by David Weber
“By the Gods of Thunder, Roger!” Rastar complained as he took two shots to drop the Lemmar by the helmsman. “Leave some for the rest of us!”
“Whatever,” the prince snapped. A third shot dispatched the pirate who had been supervising the work party up forward, and he kicked the arquebus out of the hands of a twitching body at his feet. Then he turned to examine the hatches as Kosutic swarmed over the side. The work party forward had taken cover behind the body of their erstwhile supervisor and showed no inclination to move out from behind it, so he couldn’t form any idea of where the other pirates might be hiding.
“Take the stern. We’ll start from the bow,” he said, stepping forward. “Be careful.”
“As always,” Honal answered for his cousin. The Vashin noble jerked the slide on his new shotgun, which had a six-gauge bore and brass-based, paper cartridges. Then he tossed off a salute. “And this time, watch your head,” he added. “No ramming it into the undersides of decks!”
“Speaking of which,” Kosutic said, clapping the prince’s helmet onto his head. “Now be a good boy and flip down the visor, Your Highness.”
“Yes, Mother,” Roger said, still looking at the forward-most hatch. It was lashed securely down from the outside, but it could just as well be secured from the inside, as well. He flipped down the helmet visor and sent out a pulse of ultrasound, but the region under the deck seemed to be a cargo hold, filled with indecipherable shapes.
“What do you think?” he asked the sergeant major.
“Well, I hate going through where they expect, but I don’t want the damned thing to flood, either.” Kosutic replied.
“At least they didn’t have any bombards before they were captured,” Roger pointed out. “Which means there’s no powder magazine, either.”
“Point taken,” Kosutic acknowledged. “Swimming beats the hell out of being blown up, I suppose. But that wasn’t exactly what I meant.”
“I know it wasn’t,” Roger replied, and took the breaching charge the sergeant major had extracted from her rucksack. He laid out the coil of explosive on the foredeck and stood back from the circle.
“Shouldn’t be any flooding problem coming down from above,” he pointed out. “And I’m sure we can convince the original crew to fix any little holes in the deck for us later.”
A deep “boom” sounded from the after portion of the ship as Honal broke in his new shotgun, and Roger reached for the detonator.
“Fire in the hole!”
Honal once again acknowledged how much the humans had taught the Vashin. The human techniques of “close combat,” for example, were a novel approach. The traditional Vashin technique for fighting inside a city, for example, was simply to throw groups at the problem and let them work it out. But the humans had raised the art of fighting inside buildings, or in this case ships, to a high art.
He jacked another of the paper-and-brass cartridges into the reloading chute and nodded at his prince. Rastar had finally finished reloading one of his revolvers and nodded back. They were more than halfway through the ship, and so far they’d encountered four more of the Lemmar. None of the pirates had survived the meeting, and given that only one of the Krath seamen had been killed along the way, the “breakage,” as the humans termed it, had been minimal.
Rastar closed the cylinder and eased cautiously forward towards the bulkhead door in front of them, then paused as he heard the distinctive “Crack!” of one of Roger’s bead pistols. Then both Vashin heard a second shot. And a third.
“Careful,” Rastar said. “We’re getting close. One more compartment, maybe.”
“Agreed,” Honal replied, barely above a whisper, as he lined up on the latch of the door. “Ready.”
“Go!”
Honal triggered a round into the latch and kicked the door wide, then stood to the side as Rastar went through it. The space beyond was apparently the ship’s galley, and the only occupant was one of the Krath seaman—the cook, or a cook’s mate, presumably—crouching in the corner with a cleaver in his hand. There were, however, two more doors: one in the far bulkhead, and one to starboard.
The sound of Roger’s fire had come more from starboard, so Rastar kept one eye on that door in case the prince came barreling through it.
“Clear,” Rastar called . . . just as the far door opened.
The Lemmar who came through it (a senior commander, from the quality of his armor and weapons) was tall as a mountain, and clearly infuriated. He’d turned to his left, towards the starboard door, as he entered, so he’d probably intended to intercept Roger and Kosutic on their way aft. Unfortunately, he’d run into the Prince of Therdan first.
Rastar’s first shot took him high on the left side. It wasn’t in a vital spot, which made it a poor shot indeed for Rastar, so he was able to raise his short sword and charge forward. Worse, two more Lemmar came through the door right behind him, both with arquebuses.
Rastar fired a second double-action shot at the leader from his upper left revolver, then followed up with his upper right true-hand. Both rounds hit his target’s chest, barely a handspan apart, and the pirate officer’s charge came to an abrupt end.
Rastar’s lower left pistol was out of bullets, and only a single round remained in the lower right, but he used that one to hit the starboard arquebusman as he stepped around his now-falling commander. But that still left the port arquebusman, and Rastar’s normally lightning reactions had never seemed so slow. His pistol hands seemed to be in slow motion as they swung towards the Lemmar, and his brain noted every detail as the Lemmar carefully raised his weapon, sighted, and lowered its burning slow match towards the touchhole—
Only to fly back in a welter of gore as Honal leaned around his cousin and triggered a single round.
“Told you to get a shotgun,” Honal said as he stepped past the former prince.
“Oh, sure,” Rastar grumped. “Just because they made you real cartridges, and I still have these flashplant things!”
The starboard door swung open, and Kosutic’s head came slowly into view. She looked around the galley and shook her head.
“You’re a fine one to talk about ‘leave some for the rest of us,’” she observed dryly.
Roger watched the galley easing alongside Ima Hooker and shook his head.
“Why do I have this worm crawling up my spine?” he asked softly.
“Because we’re about to lose a measure of our control,” Pahner replied calmly. “Uncomfortable feeling, isn’t it? Especially since it’s pretty clear that if we upset these people, they can squash us like bugs.”
Kirsti was huge. The harbor was a collapsed caldera, at least twenty kilometers across, that was cut by a massive river. The entire caldera, from the waterline to its highest ridge, was covered in a mixture of terrace cultivation and buildings. Most of the buildings were one- and two-story structures of wood frame, with whitewashed adobe filling the voids, and they were packed in cheek by jowl.
Nearer water level, the majority of the buildings were finer and larger. According to Pedi, they were residences for the hierarchy of the city, and they were constructed of well-fitted basalt blocks. On each of the caldera’s landward flanks, where it was bisected by the river, there was also a vast temple complex. The westerly complex was larger and ran from the base of the slope up the massive ridge to the very crest.
Northwest of that temple were three obviously active volcanoes whose faintly smoking crests rose even over the massive caldera walls. And beyond the caldera a large valley—presumably the famous Valley of the Krath—faded into blue mystery.
The river was at least three kilometers across where it entered the harbor. The flooded portion of the caldera was close to twelve kilometers across, and the outer break was at least six kilometers wide, so the harbor enjoyed two massive natural breakwaters to either side of the entrance. Strangely, given the quality of the harborage, most of the boats in sight were local craft—small fishing caiques and dories, many of them pulled up on t
he basalt and tufa of the shore. There were a few larger merchant ships, like Rain Daughter and the other members of her ill-fated convoy, but most of the boatyards looked to be capable only of building smaller vessels.
The majority of the merchant and fishing vessels were in the eastern harbor, while the majority of the military vessels—a collection of galleys and small sailing vessels—were on the western side, close to the larger temple. Massive forts with gigantic hooped bombards flanked the outer opening, and a pile of wood and rusting chains on the western shore indicated that the harbor could be closed with a chain boom at need, despite the immensity of its entrance.
The river’s current was strong where it entered the caldera, and the harbor’s outflow had been evident for the last two days of the flotilla’s approach to the city. With that sort of current, and the river’s obvious silt load, any normal harbor would have filled up and become a delta in very short order. In Kirsti’s case, though, all the silt seemed to be washing on out to sea, which Roger thought probably said some interesting things about the subsurface topography. On a more immediate level, the effects from the river’s current must make things even more “interesting” for the local navy.
The flotilla had acquired its escort very early the day before, when two Krath galleys had appeared over the horizon and headed rapidly towards them. They’d slowed down quite a bit when they realized just how large—and peculiar-looking—the flotilla actually was. But the minor priest in command of them had also quickly recognized the recaptured merchantmen for what they were and continued onward to make contact. After looking the situation over and taking testimony from Tob Kerr and some of the other crewmen aboard the retaken ships, he had determined that any decision making needed to be done at a higher level.
The convoy had been ordered to proceed to Kirsti, accompanied by the junior galley, while the CO took his own ship ahead. The schooners had continued to laze along behind the slower Krath ships until they finally reached port, still accompanied by the junior galley, which was obviously trying to decide whether it was an honor guard or a captor.
Now the other ship had returned, and a group of clearly senior functionaries was prominently visible on its afterdeck. Actual first contact was about to be made with a group that was also in contact with the spaceport.
No wonder it was an . . . uncomfortable moment, Roger thought. They’d come a long way to reach this point, and it had felt at times that, given all they’d already overcome, nothing could possibly stop them now. But the reality, as demonstrated by this massive city, was that the hardest part of the journey was yet to come.
“There’s no good way to do this part, Your Highness,” Pahner continued. “We don’t even know if this end of the valley is aware of the Imperial presence, and we have no feel for what the upper valley’s attitude might be. If Kirsti’s rulers are aware of the Imperial presence, and happy with it, then we can’t exactly come right out and say we’re going to evict the current residents. If they’re not aware of the Imperial presence, then trying to explain our purpose would require a lot more explaining than any of us want to get into. So we’ll just tell them we’re shipwrecked traders, traveling with other traders and envoys from ‘lands beyond the sea’ to their capital to establish commercial and diplomatic relations with their High Priest. Trying to talk our little army past them should be interesting, though.”
Roger looked over at the captain, then back at the galley. The fact that Pahner had said that much, at this point, didn’t strike him as a good sign. It was as clear an indication of nervousness as he had ever seen out of the normally sanguine Marine.
“We’re not going to be stopped at this point, Captain,” the prince said. “We’re going to the port. We’re going to take the port, commandeer the first tramp freighter to come along, and go home to Mother. And that’s all there is to it.”
Pahner shook his head and chuckled.
“Yes, Sir, Your Highness,” he said. “As you command.”
Roger took a deep breath as the first of the local guards swarmed up the boarding ladder, then nodded sharply to his bodyguard’s commander. They were going home, he thought . . . or his name wasn’t Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock.
Sor Teb tried to simultaneously control his shock and wriggle gracefully out of the silly rope and wood contraption that had lifted him aboard. The returning galley commander’s description had taken nearly a day to filter up the chain of priests and high priests until it hit someone who knew of the human presence on the Plateau. When it did, of course, everyone had panicked. Given the political and personal friction between Gimoz Kushu and the Mouth of Fire, it had been immediately assumed that the humans had come as messengers from the Plateau, and that was the basis upon which Teb had been sent to greet them.
But one look at these visitors told him all of the hierarchy’s elaborate calculations had been wrong. These people were clearly different from the ones on the Plateau.
First of all, there weren’t very many of the humans. In fact, he saw no more than seven or eight of them currently in sight, which was a severe shock to the system. He’d never seen a senior human with so few guards! But apparently these senior humans had different priorities. Indeed, they actually seemed to be using the Mardukans in their group as personal guards, whereas none of the Plateau humans would have dreamed of trusting locals that deeply.
Second, although these humans’ travel-worn uniforms were similar to the equipment of the guards of the Imperial port on the Plateau, their weapons were not. Those weapons weren’t arquebuses, either, though. They fell into some middle ground, with that undeniable look of lethality which seemed to characterize all human weapons, but also with the look of something that had been manufactured locally, not brought in aboard one of their marvelous vessels from beyond the clouds. But what was most astonishing of all was that their native guards and attendants carried what were clearly versions of the same weapons which had been modified for their greater size. No human from the Plateau would ever have considered something like that!
At least one of the humans wore a holstered pistol of obvious Imperial manufacture, but Sor Teb saw none of the fire weapons—the “plasma guns”—that the Plateau guards carried. He didn’t even see any of the “bead guns.” There might be some on board this remarkable vessel, but if there were, why weren’t any of the humans carrying them?
He wondered for a moment what their story was. And he also wondered what they would say. And, last, he wondered how he would determine the difference between the two.
It would be interesting.
Eleanora O’Casey nodded and smiled, her mouth closed, then backed away from the cluster of priests.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” she said as she turned to Roger and Pahner.
“Pretty cagey, aren’t they?” Roger replied. “I’m not getting anything.”
“They’re in contact with the port,” O’Casey said. “No question about that. And at least two of them have met humans. Notice how they don’t seem as goggle-eyed as the others?”
“Yep,” Pahner said. “But they’re not being real forthcoming, are they?”
“No, they’re not. I think there are two things going on. This satrap isn’t in contact with the port, but one of the ‘minor’ members of the party, that Sor Teb, has been to the capital and had dealings with humans recently. That’s probably why he’s part of this whole party. I’m guessing that he’s the closest they’ve got to a ‘human specialist,’ so he’s here as something like an ambassador from the court.”
“Or a spy,” Pahner pointed out.
“Or a spy,” O’Casey agreed. “I also think he’s really the one in control of the entire group, too. Nothing that they’ve done, but whenever he says something, the entire conversation shifts.”
“Can we land?” the Marine asked, getting back to the point of the conversation.
“Yes, although they’re obviously not real happy about having a small army come right through their ci
ty.”
“We have to have the guards,” the captain said firmly.
“It’s more a matter of how many,” the chief of staff replied. “They’re not willing to permit more than three hundred at a time off the ships. And all of them have to carry their edged weapons peace bonded and their firearms unloaded, though they can carry ammunition with them. Everyone’s going to be issued ‘identification’ showing what they’re permitted to carry and where. All very civilized, frankly. Oh! And officers can carry loaded pistols.”
“Well, that’s the first company of attackers,” Roger laughed. “Between Rastar and me.”
“Okay,” Pahner said unhappily. “I don’t see any option but to accept their terms. But we’ve got gear to get to wherever we’re barracking. And that’s another thing—we have to be located together in a defensible spot.”
“I covered that,” O’Casey assured him. “I pointed out that Roger was a high noble of the human empire, although I called him Baron Chang. It wasn’t even a lie, since it’s one of his minor titles. But as a human baron, he’s required to be secure at all times. And I also told them that we have quite a lot of bags and baggage. They’re okay with that.”
“And they don’t have a problem with the official reason for our visit?” Pahner asked.
“Not yet, at any rate,” O’Casey said. “I explained that ‘Baron Chang’ was shipwrecked on the other continent, and that the locals there aided him and his party. As a reward, and to discharge his honor obligations to those who helped him, the baron has guided representatives of the local merchants and princes to this continent to establish relations with the Krath, as well as to accompany him as guards to his ‘friends’ at the spaceport. They seem to accept all of that as reasonable enough, but they want us to barrack down here in the port area. I don’t think they’ve dealt with large contingents from other civilizations before, but they’re reacting a bit like Meiji Japan did. They’re establishing an acceptable zone for the foreigners and making the rest of the city off limits to general movement.