Vaclav II, scion of House Vasalayana, led the procession upon his white horse down the cobblestone streets, fireworks bursting above. The people were out in force, dancing and clapping behind the gendarme’s pikes.
The heathens in the east of Vaclav’s small kingdom had been de-feated at last — fools who had forsaken fear of the Pancreator. The worshippers had resurrected primitive Vuldrok myths and believed that Leminkainan’s three moons were some triumvirate of gods come from the Vuldrok homeworlds to herald the conquering of the Known Worlds.
But now, the fiefdom of Isalight was safe from the poison. Vaclav smiled and waved to the cheering crowd — but still, his heart lay heavy at the treachery he had condoned.
Vaclav was a proud warrior king, leading troops even now in his 68th year. Courage in battle, valor and bravery were the things he sought for himself, his fiefdom, and his noble House Vasalayana. Vaclav would have never allowed the treachery if not for the Hawkwoods.
Centuries ago, House Vasalayana had assisted House Hawkwood on Leminkainen during the barbarian invasion, and Vaclav’s ancestors had been honored with an independent fiefdom. But ever since, the greedy Hawkwoods had schemed against their former ally. There had been respite during the Emperor Wars, but those had been over now for three years, and the Hawkwoods had returned, offering endebting assistance with the one hand, and fomenting revolt with the other.
The specter of Hawkwood perfidy tipped the balance. As always, the Hawkwoods covered their tracks well, and no solid proof had been found, but Vaclav knew their penchant for connivance. So Vaclav had authorized a plot. The rebel’s high general had been clandestinely ap-proached with gold. Gold for himself, he was told — or for his assassins.
Vaclav chose not to know any further detail. No doubt, however, the general was reminded of his beautiful young daughter and twin infant sons.
The palace of House Vasalayana lay before Vaclav, shrouded in a
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thick, artificial mist. Its gates were thrown open, and suddenly dazzling beams of light shot from the palace windows. Electric light was expen-sive in Isalight, reserved only for spectacle such as this.
And spectacle it was. The arclights shifted back and forth, playing across the crowded courtyard-like landing lights of a spaceship, until they came together, to shine upon Vaclav, and the crowd burst forth anew into cheers.
Vaclav turned his charger about, to face the crowd. He looked at his entourage behind him, led by General Nadia Rushingstar. Her harsh features belied her bright, energetic eyes. She’d accepted the plan to subvert the enemy’s general, though reluctantly. In battle, she’d given no indication, bravely charging into danger with the troops at her heels, themselves honored to engage the bloody fray.
Further back, Vaclav saw James Idoru. Beautiful, young, dashing James, in his black mackinaw and dapper waistcoat. His features were genteel and smooth, and his eyes shone in the brilliance with an almost boyish awe. It seemed incredible that behind that innocent face was the mind that had conceived the subtle machinations that brought the war to an end. Only a select few knew of the plan to subvert the enemy general, and only Vaclav and Rushingstar had known that the plan had emanated from James Idoru.
James looked from the dazzling lights to the king. The younger man’s face seemed so open, full of delight at the show. The war could have dragged on for years, with thousands more lives lost without James’
brilliance. Vaclav gazed at James Idoru’s face, his eyes, his joyous smile.
Then he reeled his horse and led the procession to the palace.
The banquet hall was filled with the most important generals and nobles in Isalight. The queen sat opposite Vaclav on the long table — she and Vaclav still maintained a polite relationship, but little more. On the right, midway down the table, sat the beastly Hawkwood ambassador, with his sharp nose and slitted eyes. Without solid proof of the Hawkwood’s influence, Vaclav had been unable to eject him. The am-bassador even had the effrontery to refer to Vaclav as “Prince” — not
“King.” It was true that Vaclav had sworn allegiance to Emperor Alexius, so in the Emperor’s company, he was properly a Prince, but that alle-giance was to the Imperial Throne — not to any mere house! Centuries before, House Hawkwood had sworn to recognize the head of House Vasalayana to be King of Isalight, and that relationship had never changed!
It was a petty matter, but no doubt the Hawkwoods calculated it to gall the king.
Even more insulting, General Rushingstar and the crown prince flanked the ambassador, speaking familiarly with him! The prince and many of the younger set had taken up “all things Hawkwood,” even affecting the appalling Hawkwood dress and accents. Vaclav saw Rushingstar say something to the ambassador and they both laughed. It was a disgrace. Vaclav prayed to the Pancreator that his son would see reason before the crown passed to him.
To his left, James abruptly stood, tapping his glass for attention. “A toast!” He said. “A toast, lords and ladies!” He had arrived on Leminkainan just a year ago, and many of the nobles looked down on him as a newcomer. Still, they knew James had the king’s ear, so they ceased their converations.
“A toast to General Rushingstar! For her crushing bravery!” The wording seemed odd, and the table was quiet. Vaclav felt his heart grow heavy, but James continued. “For leading our brave troops into the vale of tears and destruction, on whose back was delivered our salvation!”
“Hear hear!” the nobles about the banquet cheered, celebrating the general’s bravery. But Vaclav grew hot. The comment was double-edged.
James had made it clear that he felt his bribery had broken the rebels, and that Rushingstar had incurred needless casualties with her brave charges.
“Your majesty,” said Rushingstar raising her glass. She was smiling graciously, though Vaclav could see a dark look in her eyes. Vaclav forced himself to smile and nod back.
* * *
The fireplace in Vaclav’s suite roared, and Vaclav felt the heat. He stood in front of it, his clothing loosed.
James touched his arm. “I missed your embrace, my lord.”
“By the Pancreator!” Vaclav whirled on him. “How could you say such a brazen thing!”
James turned his face away, and withdrew his hand. “My lord… I…”
“Your baiting of Rushingstar was uncalled for! Any reaction from her, and that ambassador might have guessed…”
“It was her hobnobbing with that… That raptor! That woman is no better than a Hawkwood at times! How could I tame my tongue?” James
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straightened, but looked to the wall, not at Vaclav. “That woman knows much more than she says.”
James stared away proudly. His face was strong and gentle, warm in the firelight. Yet sometimes Vaclav recalled how foreign the young man was. James Idoru was of House Decados, a house with few representa-tives on Leminkainen. The Hawkwoods controlled the space about Leminkainen, and they severely checked the number of Decados who came here. Vaclav had met very few Decados — and none like James.
Decados and Hawkwood distrusted each other instinctively. They had fought each other bitterly through the Emperor Wars, and the first Decados Vaclav had seen in person was at a peace summit three years ago. That creature had been a hideous sight — her head shaven, a swirl of cicatrix patterned on her bare back.
But not all Decados were of that sort. Just over a year ago, James Idoru had arrived at Vaclav’s court. He was a young noble travelling the Known Worlds to learn of its wonders. His perfect manners, his boyish demeanor had engaged the king at once.
And his hands. Those lovely, delicate hands, fingers long and thin, their skin soft to caress…
“James…” Vaclav took the younger man’s hand. “James, it is over, and you saved many lives. Just as I expected of you.”
James’ gaze lowered suddenly. “My leige, I am sorry. Can you for-give me?” He turned to Vaclav and implored with his eyes.
Vaclav put his arms around James, and drew his body close. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, then kissed.
* * *
Despite the late night, Vaclav rose early, as always. Much paperwork had accumulated. His office faced east, and Vaclav glanced now and then through the frosty window as the sun rose, warming the stones of the courtyard outside. Yesterday, flocks of his subjects had crowded in front of the palace, but now there was only the usual morning traffic of the working people. Vaclav smiled at his sturdy folk.
In the distance, down the wide avenue, he saw a horseman gallop-ing past the scattered wagons and foot traffic. A sgallop-ingle figure against the sun, but getting closer quickly, heading directly toward the palace.
In a few moments, Vaclav recognized the woman’s coat — blue, of the eastern guard regiment.
Vaclav leapt to his feet. He was out of the room and onto the front steps of the palace in a moment, the messenger only just bringing her horse to a halt, its body heavy with sweat despite the chill.
“Your majesty,” the messenger gasped. A servant came from behind the king, holding Vaclav’s greatcoat for him, and other servants helped the messenger from her horse. “Your majesty,” she knelt before him on the cold stones. “The heathens, your majesty! They are advancing on the capital.”
* * *
The heathens had nearly twice the 3000 that Rushingstar mustered
— but they lacked a forceful general. They lacked a soldier king at their head — and they lacked the blessing of the Pancreator. Instead of wait-ing for the heathen army to advance, Rushwait-ingstar ordered cavalry con-tingents to strike out even as they were mustered — harassing the ad-vancing army while it was spread out on the march, forcing them to slow or scatter, while infantry was organized for defense of the city.
The engagement took place the next morning, six miles east of the capital. At dawn, the forces faced each other across a broken plain, each side by now almost identical in strength — except in strength of will, and of leadership. When the armies clashed, only one side was relentless enough to take the day.
* * *
The night after was alive with bonfires. Vaclav rode with a small, hand-picked escort through the capital, where the people warmed them-selves beside their fires, drank their ales. The atmosphere was jovial enough, but not with the elation of last night. The heathens had been beaten off, but there was still much to do. And many men had been lost.
Vaclav approached a bonfire, and the people doffed their caps, and kneeled in admiration for their king.
“Good people, good people,” he said, and dismounted. “You have honored me this day. Your fight for the Pancreator will be remem-bered.”
From the darkness, a horse approached quickly. Vaclav’s guard was alert at once, but it was a messenger — from James. Requesting Vaclav to attend to an important matter.
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James was in a small cottage two miles from the capital, using it secretly for his intelligence work. Guards stiffly saluted the king when Vaclav arrived.
Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth. The place had a pleasant, homey, feel to it, but for the crowd of quiet men and women, darkly dressed, and without expression — James’ intelligence staff.
And in one corner, sat a man, stripped to the waist, and tied to a chair. Beside him stood a squat metal box, clusters of sharp silver spines protruding from it — their points hovering just away from touching the man’s legs and arms, chest and face.
Vaclav blanched at the sight. An ancient, evil machine, made thou-sands of years ago in the time of humankind’s technological hubris. A Decados noble family had kept it for many years, but James had con-vinced Vaclav to purchase it, and for the time being, they could keep it running.
“Your majesty,” said James, “We found this man among the prison-ers. He was disguised as a peasant, but his Hawkwood features made us suspicious.”
James turned to the man in the chair. Indeed, his high cheekbones, his thin jaw distinguished him. He could almost be brother to the ambassador.
“We have extracted much information from him already. But let me show you, your majesty.” He turned and activated the machine. Its innards creaked loudly, with the sound of grinding metal. “What is your name?” James demanded. The man’s mouth quivered, but he said nothing. His eyes stared emptily. James adjusted the machine, and the man’s body shuddered, his jaw snapping open and shut, but his eyes still unblinking. The grinding grew more pronounced, and a faint scent of burning carbon emanated from the spines.
“State your name!” James demanded again, louder.
Finally, the prisoner spoke, his voice jerky and mechanical. “I am Erasius Henry Hawkwood, of the 5th Native Assistance Corps.” His jaw chattered again, and blood trickled from his bitten lip. The machine was sending electricity straight through his brain, forcing the informa-tion directly into his motor control system, instead of allowing the man any choice in his words. The ancient laws of energy flow forbade him to speak lies. “I am under orders from Victoria Hawkwood to assist op-pressed peoples…” His whole body jerked violently. His glassy eyes seemed
to swell, almost bursting from their sockets. “Against despots and…
And…”
“Do you report to Rushingstar? Tell me!”
The prisoner’s voice was lost in a gurgle. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose.
“Dammit!” James slapped at the machine’s controls, but all at once, the top of the man’s head sank inwards like a balloon gone soft. It was too late.
Vaclav gagged and turned away. Was this necessary? Could the war not be fought with honor and valor instead of torture? Yet here was proof that the Hawkwoods were doing the same! Assisting Vuldroks even!
Yes, it was justified to use that machine, however awful it was, at least against foreigners and traitors. But still, the sight of that man’s head sinking so…
“Your majesty,” James’ voice behind him. “You should rest now.”
“Why Rushingstar?” Vacalv turned to James and demanded. “Why did you ask him that?”
“Your majesty should rest,” said James. “I was only asking ques-tions.”
The machine whined down and the body gave one last jerk, the smell of burned flesh seeping into Vaclav’s nostrils.
Yes, he should rest. He would see things more clearly in the morn-ing.
* * *
The sun rose while Vaclav sat at his desk, writing the expulsion order for the Hawkwood ambassador. No explanations would be neces-sary — the connivers could only guess at how much had been discov-ered.
James had stayed out very late, but Vaclav had felt pleasure when he’d awoken to find James asleep beside him. The young man’s features were so beautiful. Vaclav was satisfied. Finally, he had proof. “Native Assistance Corps” indeed. Covert agitators was what they were.
From his window on the courtyard, Vaclav saw Huweg Maarten, captain of the city gendarmerie approaching in the early light. Vaclav liked the robust fellow, bluff and open, and they enjoyed friendly times, when there were spare moments. Still, it was too early to bode a casual visit.
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Presently, Maarten was invited into the study. He was strangely quiet.
“Your majesty, I trust you are well.”
“I am, thank you, Captain Maarten. Tell me what brings you here.”
“Mr. Idoru, my lord.”
Vaclav furrowed his brow. “Yes?”
“Sir, he struck a gendarme last night. Wounded him. In front of many witnesses.”
It couldn’t be true — James striking a gendarme? It was absurd!
“He was attempting to force his way into General Rushingstar’s residence. Crying that she was a Hawkwood spy!”
Vaclav paused a moment. Rushingstar’s courage had been beyond reproach. Still, he thought of her familiarity with the ambassador, as well as her growing taste for Hawkwood fashions and weapons.
“Perhaps,” said Vaclav, keeping his voice steady, “He was investigat-ing. In any case, his position with the intelligence unit gives him the authority to enter private residences as necessary.”
“Of course, your majesty. And the gendarmes involved have been instructed in this. They erred severely, being caught up in the general acclaim for Rushingstar. I only come to ensure you are aware.”
“Thank you, captain.”
Maarten paused. “Your majesty, General Rushingstar is very popu-lar, and… There were many witnesses. Mr. Idoru insulted my gendarme in front of a crowd, and the general as well. Her connections with the Hawkwoods are not secret, however, so I trust no ill will come of it.” He bowed.
* * *
The eastern village of Samar was small, and less filthy than many villages. And quiet, now that the population had been transported. In the weeks since the battle, there had been nothing but mopping up the heavily wooded countryside, and James’ extracted information had proved valuable. This campaign would be the final one, Vaclav vowed. Vaclav inspected the dry dirt streets, and had the least offensive hovel cleared out as his headquarters. In the evening, a message arrived requesting Rushingstar to return to the capital to appoint a staff for a contingent newly arrived from the northern forests; she left for the city, but Vaclav chose to remain in the town. James was busy in the capital, but this village was remote, and it would take many hours for Vaclav to return.
If Isalight had the wonderous aircars and starships wealtheir nations had, returning to the capital would have been simple, but several years before, Vaclav had grown angry with the avaricious Charioteer’s Guild, and had had them expelled. It was best, too, that his people kept to the simple life. So Vaclav retired alone to the headquarters office — oak-paneled, with solid, tasteful furniture.
James had admitted to Vaclav that the prisoner had never impli-cated Rushingstar, and no evidence had even later been uncovered. He’d only been on a fact-finding mission to the general’s residence, but had lost his temper. James was very regretful, and had even apologized to Rushingstar and to Maarten in front of the king.
It still disturbed Vaclav. James screeching obscenities and slashing a constable with a sword — it seemed so unlike the young, gentle bedmate
It still disturbed Vaclav. James screeching obscenities and slashing a constable with a sword — it seemed so unlike the young, gentle bedmate