by David Drake
The meeting dragged out to a desultory close without coming to a decision. Buller had rattled many of the political radicals and they in turn unnerved the plantation owners. The scale of the undertaking and the risks involved percolated into all concerned. The delegates were inevitably a hotbed of cold feet. Allenson wasn’t entirely unhappy at the turn of events as such matters had to be faced. It might as well be sooner rather than later.
Todd met him by the door and held out a sealed envelope.
“From Sar Stainman, leader of the Heilbron delegation,” Todd said.
Allenson was intrigued. Sealed envelopes were the stuff of romance novels. He slit it open with his thumb nail and read the enclosed single sheet. Then he folded it and placed it carefully in a jacket pocket.
“Convey my compliments to Sar Stainman and tell him that I accept,” Allenson said.
Todd looked desperate to ask what was in the message but contained himself.
“Very well, Uncle.”
Allenson smiled at Todd’s back as he dodged back through the exiting delegates. The lad was learning. An aide was his principal’s assistant, not necessarily his confidant.
Later that evening, Allenson idly flicked through the information channels on his pad while he waited in the reception area of the Inn. Nortanian news was parochial even by colonial standards, mostly limited to weather predictions and the fluctuating price of agricultural commodities. The providers seasoned factual matters with discussions about the comings and goings of various local celebrities of whom Allenson knew little and cared even less.
Boswell sat patiently opposite watching some sort of drama on his datapad. Allenson couldn’t see the screen but the sound channel conveyed explosions and heavy breathing.
A large carriage towed by four Nortanian quadrupeds pulled up outside the Inn. A brightly striped canvas weather roof supported by four wooden poles protected the Heilbronites who sat within but otherwise it was of open design. Allenson stood up.
“If you please, sar, I believe I should establish your visitors’ credentials,” Boswell said.
Allenson sighed but acquiesced, as matters had to be done properly. Boswell went outside to confer with the coachman before coming back and bowing to Allenson, winking as he straightened. Once the societal rigmarole was finished, Allenson took a seat in the carriage. He took the precaution of choosing one well to the back as far away as possible from the quadrupeds’ rear.
Stainman introduced the other Heilbron representatives. Allenson noticed that Horntide was not amongst them. Strange, the man had been prominent and outspoken in the Hall. They made small talk all the way to the restaurant. A maître d’hôtel met them at the door with much bowing and hand rubbing. He had slicked back his hair with perfumed vegetable oil much to the Heilbronites’ obvious discomfort. The oil failed to prevent a small snowstorm of dandruff falling onto the wide collar of his dark green suit.
The maître d’hôtel intrigued Allenson by conveying the party to a private room that must have been booked in advance. He anticipated merely social networking when he accepted the invitation to dine but it appeared that the Heilbron delegates had more meaty discussions in mind. When they sat down, Allenson noticed that there was one place too many set at the oval table.
Waitresses brought in self-heating tureens filled with various pungent stews. They arranged them in the center of the table alongside bottles of water, imported wine and plum brandy. The maître d’hôtel swept the waitresses out with both arms like a man herding sheep. Then he backed out, closing the double doors with a flourish and a final “bon appétit!”
Allenson helped himself to portions from two of the nearest dishes without taking much notice of the contents. He poured a small measure of plum brandy into a wine glass, taking the precaution of diluting it with a much larger volume of mineral water. He had the feeling he was going to need a clear head tonight.
The Heilbronites poked around in the dishes in an effort to ascertain the contents before serving themselves. Allenson thought they were wasting their time because in his limited experience Nortanian cuisine favored highly seasoned and spiced dishes whose flavor depended little on the identifiable components. The art of Nortanian cuisine seemed to involve making everything taste like something else.
Conversation was desultory while everyone satisfied their initial hunger.
“Ascetic Horntide not joining us tonight?” Allenson asked innocently.
“He’s indisposed,” Stainman replied briefly in a tone that discouraged further inquiry.
Indisposed could mean anything from a hot date to an encounter with a dodgy oyster restricting one to close proximity with a water closet. It could also mean being locked in a room with two heavies guarding the door so one couldn’t disrupt a serious pragmatic negotiation with unwelcome fanaticism.
“You expressed the opinion that war might be averted,” Stainman said.
“Indeed,” Allenson replied.
“Unfortunately, you’re mistaken.”
Allenson paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.
“What do you mean?” he asked sharply.
Stainman looked glum.
“The fighting’s already started. I received word today.”
“Go on,” said Allenson, heart sinking.
“A group of radicals on Trinity staged a protest outside a warehouse at the increase in import taxes on luxuries like tea.”
Trinity was the most developed of the Heilbron Worlds so was arguably the wealthiest trans-Bight colony and well able to support a luxury import trade.
“I thought the price had dropped sufficiently that tea was still cheaper than last year despite the tax rise,” Allenson said.
“Well, yes, Brasilia allowed us to import straight from the producers, cutting out the middle men. That greatly reduced the price but it was the principle, you see.”
“The principle, right,” Allenson said, thinking of Hawthorn.
“Things got a little out of hand and the warehouse, ah, burned down.”
“Awkward.”
“The owners thought so and protested to the Brasilian authorities, who landed a sizable force of regulars to protect private property.”
Allenson winced. The next step was as predictable as two schoolboys squaring up to each other in the playground.
“No doubt some of the radicals launched direct attacks on the soldiers.”
“Only some minor stone-throwing, although the loss of life when a vehicle went off the road was regrettable.”
“And the soldiers retaliated, yes?”
“They shot unarmed civilians,” a Heilbronite whose name Allenson had forgotten said hotly.
“Unarmed except for stones,” Allenson replied neutrally.
“And hunting rifles,” Stainman said, conceding the point.
“That is the current situation?” Allenson asked.
Stainman looked even more uncomfortable.
“Well no, I received another letter by fast cutter. Peytr Masters, who is the senior colonel of militia on Trinity, has called in militia regiments from all over the Heilbron Worlds to besiege the Brasilian regulars in the city of Oxford.”
“He’s not thinking of storming the city?” Allenson asked, alarmed.
“No. At least I don’t think so,” Stainman replied, somewhat defensively.
“What military experience does Masters have?” Allenson asked.
“He’s very highly thought of,” replied the delegate who had already spoken. Allenson now recalled that Tobold was his name. “He was a ship’s captain and has a successful import-export business. He’s most eloquent in debate.”
“No doubt,” Allenson replied. “But that does not answer my question.”
“Masters was commander of the Trinity Militia Regiment of Oxford when it was part of Levit’s column during the Terran War,” said Stainman.
“That’s odd. I don’t remember him,” Allenson said.
“Well you wouldn’t. Unfortunately he was taken il
l when the regiment mustered and had to delegate command to his deputy.”
Allenson merely raised an eyebrow and Stainman’s face reddened. He would not be in charge of the Trinity delegation if he was an unsophisticated man so he took the unspoken point. The Heilbron colonies had been pitched into outright combat with professional forces from the Home World by a military commander with zero combat experience.
“So the Heilbron Worlds are already at war with Brasilia. You must be concerned that the other colonies will let you swing in the wind through inaction?”
From the look on the faces of the Heilbronite delegates they were not so much concerned as bloody terrified. They looked like small boys who have suddenly discovered that manly actions like plotting insurrection against the headmaster can have awful bloody consequences.
“What do you think of Colonel Buller?” Stainman asked, abruptly switching subjects.
The Heilbronites looked at Allenson sharply. It appeared that much depended on his answer. Allenson broke a piece of bread, wiped spices from his plate, and chewed slowly to give him time to consider his answer.
“Colonel Buller’s an intelligent student of war and has considerable practical experience of command.”
The Heilbronites appeared to be expecting more but Allenson kept his council until he understood the context more fully.
“But what of his political opinions?” Tobold eventually blurted out, unable to contain himself.
Allenson kept his attention on Stainman.
“In what sense do you ask the question?”
“He’s a Brasilian senior military officer, a class that doesn’t notably hold egalitarian views. Do you think he’s genuine?” Stainman asked, motioning for Tobold to be quiet.
“I have no reason to doubt Colonel Buller’s sincerity or to think that he’s merely reacting to the failure of his own hopes of preferment through what he considers to be political interest,” Allenson said carefully.
“It appears that his love of democracy doesn’t extend to the military,” Tobold remarked sourly.
Allenson recharged his glass, mostly with water.
“You know my opinion on the matter, gentlemen. Colonel Buller’s essentially right even if he’s perhaps a little harsh in his tone. Everyone in an army down to the lowliest soldier is deserving of fair and just treatment but I’m not going to pretend to believe that everyone is equally talented simply for political reasons.”
A sudden clatter from the kitchen made the Heilbronites jump. They really were keyed up.
“Just a cook dropping a pan,” Allenson said gently.
He gave them a moment before he continued.
“An army must obey the legitimate orders of the command structure. Otherwise it descends into an armed mob more dangerous to the community than the enemy. It can’t be a debating society, not and win wars anyway.”
“So if you were captain general would you demand obedience from all?” asked Tobold.
“If I were in such a position—which I have not sought.”
Allenson tapped the table for emphasis.
“I’d be the servant of every citizen of the Cutter Stream. I’d serve my masters to the best of my ability as I have always tried to do and I’d expect the same from those who served under me.”
He poured himself another cafay.
“Why’re we here, gentlemen? What is it you want from me?”
“You’re quite right, Colonel Allenson,” Stainman said. “Events’ve overtaken us in the Heilbron Worlds. The precipitous action of a handful of fools has landed us in a shooting war that we can’t win alone.”
He rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly looking very old and stretched.
“We need the support of the rest of the colonies. We need a commander who not only has experience of leading armies but who will unify the colonies. That means a captain general from the Lower Stream, someone reputable from their own class to reassure their delegates concerned about radical political views.”
“Which in practice means a captain general from Manzanita as it is the only Lower Stream colony with the necessary sophistication,” said Allenson.
“Yes, Colonel Buller seemed like the ideal choice . . .” Stainman’s voice faded out.
“But?” Allenson asked.
“The problem is that he’s a braggart and a slovenly oaf,” said an elderly Ascetic who had not yet spoken. “Oh, his radical politics could play well in the Heilbron Worlds but their opinions no longer matter as they’re committed by events whether they like it or not. It’s the lower Stream’s opinion we have to court.”
“The colony worlds may want independence, but I doubt many of the Lower Stream demesne owners or Nortanian businessmen want to see their wealth divided up amongst their servants,” Allenson said, drily.
He stood up and gave a small bow.
“Gentlemen, it’s getting late and we have a full day tomorrow. I thank you for a most excellent meal and such a useful exchange of views.”
Allenson fished out his wallet.
“In return you must allow me to pick up the tab. No, I insist,” he said, holding up a hand, although none of the Heilbronites had made any but a token protest.
Buller hijacked the morning meeting of the assembly. He turned up in the same shirt that he wore the day before, judging by the dinner stains on the collar. He demanded that the Assembly declare independence and appoint a captain general immediately. He also wanted to talk about the remuneration that would be required to attract those with the right military skills. This latter point clearly came as something of a shock to delegates. They were used to thinking in terms of militia who were at best semi-professional and whose officers had other sources of income.
A Trent delegate derailed the vote for independence by proposing a counter motion calling for Brasilia to accept subsidiarity in its relations with the colonies, especially in the economic sphere. Trent was the primary jumping off point for ships returning along the trans-Bight chasm to the Home Worlds. The delegate pointed out that Trent enjoyed a thriving import-export business. He expressed doubts about the impact of full independence upon same. It became clear he also worried about the social and economic revolution that might accompany radical political change.
Allenson surreptitiously checked the dictionary on his datapad for the exact meaning of the word subsidiarity. He noted with relief that many other delegates did likewise. It transpired that subsidiarity meant pushing decision making down to the lowest relevant level of administration to avoid unnecessary centralization. This seemed an eminently sensible strategy but no doubt it generated considerable hostility from all right-thinking bureaucrats on religious grounds.
The chairman called for a vote on which motion to adopt. Unsurprisingly the delegates opted by a sizable margin for compromise. At this stage it was probably the best that could be achieved.
Buller then resubmitted his motion to appoint a captain general of all the colonial militias. Before a vote could be taken, Stainman added a codicil making Allenson the favored candidate. A Wagener delegate seconded the motion so promptly that Allenson suspected collusion. The Lower Stream and Heilbron colonies, who made half the delegation, expressed their support in turn, confirming Allenson’s suspicion.
Evansence said, “As Colonel Buller rightly suggested we need to discuss financial terms before the appointment.”
Stainman turned to Allenson.
“What remuneration would you require as captain general, Colonel?”
“I don’t need paying to serve my countrymen,” Allenson replied, “although I would be grateful to have my expenses defrayed.”
At that the Trent, Nortanian and other nonaligned colonies fell into line so in the end the Chairman declared a formal vote unnecessary. Allenson was appointed unopposed.
He glanced over at Buller. The man glared at him with something close to hatred.
CHAPTER 8
The Great North Road
The next morning Allenson held a p
rivate meeting with Todd and Hawthorn in his hotel room. First, he checked the suppressor on his datapad was on to guarantee the exclusion of eavesdroppers.
“I need to get to Trinity before the situation blows up in our faces,” Allenson said.
“This Masters chappy,” Hawthorn asked. “Keen, I take it?”
“Apparently so,” Allenson replied, “and very, very inexperienced.”
“What do you intend to do about Buller?” Hawthorn asked.
“I ought to give him a senior commission. His military skills are too valuable to waste.”
Hawthorn grunted in agreement.
“And it would be better to have him pissing out of the tent instead of in. I suggest you bring him with us as your advisor. He could be useful.”
Hawthorn turned to Todd.
“Take note, kid. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.”
Poor Todd looked rather shocked. Hawthorn had that effect on people when they were dealing with him for the first time.
“I can’t imagine Buller riding a frame. We’ll have to use a carriage and that means taking the Great North Road to Port Trent before turning off for Trinity,” Allenson said. “We will have to stop three or four times to recharge the batteries, all of which will take time.”
“That might be no bad thing,” Todd said, speaking for the first time. “It will give a chance for people on the intervening worlds to see you. That could be very politically advantageous.”
Allenson regarded Todd with suspicion.
“You want me to parade through the countryside like a barbarian king conducting a laying on of hands for the peasantry?”
“The kid’s right,” Hawthorn said, ignoring Todd’s flush of anger at his use of the term. “Right now the only pan-Bight institution is the army and the army in practice is you. You have to be visible. I hate to say it but you do look rather impressive in full uniform, quite the military aristocrat. Of course the people glimpsing the splendor won’t know the real you as we do.”