Princess Valerie's War

by Terry Mancour

  “So before you go deciding that maybe you don’t think she’s up to the task, my noble lords,” he said, finishing on a sardonic note, “keep in mind that this ‘lovely girl’ has been put to the test again and again, and she has demonstrated her ability to lead and her willingness to accept counsel. Now I can name a dozen monarchs and heads-of-state off the top of my head who didn’t posses either one of those characteristics, and their realms suffered accordingly. So tell me, gentlemen: how is the Realm suffering? Rathmore, how’s the stock market?”

  “Booming,” he conceded. “It started to decline a little after the war declaration on Aton, but since then . . . well, people are optimistic. The trading companies associated with the merchant fleet are particularly bullish.”

  “And Valpry? Apart from the planets we’re at war with, how are our diplomatic relationships?”

  “We still have strong alliances with Amateratsu, Beowulf, and Marduk,” he agreed. “About half of the Sword Worlds still like us. And the Gilgameshers.”

  “Yes, because Prince Lucas – and Princess Valerie – made a concerted effort to go against the usual disdain for the traders and grant them diplomatic recognition, like any other civilized world. Tell me, has that policy been an advantage to the Realm, in your professional opinion?”

  Valpry rolled his eyes expressively. “You know it has, Otto.”

  “You’re damn right it has! And Basil: you’re constructing more ships than your father ever dreamed of, and better ships, too. You have twice as many men working for you, and I know what your stock prices are like. Do you have any real complaints?”

  “Well, I was worried that things would slow down after those new Gram ships were captured,” he conceded, “and I hate to keep people idle. But with this new construction project on the tower, plus building tenders for the mine field, I’ll be able to keep them busy until we get more orders. And yes, our stock price is up,” he said, grudgingly. “According to Ffayle, Gorram Yards is the single most valuable company on Tanith.”

  “Which makes you a very rich man doing what you love to do,” Harkaman reproved. “So, all three of you, despite your anxieties, can’t point to any particular issue with Her Highnesses’ rule. Just wanted to make that clear.

  “Now, I miss Lucas as much as any of you, but until the time that he’s recaptured, your sworn liege is Princess Valerie. Who, I might add, has the full and complete support of the combined Armed Forces of Tanith, namely me. Your concerns are well-noted, gentlemen, but I’m telling you that they’re misplaced. We’ve got a better monarch than we probably deserve, and while we might all die in battle because of her, I’d say the chances of any of us dying peacefully in bed at the end of a long and eventful life are pretty scarce under any circumstances. So quit your bitching about problems we don’t have and do your damn jobs, and she’ll do hers. Is that understood?” he added, sternly.

  “Yes, Otto,” Valpry sighed.

  “Fine, if you’re still sold on her, I am,” grumbled Gorram.

  “I still prefer Lucas,” Rathmore said, grudgingly, “but you do make some compelling points, Your Grace.”

  “Fine. Now, if you will all excuse me, I’m late for an important meeting in the Government Section,” he sighed. “Go home, have a cocktail, see your wives, and try to relax.”

  He walked the men to the contragrav lift, where he left them in better spirits, if not entirely convinced. Harkaman waited for the next lift with his guards discretely behind him, thinking furiously about the conversation. It had unsettled him, to a certain extent, in part because it had been a long time in coming, and in part because the issue had taken so long to arise.

  The bulk of the civilized population of Tanith was either directly imported from the Sword Worlds – mostly Gram – or had grown up on one of the other Space Viking colonies. A small but significant percentage was made up by expatriate Mardukans from the Old Federation. The two cultures, while similar in many ways, were miles apart in others. Having a bunch of seasoned nobility bossed around by a Sword Worlder was one thing – but on the Sword Worlds, the female nobility were consorts, there to make babies and raise heirs. They rarely took power themselves – with notable exceptions.

  In the Old Federation, and on Marduk in particular, there was a much more egalitarian approach to leadership. Women could and did rise to positions of power and authority without challenging the social basis of authority. Isis, in fact, had enjoyed a female-run dynasty for over three centuries, he knew, and Aton’s ruthlessly egalitarian society made almost no distinction between the genders. But put a nice civilized girl like Valerie in charge of a bunch of testosterone-poisoned old Sword Worlders, and there were bound to be problems.

  Harkaman felt fortunate that it had taken this long for even a grudging ‘loyal opposition’ to form. He noted that Nikkolay Trask and Paytrik Morland hadn’t been among the cabal, nor had Lothar Ffayle or Alvyn Karffard – presumably the Home Minister, the Finance Minister and the Minister of Everything Else didn’t feel Valerie’s rule was headed in the wrong direction.

  But perhaps he should make some discrete inquiries amongst the other members of the Great Council to determine which way the wind was blowing. He’d managed to stomp out a potential brushfire today, he knew, but it only took one or two powerful nobles with a grudge to mess up the politics of an entire planet.

  To that end, he hurried to his next meeting. The lift took him up five floors and over half of the length of the Planetary Building before depositing him and his guards in the Royal Section.

  The place was deserted, for the most part, except for the armed RAT guards who were constantly on duty. Harkaman knew that the Golden Hand swept the security of the floor daily, after the assassination attempts, but since Lucas had been captured, almost all of the official functions of the Realm had been held elsewhere. Indeed, there were still signs of the dramatic shoot-out almost six months before, in which Spasso’s minions had successfully kidnapped Princess Elaine and had almost kidnapped Princess Valerie – were still being repaired.

  That was, ostensibly, why he was here: to determine how much further the security of the section could be strengthened before it was brought back into full use. He’d been checking on the work for weeks, now, and it was almost complete. He left his guards at the secure checkpoint with the Royal Army troopers stationed there, and went within the Royal Apartment.

  She was waiting there in the living room area, already, a drink in her hand and another poured for him. She wore a long white diaphanous gown that concealed her form only technically.

  “You’re late,” she said, bluntly.

  “I had unexpected visitors,” Otto sighed, as he sat at the little table and gratefully accepted the drink. “Visitors with rank too high for me to reschedule. Visitors who are feeling a little . . . iffy about Her Highness.”

  “Hmmm,” his mistress said, her eyes narrowing. “Is that so? And what did the Warlord have to say to that, I wonder?” she asked, her voice a purr – with an edge.

  “I reminded them of their duty,” Harkaman said. “And I reminded them that we could do a lot worse.”

  “I can’t argue with that reasoning,” she said, tossing back half of her drink. “But what caused such a revolt?”

  “ ‘Revolt’ is putting too fine a point on it,” Otto disagreed, as he kicked off his boots and stretched his toes among the plush carpet of the room. “It was just a small, unofficial conference between the leading nobles about the state of the Realm. Not even seditious—”

  “I’m not so certain that Mardukan society would agree,” she countered. “There have been plenty of times when that sort of thing would have been considered treason, or at least in very bad taste.”

  “In the Sword Worlds, that’s the job of the upper nobility,” Harkaman reminded, sipping his drink. “If the planet looks like it’s going in the wrong direction, the great nobles are the ones who act. Of course, they can’t really do anything without the support of their bannermen and vassal
s. But if things get too bad, they have the power to change their monarch.”

  “But not the authority?” his companion asked, curious.

  “Officially? No,” Harkaman admitted. “Officially, they’re bound to the planetary monarch. But when things go wrong, like they did with Angus, then if the great houses of a world depose the sitting monarch, that’s considered a legitimate use of power. Hell, that’s the way that the Devineys became the ruling dynasty of Morglay: they were just the Dukes of Devineyland for a century, until they came to power after the old royal house was overthrown because of poor management. Can’t say the Devineys have done much better,” he added. “Morglay has always been a mess.”

  “Wouldn’t having a constitutional monarchy be a better idea?” his mistress asked, as she refreshed their drinks. “No room for dynastic issues, if succession was clearly spelled out.”

  “You’re thinking like a Mardukan,” Harkaman dismissed. “Until recently, the Mardukan monarchy didn’t rule as much as reign. On Marduk, the power was in the hands of the Navy and the Government, not the nobility or the monarchy. The nobility was there as hereditary wealth, a pool of talent for high-level jobs, and as a civic acknowledgement of good works. They weren’t there to wield power. Pre-Makann, of course, Prince Regent Simon is a different story.

  “But on the Sword Worlds, the power is in the hands of the great nobles, and a monarch’s power is greatly dependent upon his relations with those nobles. So, if our sovereigns really did go crazy and we overthrew them – theoretically, of course – then the whole issue of succession wouldn’t be the most pressing thing. The issue of who held actual power would be.”

  “And that’s the noble house with the most men and guns?”

  “And tanks, combat cars, or ships,” agreed Harkaman. “Or the one best able to deploy them to effect. Everyone is armed. The small landholders, the yeomen, the petty nobility and knights and barons, they all attend mandatory militia training, and those who excel usually end up taking service in the lord’s guard. When the need arises – and it had better be a pretty potent need, to call out the troops and take them away from their jobs – then they go into service under their lord’s banner, and under his lord’s. Unless he’s rebelling against his lord, in which case the local baron has to make an uncomfortable choice. Which keeps the number of messy rebellions low. In theory.”

  “On Marduk,” his mistress said, as she reseated herself alluringly in front of him and handed him a second cocktail, “the nobility are prohibited from forming private armies. The government maintains a monopoly on violence, not the nobility. To be honest, most of them couldn’t form a cocktail party without professional help.”

  “And in the Sword Worlds that’s the only kind of armies there are. This idea of a standing planetary army is novel, to us. A Sword World king who tried to build one would be shut down quickly by his great nobles, and they damned sure wouldn’t consent to pay for it. But here, it’s necessary, considering that most of us ‘great nobles’ have lands that we’ve never spent the night in, yet. Much less a trained militia to draw troops from. I’m a Duke with no vassals,” he said, shrugging in mock sadness.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” she said, with mock sympathy. “Do you think these . . . visitors of yours would ever go further?”

  “They’re just anxious and blowing off steam,” Harkaman dismissed. “Good, loyal men, all of them. They’re just concerned.”

  “I’ll take you at your word, Duke,” his mistress said, after a pause. “I began this . . . thing we have because of the strong, decisive judgment you demonstrate. It’s quite attractive,” she said, setting down her drink and leaning forward.

  “I thought you did it because you were bored and lonely,” he countered with a knowing smile. “Surely that’s the only reason a woman such as you would ever dally with an old wreck like me?”

  “The only reason?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Oh, not at all. I’m sure you’re just dripping with admirers.”

  “A military man finds such entanglements . . . distracting,” he breathed as she came closer. “I prefer to keep my affairs more clandestine.”

  “Lucky for me,” the woman said with a smile. “What would people say? A scandal in the royal court?”

  “Tanith’s a frontier world,” he reminded her as she crawled on top of his great frame. “There’s not much in the way of social propriety to offend.”

  “Still,” she countered, “a scandal involving the highest reaches of the Realm . . .”

  “Which is why we keep meeting this way,” he murmured as he kissed her. “And all of the other odd places we’ve met. “

  “I’m half expecting you to start resorting to disguises,” she giggled, girlishly. “I imagine you with a dashing eye patch . . .” she said, kissing his eye. The big man sighed and relaxed into the couch and into her embrace.

  “For you, I’d wear one,” he chuckled. “What ever possessed me to get involved in something like this? With someone like you?”

  “I thought you were bored and lonely,” she quipped. “Honestly, Otto, the sneaking around, the avoiding suspicion at all costs . . . it adds something to what is already an exciting affair. Thank you for that. It helps with all the pressure. And work is always a lot of pressure.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he sighed again. “I’m a solitary man by nature. It’s been a long time since I found someone worth . . .”

  “All right, enough sentimental romantic garbage, mister!” she said, abruptly. “I’m yours, already! You can stop impressing me with how much you adore me! I’ve been looking forward to this all damn day! So out of that uniform, mister, and march into that bedroom!” she commanded, pointing.

  He laughed and quickly stood, sweeping her up in the process. Harkaman was proud of the fact that he did so without visible effort, and very aware of how much effort it took to conceal the cascade of twinges running down his spine. She wanted strong and decisive? Gods, she was beautiful enough to warrant it, no matter how much his body complained. He took five bold and decisive steps into the royal bedroom, where he was about to gently hurl her squealing form on the bed, when he stopped.

  That was, technically, Lucas Trask’s bed. His friend. His sworn liege. His captain. His prince.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, noting his hesitation.

  “It just feels . . . odd, somehow. To be using Lucas’ bed. For this.”

  “Otto Harkaman, I know for a fact that Lucas has only slept in that bed a handful of times, the last one the night his daughter was born. I, of all people, should know that,” she said, dryly. “Enough with the Sword World sentimentality! More Mardukan decadence! I want to be entertained!” she cried, lustily. Harkaman grinned, and tossed her onto the huge, elegantly made-up bed, where she rolled and squealed. He began removing his jacket while he watched his beautiful mistress watch him.

  “Well I do genuinely feel bad about one thing, regarding Lucas,” he said, with a small grin. “I’m about to occupy the most valuable part of his Realm!”

  * * *

  Sir Nogal of Bentfork stiffly took a seat at the bar of the Galaxy Club, the high-end eatery favored by off-duty officers, the nobility, and corporate executives in the Entertainment Section of the Planetary building. It was fairly exclusive, exceedingly expensive, and almost indecently tasteful. Nogal didn’t care a lionmouse’s tail about that, however: to him, it was merely the nearest place to get a stiff drink after his first painful day back at duty.

  Countess Dorothy’s medical team had pronounced him on the mend and ready for “light duty”. For Nogal, that ended up meaning conducting interviews with prospective candidates into the next Golden Hand class.

  Interviews. It sounded like ‘light duty’. But his skin was still fragile where the grafts had replaced the damaged tissue, and sitting for any length of time was uncomfortable. Not that he let it show – he was disciplined, after all, and had been conditioned to be able to endure great pain and suffering, if the need
arose. Sitting through six interviews with bright young men who thought they had what it took to become a Golden Hand nearly counted. A man wanted a drink of something potent after a day like that – and the facing prospect of more to come. It would be another few weeks before he was cleared for standard duty.

  As he sipped his Gram pear-brandy – which he’d become fond of over the last few months for its bright, sweet flavor – he noticed that he wasn’t the only one at the bar. Six seats down sat the plain, unassuming figure of Mr. Dawes, the emissary from the mysterious Wizard, who was sipping a Lyran whisky as he made notes in a notebook. Nogal hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to the man outside of strict security matters since he’d arrived. The young officer summoned the human bartender and bought a drink for the quiet, unassuming man.