S. Stirling - The Reformer

"Get out! I've had my belly full of your lies, and my son is dead, and I must beg the Confed commander for his body. Get out, before I kill you!"

"The King commands," Adrian said, bowing again.

* * *

"What are these things?" Helga asked, fascinated, touching one gingerly but trying to make it seem as if it was to steady herself against the gentle rocking of the anchored ship.

Demansk frowned at his daughter, but it wasn't really a formal occasion where it was grossly improper for a woman to speak. Most of the Confed force's commanders were asleep in their tents, and so were most of the surviving men. Only a few aides and some troopers to hold torches were with him on the deck of the captured Islander quinquereme.

He peered at the bronze shape that lay on a carriage of oak with four small wheels, amid a cat's-cradle of ropes and pulleys. A smell hung about it, of hot metal and sulfur. Death farts from the Lord of the Shades, he thought sardonically.

"It's like those arquebuses, only much bigger," he said. "Look, there are the stone balls it threw-or those sacks of lead ones. Hellpowder down the muzzle, the ball or bag on top, set fire to it, and out it goes-smashing ships and men." He shook his head. "This changes the whole face of war, forever, do you understand?" His anger was distant, muffled. "We can't keep it secret, now-not with the Islanders still having more. If they use these things, we must too, and. ." His voice stopped with an enormous yawn.

"And you can curse Adrian more tomorrow, Father," she said. "I still think you weren't recovered enough for a battle-even if you did destroy the iron ram all by yourself."

Pride glowed through the sarcasm of her words, and Demansk felt himself swelling a little. Well, it was something of a feat. . perhaps enough for a triumph in Vanbert? Perhaps even the Speaker's chair; there was so much that cried out to be done, to make safe the State.

And I'm out on my feet and getting delirious, he told himself severely. "Back to camp."

The captured quinqueremes were with the surviving capital ships of the Confed fleet, tied up to bollards at their bows, sterns out into the artificial harbor. They couldn't be drawn up like the dozens of triremes beached on either side, but they were secure enough here. More than secure, Demansk thought. The rock-filled merchantmen that made up the breakwaters reached well out into the ocean, defining a rectangle five hundred feet by a thousand; out at the entrance, two wooden forts rested on two large cargo carriers each. Flaming baskets of wood reached out on poles, to show the boom of chain-linked logs that sealed the entrance against raiders. The forts had archers and slingers and catapults, and they were well within range of each other. Shoreward were the dockyards and the whole Confed camp, still sixteen thousand regulars and as many auxiliaries-they'd even had time to run up timber barracks and housing, while the fleet was being made ready.

He glared out towards the dim lights of Preble, just visible on the southwestern horizon. The battle had been about even, which made it a Confed victory-and next time they'd have had time to study the new weapons, come up with countertactics of their own, and they'd still have the weight of men and metal on their side. Next time. .

* * *

"The King was angry," Adrian said judiciously.

Esmond drank and wiped his mouth. "The King was ripshit," he said. "The King may have us all impaled before morning, if he doesn't pass out first-he may regret it when he sobers up, but that won't help us ."

probability of execution in the next 6 hours is 67 %, ±7,Center said helpfully.

To be fair, Raj said judiciously, Casull really doesn't understand the new weapons. He's a fair to good commander with what he does understand.

Adrian looked around the small rooftop platform; he and Esmond, and their seconds-in-command, plus a scattering of Striker officers. . Nobody was looking too cheerful. Frankly, I doubt anyone here is in the mood to be particularly fair, he thought.

"We're the only ones who kick Confed ass, and we're in line to be buggered by the Oakman," Donnuld Grayn said. "Ain't no justice in this world, not if you're a hired soldier. Fuck all Islanders, anyway. If Lord Gellert 'd been in command today, we'd be drinking Jeschonyk's wine." He grinned with a friendly malice. "And Lord Adrian here would be back diddling Demansk's daughter."

Adrian flushed. How that news had gotten out, the Gray-Eyed alone knew. Although letting it do so was more in Gellerix's line, if you listened to the old stories.

"Esmond would have done better," he agreed neutrally.

Because he'd listen to you, Raj said. I think that left to himself, he'd make a battle plan and then use the new weapons in it, not build the plan around their capacities. Of course, he doesn't have Center to lean on. He's a better than middling commander, with the weapons mix you have here-very good indeed.

There were times when the sheer objectivity of his invisible companions could get a little wearing, even to a Scholar of the Grove who'd striven for detachment all his days. All things in moderation, even moderation.

And we want the new weapons to make a difference, he observed.

correct,Center said. to break this planet from its stasis, the innovations must be shown to be decisively superior. it must be shown that the future is qualitatively different from, and superior to, the past-an essential shift in overall paradigm.

"The question before us now," Adrian said aloud, reverting automatically to the elenchos of the Grove, "is what course of action can save us from being. . ah, buggered by the Oakman."

"Well, we could bring the whole Confed fleet back for the King to roast prawns over," Esmond said morosely. " And all the captured ships, and all their cannon and hellpowder."

"Gunpowder," Adrian corrected automatically, and then froze. He was conscious of the others looking at him, but within his skull there was a blinding light; it was not unlike the near-orgasmic ecstasy of having an insight, but multiplied by three and with the resonances of three separate personalities added in.

"Wait, wait!" he said, holding up a hand. "Look, it's a longshot, but it beats being impaled. Here's what we'll do-"

When the words stopped tumbling forth, the other four men were staring at him with the stars reflecting in their wide eyes.

"Suicide," Esmond whispered.

"Oh, no," Adrian said. The thought of what he proposed to do stopped him for a moment, and his smile was a trifle ghastly. All men are initiates of the mysteries of death, he reminded himself sternly. "Waiting here for the King to decide we're to blame for his son getting killed, that's suicidal. This is just risky."

Grayn rubbed his chin. "Couldn't we just run off and take up piracy?" he said.

"That's slow suicide, with all the people we'd have pissed off at us," Adrian snapped back. "Confeds and the King of the Isles after our asses? I don't think so."

The mercenary nodded. Adrian looked at Simun. The grizzled little man shrugged. "Well, you're the lord, sir, so whatever you order's fine with us." He sighed and heaved himself erect. "Better go get the men ready, before they're too deep in the jug or dipping their wicks-makes a man grumpy if you interrupt him, and sleepy if you don't. Been a long day. ."

His voice trailed off as he trotted down the stairs. Grayn was staring at the stars. "Getting out of the harbor, that might be a bitch," he said thoughtfully. "Got the chain boom up."