Throne of Stars (29 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Semmar Reg stepped out of the Place of Justice and looked up at the monster towering over him. It was a two-legged beast, with vicious talons and an obviously wicked disposition. The rider on its back, however, was even more terrifying. His weapons and accouterments were different from those of the Valley Guards—armor of leather and fine-linked mail, a lance, and a long weapon like a thin arquebus. Reg bowed low as the apparition drew up at the head of a column of similarly equipped riders and dismounted. Whatever else the stranger might be, Reg noted, he carried more pistols than anyone the mayor had ever seen.

Reg had hurried to the town hall as soon as he heard the sound of a firefight from the south. From Sran’s bell-tower, he could easily see the Guard checkpoint on the Kirsti Road on a clear day. Of course, today was far from clear, despite the recent rainstorm which had washed much of the ash out of the air, and the current visibility conditions had made it difficult to make out details. But when he reached the tower’s top, he saw a small amount of smoke from arquebuses and bombards still drifting around the fortification. He’d also seen this column of riders, well on its way to the town, and if they’d taken many casualties from the Guard, it wasn’t apparent.

What
was
apparent was that a formed military unit was just about to descend upon Sran. And that hadn’t happened in two hundred years.

Rastar looked around at the town and felt a distinct glow of pleasure. It climbed up the mountains at its back, with one house piled practically on top of another. On the south side, a mountain stream tumbled out of a knife-edged gorge and was gathered for use by several mills that seemed to be the main source of local income.

It was evident that at least some of the place’s citizenry had once been more prosperous than they were today, for several large one-time manors had been converted into housing for workers. But if the manor houses’ previous owners had fallen upon hard times, the workmen living in their homes today appeared to be doing well enough. For that matter, the entire town seemed relatively prosperous, which was good. Prosperity mattered to the humans, since they felt so very kindly towards town-living
turom
. Rastar, on the other hand, was Vashin. The Vashin had settled into their northern fortresses barely three generations before the Boman overran them, and the long tradition of raiding was bred into their bone and blood. It might have become somewhat muted in the last generation or so, but they certainly weren’t “townies.”

Thus it was that Rastar saw the town from the uncomplicated perspective of a cavalry leader on a long march. Which was to say, as a chicken waiting to be plucked. Of course, there was no need to be impolite about it.

“Good day to you, kind Sir,” the former Prince of Therdan said in truly vilely accented Krath with a gesture of greeting. “It’s lucky for you I got here first!”

Reg bowed again, nervously.

“It is a great honor to meet you . . . ?” he said.

“Rastar Komas,” the armored stranger supplied. Or, at least, that was what Reg
thought
he said. Between the outlandish name and the even worse accent, it was very difficult to be certain. “Prince of Therdan,” the stranger went on, with a false-hand gesture of expansive goodwill. “It would seem that a caravan, of which I am a member, is about to pass through your town and into the Shin Hills. Unfortunately, we’re just a tad short on supplies.”

“I believe you are the party from over the seas?” Reg said delicately. “I was informed of your presence. However, the High One has decreed that you are not permitted to leave Kirsti. I . . . wonder at your presence here. Also, the Shesul Road is closed to all but military traffic. I’m afraid that you’re not authorized access.”

“Oh, trifles, my good man. Trifles, I’m sure!” Rastar said with a human grin. It was not a normal Mardukan expression, since Mardukans, like any sensible species, regarded the baring of teeth as a sign of hostility. Not even Eleanora O’Casey could fault him for smiling so cheerfully at the local mayor, but Rastar was pleased to observe that the expression had exercised the proper effect upon him.

“I’ll admit that there was some minor unpleasantness when we left Kirsti,” he continued. “But surely no rational government would hold you responsible for our presence when half the Kirsti Guard is dead at the
Atul
Gate.”

“Oh.” Foreign accent or no, Reg had no problem understanding that last sentence. He tried not to flinch as he absorbed its dire implications, but he was fairly sure where the rest of the conversation was going. “I agree with your assessment,” he said, after a moment. “What can the town of Sran do for you?”

“Well, as I mentioned, we’re terribly short of supplies,” Rastar said with another smile which just coincidentally happened to show a bit more tooth than the last one. “But you’re in luck, because I got here before those barbarians from Diaspra or . . . even the worse, the
humans
. So I’m thinking that we can get clear with, oh, say one measure in five of your storehouses. And, of course, some little trinkets. Purely to satisfy the wanton lusts of those Diaspran infantry barbarians. We’ll
try
to keep the humans from burning the town down, but you know how they are. Perhaps if everything was assembled, on carts, ready to go, when they arrived it would be easier to restrain them. And now that I think about it, if we could distract them with a feast outside town, we might actually be able to keep them in check.

“Now, I suppose we
could
pay for some of it,” he added with a gesture expressive of anxious consideration. “But then we’d be here all day negotiating, and they’d probably arrive before we were ready for them. What do you think would be best?”

“I’ll go get the head of supply,” the mayor said.

“God, I love good subordinates!” Roger said as he looked around with a sigh of pleasure.

“They are a treasure, aren’t they?” Pahner agreed with a laugh.

A long column of
turom
carts was lined up beside the road. Some of them were still being loaded, but most were already piled high with sacks of barleyrice and other less identifiable merchandise. On the other side of the road there was a large tree-park, apparently a source of firewood for the town, and scattered amongst the trees was a mess line. Several cauldrons of barleyrice steamed over fires, and two
turom
were turning on a spit just beyond several long tables covered with fruit and fresh vegetables. The meat was going to be a little rare, but . . .

“Tremendous, Rastar,” Roger said as he trotted his
civan
up to the Vashin prince, who was gnawing on a
basik
leg. “I’m surprised you were able to do all this so easily.”

“Oh, it was tough,” Rastar assured him, then belched and tossed the leg bone over his shoulder. “The local mayor was a tough negotiator.”

“What’s it going to cost us?” Pahner asked as he walked up to them, still pointedly refusing to ride one of the
civan
.

“Oh, as to that,” Rastar said airily, “it seems the locals were so impressed with our riding form that—”

“Rastar,” Roger growled, “you were supposed to
pay
for the supplies.”

“I
tried
to press payment upon them,” the Therdan said. “But they absolutely refused. It was truly amazing.”

“What did you threaten them with?” Pahner asked.

“Me?
Threaten?
” Rastar demanded with a Mardukan hand gesture eloquent of shock. “I can’t believe you could accuse me of such a thing, when we Vashin are so universally known for our humility and boundless respect for life!”

“Hah!” Roger laughed.

“Well, I
will
admit that the reputation of humans for boundless cruelty and wanton slaughter had, unfortunately, preceded you.”

“Oh, you bastard,” Roger said with another laugh. “I’m going to have to govern these people some day, you know.”

“As well they sense the iron hand inside the glove, then, Your Highness,” Pahner said. “Until their society is stable and they themselves are educated enough for democracy to take hold, a certain rational degree of fear is a vital necessity.”

“I know that, Captain,” Roger said sadly. “I don’t have to like it.”

“As long as you
follow
it,” Pahner said. “The difference between the MacClintock Doctrine and the fall of the ISU was a lack of respect for the ISU and its thinking that it could ‘nation-build’ on the cheap, which left the cupboard bare when it came up short on credit and couldn’t pay cash with its military.”

“I’m aware of that, Captain,” Roger sighed. “Have you ever noticed me trying to use ‘minimal force’?”

The Marine looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Point taken.”

“I’ve become more comfortable than I ever wanted to be with calling for a bigger hammer,” Roger said. “I don’t have to like it, but the past few months have provided all the object lessons anyone could ever want about what happens when you’re afraid to use force at need.”

He started to say something more, then closed his mouth, and Pahner saw him look across to where Nimashet Despreaux rode her own civan beside the line of ambulances. For just a moment, the prince’s eyes were very dark, but then he gave himself a shake and returned his attention to the Bronze Barbarians’ commander.

“Since you—and Rastar—seem to have everything thoroughly under control, I’m going to go check on Cord and the other casualties. Ask somebody to bring me a plate, would you?”

Roger dipped his head under the leather awning and looked across the litter at Pedi.

“How is he?”

Most of the wounded were being transported in the leather-covered
turom
carts that looked not much different from Conestoga wagons. Roger had spent some time in similar conditions on the march, so he knew what it was like to be bounced and bumped over the poorly maintained roads while regrowing an arm or a hand. Unpleasant didn’t begin to describe it. But until they got back to “civilization,” and convinced civilization that there was the hard way, and then there was Roger’s way, there wasn’t a great deal of option.

What option there was, though, had been extended to Cord. His litter was suspended between two
turom,
which had to be at least marginally better. At least he wasn’t being shaken by every bump in the road, although whether or not the side-to-side motion was actually all that superior was probably a matter of opinion. At the moment, however, it was the best Roger could offer his
asi
.

He had seldom felt so inadequate when he offered someone his “best.”

“He still won’t wake up,” Pedi said softly. “And he’s hot; his skin is dry.”

“Afternoon, Your Highness,” Dobrescu said. The medic climbed down from one of the carts to stand beside the litter and gestured at Cord. “I heard you were checking on the wounded and figured I’d find you here.”

“How is he?” Roger repeated.

“He’s not coming out of the anesthesia,” the medic admitted. “Which isn’t good. And as Blondie here noted, he’s running a fever. That isn’t anything I’ve run into before; they’re cold-blooded by nature, so a fever isn’t normal with them. It’s not all that
high
a fever, but he’s about three degrees above where I think he should be, based on the ambient temperature.”

“He’s . . .” Roger paused, trying to decide how to put it. “He’s sort of a . . . warrior monk. Is it possible that he’s unconsciously . . . ?”

“Using
dinshon
to increase his body temperature?” Dobrescu finished for him. “Possible. I’ve seen him use
dinshon
a couple of times to control his metabolism. And the fever might be whatever metabolic remnant lets him do it reacting to the infection. There’s a reason people develop fevers; the higher temperature improves the immune response. So fever, under certain circumstances, might be normal in Mardukans. But he’s still in a bad way.”

“Is there anything else to be done?” Roger asked. “I hate seeing him like this.”

“Well, as far as I know, I’m
the
expert on Mardukan physiology,” the medic said dryly, “and I’m afraid I can’t think of a thing. I’m sorry to put it this way, Sir, but he’s either going to pull through, or he isn’t. I’ve given him the one antibiotic I know is usable in Mardukans, and we’re pumping him with fluids. Other than that, there’s not much we can do.”

“Got it,” Roger said. “I’ll get out of your hair. Pedi?”

“Yes, Your Highness?” the Shin said miserably.

“Wearing yourself down caring for him isn’t going to bring him back any sooner,” the prince said pointedly. “I want you to rotate with those other slaves we ‘rescued’ and get some rest when you can. I’m going to need you up and ready to deal with the tribes as we’re moving. If we get overrun because you’re too tired to wrap your tongue around the words to get us through, it’s going to kill him deader than dead. Understand?”

“Yes, Your Highness. I’ll make sure I’m available. And capable.”

“Good,” Roger said, then sighed. “This is going to be a long trip.”

“What?” Dobrescu said darkly. “On Marduk? Really?”

“Rastar, we also need intelligence on what we’re heading into,” Pahner said, after the prince had left. “Pedi has never used this route herself.”

“I’ve talked with the locals,” Rastar replied. “The language problem is pretty bad, but I got Macek to use his toot to check the translation for me. According to the locals, the road to the pass is steep and apparently of poor quality. It’s maintained for
turom
carts from here to the pass itself, but past the keep, it’s nothing more than a track. I don’t think we can use the carts after that. Or, at least not very far after that.”

“Well, if your Vashin are rested, head up the road, slowly.” The captain shook his head. “I never thought I’d be back to the days when my idea of good intel was some vague descriptions of the road and cavalry a couple of hours out ahead of me.”

Roger’s
civan
balked at what passed for a crossroads. The road through Sran had been steep enough, but just the other side of the town, it went nearly vertical. It was paved with flat stones and had obviously been maintained, but a fresh Mardukan gullywasher had just opened up, and the roadbed had turned instantly into a shallow river of racing brown water laced with yellow foam.