Lord of Janissaries (93 page)

DISCOVERIES

8

Mason squinted against the glare of the sun from snow-covered hills. Then he raised his hand against the icy wind. “First and Second Platoons, form a mounted perimeter around the farm. Third and Fourth Platoons, prepare for dismounted action. Platoon leaders, this is a battle warning.”

Mason pounded his numb hands together as the order passed back along the column. Tran cold-weather clothing was pretty damned good for a medieval society, and the Guards and starmen got the best. Mason had better: a polystyrene leotard and vapor-barrier aluminized cloth over that. Put that under furs and you’d be warm in a blizzard.

The perimeter platoons moved out at a walk. They churned up fresh snow that fell back like sprays of tiny jewels.
Come on, come on. Let’s get this over with.

He kept hoping he was wrong about this old manor farm.
Maybe nobody’s here. Or they bugged out already. They had time since the scouts found this place.

A manor not on the registry, with no clear ownership. Land not only not cultivated but gone to thorns. Nothing else like that within a day’s ride from Castle Dravan. No manor lord, it had to be directly held by the Eqeta. Or the Eqetassa . . .

Let’s hope they bugged out. It could get sticky if they’re still here.

“What the hell is this place, Major?” Jack Beazeley had no real trouble saying “sir” to Art Mason, for all they’d been friends before Mason’s commission. He’d say “sir,” but he’d still ask questions.

“Jack, I damn well don’t know. I got a hunch—”

Beazeley waved to indicate the Guardsmen surrounding the place. “Sir, you got more than a hunch. Just how much trouble do you expect? Sir.”

“None at all, or maybe a lot.”

“A lot. Lot as in mercs with ammo?”

“Huh? Naw. Not that. Locals, but damn good locals.”

“Okay, as long as I know what to expect.”

“I’ll go in first.”

“Like hell.”

“Corporal, I’ll go in first.”

Beazeley shrugged. “Yes, sir.”

The perimeter was formed, two lines of Guardsmen. One line faced in, the other outward. More troops held positions as reserves. Musketeers unslung their weapons while their loaders drove in the rests and nervously counted the charges on their bandoliers.

“We’re set to take on a whole damn army,” Beazeley said.

“Yeah. And it won’t be that.” He rose in his stirrups. “Sergeant Bisso!”

“Sir.”

“Stay out here. You’re in charge. Anything happens, report to the colonel. Take live prisoners if you can. That may not be easy.”

“Sir.”

Bisso was a sergeant when I was a corporal. Don’t seem to bother him a lot, but anything he knows, Elliot’s going to know. Just as well, I guess.

Mason dismounted, drew his .45, and checked the loads. Then he signaled to Beazeley.

“Jack, follow me. Anybody in there knows we’ve come loaded for bear. If it’s what I think, they’re going to fight. I want prisoners. Live ones. Just remember that.”

Beazeley tilted his head to one side. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

The farmhouse showed signs of recent repairs, rough but sturdy. The only unusual thing was an image of Vothan One Eye painted on the door.

“Another orphanage of the Children of Vothan?” Beazeley asked.

“That’s what it says.”

“But why out there?”

“Good question. Now shut up.” Mason rapped on the door with the butt of his .45.

Silence.

Mason knocked again. After a moment there was a click, and movement behind Vothan’s eye.

“Who seeks entry to the House of the Wolf?” The voice was unfettered.

“Open in the Name of the War Leader of Drantos.”

“There is plague in this house, my lord.”

Mason and Beazeley exchanged looks. “All the more reason to open the door. I bring starhealing and medics.”

“My lord, we—”

“Open in the name of the Wanax and the Captain General of Drantos!”

Silence.

“Prepare to batter down the door.”

Beazeley handed his M-16 to an orderly and took out a grenade. “Blow it in?”

“If it needs it.”

“Right. Here goes.” Beazeley tied a string to the grenade pin and wedged it against the door. “Stand back.”

They heard the sound of bolts being thrown back. Beazeley retrieved the grenade and his rifle and moved to cover the door as it opened slowly to reveal an unshaven man in peasant dress.

“I am Bartolf, my lord. A sick child and I are the only ones in this house. The plague took the ones who did not run away to seek better healing than I can give. The gods grant they find it.”

“Indeed. Now if you will show me through the house.”

“My lord, I beg you, do not expose yourself—”

“Now, Bartolf.” Mason shouldered his way through the door. “Stick with me, Jack.”

“Sir.”

Bartolf led them off to the right along a low hallway lit by a pair of rush dips. There wasn’t enough dust to show footprints.

“Damn fast plague,” Beazeley muttered.

“Yeah.”

“The boy is in here,” Bartolf said, gesturing toward a curtained door. Beazeley tapped the opposite wall with a rifle butt. The wall was solid. Beazeley backed against it as Bartolf raised the curtain.

Inside was a row of pallets. A blanket-shrouded figure tossed and moaned on one of them. Bartolf led the way in. Mason raised his pistol and slipped through the door sideways.
It may be just what it looks like. But I might as well give Jack a clear field of fire.

The moaning stopped and the blanket fell away. The small figure on the pallet held a crossbow. Mason ducked and fired. The .45 slug showered plaster over the pallet as the crossbow bolt ripped through the hood of his coat. A club smashed across his mailed shoulders and sent him sprawling onto the pallet.

Who?
Bartolf was in the doorway, but there was someone else in the room and no time to think about that. The boy flung the crossbow away and pulled a dagger from under the pillow. Mason ignored the new man behind him.
Leave him for Jack!
Art dove toward the boy feet first. His boots smashed against the kid’s elbow sending the knife flying across the room.

Art kicked at the boy’s head and turned on Bartolf.

Bartolf threw up his hands. “My lord—”

Whatever he was going to say didn’t matter. Mason chopped at the older man’s throat, and when Bartolf raised both hands to ward off the blow Mason came down hard on both insteps. Bartolf grunted and Mason slammed him against the doorpost, kicked at a kneecap, and turned back toward the boy on the pallet.

Bartolf’s fall left the doorway clear. Beazeley came through. The third man leaped at him with a short sword. The blade hacked deep into the jacket Beazeley had wrapped around his left arm. Beazeley feinted high to bring the man’s arms up, then drove four stiffened fingers into his attacker’s solar plexus with a blow that lifted the man from the floor.

That’s one.
As Mason turned the boy leaped toward him. He held the dagger. Any inhibitions Mason had about cold-cocking children vanished. He stepped sideways and slammed the blade of his right hand into the base of the boy’s neck. As the child thrashed, Mason braced two fingers under the boy’s chin, and dug into the carotid arteries. He held on as the boy’s other hand flailed against him. In fifteen seconds the boy slumped. Mason held the grip another ten seconds and then drew his Colt.

The only other person on his feet was Jack Beazeley.

Mason shook for a second while his mind accepted the fact that it was over. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Any time. Now, what the hell was that all about?”

“Later. Right now, you go out and give Bisso—” The sergeant and five Guardsmen burst into the room.

“We heard shots. No action outside, and I’ve got the First Platoon in tight around the house, so—”

“No need, Bisso. There were two sick people instead of one. Wrap ’em up like mummies. Jack, you come with me.”

* * *

Mason and Beazeley sat at a table in what must have once been the manor’s bedroom. “Jesus.” Mason waved to indicate the pile of objects on the table. “All that stuff.”

There was a lot. Noose. Garrote. Bastinado. Fishskin buskins for climbing. Masks and scarves and hoods. Daggers. Crossbows, and the quarrel the boy had shot at Mason. There were also a dozen clay pots with lead stoppers. The crossbow quarrel and all the dagger points were stained with a dull green oil. “Want to bet those are poisoned?” Mason asked.

“Don’t have to bet. I’ve smelled hydras bane before. Art, what in the hell is this place?”

“I’m still not sure, but—Jack, you ever hear of Ninjas?”

“Jap assassins. Every now and then some merc claims to have ninja training. Never met one who knew anything. But yeah, I heard of them. Supposed to be able to walk up walls and turn invisible.”

“I think that’s what this place is. A training ground for the Tran equivalent.”

“Humph. That kid can’t be more than twelve. And all this gear is kid-sized. Apprentices? Maybe it makes sense.”

“They’re more than apprentices. Look how much trouble I had taking that one. A lot of good troopers got killed in ’Nam by kids no older than him.”

“Yeah, I’ll buy that, but Jesus, Art—Major—teeny-bopper ninjas? Whose?”

“Who do you think?”

“I don’t get paid to think. But since you ask, let’s see. Not the Romans. Not Ganton, he’s not old enough. This place has been going since before he got crowned. Not the captain. He doesn’t think that way. So who?”

“This is a House of Vothan. Who founded them?”

“Goddamn! Major, you think the captain knows?”

“I
know
he doesn’t know. Next question. Do we tell him?”

“Why not? So his wife keeps a herd of trained juvie assassins. So what?”

“So one of them offed Caradoc.”

Beazeley whistled. “Shee-it. You sure? Sir?”

“Wasn’t until we took this place. Sure now.”

“Okay. I guess I believe. Now what do we do?”

“We tell people. Start with Bisso and Elliot. That’s enough so that if the mean little kids come after us somebody’s left to tell the captain.”

Mason fingered a wine jug. “I sure want a drink, but—”

“Right. I wouldn’t touch nothing from this place. Okay, we spread the word. What do we do with Bartolf and the others?”

“Good question. This place belongs to the Lady Tylara. Who’s our boss, sort of. Makes them hers. But damn all, she’s got no right keeping a herd of private killers.”

“So what do we do?” Beazeley demanded.

“Turn them loose. I’ll swear not to harm them or this house, if they swear to harm only the proclaimed enemies of the Crown of Drantos. If they go with that, we can leave them alone. I’ll make that Bartolf write a report for our great Lady Eqetassa, explaining what we know, and what we made them promise. That ought to make her go easy on everybody.”

“You hope. Sure it won’t hit the fan anyway? Sir?”

“Hell, it probably will. Most of the kids got clean away. And there’s fresh snow. We sure as hell can’t track them. Look, we take this lot back under guard or we turn them loose under oath. I don’t think of any other choices.”

“So do we tell the captain?”

“Shit. Ask Yatar. Ask Christ. Ask Ghu, but for Christ’s sake don’t ask me—”

“Still your job.” Beazeley chuckled. “Major, I’m sure glad
I’m
not an officer.”

* * *

The room was small and had earthen walls. The only entrance was hidden behind the coal bin, but tubes ran to all the rooms in the House of Vothan. Chai listened to Mason and Beazeley and smiled. He hadn’t understood all of what they said, because they often spoke in star language; but when they called in Bartolf and the boy called Bennok they had to explain again.

So
, he thought. The starmen are not going to burn out the Children root and branch. They were not going to reveal what they had learned to their soldiers. They had not even slain any of those who attacked them.

Yatar be thanked we shed no starman’s blood.

The prayer came easily, and brought a wry grin. He had not always been called “Chai,” and he had once been a consecrated priest of Yatar. That was before the infernal starmen with their new wisdom caught him stealing temple revenues. A change of names and tasks seemed preferable to an appointment with the Eqetassa’s hangman.