by David Drake
The shopkeeper managed to ignore Hawthorn throughout the entire ritual. In return Hawthorn ignored him back, flicking through a catalogue suspended from a rack. The shopkeeper replaced the bottle slowly but was eventually forced to accept that Hawthorn was not going to go leave even when he saw the extortionate prices.
“Can I help you?” the man asked in a most perfunctory tone.
He was bald on top and the hair over his ears projected out at forty-five degrees giving him the appearance of a nervous rabbit.
“I don’t see any tonk in your catalogue,” Hawthorn replied in the accent of a Port Trent dock worker.
The man froze as if Hawthorn had made an obscene suggestion involving lead piping and lubricant.
“No, we don’t stock it. I don’t imagine anyone in town does but there are taverns in the outlying villages that might have products more suited to your palette,” the man suggested.
“Pity, oh well, one must make do,” Hawthorn replied, adopting the more normal drawl typical of a Manzanitan gentleman.
He dropped the catalogue which swung on its chain.
“I’ll try your Sanja Berry distillate.”
The man gaped at Hawthorn.
“You do have Sanja?”
“Uh, yes sar, but it is rather expensive.”
“It usually is,” Hawthorn replied cynically. “Well, run along.”
Hawthorn seated himself, as no one had offered him a table. He dropped the laserrifle on the top and pulled out his datapad, immersing himself in the latest scandal concerning a generously endowed socialite lady in Port Trent. He ignored the shopkeeper when he returned, forcing the man to cough discreetly to get his attention. The shopkeeper eyed the laserrifle, obviously considering asking Hawthorn to remove it but lacking the nerve, from the bottle he carried, he poured a measure.
“Wait!” Hawthorn said when the man went to leave.
Hawthorn rolled the oily liquid around in the glass, holding it up to the light to check the color. He inhaled the bouquet before taking a sip.
“This is Sanja Nouveau. Personally, I can’t stand the muck. It’s suitable only for clerks and politicians. Don’t you have any vintage?”
“Yes, sar,” the shopkeeper said, looking as if his world had turned upside down. He could not have been more surprised if his dog started quoting Cicero.
“Then get me some, at least ten years old, mind.”
“Yes, sar.”
The shopkeeper disappeared to locate a bottle from a back room. Hawthorn repeated the testing procedure, to the intense fascination of the two onlookers.
“Acceptable, leave the bottle.”
Hawthorn returned to his pad, the perusal of which took up his attention for the next half an hour until the inebriated tasters tottered out. The shopkeeper shimmied over to Hawthorn.
“I’m afraid we’re closing, sar: if you wouldn’t mind settling the bill.”
“You must be Master Sament.”
“Indeed, sar.”
“Which is odd because I thought you were called Grenvil. That was the name you gave the Paxton Proctors was it not when they nicked you for pimping out your wife to prominent citizens before blackmailing said pillars of respectable society?”
Sament went white.
“If you think you can come in here making accusations—”
“Sit down, Sament.”
Hawthorn kicked a chair towards him.
Sament sat.
“There’s still a warrant out for an unpaid fine. I imagine the Proctors would love to know your new name and address.”
“I have powerful friends in Paxton. You wouldn’t want to cross them,” Sament blustered.
“Powerful friends, no less? That knocking sound you hear is my knees,” Hawthorn replied in a tone that suggested he was singularly unimpressed.
“Bishop wouldn’t be one of those friends would he? He was the man who smuggled you out as I remember but that was surely for money rather than undying friendship. For more money he’s sold you to me.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” Sament asked in a whisper.
Hawthorn grinned.
“Now that is the issue. Where is your wife by the way?”
“In Oxford, she was trapped when the Brasilian army sealed off the town.”
“That is what I heard. I take it she is, ah, pursuing her old profession?”
Sament didn’t answer, which was a sort of answer in itself.
“Quite an upmarket operation you and she ran. I would imagine that she would have little trouble getting intimate with Brasilian officers?”
“What do you want?” Sament repeated.
“To pay for my bottle of Sanja, of course.”
Hawthorn took a hundred crown chip from his wallet. It flashed gold to indicate authenticity when he placed it on the table.
“I will have trouble finding change for that,” Sament said, licking his lips
Hawthorn switched on the laserrifle and angled the weapon towards Sament so that the red sighting dot lit up the center of the merchant’s torso. His finger caressed the trigger as if it were a lover’s breast.
“I want good, accurate information on Brasilian military activities and intentions. I will pay generously if what you tell me works out then. If it doesn’t, well, the substantial bounty on your head back at Paxton is payable dead or alive. You really upset some important people, old son.”
Hawthorn waved his free hand over the chip and the rifle
“Your choice, sunshine, I make a profit either way.”
Sament picked up the chip, which flashed gold, triggered by the chemistry of his hand
“I will make the necessary arrangements.”
“Good!”
Hawthorn stood up, putting his rifle over his shoulder.
“I’ll see myself out.”
He picked up the bottle as he left. He’d damn well paid enough for it.
Allenson and Todd arrived in Cambridge some time later but rather more conspicuously in a limo pedaled by two chauffeurs. The beacon guided them in to one of the college buildings that had been requisitioned by the Oxford Assembly in Exile. It was late afternoon local time and gloomy. Black clouds hid the sky like portents of bad tidings.
Two men in business suits emerged from the central three-story, brick-built structure to greet them. It was the only place to show lights at the windows. Darkness draped the surrounding stabilized earth and wood chalets. Allenson was a little surprised that the welcoming committee was so low key. They were supposed to be expecting him and he was the captain general of all the colonial militias. The only pan-Colonial official in the entire Stream might have expected a little more pomp and ceremony.
He discovered from the initial introductions that the men were middle ranking clerks. His ego was not hurt but the lack of respect for his office was a matter of concern. He was shown to a waiting room and offered cafay, which from the stale taste had been reheated several times. He sat drumming his fingers for some five minutes before one of the clerks returned.
“Council Leader Inglethorpe sends his regards but regrets he is running late with important business. If you’ll wait he’ll try to see you as soon as he’s free,” the clerk said.
“Will he indeed?” Allenson asked, clamping down hard on the white fury that leapt trough his veins. “Will he really?”
He pushed past the clerk. Todd followed in his wake like a frigate in convoy with a battleship.
“Sar, sar, I really must insist—” the clerk squeaked.
Todd checked the clerk with a finger to his lips. Allenson strode down the corridor deeper into the building until he met a woman carrying a stack of papers.
“Where would I find Inglethorpe’s office, mistress?” he asked, trying not to be too brusque as the woman had offered him no provocation. It would be ungentlemanly to spill some of his anger onto her.
“Up one floor and at the end of the hallway to the left,” she replied automatically. “His name’s on the doo
r.”
“Thank you, my good lady.”
Allenson covered the ground in long strides.
“But you can’t go in without an appointment . . .”
Todd winked at her and hurried after his principal. He had to half run to catch up.
Allenson found the office door without any difficulty as Inglethorpe’s name was indeed upon it. The thin plastic had torn away from one of the attaching tacks so that the sign hung down on one side in a way that was wonderfully symbolic.
“. . . well, I don’t know what to say to him. Maybe if I keep him waiting long enough he’ll go away—”
Was what Allenson heard when he flung open the door.
The man who sat at an office podium was small but possessed of an impressive girth around the middle that a well-cut jacket failed to hide despite an heroic attempt by its tailor. He had his head back apparently talking to the ceiling. This meant he was using the network without even taking the precaution of setting the sound suppressor. Or he could be mad.
“You can’t just come in here,” Inglethorpe said.
“I just did.”
Allenson moved to stand behind the council leader from where he could see the directional hologram depicting Inglethorpe’s communicant. The man wore the uniform dress tunic of a Brasilian senior field officer. The officer’s eyes widened since Allenson was now equally visible to him. The soldier moved his arm slightly and the hologram winked out leaving Allenson and Council Leader Inglethorpe together in the office.
They glared at each other, both uncertain how to proceed. The Brasilian officer was probably in Oxford. Allenson could hardly accuse Inglethorpe of consorting with the enemy because until the Assembly on Paxton declared independence they were all technically still Brasilians. Inglethorpe had left Oxford to join the Trinity Council in exile which said something. Presumably the man was simply trying to keep a foot in both camps until he saw how things panned out, a typical politician in other words.
Allenson decided to offer only gentle advice, as Inglethorpe might be useful at some future date.
“Not wanting to burn your boats is understandable but the trouble with riding two horses, Councilor, is that you tend to get splinters in the arse from sitting on the fence.”
Inglethorpe gaped at him without replying. Allenson thought this ungenerous given the effort he had put into mixing an amusing metaphor. Oh well, he never had been any good at jokes.
“This is purely a courtesy visit to announce my arrival. No doubt you have many calls upon you in these trying times so I won’t detain you further. Perhaps you could tell me where to find Army Headquarters?”
“Lillian, my secretary, the office opposite the stairs, she’ll help you.” Inglethorpe pointed in the general direction of the door.
“Thank you.”
Allenson re-joined an amused Todd in the corridor.
“You forgot the one about losing your money in mid-stream by backing two dogs,” Todd said.
The Militia headquarters turned out to be located in buildings belonging to another of the colleges. The availability of so many venues with lecture theaters, offices, canteens and sleeping accommodation explained why both the army and the government in exile chose to relocate to such a small town.
Moving the barge a short hop was more trouble than it was worth so he elected to walk. Nowhere in Cambridge was very far from anywhere else. Inevitably it started to drizzle as the sun dropped below the horizon. They navigated using Allenson’s pad while Todd used his as a torch to provide illumination. Lamps at the front of some houses spilled light into the street but many areas were in darkness.
The rain set in quite heavily by the time they reached their destination. This turned out to be another two-story redbrick building surrounded by one-story wooden chalets. The sentry on the door hunched miserably inside a waterproof cape.
“Where will I find the duty officer?” Allenson asked.
“First corridor to right, first door on the right,” the sentry replied morosely, with a jerk of his thumb.
The movement caused water collected in a fold of the sentry’s cape to run down his leg, eliciting a foul curse. The only thing that surprised Allenson about the exchange was that there was a sentry on duty at all in such inclement weather.
Once inside he shed his coat and left it draped over the back of a chair. The vestibule was empty so he followed his instructions. When he opened the first door on the right he was greeted by the sight of the soles of a pair of military boots crossed at the ankles and resting on the duty desk. Behind them a man sat hidden by the open Orders of the Day that he dutifully read.
“Good evening,” Allenson said when the man showed no response.
“Can’t you knock?” the man replied.
He lowered the file to peer over the top. There was nothing wrong with the soldier’s reflexes. He shot to his feet at attention after one glance at Allenson’s uniform. His gaze fixed firmly on a point two feet over Allenson’s head before the file hit the ground.
“Chung, duty sergeant, awaiting your orders, SIR.”
The last word was snapped out. Clearly Sergeant Chung hadn’t always been militia. Everything about him suggested regular army.
“At ease, sar’nt.”
Chung moved his feet the regulation half meter apart in a crisp stamp and put his hands behind his back.
“The duty officer is?” Allenson asked.
“Sir, Captain Frames, sir.”
There was a pause.
“Would you like me to summon him, sir?”
“No just point me in the right direction.”
“Through the door to the left, sir.”
Allenson noticed that a brightly colored insert had slipped from Chung’s file when it hit the floor. Military documents are not normally noted for their visual splendor so it caught his eye. He reached down and picked up the file. He slipped the illustrated copy of Brothel Big’uns back inside The Orders Of The Day before placing it back on the sergeant’s desk.
“Very good, sar’nt, you may carry on.”
“Sir.”
Todd opened the door to the left, which turned out to be a broom cupboard full of assorted stationary and cleaning equipment.
“My left, sir,” said the sergeant, sounding desperate.
Inside two young officers sitting around a desk playing cards came stiffly to attention.
“It seems to be my night for surprising people,” Allenson said mildly. “As you were, gentleman.”
“General Allenson, sir?” the one sporting captain’s flashes asked tentatively.
“You were expecting someone else?”
“Ah, no sir but we were not sure when you would arrive.”
“You must be Captain Frames.”
“Yes, sir”
Silence.
“And you are?” Allenson asked the other officer.
“Jingle, sir, Lieutenant Jingle,” the young man squeaked.
Allenson studied him, wondering if he was old enough to shave. Militia officers were getting younger every year. At this rate they would be recruiting in the kindergarten soon. Jingle looked increasing nervous under Allenson’s gaze so he switched back to Frames.
“Is Colonel Masters on base?”
“No, General, he’s away on business,” Frames replied.
“I see, on business. No doubt Colonel Masters has a home located somewhere conveniently nearby as he is resident on Trinity,” Allenson said to no one in particular, as if he was thinking aloud.
“Yes, sir,” Jingle said, helpfully, before shutting his mouth tight after a warning look from Frames.
“I believe Colonel Masters does own such a property in a village a few kilometers from here,” Frames said cautiously. “It is possible he might be there. Shall I try to find him?”
Allenson paused as if considering.
“I think not. There’s no need to disturb him unnecessarily. That’s an order not a suggestion, Captain.”
He didn’t wa
nt Frames to tip Masters off. It might be useful to meet the other officers of the besieging army without him around.
“Yes, sir.”
“My aide and I require accommodation in the base.”
“Yes, sir, arrange it please, Lieutenant Jingle.”
Jingle’s eyes defocused as he thought hard. Space would be at a premium. A whole line of people would have to be bumped down to give Allenson a room appropriate to his rank. The most junior officer, possibly Jingle himself, could end up sleeping in a waterlogged tent.
“And my barge is over at the civilian HQ with our luggage. Please arrange to move them here.”
“Yes, sir, both the barge and the luggage?” asked Jingle anxiously.
“I think that would be convenient,” Allenson replied, keeping a straight face. “You will find my man, Boswell, keeping an eye on it.”
Jingle hurried out, forgetting to salute. Frames closed his eyes.
“Have you and your fellow officers dined yet tonight?” Allenson asked.
“No, sir, we club together using one of the lecture theaters as a mess. There are eight of us, usually, and Lieutenant Lamborgi has a servant who is an excellent chef.”
“Well, Captain, if you think the fare might extend from eight to ten, I would be pleased to join you. I have a couple of bottles of decent wine in my kit that I could contribute.”
“We would be delighted to welcome you and your aide, sir.”
Actually, there was no other acceptable reply that Frames could give but he did seem genuinely happy at the prospect.
The dinner was indeed rather good. Initially stilted, conversation flowed more freely in direct correlation with the consumption of alcohol. Eventually the young officers felt bold enough to give Allenson their opinion on how the war should be fought. He was pleased to see that they wanted to take the fight to the enemy with an immediate assault on Oxford. Only an idiot would take strategic advice from a junior officer but it was right that they erred on the side of aggression. Older wiser heads could be allowed to decide how and where to direct that aggression.