by David Weber
Pahner grunted.
“I don’t care what city we get to, but we have to cross the ocean. Our destination is on the far side, and the K’Vaernian Sea is our shortest way to the ocean.”
The locals at the table traded looks.
“There is nothing on the other side of the water,” King Gratar said carefully. “The ocean is an eternal expanse of demon-filled water, placed there by the God to guard the shores of the World Island.”
The priest-king’s concern for their safety—or perhaps it was for their sanity—was obvious. The local prelate seemed determined to be friendly, despite their heretical notions about just what an ocean was, and the company’s appearance immediately after the city’s aqueduct had been cut had already been hailed as a sign from their god.
Pahner opened his mouth to reply, but O’Casey laid a warning hand on his arm.
“Perhaps we’ll deal with that problem when we reach the sea,” she said calmly. “Are there any cities on the sea that have held out against the Boman?”
“K’Vaern’s Cove,” Rastar said instantly. “It could hold out for the rest of eternity.”
“You only hope that,” Bogess said. “Surely K’Vaern’s Cove fell with the rest of the Northern states?”
“It hadn’t when we headed this way,” the leader of the Northern mercenaries replied.
He’d been looking better since arriving in the city. Once the humans had gotten to know him and his troopers, they’d figured out fairly quickly that the Vasin certainly weren’t barbarians, whatever the denizens of Ran Tai might have thought. And once they’d reached Diaspra, they’d found out just how true that was, for it turned out that several thousand troopers from Therdan, Sheffan, and the other city-states of the League of the North had straggled into Diaspra, where they’d reinforced the local forces. Those troopers had been almost pitifully glad to see Rastar alive, and even more so to see how many women and children he and Honal’s guardsmen had gotten out. As soon as they’d learned the Prince of Therdan was in the city, the survivors had transferred their allegiance, giving him a quite respectable force and his seat at the table.
“Furthermore,” Rastar went on now, “many of the troopers from the League cities have told me that K’Vaern’s Cove holds out still. It has enormous granaries—big enough, it’s said, to withstand siege for three or even four years if it must—and if that’s not enough, it can hold out indefinitely by importing food by sea. More, the peninsula is protected as much by the sea about it as by its walls, and the Boman aren’t going to be able to defeat the K’Vaernian Navy. No, K’Vaern’s Cove is still there,” he finished.
“Well, our granaries are not full,” the priest-king said, crumpling the damning report once more. “We were unable to get in the harvest before the Boman struck, nor are we a well-prepared border city whose storerooms are kept filled in anticipation of war. Our fighters, especially with the help of the Northern forces, have held out so far, but we have only a few months’ food, and the Boman squat on our fields. If we cannot harvest, we will starve, and they know it.”
“They’re awaiting the Hompag Rains,” Bogess said gloomily. “They should start any day now. Once the rains abate and the land dries, they’ll return. And that will be the end of Diaspra.”
“Okay, okay,” Pahner said, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure what the Hompag Rains were, but first things first. “Let’s not get negative. First of all, I don’t know how familiar you are with sieges. Have you taken control of the granaries?” he asked the guard commander.
“No,” Bogess said sourly. “The granaries are privately owned. We can’t control them, and the price of barleyrice has already gotten out of hand.”
Pahner shook his head again. “Okay, we need to talk about that.” He looked around at the small counsel. “Are any of you familiar with sieges?”
“Not really,” Grath Chain replied. He was one of the junior council members, one of its many merchants, and his expression was sour as he made a sign of negation. “We’ve usually managed to avoid wars.”
“Usually by swindling the other side,” Honal said in a stage whisper.
“It wasn’t we who swindled the Boman and started this whole mess!” Bogess snapped. The old warrior’s face twitched like a rat in a fury. “It was not we who brought this pestilence down upon us!”
“No, it was another scum-sucking Southerner!” the Northern cavalry commander shot back hotly. “Or have you forgotten Sindi?”
“Wait!” Pahner barked as the entire council chamber began to erupt in argument. “We only need to decide one thing at this council: do we want to survive, or do we want to die?”
He glared around the room, and most of the Mardukans turned aside from the heat of his fury.
“That’s the only thing we need to know,” he went on in a grating voice. “If we want to live, we’re going to put aside these arguments and forget the niceties of normal business and do the things we need to do to survive.” He turned to the king. “Now, Your Excellency, do you want to live?”
“Of course I do,” the priest-king replied. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that what I’m hearing is ‘I can’t,’ ‘we can’t,’ and ‘it’s not my fault,’” the Marine captain told him. “What we need to start hearing is ‘we can’ and ‘can do.’ Attitude is nearly half the battle in a situation like this.”
“What do you mean by ‘the niceties of normal business’?” Grath Chain asked suspiciously. “Would one of those things be seizing the privately owned grain?”
“Not at all. But we are going to have to make plenty of decisions that aren’t going to be liked, and we can’t hold a meeting for every decision and come to a group consensus. You have a problem here, and we have it also. There’s no way out of the city, and you don’t have enough food for an extended siege. That means we’re going to have to bring the barbarians to a decisive battle.”
“They won’t attack the city,” Bogess said wearily. “We’ve tried and tried to get them to do so. No chance.”
“Then we’ll have to leave the city with a large enough force to bring them to battle and pin them down,” the Marine said. “If we take out a large force, will they attack it?”
“Yes,” the king said. “But they’ll also destroy it. We’ve lost half our army trying to fight them for the fields. They’ll attack mercilessly as soon as they can concentrate on you outside the walls.”
“So we won’t have to chase them down?” Kosutic asked in surprise. “I thought we’d have to chase them all over Hell and gone to pin them down.”
“Not this group,” Rastar said with a grimace. “The Southerners call them all Boman, but this is really the Wespar tribe. You can tell by the tribal markings. The Wespar are uncivilized, even in comparison to the other Boman, and their tribal leader is Speer Mon, a pure idiot even by the standards of his tribe. All you’d have to do is say ‘meet me here,’ and he would.”
“Well, they’ve been smart enough to avoid the walls of the city,” Bogess said defensively.
“That’s because we bled them white in the north,” Rastar said with a grimace. “They learned to feint and hold the fields against us by bitter experience. If we’d had our full grain rations, we’d be holding out still.”
“And what happened there, O Prince of the North?” Grath Chain sneered. “What happened to your vaunted stores? The stores that your precious League used as an excuse for its extortionate tolls?”
Rastar was quiet for a long moment. The moment was long enough for the Council to become uncomfortable, and some of them shifted on the cushions scattered around the low table. Finally, the Mardukan prince looked up from his hands at the councilor.
“If you wish to live out the day,” he said very calmly, “keep a civil tongue.”
“That’s no answer, and I’ll have you know that no northern barbar—” the councilor started, then froze as he realized he was looking down the barrels of five pistols.
“Put it down, R
oger,” Rastar said with a harsh chuckle, then stabbed Grath Chain with an eye as cold as the muzzles of his own pistols. “Here is the answer, feck-beast. The stores were poisoned. Probably by agents from Sindi; we too had ‘offended’ that thrice-accursed prince.
“But,” he added with a human tooth-showing grin as he put his pistols away, “someone brought that agent to our city. It wasn’t a trader from Sindi, for they’d been banned from all the cities of the Northern League.” He grinned again at the councilor. “When I find out who it was that brought that agent to my city, I will kill that person. I will do it without asking any permission, or giving any warning. I will do it on the slightest thread of evidence. So I would suggest that you make sure your accounts are in order, feck-beast.”
The shaken councilor looked to the king.
“I shouldn’t have to put up with this from northern barbarians!”
“Your Excellency,” Roger said, standing up, “we need to come to an understanding.”
The king hesitated, but nodded for him to continue.
“We’re in a ‘war to the knife,’” the prince said. “What does that mean?” He gestured at Rastar. “Your Northern comrades have told you already. The Boman are here to stay. They’ll continue to bleed you until you fall like a hamstrung pagee, and then they’ll swarm over you like atul.”
He looked around the council, daring one of them to meet his eye.
“Now, we can win against them. My people have been in wars like this many, many times, and we have a great deal of expertise to offer you. But it has to be a partnership. We’ll tell you what we think you need to do. If you do it, we, all of us, might survive. If you don’t, we, all of us, will die. And your women and children as well.” He looked over at Rastar. “Correct?”
“Oh, yes,” the Northerner said bleakly. “The Wespar have no use for ‘shit-sitters.’” He looked over at Cord, sitting silently behind the prince, and the tribesman returned the look blandly.
Grath Chain began to sputter something, but the priest-king gestured the angry councilor to silence.
“What do you suggest?” he asked.
“Captain?” Roger invited, resuming his seat.
“Put guards on all the granaries,” Pahner said crisply. “Dole out bulk foodstuffs in prescribed portions at fixed prices. This will not only prevent price gouging but prevent hoarding and stretch the available supply. Begin training not only the regular forces but all able-bodied males in new fighting techniques to be used against the tribesmen. Force an engagement at a time and place of our choosing, and destroy the bulk of the barbarian force.”
“Where do we get the soldiers?” Bogess asked. “It takes years of training with the sword to make a warrior, and even then better than half are lost in the first battle, if it’s a fierce one,” he said grimly, and Pahner shrugged.
“I won’t say that our methods can make warriors out of them, but we can make soldiers in a few months. It’s mostly a matter of training them to obey orders unquestioningly and to stand. If they do those two things, the way we fight can be taught in less than a month.”
“Impossible,” Grath Chain scoffed. “No one can train a warrior in a month!”
“I didn’t say anything about warriors,” Pahner told the merchant coldly. “We’ll be training soldiers, and that’s a hell of a lot more dangerous than warriors are. The only thing we need is able bodies.” He turned to Bogess. “Can you find several thousand able-bodied men? Ones that can walk two hours with a heavy weight? Other than that, six limbs and a quarter brain is all we need.”
Bogess grunted in laughter.
“That we can find, I believe.” He turned to the priest-king. “Your Excellency? May we have the Laborers of God?”
Gratar looked pensive.
“The Hompag Rains come soon, and the damage is already extensive. Who will repair the dikes and canals? Who will clean the face of the God?”
Bogess turned to the humans, who were clearly confused.
“The Laborers of God are simple men, common folk. They labor on the Works of God, the canals, dikes, and temples of our city. There are many of them—they far outnumber the small Guard of God—and they’re strong-backed laborers. Would they do?”
“Perfectly,” Pahner said with a note of enthusiasm. “I assume they already have some sort of structure? That they’re broken down into different divisions or companies or something?”
“Yes, they’re separated by districts and responsibility,” the cleric seated beside Gratar said. The heavyset Mardukan had remained silent throughout the entire discussion so far, but now he leaned forward to meet Pahner’s gaze. “I am Rus From, the Bishop of Artificers. The groups are irregular in size, depending on what their responsibilities are.”
“And what of those responsibilities?” Grath Chain snapped. “Who will repair the dikes and canals? Who will insure that the face of the God is clean?”
“Your Excellency,” Roger responded quietly, “who will do those things if the Boman lay you waste? This is an evil time for your city, one in which you must choose between lesser and greater evils if you are to survive. Yes, repairing and maintaining your city and its temples is important, but you built those artifacts once. You can build them once again . . . if you—and your city—live.”
“I suppose,” the priest-king mused, then drew a deep breath. “Once again, your truths win through, Prince Roger. Very well. General Bogess, you are authorized to take command of the Laborers of God and turn them into Warriors of God. I suggest that you put the leadership of the Laborers under Sol Ta for this. Chan Roy will understand. Chan is getting old, and Sol Ta has much fire. And may the Lord of Water be with us.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Captain Pahner said quietly. “We’ll do our best to save your beautiful city.”
“Hmmm,” an older councilor said, rubbing his horns. “I was about to suggest that you’d contradicted yourself on the seizure of grain, Captain. But you didn’t. You danced a fine line instead, didn’t you? You said you wouldn’t seize the granaries, but you didn’t say anything about putting guards on them.”
“The merchants will still make a profit, just not as large a profit as they thought they were going to. However, it will stretch out the resources and allow us time to train up a force.”
“Two months,” the old councilor said after a moment. “That’s how long until the peasants must begin bringing in the harvest. If we wait longer than that, we might as well all cut our own throats.”
“Two months should be more than enough time,” Pahner said.
“Good.” The councilor nodded at the human, then touched his own chest. “Gessram Kar. I’m one of those shifty merchants you’re about to fleece. One of the largest ones, I might add.”
“Glad to hear it,” Pahner said with a broad smile. “If you don’t object, no one else should.”
“Perhaps,” the merchant grunted. “But I wonder who you’ll find to enforce this edict, hmmm?”
“T’ey pocking t’ieves, Sir,” Poertena said looking at his pad. “Look, up in Ran Tai, where t’ey can’ even grow barleyrice, it go for two K’Vaernian copper a kusul.”
“At least now we know where all this reference to K’Vaern comes from,” Roger observed, then grimaced. “Sorry, Poertena. You were saying?”
“T’ey pocking t’ieves is what I sayin’, Sir,” the Pinopan repeated. “I find t’ree prices on barleyrice. T’ey between fifteen copper and two silver!”
“That would be twenty-to-one on the high end, right?” Pahner asked.
“Yes, Sir. I t’ink t’ey should be around tee same cost as at Ran Tai. Reason is, Ran Tai already got a shortage, so inflation index be about right.”
“Inflation index?” Roger repeated with a chuckle.
“Yes, Sir. It tee adjusted cost o’ materials in a situation o’ limited supply.” Poertena glanced at the so far silent chief of staff who gave him a quick and unnoticed wink.
“I know what it is,” Roger said. �
�It’s just . . . uh . . .”
“What?” the Pinopan asked.
“Never mind. So, the price should be fixed at about two coppers a kusul? What about other foodstuffs?”
“I got some numbers from Ran Tai, Sir,” Poertena said, gesturing at his pad. “Most of t’em’re already inflationary, except tee spice. An’ most of tee bulk supply for t’at in tee city is on our caravan. I figure out somet’ing for t’at.”
“I picked up some information on that from our fellow travelers in the caravan,” O’Casey offered. The now whipcord thin chief of staff glanced at her notes. “I think you can use it with the kusul of barleyrice as a base.”
“Well, groups of guards have moved to secure all the bulk vendors’ supplies,” Pahner said. “We’ll need to take an inventory and set up a rationing scheme. And I’ll also want you to take charge of arming the militia we’ll be raising, Poertena.”
“Yes, Sir,” the armorer replied, his face getting longer and longer.
“Sorry, Poertena,” Roger told him with a grin. “We’ll have to cut back on the poker games.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Pinopan said yet again. “But we gonna have problems wit’ tee weapons. T’is ain’t really a production center. It’s a transshipmen’ point. Tee caravans come here and load t’eir supplies on barges to send t’em downriver.”
It took Pahner a moment to translate that. Then he frowned.
“So if it’s not in a warehouse, we probably can’t get it?”
“Pretty much, Sir,” the armorer said, shaking his head. “We can’ no’ get steel armor made. T’ere ain’t a armory in tee whole town.”
“Then we’ll have to make do with the shields, assegais, and pikes for the time being,” the captain said. “We can have those made up quickly enough to do some good, unlike firearms. And even if we could get them made in time, I’m not about to rely on something as temperamental as a muzzle-loading matchlock in this kind of climate!”
The last sentence woke nods all around. Diaspra’s Guard of God had several companies of arquebusiers, but they were essentially a defensive force. Like the huge, multiton hooped bombards made from welded iron bars which dotted the city’s walls, their massed fire could be devastating from prepared positions (with overhead cover against the elements) along the city’s fortified approaches, but a field battle under typical Mardukan conditions would be something else again. As a matter of fact, Pahner was already eying those arquebusiers as a potential source for the shield-and-assegai-armed companies of flankers his new army was going to require.