by David Weber
“The Houses are all peopled by bastards!” he went on. “They squeeze us until we’re dry, then have their bully boys come around to wreck us so that we leave town!”
“That has, admittedly, happened more often than one would like,” T’Leen agreed soberly. “This is a piss-hole of a town.”
As if to punctuate his remark, there was a crash of metal across the square.
Two groups, one a cluster of toughs from the local House, and five fighters from a rival, had clashed near the edge of the square. The home team far outnumbered their rivals, but they didn’t use their superior numbers to overwhelm the invaders. Indeed, the invaders seemed to be far more proficient as individuals, particularly two who were each using a long dagger or short sword in a lower false-hand. The additional weapon was used almost purely for blocking, and Kosutic wondered why they didn’t use something like a small buckler shield. Since the local fighters persisted in taking on their more skilled opponents one-on-one as scummy military tradition appeared to require, they were also taking heavy casualties despite their numerical advantage.
The spears were used somewhat like bayoneted rifles, Kosutic noticed. Their technique emphasized blocking and thrusting, but also parries and ripostes which humans weren’t normally taught with bayonets. There was very little contact, but what there was was bloody, for the broad spearheads caused wide and deep wounds.
The injuries being suffered were serious, but clearly not life-threatening. If one of the local fighters felt he was getting ready to lose, he simply withdrew, and someone else took his place.
The rival house’s fighters had so far not faced anyone who was their equal, but just as it seemed that the locals were going to lose totally, the doors of the House opened, and a group of guards in heavier armor emerged.
“Ah, now you’ll see something,” T’Leen said. “The guards from Crita were chosen from among their elite. They came here to see what the new N’Jaa guards are like, and now they will. The newcomers are N’Jaa’s elite—they’re considered the best in the city.”
“Are they?” Kosutic asked.
“Possibly,” the weapons merchant snorted. “But that’s not saying much. The local bully boys aren’t up to any but local standards. They should go collect debts for the House Tan.”
The two groups squared off, and the battle began. The local elite was both more heavily armored and unwinded, so it was short and furious. When the two groups parted, two of the Crita fighters were laid out, apparently dead, and so was a N’Jaa. The surviving Crita had beaten a hasty retreat, chased by jeers from their N’Jaa opponents.
“There!” T’Leen said. “Did you see that riposte in secundus K’Katal made?”
“I don’t even understand what you just said,” Kosutic replied, tapping her mastoid bone to get the toot to translate into Standard. “What’s secundus?”
“Down here.” T’Leen gestured with a false-hand. “Great move! I’ve only seen it once before, in Pa’alot. Very difficult to execute—you have to have your feet positioned just so. But if you perfect it, it’s very difficult to defeat.” He pantomimed the move and grimaced when the necessary contortion drew a twinge from some scar tissue. “Ouch.”
“Where’d you learn all this?” Koberda asked. “I mean, what? Were you a guard?”
“Yes,” T’Leen said, abruptly losing the animation he’d drawn from his explanation. “But not for a long time. My fighting days are over.”
“He was from Voitan,” Kosutic said quietly.
“I was an apprentice weapons maker,” the old merchant explained. “I’d traveled with a caravan to T’an K’tass when word came back that the Kranolta had swept down and taken all of the outlying cities. Gone was S’Lenna, shining city of lapis and copper. Gone was fair H’nar, perhaps the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen in all my travels. Gone were all the other sister cities of far Voitan.
“Voitan held, though. We had word through the few who could trade with the Kranolta without losing their horns. The barbarians attacked her repeatedly, but the walls of Voitan were high, and they not only had great stores of food, but could still trade across the ranges to the cities on the far side.
“T’an K’tass knew the worth of Voitan. No one in all the lands knew the making of weapons as did the Steel Guild of Voitan. No one else knew the secrets of the Water Blade. And Voitan and the region around it were the source of most of the metals that T’an K’tass and the other southern city-states depended upon.
“The Council of T’an K’tass called upon the other cities to send a force against the Kranolta, to drive through to the aid of Voitan. But no such thing had ever been done, and the other cities didn’t see the need. They saw only the wealth of Voitan, as the Kranolta had, and laughed at the fall of all that fair land.”
His face turned very bitter, and he became quiet, looking back over the years at that memory.
“The King of Pa’alot and the Houses of this stinking Q’Nkok both repudiated us. That was before the House of Xyia arose to the kingship. I will admit that Xyia spoke for us, or so I have heard.
“I was on the delegation from T’an K’tass that went to Pa’alot to plead our case, but they said that each state must survive or fall on its own. They asked what they had gotten from Voitan that they should risk their money and goods, and to that question I could make no answer.” He clapped his false-hands in sadness. “I could not answer for my lords of Voitan.
“So T’an K’tass sent out a force by herself. And we met the Kranolta in the Dantar Hills.” He clapped his false-hands again, softly. “We were defeated. The Kranolta were as numerous as the stars in the sky, as the trees in the forest! And fierce, fierce!
“We fought through the day and into the next, but we were defeated. Finally, we could fight no more and retreated in good order. But the Kranolta pursued us to T’an K’tass.” He clapped his false-hands once more. “They followed us wherever we went.”
“And they took that city,” Kosutic concluded grimly. “And two others in the area. And that was the last news of Voitan that anyone has heard.”
“Some few of us remain,” T’Leen said sadly. “A few of the House Tan escaped with the force. They’re doing well financially; they got out most of T’an K’tass’ specie and went into the banking business. We talk from time to time.
“And there are a few left of Voitan. Such as myself. A few.” The Mardukan shook his head. “So very few.”
“How long ago was this?” Koberda asked.
“I was a youth,” T’Leen admitted. “Long, long ago.”
“No seasons,” Kosutic pointed out with a shrug. “No sun. They don’t count time like we do, and your guess is as good as mine how old any of these guys are.”
“Hang on a second,” Bosum said, setting down a glass of water. “This is the place we’ve got to go next?”
“You betcha,” Kosutic said with a grim smile. “Or at least the way we have to go. Right through them Kra . . . Kra . . .”
“Kranolta,” Poertena said helpfully.
“Yeah. Them bastards,” Kosutic said with a laugh. “I’d suggest you make sure your plasma rifle’s in good shape, Marine.”
“Yeah,” the newly arrived corporal agreed. “No shit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Roger moved the blade across slowly, trying to remember the way the move felt.
“What is that?” Cord asked. The shaman had begun teaching the human his own half-remembered lessons in the sword, but this move had a look he didn’t recognize.
“I took a semester of something called ‘kendo’ when I was in school,” Roger replied, frowning in concentration. His feet were wrong, and he knew it. “But I can’t remember the moves!”
He made a small adjustment, but it was still wrong, and he growled inwardly in frustration as the ghost of Roger III and all those generations of MacClintock history fanatics enjoyed a hearty horselaugh at his expense. He’d fought tooth and nail to avoid his kendo classes. Officially, he had ob
jected to them because they took time away from his other martial arts classes; in fact, as he’d made certain his mother knew, he had simply refused to embrace their stupid traditions. It had been a petty triumph, perhaps, yet one he had treasured at the time when she finally gave up and let him drop out.
Of course, that had been then, and this was now. . . .
Cord cocked his head and examined the stance. The four arms of the Mardukans meant that many of the methods of the humans, and not just weapons craft alone, were different in detail. But despite both the inevitable differences and the partial nature of what Roger recalled, Cord recognized a more advanced technique when he saw one.
The two had been working out with the sword Kosutic had procured for the past two days while the company rested and the commanders waited for better information. Pahner had joined them from time to time to watch Cord at work, and generally approved. The old scummy had been imparting far more than just weapons instruction; maybe what Roger had truly needed all along was a coach.
“It is always about balance, young prince,” the Mardukan said, walking around Roger as the human moved through his kata. “You’re off your center.”
Roger stopped, and the Mardukan looked at his foot placement, then grunted. He tapped one foot with the butt of his spear.
“Try from there,” he commanded, and Roger took the steps of the kata again, and smiled.
“You did it again, you old sorcerer.”
“You need to learn to find your balance better,” the Mardukan said, with a clop of teeth. “If you don’t have your balance, everything is harder. If you have your balance it is not necessarily easy. But it is far easier than otherwise.”
He looked up as PFC Kraft entered the salle. The training room was in a part of the castle distant from the visitors’ quarters, so there was a squad of Marines outside the door, and the rifleman tapped his helmet to indicate that he’d received a transmission.
“Captain Pahner says he’d like to see you, Your Highness. At your earliest convenience.”
Roger opened his mouth to retort angrily at the interruption of his session, then closed it again as Cord laid a hand on his arm.
“We’ll be there in a moment,” the Mardukan said. “Please send the Captain the Prince’s regards.”
Kraft nodded and withdrew, and, as the door closed, Cord grunted in laughter.
“Center, young prince. The wise monarch listens to his generals in matters of war, to his ministers in matters of state, and to his people in matters of morality.”
“Ha!” Roger laughed. “Where did you hear that one?”
“It was in the writings of the Sage of K’land,” the barbarian shaman admitted with a shrug.
“Why in the hell did you go back to the jungle?” Roger asked as he picked up a cleaner cloth to wipe down from the workout. He’d discovered that the shaman was as well read as any sage in the city, one of the reasons Xyia Kan listened to his pronouncements with such care. He was far more than just a “dumb barbarian,” and now he clapped his false-hands in a Mardukan shrug.
“I had duties to discharge to my tribe. It needed a shaman; I was the shaman.”
“I hope Teltan can fulfill the trust you placed in him.”
Roger shook the cloth to clear the majority of the filth it had picked up. The cleaner cloths actively removed dirt and grime from any surface and were easily cleaned for reuse. Unfortunately, they eventually wore out, and soon the company would have to find a substitute, which wouldn’t be easy. The Mardukans didn’t bathe. They didn’t need to, and their mucus coverings would have prevented the use of anything like soaps. They did have some cleaners designed for equipment, but they were unbelievably harsh. It would be an . . . experience to take a bath in them. Rather like lathering up with bathroom cleaner, Roger suspected.
There were many similar problems. Equipment had already started to break down in the oppressive heat and humidity. Several Marines were already without functioning helmets, and two plasma rifles had been deadlined by Poertena. As the journey went on, it would only get worse, and Roger wondered idly what they would look like at the end of the trip. Would they be covered in skins and swinging swords like the one he was putting away? It was an unpleasant thought when he considered that their ultimate objective was a fortified spaceport.
“We all have challenges to face,” Cord said, and Roger had a sudden sense that the old Mardukan was responding to much more than the prince’s comment about Teltan, as if he could read the other thoughts flowing through his asi’ s mind.
“It is each man’s life to rise or fall to his challenges,” the shaman went on gently. “Thus are we judged.”
The command group sat on pillows on the floor of the room which had been designated as the headquarters. It was the first time since they’d left the shuttles that they’d all been gathered in a single place, and Roger gave a silent snort as he thought about what one grenade in the room would do. However, the only grenades were in the hands of the Marines, and they, so far, were supporting the chain of command. Or Pahner, at least.
The captain stood at the end of the room at parade rest as Lieutenant Jasco, the last member of the command group, came in and grabbed a seat. Pahner waited to be certain all of them had their pads out, then cleared his throat.
“Lieutenant Gulyas and Sergeant Julian have finished analyzing the take from their listening devices, and they’re prepared to report on just what we’re facing here. Lieutenant Gulyas has suggested that Julian present the data. Julian?” he concluded, glancing at the noncom who’d been trying to stay inconspicuous in the corner.
The normally irrepressible sergeant was clearly ill at ease as he got to his feet and took Pahner’s place, looked around the room at the assembled officers, and activated his own pad.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, glancing at Cord, squatting behind Roger, “this report has been developed from several sources besides our monitoring devices. However, all sources clearly point to one conclusion: we’re in a snake-pit.
“There are several factions in this town, most of them working at one or another plot, and mostly to cross purposes. If any of the locals, including the King, have any idea of just how many of these plots and counterplots there truly are, I would be very surprised.
“The single plot that’s of particular interest to us, however, is the one which focuses on the issue of woodcutting, and why the woodcutters continue to violate treaty provisions, despite repeated threats from Cord’s tribe.” He looked at Lieutenant Gulyas as if in question, but the officer only nodded and made a “go on” gesture with one hand.
“As it happens,” Julian said, turning back to the rest of his audience, “the Lieutenant and I see a clear opportunity in this situation for us. What we need is to. . . .”
“Would you mind explaining that to me again?” the king said carefully.
Cutting through protocol to arrange the meeting, especially quickly, had been difficult. In the end, the “guest list” had come down to Xyia Kan, Roger, O’Casey, Pahner, H’Nall Grak, the commander of the king’s guards (and the only one in the room with a visible weapon), and Sergeant Julian. The choice for the final human member had been between Julian or the intelligence lieutenant, but Gulyas had recommended that they take the NCO. It turned out that most of the plan had been Julian’s from the first.
“You’re in what we call rok-toi, Your Majesty,” he responded now. “That’s a complicated and nasty food in our . . . land . . . that smells to high heaven.
“There are three Houses involved in a complex plot against your House. They’ve been sending the woodcutters and hunters, managed through intermediaries, into the woods to stir up The People. They’ve also switched out the high-quality goods in the last two shipments for those of lesser quality, also to enrage Cord’s people.
“At the same time, they’ve been resisting your calls for increased defense, because they plan on taking over the town, using a group of Kranolta.”
“T
hat’s the part I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the king admitted. “Not even the C’Rtena could be stupid enough to believe they could control the Kranolta inside the city walls! Could they?”
“Frankly, Your Majesty,” O’Casey replied, “that’s exactly what they believe. The group of Kranolta they’ve hired is fairly small, only a few hundred, and most of them will be fighting The People outside the walls. But they’ve been promised that after the fighting they can sack portions of the city: specifically, the bazaars where the independent tradesmen are based. The conspirators are of the opinion that they can limit the depredations of the Kranolta to the bazaars and the lesser houses. Perhaps one or two of the great Houses who aren’t part of their plot. But any damage to those groups would only leave them in a better position at the end.”
“They’re mad!” Grak snarled. The scarred old soldier grunted in grim humor at the thought. “If the Kranolta leave one stone standing on another, it will only be so that there’s something left for the rest of their tribe to pick over!”
“Well, yes and no,” Julian said. “Our . . . information includes data on the Kranolta which is apparently new. It appears Voitan did fall, finally, but the Kranolta were significantly reduced in number in the process. The tribe remains smaller than it was, and it’s more or less stagnated since the fall of Voitan.” The intel NCO shrugged. “Of course, even granting all of that, I still think the correlation of forces is adverse.”
Grak translated the translation and laughed again. “Adverse. Yes. And what do they think we shall be doing, hmmm? When they let the Kranolta in through the gates?”
“What they think, General,” Pahner answered, “is that most of you will be dead. The Royal Guard is responsible for the defense of the city, and you’ll spend yourselves fighting The People. Then the Kranolta will come in, wipe out the remnants of both forces, destroy the competitor minor Houses, and sack the independents in the bazaars. The King, who enjoys support among both groups, will be left without either a support base or a guard. He may keep the castle, but it’s more likely he’ll be deposed by the remaining guards.”