As expected, Scotha was fully terrestroid—a trifle bigger than the prototype, a trifle further from its sun, its seas made turbulent by three small moons. Seen from orbit, it had the same white-marbled blue loveliness. Descending in a tender, Flandry wangled permission to examine the view with instruments. He found the continent across which the boat slanted to be equally attractive, unlike most of his poor raddled planet.
Modern industries, built from scratch, had not wasted and poisoned soil, polluted air and water, scarred land with mines and highways or buried it under hideous hectares of megalopolis. No doubt some ruination had taken place, but before it had proceeded far, that sort of business moved out to space where it belonged. Meanwhile, population burgeoned, but not to unmanageability. The Frithian kings had feared that their nation might be outnumbered and overwhelmed by subject peoples of the same species, and enacted measures simple, harsh, and effective to forestall this. (For example, children were taxed at an upwardly graduated rate. Frithians, and others who were more or less Frithianized, could generally afford to pay for three or four; most couples in less advanced areas could not, but must be content with two. Contraceptive help was freely available. Infants on whom tax was not paid were taken to be sold as slaves.) Before long, space colonization began to give general relief, at first in artificial environments, later on planets in different systems.
There were approximately three billion Scothani by now, two-thirds of them off the mother globe. That did not lessen the danger, given their allies and their monstrous array of automated weapons. Nearly all of them could be mobilized. In contrast, unreckonable swarms of Imperial civilians in the target sector would be first hindrance, later hostage . . . and eventually contributory to the conqueror.
Just the same, Flandry liked what scenery he observed. The landscape was green, in delicately different shades from his home. He saw broad forests, rich plains under cultivation or grazing, picturesque old villages, steep-walled castles. Rivers and snow-peaks gleamed afar. The skies were thronged with winged life. Now and then, a glimpse of sleek industrial buildings, proud new towers in a city, or traffic through heaven reminded him of what had lately been achieved.
Iuthagaar, the capital, hove in view. Once it had been no more than a stronghold atop a small mountain which rose from a rolling valley floor. Today it sprawled down the slopes and across kilometers below. However foreign the architecture—lavish use of metal, multi-staged roofs, high-lifting buildings often fluted, enormous colonnades, wildwood parks—Flandry found himself admiring. But on the peak above, sprawling, gray, craggy-turreted, emblazoned with a golden sun disc above the main portal and topped by a hundred banners, the ancient seat of the Frithian kings still dominated.
The tender landed at a royal spacefield. Flandry was led off to temporary quarters. Next day (the rotation period was about nineteen hours) he was summoned before Penda.
The hall was vast and dim-lit, hung with weapons and trophies of past wars, chill despite the fires that blazed and crackled on a row of hearths. The dragon throne of the king-emperor stood elevated at the north end. Wrapped in furs, Penda sat waiting. He had the stern manner and bleak gaze of his eldest son, and the record indicated he was intelligent in his fashion. It also indicated that he lacked Cerdic's range of interests and knowledge.
The prince occupied a lower seat on his father's right. The queen stood on the left, shivering a bit in the damp draft. Down either wall stretched a row of guardsmen, firelight shimmery on their helmets, breastplates, and halberds; for business purposes they carried blasters. Others in attendance included younger sons of the royal house, generals, councillors, visiting nobles. A few of the latter belonged to non-Scothan species and did not appear to be receiving excessive politeness. A band of musicians behind the throne twanged forth a melody. Servants scurried, fetching and carrying as they were curtly ordered.
His escorting officer named Flandry to the king. As he had been directed, the man first knelt, then, having risen, gave the salute of the Terran Navy: an effective gesture of submission. Thereafter he met Penda's eye. His position was anomalous, technically Cerdic's captured property, actually—what? And potentially?
"Let your welcome be what you earn," Penda rumbled. He proceeded to ask several fairly shrewd questions. Among them were inquiries as to what Flandry would do in various situations; immediate answers were required.
At the end, the king tugged his whitening beard and said slowly: "You are not an utter fool, you. Maybe you are not a fool at all. Were you pretending, or were you only misunderstood? We shall see. Be you turned over to General Nartheof himself, head of Intelligence, to make your report." (The Scothani did not believe in fencing their leaders off behind row after row of bureaucrats.) "You may also make suggestions, if you wish to have hope of regaining your liberty, but remember always that treachery will soon be identified and death will be the welcome end of its punishment."
"I will be honest, mighty lord," Flandry avowed.
"Is any Terran honest?" Cerdic growled.
"My lord," Flandry said with a cheerful smile, "as long as I am paid, I serve most faithfully. I am now in your pay—willy-nilly, yes, but with some prospect of doing better than I could have in my former service."
"Argh!" exclaimed Cerdic. "I'd begun to think better of you. This makes me a little sick."
"Lord, it was your wish."
"Aye. A yeoman must needs wield a muckfork."
Flandry turned to Penda. "Mighty lord," he said, "in earnest of my intentions, may I begin at once by making a respectful proposal to your august self?"
The king grinned like a wolf. "You may."
"Mighty lord, I am a new-arrived stranger among your folk, and have scant knowledge of them or their ways. But I have lived and traveled in an Empire which rules over thousands and thousands of widely different races, and has done so for centuries. Before then, Terra had had earlier centuries of dealings with them. Grant us, I pray you, that we have learned something from experience.
"We have found it is not wise to scorn our subjects. That would gain us nothing but needless hatred. Instead, we show them whatever honor is appropriate. Meritorious individuals are even given Terran citizenship. Indeed, several entire worlds of nonhumans are included in Great Terra. Thus they have the same stake as we do in the Empire.
"Forgive me if, in my ignorance, I appear insolent. Yet my own life has given me a certain judgment about such matters. It appears to me that here are allies of yours, present on your mutual business, who are shown less than complete respect. Indeed, one or two look physically miserable." Flandry nodded toward a reptile-like being who huddled in bulky garb. "As simple a gesture as installing radiant heating would be appreciated, perhaps more than many Scothani realize. Appreciation would breed trust and cooperativeness in higher degree than erstwhile."
He bowed and finished: "Such is my humble counsel."
Penda stroked his horns. Cerdic fairly snarled: "This is the House of the Dynasty. We observe the ways of the forebears here above all places. Shall we become soft and luxury-loving as you, we who hunt vorgari on ski?"
Flandry's glance, flitting about the chamber, caught furtive dissatisfaction on many faces. Inside, he grinned. Austerity was not the private ideal of most of these virile barbarians.
The queen spoke timidly: "Lord of my being, the captive has wisdom. What harm in being warm? I—I seem always to be cold, myself."
Flandry gave her an appreciative look. He had ascertained that Scothanian and human females were extremely similar in outward anatomy. Queen Gunli was a stunblast, with dark rippling hair, big violet eyes, daintily sculptured features, and a figure that a thin, clinging gown scarcely hid. Frithian males demanded perfect chastity of their wives, yet liked to show them off—an assertion of their own masculinity and their ability to kill any intruder.
He had picked up a trifle about her background. She was young, Penda's third; her predecessors had died at early ages, perhaps of the same weariness and grief
he thought he saw in her. She was not Frithian by birth, but from a southerly country which had been more civilized. Too slow to adopt the new technology, it had been forcibly incorporated in the world state; but on shipboard he had noticed that personnel who hailed from it appeared to consider themselves the cultural superiors of the Frithians, and right about it. Greeks versus Romans. . . .He also had a notion that Gunli held, locked away, considerable natural liveliness. Did she curse the fate that gave her noble blood and hence a political marriage?
For just an instant, his gaze and hers crossed.
"Be still," Cerdic told her.
Gunli's hand fell lightly on Penda's. The king frowned. "Speak not so to your queen and stepmother," he reproved the prince. "In truth, the Terran's idea bears thinking about."
Flandry bowed his most ironical bow. Cocking an eye at the lady, he caught a twinkle. She alone had read his gesture aright.
General Nartheof made an impressive show of blunt honesty; but a quick brain dwelt behind that hairy countenance. He leaned back from his desk, scratched under his leather tunic, and threw a quizzical stare at the man who sat opposite him.
"If matters are as you claim—" he began.
"They are," said Flandry.
"Belike. Your statements do go along with what we already know. They simply warn me that the Imperial Naval Intelligence Corps is better than mine at what it is allowed to do. Not altogether a surprise. Your breed did once conquer everything across four hundred light-years or more." Nartheof lifted a finger. "However, your service is hobbled by politics; and the fighting units it advises are staffed by venial cowards."
Flandry said nothing, but he remembered gallantly mounted actions in his own lifetime. The haughty Scothani seemed unable to comprehend that a state as absolutely decadent as they imagined the Empire was wouldn't have endured long enough to be their rival.
"And yet," Nartheof went on thoughtfully, "your point is well taken, that if the war is prolonged, Intelligence operations will become of the first importance. Even if our victory is quick, we can expect a covert struggle with the remnant of the Empire. And the organization of this corps is inferior. I have the courage to admit that."
"Besides," Flandry reminded, "there are the Merseians, with ambitions of their own. Well may they help you at first, but you can be sure that later they'll turn against you. And the Ythrians may grow alarmed and decide to take measures. You need information about both those domains, and more, before you go out on the galactic stage."
"Yes, yes. Beginning with reorganization. It's ridiculous to make noble birth such a heavy factor, or a factor at all, in deciding promotions."
"And when you do advance commoners, you assume those who've done best in the ranks will make the best officers. That doesn't necessarily follow. No doubt it did, back when reckless courage and handiness with a sword counted most in battle. But now, the concept is as obsolete as . . . as your time-wasting requirement that everyone in the services learn how to use an edged weapon."
"You don't understand that certain practices are to honor our forebears," Nartheof said huffily. "You've lost all sense of race." After a moment: "Nevertheless, you're right about the need to become more, uh, rationalized before we move."
"In ten or twenty years, you might be ready," the Terran opined.
"Impossible. If nothing else, too much eagerness. I will argue for some postponement, and I will start planning how to whip my corps into better shape. Most of the bright lads are mine; and I feel I can count you in there." The general slapped his desk. "As for my fellow services, I can but try. Gods, the dunderheads that command some!" Quickly: "If you repeat that, it will go ill with you. A high-born warrior does not brook disrespect from a slave. He cannot."
Flandry gave as good an imitation of the Scothanian nod as his cervical vertebrae allowed. "Understood, sir. Yet I can serve you best, and thereby serve myself, if we can speak freely between us. Who are these less than brilliant persons?"
"Urh-hai, Nornagast, for one, head of the Quartermaster Corps. I've argued my gullet raw, trying to show him he's too inflexibly set up—war is full of unforeseeables, and if a naval division had its supply lines cut it would have to retreat the whole way home, for it cannot live off the country among alien planets—He listens not. And he's cousin to the king, whose life he saved once when they were young. Penda cannot dismiss him without betraying honor."
Flandry stroked his mustache. "An accident could happen to Nornagast," he murmured.
Nartheof jerked erect in his chair. "What? Did I mishear? What did you say?"
"Nothing seriously meant, sir." Flandry smiled and spread his palms. "But just for the sake of discussion, suppose—well, suppose some excellent swordsman should pick a quarrel with Nornagast. I don't doubt he has enemies. If he should unfortunately be killed in the duel, you could get to the king immediately after and have the first voice in choosing Nornagast's successor. To be sure, you would have to know beforehand that a duel was coming. This would require an arrangement with the excellent swordsman, since he'd need a guarantee against the royal wrath—oh, for example, a place to bide his time till the situation changed—"
The general's dagger flashed free. "Silence!" he roared.
"Of course, sir, if you order it." Flandry stared meekly downward and lowered his voice. "I did but speculate aloud. It strikes me as both unfair and unwise that a dolt should have power and glory when others could much better serve Scothania."
"No more of your Terran vileness." However, the knife lowered.
"Forgive me, sir. As I've repeatedly been told, mine is a low, dishonest, treacherous race. Though we did conquer widely, once."
"A warrior might go far, if only—No!" Nartheof clashed blade back in sheath. "A warrior does not bury his hands in muck."
"Certainly not. Prince Cerdic observed that a pitchfork is the proper tool for that. It doesn't mind getting dirty. Nor does he who orders its use need to soil his mind by asking how that use will proceed—" Flandry's manner grew frightened. "I beg your pardon, sir. I forgot myself again. May I offer amends?"
Nartheof squinted at him. "Of what sort?"
"A useful item of information I chance to possess. As you doubtless have guessed, many Imperial arsenals and munitions dumps are guarded by nothing but secrecy. Modern warfare, with its high proportion of materiel to men, doesn't cause the Navy to have enough personnel for keeping live watch on everything. And there are plenty of obscure storage places, unfindable among so many suns. I know of one not too far from here."
The Scothan grew utterly intent. His breath quickened, puffing frost-clouds into the chilly room.
"An uninhabited, barren system in the marches," Flandry continued. "The second planet has a mountain range that decks a dragon's warren of storage facilities crammed with spacecraft, weapons, auxiliary equipment, supplies—sufficient to keep a flotilla in action for months. A few ships of yours could go there, take what they chose, destroy the rest, and be gone without trace. The next periodic inspection would find no clue as to the identity of the perpetrators. Or, better yet, I could show you how to plant clues indicating it was a Merseian operation."
Nartheof gaped. "Is this truth? How do you know?"
Flandry buffed his fingernails. "You recall what my mission was to Llynathawr. Had I discovered the local admiral is in the conspiracy, which is imaginable, I was to inform a certain junior officer whose loyalty is assured, so he could take precautions."
Nartheof shook his head. "I knew the Empire was far gone," he muttered, "but I never imagined this. I find it hard to believe."
"You can easily send a few scouts to verify my story."
"Yes." Excitement quivered through the hard voice. "I will. And notify Cerdic—"
"Or simply dispatch the expedition yourself, explaining afterward that you felt there was no time to lose. Otherwise, you know, Cerdic is bound to take charge of the raid."
"He would not like such a trick on him," said Nartheof dubiously. "The glory
to be won—and glory means power—"
"Indeed. Frankly, sir, I feel you deserve more of that than you've gotten thus far. The prince could scarcely fault you for so bold and important a coup." Flandry leaned forward. "You'd gain more of the influence you need for advancing your ideas, in the service of Scothania."
"Aye. Aye. And . . . Cerdic has grown overbearing. We'd gain, were he taken down a little." Abruptly Nartheof chuckled, deep in his chest. "Aye, by Vailtam's whiskers, I'll do it!"
Then bemusement came over him. He stared long at the man before he murmured, "It'll be a stiff blow to the Empire. Directly or indirectly, it will take many human lives. Why have you told me?"
Flandry shrugged. "I've decided my best interests lie with you, sir." He put on a grave demeanor. "Though I'm afraid I'll make enemies here before all is done. I'll need a strong friend."
"You have one," declared the barbarian. "You're much too useful to be slaughtered. And—and—the gods curse you for your treachery, you soulless monster—but somehow, I cannot help liking you."
In a chamber more elegant and comfortable than the highest standards allowed—warmth, richly hued and textured hangings, incense and recorded music sweet upon the air—dice rattled across a table and came to a halt. Prince Torric swore good-naturedly as he shoved a pile of coins toward Flandry. "You have the luck of the damned with you," he laughed.
For a slave, I'm not doing too badly, reflected the man. In fact, I'm by way of becoming well-to-do, unless my master finds out and confiscates my hoard. "Say rather that fortune favors the weak," he purred. "The strong don't need it, highness."
Captain Flandry: Defender of the Terran Empire Page 32