by David Drake
echolocation. certain nocturnal animals — not here on your planet — use it quite successfully. and there are no doubt some marine animals here which do so as well.
Adrian realized that he was "seeing" with his ears. Not really seeing so much as calculating, from the sounds, the closeness of the enemy. It was a very blurry kind of "vision," of course, but—
Good enough. There really isn't anything magical about three hundred yards, after all. I'd say that's close enough, Adrian — nothing else, it'll make your men feel better.
He nodded and began shouting. "Case shot! Switch to case shot!" He saw the relief flooding the officer's face, and, a moment later, the crews of the battery switch over to canister. He turned and made vehement gestures to the small group of runners Demansk had insisted on providing him — realizing, as he did so, that once again his experienced father-in-law had understood something he hadn't.
Other crews, of course, wouldn't be able to hear the command — not above the din the guns themselves were making. But the runners would notify them quickly enough. They were already sprinting down the lines.
Nothing ever works quite the way you figured it in a battle, son. Or any kind of fight, for that matter. That's why I always like to have a second string to my bow.
A few seconds later, such being the whims of fortune, Demansk's foresight proved unnecessary. A sudden breeze cleared great swaths from the smoke clouds. Once again, Adrian could see the battlefield.
Enough of it, anyway. And the portion just in front of him was quite visible.
Carnage everywhere. The first volley of canister had gone off just about at the right moment, hitting an enemy already ravaged by round shot skittering and bouncing across the ground. Each one of Adrian's four-pounder field guns — six to a battery, and ten batteries down the line — fired dozens of arquebus-sized balls with each discharge of case shot. As wildly inaccurate as they were, even at a hundred yards much less three hundred, they were bound to hit something. Enough of the balls, at least.
Broke the charge. Look. There's Esmond. You can see him now, trying to rally them.
Sure enough. Even without Center's help, Adrian would have recognized his brother at the distance. If for no other reason, because his head was uncovered. Whether because his helmet had been sent flying by a bullet, or because Esmond himself had taken it off. More likely the latter, thought Adrian. It was the sort of gesture Esmond would make, at a time like this.
He took a last look at that glorious crown of golden hair, making no attempt to recognize the features beneath it. So would he choose to remember a man whom he had once called brother. Gold, shining in the sun; not tattoos and scars across a face grown scarred already with hate and fury.
He stepped forward and seized the officer's shoulder with a firm hand. Then, having the man's attention, pointed across the field.
"Him, you see? Yes? I want him down. Now. All guns trained on him. Maintain case shot."
It was a well-trained crew, whatever the qualities of the officer. Within moments, the command was carried out. Smoke clouds filled the air.
When they cleared, the gold was gone.
Three volleys later, the Southrons were in full retreat. Some, pouring back into the pocket behind the wall. Others, and most of them — the pocket was a death trap — desperately trying to thread an escape route between the guns and Demansk and the third brigade drawn up to block their route.
Some of them would make it. Most wouldn't. And, once again, Confederate regulars had not even had to bloody their assegais. They would later, in just a bit, as they stormed over whoever was left huddling in the pocket. But that would be more of a massacre than a battle, against an enemy completely disorganized and broken in spirit. Their casualties would be very light.
Already, the first cheers were going up. Adrian's heart felt like a lump of lead. But he realized that this day, if not already, he had cemented his position within the hearts of Vanbert's regulars.
Our golden boy, by the gods! Our good luck charm! Even if he is a crazy Emerald!
Play it out to the end, lad. You father-in-law needs it and you owe those spearmen that much anyway. And perhaps Esmond also.
Adrian turned to face the serried ranks, removed his helmet, and bowed toward his father-in-law's men. Then, turning slightly each time, bowing again and again, as he gave each regiment its due.
A golden head acknowledging stalwart hearts. Power recognizing its source. Tyranny triumphant, returning the favor.
Chapter 32
Demansk found Adrian squatting next to a corpse lying on the battlefield. The corpse was a mass of blood and torn flesh, looking as if it had caught an entire load of canister itself. Other than being the body of a large man, there was no way to recognize anything else about it.
Except—
As he drew closer, Demansk spotted a piece of the scalp. He didn't have to remove his son-in-law's helmet to know that the color would match the bright corn-gold of Adrian's own hair.
Adrian hadn't seen him yet. The young man was simply staring across the field, looking at the river which flowed sluggishly through Franness. His eyes seemed unfocused, which, Demansk didn't doubt at all, they were in actual fact. He knew that stare; had done it himself more times than he could remember.
The sight, along with that of a face drawn far more tightly than a young man's should be, brought a decision. Demansk had been weighing Adrian's advice; hesitant, matching his son-in-law's proven shrewdness against old Vanbert wisdom — also proven, time after time; not being able to decide.
Enough. I don't trust that old bloodlust. Less, now, than ever. Do I really need to prove to anyone, any longer, that I'll wade through a river of gore?
Adrian had noticed him, finally. The golden head was turning his way.
And there's this, too. That actor Arsule told me about yesterday, the one who played a part for so long that he forgot who he was. For all the damn chatter, it's amazing how often she hits something. Whether she means to or not, who knows? But—
Enough. Enough!
"All right, Adrian. We'll try it your way. Be ready by nightfall." Demansk glanced toward Franness. "As you predicted, Prelotta's men didn't fire on us while we scoured the rest out of the pocket. So I guess that counts for something. If he sends out for a parley — what's the signal again—?"
"With Reedbottoms, it'll be a bushel of reeds, carried by two old women." The voice, like the face, was harsh beyond its years. "That's the usual practice, anyway. How Prelotta will manage it, here, I don't know. But it'll be something similar."
Demansk nodded. "If he wants a parley, I'll give him one. You'll be my envoy. And—"
He paused, took a deep breath.
Just do it, tyrant. If I have to look at another mound of corpses. . sooner or later, I'll stop seeing them as human bodies. Sometimes I feel as if I'm there already.
"You have my permission — authority — to negotiate as you choose. As long as it's within the boundaries we discussed, I'll leave the details to you."
* * *
When Prelotta did send out for a parley, Demansk couldn't help but smile. Whatever else — even under these circumstances — the barbarian had a sense of humor. There was something just plain comical about two proper Vanbert matrons mincing their way across a bloody field, looking simultaneously nauseated and scared out of their wits, carrying between them a big bundle of official documents. Tax records, from the look of them. Nothing else was that bulky and voluminous.
* * *
Adrian returned a day and a half later.
"The sticking point, from your point of view, will be Franness. He's agreed to all the rest. Auxiliary nation status for the Reedbottoms — your vassals, he knows it, with a face-saving veneer. The Reedbottoms to tear down Kallinek's Wall and build Demansk's Wall two hundred miles to the south, covering the territory not already shielded by the Reedbottoms themselves. No hindrance to the movement of Confederate troops anywhere this side of the new wall. That
includes moving through Reedbottom territory, although I agreed to Prelotta's demand that we have to give them a week's notice."
Demansk nodded. "No problem, that. I'd give them a month, anyway — pure misery for people, forcing them to billet armies without sufficient time to provision — unless we have to go to war with the Reedbottoms. In which case, of course, I won't give them any notice at all. We'll come back to Franness later. What else?"
"He keeps his guns, and his gunmaking industry. But he agrees not to make any field guns or siege guns, although he insisted on having the right to purchase a few from us. Which I gave him. May as well. He'll start a secret industry anyway, and there's more than enough swampy badlands in Reedbottom territory to hide it. If we let him buy a few, maybe he won't drive the secret industry that far."
Again, Demansk nodded. "I don't care about that. He'll never be able to match our production anyway. Truth is, he'll need some big guns soon enough. The rest of the Southrons are not going to be happy with him."
For the first time Demansk could remember in weeks, the smile on his son-in-law's face seemed genuine. "To put it mildly. Especially when they find out that we've agreed to his definition of where the territory of the Reedbottoms ends — which is going to come as a big surprise to the Grayhills, I can assure you."
"Good," grunted Demansk. "Keep him busy the rest of his life fighting off the damn savages, instead of us having to do it. And hope that his successor isn't as capable as he is. Or—"
He waved his hand. "But that's for someone else to worry about, half a century from now. We can't solve every problem. Did he also agree to provide assistance for the, ah, 'settlers'?"
Adrian's smile widened. Demansk felt his own heart lighten a bit. Damn, I like this young man. He's almost managed to crowd Barrett's memory out. Far enough, anyway, that it doesn't ache all the time.
"Oh, by all means. Prelotta will be delighted to assist us in relocating the 'new settlers' to that big chunk of land we're taking for ourselves in the southern continent. Why not? If we fill up the territory between Kallinek's Wall and Demansk's Wall, it means we'll have to keep troops along the new wall to defend the new settlements. Leaves him free to use his own forces to keep encroaching on his neighbors."
"He had no problem with the status of the, ah, 'new settlers'? Most Vanberts would."
Adrian shook his head. "He could care less that they're all a bunch of ex-slaves. He's smart, Father. Smart enough, I'm sure, to understand that many of them will give up farming, soon enough — tough business, that, carving a farm out of wilderness — and start drifting into Reedbottom territory. Even the least-skilled freedman will know how to do something that barbarians don't. The Reedbottoms just wind up absorbing some new members into their tribe, which they've been doing for centuries anyway, and get another boost. On things like this, they're. ."
He let the words trail off. Demansk filled them in for him.
"Better than us. Oh, yes, son, let's not deny it. There was a time, you know — back when the 'First Twelve' were just a bunch of ambitious pig farmers — when we Vanberts knew how to do the same. Of course, they weren't the 'First Twelve' then, either."
He ran fingers through his beard. "All right. That leaves Franness. And I assume he wants the surrounding territory included as well. Create a solid stretch of Reedbottom territory that extends into the northern continent as well as the southern. And gives him a city he can call a 'capital' while keeping a straight face."
Adrian hesitated. Clearly enough, he was half expecting an eruption.
"Spit it out, Adrian. Knowing Prelotta, I'd figured out already he'd be brazen. I promise not to do more than curse him for five minutes or so. Not you."
Adrian told him. Demansk cursed for five minutes or so. But, true to his promise, did not heap any of the curses onto Adrian's head. Although he did, more than once, give his — his—idiot son-in-law! — a ferocious glare.
But, when it was all over, Demansk ceased stomping around and sat back down on the stool in his command bunker.
"All right," he rasped. "Since you already agreed, I'd be undermining family solidarity if I overruled you. Of all things, I can afford that least of all."
A deep breath. "Done."
The smile came back on Adrian's face. A bit gingerly, at first, as if it was testing the waters. But, soon enough, in full bloom.
"If it makes you feel any better, Father, I'm really not being a sentimentalist about the whole thing. Sure, I suppose I still feel a tad uncomfortable about the way I 'betrayed' Prelotta last year. But not much — and Prelotta himself seems to have laughed the whole thing off. I'm really thinking much more in terms of the future. Let Prelotta have a capital — a real city, with its baths and fleshpots; for that matter, its libraries — and you watch how long that 'barbarian vigor' will last."
Demansk grunted. Abstractly, he understood the logic. But, deep in his Vanbert bones — which were as concrete as bones always are — the logic grated on him. Conquerors took cities, damnation, they didn't give them away!
"Look at it this way, Father. You'll be mollifying all the matrons of Franness whom Prelotta forced to bathe him and his chiefs. Giving them a certain status after the fact. One thing to be forced to bathe filthy barbarians; another, to have done it for a proper vassal lord and his nobles."
Seeing Demansk's eyes widen, he chuckled. "Oh, yes. He carried out the threat. Apparently, in fact, he forced all the matrons of the city to do it."
Demansk's eyed widened further. He was trying to picture. .
"How did he fit them all in? Not even Vanbert has public baths big enough."
"In relays, according to the story I heard — all three versions of it, in fact. He must have ended up the cleanest man who ever lived. Not a single matron of the city tried to escape the obligation, since the alternative he gave them was to have their daughters raped. Or the matrons themselves, according to one version."
Demansk put on a very histrionic frown of disapproval. "Shameful! If the matrons had been properly virtuous, they could have killed the bastard from overwork." This was followed by an equally histrionic sigh. "But such, I'm afraid, is the reality of the times."
He planted his hands on his knees and rose. "Done, as I said. And, who knows, you may even be right about the end result. But that's the future. Right now the question is: which one of us gets to handle the outraged delegation from the proper citizens of Franness? Been Vanberts for a hundred and fifty years, you know. They are not going to be happy at their new status."
But Adrian's smile didn't waver in the least. "Oh, you should, Father. Absolutely. It won't be hard to handle. Not for you, as Paramount. It occurs to me. ."
* * *
And so it proved. Demansk listened to the voluble protests expressed by the delegation — who seemed to consist of every single member of the city's former council of notables — for not more than ten minutes. Then:
"Well, if you insist, I'll take Franness back into the Confederacy. But I was just trying to be merciful. As Prelotta's subjects, you've done nothing wrong." Here came a frown so histrionic it might have caused any actor to die from envy. "But as my citizens, I note that you surrendered the city to barbarians without so much as a single breach having been made in the wall — and them with no siege train worth talking about! Under the stern and ancient law of our forefathers — and that much has not changed — I have no alternative but to decree the decimation—"
But, by then, of course, wiser heads were beginning to prevail. Notable after notable recalling various virtues of Chief — no, King—Prelotta; others commenting wisely on the need not to embarrass the Paramount by having him rescind a decision already made public; still others suddenly noticing the trade possibilities, what with Franness — because of its new status, of course — being the natural provisioning center for, ah, settlers on their way to their new farmlands. One old notable, who apparently had some Emerald blood in his family tree, even began opining on the significance of the distinc
tion between Being and Becoming.
* * *
Two nights later, King Prelotta threw a great feast for the Confederate grandees who came to pay their first official visit on Vanbert's new auxiliary nation. Paramount Triumvir Verice Demansk headed the list of guests, along with a splendid pantheon of his closest associates and relatives. No mention was made, of course, of the regiment of regulars who accompanied him into Franness; nor, needless to say, of the fact that the siege guns — still in place — were kept trained on the gates of the city throughout; nor, even, of the odd custom of the Triumvir of having his food tasted first by the King himself.
All considerations given, the event went quite smoothly. Things were helped along immensely by the fact that King Prelotta and every single one of his chiefs — barons, rather; in the new "northern province" they held that title — showed up at the feast fresh from the baths.
They were helped even more, however, by the unexpected cordiality — even, one might say, friendship — displayed by the Paramount's daughter Helga toward the new King. The young lady's prestige among the Reedbottoms was doubled by virtue of her marriage to the man who was not only Governor of the Emeralds but also, as it happens, was not at the feast — since he was standing outside the city alongside the siege guns. (With, according to rumor, a lit match in his hand — a rumor which Prelotta's spies later reported was quite false. Yes, the match was lit, and smoldering in its tub. But his spies assured the King that Adrian Gellert had spent the entire evening in casual conversation with his gunners. At least five feet away.)
* * *
Arsule was at the feast also. Demansk having tried, but failed, to keep her away on the grounds of her own safety.
"Give it a rest! You're just afraid I'll annoy the Reedbottoms with my prattle. Ha. Much time you've spent in the company of barbarians. I speak from experience, Verice. Nothing savages enjoy more than a good conversation."
Whether she was right or not would never be determined. Other than exchanging a few pleasantries with Prelotta and his top barons, Arsule spent the entire evening in close company with Franness' small number of priests devoted to the cult of Jassine. Much to Demansk's relief at the time.