Terrible Swift Sword (14 page)

Cattle stood upon the horizon, waiting, cold gleams of hate in their eyes.

Could they come thus even here? Tamuka wondered. In the end would cattle cross even through the gates of fire to the very realms of the everlasting sky?

Yet surely it could be so. For when Merki cast down Tugar upon the grassy sea below, then was it not so that, in the everlasting sky above, Merki would then drive Tugar? How else could it be, for were not all things but reflections of others, the victory granted in one place strengthening the spirits above? The strength of the spirits in turn giving power to the
ka
of those below?

The spirit-riders turned, gazing upon him as if he were somehow responsible for this abomination. The voice of his father, of all the Yushin Umen who had died in glory, as noble as any might wish, all of them were silent, their gazes intent upon the northern horizon.

He thought for a moment of his pet, wondering, knowing. That alone was his design, known by no other. That had been a masterful bending, a training without the cattle pet even being aware, sending him forth yet inwardly knowing what he would do. At least in that was the hidden plan within the plan.

His
ka
now realized all which would have to be done, even as the spirit of the shield-bearer, the very power which allowed him thus to travel without form, to learn the inner knowledges, rebelled. And he watched in silence as Yourga, the master of the white clan, master of all who had trained beneath him as shield-bearers, wept.

Yuri stirred uncomfortably in his sleep. Again the dream, the nightmare returning. Half-awake for a moment, his composure dropped and the tears filled his eyes, clouding the light of the moon showing through the window of his room. It was called his home, yet it was a prison nevertheless. Still, it was a place where he was safe from those who would kill him out of hand, the outcast, the flesh-eater, the pet, the one despised. They allowed him a semblance of freedom, yet there were always the guards, passing the lazy days in a village far beyond Novrod, where none knew him. Yet always they were with him, watching him.

Keane. He was almost awake as the thought formed. Keane must know why he was here. Keane had sent him here, saying it was to protect him, to keep him alive. Alive for what?

He blinked the tears away. Keane knew, Tamuka knew as well; he could feel their voices inside of him. Both were playing out some mystery, and he was in the middle. Were his actions now his own, or was he the illusion of someone else's designs?

Tomorrow would be like the day before. Like all the days before, except for those rare moments when, late in the evening, he would be taken to one of their machines that rode on iron rails, to visit Keane and talk. And then he would be brought back here, alone. He wanted for nothing. Yet he wanted for everything.

He closed his eyes, sleep drifting back gently, softly. Again, as consciousness fell away, the inner calling stirred through his dreams.

Chapter 3

Choking with laughter, Andrew wiped the tears from his eyes.

"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet, bejesus, is the sun."

Pat, engaged in a dramatic piece of overacting, delivered the lines in his thickest brogue, convulsing the Yankees in the audience with gales of laughter. As he stumbled through several of his lines the audience cheered him on, prompting him when needed.

"O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?"

Bob Fletcher appeared on the balcony, dressed as a Rus peasant girl, wearing a horsehair wig that came down to his knees. The Rus and Yankee audience exploded with laughter and Bob gave a cheerful wave, blowing kisses, while Pat, with one knee bent, looking up imploringly, hands clasped together.

Romeo and Juliet
was a favorite with the Rus, and though the words were being delivered in English, so conversant were they with the famed scene that more than one shouted the words in unison in their own tongue.

Reaching the climax of the scene, Pat scrambled up a conveniently placed ladder to plant the legendary kiss. He closed his eyes, leaning forward, and

Bob turned around, presented his more than ample backside, and the scene blacked out.

The theater was rocked with hysterical laughter.

"Mixing Chaucer with Shakespeare," Kathleen said, holding her sides.

"Thank God Pat and a couple of other boys had copies of Shakespeare in their gear," Emil said, between gasps of laughter.

The earthier humor certainly would not have played to a mixed audience back home, even though outrageous parodies of Shakespeare were all the rage there, but the Rus obviously loved it, calling for several encores before the next act appeared.

The next scene was far more serious, a vignette from
Macbeth
played by several Rus actors, the main character now portrayed as a mad boyar, the audience sitting spellbound at his death scene, applauding wildly when his body was dragged off. Macbeth, played by the young Gregory, who had survived his now legendary ride to deliver the news of Andrew's planned return from Roum, appeared for a curtain call.

"That boy could be another Edwin Booth someday," Kathleen said approvingly. "Did you ever see him play?"

"At the Astor in New York," Emil replied, "though I preferred his father as King Lear."

"Papa loved the Booths," Kathleen said, her voice suddenly filled with nostalgia.

"I didn't care for the youngest," Emil said, "too full of himself; a bit too much madness in that one's eyes."

"Maybe you have to be a bit mad to be an actor," Andrew said quietly.

A troupe of jugglers appeared on stage, the audience cheering them on at first but booing loudly, and with obvious relish, when the act did not progress beyond the simplest of routines. When one of them missed a throw, hitting his partner on the head with a club and knocking the man over, the audience broke into wild cheers of delight, the crestfallen team retreating to a barrage of heckles.

Several patriotic tableaux were next, starting with the signing of the Constitution of Rus, then the driving of the rail spike completing the MFL & S line to Roum, which drew a rowdy cheer from the railroad workers. Then came the killing of the traitorous senator Mikhail, his staged appearance drawing curses and hisses from the audience. Mikhail was shown groveling in cowardly fashion, a Merki standard behind him to clearly identify his loyalties, the Rus soldiers looking at him with exaggerated gestures of contempt. The staged tableau broke the traditional frozen form by the single action of a gun firing. Mikhail fell over and the audience broke into cheers. The final presentation was the triumph of the Rus over the Tugars, based upon a highly popular illustration in
Gates' Illustrated Weekly
paper. Part of the stage was filled with soldiers looking heroically off to a far horizon, the rest of it piled high with Tugar bodies. The staging even included a wind machine off in the wings, a propeller powered by hand crank which allowed the flags to flutter. The audience broke into a spontaneous rendition of "The Battle Cry of Freedom," sung in Rus, climaxed with wild c heering as the tableau team broke their rigid poses to accept the ovation.

The next act came out—a Rus choir singing several of their traditional love songs—and the entire audience joining in with enthusiasm. The love songs finished, the group started a round of songs brought to this world by the Yankees, and the audience sang along, a fair number of them weeping openly, especially when "All Quiet Along the Potomac" started.

It jarred Andrew back for a moment, for the song had cropped up again during the winter, a strange ironic pull from the old world. It was followed in turn by "When This Cruel War Is Over."

The two songs worked their old effect, with many of the veterans around him, including Emil and Kal, unashamedly wiping away their tears.

Andrew sat in the shadows of the presidential box, his hand in Kathleen's. She had always denounced such ballads as syrupy sentiment, but he could feel her hand pressing tightly into his.

Weeping sad and lonely, Hopes and fears how vain, Yet praying, when this cruel war is over, Praying that we meet again.

He tried not to look over at her, but he couldn't help himself as the chorus, singing in the deep Rus bass, picked up the final refrain. They said nothing, just looking at each other in the shadows. She had once said that she would never marry him, that she could not bear the anguish of another love going off to war like her first fiance, never to return. Yet she had reached out again.

It was thirteen days since the twin full moons. They must be coming by now. It could be tonight that his brief visit home would finish—definitely before the end of the week.

"I love you," he finally whispered, the only words he could bring himself to say.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, pressing his hand in tight between her breasts.

"You must come back," she said, her voice barely audible as the chorus continued. "I couldn't bear life without you."

He said nothing, not wanting her to hear the choking of his voice.

As the song ended most of the audience was silent, a few clapping weakly.

The theater darkened and Gregory appeared alone on the stage, dressed in the blue uniform of a union colonel, his left sleeve pinned up. Andrew looked around uncomfortably. Kathleen squeezed his hand and, feeling embarrassed, Andrew leaned back in his chair so that no one outside the box could see him.

Behind Gregory there was a flash of smoke, then flames appeared and behind the flames a backlit curtain was filled with the shadows of men marching. A nargas sounded, sending a chill down Andrew's spine, its strident call filling the hall, many in the audience shouting, some in anger, others in discomfort and fear. There was a rattle of simulated musketry, a deep kettledrum booming like cannon fire, bugles in the orchestra sounding the charge.

It was all quite effective, as good as anything he had ever seen on the stage, and Andrew felt strangely moved. The effects died away as if the battle were still being fought in the distance, the flames licking up behind Gregory.

"Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more!" he began, his voice low, melodious, and filled with power.

Andrew felt a deep stirring as the young Rus officer continued to recite from
Henry V.

But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair Nature with hard-favour'd rage;

The boy's voice increased in pitch, rising to be heard as the rattle of musketry grew louder, the flames rose higher:

"And you, good yeomen.

Whose limbs were made in Rus, show us here The mettle of your pasture: let us swear That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not:

For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like grey-hounds in the slips, Straining upon the start, the game's afoot: Follow your spirit; and upon this charge, Cry, "Kesus and Perm for Rus, our Republic, and mankind!"

There was a moment of silence, and then as if a dam had burst the audience was on its feet, roaring its approval. Gregory turned to face the presidential box and, coming to attention, he saluted, not dropping his hand.

"Go on," Emil prompted, urging Andrew to stand up.

With tears in his eyes Andrew came to his feet, his knees feeling weak. He came to attention and saluted Gregory, and then turning to face the audience saluted them as well. The ovation rose to a sustained thunder.

It seemed as if a lone voice called out the words at first, to be joined within seconds by all those in the hall: "Mine eyes have seen the glory. . .."

Andrew joined in, his voice barely a whisper. He felt an arm go around his waist. Looking over her head he saw Kal standing beside her, his features drawn and solemn, hat over his heart.

The song died away, followed by yet another ovation. Andrew bowed his thanks to the audience and to all the actors who had come out on stage to join in "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" and left the box, stepping out a side exit of the hall to avoid the crowd.

It was a warm spring night and he
breathed
deeply, enjoying the fresh air after the
smoke
-filled stuffiness of the music hall. The crowd pouring out the front exits started up the hill toward the village green of the Yankee settlement, where an outdoor ball was still in progress, the faint strains of the music drifting along the street.

"The men have been planning that one for weeks," Pat said, coming out the backstage exit and wiping the greasepaint off of his face with a dirty handkerchief.

Andrew nodded his appreciation, still unable to reply. Kal and Emil stood beside him with approving grins.

"Rather embarrassing," Andrew finally
whispered.

"Well, the boy was your orderly before he
became
a hero with
a
Congressional Medal of Merit, and
an
actor to boot. He remembered your saying how much you loved
Henry V,
and he wanted to do it."

Gregory came out the back door, still dressed in the blue uniform of a colonel of the 35th. Seeing Andrew, he nervously came to attention and
saluted.

"I hope you liked it, sir."

Andrew stepped forward and patted Gregory on the shoulder.

"Embarrassed the hell out of me, but I loved it-Thank you."

The boy grinned with delight.

"How's that chest wound, son?" Emil asked.

"Fit as can be, sir. I just got my orders to report back."

Andrew smiled.

"Assistant Chief of Staff for Hans Schuder is
a
tough job, Gregory. You'll do all the real work and get none of the glory."

"Actually, sir, I was hoping for a field command," Gregory said.

"Take it easy for a while, son. You did your part last time—it's a miracle you lived."

"Your horse Mercury saw me through it, sir; all I did was ride along."