the top of the stairs, turned to face the assembled ranks and held up his right hand for silence. It fell slowly.

  “Fellow soldiers,” he began. Another long swelling roar. “I said when we started this campaign a year ago”—was it that long since Stern Isle?—“that you needn’t fear to face any troops in the world. You’ve met an army ten times your numbers, and beaten it utterly. Your discipline, your courage, your endurance have won a victory for the Civil Government that men will remember for ever. I’m proud to have commanded you.”

  He bowed his head in salute. This time the sound of his name beat back from the high buildings surrounding the square like thunder echoing down a canyon.

  “RAJ! RAJ! RAJ!” Helmets went up on rifles, bobbing in rhythm to the chant. Yet when he raised his hand again, silence fell as if the sound had been cut off by a knife-blade.

  “And the first thing I want you to do with your donative of six months’ pay—” he cut off the gathering yell with a gesture “—is drink to our fallen comrades.” That sobered the crowd a little.

  “The Spirit has uploaded their souls to Its net. For the Spirit’s sake, and theirs, and mine, remember that this land and these people are now also subjects of the Civil Government of Holy Federation, not our enemies.” He smiled and made a broad gesture. “Remember that, and have fun, lads—you’ve earned it. Dismissed to quarters!”

 
; He turned through the great bronze doors with an inward sigh of relief. The Spirit knew the men deserved the donative, and congratulations from their commander, but he’d never liked public speaking. Worse, there was always the risk some overenthusiastic imbecile would start hailing him with Gubernatorial honors, which rulers far less suspicious than Barholm Clerett would neither forget nor forgive.

  The dying cheers were faint inside the great hall. Here the only soldiers were those who lined the red-carpeted passageway to the high seat of the Generals. They snapped to attention and presented arms as Raj passed by; he was conscious of six hundred years of history looking down from the walls. Six hundred years since Teodore Amalson conquered Old Residence and started this building; nearly that since his grandson finished it. Never in all that time had men in the uniform of the Civil Government entered here armed. That was not the only first today. Star Spirit priests proceeded him, swinging their censers of incense and chanting. Behind the seat the double lightning-flash of the Brigade was hidden by a huge Starburst banner. Other banners lay piled on the steps, Brigade battle-flags.

  It was all highly symbolic, and from their stunned expressions the Brigade nobles who made up most of the audience appreciated every nuance. Raj paced up to the Seat, treading banners underfoot. Suzette stopped at the lower Consort’s seat; Raj turned at the top of the dais and raised the mace of office. Save for the soldiers braced to attention, every head sank low in bow or curtsey, holding the posture until he sank back to the cushions.

  “The Western Territories have returned to the care of Holy Federation, forever,” he said. “And now, gentlemen, we have a great deal to do.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Spirit, has it only been a month?” Raj said, looking down the table. The staff meeting had taken several hours, and it was not the only official gathering of his working day. “Middle age and Bureaucrat’s Bottom is creeping up on all of us.

  “Good work, Muzzaf.” He tapped the sheaf of billeting and supply files before him. “Without you, we’d have had to do all this ourselves.”

  The slimly-elegant Komarite bowed in his chair. “Willingly I suffer the emplumpment of the civil service in your cause,” he said.

  The Companions grinned; a few groaned in sympathy.

  “One of us should escape,” Gerrin Staenbridge said, leaning back and puffing on his cheroot. “Somebody’s going to have to deal with the west coast.”

  Nods of agreement: the Forker family still had many partisans on the Costa Dil Orrehene, beyond the Ispirito mountains. A good many of them had refused to come in and swear allegiance.

  “None of you,” Raj said, “I’m going to quarter Juluk and his Skinners out there until they see the merits of law, order and submission.”

  After a moment’s silence, Jorg Menyez spoke. “Now that is what they call an elegant solution,” he said with a slow smile. His infantry were in charge of keeping order in the billeting zone, which was a fair definition of “utter futility” where Skinners were concerned.

  “Kaltin, you will be getting out of town,” Raj went on. “The Stalwarts have been making trouble north of Lis Plumhas. I want you to take your 7th, the 9th and 11th Descott Dragoons, 27th and 31st Diva Valley Rangers, the 3rd Novy Haifa, and the 14th Komar and go put a stop to it. You’ll pick up fifteen thousand Brigade troops from the northern garrisons; don’t hesitate to listen to their officers, they’ve had experience with the savages.”

  Kaltin nodded eagerly, then paused. “Ah, those are mostly Clerett’s troops, aren’t they?”

  “No, they’re the Civil Government’s troops,” Raj said coldly. “And it’s about time they were reminded of it. Since Colonel Clerett prefers to remain in the city”—and sniff around my wife, damn him—“I’m sending them with you.”

  His tone returned to normal. “Incidentally, no prisoners, and you’re authorized to counterraid across the frontier once you’ve disposed of those on our soil. With Stalwarts, you have to speak in a language they understand.”

  “I’d have to swear eternal brotherhood with them before killing them, to make them really comfortable,” Kaltin said. “Actually, I’m fairly glad to get away from my own household right now.”

  A chuckle ran through the other men. “You really should slow down,” someone said. “You’ll wear yourself away to a sylph.”

  Kaltin gave him a look of affronted virtue. “It’s Jaine, the little mophead I rescued from the Skinners? It turned out she was some sort of fifth grand-niece of the family I’m billeted with here.”

  “That’s a problem?” Raj asked.

  “No, floods of happy tears and she’s off to the kinfolk and I’d be a fool to object, wouldn’t I? Only Mitchi turns out to have gotten attached to the girl and she’s moping and blaming me.”

  “Get her pregnant, man,” Tejan M’Brust said.

  “She is pregnant. Have you ever slept with a woman who pukes every morning?” Gerrin made a tsk sound. “Easy for you to say. In any event, I’m glad to be on my way back to the field.”

  “Quickly,” Raj said. “And take the Forty Thieves with you.”

  Antin M’lewis looked up; his men were enjoying themselves in Carson Barracks, and only a few had been caught as yet.

  “The Honorable Fedherko Chivrez is coming to join us,” Raj said. “As the Governor’s representative in the field.” At the others’ blank looks: “He was Director of Supply in Komar back a couple of years.”

  Muzzaf Kerpatik swore sharply in a Sponglish whose sing-song Borderer accent was suddenly very strong.

  Kaltin frowned. “Not the cheating bastard who tried to stiff us on the supplies just before the El Djem raid?”

  “Just the one. And the one you and Evrard ran out a closed window headfirst, then held while Antin here started to flay him from the feet up.”

  “It worked,” Kaltin pointed out.

  Raj nodded. “And I still want both of you out of town when he arrives, which could be any time.”

  “Chivrez is Tzetzas’s dog,” Muzzaf cut in. “And the Chancellor never forgets an injury.”

  “Agreed,” Raj said. “See to it you’re gone by this time tomorrow.” The two men left.

  “If there’s nothing else?”

  Ludwig Bellamy coughed politely. “Ah, mi heneral, Marie and Teodore would like a word with you this evening. Confidential.”

  Raj raised a brow, caught by something unusual in the young man’s tone. “By all means,” he said.

  “I thought I might be there,” Ludwig said. “And possibly Gerrin?”

  Raj leaned back in his chair. “They requested that?” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  Ludwig flushed slightly and looked at his fingernails. “No, it was just a thought.”

  “Then I’ll see them alone in my private office in—” he consulted a watch “—twenty minutes. If that’s all, Messers? Not you, Gerrin.”

  When they were alone: “What was that in aid of, do you know?”

  “Not really,” the other man said, taking out a small ivory-handled knife and trimming a fingernail. “Ludwig has been talking to me of late . . . and not for the sake of my winsome charm, worse luck. I think he’s worried about this administrator they’re sending out; he’s convinced it would be a mistake to replace you so soon, if that’s what he’s going to do.”

  “I was never much good at overseeing civilians,” Raj pointed out.

  “These Brigaderos are scarcely that, my friend. They’re used to a strong hand. And they respect you, which they wouldn’t some lard-bottomed penpusher from East Residence. Things need to settle down here. A year as proconsular governor would be a good idea; five would be better.”

  “A year might be advisable but it’s unlikely, and five is neither,” Raj replied. It was firm Civil Government policy never to unite military and civil command except in emergencies.

  He tapped a thumb against his chin. “Ludwig’s also been seeing a good deal of the late Ingreid Manfrond’s widow, hasn’t he?”
>
  “My delectable young Arab conduit to the gossip pipeline tells me so. Ludwig’s been hunting with Teodore a good deal, too. Hadrosauroid heads and deep conversation. I don’t think you have to fear conspiracy; Ludwig’s still of an age for hero-worship, and you’re it.”

  “Conspiracy against me, no,” Raj said. “Hmmm. Ludwig and Marie . . . that might not be a bad thing, in the right circumstances.”

  Those being a new address in East Residence for Marie Welf . . . or Bellamy, as she would be then. Teodore would probably be welcomed there also, encouraged to have the revenues of his estates shipped east, given lands and office, and never, never allowed west of the Kelden Straits again.

  “In any case, stick around, wouldn’t you?”

  Raj’s private office was fairly small; he’d never felt comfortable working in a room that had to be measured in hectares. It gave off the bedchamber he shared with Suzette, which was that sort of place, and he supposed it must have been a maid’s on-call room before the Palace changed hands. He’d had the plain walls fitted with bookcases and map-frames, and a solid desk moved in. Right now the overhead lantern and the low coal-fire made it seem cozy rather than bleak, and he smiled as he welcomed the two young Welf nobles. The smile was genuine enough. Teodore was a likeable young spark, an educated man in his way, and he had the makings of a first-class soldier. Marie was just as able in her own way, if a bit alarming.

  And she’ll probably lead poor Ludwig a devil’s dance, he thought, but that was—might be—Bellamy’s problem.

  “Be seated, please,” he said. “Now, you had something you wished to discuss with me?”

  The two Brigaderos glanced at each other. He nodded. “That door gives on to my bedchamber, and it’s bolted from the other side,” he said encouragingly. “The other door leads to a corridor with a guard party ten meters away. It’s quite private.”