David Drake: Reformer

Despite the riches and titles King Casull had showered on the Gellerts — he had little choice, with the greatest Islander victory over the Confeds in five generations dropped in his lap — it was notable that the Gellerts were no longer invited to small informal audiences. This one was in the Syndic's Hall of Preble; besides the guards who lined the wall behind the throne there were a brace before the dais as well, and a quartet of hard-faced Islander admirals — or pirate chiefs, if you looked at it from another angle — flanking the King.

"I'm sure you'll find a way," Casull said, leaning his bearded chin on a fist and the elbow on an arm of the throne. The aigrette of peacock feathers and diamonds nodded over a face more lined and gray than it had been when the Gellerts first saw him. "Do go on."

"O King, the Isles are strong at sea. The Confederation is strong on land; not least because of the endless number of their fighting men. This is the Isle's most insoluable problem, because while the Confed's numbers may learn skill, the Isles cannot bring forth a half a million peasants to draft into an army."

"Yes, yes." An impatient gesture of the hand.

"Would it not then follow—" Adrian caught himself falling back into the cadence of a Grove lecture, and gave himself a mental shake " — be sensible, I mean, to make alliance with the only other power which commands manpower on the same scale?"

Casull's brows rose. "Now you really do interest me! What power is left in the civilized world, beyond the Isles and a few little scraps, and Confed client kingdoms and puppets?"

"No civilized kingdom, lord King."

Adrian waited, sweating, while the lights went on behind the King's dark eyes. Inwardly, he asked once more: Are we really going to serve civilization by arming barbarians ? We call the Islanders that, but the Southrons — they're fucking savages , no mincing words.

given a continuation of present trends, civilization on the northern continent will fall; the probability is as close to unity as stochastic analysis allows,Center thought remorselessly. A vision unrolled before Adrian's eyes, one he had seen before — the gap-toothed grin of a Southron horseman as he pursued a silk-clad woman down a street in burning Vanbert. Adrian blinked it away with a shudder; his own mind had painted Helga's face on her.

One of the admirals snorted laughter. "The Southrons? They'd have trouble organizing an orgy in a whorehouse. They're fierce and numerous, yes, but the Confeds slaughter them like pigs in a pen, when it comes to open battle."

Adrian inclined his head. "My lord is acute," he said. "Yet the ignorant may learn. . and I have some things to teach them, I think."

"Ah," King Casull said, sitting up. "You wish me to send you to Marange." The great, sprawling anarchic freeport that was the closest thing to a capital the southern continent had, and its only city. "Much might be done in Marange. The Southron lands are rich in men. . and timber."

"But not in seamen," Adrian said. Well, I knew Casull wasn't any kind of fool, he thought. "As Your Majesty knows, the Gray-Eyed Lady herself couldn't teach the Southrons to sail a piece of soap across a bathtub."

An unwilling smile bent the monarch's lips; Adrian could hear a muffled snort from Esmond, where he stood at parade rest behind his brother with his helmet tucked under one arm.

"But fighting on land, that's another matter. Yes, most of them are brainless yokels, and a century of defeats wouldn't teach them not to run at the nearest foe like a greatbeast bull in musth running at a gate," he went on. "Yet have not emissaries from some of their chiefs come here to the Isles, speaking of alliance?"

"Yes, from Chief of Chiefs Norrys," Casull said absently; most of his attention was turned inward, to his own thoughts. "Or rather, from his kinsman, Chief Prelotta. Prelotta spent five years in Vanbert as hostage for a treaty, if I recall correctly."

Adrian nodded enthusiastically. Exposing a barbarian to civilization might convert him. . or it could just teach him technique, sharpen his appetite, and show him where the really good loot was. In either case, it usually made him more dangerous.

"Yes," Casull said. "I will speak the truth; despite your services to me, the thought of my son comes between me and happiness when I see your faces. But this. . yes, we must think upon it." He rose. "You may go."

Adrian and his brother knelt, rose, and backed out of the presence; Casull was already deep in conversation with his advisors.

"Phew!" Esmond said, in the corridor outside. "I'm getting nervous at these audiences — as Grayn would put it, my arse feels the shadow of the Oakman every time the King looks our way. I suppose that's why you came up with this crazy stunt."

"I haven't gotten us killed," Adrian pointed out. His brother's hand clapped down on his shoulder.

"Yet," he said. A cruel smile lit the handsome face. "But together we've gotten an entire shitload of Confeds killed — and this scheme sounds as if it'll be even better. The Confederacy can be wounded at sea, but to kill it you have to go ashore."

Adrian shivered slightly as he followed his brother's tall form out into the brightness of the courtyard.

"Men," the elder Gellert said to the waiting officers and noncoms. "Looks like we're going on a trip."

EPILOGUE

Helga Demansk turned in the saddle to look back at the wreckage of the Confed camp. Anger warred with pride as she looked at the ribs of the burned ships, stranded like the blackened remains of dead sea dragons on the shore. A brisk autumn wind brought the smell of the sea and soot to the rear of the Confederation column where the Justiciar and his daughter rode. She dabbed at her mouth with the back of one hand; she'd been ill, a little, lately. It was a cool brisk day, and waves were breaking high over the lines of rock-laden ships; in a month of storms they'd be driftwood and scattered stones on the beach. In two years, only mounds beneath the grass would show that men had ever come to make war here. For now there was a forlorn look to the empty barracks and the neat gridwork of roads, the lines of raw dirt where the earth walls had been spaded back into the ditches.

"Quite a mess," she said. Spies from Preble had brought word of who was responsible; and that the Gellerts had left, none knew where. "But Adrian won't be bothering us here anymore."

Her father worked his wounded arm, testing the healing. "My dear, I'm afraid we haven't heard the end of either of the Gellerts," he said. "If not here, then elsewhere." He raised the arm in salute, as one should to a capable enemy. It cost nothing to be polite, even when duty required that one kill a man; he went on:

"Still, it was a first-rate job of work. Maybe the gods are whispering in that young Emerald's ear." Another snort of laughter. "Maybe he's a god in disguise, as the old stories tell of — and this was like the War of the Thousand Ships."

His daughter's grin grew wider, and she ducked her head towards her saddlebow. In that case, Father dear, I suspect you're going to be grandfather to a demigod. It was better to laugh than cry.

She looked out to sea. And she suspected her father was right; sooner rather than later, they would be hearing from Adrian again.

Helga Demansk decided she was rather looking forward to that.

Maps