Return to Fanglith f-2

by John Dalmas

  He didn't even say thank you, or anything else, when I turned my horse over to him.

  Gilbert de Auletta's castle was Saracen-built, of course. It wasn't as large or luxurious as Roger's at Mileto's not by a long way, but it had a bath and gardens. And a dining hall. Eating was our first order of business. The Varangians ate the same way they did just about everything-they gave it a hundred percent. They weren't shy about the wine, either.

  Gilbert kept us company while we ate, and drank wine with us. And spoke Greek with the Varangians. In fact, as the drinking continued, it was mainly with the Varangians that he talked. He'd been born in Italy, in Campania, grandson of one of the earliest Norman mercenaries there. Until the invasion of Sicily, he told us, he'd spent much of his life in the Norman effort to drive the Byzantines out of Italy. And he spoke Greek fluently, or at least easily.

  Like the knights I'd known in Normandy, he wore his hauberk at the table, but he was different-looking from any other Norman knight I'd seen. Even wearing a hauberk, he had a slender, fine-boned look-like a Saracen, Arno whispered. His face was sharp, and his wrists and hands small. But his hands were extremely muscular, his bare forearms well-developed and sinewy, and when he chewed, the muscles in his jaw looked like stones.

  His almost-black eyes seemed to actually gleam with an intensity that made me uncomfortable, but I couldn't fault his friendliness or hospitality.

  Arno didn't seem to drink much. He raised his cup often enough, but I never saw him accept a refill. I decided he probably had a reason for that, so I did the same, and in Evdashian told Tarel and Moise to follow my example.

  After supper we bathed. The Varangians knew about bathing. I didn't ask whether it was done in their homeland or if it was something they'd learned in Miklagard. In the bath was the only time I'd unslung my rifle from my shoulder, even at the table. And even in the bath I kept it in reach. The Varangians and Gilbert would just have to assume it was some religious instrument.

  When we'd finished our bath, a servant showed Arno, Tarel, Moise, and me to a separate room, with actual mattresses, stuffed at least partly with nice-smelling herbs. The Varangians would bunk down in the dining hall on straw. I put my belt, with its weapons, on the floor by my head, and Arno blew out the flame in the bowl of oil that was our lamp. It felt incredibly good to lie on something soft, with no stones digging my back, and my stomach not only full but happy.

  Now that I felt comfortable and safe, my mind kept me awake. Tired though I was. First, my attention went to Jenoor. From her it went to the Empire. What was I doing about it? I lay there scratching occasionally and feeling frustrated. So far, all my attention had been on surviving; I hadn't accomplished a thing toward establishing a rebel base. But survival was something, and when we got to Palermo, I'd meet Roger. And Guis-card, if he was there. And if Arno didn't volunteer an introduction..,

  Arno interrupted my thoughts. "Larn," he murmured.

  "Yes?"

  He spoke in slow Evdashian. "I feel ill at ease here, apart from the Varangians. It may be unsafe."

  I remembered my feeling about Gilbert. "Why?"

  "I do not trust this baron."

  "Was there something he did? Or said?" I couldn't help remembering Isaac ben Abraham's words about Norman treachery.

  "I'm not sure. But this much I can say, although it falls well short of accounting for my feeling. Gilbert de Auletta was born in Italy, and his father before him; I believe you heard him say it. Some of those early families resent greatly the successes of the sons of Tancred de Hauteville, whom they consider upstart latecomers: They plotted and fought almost constantly against William Iron Arm until his death. And do against Guiscard when they dare. Roger arrived from Normandy only fifteen years ago, and his success here galls them most of all.

  "And finally, they resent those newcomers of us who've attached ourselves to Guiscard or to Roger and have prospered by our loyalty."

  Dimly I could see him get to his knees, his face a lighter blob in the darkness. "Gilbert may not be one who feels like that, but I do not trust him, for whatever reason. We should go back out among the Varangians."

  Neither Tarel nor Moise had gone to sleep yet, so they'd heard all that. Together we got up, belted on our weapons, and left to spend the night on straw in the dining hall. I thought of taking my mattress, but decided it wasn't the thing to do. One of the Varangians was awake, sitting on a table, apparently a guard, and I wondered if Gunnlag was suspicious too. Or whether it was simply standard practice for Varangians among strangers in a strange stronghold.

  It was Arno who woke me up. The sun was shining through the windows. I'd have been glad to sleep for two or three more hours, but servants were setting up for breakfast. By daylight, with the busy, ordinary sounds of breakfast being put on the table, our fears of the night before seemed a little silly. To me at least. Breakfast showed me again how the Normans in the south had changed from those I'd known in Normandy. We had fruit as well as porridge and cheese, custard as well as meat and bread and eggs.

  I wished I'd brought a toothbrush with me.

  The weather had turned almost summery-quite warm, no wind, bright sun, and only a few fluffy white clouds. After breakfast we loafed around outside, napped in the sunshine, snacked on dates and some small wrinkly fruits called raisins, and occasional little cakes with a fruit in them called figs, which I'd tasted first in Marseille. They were brought to us by servants that Arno told me were Saracens.

  Like Roger's place at Mileto, and unlike any castles I'd seen in Normandy, the grounds here were landscaped. Like the Byzantines, the Saracens definitely had a stronger aesthetic sense than Normans did, but I'd bet ten credits that the Normans would pick it up from them. Like they were picking up bathing.

  Later, some of the Varangians left on horses to get the wounded we'd left behind in the mountains. Most of the rest were feeling energetic enough to wrestle, and one of them challenged Arno. Arno took him on, and it seemed to me that neither of them was clearly the winner.

  Tarel suggested to me that he and I spar for them, using hand-foot art, and see what they thought of it. I turned him down, and told him why. The Varangians wrestled with lots of energy and violence, as well as quite a bit of skill. They didn't hold back. And while he and I were supposedly holy monks, it seemed to me the Varangians might scorn just sparring. They might look down their noses at us for holding back when we "fought" each other. Besides which, hand-foot art was my secret-my weapon of last resort.

  That afternoon I noticed Arno and Gunnlag talking alone together in a corner of the garden. They seemed pretty serious. Then Arno came over and started talking to me in Evdashian, piecing it out with Norman French where he didn't know a word.

  "We may be in trouble here," he told me. "This morning when Gunnlag arranged for horses to bring the wounded, Gilbert said ten Varangians should go, with ten horses. Each of them could then take one wounded on his horse to bring him back. And Gilbert sent with them three knights as an escort, a symbol of his protection. The Varangians wore no hauberks nor carried any shields. Their horses were old, such animals as pages learn to ride on. Gilbert said he would not have good mounts ridden by men other than Normans trained to ride and care for them, and that old horses would have trouble enough carrying two men each without shields and armor.

  "Gunnlag felt uneasy, a little, but Gilbert had been very friendly last night, so he agreed. Besides, it all seemed reasonable enough."

  It sounded reasonable to me, too. These warriors could be paranoid. But I remembered my misgivings of the night before, and Amo wasn't done yet.

  "Then, a little while ago," he went on, "I climbed the tower to look over the countryside. A dozen of Gilbert's knights were riding east down the road, on destriers, and carrying lances. But soon they left the road, riding south toward the ravine we came out of yesterday. They could have been leaving on patrol of course, but I have a feeling it is more than that.

  "I told Gunnlag what I saw, and he feels as I do.
Gilbert may have sent them to attack the Varangians."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Last night, I am told, Gilbert asked many questions about you. He must have heard of your power from the Varangians. He may wish to take you hostage."

  Like you did, I thought. But there was a difference between Arno and Gilbert, a difference in character that I'd felt the evening before.

  "And he knows the Varangians would defend you," Arno was saying. "If he kills ten of them, there will be only fifteen left."

  I looked at that. "You said a dozen of his knights seemed to have followed them. And there were already three knights riding escort. How many of the knights would the ten Varangians kill, do you think?"

  "The Varangians do not expect an attack. Not by Normans. And they took neither hauberks nor shields. If they were tricked, surprised at close quarters… They do not fight skillfully on horseback, it is not their way. They could be killed without killing any of Gilbert's men, or maybe two or three, if they are lucky."

  It could happen that way. On the other hand, Gilbert's knights could very well have gone out on patrol, with no idea of attacking the Varangians.

  "Let me ask you a question," I said. "Would you be willing to get hold of a horse-steal one if necessary- follow Gilbert's men with your blast pistol and stunner, and attack them if they attacked the Varangians?"

  Arno didn't have a quick answer for that. I thought of making him an offer that occurred to me, but decided against it. I'd let my question be a test.

  After a long ten seconds, he passed it, "I will see about a horse," he said. "A hunting horse. They are faster, and with this"-he patted the holster on his belt-"I do not need a destrier. I'll let them believe I've come out to join them. I'll tell them that Gilbert and I have talked things over."

  I unslung my blast rifle and handed it to him. "Then take this," I told him. "It is accurate at a distance."

  He looked at me without expression, then nodded. I wished I knew what he was thinking. Not because I feared treachery just now, but because I'd like to understand him better. Maybe this would help ensure an introduction to Guiscard or Roger. Whether it did or not, I owed it to the Varangians.

  I took the recharge magazine off my belt and gave that to Arno too, along with a thirty-second short course in how to use the rifle. If I had to do any shooting here, it would probably be at close range; my pistol and stunner should be plenty.

  He walked over to Gunnlag then, and they talked for a minute or two. When they were done, Arno left, walking toward the stable. Gunnlag looked toward me and nodded, then strolled toward a bench beneath a fruit tree of some kind. It occurred to me that he and I had things to talk about too. Because if he and Arno weren't being paranoid-if Gilbert did intend to kill the ten Varangians-then he probably had plans to kill the others too.

  I got up to look for Moise. He'd have to interpret for us.

  THIRTY

  We decided that we shouldn't let ourselves be separated, and that we'd keep our weapons with us at all times. He agreed there might not be any danger, but we'd play it safe. Then he called his men together. He didn't say anything about what we suspected; we didn't want any of them to get agitated and maybe do something foolish. Instead, he told them they'd become careless, reminding them that they were among strangers, and they were to stay together unless ordered otherwise. He also warned them not to get drunk at supper.

  All in all it spoiled the afternoon. The servants came out again with dates and fig cakes and sweet drinks, and the weather was beautiful, but I couldn't really relax or take a nap. I felt impatient for something to happen, for Arno to come back and say it had been a false alarm. But it was unreasonable to expect him back before the next day.

  Last night's supper had been something hustled together late for unexpected guests. This one was a production. Roland de Falaise, in his timber castle in Normandy, probably hadn't even imagined a meal like the one we sat down to. This time the entire Norman household ate with us. The baron and his wife sat at opposite ends of the short main table, while his knights sat among the Varangians at both main tables. His foot soldiers ate separately at two long tables nearby.

  Gunnlag didn't look happy with the way we were seated-the knights and Varangians mixed like that- but he let it pass. All the knights, Gilbert included, wore their hauberks at the table, and so did the foot soldiers. And of course the Varangians did too.

  I remembered how, in Normandy, I'd thought that the Normans must be real barbarians to wear hauberks at the table. Now I began to understand why: The danger of treachery and attack were always in the back of their minds.

  But actually, everything seemed fine. A guy in what you might call civilian clothes played some kind of stringed instrument and sang for us while we ate. Pages waited on us. There was fowl of some kind, pickled fruits of several kinds, different kinds of meat… And the baron told dirty stories in Greek and Norman.

  The only false note was that he never said anything or asked anything about Arno not being there. He had to be wondering about that, unless he'd already taken care of Amo.

  That is, it was the only false note until a spiced hot drink was brought out that smelled marvelous. I had an instant suspicion of that drink. And when Gilbert proposed a toast-it was in Greek, but obviously a toast-I took only a tiny sip of it.

  Within half a minute, Varangian bodies began to slump. Varangian sank to the table, and Tarel's, and Moise's. But not Gunnlag's; he'd only pretended to drink. His fierce blue eyes burned on Gilbert. The baron and his knights had obviously not drunk either. As for me, it had been a tiny sip too much. I felt a slowness, a creeping, growing numbness.

  Gunnlag barked something in Norse, and a few Varangian heads raised weakly. Gilbert smiled and gave an order of his own in Norman French: "Kill only the Varangians!" Immediately, the knights were on their feet, knives in their hands, grabbing handfuls of Varangian hair, pulling heads back, cutting throats. Arterial blood sprayed scarlet. Gunnlag grabbed the knight beside him and they crashed together to the floor as I got slowly up. stunner in my hand.

  But standing was too much for me. I began to fold, my knees giving way even as I started to swing the stunner, my finger on the stud. As I fell, I saw knights collapsing, and heard a woman scream-Gilbert's wife, who hadn't even squeaked at all the throat-cutting. Then I hit the stone floor, and that's all I remembered for a while.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I opened my eyes and tried to sit up. A pain stabbed through my head-from the drug I suppose-so I lay back and settled for raising my head a little. I was back in the bedroom we'd been put in the evening before. The lamp had been left lit, its yellowish flame flickering above the rim of the bowl, making shadows jump on the walls. My hands were shackled together, and someone had been good enough to dump me on one of the mattresses. A sour-looking knight had been left to guard me; his hard eyes had caught my movement, and his jaw was clamped with hostility.

  He didn't say anything though, and neither did I then. Instead I lay my aching head back down and tried to put things together for myself. The Varangians who'd been in the hall had to be dead now, except maybe, just possibly, Gunnlag. And it was hard to imagine even him getting out of it alive. Gilbert had said "Kill only the Varangians," nothing about taking their chief alive.

  On the other hand, it seemed as if Tarel and Moise might still be alive somewhere. If I was valuable-and I supposed that was the reason for all this-then it seemed as if Gilbert would want them alive too, at least for the time being.

  I wondered how many Normans I'd zapped before I'd passed out, and whether any of them were dead.

  And Arno? Gilbert hadn't asked about him. Maybe he'd been followed and killed. Or maybe Gilbert had decided that if he had me, he could ignore Arno. Which was probably true. Arno had the rifle, a pistol and stunner, and maybe ten healthy Varangians, if he was lucky. With them he could probably get to Palermo all right. He'd have no reason to try rescuing us here. That would be a lot more dangerous than rescuing
the Varangians in the mountains.

  In fact, I couldn't see anyone rescuing us. Deneen wouldn't be back for five days or more, and she was alone, with no one to put down. Except Bubba of course. And for all Bubba's talents and brains, this wasn't the sort of situation he could operate in.

  It was up to me to get out on my own. My hands explored my belt; it was bare. I didn't have so much as a knife, or a communicator if I had anyone to communicate with.

  Just having my hands free would be a big improvement, a start. Carefully I raised my head enough to look at my guard again, and didn't see a sign of any key ring. Only his eyes. I suppose Gilbert had the key to my shackles.

  "Where is Gilbert de Auletta?" I asked.

  The Norman scowled. "Taking care of other business. He'll get to you soon enough."

  That didn't sound very promising. I got the notion of Tarel or Moise being questioned, maybe with the help of things like knives or hot coals. I hoped they'd have the good sense to tell the baron whatever he wanted to know.

  "How many men did I kill in the great hall?" I asked.

  My guard didn't answer, but if looks could kill, I'd have been dead right then. I was pretty sure I hadn't swept much of the room before I passed out, but I'd had the stunner on medium, and at close range like that, a military model could kill people. Maybe I'd zapped a friend of his.

  I wondered if Arno would still be interested in getting the help of the Rebel Javelin, Maybe, when he got to Palermo, he'd talk to Guiscard, and Guiscard would come up here and wipe Gilbert out. That was my best chance, I decided.

  But it irked me that I couldn't see any way of getting out of the situation on my own. I decided to relax as well as I could and wait, so I closed my eyes. After a while I dozed, and woke up to Gilbert's voice. A hand slapped me hard.