Lord of Janissaries (34 page)

THRONES AND

DOMINIONS

1

The rocket sputtered for a moment, then rose swiftly above the worn cobblestone courtyard of the old fortress. It hissed upwards in a column of fire, trailing golden sparks and a faint smell of brimstone as it climbed until, without warning, it burst loudly into a shower of silver. The crowd gasped in wonder.

High above the courtyard, two richly dressed boys about fifteen Earth years in age clapped their hands in wonder. They huddled together in a window cut in the wall of the keep thirty meters above the gawking populace. One of the boys shouted aloud when the rocket burst above Castle Edron.

“Quiet! The Protector will hear us,” the other boy said. “He’ll make us join the others.”

“He is nowhere about, Majesty.”

“Ah.” Nothing like those rockets had ever been seen on the whole planet of Tran. Even kings should be able to gawk at them without losing status.

But, Ganton thought, kings must think first of their dignity, and for the opinions of the nobility. No monarch ever needed his lords’ good opinions more than I do. Another rocket arced across the darkening sky. This one trailed blue sparks. “Oh—look!” he cried. The True Sun had long set, but the Firestealer was high enough to cast baleful shadows and light the summer sky above the fortress capital of Drantos.

Ganton shouted again as yet another rocket burst. Ganton son of Loron, Wanax of Drantos, he might be; but he was also nine years old, fifteen according to the reckoning of the starman Lord Rick; and the rockets were fun to watch. “Perhaps we could make weapons from those,” Ganton said. “Do you think so?”

“The lord Rick says he will,” Morrone answered.

He speaks in those tones
, Ganton thought.
They all do, when they speak of Lord Rick. They never sound that way when the talk is about me. They rebelled against my father. The wonder is that I lived this long. It is no time to be Wanax, but I have no choice of times
.

More rockets flashed upward from the palace courtyard. Each sent down silver and gold showers. One burst with a loud sound.

“Was it like that?” Morrone asked.

“Louder,” Ganton answered. “Much louder.” He had no need to ask what Morrone meant. “It was just a year ago.”

“A whole army,” Morrone said. “All killed in an instant—”

“No. Only their leaders were killed. We yet had a battle to win. Not that it was difficult, with the Wanax Sarakos dead, and all the starmen kneeling to Lord Rick. But the armies of Sarakos were defeated by good Drantos warriors, not star weapons.”

Morrone nodded, but Ganton thought his companion didn’t really believe it. Sarakos had conquered nearly the whole of the Kingdom of Drantos. Until the great battle, Sarakos held the entire County of Chelm and most lands of the other great lords. His writ ran everywhere except into the hills where Ganton had hidden with the Lord Protector and the remnants of the loyalist forces. Sarakos had defeated the best Ganton had, had killed the first Lord Protector. Then the starman Lord Rick had come with the wild clansmen who obeyed his wife’s father, and in one day, one grand battle—

More rockets flashed upward. “You spend firepowder with both hands,” Morrone said.

Ganton shrugged. “It is no small thing, the birth of the lady Isobel as heiress to the greatest lord of Drantos. Besides, the firepowder was given to me by Lord Rick himself. Come, can’t I show my pleasure at the honor he does me, to have his child born in my capital?”
And without my leave, although I would have given it cheerfully
—

He felt Morrone draw away, and wondered if his friend were angry. Ganton had few enough friends, and almost none his own age; soon, he supposed, Morrone too would treat him as Wanax rather than friend. All too soon. And that would be right and proper, but it would be lonely as well—

“There,” Morrone said. He pointed to the horizon to the south. “I can just see it. The Demon Sun.”

Ganton shuddered slightly and hoped that Morrone wouldn’t notice. Only a star, the starmen had said. A star that wandered close to Tran every six hundred years. Not a demon at all, only a star.

“It might as well be a demon,” Morrone said, as if reading his thoughts. “The Demon Sun comes, and we live in the Time . . .” His voice lost its banter, and took on the singsong notes of a priest. “The Time draws near, when oceans will rise. Storms shall rage, and gods will come from the skies to offer gifts. Woe to those who trade with gods, for after the gods depart there shall be smoke and fire and destruction—” Morrone broke off as suddenly as he had begun. “There’s someone coming.” He pointed. “On the south road. There, just below the Demon Sun.”

Ganton stared into the dusky light. One of the Earthmen had told him that the Firestealer was as bright as a hundred full Moons, but the words meant little to Ganton. He was willing to believe that a place called Earth was the home of humanity, but the thought held little impact for him. Tran was home enough.

The light of the Firestealer was more than bright enough to see by, but it made for tricky light, and cast strange shadows. But—yes, there was a large party riding up to the south gate of the town. “Merchants, I’d say,” Ganton muttered.

“Doubtless. From the southern cities, by their clothes. What would they be doing here?”

“Come to make obeisance to me,” Ganton said. He chuckled.

“It may be,” Morrone said. He sounded very serious.

Ganton laughed aloud. “The southern cities would sooner give up their gods than their councils and assemblies and meeting halls. What could they possibly gain?”

“Lord Rick’s protection,” Morrone said.

And once again that tone, Ganton thought.

“Caravan ho!” The guard’s challenge faintly reached their high perch.

“They’re too late,” Morrone said. “The gates are locked for the night. But surely they know that . . .”

Someone in the caravan shouted to the sentries. Ganton couldn’t hear what was said, but it seemed to cause a stir. “Officer of the day!” the sentry shouted.

Ganton frowned in puzzlement and looked at his friend. “What do you see?” he asked. “Who could cause such excitement?”

Morrone shook his head. “I can’t make it out.”

“The starmen have tools to see with,” Ganton said. “They call them—
binoculars
.” He said the unfamiliar word gingerly. “Binoculars.”

“You should have them,” Morrone said.

Ganton shrugged. “Whose? They are the personal equipment of the starmen, and there are no more than a dozen of those—
binoculars
—in all this world of Tran. How should I have them?”

“You are Wanax!” Morrone said. “These starmen are not great lords. The lord Rick himself is no more than Eqeta of Chelm. Aye, and that only through his wife’s first husband. Ach. The Eqetassa Tylara no more deserves that title than I do. Less, for I was cousin to the last Eqeta, and she no more than his unbedded wife.”

Ganton stared in amazement. He had heard complaints before, but none so open. “Yet when you speak of the lord Rick,” Ganton said. “Your voice. You speak of him as you would of—of Yatar.”

“Your pardon, Majesty. I spoke in haste—”

“You will not do this to me!” Ganton shouted. “Finish what you have begun. What is this you say? If you have complaints against the lord Rick, say them now. Speak to me as friend—”

“I say no more than do hundreds of your loyal nobility,” Morrone said. “We respect the lord Rick, and we would follow him—but we fear his upstart family. We fear they will bring their kilted barbarians to Drantos by scores—”

“I would they would bring tens of scores of their archers,” Ganton said.

“Perhaps. But when they loose their gullfeathered arrows—who will wear the grey Tamaerthon plumage? Your enemies or your friends?” His voice fell. “Majesty. Ganton, my friend. I know it must be hard—”

“Hard,” Ganton said. “Hard indeed. Even the Protector fears the lord Rick and the star weapons. As he should. You were not there, but I was there, when the other starman, Parsons, the renegade, made common cause with Sarakos, and turned those weapons on my armies. Men, horses, all destroyed, and the sounds of thunder everywhere. No one safe. My Captain-General died at my side, and we five furlongs from the battle!

“But it will change,” Ganton said. “I will not be in leading strings forever. Listen.”

There were more shouts below. Then a rumble. “The gates,” Morrone said. “They open the gates, even at this late hour! Who?”

“We must go see,” Ganton said. “Race you—” He leaped from the window seat and was down half a flight of steps before Morrone could follow.

They raced down the stairs, shouting and laughing.

* * *

The Lord Protector was waiting for them at the second landing. His scarred, weatherbeaten face and the plain broadsword hung on his belt contrasted sharply with the rich blue and scarlet court attire and jeweled chain of office. He was obviously far more at home in the saddle than the throne room.

Ganton caught himself in mid-stride and drew himself to full height, trying to walk carefully and correctly, hoping that Camithon hadn’t seen him running—

“Sire,” Camithon began.

By Yatar, I’m for it now, Ganton thought.

“Sire, you should not have absented yourself for so long,” the Protector said. “You do little honor to the lord and lady of Chelm, after they have so honored your house by bringing forth their first child here.”

Once more
, Ganton thought.
Tell me once more how honored I am, and I will scream curses on your ancestors
—“My house is honored indeed. But perhaps there were practical reasons as well? If the lady Tylara bore her child in Chelm, her clansmen in Tamaerthon would be slighted—and if in Tamaerthon, would not the knights and bheromen of Chelm know insult? My house was a convenience to them. And to the realm, of course. To the realm.”

Camithon frowned, and the great scar across his face grew dark. For a moment Ganton was afraid. The old warrior was perfectly capable of bending his sovereign over his knee—although, Ganton reassured himself, never in public.

“It’s true enough,” Ganton insisted.

Camithon nodded. “Aye. Yatar’s own truth. But there is such a thing as the right words at the wrong time.”

“I heard a disturbance,” Ganton said. “I came to see—”

“Aye. A starman. Come to see Lord Rick. With a gift.”

“Oh.”

Camithon didn’t have to explain the significance of that.

* * *

The walls were thick stone crowned with battlements. The gates were set in massive porticos, and made of heavy wood studded with large iron knobs. The small mounted party was barely through when the gates crashed shut, and they heard the locking bar, a log nearly as big around as a telephone pole, fall into place. Ben Murphy rode on in silence for a moment, then turned to his companion. “Guess it’s too late for second thoughts now,” he said in English.

In contrast to Murphy, the other man was mounted on a centaur. It didn’t look much like the classical centaurs; the upper torso was more apelike than human, while the body itself resembled a moose as much as it did a horse. Its rider looked around through half-closed eyes. “I reckon we could get out of here,” he said. He reached forward to stroke the centaur’s back. “Dobbin and me’ve been through a bit on this stupid planet. Don’t reckon we’d let these city types stop us.”

“Naw,” Murphy said. “We’d never make it.”

“Hell we couldn’t.” Lafe Reznick patted the H&K battle rifle slung over his shoulder. “Say the word, Ben, and I’ll hold ’em off while you break out the one-oh-six.”

Murphy snorted. “And what’ll you bet they don’t have crosshairs on us right now?” He pointed up to the high tower of the castle that dominated the town. A skyrocket rose from the tower’s base as he pointed.

“You really think the captain would do that?” Reznick demanded.

Murphy shrugged. “Maybe not. But what about Mason? Or Elliot?”

“Yeah. I forgot about Sergeant Major Elliot,” Reznick said. “Guess they all went over when Captain Galloway shot Colonel Parsons. And Elliot’s just the man to see we don’t get away.” He squinted up toward the castle. “Up there—or hell, maybe right over in one of those doorways with a submachine-gun.”