by John Dalmas
Sixty-Two
. . . Each nation on this world and no doubt elsewhere has constraints on its logic and on its willingness to contemplate or at least to act. These constraints can be rooted in painful national experience, and can explain otherwise perplexing failures. (They can also be an opening point in an analysis of cultural realities, something I may undertake in a future volume.)
Djez Gorrbul is a much more populous and powerful nation than Hrumma, and many of her kings have harbored the ambition to rule Hrumma. On a number of occasions, Gorrbul has invaded up the narrow and difficult isthmus which connects the two nations, only to be driven back with severe losses. It would seem that a seaborne invasion, or perhaps better yet a supplemental invasion by sea, would make more sense. Why did Gorrbul so long avoid this? The explanation seems to be as follows.
For very good geographical and economic reasons, Hrumma has a strong seafaring tradition, with many skilled mariners. In fact, Hrumma's seafaring tradition is older than her written history. By contrast, and also for good geographical and economic reasons, Djez Gorrbul has no strong seafaring tradition, and few of her vessels are larger than fishing boats. In fact, Gorrbul even imports some of its fish consumption from Hrumma.
However, about eighteen hundred years ago, a Gorrbian King, Grazonnu XIV, having been rebuffed in an attempted invasion up the Isthmus of Kammenak, decided to build a navy and conquer Hrumma by sea. Thus he built a large fleet, which en route to attack the then Hrummean capital of Serrnamo, met with a sudden storm that scattered the Gorrbian ships. Many were never seen again. Others were driven aground or ashore where they were broken up by the waves, and some found their way home. A few reached shelter in two of the Hrummean firths, great inlets, where the ships were taken as booty and their crews and soldiers sent back on foot to Djez Gorrbul.
The deity of both the Djezes and Hrumma is believed to be foremost a sea god, and on the basis of the above experience, the kings of Djez Gorrbul took the long-unexamined position that at sea, Hrum favors the seafaring Hrumma over the lubberly Djezes. It was as if to invade Hrumma by sea was to invite the wrath of Hrum. It was more than three hundred years after the loss of their fleet before a Gorrbian king invaded Hrumma again even by land. And in their rather numerous invasions since then, they had always restricted their campaigns to land . . ..
From: Memoirs of Midshipman Erlin Werlingus
* * *
Ambassador Lord Vendel Kryger stood five feet tall, a bit less than average for an adult male Almite, and weighed less than a hundred pounds. Riding a small kaabor beside King Gamaliiu, he looked like a child, a balding preadolescent with a middle-aged face. Marshal Formaalu rode on the king's other side, and Midshipman Werlingus on Kryger's left. Two mounted squads of royal guards flanked them while another rode behind.
The weather had changed overnight. The humidity was lower and the midday breeze cool, with a flavor of coming autumn. The visitors had arrived the evening before, when it was too dark to see much. The country around Haipoor l'Djezzer was tiresomely flat, and it felt good to Kryger to view what the king had called mountains, though by Almaeic standards they were no more than high rugged hills.
Formaalu had updated them on the military situation, then given them a tour of the base before they'd ridden out of camp. Kryger had not been surprised at the order and discipline here. He'd recognized early that in some respects Djez Gorrbul was not greatly inferior to Almeon. Which made it even more attractive as a future imperial possession.
More interesting than the base had been the report on the war. Even though much they'd been told, they'd already known, for numerous kiruu carried miniature dispatches to the capital while an efficient system of mounted couriers rode a tight schedule. So he'd known that Gorrbian casualties had been heavy, particularly on the first day and on the day the dams were opened. And that the Maklanni (the Gorballis called Hrumma Makklan, "Hill Land," and its people Maklanni, both terms having a derogatory connotation) had a new weapon that looked like a stone and exploded when it hit. Usually. Some malfunctioned.
"Grenades. That has to be Brokols' work," Kryger had said to Werlingus when they'd first heard of it. "And Brokols is obviously responsible for spiking the howitzers. He's been more effective than I'd ever have thought."
As they rode, the king had been mentally reviewing their briefing. "How far did you say my army's advanced?" he asked the marshal.
"About twenty-five miles, Your Majesty. We're moving fairly rapidly now, but the Maklanni do a good job of bleeding us as we go. The isthmus is so damned narrow, our advantage in numbers won't really tell until we're clear of it. That's why I'm holding so many troops here at base camp: I can't really use them yet. I might as well not even have cavalry, as little good as they've been to me so far. But as soon as we break out of the isthmus, it'll be a different story."
Right, thought Kryger. "Your Majesty," he said, "it seems to me that this might be the time to set in motion—what we've prepared."
Gamaliiu smiled broadly. "Exactly what I was thinking. It should take some pressure off Marshal Formaalu's army, yet not leave our—other force susceptible to a major suppressive operation for too long."
Sixty-Three
It was night, but not as dark as it might have been. Great Liilia was rising two-thirds full, and Little Firtollio was about on the meridian, halfway through his swift transit. Ten boats in a loosely formed column of twos, rowed through an almost eerie silence broken only by the squeak of oars on tholepins. There was no breeze at all, and the swells, slow and easy, were unruffled, smooth as oil, reflecting the moonlight in two silvery trails.
Lieutenant Korvassu sat in the stern of the lead boat, a fishing boat, holding the steering oar, glancing up now and then at the lodestar which circled only three degrees off true north. On a sea like this, one of the steersmen could easily fall asleep, so most of Korvassu's attention was on the other boats of his flotilla. His was the "flagship," all twenty-five feet of her, and he the "commodore," responsible for seeing that no one got lost—that they all stayed together.
For a moment Korvassu removed his attention to look around as far as light allowed. Somewhere there were supposed to be forty more boats like these, in four separate flotillas. He'd probably never see them; they'd launched from other streams, and hadn't been intended to meet, or to land in the same area. Each flotilla had 250 troops, and the idea after landing was to destroy as much and kill as many, and generally disrupt as much, as they could.
What he hadn't been told, but could figure out for himself, was that the Hrummean army would react by sending a few regiments to hunt them down and kill them. Major Hamaalu was to have them stave their boats after they landed, stave them very thoroughly, supposedly so the Hrummeans couldn't use them. Of course, he couldn't use them either; that was the main and unspoken point. They were supposed to survive and keep fighting until the grand army took Hrumma over.
"Lieutenant!" called a voice from another boat. "My Hrum-bedamned hands are so sore I can hardly row. They're oozing, and sticking to the oar."
"Who's calling?" Korvassu asked.
"Private Nebbek, sir."
"Nebbek, any more bitching out of you and I'll have you thrown overboard. Now shut up and row!"
Their bit of the sea became very quiet again, except for the gentle rub and dip of oars. Korvassu was incensed. What the fuck does Nebbek think this is? His mother probably didn't wean him till he was twelve. He'd make sure to adequately punish the man for bypassing his boat sergeant. That would be Sergeant Serrak.
His thoughts went back to their mission in Hrumma. The first thing they had to do was get there. Korvassu had four experienced oarsmen in his own boat. Two were fishermen and one a sailor like himself; the fourth was the son of a river merchant, who'd taken a few minutes to get the hang of rowing in the swells. He'd assigned three of them to row the first hour, to get some progress made and show the lubbers how it was done. Now he was using one or two seasoned oarsmen at a time.
He wondered if he'd really throw Nebbek overboard. Ashore the man had seemed like a pretty good soldier.
Actually they weren't doing badly, probably making somewhat better than two knots. At that rate they'd get to Hrumma in a day or so more of steady rowing. Assuming the men held up, and they'd have to. He had men enough that no one needed to row more than one hour out of two or three.
Now if they'd just get a west wind. Or better yet a north wind, but that was too much to hope for this time of year. Just be thankful there's no headwind, he told himself.
Or storm. It was seventy miles or so across the Gulf of Storms, and being so shallow, a squall could build big waves quickly.
A sound pulled Korvassu out of his revery, a sound he couldn't place, and he looked in the direction he thought it had come from. A hiss. Then it repeated, but from the opposite direction, and a voice came across the water.
"Lieutenant! There's a serpent follow—he's gone now. It was a really big one, not ten feet off my . . ."
There was a sudden yelp from the same boat, maybe eighty feet away, then a half shout, half scream. Korvassu stared uncomprehendingly as an oar seemed to lift from the gunwale and fly through the air. A serpent head raised well above the water then, and a man jumped overboard on the other side. There was more yelling, another oar lifted in toothy jaws. His own men had stopped rowing to stare with him.
Abruptly a loud hiss sounded behind him, with a feel of warm, moist, fishy-smelling breath on his neck. Korvassu jerked around to face a large serpent at a distance of fifty inches, its open mouth rimmed with spiky teeth. He managed not to scream. The long neck curved then, the head swooping. It grabbed an oar, lifted and threw it to splash fifty feet away.
"Everyone ship your oars!" Korvassu yelled. Most of the men had never heard the term before, but almost everyone got the idea, and pulling their oars from between the pins, tried to put them on or under the seats. Then serpent necks lifted from both sides of his boat, jaws reached among the men, and more oars were slung away. Most of Korvassu's crew were screaming; two panicked and plunged over the side. Shouts and screams came from everywhere, serpent heads appeared by every boat, and some men threw their oars overboard.
After a wild minute, things went quiet again. Korvassu looked around in the moonlight and saw all ten boats still afloat. None had tipped over. No one was rowing.
"All right men!" he called. "Take a deep breath and relax. Nobody start rowing again, got that? Boat commanders, count the oars you have left, not counting the steering oar, and give me your oar counts starting with Boat Two. If you're missing any men, tell me."
He could hear them murmuring, then Boat Two gave its count. "Boat Two, four oars!" When the report was finished, one had seven oars, the most of any, and a couple had only two. Of the men who'd jumped overboard, all but two had been hauled back dripping. The two either couldn't swim, or the serpents had killed them. Probably, Korvassu thought, the damn fools couldn't swim. If the serpents wanted to kill, none of us would be alive.
They'd play hell rowing to Hrumma with the oars they had left. It would be tough just getting back to their own shore. He looked at Private Kaldibbi. "Kaldibbi, you see that oar over there about twenty feet?"
"Yes, sir."
"You just volunteered to get it. Jump!"
"Yes, sir." The man got off his seat and jumped.
"Boat sergeants, if there are any oars floating near your boat, get 'em."
Kaldibbi swam back dragging the oar. "It doesn't look very good, sir. It's kind of slivered." Korvassu reached down and got it. Holy Hrum! he said silently. Those fucking teeth! I'm glad he didn't grab me.
"Lieutenant?" It was his own boat sergeant; the voice spoke quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Maybe Hrum sent them as Messengers, like in the first days. Maybe we aren't supposed . . ."
There was another yell, of pure terror, jerking their faces in that direction. "What the fuck now?" Korvassu said. There was wild splashing, high-pitched keening, and he saw someone being pulled back into Boat Four. "What happened?" he demanded.
"Anezzu was swimming back with an oar and a serpent grabbed it," a voice called back. "Anezzu didn't let go soon enough and got pulled under for a minute. He's okay."
Korvassu looked at his sergeant and nodded. It was time to stick his neck out. The major could counter-order if he wanted to, but at sea, Korvassu was in command. Or supposed to be; he'd soon know. He called to his little flotilla. "All right, everyone, listen up! And forget about recovering any oars. Here's what we're going to do. Remember what serpents are; they're the Messengers of Hrum. Well, we got his message! Turn your boats around. We're heading north for home!"
Cheers greeted the order.
"Stow the cheering!" Korvassu said. "Boats that don't have at least four oars, get more from Boats Four and Nine."
He waited then, for the exchange of oars, and possible trouble from Major Hamaalu. The exchange of oars took place, but if the major said anything, it was too soft to hear. Korvassu called once more: "All right, row." They started, and he pushed the steering oar in a long turn to starboard. When they were aimed at the lodestar, he straightened his course.
They hadn't rowed ten minutes when he felt the breeze on his neck and turned to face it. In a minute it was blowing at about ten knots.
"Boat sergeants, listen up! We've got a south wind now. Ship your oars and step your masts! Hrum's being good to us!"
They did, and quickly. The boats began to move faster than they had with ten oars driving them. It won't be longer than maybe four hours at this rate, Korvassu thought. Now all I've got to worry about is what the hell the army's going to do to me when we get back.
Sixty-Four
Lord Vendel Kryger watched the slave girl cut his breakfast sweetfruit into sections and remove the seed pith. He hadn't seen this one before; she was the loveliest yet. She caught his glance and smiled shyly.
Kryger's return smile was lupine; life had grown far more interesting since he'd had Werlingus transferred to quarters in the staff wing. Kryger'd never said anything to Gamaliiu, nor had the king said anything to him, but the train of girls could hardly be unintentional. Gamaliiu kept sending new ones—all small for droids, scarcely adolescent actually, but well schooled in pleasing. Kryger doubted there was anything like them in Almeon.
I'm going to have to break that pleasant habit, he told himself wryly, it won't do to have even a hint of this around when the fleet arrives. Maybe later, after the military administration's been here awhile.
There was, of course, a strong likelihood that he'd be called back to Almeon when the conquest was complete, unless he created a continuing place for himself here. There'd be no further need of an ambassador, and the emperor had said early on that Prince Kesler, his young half-brother, would rule here as his regent. Though the chance was that the indolent young man wouldn't come till everything was thoroughly secured and organized for him. Perhaps I can interest Kesler in assigning me as his deputy or his military aide, Kryger thought. I'll work on it.
He finished his custard and the girl served him his sweetfruit "Thank you, my dear," Kryger said, and patted her hand.
His manservant entered. "Lord Ambassador," he said, "a page has brought a message from His Majesty, King Gamaliiu. His Majesty wishes to see you at your early convenience."
Early, not earliest. That meant he could finish breakfast at reasonable leisure. "Tell the boy I'll be there in fifteen minutes, if it pleases His Majesty."
The man bowed. "Thank you, Lord Ambassador," he said, and left.
Kryger finished the fruit, took another drink of satta, smiled again at the maidservant, and went to the bathroom, then left for his meeting with the king.
Kryger's apartment was on the second floor of the guest wing. The large corridor down which he walked was richly carpeted, and its roof was glass—different panes in different colors, the morning sun slanting through in corresponding hues. The corridor walls were painted white, but the wes
t was varicolored by the transmitted sunlight. Entering the main building, he walked down marble stairs into a corridor built on a grander scale, but having less light. The aesthetics there were richer, its polished wood, tapestries, and paintings lost to proper appreciation in the subdued illumination.
At the king's office, a doorman informed His Majesty that the ambassador had arrived. A guard in formal uniform, silver breastplate polished like glass, accompanied Kryger into the king's presence.
Kryger bowed. "Your Majesty requested my attendance," he said in Djezian.
Gamaliiu nodded without his usual smile. He was a handsome man, even more than most male droids, middle-aged, and for a man given to sensuality, looked reasonably fit. Kryger was aware that he drilled frequently with both sword and knife. "Yes," the king said. "A new situation has developed. It seems that unforeseen difficulties keep arising."