Lord of Janissaries (101 page)

“Welcome, Lady Tylara. Did you have a good journey?”

Tylara stopped at the threshold of the rector’s private chambers and let Lady Siobhan take her cloak. It was the first time she’d visited the University since Les’ return; had Gwen added any more luxuries and would it say anything if she had?

I must
not
go about looking upon Lady Gwen as an enemy whose strengths and weaknesses I must spy out. She is no fool; if I do this she will know and tell Rick. And if by some strange working of fate she is in truth not my mortal enemy . . .

A strange working of fate that would be, indeed, unless my husband is not as other men are.

Tylara forced a smile, before the silence grew too long. “Well enough. At this season it is no great hardship to travel any distance. I confess I will not be unhappy to live to see the days when Tran has the—
freeways
—of Earth.”

And that is to admit a weakness, and to Gwen! Must I seem a witling?

“Let’s hope we all live that long. Would you like some tea, or would you prefer wine? I have some sherry I’ve been saving for an occasion, and I think this is one. It’s a dark, sweet wine, stronger than ordinary vintages.”

“Thank you, my Lady Rector. I will have a glass.”

One glass of anything should not weaken my wits or lower my guard, unless the gods have already seen fit to do it.

“Lady Siobhan. Two glasses of the Bristol Cream—oh, and bring that letter you received yesterday from Lord Mason.” The girl went to a carved cupboard by the window and pulled out an Earth bottle and two Roman glasses.

“She reads English very well now,” Gwen continued. “I wish I had half her talent for languages.”

Do you need that, when you have—other talents? No, that is not just. None of the men she seems to attract can be wound around her finger by no more than a whore’s arts.

That is why it is so hard not to fear her. Bedsport is one thing. A true meeting of minds is far more. And since Rick and I have not had either since mid-winter . . .

“Thank you, Lady Siobhan.” The sherry was indeed stronger than common wine. Tylara sipped cautiously, not sure she cared for the sweetness. “Is Lord Mason well?”

“Oh yes, my lady. Or at least, he was when he penned the letter, some twelve days ago. I pray that nothing has happened to him in that time.”

The look on Siobhan’s face was unmistakable. So Lord Mason’s suit is succeeding, is it? Well, both could do far worse, she one of the greatest of the Star Lords and a good man for a husband, he a granddaughter of faithful old Camithon for a wife. And my husband—

For a moment Tylara could not complete the thought. Then she forced her wits onward, like forcing a skittish horse across a swift-flowing stream.

My husband will be happy. Did he not say once, “Art Mason’s got to limit himself to officer-class ladies from now on. No more barmaids. In fact, he really ought to get married.”

And am I so lost to loyalty and good sense that I wish my husband to be unhappy? Especially in a matter so nearly concerning one of his most trusted men, to whom I owe no small debt myself?

“Pour yourself a glass, Siobhan, and sit down,” said Gwen. “Let’s not stand too much on ceremony.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The girl didn’t take the drink, but sat down, unfolded three pieces of paper, and began to read.

“To my dear Lady Siobhan, greetings and hopes that you are as well as I am.

“By the time you read this, we may have fought the great battle against the horde of the Prophet Phrados. Certainly it will be fought sooner rather than later. They have eaten the country bare behind them, and have no way to go but forward. Nor can they move east into the Roman Provinces, not without leaving us free to strike at their flank and rear.

“Publius Caesar seems to doubt this last. He has kept three of his six legions in the Provinces, together with several cohorts of garrison troops and some thousands of militia. To do him justice, he may fear rebels or bandits as well as Phrados, and does not wish to admit it. In his position, I suspect I would do much the same.”

Hah. He fears unfriendly eyes will read his message. Unfriendly, or a stranger. Who in Caesar’s camp knows English? A starman hired from the south, one of the deserters? It could be. And Gengrich.

Will Lord Gengrich be truly loyal? He has been pardoned, but will he do treason anew? And if he is, what does that say about my husband’s notions of how to deal with traitors?

And mine?

As before, the answer was silence.

Siobhan went on. “However, we have enough here to do the business. Two legions of cavalry, one of pikemen, the Tamaerthons, the Drantos knights and infantry, Gengrich’s men, and contingents of infantry from Rustengo, Vis, and a baker’s dozen of other towns and small cities, plus the—my lady, what is—?”

“The artillery. That’s the large firepowder weapons.”

“The artillery, the star weapons, the balloon, and a few tricks the Captain General undoubtedly has up his sleeve. That’s forty thousand men and a lot of weapons most of the horde has never even heard of, let alone faced. They have a hundred and twenty thousand, or so we’ve heard from the last batch of scouts, but only about a quarter of that is much more than an armed mob. . . .”

As Siobhan continued, Tylara more and more ceased to listen. Instead she tried to imagine her husband’s face as he planned the battle. As hard as she tried, she could imagine nothing except the cold mask that he had worn since mid-winter. Aye, worn even those few times they shared a bed, as though only his body touched hers, while his mind was somewhere else, with someone else. . . .

What else could he be hiding behind that mask, other than such a shift of allegiance? If by some mischance the secret of the Children of Vothan had been discovered, surely he would have had the wits to see that this was a matter they could discuss as equals. They had a common interest in seeing that their plans and the future of their children were protected from the consequences of Gwen Tremaine’s not being a chaste woman—or at least being chaste only by the customs of an Earth she would never see again.

If Rick had been silent for so long, there could be only one reason—that what was dividing him from her was a matter on which no words would make the slightest difference. There could be only one such matter.

Am I helpless in the face of this change of allegiance?

Perhaps not. But I must move cautiously. If Rick has hidden his heart so well for so long, it could be that he is now as skilled in dissimulation as any Tran lord. Skilled in our ways of intrigue. How otherwise could he have devised so wise an end to the problem of Lord Rand? The man who saved me would not have been so wise.

If wise as Tran lords, than—as ruthless? It has been known, to use the children by the first wife as hostages to secure acquiescence in a second. As long as the second is fertile. Which, Yatar help me, Gwen certainly must be. . . .

Has my husband finally succeeded in frightening me?

The gods have mercy, yes.

She shivered.

“Lady Tylara, are you cold? Here, Siobhan. Pull the shutters and make up some tea.”

Even worse, I must endure this intriguer’s hiding her triumph behind a mask of graciousness!

* * *

The bonfires at either end of the bridge and the torches held by the sentries showed the last wagons more than halfway across. The floor of the bridge was sagging to within a foot of the water, but with the extra boats tied in place a few days ago the bridge was holding.

Rick still didn’t uncross his fingers until the last wagon had rumbled off the bridge onto the north bank of the Dnaster. He turned, to see Drumold looking at him with what seemed suspiciously like a smile.

“Ye have the air of a man who is hoping that a man ye have to trust really knows what he’s doing.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To one who knows ye well enough, Rick, I canna say that you are any great hand at hidin’ your thoughts.”

I am better than you think, my friend, Rick mused, or you and I would not be standing on this hillside, having this amicable discussion.

“Well, I’m not surprised that Lord Holloway knows his business. He’s almost as good an engineer as Lord Campbell. I was surprised how many suggestions he made. He wasn’t the only one of Gengrich’s men who did more than I expected.”

“Mayhap Gengrich knows that his fate is now linked to yours, and would rather stand than fall.”

“Likely enough. He never was stupid.” Maybe, just maybe Gengrich would be smart enough to play it straight from now on, and the secret he held would never come out.

That’s hoping the horse will learn to sing with a vengeance, and is there going to be anything left of your marriage even if Gengrich keeps his big bazoo shut for all time to come?

Don’t work yourself into a stew over that, or Drumold will notice enough to ask questions you’d rather not answer.

The torches were now moving onto the bridge. Some of the sentries were kneeling, tools in hand, while others held the torches.

“We’re going to dismantle the bridge into four sections tonight. Tomorrow night we tow it downriver and reassemble it under the walls of Vis. It would be too hard to defend where it is. Also, if we fight where I expect to and we do need to retreat, we’ll have a shorter and more easily defended route to the bridge.”

“Best not mention that to Publius Caesar.”

“What kind of fool—?”

“Can you no tell a jest when ye hear one?”

“Sorry.”
Got the windup. Shouldn’t show that, to Drumold or anyone else.
“Has Publius said anything new that he shouldn’t have?”

“Not since the last Council of War.” At the last council Publius had brusquely suggested that all the contingents of cities and towns claimed by Rome should fight under Roman command or not at all. He’d at least had the sense to leave it as a suggestion, but tempers had been frayed all the same.

“Publius cannot control his tongue.” Drumold looked thoughtful. “Yet he might do us no small favor if ye asked him fairly. I have read over the muster roll of Gengrich’s men. He has some twelve-score men of the Clan Mac Brayne and the Red Mac Beans among those who follow him.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t mean as much to me as it should, Drumold.”

“No shame to ye, Rick. Ye have so much wisdom in war that did I not know ye well, I would be among those who called you wizard. Ye have less knowledge of the clans of Tamaerthon, and indeed who outside the hills does not?

“It is only that the Mac Braynes and the Red Mac Beans have been at feud with Mac Clallan Muir since my grandfather bore the title. It little matters who gave first offense, and indeed it may well have been my grandfather. His temper made him enemies from the cradle to the burial mound. Very surely, though, the two clans he outlawed shed much blood in reply. They are now at feud not only with me and mine but with the Mac Bretachs and so many others it would be past dawn before I’d numbered them all. . . .”

“I’ll take your word for it. I gather you’d rather not have the two clans anywhere near the rest of the Tamaerthons?”

“Not unless ye want them shot at from both the front and the back.”

“Good God no! So where should we put them? Gengrich won’t be too happy with losing them altogether.”

“Aye. Yet if he’s no fool, he’ll know ye canna leave him with such an army loyal only to him. What matters it if his men start leaving before or after the battle, so long as they go to good service? If Publius would offer to enlist them as auxiliaries, with the hope of earning Roman citizenship in time, would Gengrich not think he was being honored? And if Publius will no offer, can we not ask Titus Frugi—?”

“Don’t get within a mile of Frugi without Publius’ permission! Frugi’s the senior legate. He has to be Publius’ second-in-command. But you may have noticed that Publius keeps a whole Praetorian cohort around his tent, to make sure Frugi doesn’t succeed to the command. . . .”

“If Publius doesn’t stop looking for assassins under the tiles of his tent, he may well find one where he’s not looking for it.”

“You know that. I know that. Publius doesn’t know it.” God, was there no end to intrigues, plots, and double-crosses? Probably not, and now he couldn’t even hope to find a refuge from them at home. Quite the contrary. Rick found himself looking forward to the coming battle. It would be a horrible business, pretty much a straightforward killing contest, but it would be simple.

“My lords?” A slightly diffident voice spoke from behind Rick. He turned to see Apelles, Yanulf’s young assistant. “Yes, Apelles?”

“Archbishop Polycarp sent me. He will hold a united service of worship in half a glass, in his tent. He would be honored if you would attend.”

And insulted if we didn’t. Not to mention all the rumors that would fly around that Lord Rick’s heart really wasn’t in this union of the two religions and that he was a secret worshipper of Christ or Vothan or Ronald McDonald . . . !

I’m a politician. I kiss babies, eat blintzes, and go to masses. And if need be, put on Indian feather bonnets and get adopted into tribes. Right.
“Thank you, Apelles. We shall be present. Where have you been assigned for the battle?”

“With the vanguard of the Drantos cavalry, Lord Rick. I am to send the healers where they are needed and to write down the dead and the hurt.”

A combination medic and staff officer, but he’d be in the thick of the fighting even if it went well. If it didn’t—well, there was something to be said for the fatalistic notion that Vothan One-eye would have a man he wanted, however far he had to seek or however young or old the man might be. Come to think of it, Apelles wasn’t all that young—getting on for twenty-four Earth years, and Rick hadn’t been much older than that when he signed up with the CIA for what turned out to be a trip to a really “unknown destination.”

Rick Galloway, you are getting too old too fast, and you know the reason.

God dammit, Tylara. WHY?

15