“Well — by all the names!” declared Mevek.
His men huddled, gaping at the red and yellow uniforms, the feathers, the furred pelisses. Yes, zorcamen, archers and lancers, make a fine show, by Krun!
Nath Karidge was staring at me in great uncertainty.
Mevek, however, voiced the mutual thoughts first.
“So you brought a bodyguard, emperor, after all.”
“It was necessary,” said Karidge, very firmly, brooking no argument, no recrimination. “The emperor did not order the bodyguard. I did so on my own responsibility.” He looked down, and then up, defiantly. “I disobeyed your orders, majister, and now I accept that I will be sent as a simple trooper, to pay for my crime.”
“You assume I would send you to a cavalry regiment?”
He suddenly looked aghast.
“But — majister—”
Karidge was a zorcaman first, last and all the time.
“I am minded to send you to the Phalanx, to be a brumbyte.” I said brumbyte deliberately, and not soldier, for I wished Karidge to understand the situation.
“Majister...” He spoke in a weak, strangled voice.
“I shall speak to you, Chuktar Karidge, about this later. For now, I thank you for your two half-squadrons. They judged it nicely. Jiktar Tromo? Send him to me later on.”
“Quidang, majister!”
Then it was a matter of clearing up and finalizing what was understood between the guerrillas and myself. I heard Karidge saying to Korero, “In the Phalanx — I admire them, of course — but to trail a pike as a brumbyte! One of your muscled fellows with a vosk-skull helmet and a damned great pike and the view of the fellow in front’s backside! By Vox! I couldn’t bear it!”
“Cheer up, Nath,” Korero advised him. “The emperor has a funny way with him at times.”
“Aye!”
Keeping a straight face, I walked over to Turko and Mevek who were arguing about payment for the damage to the inn.
“These folk have been badly treated,” Mevek was saying, his flat face now filled with passion. “I shall pay for the damage. And then—” and he laughed “—I shall find a damned convoy of Jhansi’s and take from it what he owes.”
“I feel I have a better claim,” said Turko.
“You are then a rich man, you who save my life and refuse to tell me the name of the man to whom I owe it?”
“No, I suppose, if all goes well, I could be rich one day. But wealth does not interest me for itself. It is what may be done with riches — like paying for this damage.”
I said, “Let Mevek pay and take the gold from Jhansi. I like the sound of that.”
There, you see!” burst out Mevek. His impassivity had quite deserted him. “The emperor speaks sense.”
“I shall return to Vondium now, Mevek. You call yourself a Chuktar?”
The note of interrogation prompted him to a long, circumstantial story about once having served in a mercenary army raised somewhere in Pandahem, and he was a Chuktar by that right as well as being the leader of his guerrilla band.
“Then Chuktar it is, Mevek. An ord Chuktar, I would say.” Ord — Kregish for eight — meant he had only two more steps to go before becoming a Kapt.
“Thank you, majister—”
“And now you serve the new Kov of Falinur, Kov Turko?”
He squinted up at me.
“What has passed cannot alter my decision—”
Turning to Turko the Shield, I said, “Kov, I would like to introduce to you Ord-Chuktar Mevek, a fine fellow and one whom you must watch. Mevek, you have the honor of being presented to Kov Turko of Falinur.”
Well...
I suppose to a tired old cynic this was all childish stuff. I am tired, right enough, even though I recognize tiredness as a mortal sin, and I am cynical enough betimes; yet I viewed this confrontation with a quiet relish. The sight of Mevek’s eyebrows was reward enough.
Turko maintained a marvelous composure, and yet I knew well enough that superior Khamorro was thoroughly enjoying himself. And, with all this fun and games, we had made a significant breakthrough in relations with some of the people of Falinur. Oh, there were many of them who would side with Jhansi, and detest their new kov. But we had to be patient, and do the right things — the right things in our eyes, of course — and eventually demonstrate that we were not bloodsuckers, not slavers, and were seeking the good of all the folk of Falinur.
That was just about impossible, given the tenacious clinging to slavery of many of the masters of Falinur. But I felt strongly that Turko would succeed. He was going to bring a different technique to Falinur from the mild methods of Seg. I might deplore this. But, as the surgeons say, you cannot amputate without losing a little blood.
We left Chuktar Mevek with promises that we would soon return with the army of liberation. At least, Kov Turko would lead that army; I planned to travel to Hyrklana. With the cavalry escort fore and aft, we rode back south as She of the Veils, the fourth moon of Kregen, rose to follow the Maiden with the Many Smiles between the stars.
In Which Nath Nazabhan, Kapt of the Phalanx, Is at Last Named
“A sorcerer was reported sniffing around one of the university buildings.”
“Ortyg Voinderam has absconded with the Lady Fransha, and her father, the Lord of Mavindeul, having recovered from a fit occasioned by his paroxysm of rage, vows vengeance, and his agents have been seen in Drak’s City.”
“Filemon, the shoe contractor, has defaulted on payment for a thousand hides.”
“An outbreak of horn rot is reported in the zorcas of Thoth Valaha.”
“It is reported that an idol of Mev-ira-Halviren opened its eyes and spoke, since when a multitude of the credulous flock to the temple of this outmoded religion, and the priests wax fat.”
“A Hamalese spy has been apprehended in Delphond and is being brought to Vondium in chains.”
“It is reliably reported that...”
“The latest situation appreciations show that...”
“What are your orders concerning...”
And so on and so on...
The motives of anyone who takes on the job of putting a country back together again after seasons of unrest and destruction surely need very close scrutiny.
While the process of reconstruction is going on there is little time if any for introspection. It is all work, work and more work, from long before the twin Suns of Scorpio rise to long after they set. All the same, despite the constant crushing work load, doubts must creep in. Self-analysis is probably engendered by the pressures and fatigue. And then, as they say in Balintol, you’ll forget which hand to use and stand there, motionless, like a cartwheel.
Enevon Ob-Eye, my chief stylor, had recruited a large and growing bureau to handle the paperwork.
Every death warrant was seen by me, personally, and in many cases with discussions with the magistrates concerned to delve deeper into the matter, the sentences were commuted to lesser punishments. This damned Hamalese spy, for instance...
“Hang him,” said Nath Nazabhan, the fierceness of his words matched by the anger he felt against the enemies of his country. “Hang him from the highest branch in all Vondium.”
I sipped the wine, for it was evening and the lights had been brought in and the curtains closed. My small workroom with the books and charts, the arms rack, enclosed us. The wine was superb — Vela’s Tears from Valka — and I swallowed down, keeping Nath waiting before replying.
Then: “Nath. It is high time this vexed question of your name was settled.”
“You will not hang this Hamalese spy?”
“Probably not. If you ask him which he prefers, to be hanged by us or sent back to the Empress Thyllis, what do you think he will reply?”
Nath’s face creased. “So we hang him?” He could see the funny side of that. “Because it is more tender?”
“He might be won over. At least, we must make the attempt. Naghan Vanki will earn his keep as the chief spymaster in this.”
“I am privileged to command the Phalanx. We are the most powerful fighting force Vallia possesses. I leave spies and darkness of that kind to Vanki’s faceless minions.”
“And, Nath, that is the problem. Your father’s rank of Nazab gives you the right to call yourself Nazabhan. We have talked on this. You are the Kapt of the Phalanx. I have warned you often enough that the Phalanx is vulnerable—”
“And have we not overturned all who came against us?”
“Yes, yes. We have done well together. And you keep shying away from this business of your name.”
Enevon Ob-Eye rustled papers at the side of my desk where he had brought in the latest reports. A small folding stool allowed him to sit down to the job. His own offices were large and crammed with people and files and papers.
“If I may speak for Nath, majis? He wishes to remain in the Imperial service, with your blessing, as a Justicar governing a province or city. He has no ambitions to be ennobled in the main ranks of the peerage — at least—” and here Enevon squinted his one eye up— “that is how I read the situation.”
“That is so, Enevon.” Nath spoke crisply.
I said, “You know that at any time you wish you may be appointed Justicar to govern the city or province of your choice. The imperial provinces around Vondium are in our hands once more, and arrangements can be made that will not unduly upset the incumbents.” Nath Nazabhan was a good comrade, a fine man, who led the Phalanx and who was devoted to that immense cutting instrument of war, as the brumbytes within the ranks were devoted to him. So, I added, “You’d have to leave the Phalanx, of course.”
“That, I am not prepared to do.”
Enevon closed his eye. I leaned back and sipped the wine.
“So, as you are set in your ways, Nath, and it is necessary that you be rewarded—”
“It is not necessary, majister!”
“Oh, but, Nath, it is.”
Nath, as a superb example of the splendid young fighting men who had fought shoulder to shoulder to liberate Vallia and stave off the attacks of the predators feasting on the prostrate empire, a blade comrade, a man of unquestioned loyalty, Nath must be seen to shine in that galaxy of gallants who had stepped forth to save Vallia in her Time of Troubles.
“You remember the Battle of Kochwold, Nath?”
“Who can ever forget it?”
“We had three Phalanxes there. It was a famous victory.”
“Aye.”
“It appears to me that Nath na Kochwold has a ring.”
[1]
“Majister?”
Enevon rustled more papers and pulled out a large sheet much embellished with fine writing and scrollwork. He placed this down before me and then fussed in his meticulous way with the sealing equipment. I looked steadily at Nath.
“Kyr Nath! No more shilly-shallying. Your rank will be formally announced when the lists are promulgated. You are Nath na Kochwold.” Then, and I hoped in no testy way, I added, “There are so many Naths on Kregen you have to accept the needle in this.” And I signed and sealed the patent.
Nath opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again and his lower jaw moved sideways before he spoke.
“And I keep the Phalanx?”
I nodded.
“Then, majister, I thank you. By Vox! I shall have no difficulty in remembering my name!”
The feeling of relief I experienced in having pushed that problem to a solution lasted for some time as we worked on. But, inevitably, more problems came crowding in and the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel remained obscured. Mind you, to call rewarding Nath — or anyone of the people who labored so hard for Vallia — a problem is to be foolish. It was just Nath’s insistence on remaining with the Phalanx that prevented my using him in a wider capacity for which he was perfectly suited.
Plans for Turko to march northward to Falinur pushed ahead. An army had to be collected. It had to be equipped and fed. And, at the same time, the rest of the territories regained in the island had to be protected.
Two new plants for processing the bumper crop of mergem we had been blessed with this season had just reached completion. Mergem, a leguminous plant, when dried may be stored for long periods and then reconstituted. It is rich in protein, vitamins and minerals, with trace elements — although at the time I knew nothing of them, by Vox! — and has seen many a beleaguered city safely through a siege. With little persuasion from me, the Presidio, to whom I was delegating more and more responsibility, had ordered the planting of vast areas of mergem. These two new processing facilities would give an even larger return than the traditional methods of grinding and drying in the suns light. Now we could use not only the pods, but the stalks as well.
And, as all good Kregans know, you can flavor your reconstituted mergem with all manner of tasty fruit juices.
Delia burst into my room as I shoved the mergem file away. She looked marvelous, rosy of face, brilliant of eye, quivering with passion.
“Dray! You sit here! What are you about? Why haven’t you done something?”
I stood up. I think — I am not sure — Enevon killed a smile. I searched for meaning, and for words.
“Come on, Dray! We can’t just do nothing! We must hurry!”
“Yes,” I said. And I tried to put a snap, a ring of decision into my voice. “We must act!”
“At once!”
“Of course...”
Now my Delia is the most wonderful person in two worlds. That goes without saying, although I have said it, will say it and continue to say it. But, all the same — what in the frozen wastes of the Ice Floes of Sicce was she talking about now? By Zim-Zair! It was enough to make a plain old fellow like me jump up and down on his hat.
And here came Jilian, recovered of her wounds, roaring into my little study, shouting that we must hurry. Jilian with her black leathers and her pale face with those dark brilliant eyes brought a heady wash of action wherever she went. Jilian, with her whip and her claw.
“Don’t just stand there, Jak!” she called.
Delia said, “Oh, you have to take a two-handed sword to stir him up when he gets like this. Come
on
, Dray!”
I swallowed. Venturing all, I said in a voice that was little more than a husky croak, “Where to?”
Both women — both gorgeously beautiful women — stared at me as though I was bereft of my senses.