* * *
Lt. Karvall spent three local “days” in the bush, using the remote snooper every dark period, until he had not only compiled a detailed map of the compound’s interior, but he had actually begun to get to know the personal habits of some of the individuals who lived there. It was almost entertaining, watching these characters live their lives from a distance. Seeing their hopes, dreams, trials and ordeals played out in the setting of a remote, desolate hill fort. And what an intriguing cast it was.
The warlord, for instance, who was anticipating a big pay-off from his good friend Spasso – which he pronounced ‘Spazzo’ – and was even willing to cede his master suite at the top of the tower as a nursery to get it. His lieutenant, who was as obsequious and loyal to his master’s face as he was treacherous and disrespectful behind his back wanted to possess the beautiful off-world woman watching the baby in the worst way. The night watch captain, who began his duties with four shots of something clear and potent and ended them with an extended trip to the privy. The compound’s cook, a slave woman taken from her home so many years ago she had forgotten the name of the place, and who knew no other life than cooking the same vat of soup every day.
And then there was Evita. She was the highlight of Karvall’s entertainment.
Evita who hated the climate, the freakish day and night cycle, the smell of the natives, the food, the weather, the very air she breathed . . . and who hated the baby most of all. After listening to her non-stop complaining for two days, Karvall felt like he knew a lot more about her relationship to Spasso than he’d speculated about. For one thing, they were business partners, not lovers, though not for the lack of Spasso trying. For another, Evita was in permanent exile as a condition of her sentence –she would be condemned to death, should she ever return to Gram. And it was clear that she had some ambitions of her own outside kidnapping, and was merely playing along with Spasso until she could put her plans into action. What those were, exactly, Karvall couldn’t fathom from her irate outbursts at the natives who were entrusted with her care. But he inferred quite a bit from what she didn’t say, as well.
She was nearly alone, here on Mertha. Spasso was not on the planet. He had detailed her and a few other trusted lackeys to keep the baby healthy while he negotiated, and kept his neobarbarian thugs around to watch them as much as protect them. Evita was not happy with that – at all. Observing her just a few hours with the infant convinced Karvall that there was not a maternal bone in her body. She cursed and screamed at the baby, forced a peasant woman to change and bathe her, and could barely stand feeding her from a bottle.
The baby, for her part, didn’t seem to like her captor either, and the sound of Evita’s voice often made her cry. Karvall’s heart nearly broke after the former queen cut loose with a litany of cursing viler than any he had heard in a barracks.
After three (local) days, he compiled his report, made his recommendations, and then trudged back to the landing site to conceal most of his weapons, equipment and his notes in a rock cairn near to where the landing legs of the lighter had left their impression. He reviewed a few maps and notes he’d made in orbit, and then headed back towards the stronghold a different way than he’d come.
It was time to enact his planned infiltration of the enemy.
He went to a spot where he knew the foot patrols around the encampment liked to linger, out of sight of the main castle. Every soldier knows those places where he can linger, relax, and perhaps even catch a quick nap without calling the attention of his superior officers, whether that soldier was an elite special forces commando from a highly civilized world, or a thuggish, illiterate barbarian whose technical knowledge did not extend beyond the ability to load, fire, and clean his weapon. The Merthan neobarbs were no different than anyone else. Karvall caught a sentry in a vulnerable moment, quickly broke his neck, and stripped him of his gear and his weapons before disposing of the body in a ravine.
The man’s clothing was primitive and utilitarian, and it fit over his unadorned Sword World fatigues well enough. He had taken the time to remove and conceal his unit insignia and rank, of course, and after he pulled on the pungent leather-and-fur vest over it, he almost looked the part of a disreputable bandit. He’d kept his Sword World pistol, however, unwilling to rely on captured weapons. It was a serious weapon in good repair, and he was loath to abandon it.
He continued south, along the ridge tops, being careful to stay out of sight of the other sentries, until he was able to come to the picket encampment at the mouth of the valley. He confidently shouldered the ancient carbine he’d stolen as he strode into camp like he lived there.
He was shocked how long it took before anyone challenged him. These were some really lazy barbarians, he decided as he strode confidently past the pickets. Finally, as he came to a crude barricade of rough-hewn logs and stones, two big, black-bearded fellows in long leather coats carrying rifles with bayonets halted him, and questioned him in heavily-accented Lingua Terra.
He explained, arrogantly, that he was in service to His Excellency Count Garvan Spasso, with an urgent message for Her Majesty, Queen Evita, formerly of Gram.
The neobarbs were reluctant to let him past – no doubt holding out for a bribe – but Karvall was firm. He insisted they screen Her Majesty for confirmation. Of course, they didn’t have any screens, or any other way save a runner to get a message two miles back up the valley, so they just let him pass. Lazy.
The second and third checkpoints went similarly. By the fourth, he had it down to a science. Of course, the fourth sentry was where they started asking tougher questions.
“Who zent you?” the big barbarian asked, brandishing a simple large-caliber revolver around like a baton.
“His Excellency, Garvan Spasso,” Karvall said, not having to feign exasperation too much. The man looked at him as if he had three heads.
“Zarbo has no notice!” the man finally declared. “Why no one give Zarbo warning?”
“Probably because His Excellency has been a little busy,” Karvall shot back, angrily. “Who else but one of his men would know that Her Majesty was within? Eh? Along with . . . the little ‘package’,” he added, knowingly. “Do you really want me to report to His Excellency how you turned away his trusted messenger? I hear he can do things to a man with that new robotic arm, terrible things—”
“All right! Zarbo let you through!” the man finally cried. “But you tell Spazzo how helpful Zarbo be, eh? This be good raiding time of year, and Zarbo’s men sit in camp, restless!”
“Of course,” Karvall bowed. “I’ll make a point of ensuring you get exactly the reward you deserve, my friend.”
The mercenary captain grunted and waved him through. One more checkpoint, where he had to get even more belligerent, and he was finally at the gate of the compound he had spent so long studying.
“I’d like a word with the Queen,” he told the big warlord, Barsaro, when he was finally admitted to the interior. The man was suspicious at once, but then Karvall expected that. Barsaro was constantly suspicious of being betrayed, likely because his men were constantly plotting to betray him.
“Queen? What Queen is this?” the grizzled old warrior asked in a deep, gravelly voice.
“The Queen in the top room of the castle, my lord,” Karvall assured him. “His Excellency wished for me to check on her condition, the condition of the hostage, and inform him of any problems with your hospitality.”
“You one of Spazzo’s men?”
“I’ve been in service to His Excellency since before he lost his hand,” Karvall agreed. That was not, technically, a lie. “Indeed, I was present at the vile duel where he was so unjustly maimed. I took ship with him on the Seven Stars on its maiden voyage from gram,” he added, proudly – and truthfully. Of course, he had been sickened to learn that the man in command was the infamous Garvan Spasso at the time, but it had been a means to an end.
“Very well,” sighed Barsaro, heavily. “Why you don’t land s
hip here?”
“What?” Karvall asked, acting shocked. “And alert any potential observers to your location? What kind of fool do you take His Excellency for? All the care and planning that he put into keeping – the hostage – keeping her whereabouts a secret, and you think he’d send one of his most trusted people to her with a big flashing sign that says ‘here she is!’ to any spies about?”
Barsaro snorted. “There are no spies here,” he said, confidently. “I know all my men by sight. All with me many seasons,” he assured.
“Indeed? Well, then how come His Excellency told me, specifically, to beware your man Gomero? Your lieutenant? Word has come that he has sold you out already, Lord Barsaro.” That was untrue, of course, but not outside the realm of possibility. In the days he had monitored the compound, Gomero, the lieutenant, had proven his lack of loyalty to Karvall’s satisfaction. “It’s possible that you’ve been scouted already. There are mercenaries everywhere who would be happy to stick a knife in your back – or His Excellency’s – to claim the huge reward for his capture. You did know about the reward, didn’t you?”
“Bah! No one ever pays reward, not to Barsaro!” he dismissed. “Spazzo told me of their tricks.”
“They might not pay out to you,” agreed Karvall, reluctantly, “but that doesn’t mean they won’t pay out to others. Have your men search the area. Look for any signs of reconnaissance.” The warlord looked skeptical. “Do it!” Karvall ordered, letting his voice crack a bit in the process. “If this operation is compromised because you couldn’t control your own lieutenant—”
“All right, all right, I do it,” Barsaro agreed. “But Spazzo is crazy – no one spy on us here. No one know Queen and baby is here—”
“And don’t mention . . . ‘the package’!” Karvall insisted, scandalized. “I don’t care how many of your men already know, don’t mention it! Ever!”
“You sword people all crazy,” the man condemned. “You go see Queen. No one else wants to.”
“Just check the area,” Karvall reminded. “If your man is honest, then you won’t find anything. If he’s sold you out . . .” he said, letting the sentence trail off as he trudged up the narrow stone staircase.
He knocked and waited a polite amount of time before opening the door. The former queen was reading a microbook and looking annoyed at the interruption, but since Karvall possessed the only clean-shaven face in the compound, she knew instantly he wasn’t a native.
“Your Majesty,” Karvall said in his best obsequious voice, as he bowed as low as he could. The fact that he felt like vomiting instead of bowing helped. He loathed Evita, and everything she stood for. “I come on behalf of his Excellency, Count Garvan—”
“Yes, fine, you’re yet another one of his lackeys,” she said, disgusted. “Unless you came to rescue me from this godforsaken mudball, I could care less!”
“Patience, Majesty,” he crooned. “The plan is well in motion. I am Sir Bedford Karvall – perhaps His Excellency has seen fit to mention me to your Majesty?” he asked, expectantly.
Evita looked at him blankly, her pretty face contorted in disgust. “No, you fawning twit, he didn’t. Nor would I care. I don’t care what kind of lickspittles he has to do his laundry; I just want him to live up to his part of the deal!”
“Oh, he will, Majesty,” Karvall assured her. “You will get everything you deserve. You have Garvan Spasso’s word on it.” He crossed casually to the crib. “This is . . . she?”
“Yes, the horrid little brat. I told your master that I was not the right choice to look after the wretched creature, but he insisted. Gave me some garbage about a princess of the blood requiring regal care, but I think he just wanted me out of his way!”
“Your Majesty’s safety and comfort are of supreme importance to His Excellency,” Karvall agreed. “The moment that this affair is over, you will be restored, as agreed.” He didn’t actually have much idea what Spasso may have promised this fallen monarch, but he had a pretty solid guess as to what the terms might include.
“Speaking of your safety,” he said, as he leaned in closer to inspect Princess Elaine – yes, she was the spitting image of her father, Prince Lucas, he could see, and had her mother’s distinctive sapphire-blue eyes, “word has come that someone – likely one of the filthy neobarbarians below – has gotten word to a smuggler or mercenary. I’m having the matter investigated now, but should the worst happen, Your Majesty should stick with me. I have a ship concealed not to far from here – we could be there in moments by aircar – and if any . . . unpleasantness should occur, we can slip away and be in orbit before the smoke clears.”
Evita shook her pretty head. “That’s not what the plan was—”
“The plan didn’t include the possibility of being assaulted by mercenaries in the midst of delicate negotiations!” Karvall exploded. “Do you have any idea how much the Prince of Tanith is willing to pay for that little girl? And Garvan Spasso’s head? Millions!”
“I know,” she said, with a sigh. “Wait – millions? Bah! But it was supposed to be that ugly wench from Marduk who was supposed to be here, too! How am I going to be able to marry Lucas Trask and press my claim to the throne of Gram when he’s not a widower, yet? I could kill your master for that failure!”
“Yes, well, His Excellency was improvising, using what crude tools he had. And the Tanith princess is most . . . unpredictable, believe me. You should have seen how she gloated the day my poor master lost his hand—”
“Yes, I’m sure it was tragic,” Evita said, unsympathetically. “But leaving her alive like that seriously puts a kink in my plans! Mark my words, Lucas Trask is going to come back to Gram to take the throne away from Omfray the Pretender, and when he does, he will have the rightful Queen of Gram by his side! Once the people see us together . . .” she said, trailing off dreamily. “That is, once she’s dead, and I’m off of this miserable excuse for a planet!”
“His Excellency chose this site because it was remote and well-protected. If it is no longer well-protected . . . well, he has to look to his investment, doesn’t he? At the first sign of trouble with the natives, we take an aircar and retreat. No questions. No waiting for orders. We go . . . or we might not have another chance. His Excellency’s orders. Is that understood?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, annoyed. “I’ll be glad to go. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’ve been living here for weeks – I think its weeks, it’s too hard to tell with this insane daylight cycle! And as long as Gomero is keeping the men in line, you have nothing to worry about. If Barsaro was actually in charge, then we’d all be doomed.”
Karvall paused as he watched some runners, carbines slung over their shoulders, come through the front gate, gesturing wildly. Apparently they’d discovered the cozy little pocket on the bluff, above, that he’d used to spy on the compound. He’d tried his best to leave enough evidence behind to make it look like there were several soldiers there for a long time.
“Yes,” he said, absently. “I suppose as long as Gomero has things under control here, there’s nothing to worry about at all.”
Ten minutes later the sound of a gunshot rang out across the compound, and within an hour word had come that Gomero had been executed for betraying his leader, though he denied it to his dying breath. Then Barsaro called for Karvall to come down and go with him by rattletrap aircar to examine the overlook. For a bonus Alexi took him to the site where the lighter had landed. He knelt down, put his fingers into the depressions left by the landing gear, and straightened with a sigh.
“The good news is that this ratty old lighter probably didn’t come from Tanith,” he said, authoritatively. “It’s an older model, probably made on the Sword Worlds, but over twenty years old. Two-seater. The men were veterans of reconnaissance,” he declared. “They had some advanced gear, but mostly took notes. He peered around the site as if he were studying it. “And I think . . . I might be wrong, but I think they killed a sentry. Probably disc
overed them, and force them to kill him. Are you missing any sentries?” he asked, trying to keep any interest from his voice.
“Duroto did not come back from duty several nights ago,” Barsaro admitted, suspiciously. “Perhaps he ran afoul of these mercenaries,” he sneered.
“Either that . . . or he was their contact,” Karvall pointed out. “How closely did this Duroto work with Gomero?”
“They barely knew each other!” dismissed Barsaro.
“Well, if you were a traitor about to kill your chief in his bed and take command of his troops, would you want to be seen frequently with your most trusted confederate?” Karvall pointed out. After he explained what some of the larger words meant, Barsaro nodded.
“Spazzo has a good one in you,” he said, admiringly. “You see things for what they are.”
“Such a man as His Excellency constantly inspires,” Karvall insisted. What he inspired was nausea and wrath, mostly, but he was inspirational.
During his careful examination of the site, he scrupulously avoided calling attention to the cairn of rocks not twenty feet away. Since they were deferring to him as the expert, they didn’t ask questions. He leaned on the rattletrap and pretended to think out loud.
Princess Valerie's War Page 11