Lord of Janissaries (36 page)

Automatically Rick returned the salute. Then he laughed. “You’re supposed to bow or kneel or something,” he said in English. He heard a strangled grunt from Tylara as she suppressed a laugh. “Welcome to my house.” Rick changed to the local dialect and raised his voice. “It is good that we meet again. Your other friends among the starmen will welcome you also.”

“Yeah, well, I’m happy to be signing up with you again, Captain,” Murphy said. “And I’ve brought you something—”

“Yes. I’m damned glad to get the recoilless back. That is the one-oh-six, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” Murphy turned and gestured. His companions unwrapped the tube. Another took the cover off the tripod stand, and clapped the barrel onto it.

“You’ve trained them to use it?” Rick asked.

“Not really, sir,” Reznick said. “But they
have
seen us use the thing.”

“Yes. We’ll continue this in private,” Rick said. “Meanwhile, there’s a ceremony. We’ll coach you.” He motioned to Murphy to kneel, and said in the local language, “We will accept you to our service. Do you offer me service, of your free will, according to the customs and uses of this land?”

“We do,” Murphy and Reznick said in unison.

“Then your enemies shall be my enemies, and who wrongs you wrongs me,” Rick said. He held out his hands. “Place your hands between mine. There. Now repeat after the chamberlain . . .”

* * *

“Thank Ghu that’s over,” Rick said.

“Who is Ghu?” Tylara asked seriously.

“Uh—a local deity back on Earth. Probably no jurisdiction here.” He watched Murphy and Reznick leave the audience hall, and felt an overpowering urge to go with them.
Fat chance
, he thought.
Now that the fireworks are over we have to go show Isobel off to every goddam bheroman and knight in the joint, and get the king’s blessing and
—”You needn’t smirk about it,” Rick said.

“Your desire is obvious,” Tylara said. “It will do you no harm to be patient. Tonight you must be with me.”

“Yeah.” It
was
important. Tonight’s ceremonies were supposed to be fun, but they would also mark his formal acknowledgement of Isobel’s paternity. Until he did that, she was officially no more than a little bastard.

And Isobel was the most beautiful little thing he’d ever seen, and he certainly wanted everyone to know she was his—which still seemed like a miracle—but Lord, Lord, those lords were dull. . . .

2

“What now?” Reznick asked.

“The first thing I want is a drink,” Ben Murphy said. They were led through corridors, then up stairs, then down a flight. “And I think I’m lost. Ho, guide there, where are our companions?”

“Your ladies have been shown to their chambers. You are wanted in the orderly room.” The trooper who led them obviously spoke no English; but they had no difficulty recognizing the last two words.

Reznick laughed. “Just like the real army.” They followed their guides until eventually they were led to a stone doorway guarded by two kilted archers. Murphy nudged his companion. “More of those MPs. Okay, let’s go in . . .”

“Hats off in the orderly room,” a voice said in English.

“Bat puckey,” Murphy muttered, but he took off his hat. He stared at the heavily bearded man who’d spoken. The man stared back, grim-faced. “Who—Warner? Larry Warner?”

“Sure is.” Warner grinned broadly. “Here to welcome the geeks bearing gifts. How are you, Ben? Lafe? You’re looking good. New beards and everything.”

“Warner, for God’s sake, we thought the locals took you off to sell you.”

“They did. Sold me to Lord Rick.”

“You look pretty rich,” Reznick said. “For a slave.”

“I’m no slave,” Warner said. “Fact is, I’ve got the softest duty there is. Here, have a drink.” He poured generous dollops into silver cups. “Go on, drink up.”

“Yeah—” Murphy drank. “Holy Mother, Larry, what is that stuff?”

“Potent, eh? You bet your arse it’s potent. That’s McCleve’s work. Can you imagine him doing without a still?”

“No. What’s the old lush doing now?”

“He’s Professor of Medicine at the University of Tran.”

“The which at what?”

“Professor of Medicine. At the University. Of Tran.”

“Tran’s the name of the whole goddamn planet,” Reznick protested.

“Right on,” Warner said. “And now it’s got a university. Come Murphy, surely you’ve been hearin’ of the University?”

“Oh, crap,” Reznick said.

“Yeah,” Murphy agreed. “One of the best things about staying down south was not having to listen to your crazy accents—Hey, what are you doing?” Warner had gone to the door and was gesturing to the guards outside.

“Sending for the MPs,” Warner said. “You man, get the Corporal of the Guard.”

“What for, because we didn’t like your stupid accent?”

“No, you’ll see, it’s nothing to worry about. A detail somebody forgot to attend to. Anyway, about the University. About half-teaching and half-research. McCleve teaches the acolytes of Yatar about sanitation and cleanliness. I teach math. Campbell does engineering. Even the Captain takes a stint at teaching. But mostly we’ve got teams of students and acolytes doing research. Soap. Substitutes for penicillin. Grinding microscope lenses. Figuring out how to make nitric acid. All kinds of stuff. And history, too.”

“Professor,” Murphy said. “We used to call you ‘Professor’ back in Africa.”

“Now it’s for real,” Warner said.

“So just where do you fit in?” Reznick demanded.

“Think of me as a kind of warrant officer,” Warner said. “That’ll be close enough. Ah. Here’re the guards. Corporal, these star lords have not had their weapons peace bonded.”

“Yes, sir.” The guardsman gestured, and two of his troopers used thick line to tie Murphy’s sword into its scabbard. They finished with an elaborate knot. Then the corporal took out a thin copper dish of red wax. He melted the wax over the lamp on the orderly room table and sealed the knot with a flat lens-shaped stone. Then they began working on Reznick’s weapon.

“What the hell’s this for?” Reznick demanded.

“Orders,” Warner said. “Here, have another drink, and I’ll tell you things.” He waited until the locals had finished their business and left. “Officially, this whole palace is under the king’s peace,” Warner said. “No challenges can be issued here. In fact, though, there’s lots of nobles with the hereditary right to fight their enemies even on palace grounds. But they can’t challenge one of you to immediate combat since you’ve got your weapons bonded.” Warner shrugged. “Protects you and the locals both . . .”

“What about—” Murphy cut himself off.

“Pistols?” Warner asked. “You’ll turn those in here and now. Uh—I got to search you, too.”

“You and which army?” Murphy demanded.

Warner shrugged. “Thought you’d rather have me do it than Mason,” he said. “But if you’d rather deal with Mason. Or Sergeant Major Elliot—”

“No way,” Murphy said. “I’ll sit still for it. Here.” He took out a .45 Colt Mark IV automatic and laid it on the desk. “My combat knife too?”

“No, you keep that for your own protection. I expect you’ll get your pistol back in a couple of days, too, after you’ve learned a little about life here.” He eyed Reznick suspiciously. “Lafe, I expect you’ve got a hideout gun somewhere. Let me give you some good advice. Be damned careful whom you kill, self-defense or not. The clan system is really strong here. You kill one guy and you got a hundred relatives after your blood. Not to mention the Captain if you knocked off one of the people he needs.” Warner wrote out a receipt for the firearm. “Now you, Lafe.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Reznick said. He laid his .45 on the table. “Okay, what now?”

“Now I take you to the party,” Warner said. “And try to brief you on all the stuff that’s going on. Not that you’ll understand it. I don’t understand it myself, and I’ve been around a year.” He paused. “Why’d you come in, anyway?”

“Seemed like a good idea,” Murphy said. “It’s getting messy down south. Sea raiders. Big wagon trains coming north, lots of weapons and bringing their whole families and damned well going to find a place to live. Looks like things are
really
bad a thousand miles south of us. Famine, war, plague—you name it.”

Warner nodded. “We’d heard some of it. ‘The Time approaches, when the seas shall rise.’ ”

“They have, too,” Reznick said. “About half of Rustengo’s docks are awash, and the harbor area is salt swamp.”

“It’ll get worse,” Warner promised. “Still, you guys had a good setup. Got titles and everything.” He chuckled. “I don’t remember Dirstval giving out city knighthoods to mercenaries.”

Ben Murphy chuckled. “Yeah, but I like the ring of it. ‘Benjamin Murphy do Dirstval’ sounds better’n Private Murphy, CIA . . .”

“So why’d you give up all that?”

“Did we? You told that MP we were ‘star lords.’ I heard you.”

“Well, it’s a little complicated,” Warner said. “Far as the locals are concerned, you’re important merchant traders from the south. That’s near enough to noble, up here. But I’d act real respectful to Sergeant Major, was I you. And Art Mason’s an officer now.”

“Suits us,” Reznick said. “We want to get along here.”

Murphy nodded agreement. “Yeah. It’s pretty bad down south, Larry. Damn all, it’s getting worse, and nobody down there is going to watch our backs. We had each other, and Lafe’s wives, and nothing.” He stopped for a second, then went on. “Used to be, I had a wife. Nomads killed her. Lafe and I hunted the bastards for a ten-day. Hell with that. Anyway, one day the pistols will run dry. Or somebody’ll catch us and torture us for our secrets. You heard the fables, about what they do to the Little People here?”

Warner nodded. “Grim fairy tales indeed.”

“So when we heard Colonel Parsons had bought it, and the rest of the troops was doing all right and there wasn’t even any war to fight—well, I figure Cap’n Galloway will take care of us. He always tried when we was back home.”

* * *

They stood on the balcony behind the musicians and looked down at the grand hall with its kaleidoscope of colors. The granite walls had been hung with tapestries and rich colors, but the place still had a fortresslike look to it. Nearly everything on Tran did.

The musicians seemed in good form. Someone had brought up wineskins, and clay goblets were going around freely. Every few minutes someone raised a toast to the Infanta Isobel, and everyone had another drink. The music seemed mostly strings and drums, with little of the thin reedy wails that Murphy had become used to in the south. Most of the music was incomprehensible, but sometimes they struck up tunes Murphy recognized. “The Girl I left Behind Me,” the drinking song from
Student Prince
, “Garry Owens”. . .

Murphy estimated three hundred people were crammed into a hall built for half that many, and all were wearing their best clothes, which meant the most colorful.

“There’s a hell of a lot of those MPs out there,” Reznick said. “Who are they?”

“Well, technically they’re guardsmen to Mac Clallan Muir,” Warner said.

“Mac which?”

“Mac Clallan Muir. Look, Captain Galloway—there he is, recognize him?—Captain Galloway married the lady Tylara do Tamaerthon, widow and dowager countess—well the local title is Eqetassa, but that’s pretty well countess—of Chelm. That made the Captain Eqeta. Lady Tylara’s father is an old clan chief named Drumold. Tamaerthon has a goofy system of titles that
nobody
understands, but Mac Clallan Muir is Drumold’s most important one. He made his son-in-law his war chief.”

“War chief,” Reznick said. “Of what?”

“In theory, of all of Tamaerthon,” Warner said. “In practice, Captain Galloway’s war leader of all the clans that’ll take orders from Drumold. That’s most of ’em, but not all. There. That’s Drumold over there.” He pointed to a man in bright kilts studded with silver pins. He wore a dozen gold bracelets, and several gaudy necklaces. Warner noticed Murphy’s grin. “Yeah, I think so too, but you better never say nothin’ he can hear. Old bastard’ll split your liver in a second, and don’t think the Captain would do much about it, either.

“Anyway, back to the MPs. As war chief of the clans, Captain Galloway was entitled to a bodyguard. What he did was have Art Mason recruit a whole mess of ’em, lots more than anybody expected, and use ’em for military police. Not just young nobles, either. Kids from different clans. Even clanless ones, and freed slaves—”