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Rick used charcoal to add another equation to the list on his whitewashed wall. He wished he had been a better physics student. He couldn’t remember the basic equations of harmonic motion, and he wasn’t sure he had derived them correctly. “Newton was one smart cookie,” he muttered to himself.
The wall was covered with equations and notes and memoranda. One whole section listed things urgently needed, such as paper, and better lamps, and an adequate supply of pens and ink—all of which would be needed so that he could copy out a table of logarithms from his pocket calculator before its batteries failed. Another held the best data he had been able to obtain on crop yields. Next to that were diagrams of plow designs and crop-rotation schemes.
There were endless details. The work would never be finished; but it was more satisfying work than building the army had been. The raid had bought time, but now he could do something lasting. Tamaerthon could become a center of learning, a place whose security rested on something more solid than military power. If only he had decent light to work by . . .
When he heard the knock at his door, he turned with relief. The work was satisfying, but conversation was a welcome diversion.
Caradoc stood uncertainly in the doorway. “Come in,” Rick invited. “There’s good wine in the flask on the table.”
“Thank you.” Caradoc poured a cup of wine and looked curiously at Rick’s charcoaled equations and the diagrams of the Tran system. Rick knew that Gwen had been teaching Caradoc to read, and the archer commander had shown a lot of interest in Rick’s work in the past. Today, though, he said nothing.
Rick frowned. “Some problem, Captain? Speak up, man.”
“I am concerned for the lady Gwen,” Caradoc said. “She sits and stares at the fire, and wants no one with her. It cannot be good that she wishes always to be alone.”
“Don’t let her be. Stay with her.”
“Lord, I try, but she has an evil temper.”
“That she does.” Lately she had taken to throwing things. Rick had long since given up trying to talk to her. He looked at his chalked calendar. Tylara had grown increasingly moody as well. Certainly the long winter had a lot to do with that, but she seemed to be brooding over something else as well—something she wouldn’t discuss. I’m surrounded by unhappy women, he thought. Just when things are going so well.
Whatever Tylara’s problem, though, there was a simple explanation for Gwen’s moods. “Her time comes near,” Rick said. “I do not have personal experience, but I am told that all women are hateful for their last days before a child is born. Especially a first child.”
And, he thought, it would be particularly tough for Gwen. She didn’t even know when the baby would come. The local day on Tran was slightly more than twenty-one hours long, and the gestation period seemed to have stabilized at two hunred ninety local days, as opposed to two hunred seventy on Earth; but would that be true for Gwen? No one knew. Straight mathematics; multiply two hunred seventy by twenty-four and divide by twenty-one, and you’d get three hundred days. How much of human physiology responded to hours passed, and how much to the day-night cycle? And was Earth’s moon involved? Women’s menstrual cycles seemed to coincide with Luna, but Tran’s double moons were small and much closer than Earth’s. Did they have an influence?
“You care for Gwen, don’t you?” Rick asked.
“Yes, Lord. And before the raid, I believed she cared for me. Now I do not know.”
“She mourns her husband,” Rick said. “But you are right. She is too much alone. I’ll speak with her about it.”
* * *
“Your boyfriend’s worried about you,” Rick said.
Gwen sat close to the fire. She looked up without smiling. “Oh, leave me alone!”
“For God’s sake, Gwen, snap out of it!”
“Why?”
“Do you think your problems are unique?” Rick demanded.
“Yes.”
“Okay, I put my foot in it that time,” Rick said. “Look, I’ve talked with the midwives. And Yanulf. They think everything’s normal—”
“The medical experts,” Gwen sneered.
“Well, they’ve delivered a lot of babies,” Rick said.
“Sure. And lost a lot of mothers. Rick, I’m scared out of my mind!”
“Sure you are,” Rick said. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Suit yourself.”
“Thanks. Look, I’ve probably started a population explosion here, but I’ve taught them the beginnings of the germ theory of disease,” Rick said.
“You couldn’t have. I’ve tried,” Gwen said.
“You didn’t go about it the right way. I told them diseases were caused by little tiny devils, and that blessed soap and boiled holy water would drive them away. They can accept that.” He looked thoughtful. “You know, I may be right about a population explosion. It happened that way on Earth.”
Before the end of the nineteenth century, women often died of “childbed fever.” But then came Ignaz Semmelweis with his theory that childbed fever was caused by physicians’ dirty hands. His colleagues forced him to resign for saying it was their fault, but though he ended his days in a madhouse eventually enough of them believed him—after that most women lived to raise their children and have more. “There’s no way we won’t change things here,” Rick said. “It isn’t easy, but I’m trying to look ahead. Maybe we can avoid some of the problems we had on Earth.”
“Maybe we can’t.”
“Look, dammit, snap out of it,” Rick said. “You’re working yourself into a depression. Keep it up and you’ll get to me, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “I really am. But it all seems so futile.”
“Why? Because we can’t go home? We can make a home here,” Rick said. “And—dammit, Gwen, we’re more useful here than we ever were back on Earth. There wasn’t much chance that anything we’d do there would change history, but we can here. We’ve already changed political history. We’ve got peace with the Empire and land to farm. Even if Marselius loses, we can hold those border hills for long enough to get in a harvest. With the new plows I’ve got the smiths working on, we’ll triple the yields. We’ve helped these people already, and there’s a lot more we can do!
“Sure, I’ve got an ambiguous status. The bards are trying to make up ballads about the raid, and they keep running into the fact that I never fought anybody. They can’t figure out if I’m a war leader or a mere wizard. But whatever I am, everyone wants to learn from us.
“Gwen, we can start a university! Well, we start with grade school. But we can found a learning center that will really change this world. Look at what we can teach! Just the idea of scientific method and experimental science will bring on a revolution. And mathematics. We’re not genius level, but we know more about geometry and algebra than was known on Earth through most of history. Medicine. Dental hygiene. Physics. Even electricity. I’m not up to transistors, but I can make batteries and vacuum tubes and—what the hell’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Rick, for God’s sake—you haven’t built radios, have you?”
“Not yet. I’m still having trouble getting wire. But—”
“Don’t! Please, please don’t.” Her voice held genuine panic.
“I see,” Rick said. He stood and went to her, then took both her hands in his. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about it?” he asked. “For God’s sake, Gwen, what did Les tell you, and why can’t you tell me?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “We’re safe now,” she said. “Just don’t change anything. Oh, Rick, I’m scared—”
“I know you are. But I don’t know why. Gwen, please. Please tell me.”
She buried her face in her hands and wouldn’t talk anymore.
* * *
Three days later a messenger arrived from the west. Drumold summoned his counselors to his great hall to hear the news.
The messenger was a young clansman who was proud of his mission. He said greetings to Drumold, then spoke to Tylara. “Six days ago there came to Ta-Kartos a dozen lords and knights of Drantos. They had traveled in great haste and could go no farther. One lord asked if the lady Tylara lived. All were overjoyed to learn you are safe in your father’s hall. They then asked my chief to send a messenger to you, and I left that night. They asked me to greet you as Great Lady, Eqetassa of Chelm, and to say they regret they cannot come to you. They beg you to come to them.”
“Eqetassa of Chelm? But I have been driven from that land,” Tylara said. “Who are they?”
For answer the messenger held out a signet ring.
“Camithon? But I saw him die,” Tylara said. “He was thrown from the battlements.”
“A trick to bring you to them,” Drumold muttered. “Sarakos hates you yet.”
The messenger looked pained. “Do you say that Clan Ebolos aids enemies of Mac Clallan Muir?” he demanded.
“No, no,” Drumold protested. “But I do not understand what they want of my daughter.”
“Nor I,” the messenger said. “But Calad my chief listened long to their story. Then he bade me speak these words: ‘I have learned that which is of great importance to all the clans of Tamaerthon. I beg that Mac Clallan Muir and the Lady Eqetassa come to Ta-Kartos with all haste.’ ”
“In this winter?” Drumold demanded. “Nay, it will wait until the snow is gone from the passes.”
“My chief says not.”
“Father, you may wait,” Tylara said. “But I have never heard that Calad is easily alarmed, or that he does not know how deep the snow lies in the passes. As for me—do you return now?” she asked the messenger.
“As soon as I am dismissed,” he said.
“Then tell your chief that the dowager Eqetassa of Chelm will arrive as quickly as she is able.”
“Tylara, is this wise?” Rick asked.
“What has wisdom to do with it? Sarakos may sit in my council hall, but they are my people yet.”
Damnation, Rick thought. Of course she’ll go. “I’ll get things ready,” he said. “We can leave in the morning.”
“I had hoped you would come with me,” Tylara said. For the first time in several days, she smiled at him.
Drumold sighed. “Tell Calad your chief that Mac Clallan Muir will join him within a ten-day, and that the Lady Eqetassa will accompany him.”
* * *
Ta-Kartos was at the western edge of the mountainous highlands that formed Tamaerthon, and over the centuries had been built into a strongly walled town. After five days’ travel across the frozen lochs, Rick was glad to reach the somber fortress.
Calad, chief of Clan Ebolos, was nominally subordinate to Drumold as Mac Clallan Muir, but that was a point no one wanted to stress too hard. When Drumold’s party was invited into Calad’s council hall, Drumold was content to take a place opposite Calad and leave the question of which end of the table was head and which foot for someone else to worry over.
Besides Calad and his advisors there were half a dozen knights and bheromen of Drantos. Before they could be presented, Tylara ran up to their leader—an elderly soldier whose craggy face held a long ugly scar. “Camithon!” she cried. “I could not believe, even though I hold your ring and heard them describe you. I saw you thrown from the battlements of Castle Dravan.”
“Nay, Lady, I was not thrown. Before they could do that, I broke free of them and jumped. Would I not know the places where the moat is closest to the walls? Once away from Dravan, I had aid from the countryside until I could join Protector Dorion and the young Wanax. . . . You must not know, then: I am Lord Protector of Drantos.”
“Protector—”
“Aye. Dorion was killed in the battle with Sarakos. To say this is to say little. He was torn to shreds by thunder weapons. Aye, at my side, and we nearly a league from the battle.”
“Mortars,” Rick said.
Camithon looked at him curiously.
“Lord Rick is our war leader. He knows of these weapons,” Drumold explained.
“Where is the Wanax Ganton?” Tylara asked.
“The lad has caught the fever,” Camithon said. “He rests in this castle.” The elderly soldier paused. “We have come as beggars,” he said. “To beg Tamaerthon aid against Sarakos. Yet, in truth, we come as more than beggars. We bring news I think you will not find unwelcome.”
“It had best be welcome news,” Drumold growled. “I am nearly frozen. What news have you that could not wait for you to come to us?”
“Hear him out,” Calad said. “I did not lightly send for you. Protector, tell Mac Clallan Muir of the war in Drantos.”
“After Castle Dravan fell, I fled to the army of the Protector Dorion,” Camithon said. “We caught Sarakos in an unfavorable situation and thought to destroy him in a great battle. I do not know who would have won that day, but suddenly our knights were cut down like wheat before the scythe. Sarakos had made alliance with men from the stars who hold evil weapons.” He paused to study Drumold’s expression. “You say nothing to this?”
“We know already,” Drumold said.
“Strange,” Camithon mused. “Yet this makes the telling easier. After Sarakos and his allies had beaten us, we fled to the mountains where we thought to fight on. Sarakos made our task the easier, for his armies ravaged the land. He turned out every bheroman in Drantos to replace them with his favorites. They so enslaved the commons that all, great and humble, were ready to join us. We fought no great battles—we knew we could not win such. But we harassed the land, burned the crops, killed his messengers, struck down his new knights and bheromen when they took possession of their villages. Sarakos has known no peace in Drantos. Many of his horses have starved or been eaten. Even so, many of his soldiers are dead of hunger and the plague, and many more have fled. He will lose more before spring, for the snows have closed the road to the Five Kingdoms, and we have destroyed the harvests in Drantos.
“It was after winter came that we heard of your great victory over the Roman legions. I have once before seen what Tamaerthon archers can do in battle, and it came to me that with the forces I hold and can gather, and with the aid of some thousands of your archers, we can drive Sarakos from Drantos and restore the lady Tylara to her dower lands. This I have come to ask.”
Drumold leaned close to Rick. “What think you of this?”
“Lord Camithon,” Rick said, “have you forgotten the starmen and their weapons?”
“No,” Camithon said. “This is the welcome news I bring. The starmen have divided. Many have fled from Sarakos. Fewer than a dozen remain. Surely a dozen men will not frighten you who have bested the Romans.”
“How do you know the starmenhave divided?” Rick demanded.
Camithon smiled grimly. “I have brought a present for Mac Clallan Muir and his daughter.” He turned to an officer. “Bring in the prisoner.”
The officer left and returned moments later with a man dressed in peasant woolen trousers and thick jacket. He had a scraggly beard that hadn’t been shaved or trimmed for weeks, and his hands were shackled together with iron bracelets riveted to a foot-long chain.
He stood sullenly, looking defiantly at the council table, until he saw Rick. He stared a moment, then shouted, “Captain! For God’s sake, Captain, help me!”
It was Private Warner.
* * *
Despite the blazing fire, Rick’s quarters were cold. And not just the chilly air, Rick thought. He could feel the chill radiating from where Tylara sat by the hearth.
“I had thought you would be pleased,” she said. “Are not your enemies my enemies? Sarakos can be killed, and I can rid myself of this burning hatred for him—”
“We don’t know that,” Rick said. “Tylara—Tylara, every time I think of what Sarakos did to you, I get sick. I hate him as much as you do. I love you!”
“You do not seem to.”
“More than you know,” Rick said. “It is my wish to make Tamaerthon strong without endless war. Should we risk all that for revenge?”
Before she could answer, there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Rick called with relief.
Warner had been shaved and given better clothes. He was almost pathetically grateful when Jamiy brought him in. “Thank God you’re here, Captain. Thank God—”
“Have a seat,” Rick invited. “Jamiy, pour him a cup of wine.”
Warner sat gratefully. He chugged the wine, and Rick poured his cup full again. “Take it easy,” he said. “Before you get drunk, I want to know your story.” He laughed. “You know, it wasn’t a week ago I was wishing I had you around. I was trying to derive some of Newton’s equations. Think you can remember college physics?”
“Yes, sir,” Warner said. “Uh—ballistics?”
“Maybe,” Rick said. “But mostly just general science.” He switched to the local Tran dialect. “Warner, this is the lady Tylara. We’d both like to hear your story.”
“Yes, sir. But could I have some more wine first?” Warner drank eagerly. “Where should I begin?”
“We know Parsons made an alliance with Sarakos,” Rick said. “And that you helped him win the battle against the Drantos army. What happened after that?”
“At first it was pretty good,” Warner said. “Captain, I can tell this better in English.”
“Go ahead. I’ll translate for Tylara.”
“Yes, sir. Well, like I said, at first it was pretty good. We’d won, and we owned the country. Parsons gave each one of us a couple of local girls. It was a little funny owning slaves, but that’s the way things are here. We had women and jewels and lots of good food and pretty good wine, and it was like Parsons said it would be. We lived like kings. Even out in the field we had servants. We took over the best houses for quarters, and we didn’t have to fight much—just when the locals ran into something they couldn’t handle. Then we’d come up with the machine guns and the mortars.
“Everything was fine for a couple of months, but then it all came apart. Guerilla war. Captain, it was like Vietnam, only worse, because we didn’t have any choppers or trucks or anything. We had to ride horses, and by the time we got anywhere, the charlies had gone off into the hills. We weren’t safe anywhere outside castles. Ride through the woods and you never knew but what an arrow or a crossbow bolt would kill you.
“It just never stopped, and it didn’t look like it was ever going to get any better, either. Those people hated us, and we couldn’t kill all of them. And it got kind of hungry, too, even for us—and we had more to eat than the poor bastards with us. And Parsons! He got so mean, you couldn’t get near him. Claimed it was all our fault—we weren’t disciplined enough—but he’d fix that. So one day a bunch of us got fed up and rode off.”
“How many?” Rick asked.
“Twenty-two,” Warner said. “Gengrich and I organized it. We went south, to the city-state territory. We needed some way to make a living, so we arranged to hire out to the city republic of Kleistinos. They fed us and our wives—most of us brought one or both of the girls we’d been living with—and we didn’t have to fight, either. Come spring we were supposed to escort a big caravan south, and that sure sounded like easier work than what Parsons had us doing.”
“So how did you end up here?”
Warner looked sheepish. “I got drunk, passed out in a tavern, and woke up with those handcuff things. The local tavernkeeper sold me to the Drantos rebels.”
“I see. Excuse me, I’d better tell Tylara what’s going on.” Rick summarized Warner’s story.
“They are not rebels,” Tylara said coldly when Rick finished. “They are fighting for their homes against bandits.”
“Yes, Lady,” Warner said. “If you say so—”
“She did say so,” Rick said. He changed to English to say, “I’d be very careful, were I you. She’s got a sharp temper and a sharper dagger.” He poured himself a cup of wine. “What weapons did Gengrich take with him?”
“One of the mortars,” Warner said. “And our rifles and pistols, of course.”
“So André has one mortar and the recoilless. How many mortar bombs?”
“I’d guess a dozen,” Warner said.
“The starmen are greatly weakened,” Tylara said. “And Sarakos has lost much of his army.”
“They’re not as strong as they were,” Warner agreed. “Captain, are you planning on fighting them?”
“I don’t know.”
Tylara looked at him coldly.
“Sweetheart, you don’t understand,” Rick said. “They think because we handled the Romans so easily, Parsons can’t be that tough. They just don’t know. One mortar shell in the right place, and I don’t have a pike regiment, I have a disorganized mob. And Yatar knows what machine-guns would do to my archers—”
Tylara got up and went to the door. “Jamiy,” she said. She pointed to Warner. “Take him to his quarters.”
“He’s to be well treated, but he is not to escape,” Rick said. “Warner, I really am glad to see you. If we all survive, you’re going to be a professor in the only university on Tran.”
“I’d like that,” Warner said. “It’s got to be better than fighting for a living.”
Rick waited until Jamiy and Warner had left, then turned to Tylara with a sigh. “All right, darling. Let’s have it out.”