David Drake - Tyrant

First, though, he had to see how far he could push the matter.

"And what do you think of such 'new times' yourself, Sergeant?"

The giant stared at him for a moment. Then, sloping his shoulders like a greatbeast leaning into a load, he said softly: " 'Twere — it was — a sad day for my folk when Old Marcomann died, sir. Say what they will about his so-called 'tyranny,' but it never touched me or mine. Except to lighten the taxes and give a poor man a chance. All of which went like the dew when the sattra— uh, noblemen and their Council got back on top of things."

The choked off word had been sattrasacht. An old word in the eastern dialects, it translated as "gutworms" — a type of intestinal parasite which was prevalent in poverty-striken agricultural regions of the Confederacy. It was the private term which the Confederacy's peasantry used to refer to the Vanbert aristocracy.

"Marcomann did leave something of a mess behind, Sergeant." Demansk's words were spoken in the tone of an observation, not a reproof.

The sergeant shrugged. Then, for the second time that day, Demansk saw the little gleam in a troll's smile.

"Yes, sir. But me and my boys figure you're a lot smarter than Old Marcomann, even if he was a great man and all."

Demansk nodded abruptly. "Done, then. I've a different job for you than bodyguard, Sergeant. I need you to keep an eye on Willech's old regiments for me, especially the Fourth Jallink. I'll give you and your squad the authority to sit in on all staff meetings, armed, and oversee everything they do." He stifled a yawn. "It's too late tonight to go into the details — truth is, I have to figure them out myself — but that's the gist of it."

The uncertainty was back on the giant's face. So was the accent in his voice. "Tha will no hart'ly allow no sergeant na 'is squad to do thet, sar."

"Three things, Sergeant. First, let's start with your name. What is it?"

The sergeant blinked. "Ma name? 'Tis Forent Nappur, sar."

"Second. I'll need you to keep that accent under control. Outside of your squad quarters, at any rate. Can you do that?"

Another blink. "Ah — yes, sir. I can do that. Sorry, sir. I'm just a bit unsettled at the moment."

Demansk waved the apology aside. "I understand. Not a problem, as long as you keep an eye on it. You know the sattrasacht, Forent Nappur. They'll forgive much, but never poor diction."

The sergeant choked off a little laugh. Demansk smiled, and then finished the day's work.

"And — third thing — it'll not be sergeant any longer. It's Forent Nappur, Special Attendant to the Triumvir, from this moment forward."

Chapter 14

That explains it, said Raj. No wonder he's much more sophisticated than you'd expect.

yes,chimed in Center. the taking of hostages is common practice in iron age cultures.

Adrian ignored them both, as he had learned to do easily enough in the many months since the odd duo had entered his mind. He kept his concentration entirely on Prelotta. Mostly, he kept his concentration on the imperative need not to burst into open laughter.

The young chief's statement was still reverberating in his mind. Adrian was trying to picture Prelotta spending five years as a boy in Vanbert, the capital city of the Confederacy. The hairdo alone. .

Something in his tight face must have been interpreted correctly by the leader of the Reedbottom tribe. Prelotta's scarred face crinkled.

"No, no — I assure you! Not even a rash and foolhardy Southron boy was stupid enough to wear his native dress in Vanbert. Other than my pale skin and light hair, I appeared quite the normal civilized young lad."

His fingers brushed along his forehead. "Of course, the tattoos were already there, so the disguise really fooled no one. But at least I hadn't had the ceremonial scars added yet."

That made sense, Arian realized. Prelotta would have had the scars added later than usual. The normal custom among Southrons, although the specific practices varied from tribe to tribe, was to have boys tattooed at the age of four and undergo the other, more brutal, ceremonies upon reaching puberty. Prelotta had been turned over as a hostage to the Confederacy at the age of twelve, following a clash between the Southrons and the Vanberts which went badly for the tribesmen. That meant he wouldn't have been able to undergo the tribal "coming of age" ceremonies until he was seventeen.

Which, for the most part, was probably an advantage. A seventeen-year-old would have had an easier time dealing with the pain than a younger one. Except—

He winced. Prelotta, showing the perceptiveness which Adrian had come to expect from him, grinned widely. Then, grabbed his crotch in an exaggerated protective gesture.

"Yes, the circumcision was awful. I have to say — privately, of course — that you Emeralds have the right of it there. Cut the foreskin off while the newborn babe is still indignant about everything anyway."

Not for the first time, Adrian found himself liking Prelotta. Partly that was because the Reedbottom chief was far more sophisticated than any other Southron Adrian had yet encountered. But, mostly, it was simply because he'd come to like the man. Granted, Prelotta's fundamental view of the world was still that of a barbarian. But Adrian found a thoughtful barbarian — as rare as such were — to be less offensive than most Vanbert aristocrats. Or Emerald ones, truth be told.

Yes, Prelotta's basic view of things divided the world into nothing more complicated than takers and takees. Yes, he gave no more thought to the use of force and violence as the solution to most any problem than a direbeast. But in those respects, once you stripped away the veneer, he was really no different than most civilized noblemen. Adrian even found it a pleasure not to have a straightforward discussion of a plundering war dressed up with sophistries.

Really, the only thing Adrian still held against Prelotta was his smell. And even that, he suspected, was simply due to Prelotta's care in maintaining a proper outward respect for Southron custom. Left to his own devices, Adrian was almost certain that Prelotta would have joined him and the other Emeralds in their daily bath — instead of "cleaning" himself by simply slathering on another layer of oil.

* * *

Thinking of the large public baths which Adrian and his Emeralds had insisted on building as soon as they arrived in Marange brought mixed emotions.

Sadness, because his brother Esmond no longer participated in that ancient and treasured ritual of Emerald daily life. Since Esmond had recovered from the wounds Adrian inflicted on him during their duel, his brother had restricted himself exclusively to the company of the Southron tribesmen who had adopted him as one of their champions. (Esmond's defeat in the duel had not been held against him. All tribesmen except Reedbottoms considered slings a fundamentally sneaky weapon.) He exchanged fewer than twenty words a week to any Emerald, even the soldiers who had once been his own troops.

On the other hand, Esmond's self-imposed exile had been a blessing for Adrian, from a tactical point of view. At one time, when they served under King Casull of the Isles, Esmond had been the commander of the so-called "Sea Striker regiment of Emerald Free Companions." Hired killers would have been a more accurate term. Although most of the five hundred Strikers were Emerald in origin, they had taken service as mercenaries with the islanders.

All of them, with only a few exceptions, had accompanied Esmond and Adrian to Marange — as had every single member of Adrian's own unit of two hundred arquebusiers, the "Lightning Band." Counting the small horde of camp followers who had attached themselves to the two mercenary units, Adrian and Esmond had brought well over two thousand people with them to Marange.