“Nay, sire, a million thanks!” Shaking his head profusely to gain time, the vizier mumbled a polite excuse. “I try to make sure each new wife is younger than the last, to keep some semblance of rank and order in my home.”
“I see.” Yildiz nodded. “You are a wise man. Very politic.” He looked away, finally letting the matter pass.
“I agree with you, Ninshub.” Prince Yezdigerd resumed speaking as if there had been no digression from business. “The cost of maintaining our Imperial sway, and especially our naval dominance, is a heavy one. Of late, new conquests and infusions of plunder have been less frequent.”
“Indeed, Prince,” Ninshub said, nodding, “but the costs of our foreign adventures continue.”
“But see here, my dear Minister,” Yildiz protested from his divan, “what conceivable ground is there for complaint? Turan's borders are being enlarged, are they not? Our tributary states continue to pay as much tax as our satraps and foreign legions can wring out of them, is that not so?”
“Yes, Resplendent One, ’tis so.” Ninshub nodded unctuously from his seat. “Your Resplendency’s empire continues to flourish. Yet even so,” he persisted with an apologetic air, “there are rising costs... not merely those of manning and maintaining our ships and legions abroad, but unforeseen expenses like bandit raids, revolts, and piracy on the high seas.”
“Aye, ’tis most true.” Nephet Ali, having recovered from his conjugal inquisition, felt the time was ripe to enter the discussion. Appearing to come charitably to the finance minister’s aid seemed as good an excuse as any. “This pirate Amra, for instance,” he expounded, “the one who recently abducted Count Aristarkos’s daughter—there, now, is a case in point! The cost of suppressing such a menace before it erodes Turan's naval supremacy further or stirs up some kind of mutiny among the islanders and sea-tribes—why, that could be a ruinous matter if deferred too long.”
“Come, now, Vizier,” Emperor Yildiz protested. “The best-regulated empire will always be troubled by petty highwaymen and seawaymen! This Amra fellow is a nuisance, to be sure... in part because he challenges the noble class and plays to the rabble’s fascination with bloody-handed corsairs. But can you really call such a trifling matter a threat to my rule, requiring some new naval outlay?” As the emperor argued, Nephet Ali observed that his air of drunken amiability continued, so that there seemed no real edge to his words.
“Nay, esteemed Father,” Prince Yezdigerd reassured his parent. “I hardly think our vizier means to imply so much.” He gazed at the two watchful subordinates. “The only way this brigand could ever become a significant problem, as I see it, were if our rivals the Hyrkanians manage to stamp him out before we do and then use the small triumph as grounds to claim naval prominence in the Vilayet.”
“Hmm, true, that could be an issue,” Yildiz observed. “Well-considered, Yezdigerd! Your royal grandmother has done rightly to recommend your counsels to me. What, then, is your proposal to deal with this nuisance and others like him?”
“In the naval realm, Father,” the dour-faced young prince began, “daily costs are the vexing problem. A naval build is a major outlay, true; but then, well-founded ships can last for dozens of years in service and even longer in the sheds. Furthermore, past naval victories have netted us scores of sound vessels and repairable hulks. Fully half our fleet is made up of war prizes and commandeered pirates, smugglers, and such.
“As Ninshub says, it is the expense of manning and operating a navy that drags heaviest on the budget: recruitment, repairs, provisioning, and the cost of maintaining harbours and garrisons in distant ports. Sailors and navigators are skilled workers who cannot be had easily or cheaply. They have families, too, who must be kept alive here at home if their labouring-caste is to continue. Even oarsmen have to be taught, and will not perform satisfactorily without some pay or inducement. Their training is not cheap, requiring skilled officers to break them in, and many trial cruises in preparation for a single battle—all of which have to be fitted out and provisioned: a continual, draining expense.”
“There are ships rowed by convicts and slaves,” Yildiz put in helpfully. “Some navies use nothing else. And, of course, in the event of a popular and well-publicized war, there is the chance of lively recruitment and a naval draft.” Yezdigerd shrugged minimally, as if too polite to flatly dismiss his father’s words. “Forced labour has proven far from satisfactory. Slaves require even harsher drill; their life span is short and their battle performance sluggish at best. As for volunteers, or a civil draft...” The princeling shook his head with a frown. “Such measures are to be avoided, in my view. They raise dangerous feelings of kinship and self-reliance in the class they are drawn from, creating a restless, arrogant middle-caste or petty nobility—such as the one our Hyrkanian rivals, who often resort to such measures, are saddled with. Arming tenants and small-holders and training them in close cooperation is always a dangerous business. It leads to notions of self-determination, even to mob rule. A career-officer caste, with strict authority over line soldiers and seafarers, is much safer.”
“Obviously, Yezdigerd, you have given the matter some thought.” Yildiz nodded dryly. “But say, good Treasurer, your flagon is empty! And yours, dear Nephet. Isdra, Aspasia, you have neglected our guests! More drink all around!” Waving his goblet overhead, the monarch sloshed red droplets over the already-spattered nymphs floundering in the wine tub. “Ladies,” proclaimed the emperor as they decanted more wine, “your fragrant distillations are as heady and sweet as divine nectar to my lips!” When the resulting bustle had subsided, Prince Yezdigerd— who, obedient to the law of the holy prophet Tarim, imbibed neither the juice of grape or grain—coolly resumed speaking. His words had the sound of a prepared speech.
“We live in a time of powerful new learning and a growing commerce in ideas. Our Turanian Empire, most particularly this splendid capital of ours, straddles the centre of caravan and sea traffic, dominating the crossroads of trade between east and west, north and south. Here in Aghrapur we stand, you and I, at the very centre of the world. Thus far it has benefited us vastly, both in tariffs and profits, the enlargement of our empire, and the spread of our influence in foreign lands.
“Yet I wonder... have we really availed ourselves of the greatest benefit of all?” The prince paused rhetorically, earnest-faced. “In this city, in case you did not know it, dwell some of the keenest minds of our time. They are prodigies raised up amid the wealth of our libraries and scholarly gymnasia, or drawn here by their thirst for knowledge, abandoning remote, backward regions where their gifts were unappreciated. Some linger here only briefly on their world travels, beguiled by our city’s opportunities for scientific investigation and the life of the mind.
“Aghrapur, for all these reasons, boasts the world’s greatest healers, the keenest astronomers, the shrewdest alchemists, and the most accomplished mages the world has known. I have studied these men, and some of their ancient counterparts as well. I find that in most cases, their intellectual strivings are not narrowly specialized. These seers can usually bend their efforts to any problem posed to them, cutting through the heavy cobwebs of folklore and tradition to arrive at a fresh, inventive solution.”
“You propose,” Emperor Yildiz asked, “to direct some street-comer philosopher’s discourses to the problems of empire?” The aim of the questions was obviously to speed the young prince along.
“Hmm. Yes, that could be,” Yezdigerd replied, accepting the prod rather intensely, and fixing on his father a gaze that made Nephet Ali vaguely uncomfortable. “It may be that someday keen thinkers will take up the problem of controlling the unruly masses, or even, at our urging—yours and mine. Father—devise a self-consistent science of Imperial rule. Doubtless their methods, if put rigidly into practice, will be ruthless and efficient enough to secure our kingship for all time.” He smiled vaguely at the thought, at last relieving the watchers of his stare. “But for now, my aim is much more limited: specifically, t
his problem we have touched on, of how to man or drive ships without the awkward, costly vicissitudes of commanding oar-crews as we presently do.”
It was Ninshub’s turn to ask for clarification. “You mean, finding some way of propelling ships without rowers? Such a method has already been devised, O Prince—the power of wind upon sails!” He smirked condescendingly. “Is further investigation really needed?”
“Yes, Financier... if you consider that the winds of our desert sea, the Vilayet, are prone to blow sluggishly and fitfully, or else with tempestuous violence. For our safety and certainty, they force us back on the old expedient that has proven so cumbersome—that of oared galleys burdened down with crew and provisions, having little room left for cargo and armaments.”
“You mean to command these scholars to find some better way?” Emperor Yildiz’s attention was not, apparently, permanently focused in his wine cup. “Which ones would your choose, then, and what would be the penalty for failure? Lifetime servitude on the oar-benches, perhaps?”
“Nay, Father.” Yezdigerd shook his head, showing little patience with old-fashioned ideas. “What I propose is a contest, a competition open to all recognized thinkers who care to offer a solution. The prize would be an award of gold. Five hundred talents should suffice, and possibly an Imperial warrant or appointment to oversee and develop the new plan for use throughout the navy.”
“Allow them a share of profit on the project, you mean?” The finance minister knit his hairless brow. “Hmm, yes, that might prove interesting.”
‘ ‘But my dear boy, ’ ’ Emperor Yildiz protested, “what imaginable improvements could these experts concoct? Winds that blow at our will? There is a highly successful captain in our Northern service who claims to command that power already, you know. He merely wets his sails with the blood of war captives. Or perhaps these wizards could make the surface of the sea curve downhill, so that the rush of the flood would carry our ships to their destination...? More wine here, fair Isdra! Such musing makes me dizzy.”
Prince Yezdigerd shrugged his lank shoulders. “There is no guessing what might come to pass. Could anyone have envisioned a bronze war chariot, years before mortals had ever caught and harnessed a wild desert-horse? Or this contrivance...’’He fingered one of the ivory buttons on his shirt-front. “It is a Kothian invention—very simple, but I think it has promise.”
“Speaking as vizier—” Nephet Ali, having come to a decision, felt that he must speak up so as to guide the affair toward a profitable result “—I think the young prince’s approach could be most... fruitful. There are, of course, the vital questions of how to advertise such a contest, how to choose fit nominees, and ultimately, how to judge the worth of their schemes—”
“It would seem to me,” Yezdigerd interrupted, “that we three—or four, counting you of course, my dear Father—are the ones best suited to rendering a final judgement. That is why I suggested that we meet here. There must also, of course, be a member of the naval command involved. I have already broached this matter to High Admiral Quub, first in authority under Jamil, our minister of conquest. His ministry, I am happy to say, has expressed strong interest in participating.”
“Hmm, Jamil...” Ninshub shook his head unhappily. “A fine warrior, of course, but in the past, his demands on the treasury have been steep and incessant. If he were to seize authority over a project like this, and run away with it—” “Do not fear,” the young prince assured him. “Admiral Quub has promised me that control can be tightly limited to the Admiralty.”
“Good, then,” Nephet Ali said. “Of course, even though my own duties are financial, I, too, am in contact with nimble young thinkers. If I were to bring in a contestant or two—”
“They would be most welcome,” Yezdigerd assured him. “The same is true for you, Ninshub,” he said to the finance minister, who nodded thoughtfully. “Whatever the source, the best ideas must be allowed to rise according to their own merit. All that should be required is a proclamation and some interviews over the course of, say, a fortnight or so. I would be pleased to take charge of them. Then, for a period of several months, the contestants can be allowed access to the Imperial Navy Yard, with various non-essential ships and wares set aside for their experiments. And, of course, adequate slaves and recruits levied for their use—”
“Wait, now,” Yildiz said, looking up from his goblet. “What is all this about experimentation? You mean for us to offer goods as well as gold to these conjurers?”
“Why, yes, Father. To be sure, the proposals will have to be tested.” Yezdigerd, for the first time in the meeting, turned a strong-toothed, glinting smile on his parent. “An idea is nothing more than airy speculation until it can be put into some tangible form, or carried out as a process, with real men and solid objects. We can scarcely judge the value and practicality of a plan without first seeing it proven. And we cannot expect these lofty thinkers, most of whom are men of slender material means, to fund such experimentation out of their own purses.”
Nephet Ali hesitated along with the others. He had felt fairly confident, moments before, of being able to sponsor a candidate of his own with a small cash stake, a candidate who might then, with his influence, walk away with the prize of five hundred talents. This new aspect of the plan, in effect an Imperial subsidy, threatened to stiffen the competition; but it also opened up wider possibilities in the form of the Imperial Navy Yard— whose vast resources would now be accessible, or so it seemed, with extensive opportunities for the siphoning and diversion of funds and goods far into the future, with no advance risk at all. “What an excellent idea,” the Imperial Engineer declared at last. “It is clear, my dear Prince, that you have worked out your plan most thoroughly.”
“Aye, indeed,” Ninshub chimed in. “I would think that this proposal is extremely likely to increase our naval efficiency.”
“And you, Father, if you have no objection...?” Yezdigerd turned solicitously toward the musing emperor, whose nod of agreement seemed distracted and offhanded. “Good, then. I shall have proclamations drawn up and issue an order on the treasury.” He arose, ever businesslike.
“In a way, it is fortunate,” Nephet Ali was moved to remark as he stood up, “that the great god Tarim sends us minor vexations such as these cursed Vilayet pirates. They keep us alert—do they not, O Resplendent One?” he added with exaggerated respect, bowing before his pensive emperor. “And they force us to better ourselves. The best trial of any new naval force will be in destroying this rascal Amra!”
IV
Thieves’ Port
Even at mid-morning, the Red Hand Inn was noisy and crowded. Several ships were in—most of them low, fast galleys whose hulls boasted no level decking, much less any shelter for exhausted oarsmen. These vessels were now drawn up askew on Djafur’s broad, sandy beach, and the inn’s common tavern and upper rooms teemed with life.
The lower floor echoed with warring, dissonant strains of zither and fife, snores and groans, drunken arguments in male and female accents of a dozen languages, the clank of fish kettles, and the loud, strained voices of bleary gamblers still vying their bets from the previous night.
The interior of the tavern, under the low, sagging timbers of its upper level, was cramped and dim. Even by hot, hazy island sunlight, the place remained cool and dank because of windows overlooking the harbour. There was also an open archway leading directly onto the wharf, where weary patrons sought peace, idling and dozing on kegs and crates or on the flat, worn planking. One of these guests, the Cimmerian best known as Amra, sat along the edge of the dock, idly spearing fish.
“Well, Captain,” a gruff voice challenged, “when will you make your next treasure cruise?”
Knulf Shipbreaker, proprietor of the Red Hand, was also master of the trim pirate galley, the Victrix, which lay drawn up on the beach a mere dozen steps from the pier. The red-bearded Vanirman was stout and broad-chested; as he ambled near the low curb, Conan felt loose timbers shift beneath th
e man’s solid weight.
“I know not, Captain.” Conan half-turned to watch the Vanir’s approach, less from courtesy than from a sneaking doubt whether his ancestral foe might try to fling him off the pier into the shark-infested harbour. Men of Vanaheim and those of Cimmeria had ever found differences; also, the captains of the Red Brotherhood who sheltered in this pirates’ den of Djafur were less than easy allies, as experience had taught Conan. “I had thought to bide here,” he said, “till some new ship arrives with tidings of trade and weather.” “Aye, a sensible course. Your men have not, in any case, drunk and gambled away the spoils of your last trip. So you are welcome.” Easing down with a grunt, Knulf helped himself to a place on the wooden curb opposite his rival. “And there is the matter of your hostage, the fair Philiope. Perhaps you are waiting for word from her family regarding your twenty talents of gold?”
“’Tis too soon to expect payment,” Conan muttered. “Or reprisal, either.” He hated the notion of discussing personal business with a smug competitor like Knulf; on the other hand, there was no way of keeping such a thing secret in a small, gossip-filled port like Djafur. The whole town barely stretched from end to end of the cove, where its handful of galleys and two-score fishing launches lay beached. The place boasted but the one wharf of ramshackle timber and a broken-down stone jetty remaining from the ancient fortress. The single, unpaved street of brothels and doss houses swarmed with cats and flies, and with slouching, staggering drunks, even at this hour of the morning. The tidy fringe of fishermen’s huts and tradesmen’s villas climbed halfway up the hill, fenced by low walls built of rubble from the ruined fortification at the top.
Knulf, after sharing Conan’s desultory glance up and down the waterfront, resumed the conversation. “So you must wait and hope, I suppose—” the Vanir smiled insinuatingly beneath his stained whiskers “—unless, of course, you weary of the whole affair. Then you might sell the hostage girl to me, at a discount... say, one-fourth of your asking price, five golden talents. How does that sound, Cimmerian? It would make you well-quit of the deal and leave to me the risk of collecting payment. A long chance, for a tidy profit... but such a gamble suits my fancy! What say you, Cimmerian?”
Conan of the Red Brotherhood Page 4