CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Why do I feel as if this is a noose?” Esmond muttered under his breath as he backed away from King Casull with the chain of gold and emeralds bouncing on his chest.
The mutter might have gone unheard in the screaming roar of the crowd, if Center had not been filtering Adrian’s perceptions. I wish you could make the leg hurt less, he thought. To his brother: “It well might be, if we’re not careful.”
The King of the Isles was all benevolence as he waved from the dais on the harborfront to the crowds, spreading an arm to indicate the Gellerts. Adrian didn’t miss the slight narrowing of eyes as the cheers mounted into hysterical abandon. The Gellerts were far too popular now, with the Confed fleet in ashes and all but a precautionary garrison retreating eastward. Far too popular, and far too likely to be candidates to rule Preble themselves. The populace certainly wouldn’t object; the problem would be to keep them from deifying Esmond and Adrian both, and sacrificing to them. After months with the horrors of a Confed sack hanging over the city, it wasn’t surprising.
Nor safe, from Casull’s point of view, Adrian thought, as the sons of the Syndics of Preble—who’d vied for the honor—picked up the poles of the carrying chair, to take him to the state banquet. And I don’t think he’s the type to forget Tenny, either.
“In a week,” he said to his brother—they were close in the sedan chair, “he’ll have convinced himself we deliberately set Tenny up, so we could seize Preble ourselves and set up as kings.”
Esmond’s eyes narrowed. “It’s what he’d have done himself,” he pointed out. Adrian nodded; King Casull IV was no son of Casull III, after all—he’d started out as an ambitious general. “In fact,” Esmond went on, “it’s not a half-bad idea. We could cause the Confederacy no end of grief here, running things.”
Adrian looked around in alarm, fast enough to draw a fresh throb of pain from his bandaged leg. It was healing so quickly as to be near miraculous in this hot climate—Center had had some hints about spirits of wine—but it was a serious wound.
“No, don’t worry, little brother,” Esmond said. “We couldn’t get away with it—not between Casull and the Confeds. The Confeds might take us on as client-kings, but that’s out of the question, of course.” His smile became a little strange. “Their camp burned, but Vanbert still stands . . . and Nanya’s not avenged yet.”
Adrian swallowed and looked away. “Well, there’s an idea I’ve had,” he said. I and my friends. “It would get us away from Chalice, which Casull would like; it’ll cause the Confeds a lot of grief, which we’ll both like—” though you more than me, brother, he thought sadly. Center’s merciless visions left a man little of the loyalties he’d been brought up with. “—and I think it might really change things.”
“As long as it’s a change the Confeds hate, I’m for it,” Esmond said, waving to a bevy of hareem beauties leaning out of a window and throwing dried flower petals. The sons of the Syndics were making heavy weather of the crowds on the way to the Town Hall, even with a squad of Esmond’s Strikers going before them with active spear butts. “Tell me more.”
“O King, live forever, your favor has been lavished on us like the Sun’s light on the fields,” Adrian said, gagging slightly on his own fulsomeness. It didn’t sound quite so bad in Islander, but he could see why his ancestors had fought so hard in the League Wars to keep the Islanders out of the Emerald cities. “We wrack our brains for a means whereby we may repay a tenth, a thousandth of the kindness you have shown our unworthy, outland selves.”
When you’re dealing with an autarch, lay it on with a trowel, lad, Raj’s voice said. At least, when he’s got the jump on you. Part of the cost of doing business.
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.”