Lord of Janissaries (83 page)

“Indeed.” Lord Mason sounded sincere and spoke good sense, and there was no helping the starmen’s fondness for the Romans. The other Rome on the starmen’s home world—once our ancestors’ home world, the starmen say!—had passed down much wisdom to the starmen, particularly in matters of war and statecraft. It was still just as well that Publius Caesar, the heir of Rome, saw the starmen as a new kind of “barbarian” and openly distrusted them; if starmen and Romans made an alliance only the gods could help Drantos.

“Okay, let’s get at it,” Mason said. “You take charge here. Post some guards. Maybe they killed that sentry to keep him from seeing something. Make sure there’s men enough to see anything the sentry would. Then search this place as best you can.”

“And you?”

“I’ll wait for the duty squad, then somebody’s got to tell Lord Rick and the king. Want that job?”

“No. No, the arrangement is satisfactory. Armsman Garrakos, take three companions and torches to search this house. The rest of you, move to surround it.” Morrone shuddered. “I like it not, this skulking about in the dark. It makes me feel like an assassin. There can be no honor in it.”

“Now there’s something we can agree on,” Mason said. “But there’s not much more in letting the Wanax’s guests be slaughtered on the night before his wedding. Steady up, my lord. I’ll be back when I can come.”

Morrone sent off a messenger for his men. “Now, Garrakos. Let us go see what we find.”

The autumn night was chilly even though the wind had died, but Morrone felt himself sweating under his mail and arming doublet as he had not since the Battle of the Hooey River. “I like it not,” he muttered to himself. “An evil omen. I like it not.”

* * *

Art Mason unbuttoned the flap of his shoulder holster and wished that the nearest tobacco wasn’t ten light-years away. There was a kind of aromatic grass that grew in the High Cumac, and some of the troopers made it into cigarettes; Mason had tried it once. The stuff was probably related to madweed. It gave a mild high, nothing like enough to compensate for the awful taste.

Morrone was trying hard not to fidget or look nervous, but you could tell he wasn’t too happy over the prospect of somebody’s hired goons screwing up his friend’s wedding. A lot of people on this planet believed in omens. The sentry was bad enough. If some high muckety-muck did get offed—

“Happened on my watch,” Mason muttered. Not that all crime was his responsibility, but this was no burglar caught in the act by the sentry. Thin cord around the man’s neck, dagger in just the right place. A professional job. “Damn professional,” Mason muttered. “Green Berets?”

It was worth thinking about. Most of the Earth troops here on this screwy planet had some training in the dirty tricks department, and some of them had been Green Beret before the CIA hired them off to go mucking about in Africa.

All our troops are accounted for, Mason thought. But there’s a dozen off with Gengrich. Gengrich’s ambassador in yonder house. Says no starmen with him. None I recognized. But one could have been smuggled in—

Or, what the hell, there’s no shortage of local talent good enough to do that job.

Wish it hadn’t happened on my watch.

* * *

“Watch ho!” someone called. Mason heard the Outer Gate guards respond. There were sounds of horses and centaurs.

“Who is there?”

Mason couldn’t make out the words of response, but one of the voices sounded familiar. The gate opened, and a smaller number of horses and centaurs came through the wall into the Outer Bailey.

A small mounted party guided by two guardsmen with torches appeared at the gate end of the street. Five armored men, a couple of unarmored ones, and a banner-bearer carrying the red raven banner of the Bheroman of Westrook.

By God, Mason thought. Ben Murphy. Grown pretty big for a private. Of course I was only a corporal when we came here.

Ben Murphy had defended Castle Westrook and its lands after the Westmen rode down out of the High Plains. When the Westmen killed Lord Harkon and most of his knights, the king had created Murphy a real honest-to-Yatar Drantos nobleman, so that on the local scale of rank he was senior to everybody else from Earth except the captain himself. . . .

“Hello, Art. How are things?”

“I’ll be damned!”

“I hope not.” The lead rider reined in, dismounted, and came over to Mason. It was Ben Murphy all right—no mistaking that big Irish nose or the way he walked. But until you got up close and saw the shoulder holster with the .45 in it, you couldn’t tell him from your standard Drantos ironhat.

“Like I said, Art, how are things?”

“Could be worse, could be worse. Everybody and their Aunt Ermentrude’s come to town for the wedding, so if you’re looking for a billet in the castle—”

“No way. My—Lord Harkon’s son Jan’s—grandmother wants to look me over, see if I’m the right sort to be raising her daughter’s son. She’s the Dowager Eqetassa of Rhuinas, so what she wants she gets, and what she’s got is everybody I brought with me billeted in her townhouse. The men-at-arms are stacked up like cordwood in the stables, but at least we’ve got a roof over our heads. I was afraid we’d have to camp outside the walls, along with the Romans. Did Publius really bring a whole legion to the wedding?”

“Two cohorts, under our old friend Titus Frugi.”

“Oho. Little Caesar can’t be too happy about that.”

“No.” Titus Frugi had commanded forces loyal to the old emperor. Now he was loyal to Marselius Caesar. Not necessarily to Marselius’ son Publius. “No, I don’t expect he is. Belay that. How are you getting along?”

“Not too bad, all things considered. The Tamaerthan archers who’ve settled the vacant farms pretty much make up for the people the Westmen killed. None of them have turned bandit, either.”

“Lady Tylara will be happy to hear that. And how’s Honeypie—I mean, Lady Dirdre?”

“We’re going to be married, soon as I get back from the king’s wedding. He’s already given permission, but I want to swear fealty to him for Westrook and get an update on the charter before we make it legal. That way Dirdre inherits with no trouble if something happens to me on the way home.”

“Yeah. Say, Ben, how many men do you have with you—here and outside the gate?”

“Six here, ten more outside. Why?”

“I got a problem and maybe you can help me solve it. Somebody killed a sentry just a few minutes ago.”

“Blood feud?”

“Looked more like a professional job. Somebody’s up to something, and I’ve got the reserve platoon of guards on the way. But I’d like some more reliable men on hand before they get here. If you help, I think I can persuade the captain and the Wanax that they owe you one, like maybe letting you billet some of your people in the castle.”

“Sounds all right. Who’s in charge?”

Mason jerked his head in Morrone’s direction. Murphy frowned, raised his eyebrows, and lowered his voice. “Does he know what he’s doing?”

“Close enough. He’s got more guts and charm than brains, but he’s not one of the real hard-core ironhats.”

“Jesus, I hope not. Most of them were out for a short beer when God passed out the brains.”

“Sure. Which is how you got your job.”

Murphy grinned.

“Anyway. Bring in your men, and I’ll pick my escort and go bring the captain up to speed.”

Murphy grinned. “Escort? Come on, Art. You getting nervous in the service? I thought everybody knew by now that tackling an armed starman just gave Graves Registration some business.”

“Some people are slow learners, and I’m pretty sure our killer isn’t alone. Besides, I’m a great noble now, Lord Mason, Marshal of the Household to the Captain General of the Realm, Major of Guards, Scrubber of the Official Chamberpot of Chelm, and Yatar knows what else. I have to swank around. Hell, Ben, you should know that sort of stuff better than I do.”

“Maybe a little. Oh well, it sure beats being stuck on a hill in Africa, with Cubans all around and the only way out a friggin’ flying saucer.”

“Damned straight.”

2

Rick’s party entered the long corridor leading to the Council chamber. There was a low whistle, then another group came down the stairs to his left. Rick’s guards advanced slightly. The leading guards of the other group fell in behind. This group moved down the corridor.

Rick waited. After a moment Tylara came in. Silently she fell in beside him. When she was exactly even with him, they followed the forward guards, while the others merged behind them.

“You are well, my husband?” Tylara said formally.

“I am well. And you?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Are you well? Very well. What in God’s name has happened to us? Rick wondered. How long has it been? Weeks. Months.

He could remember when the sight of her was enough to make his heart leap. God, she’s beautiful, she’s still beautiful, and I love her still, but we meet in corridors with guards and witnesses, we speak in formalities, we haven’t been alone in weeks.

When? How did it happen?

After the last campaign. After Les came. After Caradoc was killed in a street riot. Could that be it? Was she in love with Caradoc? Her bodyguard, her captain, her rescuer? She knew him long before she knew me.

No! She had plenty of opportunities with Caradoc, before we met, after we met. She never showed that kind of interest in him. Or anyone else. We were in love, and now we are not in love, and I don’t understand it.

“I understand the Wanax will not join us tonight,” Tylara said.

“Eh? But the summons to Council—”

“Was withdrawn,” Tylara said. “We meet with the Eqeta of the Riverland.” She smiled at his puzzled look. “It is an ancient convention. No decisions can be taken if the Wanax is not present. Thus Wanax Ganton chooses to be represented by the Eqeta of the Riverland. Who is of course Ganton.”

“Oh. Something of that sort was done on Earth. Perhaps it’s as well. I don’t know what to recommend anyway.”

“Doubtless you will think of something,” Tylara said.

And she says that as if she believes it. As if she still believes in me. But she won’t sleep with me, won’t even see me alone. Now we go in there, and Gwen will be there.

Gwen. Could that be it? Tylara always was afraid of Gwen Tremaine. Could she know about that one time—nonsense. No way. It happened long before—before she started acting funny. And no one knows, except Gwen, and she sure won’t tell.

Jamiy, Rick’s orderly and chief of guards, rapped on the Council room door. In response to the challenge from inside he answered, “The Lord Rick, Eqeta of Chelm, Captain General of the Host of Drantos, Lord of Star Lords.”

Rick glanced at Tylara. She winked.

So she still has a sense of humor. And knows I do.
So what in God’s Name is wrong?

* * *

Gwen Tremaine finished her presentation and waited while the young man at the head of the long table stared at the map on the whitewashed wall. Finally he spoke.

“Then is there no hope for us, or at least no more than there was before the starmen came? Have they in fact shed so much blood only to put us in greater peril of
skyfire
than we were before?”

Rick frowned. Who’d been talking to the king? Ganton had every damn reason in the world to be grateful to Rick Galloway and his troops, and why was he taking that tone? Rick was about to speak when Tylara laid her hand lightly on his arm. “She speaks. Let her,” Tylara whispered.

Feminism? Not hardly. Or does she hope Gwen will stumble? Damn. I used to understand Tylara. Not now.

The others waited expectantly as Gwen paused to marshal her thoughts.

She had painted a grim picture of the future. The dwarf sun that everyone on Tran called the Demon Star was approaching. At perigee it would add more than ten percent to the planet’s illuminance. That didn’t sound like much, but it was enough. Ice caps would melt. Weather and climate would change, and all for the worse.

And now it was happening. The seas were rising, and the southern zones of this hemisphere were hot. Drought there. Rain here. Floods everywhere. Tribes, whole nations and populations fled northward. . . .

Rick saw that Tylara wasn’t the only one staring at Gwen Tremaine. She’d told them the worst. Now the entire Inner Council waited for her to give them some shred of hope.