Imperial Stars 1-The Stars at War (51 page)

"Dammit, Mardy, the creature's just getting to know me!"

"It'll take three days to reach Whernmoor by gremgaur, sir. Helix knows what stupidities Kelp could commit in that time. The floater is three times as fast as any of our sixlegs."

The duke dug his toes into gravel. "You'd better take good care of that beastie, son!"

Lord Mardy spun his racquet. "I will, sir. And the run will do it good. It doesn't get enough exercise from you."

"
I'll
decide that," grunted the duke. "And, before you go—some news for you."

Lord Mardy's racquet ceased revolving. "Sir?"

"Bregonif's found a Persay byblow what has the doigt!"

Lord Mardy raised his eyebrows, and waited.

The duke looked vaguely uncomfortable. "A young chap from Kelmet. Bit of a rough diamond, according to Breg."

Lord Mardy hid his amusement. "One of your indiscretions, sir?"

The duke harrumphed. "That's something we needn't go into."

Mardy stared thoughtfully at the sky. "I've often fancied a kid brother. Could be fun. I'm sorry I didn't see the babe before it died."

The duke's expression was unreadable. "Can't have a grown man watch his mère in parturition."

And just as well, he thought. The fewer complications, the better. Of those witnessing the birth, only an unnamed midwife had been unwilling to recall the child dying in Formal Crowfoot's arms. That one had followed the wetnurse on a one way trip to Garbage. And Hector Garman's men had proved their loyalty by diligently failing to discover who had disposed of the woman.

Duke Corwen was well served. He said, "The byblow appears for inspection next Saturday noon before the Mendicant Steps. If he's at all presentable, I'm prepared to accept him. But Greville's attitude may be different—he's keen on a clone of Derzey Persay."

. . . who was an idiot, Lord Mardy added to himself. Perhaps it would be wise to speed up to Whernmoor, deal with Colonel Kelp, and get back as quickly as possible. Saturday noon, at the Mendicant Steps might be the place to be, if you were sold on securing a stepbrother for yourself.

Bregonif said, "Does the boy know the duke?"

Grumm laughed. "Little Bastard ain't been out of the stews of Kelmet."

Bregonif turned towards Make Ready. "The duke will be on the steps before the Mendicant Door. He will wear a lime green, high necked, gold belted tunic. You may miss the stall on his finger, since he will have long, lace cuffs. He may wear a flat cap. His breeks will be red, buckled below the knee. There will be at least two Chateau guards with him. Approach no closer than six feet. Do not look at him. Do not address him. Walk the length of the alley between the market stalls and the Chateau, pass the steps slowly, then get the hell out of sight. And for Helix's sake, wipe that silly grin off your face!"

Make Ready's visage froze. "Yes, sir." He hesitated.

"Sir— have you told the duke that my doigt ain't mature yet?"

Bregonif eyed the healer and the youth for a moment. Then he said, "You had both better understand what kind of fire you are playing with. I happen to know that Greville wants a Persay clone which he has already chosen. So M'kreddy's appearance on the scene could upset his plans. If he were to learn that the doigt wasn't ripe, he might take steps to eliminate you both. So, unless the Grand Maitre accepts M'kreddy, I can't answer for your safety."

Grumm tried to smile. "We never thought it'd be a cakewalk."

Bregonif toyed with the wattles depending from his cock's comb. "What did you expect to get out of the scheme, anyway?"

Grumm shrugged. "Supplier of herbs and medicals to the Chateau? Perhaps healer to the domestics?"

"And if the lad doesn't satisfy?"

Grumm's face grew gloomy.

Bregonif continued remorselessly. "You must appreciate the alternative. The duke can't ignore a contender with the doigt. He either accepts or rejects him. If
he
opts for rejection—he'll have to reject the sponsor, too!"

Grumm shot a furtive glance at Make Ready. "I—I have friends in Varrick."

Bregonif shook his head in doubt. "You'd have to be quick."

"The duke won't blight no one in public."

Bregonif fiddled with the catch on his cloak. "Don't be too sure. He has a quick temper. I'll have three gremgaurs tethered at the foot of the Demidrop Stairs, waiting for you. We might all need to be quick."

Grumm swallowed hard. He nodded in silent assent.

"So—turn the lad out smart, and hope for the best."

Make Ready kept quiet. What if you had no friends handy in Varrick? What if, anyway, you'd done enough running in your short life? What if you fancied letting the great Duke Corwen Persay see what you thought of absentee fathers? It would take more than a fast gremgaur to get you clear of the commotion that indiscretion would cause!

Lord Mardy Persay relaxed his pressure on the goad, allowing the floater to slow. Ahead, at the foot of the hill, lay the Lemon river. On the nearer bank, rows of tents advertised the presence of Lord Cledger's brigade.

Feeling the tiller pull against his palm, Mardy let the planimal drift unguided towards a nearby copse, where it nuzzled a tree, and settled.

No Persay patrol appeared to challenge their arrival.

"This'll do," Mardy told his escort. "That's Kelp's camp below."

He jumped from the driving seat, motioning his men out with him. "Watch our beastie, corporal," he ordered. "This won't take long."

The corporal nodded. "Aye, sir." He tucked his imported metal musket under one arm, and vanished among the trees. Lord Mardy set off downhill with the other two guardsmen.

Duke Corwen had given no precise instructions about the fate of Colonel Kelp. Lord Mardy had little doubt about what would happen to the colonel in his father's hands.

Followed by his guards, he paced along the line of tents towards the marquee flying the Persay banner. Beside them, the river bank swarmed with coveralled sappers. The skeleton of a two-lane bridge already stretched towards the farther bank. On the farther bank, refugees from the stricken township of Dormenville huddled, many in bloody bandages.

"Holy Helix!" Mardy's men being his personal bodyguard, were permitted a looseness of discipline he considered justified by their absolute loyalty to him. "Why don't the colonel do something for them poor bastards?"

The other guardsman grimaced. "Reckon them sappers will be digging a grave or two before we go back to Kelmet."

His companion nodded agreement. He raised his voice, "Permission to fix bayonets, sir?"

Mardy shook his head. His men were doubtless ready to fight the whole brigade, should it venture to disagree with any of his judgments. Mardy grinned. "We don't want to frighten them too much." Like all Persay nobles, Lord Mardy went unarmed, except for an ornamental dagger. The Persay doigt was all that was required to instill fear into his enemies.

The guard on the marquee threw up his musket, then, recognizing Lord Mardy, lowered it, and stood back.

Mardy thrust aside the flap, and entered the tent.

A coterie of officers sat around a campaign table, glasses before them. In Duke Corwen's army, a colonel wore two silver stars below a coronet on his shoulders. The officer carrying this weight of metal paused in the act of tipping a bottle over a glass, and turned.

"Dammit, soldier, I said we were not to be bothered—!"

"Except by me, colonel," Mardy interrupted. "I've come to collect the account of your stewardship."

Color drained from Kelp's face. He lowered the bottle to the table. The officers behind him got hurriedly to their feet, buttoning tunics.

"Are we celebrating a victory?" Mardy asked, face innocent.

"Er—no, sir," gasped the colonel.

"Then why are we not outside, getting on with the war? Why were there no patrols to challenge me when I arrived? Why are there wounded and homeless, unhoused and untreated, on the far bank of the Lemon?" Mardy paused for breath. "Why are you still in command, Colonel Kelp?"

The colonel gaped, wordless, eyes on Lord Mardy's stalled digit.

Mardy raised his index finger, pointing. "Can you give me one good reason why you should continue to command Lord Cledger's brigade?"

"Sire—!" protested a moustached major behind Kelp.

The menacing digit moved from the colonel to the major. "Were you invited to speak, sir?"

The major shook his head, suddenly mute.

Mardy's eyes were bright. This sorry crew, who had permitted poor, idiotic Cledger to expose himself to enemy fire, deserved all that was coming to them. "Don't despair, major," he advised. "Your turn will come."

He turned back to Kelp. "Step forward, colonel, so that I may touch you."

Like a puppet jerked by strings, the colonel approached Lord Mardy.

"Close enough, colonel." Mardy reached out, hooked his finger under Kelp's epaulette, and ripped it loose from its button. Then he grabbed the dangling cloth, and tore it from the colonel's shoulder.

"Remain still, colonel," he ordered, "so that I may reach your other shoulder."

Tucking both epaulettes into his pocket, Mardy said, "Messer Kelp, you are now a civilian, and have no more power over this brigade. In my father's name, I now banish you under pain of death from the Duch of Mary Cage. When I am done here, you will be boated over the river, and left to your own devices. For your sake, I hope they serve you better than you served Milord Cledger!"

Kelp closed his eyes. "Sire, I have a wife and children—!"

Mardy's face was merciless. "So had Milord Cledger—and probably those troopers who were killed on the bridge."

Kelp opened his blazing eyes. His hand went to the hilt of his hanger.

Mardy heard the click of a musket trigger behind him.

He put out a restraining palm. "Messer Kelp, I would not take your sword from you, since a sword is every citizen's right. But, if you put your hand on it again in my presence, you will not live to draw it."

An hour later, the men of Lord Cledger's brigade watched six disgraced ex-officers ferried across the river. A young captain of musketeers, dazzled by the prospect of swapping a star for a coronet, had promised Lord Mardy to get the bridge finished, the refugees succoured, and the brigade home in good order.

Feeling sick, because he had come within an ace of blighting Kelp, Lord Mardy motioned to his bodyguard. "That's it, lads. Let's go home."

On Boulevard Trounoir, the healer paused before the window of a Gentlesires Outfitters. "Do as they tell you in there," he warned. "The fellow owes me a favour, but it won't stop him charging me a packet. So don't give him any excuse for jacking up his prices any higher than they already are."

The man who came to greet them wore two arms and two well-camouflaged stumps. Why a hero should choose amputation to emulate the paragon shape was beyond Make Ready. He had often envied the extra pair of arms the hexos owned.

Grumm and tailor flourished palms. Grumm muttered, "Good of you, Maddy. This is M'kreddy. M'kreddy, Maddy Dearboy is going to dress you for the pageant. Behave yourself, and do what he tells you."

The tailor gripped Make Ready's sleeve, holding him fast. He faced Grumm. "Float for a couple of hours. We don't like an audience."

He led Make Ready into a room where many hexos worked tailoring machines.

"You're getting priority, lad," he said. "Helix knows why. So busy we are. I must be going soft in the head." He pushed Make Ready onto a turntable, and produced a tape measure. "Get those rags off," he ordered.

Make Ready stripped off Grumm's jacket and shirt.

Maddy Dearboy's hands fluttered. "Everything, laddie. I wouldn't put muttoncloth over that rag of a shirt."

Flushing, Make Ready removed Grumm's britches and his own skimpy underwear.

The tailor eyed the fingerstall Grumm had supplied. "You can't want your glove fitted over that?"

Make Ready put his hand behind his back. To remove the stall would betray his blackened finger. If a Kelmet medsin could divine the significance of the digit, why not a Kelmet tailor. He said, "Over the stall, messer."

The tailor shrugged his indifference. "Messer Grumm didn't say, laddie—do you want polypop fiber or cultstuff? Cultured fabric is guaranteed not to crease or wear out during its life, but on humid days it tends to grow faster than the programmed shrinkage, and you get a baggy fit."

Make Ready observed Dearboy's unconcerned pose. Sackcloth or hessian would have held equal interest for the tailor. Make Ready set his jaw. Grumm looked for a profit from their venture. Why endanger it by skimping!

Make Ready said, "Haven't you got nothing better?"

Dearboy inflated his chest. "Laddie, we have a trad cotton velvet ideally suited for your rigout. It's guaranteed both to crease and wear out—eventually. But, until it does, it will disguise you as a gentlesir. It is, unfortunately, more expensive that the materials I suggested. Messer Grumm would no doubt regard it as too expensive for a single wearing."

Make Ready hesitated. Dress him like a lord, Grumm had promised Bregonif. Well, why not? Make Ready put a match to his boats. "I may have to make more than one appearance. Do me in velvet."

Dearboy vibrated like a butterfly. "You sure Messer Grumm won't mind, dear lad?"

Make Ready smothered his misgivings. "Messer Grumm wants the best. He gave me carte blanche."

Dearboy beamed. "Very well, sir. Now—about the trimmings . . ."

Sunlight bounced off market stall roofs on the Guards Parade at Haut Chateau. Make Ready, swathed in drapes raped from Grumm's dispensary, sweated beside a simmering medsin. The avenue before them, which separated the market from the chateau, was known as the Alée des Dames, and was, by tradition, reserved for the ladies of the court.

A door opened along the alley. Four figures emerged into the sunlight, to stand idly on the steps before the door, as though lingering to watch the busy market. Two of the figures wore Chateau Guard stripes, one a soiled smock, and the fourth a lime green jacket and plum red breeches.

Grumm glanced at his watch, then gave Make Ready a push. "There he is. Get going! And walk proper. Don't rush."