The Lion of Farside tlof-1

by John Dalmas

  She could have bypassed the town and ridden directly to the palace, a mile outside it, but she'd arranged it this way. She wanted people-lots of people-to see them and be impressed.

  And she was in charge! Given the purpose of the mission, Idri had at least to seem subordinate, and at any rate wasn't entirely back in Sarkia's good graces. But the two of them worked well together, and had discussed this project thoroughly in advance. For some unknown reason, Idri had always liked her, different though they were. While Idri's abrasiveness, troublesome to many Sisters, seldom bothered Liiset. When it did, she told Idri, and Idri handled it reasonably. Liiset credited their compatibility to some close past-life friendship.

  Sad, she thought, that Idri hated Varia so. Varia in a Tiger barracks! What a cruel situation! Hopefully she'd get pregnant soon and be out of there.

  The street was lined with spectators, out to see the fabled Sisters. She wouldn't disappoint them. Even her guard section was marvelously outfitted, its tailored uniforms black, its polished, silver helmets and cuirasses blinking in the late winter sunlight. Its horses, individually handsome, were beautifully matched, their coats glossy black, with white blazes and socks.

  In the past, the travel costumes worn by Sister diplomats had been elegant but subdued, and typically the Sisters had numbered three. This time… As the Dynast's special envoy, she wore a silver coronet that sparkled with jewels-diamonds and zircons-and her thoroughly brushed red hair was plaited with gold threads. Her riding breeches and tunic were shamrock satin, reinforced with kidskin where practicality required. The cape that protected her from the chill pre-equinoctial wind was of rich and glossy fur, nearly black: Martes pennanti, the pekan, from the Eastern Empire of the ylver. It had reached the Sisterhood via the lords in the mountain, who traded freely with ylvin merchants. Idri's clothing was similar, but her tunic and breeches were glossy blue and her cape merely mink, while the jewels in her coronet were less precious. Each had two attendants of her own clone, similarly dressed but uncrowned, their capes of bulkier, less expensive furs. All six rode matched, red-gold geldings, glossy with good grain and much brushing, these too with nearly identical socks and blazes.

  She didn't doubt that Sarkia's new foreign policy would work as intended. It had its drawbacks, compared to the old: There were more commitments, not all of them fully compatible. But it would soon rebuild the Sisterhood's status and influence.

  Meanwhile they'd enjoy the more agreeable aspects of the mission. She chuckled. Especially Idri, she told herself. Idri's role was perfect for her.

  Gurtho had seen Sisters twice before, when his father was king and he'd been a child, once at age six or eight, and again at eleven or twelve. The first pair had seemed to him very beautiful, the other pair merely good looking. Which kind would these be?

  We'll soon see, he thought. Six of them! To his casual half-comment, half-question, the evening before, their courier had answered that they were "quite beautiful," a generality that only fueled his imagination.

  Meanwhile he was edgy. He'd heard about the rape at Ferny Cove, had been excited by it. He'd also heard Sisters described as untouchable, and wondered if he'd dare. Certainly their influence had been reduced, and their army as well.

  But what of their magicks? What revenge might they take if he molested one of them? True there were those who said their powers were trivial, but others swore they were deadly. And what the ylver could get away with, and what he could get away with, might be very different.

  He knew what his father would say, had heard it more than once: "Never decide with your testicles, boy. That's what brains are for. Base your decisions on the power and money they'll bring. Power and money! Always! With power and money, you can buy whatever you want, including beautiful women. And property, when you're tired of it, can be sold or traded, or given as political gifts. Or killed, if it suits you."

  Gurtho had taken the advice to heart. An actual wife was necessary to provide an undisputed heir. Which he now had, along with younger backups, in case the first died or proved unsuitable. But he'd bought his bride, rather than marry politically or in passion. To satisfy his gluttony for women-beyond ladies of the court-there were tax girls. Those he got pregnant he had killed. The others, when he tired of them, he sold, perhaps after loaning them to one of his officers as a sign of the Royal Favor.

  Word of the embassy's arrival was brought by the captain of the envoy's guard, ushered in by Rogell, the palace chief of protocol. The envoy, the captain said, was tired from her ride. At her request, the embassy had been shown to its apartments, where they would bathe and nap and have their hair dressed before supper (which the envoy hoped she and her deputy might eat with His Majesty).

  She could have paid her respects first, Gurtho thought. Well. At supper then. He ordered Rogell to take word to the steward that supper was to be private-the Dynast's envoy, her deputy, and His Majesty. A formal reception would be scheduled for a later date, with appropriate guests.

  At supper, Gurtho was hard-pressed not to stare. Briefly he was disconcerted that they looked so young, but the envoy's self-possession soon dispelled that. Their beauty was not so easily recovered from, and Idri, he had no doubt, was the most desirable woman he'd ever seen. Even her name he found seductive, and spoke it in his mind. Idri!

  Still, he ate essentially as he might have. Their small talk went well enough, and neither woman was aloof, nor even reserved. When they'd finished dessert, it was the envoy who brought up business. "The Dynast is interested in establishing a permanent embassy here," she said.

  "Indeed?" He wondered if Idri might be named ambassadrix.

  "She's never placed a permanent embassy before, except with the King in Silver Mountain. Now she's considering placing several. Yours first perhaps. After all, Tekalos is one of the larger kingdoms, and you are one of the most powerful kings."

  "And we love your countryside," Idri put in. "I for one would not object at all to being located here. I can imagine how lovely it will be when the buds burst, and wildflowers line the roadsides."

  Gurtho's pulse quickened. "Indeed! We already have flowers in bloom around the palace."

  "We saw them," Liiset said, "daffodils and tulips, mostly," then returned the talk to business. "The Dynast is also interested in the possibility of alliance. If you think you may be, we should discuss it."

  "Indeed! I might well be interested," Gurtho said. "How long will you remain?"

  "A week. The Dynast has one misgiving. She likes her allies strong, and clearly, Gurtho and Tekalos are that, but it's a strength impaired by internal discord. Your Kullvordi hillsmen revolt in almost every generation."

  Gurtho frowned. What had that to do with anything? "True," he said, "but we never allow it to become a threat. Just this month, at my orders, the reeves whose shires include the hill districts sent soldiers in and burned the farmsteads of some tax cheats, making examples of their families. Now the hillsmen most inclined to rebellion will rise up, showing us who they are so we can destroy them."

  "Ah. And are these Kullvordi good fighters?"

  He shrugged. "Not good enough. We always win. Easily."

  "What would they be like if you could recruit them for your own army, and train them properly?"

  "They'd never join my army. I doubt that as many as a dozen have in my own and my father's time combined. And those who did were lazy and insubordinate."

  The envoy nodded. "Of course. If they had no loyalty to their own people, they'd hardly be loyal to someone else."

  "Exactly!" said Gurtho, misunderstanding.

  It was Idri who spoke next. "You're a strong ruler. We appreciate strong men."

  "Yes. Well, one must be, in my position." He turned to the butler and snapped his fingers. "More wine, Elwar," he said. "Whatever best follows the pastries."

  Bowing, the butler left the room, and Gurtho returned his attention to the Sisters. "How do two such lovely women pass the time when they aren't doing the duties of envoys?"

/>   "Our duties occupy more of our time than you might think," Liiset answered. "For example, before coming here, we read a great deal about your kingdom."

  "Indeed? I wasn't aware that a great deal had been written about it. I trust it was complimentary. Was I mentioned?"

  "Complimentary enough that we've looked forward to being here. And yes, you were mentioned in the more recent writings."

  "Who writes these things?"

  "Travelers. Visitors. Merchants."

  "Hmh." Gurtho wasn't sure he was pleased.

  "We also play," Idri added.

  "Play? At what?"

  "Among other things," Liiset said, "Idri plays the lap harp." She turned to Idri. "Would you like to play for the king, my dear?"

  Idri looked demurely at Gurtho, then at her hands in her lap, and smiled. "It would gladden me to give pleasure to such a king as Gurtho."

  "Well then," Liiset said, and for a long moment seemed to ponder in silence. Gurtho waited. "Have you ever heard our music of spring?" she said at last. "We favor it in this season. Much of it was written for ensembles, but even more for solo instruments. Including the lap harp."

  "I'll send for an instrument," Gurtho said.

  "She has her own; I've called for it already."

  "You have?"

  "Through the mind. Many of us can speak through the mind to those we're most closely related to. One of my aides should be here momentarily." Briefly they sat talking; then an outer guard entered.

  "Your Majesty! A young woman wishes to give something to her lady," the man said awkwardly. The "young woman" looked so much like the envoy, Gurtho felt sure they were twins. She delivered to Idri a lap harp hardly twenty inches high.

  Idri tuned the instrument while the others watched, then began to play, with skill if not inspiration, the music alternating between bright, dark, and serene. Soon, though, Gurtho became restless, and seeing this, Liiset yawned delicately. "Excuse me," she said, "but I haven't entirely recovered from our long ride. I'm afraid I must retire."

  "Already, dear Sister?" Idri asked. "His Majesty seems bright-eyed, and as far as I'm concerned, I can play the night away."

  Gurtho's pulse quickened. "Indeed," he said, "don't take her away so soon. Let her play some more. I can understand your being tired, and certainly won't be offended if you leave us. But as for me-her playing enchants me more than you might imagine."

  "Well…" Liiset looked questioningly at Idri, then seemed to have her answer. "If you wish. Idri and I planned to sleep late tomorrow anyway. Very well, my dear."

  Somewhat to the king's surprise, the envoy stood and bowed, rather as a man would, showing cleavage that made the breath stick in his throat. "I wish Your Majesty a most pleasant night," she said, and left.

  Alone with the enchanting Idri! He could hardly believe his good fortune. Meanwhile she began to play something sensuous, exotic.

  "Are there words to it?" Gurtho asked.

  She smiled. "It's a love song, supposedly by an ylvin emperor to his favorite concubine." She began to sing, the lyrics subdued but passionate, suggestive, exciting Gurtho.

  "I wish you might play for me alone," he said earnestly when she'd finished.

  "But I am."

  "I mean, without these." He gestured at his guards.

  "Well then, tell them to leave."

  He stood, giving his order to their sergeant. In a minute they were gone. "Now that we're alone," Gurtho said, "this room seems too large. There is another, more intimate…" He gestured toward a door near a back corner.

  She stood demurely, the small harp under one arm. Gurtho took her other arm, leading her gently, his heart thuttering. The smaller room had a luxurious couch, mirrors with expensive, nearly true surfaces, large pillows distributed here and there, and several upholstered settees. He hoped it wouldn't alarm her; it was the setting for occasional small orgies staged for special friends. Leading her to a settee, he seated her near the middle and sat down beside her, his left knee touching her right.

  "Let me sit by you," he said, "and feel your sweet warmth as you play."

  "Of course, Your Majesty." She put her fingers on his arm. "If I seem a little breathless… I've never before been alone with a king."

  "Ah, and I'm not just any king," he murmured.

  "I knew it," she whispered, "when I first laid eyes on you. You are a-king among kings, a-man among men."

  He found his hands reaching, his arms slipping round her, his mouth moving to hers. They kissed.

  "Oh, Your Majesty," she breathed, and they kissed again; his tongue caressed her lips, and they opened to him. He felt her hand rest on his thigh, and he fumbled at her vestlike girdle. She undid the laces and guided his hand inside it to her left breast, round, firm, hard-nippled. Her own hand slid up his thigh to his cod-piece. For half a minute they fondled one another, kissing, then he could wait no longer, for he was king, and accustomed not to courtship or seduction, but to having, taking. Dropping to his knees before the settee, he began to reach up her skirt, pawing amongst a confusion of petticoats, till she stayed his arm. "Your Highness," she murmured, "it's not necessary to muss my clothing. We need only remove it, mine and yours."

  Gurtho often thought of himself as inexhaustible. It was, his father had told him once, a family trait. But even so… Lying back for the moment, he wondered fleetingly if he'd been bewitched. No, he told himself, this had not been sorcery. Not unless thighs and buttocks, fingers, tongue and lips, were the instruments of magic. I never imagined a woman like her, he thought. And had an insight of his own, something rare as summer snow: It's as if she knows what I'm feeling, and what to do next! Now that, he told himself, would be most worthwhile magic.

  She purred in his ear. "Your Majesty seems tired."

  He grunted. "Even a satyr must rest now and then. Briefly. Long enough to let the sweat dry a bit."

  Her laughter was low and throaty. "Dry? We needn't wait for that," she said, and swinging astride his thighs, began to lick the sweat from his hairy chest.

  26: Collecting Taxes

  " ^ "

  Macurdy turned in the saddle, glancing back at the Big Dipper wheeling inexorably through its nightly course, and remembered that night shift by the watchfires, at the abandoned squatter's farm in Oz. How long ago? Less than three months; it seemed longer. He'd been a runaway slave with just three friends backing him, one of them a bird that might weigh fifteen pounds. Now he was Captain Macurdy, with his own little army: some two hundred seventy rebel fighting men.

  He grunted inwardly. Or would-be fighting men. Tonight he'd find out how good fifty of the more advanced were, how much they'd learned.

  He didn't try to set the pace himself. As a Hero, he'd come to be a skilled rider, but he still lacked a sure feel for how hard and long one could push a good horse. So he'd appointed Tarlok route leader. Just now the man rode in front of him, with a pair of scouts out of sight ahead.

  He scanned around, seeing the countryside by the light of a newly risen moon a bit less than half full. Dogs barked from sleeping farms, but farm dogs barked at everything that moved-cats, possums, skunks… No one's sleep would be seriously disturbed unless the tone became excited.

  He expected to return a different way; a way with fewer hills to cross, easier for the pack string, which by then would be heavily loaded. And more importantly, a way that would lead their pursuit into Wollerda's ambush, for the purpose of this raid went beyond plunder.

  Macurdy had planned the mission as carefully as he could, given his limitations of time and information, and still felt uncomfortable about it. His Kullvordi officers, on the other hand, were enthused. As he'd explained his thinking to them, they'd reacted as if he was a genius to have thought all those things through.

  His basic problem was that he questioned whether his force was ready for something like this. Though he'd gone out of his way not to show it, because one of the pluses was their generally high level of confidence: They had the idea that any hillsman was
worth three soldiers and six bailiff's men.

  Despite his misgivings, here he was, his timing dictated by opportunity and need. To feed his growing company was a constant problem. Also, some sort of successful fighting action was necessary to keep up morale; to keep recruits coming in; and to prevent excessive desertions, because so far, many of his volunteers had shown limited tolerance for training in the absence of fighting. It was also desirable, though not yet urgent, to show Wollerda and his men that Macurdy's Company was capable of effective action.

  And finally to suggest to the flatlanders that the king was in real trouble this time.

  The opportunity was the timing of tax collection in the flatlands, and what it might mean to the problem of feeding his rebels. They ate no more as fighting men than they would at home, but at home they ate their own food-food they'd either helped to raise, or bought and paid for. But here… Chits or not, most of the farmers they took food from considered themselves more or less plundered.

  Then someone had mentioned that the flatlanders were about finished with their wheat harvest, and maybe they ought to raid them.

  Macurdy's lips had drawn into a thoughtful pucker. To plunder flatland farmers would kill the hope of rural support there, but he saw another way. He'd already heard how, in the flatlands, the bailiffs' tax squads went out with hired wagons and drovers within a few days after harvest, collecting the tax grain and tax cattle. And presumably as soon as that was done, the farmers would begin carting to market whatever surplus they had, beyond household needs and seed, and no doubt a reserve.

  No, he'd announced, we're not going to plunder the farmers. We'll plunder the bailiffs instead. Which meant they'd be robbing the king, which would please the farmers (he hoped), and gain the rebels their passive approval at least. While plundering the concentrations in a bailiff's grain bins should be a lot handier than going from farm to farm. And perhaps safer, because they could strike, load up, and get back to the forest far more quickly.