Lord of Janissaries (90 page)

“They probably were. We weren’t exactly running a resort up here.”

“I know. Like I said, I got five more back there.”

No time to send somebody for a body count, and no need either. MacAllister was about the surliest merc in the whole outfit and always had been. He was also the best and coolest shot Gengrich had ever known, and was real sticky about an accurate count of his kills.

So that meant nineteen bandits in return for a dozen locals down plus two starmen and twenty-odd locals hurt. With the loot they’d snagged, the bandits might be calling it a victory.

Victory. Right. Who was that guy who said, “Give me another victory like this and I’m dog meat”?

* * *

The rising wind whipped the flames of the torches on the gate towers but the light rain wasn’t enough to put them out. Helmets and shield bosses glistened as the sentries presented arms. Gengrich returned their salutes and rode on through the smelly darkness of the gate itself into the courtyard of Castle Zyphron.

Behind him rode the mercs, the wounded with the medics and stretcher-bearers, and his own personal bodyguard. The rest of the column would probably already be settling down in New Zyphron, which was their fancy name for the walled camp at the foot of the hill.

At least they’d take care of their horses and armor before they went looking for wine and an audience. He’d made it a rule from the first, that a man who neglected his mount joined the infantry and a man who neglected his armor or weapons joined the bandits. He’d had to fight twice, once against six men, before he made that rule stick, but that was the last bit of trouble.

Frank Guilford came up, saluted, and went off to triage the wounded without waiting for a reply. After him came the seneschal, Master Arranthos.
Master Arranthos. Damfino master of what. Some city guild until politics got him. He sure don’t talk about it.

“Master Khemos thinks that the south gate must be braced, at least, to see the winter through.”

“Can’t he finish the repairs?”

“The foundation on the left side needs work. The ground will be too wet for safe digging until the frosts come.”

After that it would be too hard, of course. A sweet set of choices—override a master mason, start work and risk Khemos quitting or people getting killed; block off the castle’s escape hatch to mounted men for the rest of the winter; or do nothing and watch the gate fall on somebody’s head in the first blizzard.

“Give Master Khemos my compliments and tell him to brace the gate.”
Read that in a novel once. Sure comes in handy.

This far south a light-infantry army that didn’t need forage for cavalry or a siege train could campaign damned near all year ’round, but that wouldn’t be a menace to Castle Zyphron. They couldn’t be in real hot water before spring, and then if they did have to get out in a hurry it’d be for good and damned sure they wouldn’t be riding!

“Yes, my lord. The Lord Holloway says he expects the forge to be fit for the making of—guns—in another ten days. He asks whether you wish iron or bronze guns.”

Now that was almost good news! Siggie Holloway was just as good a blacksmith as he said he was, and ready to bust his tail in the bargain. Once they’d decided that their gunpowder was good enough to use in guns, he’d rounded up the people and the tools without anybody having to ride herd on him.

Bronze or iron was still a question. Iron they had, but nobody on Tran seemed to know how to cast it, except maybe the Romans. They’d have to use guns hammered together out of wrought-iron bars; they’d be heavy mothers and likely to blow up in your face if you gave ’em a dirty look.

Bronze could be cast, and that meant lighter, stronger guns that wouldn’t rust. But both bronze and the bronzesmiths would have to be imported from Rustengo.
Who in hell do we know in Rustengo besides Mort Schultz? Have to ask around. Guess we’ll have to make peace with Schultzy. But not just yet.

“Iron, I think. We have the men with the art of working it, and it is easier to come by. We’ll need a lot.”

Arranthos gave Gengrich’s H&K a pointed look. “The star weapons seem to wield great power, though they are small.”

Why try to bluff? “That is true. They are also made with starmetals that may not exist on this world, and with magic that none of the starmen know, not even the Lord Rick.”

Arranthos looked thoughtful. “Very well. Lady Helena asks that you see her as soon as your duties permit. Your son Dan has been sick with the lung-fever these past three days. Lord Guilford does not hold out much hope.”

“Oh, Christ.”

Gengrich briefly closed his eyes and tried not to sway in the saddle. It was all just too damned much. Dan was such a likable baby, with his mother’s blond hair and his father’s dark eyes, and Helena had gone through hell having him. She was so proud, too, because Erika had a girl, then miscarried so that she couldn’t have any more. . . .

Pneumonia didn’t care whether you liked somebody or not. All it cared about was whether there were any drugs to fight it off. There weren’t and there weren’t going to be any, and that was that, although Frank had done some pretty good work with home remedies picked up from the local mid-wives.

“Forgive me, my lord, that I brought—”

“Oh, it’s not your fault. Tell Lady Helena I’ll be with her as soon as I’ve prayed to Hestia.”
And washed up, but I can’t get them to understand about that.

“Yes, my lord.”

Gengrich dismounted and strode off toward the shrine of Hestia without noticing if his squires caught his horse. Please, God or Hestia, or Somebody, don’t let Dan die. What did he do to anybody?

Maybe Hestia would answer.

And maybe Elliot would fly down from the sky in a balloon with a case of penicillin and a case of Lone Star beer.

* * *

Dan died just before True Sun-rise the next morning. The last thing on Tran or any other world Gengrich wanted to do was stay in the sickroom looking at his son’s body. But Helena was crying so hard he didn’t want to leave her alone.

Hell, even Erika was crying. Maybe that meant he wouldn’t have woman troubles with Erika crowing over her rival’s losing Dan. . . .

By late morning Helena was cried out. Gengrich staggered into his chamber and collapsed on the bed. He didn’t bother taking off his boots, but he did grab a jug of Guilford’s Private Stock. It was about eighty proof and tasted even worse than Gengrich felt.

He’d thought one drink would be enough to send him off, but he was on his third when he heard a knock at the door.

“Go to hell.”

“It is Lord Severianus, Lord Gengrich.”

“He can go to hell too.”

“My lord,” came a more educated voice. “I fear this is worth disturbing you. When you have heard me, then if you wish I will go to hell.”

Gengrich groaned. “Let him in.”

Marcus Julius Vinicianus strode in. He’d been a drunk ever since Flaminius exiled him ten years ago for some satirical verses on Caesar’s inability to make up his mind. The booze had left his nose, eyes, and cheeks permanently red and given him a potbelly, but he still walked and carried himself like a drill sergeant.

“All right. What is it?”

“Forgive me for breaking in on your grief. May Christ and all His Saints keep your son, and send you and Lady Helena—”

“I can hear condolences some other time. What else?”

“Some news from the north. I fear we have misjudged one of the men we thought we could most trust, and much evil may come of—”

“Marcus, if you want your neck wrung like a chicken, just go on trying to be polite. Spit it out.”

Uninvited, Vinicianus poured himself a cupful of whiskey and drank. “Captain Aidhos do Vis assisted by the starman Harvey Rand made an attempt to carry off the Lady Gwen Tremaine and bring her south to you.”

“Christ! Why?”

“He thought she would be of value, to force the Star Lord Les to help you speak to the skyfolk. Or perhaps she could help you do that herself. Either way, you would be able to trade madweed for star weapons and tools. For medicines. Aidhos no doubt expected that you would be grateful for this, and give him honor and wealth.”

“Jesus Christ.”
What have they got me into?
“That’s what he tried. What happened?”

“Four of his men were killed or captured, including the starman Rand.”

He’s no loss.

“Two confessed under torture and were executed. No one seems to know what happened to Rand. Lord Rick spoke harshly to Master Daettan in Council and accused him of bringing thieves to a royal wedding.”

“Thieves?”

“Yes. Except for the Inner Council of Drantos, all are being told that the men were only thieves. Nor had Captain Aidhos been arrested at the time the message left Edron.”

That could have long since changed, of course. But if Aidhos was going to be let go to protect the captain’s cover story . . . “Marcus. Do you have any reliable informants in Vis?”

“Need you ask?”

“Not really.” Vinicianus had informants everywhere.
Including in my household, I expect. But he’s useful.
“Have them learn all they can about Aidhos’ friends and kin. I do not want to be at feud with half of Vis for taking Aidhos’ head, but if I can do so safely, I will have it.”

“To what end?”

“As a present for the Lord Rick.”

“It will take more than that to make peace with him.”

“What makes you think I want to make peace with Lord Rick?”

“I predict that we will have no choice by spring.”

“When I want predictions, I’ll hire a soothsayer.”

“Very well. You know better than I, whether the ‘magic’ of the star weapons will last beyond this winter without being renewed.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that. “Sure, I’d like to make peace. I’ll be his ally if he’ll have us. All of us, everybody who follows me. Anyway, we can’t wait until spring.”

“We agree, then.”

Damn nice of you.
“So. You look into Vis and I’ll send somebody to talk to Schultz in Rustengo.”

“An alliance with Rustengo will anger the Prophet Phrados.”

“Tell Phrados to kiss my arse.”

“Impractical. How does one compel the master of a hundred thousand soldiers?”

“The man who says he has a hundred thousand soldiers.”

“Yes. It is not quite the same thing. But he certainly has a large host, and we have no spies in it.”

“So I’ll keep it a secret that I’m talking to Schultz. For God’s sake, leave me alone!”

“As you wish.”

“Stop.” The liquor and the exhaustion were hitting now; Gengrich felt as if his arms and eyelids were weighted with lead. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’d do without you, Marcus.”

“Today you would go to bed with your boots on,” said Vinicianus, expertly heaving Gengrich’s legs onto the bed and starting to unlace the boots. A snore was the only reply. He pulled the boots off and piled furs over the sleeping Star Lord.

“Sleep, my friend, and God give you peace if men cannot.”

7

Master of Foot Mortimer Schultz stood up in the sternsheets of the boat. The boat swung to port as the helmsman put the tiller over to avoid the submerged ruins of a wall. Schultz spread his legs to balance against the sudden motion. They glided into open water. Two crewmen furled the sail and hoisted the leeboard. A moment later they slid aground on a muddy bottom that had once been a hillside above a fishing village east of Rustengo.

“Well done,” Schultz said. The helmsman grunted something that might have been “thanks.” The sailors of Rustengo were a close-mouthed lot at best, and the helmsman no doubt suspected the Master Schultz knew little of ships. He was right; before Schultz joined the Army to escape going to rabbinical school his only acquaintance with ships had been the Staten Island Ferry.

Schultz’s four guards splashed ashore and took up positions where they could cover the hillside with their crossbows. Schultz followed them, then called back to the crew, “If we have not returned by darkness or if anyone attacks the boat, you must bear word to the house of Mahros.”

“Master—”

“I don’t doubt your courage. But if we meet danger today, it will come from more men than the three of you could fight, were each of you an Achilles.”