by Adrian Selby
The Prince and the Ahmstad
An account by a Fieldsman of the Post regarding Kailen and The Prince. Fieldsmen are the most elite Agents of the Post, from the ranks of which The Red himself, the head of the Post, is often promoted.
This Fieldsman was disguised as a bodyguard to the Ahmstad’s “Ladus” (chief), present at the negotiation by which Kailen and The Prince secured a bloodless victory for Ahmstad over Vilmor, nine years before Snakewood.
Goran
Destination: Candar Prime, Q4 649 OE
Eastern Sar Westmain routed
CONFIDENTIAL FOR THE RED ONLY
Report of: Fieldsman 71
You are aware of Vilmorian expansionism under their King Turis. They have been amassing an army for assaults on two fronts, the Luzhan Province and Ahmstad.
A clan leader for Ahmstad brought a mercenary known as Kailen to their war council. To say the Ladus was displeased was to put it mildly. The clan leader, Hasike, asked that the Ladus hear him out.
What follows is a transcript of the meeting as best as I can relay it. It is evident that Kailen, and his fellow that he called The Prince, displayed a formidable understanding of both sides of the potential conflict. He is a most unusual mercenary and a compelling speaker, though of course this does not come across half so well in my approximation of the meeting.
“May I ask the Ladus the size of the army he is amassing?” said Kailen.
“The clans represented here have committed to me near eighteen thousand men and women. Do I speak right?” Raised voices, eliciting approval and some banging of cups.
“And what would the Ladus say losses of such men might be, were Vilmor to bring to bear an army estimated at twenty-five thousand?”
“Where do you get such numbers, soldier?”
The Prince speaks then. “We served with Vilmor, as you no doubt already know. They have seventy-six fiefs, variously providing twenty to two hundred men and women.”
“With these numbers, in open battle, the losses would be?” This was Kailen.
“Far higher on their side.” More cups were banged at this point.
“Ladus,” said Hasike, somewhat frustrated, “who bears the brunt of their aggression? My clan. We are your border with Vilmor.”
“As we border the Wilds,” said another, “but we do not cry to the Ladus over it.”
“The Wilds do not bring in twenty thousand men in front of a fortified supply line,” said Kailen. “Bang your cups and brag if it pleases you, but you stand over a map that shows clearly where Vilmor will push, through Hasike’s land and to the heart of Ahmstad.”
The Ladus raised his arms to quieten the shouts.
“My council waits with bated breath for the wisdom of a Harudanian mercenary on its own affairs. You have disappointed me, Hasike, bringing to our gathering men paid to chop up soldiers when what we need is to outwit Turis’s generals.”
“You ought to consider Hasike wise, Ladus. I will gladly demonstrate why.” Remarkably, the mercenary sounded angry. I had expected him to be run through at that point, for the Ladus enjoyed nothing more than disembowelling everyone from servants to his own family for sleights of honour or even dark looks.
“You have not begun to muster from your war communes, the sheriffs and quarters are still securing your supplies: wood, cattle, grain. The men at this table await their levies, and the last time I fought Ahmstad I would not hold such hope for the weak and ill-equipped majority that are enrolled. Hasike’s lands will be pillaged and burned, some fifth of your tithe in buffalo, a seventh of all your guira and ska crops.” He had the room now, though the Ladus’s fist was white as it gripped the handle of his axe.
Kailen swept the arranged blocks from the map and reset them. He laid out the routes the Vilmorian army would take, the challenge for the Ahmstad forces, and every way that he laid out their options they were to expect heavy losses, even in victory.
The room was silent, for each anticipated deployment and stratagem had been devised and its consequences presented soundly.
“I have a question,” said the Ladus: “if we are likely to lose, why have you sold Hasike your services? Do you and your friend of some dubious royal lineage plan to defeat Turis with your own hands?”
“No. For one hundred and fifty gold pieces my friend of dubious royal lineage will explain why you need not raise a sword to defeat the forces of Vilmor, gain yourselves land and new allies and weaken Turis significantly.”
The Ladus erupted with laughter. “If I’d wanted a fool I would have left my first consort alive. I suppose you wish to be paid before you share your grand plan with us as well?”
“Listen to him, for my people’s sake,” said Hasike.
The Ladus was always a big and intimidating man, easily a foot taller than anyone else in a room, and I’d seen him press and win, time and again, from Hasike more cattle for the northern Ahmstad clans he favoured. Hasike was desperate. The Ladus took a deep breath.
“Fifty gold pieces. If I like what I hear you’ll get your hundred more, if not you’ll swallow them and I’ll cut them out of your belly.” He turned his head slightly towards where I stood with his treasurer, and a nod commanded the treasurer to count out the coins. Kailen took the proffered pouch as calmly as a man receiving payment for food, suggesting that, uniquely in my experience, his purses were of a not dissimilar amount.
Kailen’s man, The Prince, was, I learned shortly afterwards, called so because he was an heir to the throne of Old Ceirad. He had the Old Kingdoms aristocracy in every bone, an educated, persuasive speaker. He also used Ladus’s map and his blocks to explain his argument.
“Vilmor, as I have said, is comprised of seventy-six fiefs. Your lands border eleven of those fiefs. Of those eleven there are three that matter. These three share a common ancestry with Hasike’s clan. You will have noted how peaceful the border is there, compared to the Wilds and Razhani borders. Only Lagrad is more peaceful, and precisely because of your longstanding treaty.
“These three fiefs, comprising two clans, do not, shall we say, dine at the top table with Turis and the bigger fiefs. Indeed, he has seen fit to put to a vote the redrawing of the fiefdoms in favour of a cousin whose land lies behind theirs. His mistake, as I see it, has been to give his cousin the oversight and control of levies, in the name of Turis, to see to the construction of the forts that now press against your borders, in those three lands.
“As many of you in the room will testify, if the Ladus here designated Hasike or anyone else to command your own men to build forts in the Ladus’s name, irrespective of the cost to your lands and your harvests, you would be displeased.” This earned a few grunts of approval.
“Two castles have been built, at great cost to those fiefs, along with seven other wooden forts and the construction of bridges through some of the marshlands that edge your borders, giving Vilmor the advantage of which we speak.
“I would suggest that the hundred gold pieces not be paid now, as I summarise our plan, but upon its execution. Will you bind to that, Ladus?”
You now understand how interesting these two mercenaries are. The Ladus is a great warrior, but a vain and ridiculous man. They understood this, as they must have understood Hasike’s position as well as the intelligence they had gathered on the border before they approached Hasike and the Ladus. I was struck at that moment by the thought that one hundred and fifty gold pieces was not as preposterous as it initially seemed. Nor did Kailen’s demeanour shift for a moment at this change in the agreement, as though it too had been rehearsed.
The Ladus looked about the room, and I noted Kailen’s satisfaction. He had concluded much as I did that this gesture indicated Ladus did not have the initiative or command here. He sought the faces of his clan leaders for their view on this offer, though it would have been madness to refuse.
“Explain your plan,” he said.
The Prince continued. “Enfeoff the three clans, give them freehold land, at the cost of one quarter
of Hasike’s own lands and four of his herds. Make also a gift to each clan of five hundred gold pieces, along with two hundred jars each of cocklebur seeds and the recipes for them. Commit also to fund a war commune there and give them a place on the council. In return …”
There were cries of “Disgrace” and others much more colourful, but The Prince continued over them.
“In return you have extended your borders, united four clans that Hasike will soon get control of, gained two castles and a number of forts, and weakened Turis considerably on this front.”
Though the hubbub continued a moment, the Ladus raised his hand for silence.
“Hasike?” he said.
“I believe with some suitable marriages, the war commune in what remains of my territory and my family’s lineage in respect of these clans, I and my sons after me will take overall controlof these lands, though I expect, as The Prince has said, that they will accede to our offer willingly. I can commit from my own men enough, with Kailen’s help, to secure the castles while we secure the lands.”
The Ladus nodded. Hasike had improved his standing immensely. He took some time, looking over the map, lost in thought.
“Return with the agreements and I will have the payments ready, both for those clans and these two mercenaries.”
The territory was duly won, Kailen and The Prince were proved right.
I understand from some of the soldiers that I’d questioned regarding them that Kailen commands only a crew of twenty, and they have been making a name for themselves wherever they’ve signed. They have not yet signed a purse for a general that lost a battle.
I recommend an introduction, we may learn much from this remarkable man.
if you enjoyed
THE WINTER ROAD
look out for
SENLIN ASCENDS
Book One of The Books of Babel
by
Josiah Bancroft
Mild-mannered headmaster Thomas Senlin prefers his adventures to be safely contained within the pages of a book. So when he loses his new bride shortly after embarking on the honeymoon of their dreams, he is ill-prepared for the trouble that follows.
To find her, Senlin must enter the Tower of Babel—a world of geniuses and tyrants, of menace and wonder, of unusual animals and mysterious machines. And if he hopes to ever see his wife again, he will have to do more than just survive …. This quiet man of letters must become a man of action.
Chapter 1
The Tower of Babel is most famous for the silk fineries and marvelous airships it produces, but visitors will discover other intangible exports. Whimsy, adventure, and romance are the Tower’s real trade.
—Everyman’s Guide to the Tower of Babel, I. V
It was a four-day journey by train from the coast to the desert where the Tower of Babel rose like a tusk from the jaw of the earth. First, they had crossed pastureland, spotted with fattening cattle and charmless hamlets, and then their train had climbed through a range of snow-veined mountains where condors roosted in nests large as haystacks. Already, they were farther from home than they had ever been. They descended through shale foothills, which he said reminded him of a field of shattered blackboards, through cypress trees, which she said looked like open parasols, and finally they came upon the arid basin. The ground was the color of rusted chains, and the dust of it clung to everything. The desert was far from deserted. Their train shared a direction with a host of caravans, each a slithering line of wheels, hooves, and feet. Over the course of the morning, the bands of traffic thickened until they converged into a great mass so dense that their train was forced to slow to a crawl. Their cabin seemed to wade through the boisterous tide of stagecoaches and ox-drawn wagons, through the tourists, pilgrims, migrants, and merchants from every state in the vast nation of Ur.
Thomas Senlin and Marya, his new bride, peered at the human menagerie through the open window of their sunny sleeper car. Her china-white hand lay weightlessly atop his long fingers. A little troop of red-breasted soldiers slouched by on palominos, parting a family in checkered headscarves on camelback. The trumpet of elephants sounded over the clack of the train, and here and there in the hot winds high above them, airships lazed, drifting inexorably toward the Tower of Babel. The balloons that held the ships aloft were as colorful as maypoles.
Since turning toward the Tower, they had been unable to see the grand spire from their cabin window. But this did not discourage Senlin’s description of it. “There is a lot of debate over how many levels there are. Some scholars say there are fifty-two, others say as many as sixty. It’s impossible to judge from the ground,” Senlin said, continuing the litany of facts he’d brought to his young wife’s attention over the course of their journey. “A number of men, mostly aeronauts and mystics, say that they have seen the top of it. Of course, none of them have any evidence to back up their boasts. Some of those explorers even claim that the Tower is still being raised, if you can believe that.” These trivial facts comforted him, as all facts did. Thomas Senlin was a reserved and naturally timid man who took confidence in schedules and regimens and written accounts.
Marya nodded dutifully but was obviously distracted by the parade of humanity outside. Her wide, green eyes darted excitedly from one exotic diversion to the next: What Senlin merely observed, she absorbed. Senlin knew that, unlike him, Marya found spectacles and crowds exhilarating, though she saw little of either back home. The pageant outside her window was nothing like Isaugh, a salt-scoured fishing village, now many hundreds of miles behind them. Isaugh was the only real home she’d known, apart from the young women’s musical conservatory she’d attended for four years. Isaugh had two pubs, a Whist Club, and a city hall that doubled as a ballroom when occasion called for it. But it was hardly a metropolis.
Marya jumped in her seat when a camel’s head swung unexpectedly near. Senlin tried to calm her by example but couldn’t stop himself from yelping when the camel snorted, spraying them with warm spit. Frustrated by this lapse in decorum, Senlin cleared his throat and shooed the camel out with his handkerchief.
The tea set that had come with their breakfast rattled now, spoons shivering in their empty cups, as the engineer applied the brakes and the train all but stopped. Thomas Senlin had saved and planned for this journey his entire career. He wanted to see the wonders he’d read so much about, and though it would be a trial for his nerves, he hoped his poise and intellect would carry the day. Climbing the Tower of Babel, even if only a little way, was his greatest ambition, and he was quite excited. Not that anyone would know it to look at him: He affected a cool detachment as a rule, concealing the inner flights of his emotions. It was how he conducted himself in the classroom. He didn’t know how else to behave anymore.
Outside, an airship passed low enough to the ground that its tethering lines began to snap against heads in the crowd. Senlin wondered why it had dropped so low, or if it had only recently launched. Marya let out a laughing cry and covered her mouth with her hand. He gaped as the ship’s captain gestured wildly at the crew to fire the furnace and pull in the tethers, which was quickly done amid a general panic, but not before a young man from the crowd had caught hold of one of the loose cords. The adventuresome lad was quickly lifted above the throng, his feet just clearing the box of a carriage before he was swung up and out of view.
The scene seemed almost comical from the ground, but Senlin’s stomach churned when he thought of how the youth must feel flying on the strength of his grip high over the sprawling mob. Indeed, the entire brief scene had been so bizarre that he decided to simply put it out of his mind. The Guide had called the Market a raucous place. It seemed, perhaps, an understatement.
He’d never expected to make the journey as a honeymooner. More to the point, he never imagined he’d find a woman who’d have him. Marya was his junior by a dozen years, but being in his midthirties himself, Senlin did not think their recent marriage very remarkable. It had raised a few eyebrows in Isaugh, though. Perched on rock
bluffs by the Niro Ocean, the townsfolk of Isaugh were suspicious of anything that fell outside the regular rhythms of tides and fishing seasons. But as the headmaster, and the only teacher, of Isaugh’s school, Senlin was generally indifferent to gossip. He’d certainly heard enough of it. To his thinking, gossip was the theater of the uneducated, and he hadn’t gotten married to enliven anyone’s breakfast-table conversation.
He’d married for entirely practical reasons.
Marya was a good match. She was good tempered and well read; thoughtful, though not brooding; and mannered without being aloof. She tolerated his long hours of study and his general quiet, which others often mistook for stoicism. He imagined she had married him because he was kind, even tempered, and securely employed. He made fifteen shekels a week, for an annual salary of thirteen minas; it wasn’t a fortune by any means, but it was sufficient for a comfortable life. She certainly hadn’t married him for his looks. While his features were separately handsome enough, taken altogether they seemed a little stretched and misplaced. His nickname among his pupils was “the Sturgeon” because he was thin and long and bony.
Of course, Marya had a few unusual habits of her own. She read books while she walked to town—and had many torn skirts and skinned knees to show for it. She was fearless of heights and would sometimes get on the roof just to watch the sails of inbound ships rise over the horizon. She played the piano beautifully but also brutally. She’d sing like a mad mermaid while banging out ballads and reels, leaving detuned pianos in her wake. And even still, her oddness inspired admiration in most. The townsfolk thought she was charming, and her playing was often requested at the local public houses. Not even the bitter gray of Isaugh’s winters could temper her vivacity. Everyone was a little baffled by her marriage to the Sturgeon.