Poul Anderson - A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

Kossara’s blood ebbed. “I … well, speaking for myself, the fighting cost me the man I was going to marry. What use an Empire that can’t keep the Pax?”

“I’m sorry. But did any mortal institution ever work perfectly? Hans is trying to make repairs. Besides, think. Why would the Gospodar—if he did plan rebellion—why would he send you, a girl, his niece, to Diomedes?”

She summoned what will and strength she had left, closed her eyes, searched back through time.

{Bodin Miyatovich was a big man, trim and erect in middle age. He bore the broad, snub-nosed, good-looking family face, framed in graying dark-blond hair and close-cropped beard, tanned and creased by a lifetime of weather. He eyes were beryl. Today he wore a red cloak over brown tunic and breeks, gromatz leather boots, customary knife and sidearm sheathed on a silver-studded belt.

Dyavo-like, he paced the sun deck which jutted from the Zamok. In gray stone softened by blossoming creepers, that ancestral castle reared walls, gates, turrets, battlements, wind-blown banners (though the ultimate fortress lay beneath, carved out of living rock) above steep tile roofs and pastel-tinted half-timbered stucco of Old Town houses. Thence Zorkagrad sloped downward; streets changed from twisty lanes to broad boulevards; traffic flitted around geometrical buildings raised in modern materials by later generations. Waterborne shipping crowded docks and bay. Lake Stoyan stretched westward over the horizon, deep blue dusted with glitter cast from a cloudless heaven. Elsewhere beyond the small city, Kossara could from this height see cultivated lands along the shores: green trees, hedges, grass, and yellowing grain of Terran stock; blue or purple where native foliage and pasture remained; homes, barns, sheds, sunpower towers, widely spaced; a glimpse of the Lyubisha River rolling from the north as if to bring greeting from her father’s manse. Closer by, the Elena flowed eastward, oceanward; barges plodded and boats danced upon it. Here in the middle of the Kazan, she could not see the crater walls which those streams clove. But she had a sense of them, ramparts against glacier and desert, a chalice of warmth and fertility.

A breeze embraced her, scented by flowers, full of the sweet songs of guslars flitting ruddy to and from their nests in the vines. She sat back in her chair and thought, guilty at doing so, what a pity to spend such an hour on politics.

Her uncle’s feet slammed the planks. “Does Molitor imagine we’ll never get another Olaf or Josip on the throne?” the Gospodar rumbled. “A clown or a cancer … and, once more, Policy Board, Admiralty, civil service bypassed, or terrorized, or corrupted. If we rely on the Navy for our whole defense, what defense will we have against future foolishness or tyranny? Let the foolishness go too far, and we’ll have no defense at all.”

“Doesn’t he speak about preventing any more civil wars?” Kossara ventured.

Bodin spat an oath. “How much of a unified command is possible, in practical fact, on an interstellar scale? Every fleet admiral is a potential war lord. Shall we keep nothing to set against him?” He stopped. His fist thudded on a rail. “Molitor trusts nobody. That’s what’s behind this. So why should I trust him?”

He turned about. His gaze smoldered at her. “Besides,” he said, slowly, far down in his throat, “the time may come … the time may not be far off … when we need another civil war.”}

“No—” she whispered. “I can’t remember more than … resentment among many. The Narodna Voyska has been a, a basic part of our society, ever since the Troubles. Squadron and regimental honors, rights, chapels, ceremonies—I’d stand formation on my unit’s parade ground at sunset—us together, bugle calls, volley, pipes and drums, and while the flag came down, the litany for those of our dead we remembered that day—and often tears would run over my cheeks, even in winter when they froze.”

Flandry smiled lopsidedly. “Yes, I was a cadet once.” He shook himself a bit. “Well. No doubt your militia intertwines with a lot of civilian matters, social and economic. For instance, I’d guess it doubles as constabulary in some areas, and is responsible for various public works, and—yes. Disbanding it would disrupt a great deal of your lives, on a practical as well as emotional level. His Majesty may not appreciate this enough. Germania doesn’t contain your kind of society, and though he’s seen a good many others, between us, I wouldn’t call him a terribly imaginative man.

“Still, I repeat, negotiations have not been closed. And whatever their upshot, don’t you yourself have the imagination to see he means well? Why this fanatical hatred of yours? And how many Dennitzans share it?”

“I don’t know,” Kossara said. “But personally, after what men of the Empire did to, to people I care about—and later to me—”

“May I ask you to describe what you recall?” Flandry answered. She glared defiance. “You see, if nothing else, maybe I’ll find out, and be able to prove to their superiors, those donnickers rate punishment for aggravated stupidity.”

He picked up a sheaf of papers on his desk and riffled them. The report on me must have violated my privacy more than I could ever do myself, she thought in sudden weariness. All right, let me tell him what little I can.

{A cave in the mountains near Salmenbrok held the sparse gear which kept her and her fellows alive. They stood around her on a ledge outside, but except for Trohdwyr shadowy, no real faces or names upon them any more. Cliffs and crags loomed in darkling solidity, here and there a gnarled tree or a streak of snow tinged pink by a reddish sun high in a purple heaven. The wind thrust slow, strong, chill; it had not only an odor but a taste like metal. A cataract, white and green half a kilometer away, boomed loud through thick air that also shifted the pitch and timbre of every sound. Huddled in her parka, she felt how Diomedes drew on her more heavily than Dennitza, nearly two kilograms added to every ten.

Eonan of the Lannachska poised almost clear in her mind. Yellow eyes aglow, wings unfurled for departure, he said in his shrill-accented Anglic: “You understand, therefore, how these things strike at the very life of my folk? And thus they touch our whole world. We thought the wars between Flock and Fleet were long buried. Now they stir again—”

(Both moons were aloft and near the full, copper-colored, twice the seeming size of Mesyatz (or Luna), one slow, one hasty across a sky where few stars blinked and those in alien constellations. The night cold gnawed. Flames sputtered and sparked. Their light fetched Trohdwyr from darkness, where he sat on feet and tail in the cave mouth, roasting meat from the ration box. The smoke bore a sharp aroma. He said to Kossara and her fellow humans: “It’s not for an old zmay to tell you wise heads how to handle a clutch of xenos. I’m here as naught but my lady’s servant and bodyguard. However, if you want to keep peace among the natives, why not bring some Ythrians to explain Ythri really has no aim of backing any rebellion-minded faction?”

Steve Johnson—no! Stefan Ivanovich. Why in the name of madness should she think of him as Steve Johnson?—replied out of the face she could not give a shape: “That’d have to be arranged officially. The resident can’t on his own authority. He’d have to go through the sector governor. And I’m not sure if the sector governor wants Ythri—or Terra—to know how bad the situation is on Diomedes.”

“Besides,” added -?-, “the effects aren’t predictable, except they’d be far-reaching. We do have a full-scale cultural crisis here. Among nonhumans, at that.”

“Still,” said a third man (woman? And was his/her nose really flat, eyes oblique, complexion tawny?), “whatever instincts and institutions they have, I think we can credit them—enough of them—with common sense. What we will need, however, is a least a partial solution to the Flock’s difficulties. Otherwise, dashing their hopes of Ythrian help could drive them to … who knows what?” (If those features were not a mere trick of tattered memory, well, maybe this was a non-Dennitzan whom Uncle Bodin or his agents had engaged.}