Caliphate

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 10 Muharram,

1538 AH (21 October, 2113)

"There are, of course, a few side benefits of being stationed here," the colonel told Hans, as they walked through the stone corridors of the castle. "One is that we get a substantial discount at the whorehouse. At least, the officers do. And the manager, Latif, prides himself on providing only the best. You can even get a decent vodka there."

"Vodka? But—"

"The holy Koran forbids the drinking of fermented grain and grape. Vodka is made from potatoes . . . "

"Ah," Hans said.

"After what I have to show you," the colonel added, "you're going to need a drink. If it makes you feel any better about it, I'll have the regimental surgeon prescribe it for you."

"Maybe," Hans half agreed. "And I've been there, actually, though I didn't drink. It's a very nice place."

The colonel cocked his head. "Really? When were you there?"

"My senior instructor at al-Harv Barracks, Abdul Rahman von Seydlitz, brought the entire company there for our graduation party," Hans explained.

The colonel smiled warmly. "I know Abdul Rahman. A fine old janissary, if a little too softhearted."

"His softheartedness was tolerably hard to see, for a new recruit," Hans said. "And I think it's mostly that he's just a man filled with the love of Allah and for his fellow man . . . and perhaps for women, as well."

"That would be Abdul Rahman. Turn right here," the colonel said. "Down those stone stairs and I'll introduce you to the renegades. And remember what I told you about awful things."

A heavy clattering coming from outside stopped the two janissary officers in their tracks.

"What the Hell is that?" Hans asked.

"Delivery of the new batch of experimental subjects, I suspect," the colonel answered. He walked to the window and beckoned Hans over. Hans saw several trucks, what looked to be a couple of hundred children, a black man in livery and a well-dressed white he took to be a slave dealer.

The colonel said, "You'll see where they're going down below."

It was a small mercy, Hamilton thought, standing in the chill air, his breath frosting before his face, that we packed the kids in like sardines. They'd have frozen to death otherwise.

The children, all of them drained and numb, and numb with more than cold alone, shuffled stiffly out of the cargo trucks and began forming up in a mass as they'd learned to do. In this strange, cold and forbidding place, none even tried to make an escape, though guards were watching just in case.

A janissary noncom—Funny that I never saw a janissary before this trip—emerged from the main gate and politely introduced himself. Once Hamilton had made his business clear, the janissary sent for another man, this one responsible for logistics. The logistician counted the children, carefully, twice, and signed for them. His signature on the inventory sheet was all that was required for payment to be completed.

The noncom, he'd given his name as "Mashouf," looked Hamilton over with something between contempt and pity. Whether that was because Hamilton's assumed persona was that of a Boer infidel, or because he was in the distasteful business of selling children, Hamilton couldn't have guessed.

But it couldn't be worse than I feel about myself.

Hamilton felt no better as he and Bongo checked into one of the town's better hotels. The manager was all obsequious politeness as he showed the two to the "deluxe" suite. It had a living room and two bedrooms, was more or less reasonably furnished, although the furniture tended to the tacky in Hamilton's opinion.

"The maid will clean daily," the manager had said, "and if you need, she can perform other services as well."

"No . . . no, we won't need her for either," Hamilton answered. "My man here will keep the place up and if I need a woman, I'll probably go up to the other castle."

"Very good, sir. If you do, ask for Latif and tell him you're a guest of this hotel. We have an agreement for a discount."

"Thank you, I will."