The Rose Sea

by S. M. Stirling

  Then, over the music of the gong, Darkist could make out the faint, high trills of the chariole pipes. That music grew louder as drums and rillets filled in the low notes.

  Colchob was finally unable to contain his curiosity. "High Lord Grandfather of Us All," he said over the pipes, "the banquet is about to begin. Where is father?"

  Darkist gifted his great-grandson with a kindly smile. "He has to make a grand entrance. Patience, child. Have patience. This is a great night for all of us."

  The massive main doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and the pipers and drummers filed in. Behind them came the kitchen servants, weighted down with their vast covered dishes and their tall carafes of thick purple havassh. The rich scents of the banquet feast filled the hall.

  Darkist watched the slaves settling the lesser platters into place along the lower tables, and studied with satisfaction the larger ones that made their way up the hall toward him, each on the shoulders of four strong slaves. The great gold and silver covers gleamed in the firelight. The flowers around the platter bases were exquisite. It was all quite perfect, really. Servants were lifting away the covers on the farthest platters already, and Darkist smiled as he heard the cries of delight and appreciation. Down the hall he could make out whole boars, glazed and roasted to perfection; stuffed great swans; and at the table of the High Lords, an entire baked yols, done so artistically that every fang and every claw remained intact.

  "This is glorious," Colchob said. "Magnificent. I have never seen a banquet to match it" He inhaled and licked his lips. "The smell of the roast pork alone is enough to drive a man mad."

  "It is very fine, is it not?" Darkist agreed. The servants settled the greatest of the gleaming metal salvers between him and Colchob.

  A trio of heralds entered through the great door, and blew the first bars of the royal march of the Yentrors. Colchob sat up straight. Darkist folded his hands across his lap. The servants standing at the head table cleared out of the way so those seated could get a clear view of the proceedings.

  Beroquim, Lord Principal of the realm, scurried in behind the trumpeters, a scroll clutched in his hands. He waved his hands violently and shouted over the trumpeters, "Not yet, O Lord of Ten Thousand Years. We can't start yet."

  Darkist stood, and waved at Beroquim. "Read, please, Lord Principal."

  "But we can't—"

  Darkist pointed a finger at Beroquim and interrupted him. "Read."

  Beroquim looked over his shoulder, then turned back to the hall full of waiting people. He looked sick, Darkist thought. Possibly unsuited for his position. It would do to keep that in mind.

  "By royal decree," the man read in his nasal voice, "We, Darkist XXV, sovereign lord and master of all We survey, do hereby present Our heir, Mirs Honiv, to Our court, and make clear Our intentions for the carrying on of the royal line."

  The trumpets blared again. Beroquim stepped to the side, and stared back at the opened doors. The lords of Darkist's court stopped eating and waited in silence, watching the empty opening.

  The silence stretched, and the nobles began to shift restlessly. Darkist frowned. He hated to be kept waiting. Finally he tapped his vizier again and said, "Enough, already. Tell the servant to prepare my food. I'll not sit in my own banquet hall and starve."

  All down the hall, Darkist heard the uncertain whispers. He knew they questioned the fitness of his mind, and his ability to continue to rule. He knew they'd welcomed the naming of his heir—that they hoped to see him step down. He hated those whispers. He would put an end to them once and forever.

  His personal servant and food taster lifted the cover of the saver, and froze. For a moment, silence again filled the great hall. Then the servant dropped the cover to the ground with a crash, and pressed a hand over his eyes. He shrieked. Up and down the hall, then, Darkist heard the gasps and horrified whispers of his subjects.

  Colchob threw one hand over his mouth and stood so quickly his massive chair crashed backwards.

  Darkist thought the cooks had done an exceptional job with Mirs Honiv. His grandson was a lovely golden color all over, very finely glazed and strategically decorated with cloves and chili spikes. And, as Darkist had requested, the royal cooks had left the face untouched. The chief cook had captured and kept the most delightful expression—one of sheer, utter anguish. The old man laughed and turned to his great-grandson. "I name you my successor, Colchob son of Mirs Honiv son of Tighirl son of Darkist."

  Colchob paled, and broke out in a fine sheen of sweat. The young man said nothing. He still had the back of his fist stuffed into his mouth.

  Darkist added, "Remember what a very poor idea it is to plot against me. You will do that, won't you?"

  Colchob nodded, speechless, staring at his father on the platter.

  "Well, good. I'm glad" Darkist shrugged and nodded to his taster. "I'll take a bit of the haunch, you," he said, pointing to a nice juicy spot on his grandson's thigh. "And perhaps a slice of shoulder. But only the lean, mind you. None of the fat."

  Karah, well into her cups, leaned over and confided to Amourgin in a loud whisper, "You know, I think those women sitting across the room are whores, by gods and slap palms. I've seen the short, fat one leave with three dif—dif—" She shook her head as if to clear it"—different men. An' she comes back, but th' men never do."

  "Sh-h-h-h-h," Amourgin said.

  "But don't you think they're whores?" The last she said very loudly, and the law-speaker winced.

  "Karah," he whispered "Dear girl, perhaps you and I could walk outside—just a bit, for the air. I think you've had too much wine. Maybe some black coffee would help, too."

  Karah refused to be distracted from her sudden fascination with Zeemos' troupe. In a horribly loud whisper, she said, "I've never seen real protsi—ah, prostitutes. My pa tole me about them." She looked at him solemnly and announced in quite a loud voice, "Pa says they screw strangers for money. I always thought tha'd be a—a helluva job. Don't you think so?"

  The people for whom Karah had been buying rounds elbowed each other and smirked. There were a few titters. The whores glared over at him and Karah, and Zeemos started to rise from his place at table.

  "There are those," Amourgin said loudly, "who say law-speakers are in the same line of work."

  Several of the regular patrons and one of the whores laughed at his comment, and Amourgin saw all of them relax. Peace bought at a low price, he thought.

  Karah quit staring at the whores. "Oh, look at him," she said.

  Amourgin turned in the direction she indicated.

  An officer, tall and mustachioed, his beard trimmed to a point, stood stiffly in the entryway to the common room. He wore a red-lined leopard skin hanging off one shoulder and jewels on his fingers and in one ear. The cheek pieces of his high-combed helmet were pushed back, and the steel plates of his three-quarter armor were engraved with silver and gold tracery. He rested one hand on his basket-hilted broadsword and tapped a toe against the brown tiles of the common room's floor. His spurs jingled.

  A sudden hush fell over the diners; there were more of them, now the moon was up. Most of them were merchants and travelers of modest means; they'd all been glad of the several rounds Karah bought. The evening had been getting fairly merry.

  "Greetings, brethren of the Three," the officer said, pulling a scroll from his belt. "Hear the word of Her Majesty Shemro, fourth of that name, of the Strekkhylfa line, descendant of Beltra the Great, Emperor by the favor of the Three."

  All the Tykissians present touched cheeks and brow; the Derkin natives bowed; the two Shborin, immune by treaty, watched with detached amusement.

  The scroll unrolled with a crinkling sound. The officer began to read, and as he did, baffled silence filled the room. The entire document was in the antique Tarinese of the courts, a dead language nobody but scholars and law-speakers had used for a millennium. The officer finished reading, and rolled the scroll again, and with a smug smile, tucked it into his belt.
>
  For a long instant, no one so much as whispered.

  Then someone behind Amourgin asked, "What did that mean?"

  Amourgin had listened with growing disbelief. He knew damned well what those ancient words meant. Above the growing stir of puzzled mutters that followed in the wake of the reading, he announced, "He just said we've all been pressed."

  The man in armor tilted his head slightly toward Amourgin, and smiled whitely through his barley-colored beard.

  Zeemos, the purveyor of rare and exotic delights, heaved himself off of his bench. He faced the officer and cleared his throat. "Pardons, pardons, m'lord, sir. H'I guess me and m' girls should be going now, so you can carry out your business with these citizens. H'I'm not precisely Tykissian, y'see," he said. "H'I was born Toboran…"

  "You have Toboran papers?" The officer arched an eyebrow, and held out a hand to the huge, fat man. "Let me see them."

  "Well, no." Zeemos flushed a brilliant red. "Not anymore, that is—ah, h'I had to get Tykissian papers h'in order to bring my, ah, girls into the Empire—h'I mean, with the additional taxes on foreign businessmen and all, h'I… well, h'I am Toboran in my heart." He flushed and nodded firmly, and crossed his arms over his broad belly.

  "Your papers. Now," the officer said.

  Zeemos, with obvious reluctance, fished through a pouch at his ample waist and pulled out a sheaf of parchment He handed the papers to the officer, and cringed.

  Amourgin watched this development with interest. He wasn't precisely a loyal Tykissian either—but he certainly wasn't going to make a point of that to the officer.

  "Your papers say you have been granted Imperial citizenship—that must have taken a considerable bribe—and the papers you hold on your girls make them citizens also. That makes you Tykissians by legal status." The officer smiled, an ugly feral grin. "What's more, since your whores are citizens, they can't be your property anymore. Did you realize that?"

  "It was only a technicality—because of the outrageous taxes on imported slaves—you can't possibly—I paid good money for every one of them!"

  "Pity." The officer turned to one of his men and said, "Take the collars off the girls. They are the right age, and look sturdy enough. They and the rest of these sorry drunks will fill the last of our quota."

  Zeemos began to look panicky. "If you must free the others, I suppose I can understand, but please let me keep Eowlie—she can't talk, she's stupid as a stone, and she isn't even human. She needs me to take care of her."

  Amourgin saw the girl's yellow eyes narrow as she stared at her owner. When she grinned—that vicious, toothy grin—the hair stood on his arms and the back of his neck.

  The officer looked at her with interest "She doesn't look quite human, does she? But she has her citizenship papers—"

  "I paid for them," Zeemos said. "I'll pay the extra tax on transporting strange beasts, and you can tear those papers up. I can stand to lose the citizenship fee on her—but she'd be helpless without me, sir. She needs me. Besides, there's a spell on that collar. She'd be dangerous without it."

  "Well—" The officer gave the girl Zeemos called Eowlie another, more doubtful look. "If she really isn't human, perhaps we could consider her in the same class as the wolves some of our soldiers keep—"

  "I'm human," the weird girl said. Every head in the common room jerked in her direction at the sound of her voice. "I can s-feak well enough, you vastard," she said to Zeemos. She had an odd accent, but her Tykissian was fluent "And I can take care of myself." She turned to the officer, and her smile went wider, pulling back along that lean muzzle to show the first of the jagged molars behind her fangs. "If I am a citizen, then I volunteer to serve in this army. I can fight good for you."

  All the color drained out of Zeemos' face. Amourgin thought, Ho, mighty Three—what nightmares that pimp will suffer tonight. He would have laughed, but the girl was about to become a free citizen of the Empire and, if he couldn't get out of this press, his comrade at arms—and he wasn't entirely sure how well he would sleep, either.

  The room had been mostly quiet while the patrons observed the byplay. But realization dawned on the Imperial citizens, and the silence shattered as everyone spoke at once—all except for the Derkinoi locals. They, for once, looked glad they were subjects by conquest rather than citizens, and so immune from military service. The babble turned to an ugly growl.

  The officer's aide stepped forward and fired a pistol into the ceiling; he was shorter and younger than the officer, thickset and tow-haired. He wore the embarrassed air of a man set an unpleasant task. The hundreds of silvered steel nails in his leather tunic clinked against the plain bowl helmet tucked under his left arm as he thrust the wheel-lock back through his belt. For a moment his eyes met Karah's, and Amourgin saw the young man pale. That expression of recognition lasted only an instant Then it vanished, and the officer shook his head, frowning around the room.

  "The XIXth Foot needs soldiers to fill its roster," he said into the renewed quiet. "Those Tykissians present and of military age are hereby summoned to do their duty in the war levy."

  He nodded toward a priest standing by him, a stout man dressed in the fringed buckskin of his trade, an inlaid tomahawk through the back of his belt to show he followed an order which worshipped the Warrior Aspect of the Three.

  "Father Solmin here will take your oaths."

  Karah lurched to her feet, swaying slightly. "In a pig's arsehole!" she yelled, shaking off Amourgin's hand and the weight of the wine. "Ma will kill me if I don't get back," she yelled "You can't press free citizens for land service 'cept through the County levy!"

  "I not only can, I just have," the tall officer said with amusement "Father Solmin," he went on to the cleric, "proceed to administer the oaths, if you please."

  The shorter officer ducked out into the courtyard; the priest scowled, but began to set up the tripod and censor. Somehow Amourgin got through the press of the crowd to the officer's side and gently plucked the scroll from the hand of the armored commander.

  "This," he said, "appears to be an authorization from Grand Admiral Willek, for the exercise of the press gang. Which by long-established edict of Emperor Tarn I, Three hold him in Their Grace, applies only to sailors—which we are not—and within the docklands of a registered seaport—which this inn is not."

  The officer snatched it back. "Hadn't you heard, recruit?" he sneered. "Grand Admiral Willek is made Grand Constable Willek also, Governor of Derkin with authority to rule by the law martial."

  "I don't think—" Amourgin began.

  "That's right, soldier; I do your thinking for you from now on," the officer snapped. He put a hand on Amourgin's face and pushed him backward "The next word earns you fifty strokes."

  Amourgin's stomach knotted and he bit back the words he wanted to say; he carefully removed the glasses hanging from one ear and tucked them into a wooden case at his belt.

  This will not do at all, he thought.

  Karah felt her wits break free of the wine. She looked to the law-speaker. "Hey—this lobsterback doesn't have the Emperor's writ to press us?"

  Amourgin shook his head curtly. A low growl went up from the other Tykissians in the room. For the first time, the arrogance left the officers face, replaced by incredulous anger.

  Be damned if I'll obey a fake writ, Karah thought. She had to get home to her folks and the horses, and…

  Somewhere behind Karah sounded the low rasping slither of a sword coming free of its scabbard.

  Never draw unless you mean to kill, her parents had taught her. She kept her own hand away from her hilt; she picked up a small wooden table by one leg instead. "No steel!" she said sharply. Killing an Imperial officer got the killer sent to the galleys, or beheaded. On the other hand, treating free Tykissians like thralls was against the law, too. "Let's cool this goat-buggering turtle's head in the horse trough!" she yelled.

  The priest looked over the crowd with the experience of a long military career and swept up
his equipment. Karah charged forward and smashed the table down on the officers armored forearm. It splintered—and its sound released the room's occupants from their stunned reverie. The "recruits" surged forward, roaring. A dozen hands gripped arms, legs, and body, and the whole mob of them ran the man forward out the door; his helmet went bong on the wooden slats, and the moving mass of drunken tavern-goers stumbled laughing towards the fountain.

  Karah realized the law-speaker was pulling at her sleeve, shouting for her to stop. She tensed her arm to shake him off until she saw the line of lights and froze.

  It was dark in the courtyard; at first she thought the lights were fireflies. Then her eyes adjusted. The flickering was far too regular and unmoving for that. Twenty lit slowmatches glowed red, firmly clipped in the S-shaped serpentines of twenty long matchlock muskets, ready to lower the ember into the priming powder. Each barrel braced in a U-forked rest in front of a musketeer, whose finger hooked around a trigger, and all the muzzles were pointing straight at her. A solid wall of halberdiers stood to either side of the muskets, and at a single command, their heavy chopping blades came down with a disciplined ripple. Moons' light sheened on edged metal, on helmets, and on the plumes in the floppy hats of the musketeers.

  Amourgin coughed discreetly. "I really think," he said, "we'd better put our commander down."

  CHAPTER II

  Grand Admiral Willek Tornsaarin barred the door behind her, and crept up the long, steep flight of stairs into the attic of the house she'd commandeered for her quarters. It was hot and dusty up under the eaves, thick with the scent of dry timber and the baked clay tiles of the roof. The low ceiling of the stairwell made her crouch; squat Derkinoi houses were not built for tall, lean Tykissians.

  When she reached the top of the stairs, she stood in darkness for a long moment, breathing hard, but not from exertion. Then she closed the door and lit a slowmatch, and carried it in a circuit around the low-ceilinged room, lighting the sturdy hurricane lanterns bolted in place on each wall. The light flickered and threw long shadows across the beams.