Her skin crawled, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She opened one eye the tiniest bit—
—and looked directly into a staring face.
Her sword was in her hand and the blade through the top of the stranger's skull and out the bottom without slowing before she noticed that the face didn't connect to a body.
"Damnable fiend!" she yelled, and sat up. "Get out of my room!"
The face didn't even flinch. "I greet with thousand pardon, Admiral. I did no wish disturb, but I must have speak with you."
He was speaking Tarinese, but with an accent she'd never heard anyone else use. She suspected uneasily that it was that of a native speaker—and Tarinese had been a dead language since the Tykissians came south over the mountains, when the Old Empire fell and brought down the legal study of magic with it. Since that time, magic had been formally outlawed in the Tykissian lands to all but priests. Willek's folk had a long tradition of breaking that law, however, and one of the persistent rumors among the sorcerous underground was that the god-kings of the Old Empire, and possibly its successor realm in An Tiram, had some means of cheating death. Willek wanted that magic—it was one more valuable secret this alliance might bring…
Willek climbed out of her bed, still snarling. "What do you want, Darkist?" No need to worry about the guards charging in to do something about her yell. Darkist was a magician of inhuman subtlety, and didn't make mistakes.
The disembodied face, wrinkled and senile-looking, frowned. "I must to be sure of schedule and places. Your fleet leaving is to attack my fleet—three days away from this day, is not?"
Willek stared at him. "Darkist, we agreed on three weeks from this day. Weeks, man. That's twenty-four days."
"Will not serve." The Tseldene god-king stuck his tongue out—an expression Willek had come to discover meant he disagreed vehemently. "My ships sail in three days. If the ships of you also do not sail in three days, we not have our very large sea war. We have land war, which very messy and destroy much businesses and properties."
"You bastard," Willek snarled. "We've had this launch date set for almost two years. How dare you pretend we'd agreed on three days from this one?"
"We agreed." The ancient Tseldene ruler was implacable. "But if you is unhappy with, there other people want to be new regent of New Empire lands under my throne. Other people who not insult me."
Willek thought his glittering black eyes, embedded in layers of wrinkles, would have looked at home in a snake's scaled face. He might be senile, she thought. And he might just want to make sure my troops are enough off-balance that they have to lose. She held her head high and said calmly, "I'll be regent, old man."
And not, for example, Cousin Valwer. This conspiracy was getting too damned big. Maybe the time had come to trim the number of players to manageable size.
"Then ships must sail three days. You must come by west side Cnit, then sail to point of Meltroon. We engage there."
Willek nodded. "I know where my people are supposed to be, old man. Just make sure yours are there to meet them." She thought of all the lovely, vicious things she'd like to do to that man, but kept her emotions off her face.
"Yes." Darkist chuckled "And how our lady emperor feel these days?"
Willek permitted herself a tiny smile. "Shemro hasn't been herself. But she's left the country in very capable hands."
"I very sure she has." Darkist's face swelled, and for the briefest of instants, Willek had the impression it was about to explode. But he was simply trying to impress her, she realized. When the image of his head was as large as Willek's body, he said, "Bring Emperor Shemro with you when you sail. We will find convenient time and kill her."
Willek shrugged "I intended to bring her, old man. I have my own plans for that bitch Shemro. We have other problems."
Darkist frowned, the petulant expression of an ancient man used to having his own way for a long time. "You to take care of problems are."
"We have god problems. My visions indicate the Mighty Ones are taking a direct hand in this."
"The One of a Thousand Faces is."
"I know that!" Willek throttled back her anger. "My family has worshipped the One in secret for nearly a thousand years. My ties to the Old Empire are by more than blood." She glared at him. "I referred to the other gods."
Tseldene and Old Empire theology held that all manifestations of the Divine were avatars of the One—who was also mad and schizophrenic. Darkist and she both knew that theology lied. The first part, at least.
Darkist's face wrinkled into petulance. "I will seek, I will make sacrifice. Great things draw gods like flies to dung."
So he didn't suspect. With a smooth, swift motion, she drew a glyph in the air over Darkist's ghostly face. The room filled with pale yellow smoke, and a sizzling sound, and the reek of sulphur and iron. Darkist's image vanished.
"Figured out how you did that, finally," the admiral said to the empty room. "And what to do to get rid of you." She rose, rinsed off in the basin of tepid water in the stand, and tugged on a fresh uniform.
She didn't bother getting something to eat, though normally her schedule was as regular as the sun. Instead she charged out of her quarters, slamming the door behind her. Her guard, reading in the guardhouse with her feet propped on the sill, fell over backwards.
Willek heard the yelp and the crash behind her and didn't even stop to reprimand the woman. There was suddenly no time. No time at all.
She charged across the compound. Her aide was just stepping out the door of his own quarters for the leisurely stroll to hers when he spotted her, and he blanched.
"Quickly," she snapped. "Schedules have moved up. Get the senior officers together in the war room—I want all of them in there before the end of second bell. Go!"
She felt again the seductive tug of power as she watched the young officer running at top speed for the call system. She was the second in command in the Tykissian Empire, and it was her pleasure to give orders and watch them carried out. With alacrity. With fear. Second most powerful person in the empire—that meant something. Her word was about to mean more, because she was taking the necessary steps to become first.
Within five minutes of her arrival to the war room, the last of the senior officers was seated. The men and women shifted in their seats, but waited silently. Some looked tired, some distressed, some almost angry. She noted the expressions, and who wore them. Unimportant, she thought suddenly. It no longer matters who serves willingly, and who grudgingly. The importance of all that is past.
Her people were present, and they would serve. Beyond the present, she would again have to watch her back, check for loyalty—and take care of the disloyal. But for the moment, the war—her war—was about to begin, and for a while nothing else mattered.
She stood in front of them all. "Our plans for the attack on Tarin Tseld have changed," she said "My sources confirmed this morning that the Tseldene naval forces are massed in the bay at An Tiram; their rowers have gone aboard, and they've loaded full water casks."
For a galley force, those were last-minute preparations. Every day the rowers were below decks made wastage higher.
"I have analyzed the threat and believe an attack is imminent I will meet with each of you separately to discuss specific roles, but know this—we leave on the tide at dawn morning after tomorrow."
Bren studied his recruits. He was astounded that so many human beings could be so utterly unfit for military service. He was even more amazed at his commanding officers decision to exercise the press in an inn. Bren felt sure he could have come up with the necessary number of recruits somewhere else in Derkin—and that he would have gotten some reasonably competent people. The human flotsam he had garnered stood staring back at him, panting hard after drills and exercises. Everything he'd seen had convinced him more that the XIXth would be better off short than with such a collection of jesters.
"Assignments," he said loudly. "If you don't hear your name, you
're assigned to foot. To pikes—Stepvet Trrallti, Mare Ugin, Hard Rain Ugin, Piglet Ddrad."
One woman and three men stepped forward, identical uncertain looks on their faces. Bren continued "To pike unit recruit command—Stlagi Mrado. You've fought with a pike before, haven't you, Mrado?"
The one-time merchant nodded "Yes, sir. Against the Krevaulti during the Twelfth Rebellion."
Bren nodded, while some of the recruits whistled with astonishment. The Twelfth Rebellion was legendary—had been one of the epic "little wars" of the last two centuries. Survivors were rare. The merchant was not such a bad choice then, the First Captain thought He seemed at home with a pike—wonder why he didn't say anything about the Krevaulti rebellion. But odd personnel mysteries would wait.
Bren announced, "Then you're promoted to File Closer. To Scout Troop—Eowlie Thirddaughter, Borte Ren Toka Paga, Korgi Ren Toka Paga, Doe Ditech." The Whore's Patrol, he thought with some amusement; they'd make up nearly a third of its numbers. Not only had the very strange Eowlie ended up a scout, but the piebald Shillraki twins and that muscle-bound half-Tseldene. Every one of 'em good with horses and good with knives. And I'd probably rather not know why. They were weak in everything else, but the best available.
"To command scout recruits—Amourgin Thurdhad, with Karah Grenlaarin as second. Field command."
The pimp Zeemos lunged out of the line and charged Bren, red-faced and puffing. "Y' can't leave me h'in t' foot patrol. Y' just can't!" he yelled. "H'I must be a scout! H'I have a good horse, and you cannot make me walk across t' length and breadth of t' land. I just can't!"
Bren had been expecting an argument. He'd already gone over some possibilities when he made out the assignments, and he'd come up with a plan he considered brilliant. Not awfully ethical, perhaps—but brilliant.
He didn't have that many brilliant moments, he thought. He'd take the few he had as gifts from the Three.
He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled gently. "I truly should throw you in the stockade for arguing."
"Aw, First Captain… show mercy h'on a poor, old man. Let me ride m' horse."
"But you ride like a sack of vegetables. You'll slow my scouts down."
The pimp looked at him with wistful puppy dog eyes. "There must be some way…"
Bren hooked his thumbs over the leather belt of his rapier carrier, and tilted his head to one side. "I can't let you ride with the scouts. But I might be able to arrange for you to keep your horse—let you act as a messenger, say—if you could become a patron of the XIXth."
The pimp's eyes narrowed. "H'I'm a poor man, First Captain. Poor. How can H'I be a patron?"
"Well," Bren said thoughtfully, "if you're a poor man, I suppose you can't. A rich man could make a sizable donation for armaments—leather armor, swords, even… horses. But I suppose a poor man—even a poor, fat, old man, will just have to walk with the young men. Carrying a pike. Doing the usual fatigues."
Zeemos spat over his shoulder and growled. "How much, sir?"
"Feel generous, Zeemos. Remember your fellow soldiers. They need cuirasses and shields, greaves and armguards and helms and even tents and rations."
Bren smiled and patted Zeemos on one plump shoulder. Beside him, he could see the rest of the recruits watching intently, the men and women standing in positions of alert curiosity.
"Remember, in battle, your lives will depend on each other. Just think how much safer you'll be if your fellow recruits are well-armed And think how grateful they will be to their patron."
Zeemos glowered. "Will a hundred crowns satisfy you?"
"I'm not the person who must be satisfied."
Zeemos stared at the watching crowd of recruits. "A hundred crowns," he said loudly.
"Naaah!" the other recruits yelled back. "Let him walk! Let him walk!"
Zeemos yelled, "Two hundred crowns."
"He has more than that!" Eowlie shouted.
The piebald twins yelled, "Make him pay five hundred. Five hundred crowns! He has at least that much!"
The women who had been Zeemos' whores all stood there, laughing and yelling. "Make him pay, the bastard! He has the money!" and "Five hundred! Five hundred!"
"So you're a rich man," Bren said softly. "How lucky for you, that you can afford to arm your colleagues well."
"B-b-b-b-but five… hundred… crowns…"
The recruits of the XIXth began to cheer. "Hail, Zeemos!" they roared "Hail, hail, Zeemos!"
A tear dripped from Zeemos' eye, and into a crease between two rolls of flesh. "It's all I have," he whispered, and glared at the one-time whores with murder in his eyes.
Then he reached into the folds of his draped tunic and fumbled around. After a moment, he pulled out a heavy leather pouch on a belt, designed to lay flat against the skin. He opened it, and began pouring out silver into the folds of Bren's cloak, which the First Captain held out for the purpose.
When he stopped at five hundred, he still had a handful of silver left.
"But don't you want armor for yourself?" Bren asked.
Zeemos' head jerked up, and he snarled, "Y' want it all, don't y', y' greedy bugger? H'I'll make you pay me back every duc someday, if h'I 'ave to cut it out of yer arse."
"Watch yer mouth!" Sergeant Ddrad gave Zeemos a solid whack across the shoulders with his vine-root swagger stick. It wasn't the first time, but Zeemos had learned better than to object. He shuddered instead, his face going dark red down to the jowls. "Sir!" he said, and threw the remaining silver into the dust in front of Bren.
"Attached as patron to the XIXth, to serve as my messenger," Bren said. "Dismissed. Amourgin, Karah, Eowlie—you will go to the market with Sergeant Ddrad, and you will acquire such armaments as you can with this money. Take Mercele with you, as well, and a wagon and mule. Be back by nightfall."
He turned to the recruits of the XIXth, and grinned. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "let's all thank our generous patron, Zeemos the Pimp."
The recruits laughed and cheered and stamped their feet. Bren noticed, however, that mostly they laughed. He felt very pleased with himself. He'd skinned the troublemaking bastard, and gotten his unit armaments and supplies to boot. Very few junior commanders could have pulled off such a neat trick.
He was destined, he thought, for greatness.
* * *
"What do we need?" Eowlie asked, tugging at her uniform jacket. The mule that would pull the two-wheeled cart was sniffing cautiously at her from a distance, made nervous by her scent. The heat of the day baked the very dust, and the midday sun bleached it white. She sniffed back at the mule; the beast had a mildly appetizing smell.
Her tunic did not quite fit—the proportions of her torso were subtly different from those of a flatface. On the other hand, issue clothing often didn't fit the locals, either. That seemed to be a constant of military life, along with appalling food. Even the flatfaces thought it was appalling, and they liked their prey long dead before they ate it. At least the military clothes covered her body; at least she'd been able to get the cooks to issue her meat to her unscorched. The military was far kinder to her than Zeemos had been.
Amourgin looked up from his notebook. "We need sabers, knives, light-cavalry corselets—torso armor—personal gear, and carbines or saddle bows. Mostly carbines, since I doubt many of our number have any great skill with the bow. Pistols. Cartridge paper, bullet molds, flints, powder horns. Military belts. Canteens. Knives. Thread, waxed thread for repairing harness, awls, needles. Riding trousers. Boots. All courtesy of Zeemos."
"Courtesy of Doe and the rest of us," Eowlie corrected, taking a deep breath. The law-speaker had a more pleasant scent than most flatfaces; alien, but not repulsive. "What haffened to Zeemos gave me a vetter imfression of your Empire."
Amourgin snorted. "Don't be deceived. It was fortunate for you, but that was an accident. The government shouldn't sweep up people like that."
"Like you, ey?" She wrinkled her nose, amused. Eowlie's folk bared their teeth only as a
threat gesture, though she'd come to discover the flatfaces meant nothing of the sort when they did it.
"Well, yes. But all of us. It's supposed to be a lawful, regulated process—but the Throne has been damned careless about the law for some time now, and it's getting worse. In fact—"
He shut his mouth abruptly, with an almost audible snap.
"Vad men make for evil days, even if the laws are good," Eowlie commented, prodding gently.
"True. Although even our laws have some weaknesses; take the pariahs, for example."
"Pariahs? Slaves, you mean?"
"Some of them are. The Old Folk, the people who were here before the Tykissians, my people, came south. It's all foolishness, really—how many of us are of pure Old Tykis blood these days, even north of the mountains? Yet we still pretend we are, as if this were Beltra the Great's time—" He cut himself off again.
"Go on."
"We'd better get the mule harnessed," Amourgin replied, turning away.
Interesting, Eowlie thought Flatfaces seemed to have politics, just like people.
CHAPTER V
Karah walked through Derkin's main marketplace with Amourgin, Eowlie and Sergeant Ddrad, going from new armorers to sellers of used armaments. There was still equipment to be had, for those who were willing to pay premium price for ordinary quality. The alleys and aisles were packed solid with customers, most of them yelling and waving their arms; the sweat stink was solid enough to cut into building blocks and use for a fort. The XIXth's stocking contingent edged past a thrall bent double under an enormous pack frame of iron bars. Karah stopped to stare for a moment; the slave was a jungleman from the far south—thicker-set even than a Tseldene, with an enormous shelf of bone over his eyes sloping back into a bun-shaped head. Thick brown hair, not quite a pelt, covered most of a body naked except for a loincloth.
"Come on," Ddrad said impatiently. "You don't want bows?"
Karah shook her head and shifted the bundle of sabers she was carrying to the other shoulder. "Takes years to learn how to shoot one from the saddle," she said. "Y'have to be born at it Eowlie?"
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