"They remain in orbit, Arch Vizier. I would not wish to appear threatening to our host by bringing down more BattleMechs than he has at his command." Marcus watched for any sign on Ji-Drohmien's face that perhaps Shervanis might have more than two lances of 'Mechs nearby.
The other man's expression remained respectfully neutral. "A wise decision," he said, gesturing back to the waiting litters. "My master has sent convenient transport. If you are ready."
"No," Marcus said, a note of finality in his voice. He saw Jericho tense, but wasn't about to board a slave-carried litter. "That is, we would prefer to furnish our own transportation." He glanced over at Torgensson. "Jase, go get one of our hovercars. The large touring coach." He turned back to Ji-Drohmien. "Perhaps you would ride with us, Arch Vizier?"
The other man's crafty smile worried Marcus, making him wonder if he had somehow made a mistake. "A wonderful gesture," Ji-Drohmien said. "In the name of our enlightened leader, Caliph Malachye Shervanis, I welcome you to Astrokaszy."
* * *
Jericho did not miss the troubled look that crossed Ki-Lynn Tanaga's face as Marcus sent Jase for the hover-car. But with Ji-Drohmien standing so near, she had no chance to voice her concern. Whatever it is, we'll find out soon enough, she thought, climbing into the vehicle. The car's top had been removed to let them ride in the open air, a good thing since it was unlikely any air cooling unit could match the desert heat. Jase drove, and within minutes they were moving through the narrow streets of the city of Shervanis.
Some of the buildings were constructed of wood and quarried stone, but most were the dun-colored adobe structures typical of desert terrain. Along the outskirts of the city Marcus noticed more than one area that was little more than organized piles of rubble, remnants of the latest round of war between Shervanis and who knew what other caliph. People were apparently living there in rickety lean-to structures while attempting to rebuild homes of marginally better quality. Passing out of the war-torn areas, the hovercar skirted a large industrial center that seemed to consist mainly of burned-out buildings and abandoned warehouses. Then they were into a crowded residential area that smelled of urine and sun-rotted refuse.
People on the street dressed mostly in homespun garments, the adults in long flowing caftans and children in shapeless tunics. Some wore clothing dyed in bright colors, garments of somewhat better quality, but little else seemed to separate the prosperous from the destitute. Even as the little group neared the inner city, the only signs of prosperity were the rough white stucco coating a house or the presence of the occasional slave some households could afford. All stared openly at the novelty of the hovercar, until they recognized the arch vizier sitting in front and quickly returned to their own business.
Besides the looks of fear and hate, Jericho also saw many pistols and rifles and wondered that Ji-Drohmien would travel the streets so unprotected and unconcerned for his life. As she studied the people more closely, though, she saw that the dominant expression was indeed fear. And apparently not of the arch vizier.
They might hate this man, but they fear Shervanis. The caliph could turn his BattleMechs against them, and who could stop him? They have nowhere else to go, except into the desert.
The Caliph's palatial dwelling, set in the center of the city, was surrounded by a defensive wall of reinforced ferrocrete. Twenty meters high and nearly ten meters thick, the wall would be a formidable obstacle to any attacker not equipped with jumping 'Mechs. It also told Jericho that Malachye Shervanis considered it of greater importance to build a solid defense for himself even as the city outside his walls fell into decay. And at the main gate she caught another glimpse of Shervanis' enlightened rule—a dozen heads set on poles, rotting in the hot, dry atmosphere.
Ji-Drohmien dismissed the sight with an imperious wave of a hand. "An example," he said, not bothering to mention of what. As a warm desert breeze brought the stench of rotting flesh to her, Jericho swallowed hard to keep her gorge down.
The caliph's palace was an amazing contrast to the city. A good half a kilometer square, the grounds included several groves of fruit trees being tended by slaves. A large two-story palace sat at the center, its squat, onion-shaped domes of gold and red topped with spires. The walls were a smooth and pristine white. Two BattleMechs, an ancient Quickdraw and a Clint in not much better condition, patrolled the grounds. The place spoke of wealth and power, an impression that only intensified once inside.
Floors were tiled with pink marble, and everywhere slaves were cleaning and polishing. Ji-Drohmien led them down several narrow corridors, past doorways curtained in heavy silks or hanging beads and guarded by the occasional turbaned Bedouin carrying a large scimitar. He finally instructed them to wait ia a small anteroom while he announced their presence. Female slaves descended on them with jars of wine, platters of dates and nuts, and shallow bowls of water for washing the dust from their hands. Nausea still clutched at Jericho's stomach at the memory of the impaled heads, and she was glad when Marcus waved the platters away.
Not until they were finally left alone did Ki-Lynn finally speak up. "The litters were a courtesy," she said to Marcus. "A gift from Caliph Shervanis."
"And he will be insulted that I refused them."
"No. Unless the caliph presents you with something personally, you may refuse. That is your right as the guest. But then you brought out a superior method of transportation. A pasha could and will interpret this as an insult."
Jericho caught the underlying hint of a possible exception. It seemed that Marcus did too."Unless?" he asked.
"Unless you now present the hovercar as a gift to the caliph."
Jericho caught the look of exasperation stealing over Marcus' face. "That's why Ji-Drohmien appeared so pleased with my suggestion." At Ki's light nod, he exhaled in one sharp, short breath. "Nothing to be done about it now. Next time, Ki, please warn me."
"I'll try. But it would be almost as insulting if a woman spoke out in a place like this."
How did she know so much about Arab culture? Jericho wondered. The Angels' coram officer always seemed to be full of such useful information. Didn't matter now, though. And though it galled her, Jericho filed the information concerning "a woman's place" away for future reference. This wasn't Magistracy. Exercising her rights would only make trouble for the Angels and jeopardize this mission for her people.
Marcus was having none of that, though. "Ki, you're a warrior. These people will respect that." He paused, then seemed to reconsider. "But, next time, manufacture some pretext to pull me aside and then tell me. That goes for everyone," he said, glancing over at the others. Jericho thought his eyes might have rested on her a few seconds longer, but their gray depths were unfathomable.
"You called Shervanis a pasha," Jase said. "I thought he was a caliph?"
Ki nodded. "Pasha is a title of honor, not rulership. Much like the Combine way of using san and soma. Its correct use would be to call him Malachye-pasha."
The talk died away as Ji-Drohmien returned with a rustling of his long silk robes. "His Highness will receive you now," he said, leading the Angels down another short stretch of hall and through a set of brilliant red and gold beaded curtains. It occurred to Jericho that the very layout of the palace, with its narrow corridors and many turns, was meant to be confusing as well as intimidating. One could never be sure if a curtained doorway gave into a new hall or a room full of guards.
This time it opened into a circular room. Lounging on a dais littered with pillows, clad only in a small purple vest and full white trousers was the man she assumed was Caliph Malachye Shervanis. Behind the dais was a thick wall of copper, on which beasts that resembled giant jungle cats spun and danced in a huge bas-relief. At the dais' edge a burning censor let off the strong scent of aromatic incense, while on a nearby table an arrangement of tobaccos and various illicit drugs had been set out next to a large water pipe.
Shervanis studied his visitors, his eyes so dark they seemed black. They reminded Jeri
cho of pictures she had seen once of an old Terran aquatic terror called a shark. Though desert-born, the caliph seemed just as deadly.
Said to be nearing sixty, Shervanis was slender and still showed the wiry strength he must have possessed all his life. Two scantily clad female salves catered to him, one feeding him from a bowl of fruit while the other merely knelt nearby. A single male guard stood off to one side, holding a large fan made of huge feathers that he waved lazily through the air to generate a breeze inside the stuffy room.
"Highness," Ji-Drohmien called from the door as he let the Angles enter first, "Commander GioAvanti and four of his warriors."
"Ah, excellent." The pasha's voice was quiet and heavily accented, almost impossible to understand. "My arch vizier informs me of your generous loan of a hover-car to speed your trip along." His dark eyes watched Marcus expectantly.
Marcus didn't hesitate. "With the full intent of presenting the vehicle to Your Highness, of course, Caliph Shervanis."
The black eyes blinked once, slowly. "Very generous, Commander," he finally said. "Much appreciated. But we cannot accept." He spoke carefully, so no meaning would be lost. "As your host it would be discourteous to take advantage of your misfortune."
"Misfortune, Caliph?" Marcus looked appropriately concerned, though Jericho knew it was all a part of the act. Any moment Marcus would admit to being in financial trouble, and that the Angels were on Astrokaszy to recoup recent losses by searching for the rumored Star League-era base. They had decided on the cover story before leaving Marantha. It was one the caliph was not likely to question.
But Malachye Shervanis was not waiting for that explanation. He spread his arms in a wide shrug, his right arm sliding out from where it had been hidden among the pillows. His hand had been cut off at the wrist, and not evenly. Scar tissue ran down the inside of his forearm, though the stump had been mercifully capped with a silver guard. "An HPG message arrived today, alerting all Periphery states and independent worlds to watch for your arrival. It appears that your debts have been called into immediate account on Outreach. Your creditors have declared you insolvent, and any planetary militia is charged with seizing your 'Mechs and returning them to your creditors as collateral."
The caliph accepted a grape from his slave and smiled cruelly as he chewed and then swallowed it. "It appears, Commander, that you shall not be returning to the Inner Sphere any time soon."
23
Palatial Estates
City of Shervanis, Shervanis Caliphate
Astrokaszy
The Periphery
28 June 3058
You shall not be returning to the Inner Sphere any time soon.
The words still echoed in Marcus' mind as he traversed the narrow corridors of the palace. His boot heels clicked against the marble floor, the sound creating hollow echoes as he went, chased by the soft whisper of sandals constantly reminding him of the "escort" that followed.
Arch Vizier Ji-Drohmien had appointed a turbaned warrior to each of the other four Angels also, saying these would take them to their rooms and guide them about the palace later. To keep us under guard and threatened until the caliph can press his desires, Marcus translated. He had remained behind to speak a few final words with Shervanis, and upon his dismissal found two such escorts awaiting him.
"As befitting your stature of most honored guest," Ji-Drohmien told him with a thin smile. Marcus had let that pass, wishing he could step outside the palace's confining walls and walk off the frustration he felt. The two guards corrected his path only once when he made a wrong turn, and soon he was striding across the wide entrance hall and through the doors that opened onto the grounds.
Someone was waiting for him at one end of the covered entrance. The figure had its back to him, and Marcus thought for a moment it was Jericho Ryan. But this person did not have Jericho's height or full figure, and her hair was much too long and straight. No, it was Ki-Lynn. Marcus was surprised at his error, but then realized sheepishly that it was because he'd been hoping to run into Jericho all along. As an outsider, she seemed easier to talk to somehow. Until now at least. With her and her lance now attached to his Angels, he'd become as responsible for them as any other of his people. And the idea that she might be becoming special to him was suddenly disturbing. So much so that he almost forgot Ki-Lynn was standing there waiting.
"Konnichi-wa, Marcus," she said. Good afternoon.
The calm patience in her voice told Marcus she'd already spoken the greeting once, and would likely do so again with the same neutrality until answered. "Konnichi-wa, Ki-sa." His Japanese was nowhere near perfect, but several years in the Draconis Combine had made it adequate for simple conversation. "Gomen-nasai." Sorry. "I was distracted."
"Wakarimasu. Understandable, considering the length of your talk with Caliph Shervanis."
As always, Marcus paid more attention to the way Ki said a thing, or sometimes how she didn't say it. The art of discussion among the people of the Combine often made subtlety and vague allusions the only way to approach even the most ordinary matters. Ki-Lynn was masterful. Marcus guessed she wanted to talk about the meeting. "Walk with me, Ki," he said.
He also did not miss the slight shift in her gaze that drew attention to her own escort, a large Bedouin who waited impassively on the other side of a pillar. Marcus led the way out onto the grounds, following a flagstone path that seemed to circle the palace. Ki-Lynn walked beside him in gracefully measured paces, and three of the caliph's warriors trailed them by a few steps. Let them, Marcus thought.
"We have close company," he said, speaking to Ki in Japanese. He was aware that if what she had in mind held no particular importance, she would steer the conversation into English. He was not surprised when she responded in kind.
"Did the oyabun threaten you?"
Oyabun. That, of course, was Japanese for the leader of a yakuza crime organization. Marcus smiled at Ki tagging Shervanis with a name the guards weren't likely to connect with him. "No. Just some not-so-subtle blackmail. He knows the best he can do is place the five of us under arrest. But then he'd have to turn us and our 'Mechs over to Word of Blake for immediate transfer back to Outreach. Meanwhile Charlie's up there hanging over his precious realm with a full company of BattleMechs."
"Then we are truly declared bankrupt?"
Marcus shrugged uneasily. "You know our financial situation as well as anyone. According to the oyabun, somebody bought up our notes, and our new creditors are calling the loans due. I guess it's possible we overlooked some little clause in our agreements, but the only way we can hope to resolve the matter is to get ourselves back to Outreach. And regardless of whether or not we work it out, we'd be violating our contract with the Magistracy by leaving now—not to mention that the backlog of operating expenses alone would bury us in debt." Again, Marcus thought, but didn't have to say aloud.
Ki-Lynn let the silence drag out a moment. "Do we have any options?"
Meaning what does Shervanis want from us? They'd circled around to one side of the palace now, coming up on a grove of citrus trees whose aroma of tangy fruit wafted toward them on the warm breeze. Marcus lifted his right hand to shade his eyes from the late afternoon sun and watched as slaves searched the whip-like grass under the trees for fallen fruit. Turbaned guards carrying scimitars and a few automatic rifles covered them, and a 40-ton dilapidated Clint stood high-guard over the entire grove.
"He mentioned a neighboring oyabun, Rashier—the one who offered that pitiful bribe to get our attention. He described the man as a violent terrorist committing unspeakable crimes against the population of his own realm as well as others. Our host would like us to stage a humanitarian effort to rid Astrokaszy of this creature."
"Do you believe him?"
"That Rashier might be a monster?" Marcus shrugged. "Why not? That the oyabun is any better? No. He merely wants something for nothing. Can't afford to hire us, so he'll try to pressure us. I imagine he thinks to hold us hostage and force Charlie to att
ack his rival in exchange for our release."
Out in the grove, a slave ran up to a guard with a piece of fruit. Perhaps it was bruised or otherwise damaged, for the guard inspected it, then threw it away with a cuff at the slave and a muttered curse. The slave stood there gaping pitifully while the other guards shared a good laugh. I hate this place, Marcus thought. As if reading his mind, the Clint twisted its upper torso just far enough to bring the small party into the forward arc of its weapons. Marcus felt his hands itch for his own 'Mech controls so that he could blow the arrogant Shervanis guard into scrap metal.
"He will try to coerce you only so long," Ki said as they continued on. "If you do not agree soon, he will resort to threats."
"You seem to know a lot about these people," Marcus said, fishing. Ki was usually close-mouthed about her past, but now that it impinged on business he wanted to know what her sources were.
"The Dragon once had to deal with similar warriors," she said, and Marcus knew the Dragon referred to the Combine as a whole and the Coordinator as its worldly manifestation. "They were a proud and fanatical people."
Understanding dawned like a light switch being thrown. "The Arkab Legions. Of course." Marcus remembered hearing about them in various DCMS briefings, though he'd never met any. The Arkab Legions were descendants of Moslems who'd left Terra to colonize desert-like worlds in the Draconis Combine. Arkab was an Oriental bastardization of the word "Arab."
"You see a lot of similarity?"
"Some," Ki said. "This world is more barbaric and primitive, but the people seem to share some of the same protocols. Foremost among those is that a person in power is entitled to tribute from the weaker. After that, they may deal as equals, but if you happen to start in debt..." She shrugged, trailing off.
Marcus understood. Starting in debt was a loss of more than money or face, it meant a loss of psychological advantage that was hard to regain. "So the question is, can our host get around the legalities by claiming personal rights to us and our equipment?"
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