The Reformer g-4 Page 15

  "Men will, when they're attacked from the rear," Adrian said. "You managed to cover yourself with well-earned glory, I see."

  Esmond laughed again; the sound was a little hoarse, as if he didn't do it very often. He caught the smaller man by the shoulder and pushed him forward unwilling, until they were before the throne. Helga slipped forward unobtrusively, absently knocking a questing hand aside with the rim of her buckler on its wrist bone, and ignoring the indignant yelp that followed.

  "My lord King," Esmond said; not shouting, but pitched in a public-speaking mode copied from his brother's rhetorical training, and found useful on the battlefield as well-much likelier to attract attention than the usual roar, as conversation built up in the throne room.

  "My lord King," he went on, grinning. "Here is my brother, Adrian Gellert, who has served you well-not only the devices which battered down the walls and gates of Vase, but by taking the citadel from behind through a secret passage and blocking the escape of Director Franzois."

  Casull looked aside from a consultation with one of his admirals who'd brought him a tally of ships captured intact.

  "Then he has served me well," the king said graciously, waving aside a surgeon who was trying to suture the slash on his cheek. "If the Director's heir-a pretender to this throne-had escaped, this victory wouldn't be complete."

  He gave Esmond a slight, hard stare at that; if the Director had won the fight, Casull might well have had to let him go. . which would have had much the same result, with the added disadvantage of the sort of colorful story likely to attract free-lances who valued a lucky commander.

  "You'll not find me ungrateful," Casull went on.

  "My lord King," Adrian said. "Forgive me if I claim your gratitude so early, but there's a favor I would like to claim."

  Casull's eyebrows went up; it was slightly boorish to take him up on his offer so early. "Ask," he said.

  Adrian reached behind himself without looking around; Helga squeaked slightly as his hand closed on her shoulder and pulled her forward. The fingers were slender but unexpectedly strong, warm through the cooling blood on the fabric of her halter.

  "My way here came through the Director's-the ex-Director's hareem," he said. "I'd have this woman assigned to me, if Your Majesty would be so kind."

  Helga swallowed. Hell, it's got to be better than the hareem, she thought. Women in the Emerald lands were closer-kept than in the upper classes of the Confederacy, but vastly better than in the Isles. . and Adrian hadn't made the slightest objection when she took a sword and came along for some payback. He'd even thanked her for probably saving his life-it would have driven most men she knew crazy, to owe a woman that.

  Although he has eyes in the back of his head, for a man who isn't paying much attention, she thought, puzzled for a moment. His brother Esmond, you could sense that he saw with his skin, like a cat. Adrian, he gave off a feeling you could walk right up to him and bash him on the head; only you couldn't, he'd start and look up and be ready for it, from what she'd seen. As if someone was talking to him, and paying attention when he wasn't.

  The King's words brought her back to her own personal reality with a thump.

  "That's a little irregular, but since they're Royal spoils. ." he said. Then he looked at Helga and laughed. "I see the former Director wasn't averse to a little perversion-that one looks like a boy with tits, or a field woman. . no, those are acrobat's muscles, I suppose. Well, she'll be athletic, if you like that sort of thing. But what by the Sun God is she doing with that sword?"

  The King's voice was amused, a little contemptuous. Adrian's was blankly polite when he replied: "Killing Vasean soldiers, mostly, my lord King. Five. ." His head went to one side. "No, six, with two probables, O King. Probably saved my life, as well."

  The King laughed uproariously. "We can't deprive our master artificer of his bodyguard, then," he said. "By all means-"

  "Excuse me, my Royal Cousin," one of the nobles said. A tall slender brown-haired man, he'd had time to shed his armor, but the padded leather doublet underneath was rank with sweat. "If I might?"

  Casull nodded uncertainly, and the Islander noble came two steps down from the dais, giving Helga a slow head-to-toe.

  "As you say, rather perverse. . but interestingly. By ancient law," he went on, giving Adrian a cool glance, "officers chose personal spoils by rank-and I believe I outrank this outlander."

  Casull's lips pursed in annoyance. He glanced around the circle of courtiers, and saw many nods and chuckles. Of course, Helga thought. An outlander, raised high so suddenly, was bound to arouse resentment-any Islander court was a snakepit at the best of times. And Adrian, unlike his brother, hadn't just pulled off a spectacular Wodep-like feat of public heroism.

  "Unless," the noble said, "he'd like to fight me for her? No? I didn't think so." The noble had several skull-and-bones earrings, and he moved like. . Like Adrian's brother Esmond, Helga thought. No! I will not go back into another Islander hareem! No!

  The Islander stepped forward, and she tensed.

  "Actually," Adrian said mildly, "I do object, and if necessary, I will fight you. But I appeal to our lord the King, whose wishes you are quite obviously contravening, my lord. . Sawtre, isn't it?"

  Sawtre grinned, flushing and letting his hand drop to his sword. "Interfering in the affairs of real men, little Emerald manure strainer? Better to get back to your toys. We should all consider the consequences of our decisions, shouldn't we? You are what you do, after all. And we know what you are."

  Adrian swallowed, shaking his head once and then again-as if, Helga thought under the rush of relief at his words and then horror at his prospects in a duel with this trained killer, he was talking to someone again. . and disagreeing with them.

  "I think you're forgetting something, my lord," Esmond said quietly.

  "Yes?"

  "Forgetting that if you harm my brother, in any way whatsoever, I'll kill you and piss on your grave," Esmond said, smiling himself. His eyes had taken on the same febrile brilliance they'd had during the duel with Director Franzois, and Sawtre checked for a moment.

  "You don't dare, Emerald," he said softly.

  "You'd be surprised what I dare," Esmond replied, his voice equally calm.

  Behind him the men of the Strikers tensed, and exchanged glances with Sawtre's fighting tail. Those men began drifting towards their lord; one of them dashed out, to collect others of their band who were lifting their share in the sack of the palace.

  "Excuse me," Helga said loudly. Sawtre's eyes did not waver. Helga tapped the edge of her buckler against her sword. "Excuse me. You, the asshole in the arming doublet!"

  That brought amazed snickers from the crowd around the throne; even Casull, half-risen in annoyance and gathering apprehension at the sudden prospect of a battle royal before his eyes, turned to look at her.

  The nobleman flicked her an annoyed glance. "Be silent, woman, or you'll get a worse beating than you would otherwise."

  "Oh, excuse me, my mighty Islander Pirate Lord dumber-than-dogshit, but you're forgetting something."

  "What?"

  There was a slack amazement on Sawtre's hard face; he could not believe that this was happening to him, this public defiance by a woman. His hand went to his belt. Not to the hilt of his sword, as it had a moment before, but to the thonged crop that hung there.

  "Forgetting this," Helga said, and thrust underarm.

  Lord Sawtre's face went slack with an amazement even more complete than before. Even then, his hand began a movement towards his sword, struck the hilt, began to draw. Hey, really good reflexes, Helga thought-it helped keep her mind off the fact that she had just probably condemned herself to death. I'd rather be dead, she thought, at the thick wet butcher's-cleaver sound as the blade went in from below, just above the man's left hip. Sawtre's mouth and eyes went into identical Os of shock as she dropped her buckler, put both hands on the hilt, and ripped the blade upward with a twisting wrench of arms and shoulders
and back.

  It came free with a hard shit-stink following it, and the Islander noble dropped to his knees and clutched at the pink-and-red intestines spilling into his lap.

  "Be silent, woman, you said?" Helga said, her voice breathy with exertion. "Try being silent about this, you velipad's ass."

  The sword went up, and her right foot curled up and then slammed down to add emphasis as the blade fell-spattering red drops even before it struck the man's neck, and with white shreds of fat sticking in nicks in the steel. Sawtre flopped boneless to the ground, and blood spilled down, crimson against the marble white and malachite green of the steps.

  For a long moment there was absolute silence; Adrian was staring at her and looking-again as if he was talking to someone. His brother was staring at her too, seeing her as a person for the first time rather than a symbol his brother was willing to fight for, and his eyes were wide with an expert's appreciation of what she'd just done. King Casull was frozen in a different set of calculations. His voice cut across the beginnings of a murmur:

  "Well, it seems he was silent about that," he observed, leaning back in the throne and resting his bearded chin on the knuckles of one hand. "And you know-I've thought Sawtre was a velipad's arse myself, for a good long while now."

  He chuckled, then threw back his head and laughed outright. Some of the courtiers chimed in immediately, and others took it up, until the whole room was roaring.

  Allfather of Vanbert, Greatest and Best-what a bunch of pirates! Even after a year in the Isles, she forgot sometimes. .

  Helga felt her shoulders begin to shake with reaction. Adrian laid his hand on her back again, gently-cautiously-but firmly.

  "And now, if my lord King will excuse me," he said.

  "By all means, my Iron Limper," Casull said, referring to the lame smith of the gods. "Keep the vixen, if you want her. I'd say not to turn your back, but-" he gave another shout of laughter "-that didn't do Lord Sawtre here any good, did it?"

  He raised a hand and shouted over the court's merriment. "And now, my lords and gentlemen, we have a city to sack!"

  * * *

  "An' here's to lord Adrian, the favored of the Gray-Eyed, victory-lucky, best lord a fightin' man could follow!" Simun shouted, raising his cup.

  The arquebusiers of the Lightning Band-they'd come up with the title on their own-raised a deafening cheer. Adrian smiled and nodded; it was rather like having a pack of pet direbeasts: alarming at times, but it certainly beat having them against you. The long palace hall was full of them, and of servants and women-the latter volunteers, or mostly, considering their alternatives-and the smells of food and wine and hastily washed mercenary rubbed with scented oil, and incense from braziers, perfumed lanterns, garlands. . Light flickered on hard battered faces, on ranks of bundles of plunder stacked against the walls, neatly wrapped in canvas and inked with their owners' names, and on the unit's equipment. They were ready to move out in the morning.

  "Here's to his brother, who's Wodep come again," Simun said loyally. "Yer can't go wrong with leaders who're favored of the gods-smart, too."

  "Long live lord Adrian, who taught us to wield the lightnings!" someone else yelled.

  "Long live lord Adrian, who's brought us to a place where we can swim in gold!"

  That brought a really enthusiastic cheer. The wine cellar they'd gone through had turned out to be a subtreasury or something, probably the ready funds for the management of the Director's hareem. Strictly speaking it should have gone into the general pot, but everyone had agreed that that would be taking the rules to a ridiculous extreme. It had come out to about a year's pay for every man in the unit, not counting what they'd picked up elsewhere the rest of the day.

  "And now I'll leave you to your well-earned feasting," Adrian said.

  There was another good-natured cheer. They didn't resent him not taking part in the celebration; they'd come to take a certain pride in the oddity of a Scholar of the Grove commanding them, now that nobody could doubt he had balls enough despite it. It had worked; it was lucky; and if it wasn't broke, they weren't going to try and fix it.

  "Won't be a gentleman's symposium, no, sir," Simun said. He leered cheerfully. "Watch out for 'er sword before you show 'er yours, too, sir!"

  He left the chamber in a roar of bawdy advice, flushing and smiling a little. His own chambers had probably been a royal guard captain's rooms, up a flight of stairs, with half a flat roof as well, enclosed by a head-high wall except where a low balustrade overlooked the courtyard-drillyard, and set with plants in pots, tumbles of blossoming vine falling down to the brown tiles. The scent of the flowers was faint and cool, after the heat and smells of the main hall; the walls blocked out flames and sound from the rest of Vase, leaving only the stars above, many and bright.

  "Ah-" he caught himself before he said Lady Demansk; the Gray-Eyed knew he didn't want Helga to know he knew that. "Freewoman Helga." There, at least he'd gotten across that he regarded her as a free citizen of the Confederacy, not a slave who'd changed owners. She nodded, taking note of the title, and he went on: "I've had some things gathered up for you, and you can have that chamber by the stairwell; we'll be leaving tomorrow."

  "Well, yes, I'd sort of wondered about that," Helga said, stepping forward into the puddle of yellow light a brass globe full of oil with a cotton wick cast on the tiles.

  She was wearing a clean tunic-man's clothing, but there was no doubt at all about the gender of the body within it. A garland of white-and-purple flowers crowned the long auburn curls that fell past her shoulders; it was hard to remember her turning the billhook meant for him, bathed in blood. . And fairly easy, too. All the gods witness, I was terrified. Not half as terrified as he'd been challenging Sawtre, of course.

  Adrian cleared his throat, glad of the night dimness. A voice drifted up the stairwell, followed by a tremendous shout of laughter, and then the jaunty notes of a kordax on the lyre. A line of torch-bearing men stamped out into the courtyard of this building, mostly leaning on their companions-women of the town, or boys in a few instances-and began weaving in a chain dance around the fountain and back into the hall. They were singing something, something with his name in it, but between distance, drink and the blur of voices far from used to singing in unison, he couldn't make it out.

  Interesting, Adrian thought with a distant scholar's part of his mind. He'd never actually seen a victory komos before, although the old epics were full of them. This wasn't much like the descriptions the poets gave; they left out the bits about men who stopped to throw up, or just fell down paralytically drunk.

  I suspect that this is more like what they were really like, even in the War of the Thousand Ships, he mused.

  "Ah, um." Oh, Gellerix, that's lame, he thought and found his voice. "I'm definitely not going to force myself on you, Freewoman Helga," he said.

  Helga smiled. "That's extremely gentlemanly of you," she said, with a polite nod and toss of her head. It wouldn't have been out of place at a dinner party at Audsley's house in Vanbert, except that most of his wife's acquaintances didn't have that much style. "But I assure you that force isn't required."

  "Ah, um." Oh, Gellerix. "Ah, you really don't have to feel any sense of obligation, Freewoman Helga," he managed to choke out.

  "You do like women, don't you, Adrian?"

  Adrian felt a chuckle rising at her expression of sudden worry. "Well, yes. Don't believe everything you hear about Emeralds, my-ummmph."

  "You're exactly the right height," Helga said as she broke the kiss. "Two and one-half inches taller than me. . Look, Adrian, I'm not a virgin, my marital prospects are crap anyway, I've been locked up with sixty women for a year and I don't like girls. . and I do like you. You're a fascinating man. You're also not someone my father picked, either-I like you, I said." Her smile grew. "Am I making myself clear?"

  "Abundantly," he said, and scooped her up with an arm under the shoulders and another under the knees.

  SEVEN

 
"Preble," King Casull said.

  His pointer tapped down on the map table. The greatbeast hide there showed an island covered in buildings, shaped like a peach pit with a stretch of blue water down the middle. Puff-cheeked wind spirits were drawn to represent the prevailing winds, and a line eastward showed the mainland coast. A few men stood around it: his heir, Tenny; Esmond; Adrian; and the Grand Admiral of the Isles, a half-brother of Casull who'd supported him in his thrust for the crown and had no sons of his own. A cooling evening breeze blew curtains aside to reveal the harbor of Chalice, crammed with shipping, a tarry reek penetrating even this far above the harbor. It was growing dark, but a flicker of red showed on the underside of the clouds that hung in the deep-purple sky-reflection of the lava in the craters above the city.

  "We held Preble under my predecessor, Casull III, may his spirit rest with the Sun God," Casull went on. "Justiciar Marcomann took it away from us, along with the old mainland possessions of the Kings of the Isles. It's barely half a mile from shore-you can see the old city, Sor, here-but it's a magnificent naval base and does a heavy trade. According to my spies, who are many there, there's only a small Confed garrison there, barely a battalion."

  Silence fell around the table. The Crown Prince cleared his throat. "A strong party loyal to the Kings of the Isles has risen in Preble," he said. "They have extended an invitation to me, to come and free them from the tyrants of the mainland, and then to rule them as men are meant to be ruled."

  "And not to pay the Confed tribute anymore," Casull added. "It's heavy; they don't really understand sea trade. . farmers, really."

  Adrian nodded in unison with Esmond . No doubt a little gold from Chalice was spread around to get that Royalist party going, Raj said. But yes, on the whole, it looks like a good opportunity to test the Confeds.

  probability of initial success is 77 %, ±10, Center interjected. high degree of uncertainty indicates several factors, principally-

  We'll discuss that later, Adrian thought firmly. Aloud: "My lord King, perhaps we can take Preble," he said. "Can we hold it?"