Mamelukes

by Jerry Pournelle

  Rick and Tylara exchanged glances.

  “Without your anvil, my hammer would have fallen on empty fields,” Rick said. Which was true enough. Ganton had stood like a rock in the middle of the tide of battle. “The bards will sing of your victory.” Or I’ll have their heads . . .

  “Tell me of the west,” Ganton said.

  “Majesty. Dravan and Chelm hold fast for you, though Captain General Ailas with twenty thousand holds the plains north of Castle Dravan for the Five Kingdoms,” Rick said. “I could have hoped the Five would send a less competent general. Ailas is well dug in, and has learned the use of scouts. His light cavalry is as good as ours, he’s built fortifications, and from somewhere he has learned camp sanitation. He is well supplied from the north.”

  “He learned what you call sanitation from you. And he is supplied from harvest off your lands,” Ganton said dryly.

  “Yes, Majesty. But the upshot is that it would take a frontal attack against fortified positions to dislodge him. That would lose so many we could not defend against the next onslaught. So I’ve sent pandours into his backfield—”

  “Pandours, My Lord?”

  “Light cavalry raiders. Live off the land. Guerrillas, we sometimes call them. They’ll harass him, intercept supplies, generally give him problems.”

  “That cannot force him to withdraw,” Ganton observed.

  “Perhaps so, perhaps not, Majesty, but they’ll surely make him less likely to advance until he hears of the progress of his cause in the east. What he will hear is of your victory here.”

  “Ah. And who leads these—pandours?”

  “Lord Murphy,” Rick said. Murphy, a merc who’d got lucky, and was now a Drantos lord in his own right. Another complication in Rick Galloway’s command structure. Did Murphy obey Rick as Colonel of Mercenaries, as Eqeta of Chelm, or as Warlord of Drantos? It might make a difference . . .

  One of the junior lords in Ganton’s train thrust forward. “Majesty, during the battle a message arrived from Lord Murphy. I had not time to tell you before. It is directed to Lord Rick. The messenger learned from a semaphore station that Lord Rick was coming here, and has come looking for him.”

  “A message,” Rick said.

  “Bring it,” Ganton ordered. “Bring it here. It may be important.”

  * * *

  There were two messengers, one a sturdy burgher from a town near Tylara’s Castle Dravan, the other a kilted clansman of Tamaerthan. The burgher carried a small cask, the clansman a shield wrapped in leather. Both wore sashes and armbands in the household colors of Chelm. When they saw Rick, Tylara, and Ganton together they hesitated.

  “You have a message,” Ganton said. “From the Bheroman Murphy.”

  “Majesty. We were directed to Lord Rick.” The young clansman indicated his armband. “As you see, we are in the service of the Eqeta and Eqetassa of Chelm.”

  “Then give it to them,” Ganton said.

  The clansman glanced at Rick, who nodded. “Out with it.”

  “Lord,” the messenger said. “Lord, two hundred stadia northwest of here we came upon a caravan. We attacked it and captured much plunder. The leader of the caravan was killed in the battle. This is his shield.”

  He gestured, and the other messenger helped him to unwrap the shield with a flourish.

  “Defaced, argent, a rampant griffin sable crowned Or,” someone muttered.

  “Akkilas?” Ganton muttered. “The heir?”

  “We believe so,” the messenger said. “This is his head.” He opened the cask and poured out alcohol. His companion laid out a cloth, and the head rolled onto it. Sightless eyes stared up. The alcohol had preserved it well enough.

  “Griffin earring,” Ganton’s herald muttered. “It could well be him.”

  “Does anyone here know Prince Akkilas?” Ganton asked.

  “No, Majesty.”

  “My compliments to Prince Strymon, and if he pleases could he come,” Ganton said. “Surely he’ll know him.”

  “At once, Majesty.”

  “Akkilas,” Tylara said. “Brother of Sarakos.”

  “The late and unlamented Sarakos,” Ganton said. “And this is the Heir to the High Rexja.”

  “Formerly the heir,” one of Ganton’s lords said excitedly. “Now, Majesty, you are heir!”

  “He is,” the herald shouted. “By the same claim that the High Rexja held himself entitled to Drantos. Hail Ganton, heir of the Five Kingdoms!”

  * * *

  Strymon, Crown Prince of Ta-Meltemos, was tall and serious, well known as a man of high honor and quixotic chivalry. Heir to one of the Five Kingdoms, he was allied with Ganton and Drantos, but subject to neither, and what he would do if there came a direct order from his father to abandon that alliance neither Rick nor Ganton knew. Strymon stared down at the head on the cloth.

  “It could be him,” he said. “I have not seen him for years.”

  “Akkilas is dead!” one of the lords shouted. “Ganton is heir! High Rexja Ganton!”

  “High Rexja is elective,” Strymon said. “Surely all know that.”

  “But it has been within the House of Sarakos for four generations,” the herald protested. “The Five have always elected an heir to Radalphes the Great.”

  “There has always been a direct heir to Radalphes,” Strymon observed dryly. “Until now. Majesty, I believe your claim is through your mother?”

  “Yes. I take it you do not accept.”

  Strymon smiled thinly.

  “I am Prince of Ta-Meltemos, not Wanax, and were my father dead and my inheritance secure I would still be one vote among five. It is not for me to accept or deny, Majesty.”

  “Yes.” Ganton looked around at the aftermath of battle. “It grows late, and I confess I am weary.”

  “Well earned, Majesty!” several lords shouted.

  “Earned or no, I need rest. Let us resume this another time. Prince Strymon, my thanks for your aid in this battle. Lord Rick, a splendid victory. We shall think how best to take advantage of it. And how to reward you. Good evening, Prince, Lady Tylara. My Lords. You all have my leave.”

  Rick limped to his horse and let Jamiy hold it for him.

  “I can do with a bath,” he said. “For all that I did more riding than fighting.”

  “And that is the best victory of all,” Strymon said. “Fewer killed than might be, and I believe Drantos is safe enough for the moment.”

  “With no small aid from you,” Rick said. “My thanks for that. And I will not forget that you returned My Lady unharmed.”

  “We were much pleased to have her as our guest,” Strymon said. “What I gained in healing knowledge alone is worth far more than any ransom.” He paused. “You have no camp here, and the Wanax has forgotten to provide for you. You are both welcome guests in my camp. It is a soldier’s camp, but perhaps more than you brought on your march.”

  “I had expected to stay with the clansmen,” Rick said. “But your offer is generous. Tylara?”

  “My father must needs be told, but I think we have much to speak of with Prince Strymon,” Tylara said.

  Rick was unsurprised to see that his orderly had found a new mount.

  “Jamiy, my respects to Mac Clallan Muir, and we beg his forgiveness for the night. See that he is informed,” Rick said. “Prince Strymon, if your hospitality to your guests is as gracious as My Lady tells me you give to your prisoners, we would be fools to decline.”

  “Good. I will ride ahead to order preparations,” Strymon said. He spurred his horse.

  “Jamiy,” Tylara said. “Inform my father that I will join my husband for the night as guest of Prince Strymon. And you may remain in the clan camp, we will not need you before morning.” She waited until Jamiy had ridden off. “Prince Strymon wants to speak with us alone.”

  “You know this?”

  “Was it not obvious?”

  Rick shook his head. It hadn’t been obvious to him.

  “What will he want to speak abo
ut?”

  “Ganton’s claim, where this army goes, the war with the Five Kingdoms,” Tylara said. “And he would learn more of the Galactics.”

  “How much did you tell him?” Rick asked.

  “Little, my love. Only that you are a great warrior from a far place, brought here by men of great power but little courage.”

  “An interesting summary,” Rick said. “True enough.”

  “My husband, Strymon for all his chivalry is Prince Royal of Ta-Meltemos, undisputed heir to one of the Five Kingdoms, and has as good a claim to be High Rexja as Ganton. His interests were ours when the armies of the High Rexja stood in Drantos, but now? I cannot think he will be pleased to see Drantos armies march past our northern borders no matter where they head.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE PRINCE ROYAL

  OF TA-MELTEMOS

  Strymon’s accommodations were military rather than luxurious, but comfortable enough. Tylara pointed out a field hospital. Priests of Yatar bustled about among the wounded. Acolytes tended fires and boiled cloths for bandages. Priest surgeons scrubbed meticulously before and after tending the wounded, and the dead were carried far downwind from the hospital.

  “He has learned fast,” she said.

  “Your teaching while you were his prisoner?”

  “Yes, My Lord Husband. Was that not proper? You have told me that knowledge is not to be hoarded.”

  “Indeed, my most wise lady wife. It was very proper to teach the germ theory of disease. My surprise is at how fast he’s learned.”

  “Cleanliness has always been pleasing to Yatar,” Tylara said. “His priests needed little persuading.”

  And there are priests of Yatar in both armies, Rick thought. Judging by the small red crosses on the shoulders and left breast of their blue and yellow robes, nearly all the priests of Yatar in Strymon’s force were converts to the New Faith, which accepted Christ as the Son of Yatar. What that would do to Tran politics was likely to be more than Rick could guess.

  But at least there was enough hot water for a bath. When they reached the tent assigned to them he was delighted to see there was a large tub to soak in. Hot water and a tub! And Tylara was smiling, enjoying their renewed friendship. Like falling in love all over again! He thought of inviting Tylara into the bath with him, but that might shock Strymon’s servants. Prince Strymon had no male heirs and was twice a widower, but unlike his young brother was rumored to be somewhat prudish in both habits and speech. And Tylara had her own bath. But by God we’ll sleep together, Rick thought. For the first time in months . . .

  * * *

  Rick’s pistols and sword were missing when he emerged from his bath. So was his armor. A page explained they were to be cleaned.

  “Prince Strymon has ordered they be returned to you so soon as you need them,” the boy said. His voice was strong, but Rick thought he saw fear in the boy’s eyes. As well he might. The boy indicated new clothing laid out on the bed. “And if you and your lady will come to dinner when you are dressed?”

  Rick dressed in silence. There would be no point in complaining to a ten-year-old boy, and there was no one else he could speak to. May as well play this one as it lies . . .

  Guardsmen held umbrellas to protect them from the rain as they were conducted to Strymon’s command tent.

  “My pistol’s missing,” Rick muttered.

  “As well mine,” Tylara said. “Likewise my dagger.”

  “What the hell?”

  Tylara nodded.

  “Prince Strymon’s honor and chivalry are known everywhere, and I have more than enough reasons to know those stories are not false,” she said. “Whatever his reason, we will know in good time. I am certain he means us no harm, and I think we would do best to trust him.”

  “Trust is fine,” Rick thought. Then he laughed.

  “My husband?”

  “I keep thinking how Mason would have fits if he knew,” Rick said.

  “Ah.” Tylara grinned. Art Mason would never let Rick go out in public without full armor, chain mail over flak jacket, pistol in shoulder holster, short sword and dagger, and a full escort. And here they were both in garta cloth robes and slippers, while their armor was away to be polished and oiled and their weapons were God alone knew where.

  “And Major Mason is not without his reasons,” Tylara said. “Yet I feel safer here than I would in similar conditions in the camp of our own Wanax.”

  “You know something I don’t?”

  “Know?” She shook her head, a slight gesture that still said volumes.

  Rick frowned. Ganton had seemed friendly enough. But Tylara understood Tran dynastic politics far better than Rick ever would. Relax and enjoy it, Rick thought. Nothing else to do.

  * * *

  Rain drummed on the tent roof, and sometimes a gust of wind shook the walls. For the most part Strymon’s tent caravan was proof against the weather. A long trestle table had been set up, with an almost white tablecloth, and pewter dishes. A cheery fire blazed in one corner of the tent. Rick inspected the portable fireplace with approval, and made a mental note to have one made for his own travel caravan: an open-faced Franklin stove, with sections of chimney made of some kind of ceramic and held together with metal collars. He had seen nothing like it in Drantos. The Five Kingdoms pretended a superiority that Drantos didn’t admit. Could this be evidence that it was more than pretense?

  Dinner was far more than Rick had expected, and Strymon’s troops had liberated a store of wine from the enemy’s camp. Like most of the wine on Tran, it was thinner and more tart than Rick liked, but it was strong enough and left a good aftertaste. When Rick drained his cup it was filled again without his asking. He caught Tylara’s eye. She grinned slyly, and Rick asked for water as well as wine. After that he was careful not to drain his wine cup again. Tylara thought he drank too much, and when he was being reasonable he knew that was true. And tonight he would need his head clear. Strymon was no fool.

  Strymon drank plentifully but from a different jug. Tylara watched, saying nothing, until after dessert was served and the dishes cleared away. Strymon dismissed the servants.

  “It is odd that you are here,” Strymon said.

  “I came for my wife,” Rick said simply. Tylara beamed. She looked happier than she had since they were first married. It must have been terrible, a secret like that with no one to tell it to, he thought. And that won’t happen again. I nearly lost her!

  “I did not mean here at this battle,” Strymon said. “All her time when she was my captive your lady promised me that you would work the most terrible revenge if any harm came to her, until I thought to see you come out of the mist at any moment. No, My Lord, I mean that you won the battle today. Much as I am pleased to have you here, you should be the honored guest of the Wanax, not of his ally.”

  “So should be you,” Tylara said simply.

  “He was exhausted,” Rick protested.

  Strymon politely ignored him.

  “Then you believe as I do?” he asked Tylara.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Rick demanded.

  “Oh. My husband is a direct man,” Tylara said. “Quick to trust, and never thinks another may harbor ill thoughts. My Lord Husband, we mean that with Akkilas dead, the world has changed a very great deal for the Wanax Ganton, and he was hardly too exhausted to know that. Or to know who won his battle for him.” She smiled. “You ‘saved his bacon,’ I believe your Major Mason would say.”

  “I do not think that head was Akkilas,” Strymon said.

  “What? But why did you not say so, Prince?” Tylara asked.

  “I cannot be sure, and would I be believed? Wanax Ganton is aware that my claim is as good as his. He would wonder if I played for time. And it might well be Akkilas.”

  “If it’s not him, who is it?” Rick asked.

  “His tanist,” Strymon said.

  Rick frowned the question.

  “A custom no longer followe
d in southern lands. Nor indeed in all of ours, but it is invariable in the High Rexja’s household,” Strymon said. “As the prince comes of age, a young man of good family who closely resembles him is selected. He is trained as companion, advisor—and possibly as target for assassination. Akkilas was fortunate. His tanist was a young man of ability, a good advisor and a better student of war than Akkilas ever was.”

  “Who’d know the difference?” Rick asked.

  “Any who knew them well, I suppose. The birthmarks are only similar, not identical, and the tanist was a year older than Akkilas—”

  “Ah.” Tylara nodded understanding. “My Lord Husband means that it may not matter whose head that is, if there exists someone of ability who can claim to be Akkilas.”

  “Indeed,” Strymon said. “One more complication. Among many. Lord Rick, what does your Wanax Ganton intend now? Whoever leads, whether Akkilas or his tanist or the Honorable Matthias of Vothan’s Temple, these invaders will retreat well into the Five Kingdoms before they can regroup. They may again become a formidable force, but it will take time, even without the pursuit you are in no condition to make. When word of this defeat reaches Chancellor Issardos, Captain General Ailas will be recalled to the defense of the realm. He will abandon your lands in the west. The invasion of Drantos is ended.”

  Rick nodded agreement.

  “That’s the way I read it. The war is as good as over.”

  “For now, certainly,” Strymon said. “So what will Ganton do?”

  Rick frowned as Tylara and Strymon looked at each other. Clearly they understood each other better than Rick did. The war’s over, Rick thought. The peasants can go back to their fields, I can go back to Armagh and work on increasing the surinomaz crop for the Shalnuksis, and we can send our best diplomats to the Five Kingdoms to settle the matter. If Issardos is smart he’ll put Strymon on his negotiating team, only he can’t as he has already charged Strymon with treason. Now who can we send? He looked from his wife to the prince, and saw only frowns. Tylara was thinking hard. On what? Would she want to be a negotiator? She should be . . . .

  The silence lasted half a minute.