Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  It was hard to believe, but the Valdemarans were something Tremane had never expected to see in his lifetime: people who were exactly what they appeared to be, employing no deceptions and very little subterfuge.

  Which means I misjudged them, and I sent in an assassin for no reason. Ah, well. He wasn't going to agonize over it. He had done what he thought he had to at the time, with his own best assessment of the situation. Expediency. We are ruled by it.... He had enough now to worry about with the welfare of his own men, and if a few Valdemarans and their allies had gotten in the way of his agent's weapons, well, that was the hazard of war.

  At least, that was what he'd always been taught.

  Never mind. But as for the mages, I might as well order them to stop chasing that particular hare and go after more promising quarry. If not Valdemar, then where are these things coming from? And why now?

  The fire popped and hissed as the flames found a particularly knotty piece of wood. Wood. My scholars have a good idea for shelters which requires a minimum of wood, and that is good news.

  These new barracks began with four walls of the same bricks he was building the defensive bulwarks with; heaped up against them, pounded earth, reaching to the rafters. There would be no windows and only two doors, one at either end. The roof frame and roof timbers would be of wood, but the roof itself would be thick thatch, of the kind that country cottages around here used. Each building would look rather like a haystack atop a low hillock. If snow started to build up on the roof to a dangerous weight, it would be easy to send men up to clean it off, but a certain amount of snow would insulate against cold winds. His builders liked the plan, for a fireplace in each of the outer walls that did not contain a door could easily heat the entire building efficiently.

  We can start those as soon as the defensive walls are up. Thatch; that's straw, and there's certainly plenty of that. I can probably hire thatchers from the town. Brick he had in abundance, and plenty of earth. If we have the time before snow starts to fall, I can build more of those structures with no fireplaces and only one door to use as warehouses for the foodstuffs, then take the wood from the warehouses we tossed up and reuse it elsewhere.

  Could these same buildings be used for army kitchens? He'd have to ask his people. Or better still, could he put a kitchen in each barracks, and use the heat from cooking to help heat the barracks?

  And what are we going to do about bathhouses? His men were accustomed to keeping themselves healthy, and that meant clean. Perhaps he could find enough materials to build a few traditional bathhouses with steam rooms and have the men use them in tightly-scheduled shifts. But how are we going to heat them, and heat the water?

  And the latrines, the privies; how far along were the builders on those? His men who knew about such things had assured him that they would have adequate arrangements before the first hard freeze, arrangements that would not poison the local water supplies. Would they? Was there a progress report on his desk yet? He couldn't remember.

  He almost got up to find out, but the warmth of the fire seduced him. If there was a report on his desk, it would still be there later, and if there wasn't, it wouldn't materialize.

  Not like the old days, when one might have. The old days—huh. The "old days" were less than six moons ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and he was a different man then. He had already done things that Grand Duke Tremane would never have considered.

  I have burned all my bridges.

  The walls would be done in a few days. Then work could start on the barracks. He wanted to get everything done at once, and despite the number of men he had, there still weren't enough—and—

  And we have gold. We have gold! Why can't I just hire some of the locals? Why shouldn't I? I've seen boys standing about, looking for work. Maybe there are only boys and old men and women, but not all the work will need strength. Oh, damn. We have gold, but I need to keep it in reserve if I can, to pay my own troops. Besides, how do I get those people to work for us? Not all that long ago, we were the enemy. How do I manage to get the townspeople and my men to work together? How?

  His thoughts stopped as he realized that he was planning for a long future. These new barracks weren't meant to last for a season or a year; his builders had given him plans for structures that would last for years. His sanitary men were planning for decades of use.

  Oh, a long future be damned. Well, of course, they're giving me plans for good barracks. The winter is going to be worse than anything we have ever seen. Tents or flimsy structures made to last a season won't cope with the kind of winter storms we're going to see. And one of the worst things that could happen would be for our facilities to freeze up; if we overbuild, that won't happen. Probably. Maybe.

  Better to concentrate on how he could hire some of the locals, how he might be able to keep the people of the town and the men of the Imperial Army from going for each other's throats. If he could just find a way to get them to work together—that was how the Empire had forged all the disparate people of its conquered lands into a whole in the first place. Young men from all over the Empire were conscripted into the ranks of the army, where they served out their terms beside young men from places they might not even have heard of before. By the time their terms were over, they all returned to their homes unable to think of men from places they didn't know as barbarians or foreigners, and capable of thinking in larger terms than just their own villages.

  I can't conscript the townsfolk, more's the pity. For one thing, they wouldn't stand for it. For another, there's no one worth conscripting. Ancar took every able-bodied man away for his own army.

  "Sir!" One of the aides was at the open door, calling anxiously into the gloom. Of course, he couldn't see Tremane from the door, hidden as he was in the oversized armchair. "Commander, are you here?"

  "Over here." Tremane stood up and turned to face the door, and saw relief spread over the aide's features.

  "Sir, there's a delegation here from the town, and they are rather insistent. They say they must talk to you now." He made a gesture of helplessness. "They wouldn't leave a message or talk to anyone other than you."

  Of course they wouldn't, they never have. The townsfolk didn't seem to grasp the concept of delegation of authority. They evidently thought that unless they spoke directly to Tremane, whatever it was they had to say would never reach him. "Send them in immediately." He moved back into his office and sat down behind his desk as the aide went off to fetch this delegation. Whatever they wanted, whether or not it was really important, he would make time for them. At all costs, he must stay on good terms with these people, but he must also make it clear—though with such subtlety that they themselves would not be aware he was doing so—that he was the real ruler here, that he permitted them their autonomy. Perhaps that was why they insisted on seeing him and him only; perhaps he had done his job too well.

  Or perhaps, after years of terror under Ancar, they no longer believed in anything but the witness of their own ears and eyes.

  Would it be complaints this time? It had been the last, though they were complaints from those living nearest the new walls about the noise and dust. He had made it very clear at the time that while such inconveniences would pass, he was not about to slow the progress of his walls by restricting the building to the daylight hours. Since the spider-creature had been brought in, interestingly enough, there had been no more complaints about noise. It was a pity that the town had no real walls of its own; people who had protective walls usually had a firm grasp on the need for protective walls.

  The delegation was the usual three; the mayor of the city and his two chief Council members representing the Guilds and the farm folk. The mayor, Sandar Giles, was a much younger man than Tremane was used to seeing in a position of authority, and was quite frail, with a clubbed foot, though his quick intelligence was immediately obvious when he spoke. Thin and dark, he looked like a schoolboy, although Tremane knew his real age was close to thirty. His eyes were the liveliest thin
g about him; large and expressive, they often betrayed him by revealing emotions he probably would rather have kept concealed.

  Both the Chief Husbandman and the Chief Guildsman were old enough to be his grandsires and the main difference between them was that the Chief Husbandman was weathered and wrinkled with years in the field, his face resembling a dried apple, while the Chief Guildsman wore his years more lightly. Both were gray-haired and bearded, both knotted and bent with the years, joints swollen and probably painful. Both had square jaws beneath the close-cropped beards, and cautious eyes that betrayed nothing.

  All three took their seats, both of the Council members showing great deference to Sandar, seeing to it that he was seated comfortably before taking their own chairs in front of Tremane's desk. Tremane had always been more at ease receiving civilians in his office rather than in any kind of a throne room; the former implied a businesslike approach that he found made civilians more inclined to cooperate.

  They all exchanged the usual greetings; Tremane sent for hot drinks, since he had learned that Sandar was quite susceptible to cold. As soon as the aide was out of the room again, he leaned forward across the wooden expanse of the desktop.

  "Well, what is it that you need to see me about so urgently?" he asked, coming to the point quickly, something that would have been so unheard of back in the Empire that his visitors would have been shocked into utter speechlessness. "Not a complaint, I hope. Not only can't I do anything about building noise, I won't. We're racing the winter, and I hope by now your people know how badly all of us need those walls."

  "Definitely not a complaint—or, rather not a complaint about you or your men," Sandar replied, with both thin hands cupped around the mug of kala, though it was still too hot to sip. "If I have a complaint about anything, it would be about the weather."

  Tremane raised one eyebrow, and Sandar shrugged. "I hope, you don't expect me or my mages to do anything about that," he replied, amused. "I wish we could, as heartily as you do. Not that we couldn't have in the past, but—"

  "I know, I know, it's these confounded mage-storms!" growled the Chief Husbandman, Devid Stoen. "Hang it all, we used to have three good weather-wizards that could at least give us a few days of guaranteed clear weather for harvest, and did a fine job of telling us what was on the way. But that was before that damned puppy Ancar stole the throne and conscripted 'em all! For that matter, a pair of 'em trailed back to us just after your lot moved in and started building walls—but all they can do is tell us that they can't read the weather anymore, that because of the mage-storms, they can't do a thing!"

  Tremane's other eyebrow rose to join its fellow; this was the first time he'd heard officially that there were any kind of Hardornen mages in the city. For that matter, it was the first time he'd heard the rumors his spies had reported confirmed. Were they admitting it just because those mages had proved to be powerless? Had they assumed he already knew? Or was it a slip of the tongue that Stoen was mentioning them now?

  "If you can't do anything, and you know my mages can't either, then what is it about the weather that brings you here?" he asked carefully. No point in mentioning these weather-mages. If it was a slip, he'd rather they didn't realize he'd taken note of it.

  "Well," Sandar said, after a pregnant pause, "you must have noticed that there is a decided scarcity of healthy, strong young men around about here." His expressive eyes were full of irony as he glanced down at his own frail body.

  "Hmm. It's hard not to notice." He lowered his eyebrows. "I'd assumed that Ancar conscripted them, and—" He hesitated, not knowing how to phrase "used them as deploy able decoys" politely.

  "He used them up, most of them," Sandar said bluntly. "A few came trailing back with the mages, but most of them were slaughtered in his senseless war on Valdemar and Karse. That's how I became mayor; my father was barely young enough and definitely fit enough to be conscripted, and I had been his secretary from the time I was old enough to be useful. I knew everything he'd known, so I became mayor by default."

  Tremane wasn't certain which aroused more pity in him, the old pain in Sandar's voice as he spoke so casually of the loss of his father, or the resignation and acceptance of the situation. Don't become too involved with these people, Tremane. They aren't yours, they never will be. You have no responsibility toward them beyond the immediate, and only then in ways that will benefit your troops.

  "Virtually every healthy male between the ages of fifteen and forty was taken," Sandar continued. "And it wasn't just in the towns; he sent his butchers out to every farm, not once, but repeatedly. You might be able to save your sons once, twice, or even three times, but sooner or later Ancar's slavers would find them. That left us with old men, women, and children. In towns, that's not a situation that's impossible. At a task requiring skill rather than strength, old men and women are as good as any young man, and often better. At a task that requires strength, well, there were enough skilled craftspeople in the town to come up with ways that someone with minimal strength can do the work of two or more powerful men. But out in the farms—" He shrugged.

  Stoen took over. "The fact is, farms need strong people to run, and lots of 'em," he said, "And we don't have 'em. Things have been goin' downhill since Ancar took over, and that's a fact. Now we did all right this year at planting. We were lucky, we had lots of good weather, though you can't say that about other places in Hardorn. We did all right during the growing season, partly by not gettin' much sleep, partly because if you spread enough children out, they can do the work of a man. But now—it's harvest, we haven't got the good weather, and frankly, sir, we're in trouble. There's not a chance we're going to get more than half the crops in. We've tried, we've gotten some help from the city, but—" he spread his hands helplessly. "We can't really pay nobody, and people generally aren't bright enough to figure out that if they don't help out now, they're gonna be on short rations or no rations come spring."

  "And I can't force anyone to work in the fields who doesn't want to," Sandar finished. "I can try to point out the consequences, but if they don't want to go, or say, 'let some one else do it,' I can't call up what old gaffers are left of the city constables and force people to go pull roots or gather wheat."

  "Nor can I," said Master Goldsmith Bran Kerst. "Particularly not when there's money to be made selling to your men, sir. Can't ask someone to go pull roots in a cold, muddy field for nothing when he can be carting beer at a good wage here in town."

  Rather than ask the obvious question, Tremane simply waited for them to get to the point.

  Stoen sighed gustily. "The point is this, Commander. We only need help for a few days, a fortnight or two at most, but those days are critical, or the crops are going to rot in the fields. Could you see your way clear to sending some of your men to help with the harvest?"

  Tremane pretended to consider it for a moment. "Let me ask you this, first. How many people in your Guilds are skilled or semiskilled builders? We have a problem, too. We need to get new barracks up and the walls finished before the weather gets too cold to build in." Before Kerst could say anything, he added, "They'll be paid a fair wage, of course—and work would go much more quickly with people who knew how to build than with those of my men who are fighters, not builders."

  Kerst opened his mouth, then closed it again. Tremane waited for either him or Sandar to say something, then continued when they said nothing. "I'll be frank with you; I have enough supplies to last out the winter with no trouble. I don't need to purchase anything locally. Nevertheless, I am no fool, and I can foresee problems if your people don't have enough to support them. If your people are short of foodstuffs, there will be trouble here in my own camp before too long. Some of my men will steal Imperial stores and sell them illegally, some of your people will try to steal from our stores. I'll catch them, of course, and I'll be forced to punish everyone involved. I may have to order some hangings, depending on the amount of theft; I will certainly have to order some fairly harsh punishme
nts to assure that I can keep order. This will mean—shall we just say—unpleasantness for garrison and town. I'd rather deal with the situation before it becomes a problem."

  "How?" Stoen asked, leaning forward intently.

  Tremane took a quick glance at his ledgers before answering. If the payment didn't have to be in hard cash....

  "My coffers are not bottomless, but I have a certain amount of property my people don't need at the moment," he said carefully. "If I can barter that property for services—or say, sell the property to some of the Guilds for coin—we can muster the most efficient use of all, the workers in the Imperial forces and in the town to get all of our projects done before the snow flies. Everyone who works will be paid a fair wage, according to the skill of the job." He gave each of the men a level look, and all three of them nodded as they met his eyes. "This will put some of my men—farm workers before they were recruited into the army—in the fields. That will be efficient for you; better to have one man who knows how to swing a scythe than five who don't. People from the town who are unskilled workers will either serve in the fields as common harvesters, or on the walls or barracks as haulers and other unskilled laborers. People from the town who are skilled builders will definitely be on the walls or the barracks. But for every man I send into the fields, I require someone to take his place here, and I will not send any builders of my own into the fields."

  "Regardless, everyone who works will be paid?" Stoen asked.

  He nodded. "I consider it an investment in peace," he replied frankly, as he mentally blessed the Hundred Little Gods for answering his prayers in such a timely manner. This was precisely what he needed, a way to mingle his men and Hardornens in a peaceful, productive pursuit where both sides benefited. He'd have paid double for this.

  "I think this can work," Sandar said cautiously, then flashed an unexpected grin. "It is rather ironic, since your gold, paid into the taverns and the like, will ultimately pay for your supplies, which will in turn go back into the town in the form of wages."