Tyrant g-5

by David Drake

  "Seems awfully quick, doesn't it?" he asked Jessep. Frowning: "I'd expected them to stay as long as there was anything left to plunder. Not as if they have to worry about any Confederate army stopping them, until next year at the earliest. Not after Lurion."

  Jessep's shrug expressed a simple notion: Who can possibly understand what a savage thinks?

  A more coherent answer came from Raj. I'm willing to bet Norrys is dying from his wounds. That'll mean electing a new chief of the Grayhills, and everyone wants to get back for the dickering.

  probability 68 %, ± 12, agreed Center. the mongols broke off their conquest of europe for that same reason, when the khan ogodai died.

  Adrian vaguely remembered the name "Mongols," and a bit about their history. One of the multitude of historical episodes which Center seemed to have at its command at all times. At least half of which seemed to have taken place on this "Earth" the computer insisted was the original homeland of the human race. Skeptical at first, Adrian had come to believe the claim — simply because where else would human beings have managed to commit every atrocity and error conceivable. As well, he would admit, as every glory and grandeur.

  * * *

  Raj and Center were right. By now, Adrian's Strikers and Fighting Band had collected a fair number of Southron camp followers in addition to the people picked up in Marange. Through them, and their conversations with passing Grayhills, Adrian learned that Norrys was indeed not expected to survive much longer.

  He was not surprised. On matters of this nature, at least, he had come to respect deeply the opinions of his two "spirits."

  He was surprised, a bit, to hear that Esmond himself was apparently considered one of the top contenders for the chieftainship. But, there too, Raj and Center enlightened him.

  Barbarians are usually less preoccupied with matters of bloodlines than civilized nations. And they take adoption seriously. With his usual wit: Damn well better, as miserable and painful as they make the whole process.

  yes. genghis khan did not disown his wife after she was captured and raped by enemies. nor even the son who was born thereafter, whose paternity was never certain. that son was eliminated from consideration during the succession because of it, years later, but never penalized otherwise. the whole matter was simply treated by the mongols as a practical problem, not an issue of shame and disgrace.

  Thinking of Helga's situation after her own capture by pirates, Adrian couldn't help wincing. Had her father been anyone other than Demansk, she would have been kept in real seclusion, not simply the appearance of it. Among Emeralds, truth to tell, even more than Vanberts. "Shame and disgrace." There were times when he wondered if civilization was anything more than barbarism with fancy trimmings.

  Oh, it's a lot more than that, Adrian. It's just that civilization brings with it vices of its own. All of which, however, is academic at the moment. The key thing is that the Grayhills are leaving — tied up and slowed down by their great booty of livestock, to boot — and with Esmond being one of the main contenders for the chieftainship he certainly won't be prone to breaking off on any sudden chases. Now's the time. There won't be any better.

  * * *

  Quietly, Adrian passed the word to Donnuld Grayn to get the Strikers ready for a forced march. Helga and Jessep, of course, would handle their own men, just as he'd do the same for the Fighting Band. The camp followers wouldn't be a problem. In their own way, they were also veterans, accustomed to reacting quickly whenever their men told them to do so.

  * * *

  Adrian began the escape shortly after midnight, taking advantage of a clear sky and a full moon. His camp was far enough away from Franness that it couldn't be seen directly; nor, of course, would anyone be able to hear the sounds of an army on the march. Not as much noise as there was filling the streets of a city being sacked. A relatively mild sort of sack, granted, since Prelotta was making sure the city itself and its populace was not destroyed. But any kind of sack does not lend itself to maintaining sober and alert sentries.

  To the disgruntlement of the Vanbert-trained veterans among his men, Adrian ordered the camp left intact instead of dismantled. Pulling apart the temporary fortress would take hours better spent creating as much distance as possible between them and Franness. And there was always the chance that the Reedbottoms would even be fooled through a good portion of the following day, seeing, at a distance, the camp still erect and apparently occupied.

  * * *

  In the event, there was no pursuit. Save only a small band of Reedbottoms who caught up with them two nights later. But they were more in the nature of a delegation than anything else.

  One of Prelotta's chieftains was in charge. When Adrian came up to him, after the chieftain was allowed into the camp which had been erected that night, the man did not dismount. Although he looked as if he wished he could. Reedbottoms always looked a bit awkward perched on saddles.

  The chieftain's name was Rawal, and Adrian remembered him as being a rather good-natured fellow. Which, indeed, he was.

  "Great Chief Prelotta says you are a fool, Adrian Gellert. But" — here, a magnanimous wave of the hand—"he does not curse you. Although I shall, since you've led me on a miserable chase. Damned velipads. Ought to roast the lot of them and be done with the stupid business."

  Rawal shifted in the saddle, easing obviously stiff muscles. Then, grinning: "Thought you'd have gone straight north. That woman of yours, again. Talked you into returning her to her western homeland, didn't she? Ha! You should beat her more often."

  Adrian returned the grin, willingly enough. He'd hoped they might make this mistake.

  "Please, Rawal! You insult me. We want lands of our own — without having to quarrel over it — and the best pickings will be on the coast." He dismissed the rest with a shrug. "The woman knows the area well. She is my hunting bitch, no more."

  Helga emerged from their quarters just in time to hear the last remark. Fortunately — Adrian blessed every god and goddess there was, in every pantheon he knew — she did not understand the language of the Reedbottoms very well.

  Rawal glanced at her, back at Adrian, back at her, back at Adrian. Between the grin and the facial scars, Adrian thought his face might actually explode.

  "No doubt. But that is not why Prelotta sent me. He asked me to deliver to you a message." Rawal's voice assumed the slight singsong of one man quoting another verbatim:

  " 'Do not forget, Adrian Gellert, my lust for the matrons.' " He sat back in the saddle. "That's it. Don't ask me what it means. I have no idea. The Great Chief Prelotta is sometimes a bit odd."

  And with not another word, he reined his velipad around and trotted off.

  "What was that all about?" asked Helga.

  Adrian translated, leaving out certain unnecessary passages involving female animals and hunting.

  " 'Lust for the matrons'?" she puzzled. "What does that mean?"

  Adrian scratched his head. "I'm not sure myself." Inwardly: Raj? Center?

  After a moment, Whitehall's voice came. Interesting. Center, what was the name of that king? The one from that country named France, I think. Henry this or that. Said something—

  paris is worth a mass.

  * * *

  The march to the sea was a nightmare. Not dangerous, particularly, for such a large and well-organized and well-armed group of men — except for the ever-present dangers of hunger and disease. Just hideous.

  The barbarian invasion had ravaged the southern provinces, saving only the larger walled towns. Then, and in many ways even worse, the rebellions and slave revolts which erupted throughout the southern Confederacy after Tomsien's disaster at Lurion ravaged them further. Landowners and nobles often escaped the barbarian bands roaming the countryside haphazardly. It was much harder for them to escape their own infuriated underlings, who not only knew where they lived but had a personal grudge to settle. The landscape across which Adrian and Helga and their little army marched was dotted with the burned shells o
f noble villas and estates — and, not infrequently, the corpses of their former owners. Who, as often as not, had been put to death in a manner whose gruesomeness would have shaken the most barbarous Southron warrior.

  Nor were slaves and landless laborers the only ones with grudges to settle. After decades of increasingly extortive and corrupt rule, the Confederation was a crazy quilt of hatreds and resentments. All of which seemed to boil over at once.

  Tax farmers suffered even worse casualties than landowners. If for no other reason than because the wealthiest landholders tended to be absentee owners. Their country estates could be put to the torch, but they themselves were safe — for the moment at least — behind the walls of Vanbert or the other great cities. Whereas, in the nature of things, a tax farmer needs to live close to his "crop." When the long-simmering eruption took place, tax farmers were much in the same position as a peasant standing in a field of corn — every one of whose stalks was suddenly alive, armed, and filled with bitter memories of the fate of their predecessors.

  Grudges, hatreds, resentments — everywhere. In the towns, the garrisons were usually able to maintain order. Enough to suppress any major uprisings, at least, even if they could not prevent the multitude of small homicides and beatings which took place constantly. The garrisons could keep the masses from storming into the central squares; they could not possibly keep those same masses, scattered in small bands, from looting the shops and (often enough) maiming or killing the proprietors. Any money lender or pawnbroker who did not make it to the garrison barracks within a day after the news of Lurion spread was unlikely to survive another.

  In the countryside, where nine out of ten members of the Confederacy still lived in the less urbanized southern provinces, the garrisons did not even attempt to maintain order. Not loyal ones, at least. Garrisons which rebelled, ironically enough, often did establish a certain rough "order" within the immediate region. They had to, if they were to survive themselves. A loyal regiment can expect, even if vainly, to get pay and provisions from the central authorities. Mutineers must look for their own pay.

  It was sheer chaos, except for little islands and pockets of stability here and there. For the most part, outside the towns, those pockets were provided by resettled veterans. Clusters of villages, much like the ones which Jessep and his clanfolk had established on Demansk's lands. Largely populated by transplanted easterners, whose close kin ties and military experience enabled them to clamp a fist on their immediate terrain.

  Invariably, such villages drove off the bands of runaway slaves which were soon roaming the countryside. Taken as a mass, those slaves probably did more damage than anything else. Not so much out of vindictiveness, once they'd settled accounts with their own masters, but simply out of desperation. A group of slaves who rise up and murder a master or burn down his estate — or both — has but one thought afterward: flee, before the reprisal comes.

  They had no way of knowing, of course, that there was not much chance of any reprisal coming. Not soon, at least. Isolated as they were, field slaves had little understanding of the great world of Confederate politics. The one thing they did know for sure — branded into them over the decades with lash and stake and spear — was that any rebellion against Vanbert masters would invariably bring a quick and merciless response.

  So, they fled. Immediately, and with no thought at all for how they would survive the days and weeks and months ahead. Half-naked, most of them, without food; autumn here, and winter coming.

  Vanbert winters were "mild," true enough — by the standards of a nobleman in his villa, or even a yeoman farmer in his cottage. For a half-naked, starving slave on the run, it is always winter. "Summer" is simply that portion of winter when you might survive a little longer.

  Almost every slave plantation and estate in that third of the Confederacy called the "southern provinces" erupted, within a week after Lurion. It might be better to say "burst" — like a sudden ulcerous wound, spilling toxins within the body politic. Tens and tens of thousands of slaves roaming everywhere, like so many locusts. Except these locusts had hands; and brains, which, however uneducated, were no less shrewd than any other human brain. They plundered where they could; robbed where they couldn't; thieved at all times.

  They had no choice, whatever their own inclinations might have been. There was no work. The estates were shattered, the towns were closed, and the villages of freemen attacked them on sight. If the villagers were transplanted easterners, the attacks would be carried through with pogromist fury. Easterners hated slavery, because it had ruined them — and, as is almost always the case in history, made no sharp distinction between the slaveowner and the slave. Except that it's usually a lot easier to lynch a slave.

  Every day, Adrian and Helga's army marched through horror. Ruin and destruction everywhere. Rich farmlands now watered with blood; and a fruitless watering, to boot, because the crops in the fields were either ruined or left untended.

  Helga was aghast. It was like seeing an entire nation subjected to gang-rape.

  "This is what Father wanted?" she wept, one day. "And you also?"

  There was no way to answer, really. Explain, certainly — that Adrian could have done at length, and with all of Center's encyclopedic knowledge of human history to document his argument. But answer?

  He settled on the simple truth. "Yes," he said. "This is what we wanted. Because a boil cannot heal until it is lanced. A long-gaping, cankerous wound cannot close until it is cauterized."

  She avoided him for days thereafter, insofar as she could in the cramped quarters of the marching column and the field camps. Until, three weeks after the march began, the column came over the crest of a hill and saw the sea beyond. The sea and, standing like a burnt shell before it, what had once been the great western villa of the family Demansk.

  The ruined villa seemed to steady Helga. As if she found comfort in the fact that, whatever else, her father had not spared himself from the bleeding. And then, steadiness shifted into hope, as she saw that Trae's villa and the workshop on their side of the river was still standing and intact.

  Rather more than that, actually. It seemed to be a veritable hive of activity. As they drew nearer, she could see that two ships were moored at the pier. One of them she even recognized — the same demibireme which had carried her to Marange earlier in the year.

  "There's an army camp not far away, too," said Adrian, pointing. His own hopes had raised, seeing Helga's face. "There, you see? A bit off, next to the woods."

  * * *

  Trae himself was there, with not less than a battalion of Demansk's regulars. Fresh from their triumphs in the islands, and not the least bit intimidated by rampaging slaves or lynch-minded villagers or rumors of Southron hordes.

  Especially not by rampaging slaves. Of which, as it turned out, there had been none.

  Eddo J'kot, the former majordomo of the mansion — a slave himself, technically speaking — was most apologetic about the whole thing.

  "Couldn't be helped, missy!" he practically wailed. "Th'master himself give me the instructions. 'Make sure it's burned, Eddo! And no saving the furniture.' "

  The stoop-shouldered, elderly slave wiped his nose with a sleeve. A rather fine fabric it was, too. "Y'father's the odd one, sometimes, though I shouldna say it. But those were his orders. He made me repeat them to him. Twice."

  J'kot glared at a nearby slave. A burly fellow whose name Helga couldn't remember, although she recognized his face. One of the estate's slave underbosses.

  " 'Twas him did the deed. Led the rascal in himself, he did, a torch in's hand."

  The burly one grinned. "Master gave me my own set of orders. Made me repeat them twice, too. 'Make sure it's burnt proper,' he said. And what are you complaining about, old man? I did let you get out all the mementos first."

  Helga couldn't keep herself from bursting into laughter. "You mean it was all a fake?"

  The underboss frowned. Worried, as much as disapproving. "Fake?" he de
manded, waving a thick hand at what was left of the mansion across the river. " 'Tis burnt to the ground, right 'n proper! Don' you be telling your father I slacked off, now, missy! T'would be a falsehood and a lie! You'll get me in trouble deep. 'E's a goodly master, Verice Demansk is, but he's not one to tolerate disobedience."

  That just made her laugh harder. When she finally finished, she seemed in good cheer for the first time in weeks. Adrian sighed with relief.

  Trae was grinning himself. "It's just a building, sister. The people on the estate are fine. The villagers up north have been promised there won't be any slaves trespassing, and the slaves themselves will get the lands. Father promised it to them. So they've kept everything up. Even drove off three bands of foreign slaves themselves, not calling out the villages."

  He nodded toward the burnt shell that had once been one of the finest edifices in the Confederation. "Father lost the symbol, which he'll use as he needs. For the rest, this area will be as good as ever, next year. Better, most like."

  He gave the underboss a sly smile. "Though Trippa here might not be so happy, soon enough, when he realizes he's out of a job. The sla — ah, freedmen — are working the fields harder than ever, now, and I dare say they'll not take kindly to any more 'bossing.' "

  That didn't seem to fret Trippa any. "I'll get two and a half shares of the land myself. Master promised."

  A whimsical thought came from Raj. I dare say even Center will admit something in the universe is new. We may be witnessing the only episode in history of feudalism come and gone before it can settle in.

  not entirely new. something not too different happened on— Here the computer wandered into the details of an episode which had apparently occurred on some planet Adrian had never heard of, but he paid little attention. He was too busy admiring Helga's cheeks. The dimples were back.

  — but, crudely, you are correct. given the rapidity with which Demansk will get an industrial revolution under way, this smug underboss here will be lucky if he enjoys a decade of pseudo-nobility. though, if he's energetic and capable, he might well leverage his way into a new rising gentry class.