by David Drake
So, Adrian did not bother to argue with Center. He didn't really need to, after all. Center, like Raj, shared Adrian's mind. But neither of them had any control over Adrian's body — or his will. In that respect, at least, none of Center's incomprehensible prattle about "synapses" and "neurons" matched reality nearly as well as the teachings of the scholars in the Grove who had trained Adrian.
Mind was Mind and Matter was Matter, there was an end to it — and Adrian, not Center, controlled the matter that was his body.
He scooped the boy up in his arms and lifted him. Then, turned his head to the barbarian who had taken him to Esmond's tent. The old man was one of Adrian's spies. Spies whom he had hired, initially, to keep an eye on his new Southron "allies" — but had then found it necessary to keep an eye on his own brother. This oldster had been the one who had told Adrian of the tortures Esmond was inflicting on a new slave.
The man was very agitated by now, practically dancing on his feet.
"Hurry — hurry — young master!" he hissed. "Your brother will return soon. If he finds us—"
Adrian saw no point in arguing that point, either. The spy's worry was too shortsighted, for one thing. It had been midmorning when Adrian entered the tent. Leaving now, still before noon, they would be seen by dozens of the barbarians who teemed in the great annual meeting ground outside Marange. There was no way Esmond would not find out who took the boy. By the end of the day; probably even before nightfall.
Esmond would be. . enraged. Furious enough that he might even attack his own brother. He would certainly seek vengeance on the spy.
As he stalked through the tent flap held open by the spy, carrying the boy's body quite easily for all his own short stature, Adrian paused a moment and said: "Take the gold in the pouch at my belt. There's enough there to reach your village — it's on the other side of the continent, I believe — and leave a goodly bonus for you. Take it and leave immediately."
He heard the spy whisper some kind of thanks, in a dialect he could not really understand. A few quick fingers working at the pouch — no tyro at theft, either, this spy — and the old man seemed to vanish.
Well done, said Raj. With some humor: That's an expensive bonus, but still a smart move. Your other spies will know what happened, and trust you for it. Half of them are probably watching right now.
Adrian hadn't thought in those terms — he'd simply felt himself responsible for his employee's welfare. Not for the first time, Adrian was reminded that Raj Whitehall, unlike himself, was a master tactician.
He didn't doubt for a moment Raj's assessment of what his own spies were doing. As he threaded his way through the crowds spilling in the spaces between the multitude of tents and huts which made up the barbarian encampment, Adrian was almost amused to see how many eyes followed his progress. There were times, in his more sour moments, when Adrian wondered how the Southrons even managed to stay alive. They didn't seem to do very much except quarrel — with words and weapons both — and spy on each other ceaselessly.
that's the men, commented Center. the women do most of the daily work. that's always been one of the problems pastoralism poses for civilization. herders have too much time on their hands, at least part of the year. so they make mischief all out of proportion to their numbers.
It doesn't help any that their skills are so readily adapted to war , added Raj. Riding, hunting, the lot. Even their diet makes for easier logistics.
It was true enough. On two occasions since he'd arrived in Marange, at the invitation of important chieftains, Adrian had accompanied Southron tribesmen in their treasured great hunts. He'd always known the Southrons were skilled cavalrymen and weapons handlers, however undisciplined they might be in battle. What he hadn't realized was how adept they were at living off the land. Vanbert or Emerald noblemen, when they went hunting, took a huge caravan with them laden with supplies. A Southron, even a chieftain, took nothing more than what he could carry on his own mount and a pack animal.
He reached his own tent, stooped through the entrance, and set the boy down on a thick pile of rugs toward one side. Then, commanded one of his three slaves to fetch a healer. The healer, he knew, would be what civilized people would call a "witch doctor." But since his arrival, Adrian had actually been rather impressed with the skill and knowledge of the old women. Strip aside the florid incantations and rather grotesque dancing they insisted upon, and the herbal remedies and poultices were often quite effective.
And now, we wait for Esmond.
This is going to be hairy, predicted Raj. you are insane, tossed in Center for good measure.
Adrian said nothing. His soul was at peace for the first time in many months. The rupture with his brother had been inevitable; so, best it be done with. The pain of prolonging it was simply unbearable.
* * *
Esmond was, indeed, in a rage — and a very public one. He stormed into Adrian's tent followed by all nine of the major chieftains of the Southrons. None of whom, it immediately became clear, had come to take sides. They were simply curious to see how the more mysterious of the pair of mysterious noble brothers from fabled Solinga would handle such a matter.
Adrian was not surprised. Since he'd arrived, he'd been trying to convince the fractious chieftains to unite their forces and allow him to arm them with powerful new weaponry. But the barbarians, as conservative as such folk always are, had been none too eager to listen to the advice. The only reason they listened at all was because of the many reports which had come to them of the role which Adrian and Esmond had played, as top subordinates of the King of the Isles, in breaking the first Confederate assault on the island of Preble.
The Southrons, like almost everyone else, had expected the mighty Vanbert empire to give short shrift to that rebellion. But here it was, a year later, and Preble still stood unvanquished. And the two men who had been most responsible for the Confederate defeat, by the accounts of all spies and rumor-sellers, had come to the lands of the Southrons to offer the same assistance.
Now the two men — brothers, to boot — had come to an open clash. And so the nine chief leaders of the barbarian tribes wanted to see how Adrian would handle it. They already knew, of course, how Esmond would handle it. By fury and force.
Fury and force, the barbarians understood. They were wondering if the other brother knew something else that might be useful to them.
* * *
Seeing where Esmond was headed within the first ten seconds of his bellowing accusations, Adrian cut to the quick. He had no choice. Give Esmond another ten seconds of rage and he would be drawing his sword.
"You're challenging me, then. So be it." Coldly, calmly: "I have the choice of weapons and ground, of course. Tomorrow morning, dawn. On the great meadow north of the town. Slings and bullets are the weapon — although you can bring a sword along if you wish. I won't need one. We'll start at three hundred yards and close."
That was the first time in over a year that Adrian had ever seen Esmond shocked into silence. His brother loomed over him, his head reaching a good six inches above Adrian's. Six feet tall, Esmond was, taller than almost any barbarian. Wearing the Southron-style loincloth which he'd assumed within days after their arrival, Esmond's superb physique was on full display. Wide shoulders, thick-muscled arms, tapered waist and steel-flat belly, long and powerful legs. Even his feet, bare except for twine-held Southron sandals, seemed more like a direbeast's than a man's. Every inch of him exuded power.
Now, he was silent. Somewhere, buried deep in the festering pool of hatred which Esmond's soul had become, what was left of the brother must have finally realized what his hatred had brought him to. Adrian wasn't certain, but he thought for a moment that a cry of appeal seemed to flash in Esmond's blue eyes. And he watched his lips, hoping to see the words coming out of them which might end this before the damage was irreparable.
It was a vain hope, though, as Adrian well knew. He shared his brother's blue eyes and corn-gold hair, and not much else. Once, true,
they had shared laughter and comradeship. But even in his best days Esmond had possessed little of his smaller and younger brother's capacity for self-examination. And what little he once had was long gone now.
So, in the end — which took but three seconds — the only words which came out were: "Tomorrow, then. Dawn. I will kill you."
He turned on his heel, moving as easily as a direbeast, and strode out of the tent. Within seconds, all the chieftains had followed except one.
Adrian studied him. Prelotta was his name, and he was the chief of the Reedbottom tribe. The Reedbottoms held no great stature in the barbarians' informal but elaborate way of ranking the various tribes and clans, so Adrian had had no real contact with him previously. The land of the Reedbottoms was in the marshy lowlands of the northeast, where disease and parasites took too great a toll for velipads to be of much use. So the Reedbottoms, unlike any of the other Southron tribes, were mainly agriculturalists. They fought on foot, to the disdain of other tribes — even if, Adrian suspected from subtle signs he had detected, none of the other tribes was all that eager to wage war on them. Apparently the Reedbottoms were ferocious on their own chosen ground, where cavalry tactics were not well adapted. And Adrian had heard that they used some of the huge beasts they favored as draft animals quite effectively in battle.
Am I the only one thinking I've been an idiot? came Raj's soft "voice."
Center sounded almost sour; as close, at least, to having an emotion in his tone as Adrian could remember. i overlooked them also. we have been too preoccupied with diplomacy. they would make far better raw material than the normal run of Southrons. the probability is 79 % ± 4.
"You wish?" asked Adrian politely.
Prelotta was rather young for a tribal chieftain. Not more than forty, Adrian guessed. It was a bit hard to tell, however, because Reedbottom customs favored even heavier ceremonial cicatrices and tattoos than other tribes. Prelotta's face was like that of a carved wooden mask, the cheeks drawn tight by scars and the brow almost completely obscured by elaborate designs. The light brown hair atop his head was arranged in a wild and heavily pomaded style which not even the most decadent Vanbert noblewoman would have dared to show in public.
"I am curious," he said in his nasal northeastern dialect. "Slings are a weapon not favored much by the Sons of Assan. Although we Reedbottoms use them, often enough." His hideous disfigured face twisted a bit. "But, then, that is perhaps one of the reasons we are often called the Nephew of Assan."
The "Sons of Assan" was the term that the Southron tribes used to refer to themselves. Assan being not actually a member of their pantheon of gods, as Adrian could remember being told by Emerald scholars in the long ago, so much as a vague ancestral spirit. A bit similar, in a way, to one of the race of giants which the Emerald legends claimed had been the parents of the gods themselves.
"Nephew" of Assan, is it? Well, at least he seems to have a sense of humor. That's a start.
And not a small one.
Adrian's own face twisted into a wry smile. He spread his arms and looked down upon himself. Like Esmond, he too had yielded to the climate and was wearing a loincloth. "You've seen my brother. Would you match this body against his with hand weapons?"
Prelotta spent a moment examining him. Then: "Your shoulders are actually very wide for a man with your slender frame. And while your arms don't have your brother's muscle, they don't look weak either. A good body for a slinger, that — provided, of course, you have the skill."
Despite the heavy dialect, Adrian was impressed by the man's diction. That was another myth of northerners, he'd found since coming here. The Southrons were thought to speak almost like animals. But Adrian had found that, despite their barbarism, the Southrons were actually prone to verbal pyrotechnics and frequent poesy. In their own way, their speech was just as flowery as that of any effete Emerald scholar or pompous Confederate official — annoyingly so, if you had to listen to hours of speeches by tribal chieftains in council.
So he was struck by the clarity of Prelotta's words, even more than his easy use of them. Prelotta's native tongue, of course, was quite different from the lingua franca which all the tribes used when they conversed with each other.
There didn't seem to be any answer expected, however, so he said nothing. After a moment, Prelotta nodded politely and left.
* * *
The duel lasted less than two minutes. Esmond charged immediately, as Adrian had known he would. He evaded Adrian's first missile easily enough. Cast when Esmond was still over a hundred yards away, his athletic brother had enough time to see the blurring lead bullet and lunge aside.
No matter. Adrian had known Esmond would dodge it. He'd cast the missile simply to rattle his brother. It was one thing for Esmond to be aware that Adrian's skill with a sling seemed supernatural. It was another for him — even with his incredible reflexes — to barely manage to duck one of those lead bullets thrown at such a distance.
"Supernatural" was perhaps as good a word as any. Center's visual acuity gave Adrian a degree of accuracy which was far greater than that of any normal slinger, even an expert one. "Visual acuity" didn't adequately describe it, really. Center's inhuman capability to translate what Adrian saw through his own eyes gave Adrian the kind of near-perfect aim which the computer itself thought of in terms which Adrian barely understood. "Range finding" was obvious, but how such a term as azimuth applied was a mystery.
The rest came from Adrian himself. Prelotta had seen the truth of it, where most people — even Adrian himself, more often than not — saw only the reedy scholar's build. He was five and a half feet tall, true, and wiry rather than muscular. But brute strength was actually not necessary for the task of sending a lead bullet flying through the air at a speed which would break bones and shatter skulls. Good muscles and quick reflexes were enough for that — provided the bullets hit where you aimed them.
The second cast brought Esmond down, at seventy yards. Adrian's brother made the mistake of pausing for a moment to sling his own bullet, which went wild; Adrian's bullet hit Esmond's thigh like a sledgehammer.
A less muscular man than Esmond would have been taken out of the fight entirely by that hit. A small enough man would have suffered a broken bone. Esmond managed to lunge back on his feet, hobbling, frantically fitting another bullet to the sling pouch.
Don't kill him, cautioned Raj. We'll need him, for a time. Then, sensing Adrian's mute cry of hurt and protest: I'm sorry, lad. I'm just telling the truth.
Adrian said nothing. There was nothing to say. He fit another bullet to the sling, dodged easily the bullet his brother sent his way, and brought Esmond down for good.
Just as Raj had wanted — not killing him. With Adrian's accuracy, killing could be avoided. But not even a real demigod could have withstood the strike of that bullet on the chest.
A weaker and less powerful man than Esmond would have been killed outright. Esmond himself would spend weeks at rest, letting the broken sternum heal. Cursing all the while, as he discovered — every time he tried to do something as simple as lift a cup — that every bone in a human body above the waist is ultimately held together by spine and sternum.
* * *
The boy died the next day. Apparently he had suffered internal injuries from Esmond's beatings, after all. Or, perhaps, his spirit had simply no longer been able to face life's torture.
Adrian never knew his name.
* * *
It wasn't all for nothing, said Raj. Your status is phenomenal, now, especially among the Reedbottoms.
All Adrian could do was stare at the walls of his tent. Until finally, hours later, he gave out the cry which had been building since the first moment Raj and Center entered his mind:
Is everything just a maneuver?
* * *
He would spend the rest of his life pondering a ghost's answer. Never really knowing if he agreed or not.
Yes, everything is a maneuver. No, it's not just a maneuver.
&
nbsp; Chapter 9
Over the centuries, as the twelve villages which formed the original core of Vanbert had expanded to conquer half the world, the edifices of the Confederacy's government had undergone their own massive expansion. Whether torn down and rebuilt, or swollen by modification and accretion, the complex of buildings and plazas had become something of a monstrosity itself.
So, at least, thought Demansk, as he worked his way across the Forum of the Virtuous Matrons toward the still-distant but imposing Council Hall. "Threaded his way" was perhaps a better description. The Forum was filled with a huge crowd, as always after rumors spread of a major oncoming shift in political power in the Council. Most of the mob were simply curious. A large number were street vendors. Still others were taking advantage of the traditional custom of allowing unlimited speech in the Forum to harangue the crowd from jury-rigged speakers' pedestals. Others—
His sons were walking just behind him. He heard Olver whisper to the others: "Careful now; keep an eye out. Some of these fellows are not loitering."
Demansk, as befitted his aloof dignity as a Justiciar, ignored the whisper. He ignored as well the temptation to place his hand on the battle-ax hanging from his waist. At the moment, the temptation was hard to resist. There were a lot of suspicious-looking men here and there in the crowd, under whose robes might be concealed any number of weapons.
The ax was a ceremonial weapon; sized more like a hatchet than an ax. Because of his status as a Justiciar, Demansk was allowed an ax rather than the long knife permitted to simple Councillors. But where most members of the Council carried elaborately carved and inlaid "weapons" — some of them even with silver blades — Demansk's ax of office was perfectly functional. The blade was good steel, and sharpened to a working edge.