Hope Renewed

by S. M. Stirling

  “Hjburni-burni-burni—”

  “Humbly we beseech you, O Sovereign Mighty One, Sole Autocrat, our poverty prevents other than our traditional border auxiliary duties—”

  Center broke in: more accurately rendered: back off, stonehouse-chief, or we’ll see what terms the colony offers its border auxiliaries—we’re closer to al kebir than east residence.

  “Hjurni-burni-burni, burjimi murjimi urgimi—”

  “In our humble huts in the mountains, we seek only to till our poor fields in peace—”

  we’re your allies and you pay us for guarding the passes;

  “—kuljurni ablurni hjurni-burni Halvaardi burri murri—”

  “—and surely there are closer, richer lands which need the attention of your talented administrators—”

  —so the next tax collector who asks for “earth and water” from the halvaardi gets thrown down a well to find plenty of both.

  Barholm made a slight gesture with one hand, and the tribesfolk were ushered out, protesting, amid a ripe stink from the butter they used to grease their braids. One of the wooden clocks they carried on their belts gave its mechanical kuku, kuku as the pillar that supported the Chair sank toward the white marble steps; at the rear of the enclosure two full-scale statues of gorgosauroids rose to their three-meter height and roared as the seat of the Governor of the Civil Government sank home with a slight sigh of hydraulics. A faint whine sounded, and the arc lights blazed brighter. At the center of the mirrors’ focus Barholm blazed like a shape of white fire.

  Raj took three paces forward and went down in the ceremonial prostration—the full prostration, since his former titles were stripped from him. He rose and knelt the prescribed three times; by his side there was a quiet rustle of silks and lace as Suzette sank down with an infinite gracefulness.

  “What punishment,” Barholm boomed, his voice amplified by the superb acoustics of the Audience Hall, “is fit for him who was foremost in Our trust? Yea, what baseness is more base, what vileness more vile, than one into whose hand the Sword of the State has been entrusted—when that most wretched of men turns the Sword against the very root and foundation, the Coax Cable of the Spirit—”

  In East Residence, rhetoric was the most admired of the arts—far ahead of, for instance, military or administrative skill; infinitely more so than engineering. A speech like this could go on for hours, when the entire content could be boiled down to “kill him.”

  The semicircle of high ministers stirred behind their desks. The tall slender form of Chancellor Tzetzas turned sharply to hiss General Gharzia, Commander of Eastern Forces, into silence; the elderly soldier was listening to a messenger—a courier in tight leathers, not a court usher or an aide. From the floor, Raj watched Gharzia’s face congeal like cooling lard. He didn’t have to pay attention to what Barholm said, he knew how that would end . . .

  Gharzia rose and circled to Tzetzas’ side. The Chancellor tried to shake off the hand that plucked at his sleeve, then turned to listen with a tight, controlled fury that would have frightened Raj if he’d been in Gharzia’s shoes. People who seriously annoyed the Chancellor tended to have accidents, or develop severe stomach problems, or be killed in duels.

  Raj had never seen Tzetzas frightened before. It was a far less pleasant experience than he would have thought; whatever his other vices, nobody had ever even accused the Chancellor of cowardice. To make him interrupt the ceremony of triumph over his most hated rival, it had to be something massive.

  “And—” Barholm noticed the movement to his right and broke off, flipping up the smoked-glass eyeshield. “Tzetzas! What do you think you’re doing?”

  The raw fury in his voice made Tzetzas check half a step. The Governor was the Spirit’s Viceregent on Earth; if he ordered the Guards to cut the Chancellor to pieces on the steps of the Chair, they would obey without hesitation. That had happened in past reigns, more than once. Wise Governors remembered that those reigns had been short . . . but Barholm Clerett had been growing more and more unstable since his wife died.

  “Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Tzetzas said, his voice a cool precision instrument, handled with faultless skill. “I deserve your anger for my boorishness. Yet concern drives your servant. The Colony has invaded our territories; news has arrived by heliograph.”

  There was a chain of stations between the frontiers and East Residence; high-priority messages could be relayed in hours, where couriers would take days or weeks. Only the Colony and the Civil Government possessed such means, on Bellevue.

  “You interrupt me for a raid?”

  The Bedouin and the Civil Government’s Borderers had been stealing girls and sheep and cutting each other up over waterholes since time immemorial. It was a peaceful week that passed without a minor skirmish, and there were several razziah a year from either side. It usually didn’t even cause a ripple in the profitable trade carried on between the more civilized urban element on both sides of the frontier.

  Tzetzas threw himself down on his knees. “Not a raid, Sovereign Mighty Lord. Invasion. The Settler of the Colony himself, Ali—and his one-eyed brother and general, Tewfik. They have taken Gurnyca.”

  A low moan swept through the Audience Hall. That was the largest city on the lower Drangosh river and the closest major settlement to the eastern frontier.

  The mad anger disappeared from Barholm’s face, as cleanly as if cut with a knife. A minute later, so did the eye-hurting brilliance of the arc lights. By contrast, the Audience Hall seemed black.

  “The levee is closed,” Barholm said, in a flat carrying voice.

  There were yelps of protest from petitioners. The officer of the Life Guards barked an order, and hands rattled on stocks as the rifles came to present-arms.

  “An immediate meeting of the State Council will be held in the Negrin Room,” Barholm said into the sudden stillness. “All others are dismissed.”

  Raj rose to one knee. “Sovereign Mighty Lord,” he said calmly. “Does the Sole Autocrat wish my presence?”

  Barholm paused, looking over his shoulder. “Of course,” he said. A snarl broke through the mask of his face. “Of course!”

  “Sayyida,” the man said, bowing with hand to brows, lips and heart; his dress was the knee breeches and jacket of an East Residence bourgeois, but his tongue was the pure Syrian Arabic of Al Kebir, capital of the Colony. “Peace be with you.”

  “And upon you peace, Abdullah al’Aziz,” Suzette Whitehall replied in the same language, the rolling gutturals falling easily from her tongue.

  Her maids had replaced the split skirt, leggings, and blond wig of court formality with a noblewoman’s day-robe; she wrote as she spoke, glancing up only occasionally. The steel nib of the pen skritched steadily on the paper.

  “Are you ready?” she said.

  “For the Great Game?” the Arab replied, smiling whitely in his neatly trimmed black beard. “Always, my lady.”

  “Good. Here are papers, and a sight-draft on Muzzaf Kerpatik.”

  The Whitehalls’ chief steward, among other things. A Borderer from the southern city of Komar, and no friend of any Arab, but also not likely to let personal feelings interfere with his work.

  “My instructions, sayyida?”

  “Proceed at once to Sandoral on the Drangosh. Military intelligence for my lord, if it presents itself; for myself I wish full information on the higher officers of the garrison and the local nobles: loves, hates, histories, feuds, alliances. Also any information from the Colony.”

  He took the papers and repeated the bow, using the documents for added flourish. “I obey like those multiplex of wing and eye who served Sulieman bin’-Daud, my lady,” he said cheerfully. “That city I know of old.” He’d done similar work for her the last time Raj commanded in the East, four years before.

  “See that nobody stuffs you into a bottle,” she added dryly, dropping back into Sponglish.

  “I shall be most careful,” he replied in the Civil Government’s tongue, faultle
ss down to the capital-city middle-class crispness of his vowels. “There is yet much to be done to repay my debt to you, my lady. And,” he added with a cold glint in his dark eyes, “to those Sunni sons of pigs in Al Kebir, also.”

  Druze were few on Bellevue; less, since the Settlers had decided to purify the House of Islam a generation ago. Those sniffed out by the mullahs could count themselves lucky to be sold as slaves to the sulfur mines of Gederosia. The path from there to Suzette Whitehall’s household and manumission had been long and complex . . .

  “Your family are provided for?” Abdullah nodded. “Go, then, thou Slave of God,” Suzette said, once more in Arabic, playing on the literal meaning of the man’s name. “Thy God and mine be with thee.”

  “And the Merciful, the Lovingkind with thee and thy lord, sayyida,” he replied, and left.

  “Fatima,” Suzette went on.

  “Messa?”

  “Take this to the Renunciate Sister Conzwela Dihego; she’s second administrative assistant for medical affairs to the Arch-Sysup of East Residence. It’s an authorization to mobilize priest-doctors and medical nuns, with the necessary supplies and transport for immediate dispatch to Sandoral.”

  “Wasn’t she with us in the Western Territories?” the Arab girl asked.

  “Yes; and Anne got her that job on my say-so when we got back.” Suzette sighed; she missed Anne. “Quickly. And send in Muzzaf.”

  The Companion sidled through the door as Fatima left; the opening showed a controlled chaos of packing. He was a short slight man, with the dark complexion of a Borderer and a singsong Komarite accent. He was dressed in jacket and breeches of white linen, the little peaked fore-and-aft cap of his region, and a sash which nearly concealed the pepperpot pistol and pearl-handled gravity knife he preferred. He bowed deeply, a gesture much like Abdullah’s.

  Nearly a thousand years of conflict had left the Borderers much resembling their enemies of the Colony, though it was a killing matter to suggest it aloud.

  “Messa Whitehall,” he said, showing white teeth against his spiked black chin-beard. Like everyone else in the household, he was reacting to the news of Raj’s reinstatement with almost giddy relief. “We campaign again?”

  “Yes,” Suzette said.

  She pushed a document across the table with a finger. “One of your relatives is contractor for the East Residence municipal coal yards, isn’t he?”

  Muzzaf nodded; men from Komar and the other Border cities were prominent in trade all over the Civil Government, and in the new joint-risk companies.

  “Subcontractor, Messa. The primary contract is farmed to an . . . associate of Chancellor Tzetzas.” He took up the paper and whistled silently. “That is a great deal of coal.”

  “Subcontractor is good enough. Have him release that amount to the Central Rail; and drop a suggestion with their dispatching agent that they begin to accumulate rolling stock immediately. Sweeten the suggestion if you have to.”

  “Immediately.”

  They exchanged a smile; Chancellor Tzetzas had confiscated all Raj’s wealth . . . all that he had been able to find, at any rate. Neither the Chancellor nor Raj knew exactly how much the Whitehalls had had; Raj left such things to Muzzaf and Suzette . . . and they had anticipated the evil day long before. Raj knew how to handle guns and men, and even politics after a fashion, but money could also be a useful tool.

  Silence fell as the steward left, broken only by the scritching of the pen and the faint thumps and scraping of the packing in the outer chambers. On the bed behind her were Raj’s campaigning gear: plain issue swallowtail jacket of blue serge, maroon pants, boots, helmet, saber, pistol, map case, binoculars. Beside it was her linen riding costume and a captured Colonial repeating carbine, her own personal weapon . . . and the one, she reflected, that had disposed of the Clerett’s heir.

  A pity, she thought absently, tapping her lips with the tip of the pen before dipping the nib in the inkwell again. A very pleasant young man.

  And easy to manipulate. Which had been crucial; like his uncle, he’d been mad with suspicion against Raj. With envy, too, in young Cabot’s case: of Raj’s reputation, his victories, his hold over his soldiers, and his wife.

  A pity she’d had to kill him. Particularly just then. Shooting people was a crude emergency measure . . .

  Which reminded her. She crossed to her jewel table and reached beneath for a small rosewood box. A tiny combination lock closed it, and she probed at that with a pin from a brooch.

  Yes, the crystal vials of various liquids and powders within were all full and fresh—there was a slip of paper with a recent date inside to remind her, one of Abdullah’s many talents.

  You never knew what sort of help Raj would need . . . whether he knew it or not.

  “You will triumph, my knight,” she whispered to herself, closing the box with a click. “If I have anything to do with the matter.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Governor Barholm stood while the servants stripped off the heavy robes; apart from Raj, they were the only people in the chamber who didn’t look terrified . . . and they didn’t have to watch the Governor’s face. A sicklefoot had that sort of expression, just before it pivoted and slashed open its prey’s belly with the four-inch dewclaw on one hind foot.

  The Negrin Room was three centuries old. Walls were pale stone, traced over with delicate murals of reeds and flying dactosauroids and waterfowl; there was only one small Star, a token obeisance to religion as had been common in that impious age. The heads of the Ministries were there: Chancellor Tzetzas, of course; General Fiydel Klostermann, Master of Soldiers; Bernardinho Rivadavia, the Minister of Barbarians; Mihwel Berg of the Administrative Service; Gharzia, Commander of Eastern Forces. The courier from the east as well.

  It was strange not to see Lady Anne Clerett, the Governor’s wife. Barholm didn’t have anyone he really trusted now that she was dead, and it was affecting his judgment.

  “Heldeyz,” Barholm snapped. “Give us the report, man.”

  Ministerial couriers were men of some rank themselves, but it was still strange how unintimidated Heldeyz looked, even facing the stark fury in Barholm Clerett’s eyes. His own were fixed and distant, in a face still seamed by trail dust.

  Barholm went on fretfully: “I don’t know why Ali has done this. The treaty after the last war was generous to a fault—particularly since we won the war. The gifts of friendship . . .”

  observe:

  Sweating slaves heaved at bundles of iron bars, heaping them on the flatbed rail-cars and lashing them down. One slipped and fell to the paving stones of East Residence’s main station. A bar snapped across; as a clerk bustled over a guard rolled the broken end beneath his boot.

  “Spirit,” he said in a tone of mild curiosity. The interior of the fracture showed a gray texture. “That’s not wrought iron, it’s cast.”

  Cast iron came straight from the smelting furnace; it was hard, brittle and full of impurities. Only after treatment in a puddling mill did it become the ductile, easily worked material so valuable for machinery and tools.

  The clerk cleared his throat. “I think you’ll find,” he said significantly, “that the Chancellor has inspected the manifests quite carefully.”

  The guard grinned; he was a thin man with a long nose and a pockmarked face, an East Residencer by birth with all the ingrained respect for a good swindle that marked that breed. He brushed his thumb over the first three fingers of his right hand. The clerk smiled back.

  “Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said. “I think you’ll find that quality, quantity, and delivery dates on our tribute—pardon, our gifts of friendship—to the Colony have been below the Treaty terms.”

  Figures scrolled before his eyes, and he read them in an emotionless monotone worthy of Center.

  Barholm blinked. He turned his eyes on Tzetzas, and a fine beading of sweat broke out on the Chancellor’s olive face. “Sole Autocrat,” the minister said, spreading his hands. “When contracts are han
ded out, something always sticks—so many layers of oversight, so many hands—you know—”

  The Governor’s fist struck the table. Gold-rimmed kave cups bounced and clattered in their saucers.

  “I know who’s responsible for seeing that the payments were met!” he roared; suddenly there was the slightest trace of Descott County rasp in his Sponglish. “You fool, I don’t expect you to work for your salary alone, but I did expect you to know enough not to piss in our own well! D’you have any idea what this war is going to cost in lost taxes and off-budget funding?”

  He paused, and when he continued his voice was calm. “You’d better have some idea, because you’re going to pay the overage—personally.”

  “Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said. “Right now, I think we’d better concern ourselves with the state of the garrisons on the Drangosh frontier.”

  Barholm snapped his fingers. “Gurnyca had a garrison of—”

  “Ten thousand men, Sole Autocrat,” Mihwel Berg said helpfully. “At least, ten thousand on the paybooks.”

  Chancellor Tzetzas busied himself with his papers. When Barholm spoke, it was to General Gharzia.

  “General,” he said, his voice soft and even, “tell me—and if you lie, it would be better for you if you had never been born—how many troops were actually on the strength of the Gurnyca garrison? In what condition?”

  Gharzia licked his lips, going gray under the tanned olive of his skin. “Two thousand, Sovereign Mighty Lord. In . . . ah, poor condition.”

  Somebody had been collecting the pay of the missing eight thousand. All eyes turned to the Chancellor.

  The ruler turned back to the courier from the east. “Now, Messer Heldeyz,” he said evenly. “Your report, please.”

  “Yes, Sole Autocrat.”

  Heldeyz stared at his hands. “I met the Colonials fifty klicks south of Gurnyca,” he began. “They—”

  observe, Center said: