Mamelukes

by Jerry Pournelle

  “I’d say that was an accurate picture, Lady Tylara,” Bisso said.

  “A dozen, in hiding and waiting. Did you ride slowly from your meeting with the Wanax, then?” she demanded.

  “No, Ma’am, we wasn’t at forced march or anything but we weren’t dawdling either.”

  “If they had set out when you left the Wanax would they have been able to get into position and hide before you encountered them?”

  “No, Ma’am,” Bisso said. “Not easily, anyway. I see where you’re goin’, and I don’t like it much. I don’t know, My Lady. Maybe, but it don’t seem too likely. They sure wouldn’t have had any extra time.”

  “So,” Tylara said. “A dozen enemy soldiers are concealed near Wanax Ganton’s camp. They remain undetected until by happenstance they see Lord Rick and a small party set out on this road. They immediately form a plan and ride away at the gallop, still undetected. They ride past two small crossroads until, again by happenstance, they find a good place of concealment. There they lie in wait for Lord Rick. Do you believe this, Sergeant?”

  “Now you put it that way, not a bit of it, My Lady,” Bisso said.

  “And you, My Lord Husband?”

  “No. And I’ll give you another one,” Rick said. “I think Wanax Ganton was expecting me, and knew precisely what I was going to say.”

  “I’ll buy the part about expecting us,” Bisso said. “I thought it was funny at the time, the way the Wanax’s guards didn’t challenge us, and that page was right there, ready to go announce us. Didn’t wait for a tip, didn’t protest about going in to the Wanax without permission, just took off. Skipper, I’d bet he was waitin’ there for us all along.”

  “I sent you to talk with the Mounties,” Rick said. “Learn anything?”

  “No, Sir, and I don’t think they was hiding anything. They was surprised enough to see me. Thought we’d rode off into the sunset. Some of them was grousing about a long campaign coming, but they didn’t seem to know anything special about it.”

  “You know what this means,” Rick said.

  “Certainly.” Tylara’s voice was firm and assured. “We have a traitor within our camp. Someone who warned Wanax Ganton you were coming, and for what purpose. Someone who deserves to be hanged.”

  “I think we might have trouble justifying that,” Rick said. “Hanging a man for loyalty to the Wanax. Okay, I buy it that Ganton has a spy in our camp. But on our staff? Hell, we’ve got agents in his army, too, but not high up enough to overhear his council meetings.”

  “Didn’t need to be so high,” Bisso said. “Hell, Skipper, we didn’t make any secret of what we were going to propose to Ganton. I’d reckon half the officer corps and all of the sergeant’s mess knew every bit of that before we rode out of camp. What else would you be doing, riding back while the troops sit here?”

  “Okay, not necessarily so high up,” Rick said.

  “But more than Ganton’s spy,” Tylara said. “He will not hang for loyalty to the Wanax, but disloyalty!” She jerked her thumb towards the dead ambusher. “A spy for the Five Kingdoms as well.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said. “Treason. That’s all we bloody need.”

  “Treason to whom?” Tylara said aloud. “It is not treason to obey the orders of the Wanax, even if those involve dressing as an enemy.”

  Rick gasped. She understands this stuff, he thought.

  “You think Ganton sent those ambushers?”

  Tylara shook her head.

  “It will not matter. The traitor, if we find him, will hang as a spy for the Five. In fact I do not think our Wanax would treat us so. But are you certain he did not?”

  * * *

  There was stew for dinner. Rick had eaten stew for a week now, a routine broken only by the more varied fare served in Strymon’s camp.

  “I weary of stew,” he announced, and Tylara grinned.

  “Then let us hasten to be home where there is something else.”

  “Not sure I should go home just yet,” Rick said.

  “And where shall we go in preference?”

  We, Rick thought. She likes being with me. As I with her. Thank God we’re back together again. But—

  “Not us, me. You’re needed at home. The kids need you. I think I have to go to Armagh.”

  Tylara frowned. She wasn’t the kind of woman who pouted, but Rick could sense her disappointment.

  “And why Armagh?”

  “Ammunition,” Rick said. “All our spares are at Armagh. If I get there before the Wanax, there won’t be any trouble about gathering everything and taking it with us to Chelm. If Ganton gets there first, he may wonder why I want it all.”

  “And you think it is time we took control of our resources,” Tylara mused. “After your treatment today, I agree. But I hate being parted from you.”

  Rick grimaced at a spoonful of stew. It tasted of rabbit, but there was a gamier flavor Rick was afraid to ask about. Earth wildlife had been released on Tran over the centuries, and most of it thrived without natural predators, just as most native Tran species were poison, or indigestible, to humans. Over centuries human cooks had found a few Tran species edible and even nourishing, but none of those were very attractive for the appetite. Neither were the Terran rats which seemed to have taken over half the planet, but armies often ate them.

  “I hate leaving you, too. But it’s the same with the surinomaz, I—we—need control of that as much as we need the ammo. I don’t know how much Harvey Rand has collected, but any is better than none, and if I’ve got it I’ve got something to trade with the Shalnuksis. Also I want some seeds, and some of the crop foremen, too.”

  “You will raise madweed at Chelm?”

  “Not at Chelm, but not too far away, either,” Rick said. “Someplace we control. Tylara, I’m getting scared. That crown business changes everything. Ganton’s acting independent—”

  “That is the way of a Wanax,” Tylara said.

  “Yeah, but it scares me the way he’s acting. I’ll feel a hell of a lot better if we have our ammunition and all the star troops near enough that I can control them. Same with the surinomaz.”

  “I agree regarding the ammunition. But, Rick, you have placed the surinomaz cultivation and the visible signs of your actions at Armagh so as to draw attention away from Chelm,” Tylara reminded him. “You feared skyfire, and thought better it fall at Armagh than at our home. And I agreed, and I still believe that important.”

  “Yeah, and now I’m not sure which is the bigger threat, Ganton or the Galactics,” Rick said. “The Galactics are an unknown.”

  “Are they?” Tylara asked. “My Lord Husband, if there is one thing certain about the history of this realm, it is that skyfire falls when the sky demons come. It was you who put names to the demon lords, but our grandsires knew of them before ever you arrived. Wanax Ganton was our ward, and owes us, owes you, more than he can ever repay. Agreed that it is dangerous to have a Wanax in your debt. But whatever we apprehend from the Wanax, ill will and skyfire from the demon lords is certain!”

  “I’m not so sure,” Rick said.

  “You put your hopes on that policeman?” Tylara asked.

  “Yeah, I suppose I do pin a lot of hope on Inspector Agzaral,” Rick said. “But nobody, not Les or anyone else, seems to know what the Shalnuksis are really up to this time. Just that things are different, and Agzaral has made the difference. Anyway, it’s getting close to periastron. The legends say the Demon has grown dim before skyfire falls, meaning it has finished its track through this system and is on the way out again. That’s years we’ve got. It’s pretty clear the Shalnuksis delay their skyfire as long as they can in hopes of getting more product. Inspector Agzaral said most of their motives were commercial.” Rick spooned up something indescribable, let it fall back into the stew, and brought up a carrot. “I want to string things out as long as possible.”

  “Keep this new activity far from Castle Dravan, then,” Tylara said. “Your reasons for not attracting attentio
n to our home remain strong. In the High Cumac, perhaps?”

  “Not enough rain, not usually—”

  “My love, there are strong legends of skyfire in the High Cumac,” Tylara said. “And of dealings with sky demons. You have said that rainfall changes at the Time.”

  “By the Lord, I think you have something.”

  “Do not blaspheme,” she said automatically.

  “Your pardon. Tylara, I think you’re right, every place we know of that has legends of local star demon activity had the right soil for madweed even if there’s not enough rain. There are streams we can dam, for that matter. With the Littlescarp to the east the High Cumac ought to be easy enough to defend from refugees. Or Ganton if it comes to that. Defending to the west is another matter.”

  “Westmen,” Tylara mused.

  “And worse, if Warner’s right,” Rick said. “We’ll need to look to defenses, and good stockpiles. But nomads don’t have any use for madweed, and if we don’t grow anything else up there they won’t be interested. Nothing to steal. It does mean we’ll need good transportation and supply. And fortifications. Magazines. Damn. That means logistics, and we’ve just sent our best bureaucrat off with Strymon.”

  “My Lord Father Apelles has trained apprentices,” Tylara said. “I am told that several show great promise.”

  “Good. Get them on it. We’ll want to put a dozen square stadia in cultivation. I don’t know how many farmers and troops that will take, but I’ll find out when I get to Armagh and send that information along. It’s going to take a big effort, Tylara, but I think it’s worth it.”

  She nodded sagely.

  “As do I. But must you go to Armagh yourself? Your children will miss you.” She smiled. “As will I.”

  “I’ve seen them since you have,” Rick reminded her. “They need you more than me, and I won’t be any longer than I have to be. But yes, for something this drastic, I better go myself. Ganton isn’t going to like this, you know.”

  “There seems little we do that he does like,” Tylara said. “And I fear that will become worse, not better.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE QUEEN’S BANNER

  One week after the Battle of the Ottarn River

  They traveled fast towards Armagh.

  Rick sent his office caravan and most of the baggage west with Tylara. A bodyguard of his mercenaries accompanied her. “Godspeed, my love,” she called as Rick, Warner, Bisso, and an escort of Tamaerthan mounted archers rode southward towards Castle Armagh, the strongest fortress of Drantos.

  He had a new orderly, a young Tamaerthan squire named Haerther. Choosing him had been easy enough. Haerther was cousin to Tylara, and at the proper age for the position. It was more difficult leaving Jamiy behind. Jamiy was a crofter’s son, not born to be a squire, but he had been faithful in his duties.

  “Lord, I regret that I can no longer be your shield,” Jamiy had said. “It was my life to follow you. What will become of me now?”

  “You’ll be on sick leave at least half a year with that arm,” Rick said. And probably lose it if I don’t authorize penicillin. Maybe even after I do. “At full pay, of course. After that, we’ll see. Would a place in the Chamberlain’s staff be to your liking?”

  “Lord, I cannot read.”

  “So you have a year to learn,” Rick said. “It’s time my children started reading. As soon as you’re able, learn with them. I can use a reliable man to help watch over them. Yeah.” He waved to Tylara to come join them.

  “My love, Jamiy is worried about his future now that he can’t carry my shield.”

  “I saw him save your life in the battle at the Ottarn,” she said.

  “Not for the first time. Nor even the last,” Rick said.

  Tylara nodded significantly at Jamiy’s bandaged arm.

  “Then we are his debtors.”

  “Agreed, so I had an idea. With your consent I’ll appoint him an officer of the bodyguards for the kids. That way he can be with them in their lessons. Learn to read himself. Good thing, knowing how to read.”

  Tylara smiled.

  “A splendid suggestion. Jamiy, does this please you?”

  “With all my heart, My Lady. If I cannot guard My Lord Rick, at least I can help to keep his children safe. My Lord, you are most generous.”

  Generous, Rick thought. Take a kid with a plain case of hero worship, get him maimed, and have him grateful for a sinecure. Hero worship, with me as the hero! Damn flattering. The worst of it is, there really isn’t anybody else who can do what I’m doing. Well, that’s one less thing to nag me. Jamiy’s smart, and God knows he’s loyal. I can stop worrying so much about Makail and Isobel when I’m away. At least I’ve gained that much.

  * * *

  Armagh was a stark castle in a stark land.

  Before they reached it they passed through the madweed fields. Work in those marshy fields was hard and dangerous, and Rick knew of few volunteers. Many died of rabies or other infections from the crazed animals that lived in madweed patches. Prisoners earned double time served for work in the fields and even then had to be forced to it. When there were too few prisoners, there was no alternative: peasants and serfs became temporary slaves, paid well—Rick insisted on that—but guarded by soldiers and forced to their work. It was bad enough that there were other soldiers to watch the guards.

  The scent of the fields was palpable. It reminded Rick of a combination of a locker room and a slaughter house. As they rode past, sullen heads rose from the madweed patches to stare curses at those free to ride through without stopping. Rick felt their eyes on his back as he rode on. They hated him, and with good reason. And what could he do about it?

  I wouldn’t blame the slaves for running. Cultivating madweed’s hard work. Dangerous, too. But if we don’t grow the stuff, we’ll have nothing for the Shalnuksis, and they’ll bomb the planet just to keep it in the Stone Age. And if I tell myself that often enough, maybe I’ll believe it’s all right to be a slave master. Maybe.

  * * *

  Trumpets sounded as they rode up to the long causeway leading to the castle. Armagh stood high on a mound above a fully moated bailey laid in a swamp, and the approach was well defended by water and quicksand. Rick looked up at the banners above the main gate.

  “Bloody hell, that’s the Queen’s arms! Warner, last I heard, the whole damn Royal Court was at Edron.”

  “Yes, Sir, they sure were there when we set out north.”

  “Well, she’s here now.”

  “Sure looks that way, Colonel.”

  “Hmm. It’s my castle—”

  “Yes, Sir. But don’t I remember you advising the Wanax to take refuge at Armagh if things got sticky?”

  “I suppose I did.”

  “So he took you up on it and sent the court here. If he’d sent you a message, and I’m betting he did, you’d have been already on the way east before it got to Dravan.” Warner turned the palms of his hands upwards. “I doubt anyone back in Chelm thought it was important enough to chase you down with it by semaphore. You were on the way to a battle, Colonel, and moving like hell. To rescue your wife. Why would anyone think you gave a hoot about where the Royal Court was?”

  “And it never came up when the King and I met? Yeah, I suppose it could have been that way. I expect it was,” Rick said. “All right, they’re invited. But it still makes them my guests. Not the other way around.” And why do I care that her banner is higher than mine? Like King Richard in The Talisman . . .

  “Maybe not,” Warner said.

  “Eh?”

  “Sir, lots of places have laws making the queen the official hostess any place she’s at. Wouldn’t surprise me if Drantos is one of them. For sure she’ll be the highest ranker in the joint. Not to mention her father’s connections.”

  Her father. Wanaxxae Octavia’s father was Publius, son of Marselius Caesar, and likely enough to be Caesar in his own right in no great amount of time. An educated and pleasant girl with good manners, Rick t
hought, but she’d grown up in a Roman household, well accustomed to intrigue and politics. She’d be better at those games than the Wanax himself, and it was best not to forget it.

  “Who comes?” a warden shouted.

  “Open the gates for the Warlord of Drantos,” young Haerther shouted.

  “Approach and be recognized.”

  “Hell, you see it’s us,” Bisso shouted. “Rand, that you? Open the bleedin’ gates!”

  “What the hell is Rand doing on guard duty?” Rick muttered.

  “Elliot’s testing him, would be my guess,” Bisso said. “You can be pretty sure Sergeant Major isn’t going to take any big chances. We weren’t expected, but even so there’ll be somebody watching him.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Come forward alone, if you please, Colonel.”

  By the book, Rick thought. Make sure nobody’s holding a knife in my ribs. It also made him a perfect target.

  There was a small door, just large enough for one man to pass, set in the main gate. It opened slowly. Rick had to dismount and lead his horse to get inside. I could send someone in first. Just to test things. Sure, and show my troops I’m getting paranoid about my own men.

  He stepped forward through the gate without visible hesitation.

  “Welcome, Colonel.”

  “Thanks, Henderson.” Rick was relieved to see Sergeant Henderson at the end of the gate passageway. He shook off the feeling of suspicion. “All’s well. You can let the others in.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Henderson gestured, and the main gates swung open. “Good to see you, Sir.”

  “Good to see you, too.”

  Everything seemed in order. Henderson held Rick’s stirrup so that he could remount. Warner rode up alongside him.

  “Colonel,” Warner said. He pointed through the gates to the outer courtyard beyond.

  “Romans,” Rick said. “Well, that’s no big surprise.” Marselius had sent a detachment of Romans as personal bodyguards for Octavia. They were rotated periodically.

  “Yeah, Colonel, but that’s no ordinary Roman trooper,” Warner said. “That’s a Praetorian officer. Damn all, First Cohort, First Praetorian Legion.”