The Rose Sea

by S. M. Stirling

  Well, Pa was always on at her to talk about something besides horses and County gossip. If it wasn't business, maybe it could be books.

  "Consolidated Analects of Mero Rimsin?" she read from the spine of his book. He studied her with increased interest—this time his expression showed both surprise and respect. The book was printed in Tarinese, the classical tongue of the Old Empire. Few could read the old tongue anymore.

  "Relevant to a case," he replied, with a smile that was slightly shy. "You've read Rimsin?"

  "Some of the poetry." She winced a bit, remembering; the poetry was bad enough. Three spare her the legal philosophy. Actually the tutor had to whale Rimsin into her with a willow switch, she recalled. She picked up pitcher and plate and joined the law-speaker on his bench. "I can't drink this pitcher alone with a lodge-brother here," she said.

  Bren Morkaarin drew his sword and whirled it in a complicated figure eight as he marched, before thrusting it straight up in salute.

  "Eyes… right!" he snapped. Drums and trumpets relayed the order.

  Behind him eight hundred booted feet struck the earth together as the XIXth gave a wordless shout of hail to the high officers on the reviewing stand. Pikemen and halberdiers in breastplate and tassets and helmet, musketeers in floppy hats and broad bandoliers with dangling wooden charge-tubes clicking as they marched, each screw-topped cylinder holding one shot worth of powder.

  "Regiment—" The underofficers and noncoms echoed it to their units.

  "Company—"

  "Platoon—"

  "Left…face."

  Snap-stamp as every soldier took a half-stride and turned ninety degrees to the left, marching on without breaking stride. What had been a column was now a broad line, eight files deep.

  "Pikepoints… down."

  There was another deep shout as the sixteen-foot shafts swung down and bristled forward; first rank held low, next four at staggered heights, last three high but slanted forward Out on the flanks of the formation the halberdiers brought the broad chopping blades of their six-foot weapons forward as well, the bright morning sun glinting on the honed edges, the dagger points, and the curved spikes on the reverse sides.

  "Sound prepare to receive cavalry."

  A complex ruffle of drums and scream of brass. Two more steps and the XIXth halted, marching in place. A war shout as they stopped. The first rank of pikes squatted in unison, bracing the butts of their weapons in the earth and holding them slanting out. The second rank knelt behind them, and the rest stood, presenting a bristling row of points that any horse would turn from.

  The musketeers halted as well, bringing their weapons to their lips and blowing sharply on their slowmatches. The first rank let the rests drop to the ground and levelled their muskets, the heavy barrels resting in the U-shaped fork at the top of each rest.

  "Fire!"

  S-shaped serpentines snapped the burning end of the slowmatches down into the priming pans.

  A long baaaammmmm sound punched at Bren's ears and face; billowing off-white smoke, smelling of brimstone, hid the front of the formation.

  "Countermarch! Reload in nine times. March!"

  The musketeers who'd fired turned smartly and each paced back to the rear of their file to reload; the one behind stepped forward into first place, planted their rests, levelled their muskets.

  "Fire!"

  Bren watched critically as the eight-trooper files of musketeers took turns to fire and retire, step forward and fire once more. Smooth, he thought Of course, these were veterans, and he'd had the training of them for six years now—most of his military career, stuck off in the wilds doing garrison and patrol work. Plus enough action to see what they were made of; the North Shield foothills were imperfectly pacified.

  "To attention! Prepare for review!"

  Weapons came upright, and troops braced. Sweat runneled their faces; down here on the coastal plain near Derkin it was hot. Particularly compared to the northern hill country they'd been stationed in for so long. Uncomfortable, and hellish if you were wearing armor and padding.

  Lord Colonel Gonstad came up, in his showy horseman's three-quarter armor inlaid with silver and electrum, a light cavalry cloak of leopardskin half off one shoulder. Bren sneered behind an impassive, square-jawed face. His own simple coat of buffel leather studded with thousands of steel nailheads was a good deal more practical for an infantry officer.

  The officer beside Gonstad probably thought so too. His own breastplate and open-faced helmet were as plain as Bren's. He held a command baton in one gloved hand, and the wrinkled planes of his face were covered with the elaborate tattoos of a man from Old Tykis, north of the Shield range.

  Bren bowed and saluted with his blade. "Lord Colonel." More deeply: "Count Mustermaster General Feughylfa."

  The older officer nodded. "Good drill, First Captain." Checking on soldiers' ability to march in step, maneuver to the word of command and use their weapons with skill was a primary reason for parading before the mustermaster.

  Feughylfa looked critically at the ranks. The XIXth's equipment was worn but sound, weapons clean, armor carefully browned to a shade close to the dark-green uniform coats. Stepping closer he checked the sharpness of edges, ran a finger into the barrel of a musket, made sure each musketeer had bullet mold and spare coils of slowmatch. A priest beside him checked the spells on the engraved copper amulet each trooper wore on the left wrist—the most expensive piece of equipment, and about as vital as the weapons. It cost to maintain the combination of antifever, contraceptive and anticurse enchantments, but without them an army could lose half its men to dysentery in a month, not to mention pregnancy, the whorepox, or an enemy's antiexplosive spells damping your powder.

  Besides which, of course, it was impossible to take the amulet off—and a priest could track it down if the soldier deserted.

  "All rifled muskets?" the old man asked.

  "Yes, sir; rifled, with the new pointed hollowbase bullets."

  The mustermaster nodded again. "Well, the XIXth're in better shape than some of the handless cows who've shown up from back country garrisons," he said "But the rolls carry you at six hundred muskets, three hundred pikes, one hundred halberdiers, fifteen mounted scouts and couriers, and fifty skirmishers, with ancillaries in proportion. You're two hundred down."

  Bren swallowed and looked straight ahead. That was the other reason for parading before the mustermaster; it showed whether the colonel of the regiment was carrying nonexistent troops on the rolls and pocketing their pay. Which was exactly what Gonstad had been doing, of course. Skirmishers and scouts commanded double pay, which was why the XIXth had none at all.

  "We've had casualties, sir," Bren said doggedly. "Bandits attacked several convoys to the silver mines near Dire."

  Feughylfa snorted. "Well, get your recruits in order, then," he said.

  "Recruits?" Bren asked.

  The wrinkled hawk face turned towards him, pale eyes narrowing. "You're authorized to offer a twenty-crown bonus for volunteers and conscript the eligible if that doesn't work," he snapped. "That went out to regimental commands with the general summons to the war levy. What, didn't you get it?"

  "N—" Bren began. General summons war levy? he thought dazedly. That only happened in a real war.

  "First Captain!" Gonstad broke in. "I'm shocked at your dereliction of duty!"

  Bren swallowed again, feeling the blood of rage darken his cheeks. He had the true Tykissian coloring—ash-pale hair and fair skin. He knew the mustermaster would see him flush, and regretted that he could not hide his feelings better.

  "My apologies, Lord Colonel," he said woodenly. After this war I will sell out and move to the colonies, he thought.

  "Well, you can press recruits from around here," Gonstad said.

  Bren saw glimmers of pink before his eyes; that was part of his heritage too, the rage that took him beyond himself. He breathed deeply, feeling his armor squeeze at him. Derkinoi Province was conquered land, recently conq
uered at that—only a century ago. Most of the natives were non-Tykissian, and of the Empire's subject races only Krevaulti were allowed to serve in arms rather than pay double tax. If he'd been told to make up the numbers back in the central provinces he could have gotten any number of sturdy, freeborn peasants; volunteers, even. How was he supposed to find a hundred Children of Falcon and Wolf here?

  "See to it, Colonel Gonstad," Feughylfa said dryly. "See to it personally, because I hold you personally responsible. Dismissed."

  Feughylfa was not blind, then—he saw whose armor bore gold inlay. A little of Bren's rage turned to sour amusement as Gonstad paled. Enough remained to put a harsh edge in his voice as he turned on his heel and shouted orders.

  Amourgin was almost grateful for the intrusion of the broad-faced country girl and her cheerful banter—even her bawdy discussions of horsebreeding and her strained analysis of Rimsin's poetry and Dhourchouds histories. She was charming, in an uninhibited, countrified way—and she made good cover. He needed that.

  So when she grinned at him and whispered, "I'm for the jakes," he gallantly stood and said, "Hurry back. The meal will suffer for lack of your presence."

  She giggled and strode off, with the rolling walk of someone who rode more often than she went afoot.

  Amourgin smiled to himself and settled back into his seat to read and await her return.

  A sudden burst of loud, lewd banter at the doorway drew his attention to the group just entering the common room.

  Usually he would not have given the gaggle of thrall-whores who sauntered in and took seats a second look. The Shborin half-breed and the blonde, squat Tseldene were both attractive, in a worn-and-weary fashion, while the two Shillraki piebalds looked terribly young and still carried an air of fear around them—although the brown-and-pink patchwork which made up their skin concealed their expressions a little. None of this, however, was new to the law-speaker. Whores always looked either young and scared or hard and tired.

  They usually didn't have fangs.

  He stared at the last of the whores who entered the room. Momentarily he forgot his weariness with the stinking city and his stinking mission in the fascination of unraveling the puzzle she presented. Woman? he wondered. Yes, he supposed she was a woman. Human, though? He didn't know about that.

  Her body was a woman's, all fine bones and rounded angles. Her walk was a wonder. She moved with some of a woman's grace and some of a predator's stealth. When he caught himself wondering if the two weren't the same thing, he smiled.

  Strange girl. The eyes were human enough in shape, but of an odd color. They were large, with heavy lashes, and they were amber. The face was—unnerving. It was a normal woman's face, but stretched forward at nose and mouth to form a lean, strong-jawed muzzle. The girl watched her owner's back, and when he wasn't looking, she smiled. Amourgin Thurdhad, looking at her long, sharp canines, and at the way her clipped-and-painted claws flexed and retracted, would not have been the willing target of that smile for the wealth of three kingdoms. From the bruises on her face and arms, and on her thighs where they showed beneath the short tunic, he judged she probably had reason.

  He could not make himself stop staring. He'd traveled the length and breadth of the Empire and to points beyond, and never had he seen a creature like her. He tried to decide whether she was hideous or lovely.

  The girl's owner noticed his interest and strolled over. Too late, Amourgin buried his nose in his book, but the pimp would not be ignored.

  "H'uncommon bird, h'ain't she?" the big man asked. He clapped Amourgin on the back, and sat down at the table with him; his Tykissian had a breathy Tobor accent and carried considerable evidence of garlic and stale wine.

  "I'm busy," the law-speaker said. "I'm reading."

  "'Elluva thing for a man t' do. Y' could be puttin' yer time to good use. Y' can call me Zeemos, bye the bye. Purveyor of rare and h'exotic goods." He looked back at the table where his "goods" sat, and snapped, "Ho, Eowlie! Get yer ass over here, girl!"

  All the whores looked up except the one he called. She ignored him.

  "Here, girl! Here, y' stupid bitch!" He snapped his fingers, and the girl finally glanced over at the pimp.

  The long-muzzled woman gave Zeemos a glare that would have sent Amourgin fleeing for his life, but the pimp was unfazed. She rose and strode to the table—slowly. The law-speaker could feel her hatred, radiating like body heat, enveloping her pimp, and him, and everyone in the room. She was a slave by virtue of the collar around her neck—but nothing enslaved her spirit. Every movement of her body spoke eloquently of future death for Zeemos—and perhaps for himself, as well, should he be foolhardy enough to touch her. Her hands clenched and spread, making the short chain that linked them jingle and the heavy leather bracelets creak.

  "I'm not interested," Amourgin told Zeemos.

  "So y'say—but yer eyes say otherwise. Be a man."

  The pimp grabbed the girls wrist and pulled her to her knees beside the table. He jammed one thumb under her upper lip and one under her lower lip and pulled until the girl's mouth opened. Those long white teeth gleamed in the dim light of the common room, and Amourgin could easily imagine them buried in the pimp's throat.

  Zeemos said, "She eats nothin' but meat, y'see. So y'll be mindin' where y' put yours, won't you, then? I'll not be payin' damages for a man who was thinkin' with the wrong head."

  "I'm not interested," Amourgin said again.

  The big man grinned. "Right, right—we'll get t' the price in a moment. I want y' t' understand what yer in for first. She killed the first man who tried her—that's bad fer m'business, so this collar's spelled. Keep her from killing you. Nothin' else, unnerstand—just that So y'still have to be damned careful. She's stronger than y'd think, she's mean—and she's stupid. She don't speak at all, and she only understands a few words, and those when she wants to. Y' got t' show her who's in charge, y' unnerstand? Beat her around a bit, get behind t' keep th' hell away from the teeth, an you'll have a fine time."

  Stupid, the pimp said. But Amourgin Thurdhad stared into the whore's deep yellow eyes, and what he saw there made his palms sweat and the back of his neck itch. If he did not see intelligence in those eyes, he at least saw focused rage, and hatred as pure and unalloyed as good gold. He managed to break away from that intense, terrifying stare. He looked back to Zeemos and said forcefully, "I'm—not—interested."

  Zeemos looked surprised "Truly? Well, I can understand that. I'd sooner screw my worst enemy's watchdog, truth t' tell." He smacked the side of the girl's head and said, "Gi' back wi' ye, then, y'bitch." The pimp returned his attention to the law-speaker. "Still, she h'appeals to a certain type. So what'll y have, then? The Shillrakt's are nearly virgin—I can let y' have the Shborin and the Tseldene both for what it will cost y' fer either of them. Or—"

  Amourgin cut him off "Look, you. Get yourself away from my table, and stop interrupting my meal."

  Zeemos stood, and glared down at the law-speaker. "Y' lace-panted bugger," he whispered. In a voice intended to carry, he said, "H'I don't deal h'in little boys." He stomped back to the table his whores occupied, calling over his shoulder, "H'I don't do that sort of business."

  Amourgin felt the heat rush to his face, but he said nothing. He returned his attention to his book. He wished that the man he was supposed to meet would hurry up, or that Karah would get back.

  * * *

  On his white throne of ivory and platinum in the hot, dry-bone white city of An Tiram, Darkist XXV, Lord First Speaker to He of the Thousand Faces, Yentror of All Men, Lord of Ten Thousand Years, sat watching his naked concubines dance in the flickering firelight.

  The body grows old, he thought, old and weary and full of pain. But the mind never wearies of the dance.

  The concubines stamped their feet, and the bracelets on their wrists and ankles jingled, and the bells in their nipples tinkled. Darkist longed for youthful flesh again. He longed to feel his loins stir with lust, longed to savor again
passion and release in the bodies of the beauties he owned. But young flesh lacked the power of magic old flesh knew. And now, more than the lust, he needed that power. He would take back the Northlands first, while he controlled the monstrous magic inside of him. And then…

  Out of the corner of an eye, he studied the graceful, youthful movements of his great-grandson, Colchob. Colchob was a robust youth, broad and sturdy and randy as a prime ram. Bred from good stock, the old man thought, with just those characteristics in mind.

  Just like me when I was young.

  The ancient Yentror of Tarin Tseld looked to his immediate right, and for a moment he couldn't remember why the chair there was empty. It was where his grandson, Mirs Honiv, Colchob's father, was supposed to sit.

  But then the memories came back, and the old man clucked his tongue. Silly of him to forget—this was the night he announced his heir—and Mirs was the direct line heir. His grandson couldn't make anything less than a grand appearance.

  The little memory lapses worried Darkist. They were coming more often, getting worse. Wearing down, he thought. Everything about this damned body is wearing down.

  From a side door across the dark hall, a figure swathed in green from head to toe appeared, bowed briefly toward Darkist, then vanished back into the labyrinthine corridors of the palace. Darkist noted the gesture, and smiled gently. That was the signal he'd been waiting for. The glorious banquet was ready. He tapped his vizier's shoulder once, and the man stood and walked to the burnished gong at the foot of the table.

  The vizier struck the gong. As the lone note swelled and reverberated to fill the hall, the concubines scurried away. Servants laid virgin silk covers over the long banqueting tables—the covers would be used only once and then burned. Nobles rose from their cushions and took their seats in an order of precedence unchanged in three thousand years. Only the warslaves along the walls remained motionless. They were two-meter figures in heavy armor of steel and brass; the double-handed scimitars over their shoulders could bisect a man from helmet to crotch in less than a heartbeat. Their slit-pupiled amber eyes stared unwinking from beneath the faceplates of their helms, full of a fanatic loyalty set by training, magic and a hundred generations of selective breeding. They were Darkist's pets, and he loved them.