The Tyrant

Chapter 23

When Helga saw the first signs of a barbarian rout, she had a hard time to keep herself from cheering. As it was, she made no attempt to suppress a savage grin.

Undiplomatic, to be sure. But the hundreds of Southron cavalrymen who pounded past the huge column of the Reedbottoms and Adrian's mercenaries-heading the other way, as fast as they could drive their velipads loaded with booty-were too preoccupied with staying in their saddles to notice the expression on her face.

She was a bit surprised that many of them managed to stay mounted at all, much less at a full gallop. Some of the booty which the barbarians had seized in their ravaging forays was downright bizarre. One man was even trying to balance the brass headboard of a rich man's bed across his saddle.

All of them were overloaded, even for the heavy Southron mounts. If it weren't for the fact that Helga knew how that booty had been taken, she'd find the whole thing more amusing than anything else.

"Stupid as beasts, too," she hissed. "By the time they get back across the Wall, they'll have discarded half that stuff."

"Half, at least," responded Adrian. His own face looked sour. That wasn't because the Southron retreat was upsetting his plans, Helga knew. It was simply because Adrian wasn't really any fonder of the barbarians than she was.

Well, except for that Prelotta freak, and his mangy Reedbottoms.

Helga's own opinion of the Reedbottoms, and Prelotta, lacked any of Adrian's complexity. She understood the subtlety of his Grove-trained logic, more or less; she understood much better the cold-blooded calculations which lay behind her father's schemes. But Helga's attitude toward the southern barbarians-the Reedbottoms no less than any of the others-began with their smell, and…

Ended there. Stinking savages.

A knot of horsemen was approaching the head of the column from straight ahead on the road. A large knot-perhaps fifty in all; heavily armored, and riding even larger velipads than most Southrons. And they were trotting, not galloping in headlong retreat.

Reedbottoms, then. Prelotta's tribesmen didn't share the usual Southron contempt for armor, and they transferred over to cavalry warfare their heavy infantry notions of fighting.

Before she could recognize the face of the man leading them, Helga knew it was Prelotta himself. The Reedbottom chief had led a party out yesterday to negotiate with the nearby city of Franness.

"Negotiate," she muttered.

Adrian heard the mutter, and smiled thinly. "In a manner of speaking. Much the way a footpad 'negotiates' with his victim. 'Your purse or your life.' "

Franness was the largest city in the Confederacy's southern provinces. Nothing on the order of great Vanbert itself, of course-say, fifty thousand residents to the capital's one million-but still quite a prize for a barbarian conqueror.

Helga had thought Prelotta's attempt to extort booty from them through "negotiation" was absurd. Everyone knew that Tomsien was coming, with a huge army of Confederate regulars. The barbarians could boast all they wanted, but every single time in history they'd come up against a large Vanbert force, the Southrons had gotten their heads broken.

The city notables of Franness knew that history as well as anyone. Franness was a walled city, with a real wall and not just a flimsy palisade. And everyone-every Confederate city notable, for sure-also knew what the penalty would be if they capitulated to the barbarians and Tomsien emerged triumphant. That, too, was a long Confederate tradition-city councils of besieged cities who surrendered before the wall was breached were subject to decimation, just as routed army units were.

That assumed, of course, that the Confederacy would recapture the city. But… It had never failed to do so yet.

Odd, though. Prelotta was close enough now for Helga to be able to see his expression clearly. The open, flanged helmets the Southrons favored did not obscure faces much. It was always hard for her to tell, because of the grotesque scars and tattoos, but she thought the Reedbottom chief looked rather satisfied with himself.

And so he proved.

"They refused, of course," he announced, as soon as he drew up his mount. "Even heaped the most scurrilous insults upon my head!"

Grinning while he said it. True, with the cheek scars, Prelotta's grin never seemed especially humorous to Helga. But she'd come to know the Reedbottom chief fairly well in the time since she'd arrived in Marange, and he was clearly not in a foul mood.

Adrian, as always-and in a way which continued to amaze Helga-managed exactly the right response. Her lover's innate scholarly absentmindedness, which sometimes exasperated her but of which she was basically rather fond, was something Adrian could suspend when he needed to. Those weird "spirits" of his made him just as superb a diplomat as a slinger.

"No doubt you told them you'd rape every matron in the city, by way of revenge," he drawled. "I'll warn you though, Prelotta, a good half of them will be withered crones. And the ones who are plump enough to suit you will have nasty dispositions."

Still grinning, Prelotta glanced at Helga. The glance was one of assessment, not admiration. Southron standards of female beauty, Reedbottoms even more than most, leaned very heavily toward heft. Every single one of Prelotta's three wives and eight concubines sported the rolls of neck fat which were so highly esteemed among Southron females.

"Well, yes, I did. Told them I'd rape all their daughters too." He waved his hand idly. "I might even carry out the last threat, if I can find any good-looking enough. But I think the revenge I'll take will actually horrify them even more. I'll have those precious matrons of theirs-and we'll see just how far that 'Vanbert virtue' goes! — bathe me and my chieftains in the city's baths."

Helga couldn't prevent herself from wincing-while choking down a giggle at the same time. The image of dozens of wealthy Confederate matrons, all middle-aged or older, trying to scrub the oil and grease and filth from scarred and tattooed tribesmen-all of them, savages and matrons alike, naked as the day they were born-the women even more aghast at the stench than they were at the prospect of being ravaged She did giggle. She couldn't help it, even though she knew that Prelotta's half threat to rape the notables' daughters was only half made in jest. The Reedbottoms weren't quite as bestial as the other Southrons, but that wasn't really saying much. If they did manage to survive Tomsien and sack Franness, there would be horrors aplenty in the city.

"But," continued Prelotta, shrugging, "the negotiation served its purpose. They know what I want now, in detail. So when I come back after we crush Tomsien, I expect there'll be no difficulty. They'll probably have all the booty stacked outside the city gates. Which will be open, of course. I will make Franness the capital of my new northern province, whether they like it or not."

Helga's little choked giggle had registered on Prelotta. He gave her that unsettling shark's grin.

"The truth is, I'd enjoy a bath. I've even gotten Otta and Glami here"-a quick nod toward two of his top chieftains-"to agree to join me. The rest say they'll do the same, if we survive the experience."

All eight of the Reedbottom chieftains who had accompanied Prelotta to Franness were grinning now. Helga was a bit startled. More than a bit, actually. Prelotta's sense of humor was rather good, but it was almost always of the "only half in jest" sort.

He's not kidding. He will get those savages of his into a bath.

Not for the first time, Helga found herself admitting that Adrian had been right, and she wrong. Her lover had told her that the Reedbottoms-alone of the Southron tribes-were ready to make what he called "the leap to feudalism." Which, he said, always entailed the ruling elite taking on at least the trappings of civilization.

Those "spirits" of his again. The one called "Center," more specifically. Helga knew the details, now, of Adrian's strange three-way mentality. He'd spent hours explaining it to her. Even if she didn't really understand much of it, she knew that it would be that one who would have given Adrian these notions. The other, the Raj Whitehall "person," was a strategist and a tactician. It was the "computer" who looked at human affairs the way a weaver examines a tapestry in the making. Seeing the loom itself, and not just the fabric.

Right again, damn it. Between him and my father-assuming I survive all this-I'm going to get sick and tired of hearing I told you so. Glumly: Years and years of it, probably. Assuming, of course, they survive the next year.

Which was still something she had her doubts about. Tomsien was said to be bringing no less than six brigades. Helga wasn't certain, but she couldn't think of any campaign in Confederate history which had ever brought more than five to bear on a single enemy.

Prelotta was now turning to that subject. "There's a valley not more than five miles ahead," he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, "that should suit you. Can't get much sense out of these scampering Grayhills and other Jotties"-that with a sneer; "Jotties" was the slang term Reedbottoms used for other Southron tribes-"but I think Tomsien's not more than two days' march away. So we'd better move fast, if you want to make sure the laager's in place before he arrives."

One of the Reedbottom chieftains interjected: "Tomsien broke Norrys himself two days ago, in a battle somewhere to the north. The Chief of Chiefs survived, from what we heard, but he's badly wounded."

Helga was struck by the excellence of the man's diction in the Emerald tongue, even if his accent was so thick you could cut it with a knife. That was another thing Prelotta had insisted on-and forced down the throats of his underlings. He and his top subordinates continued to use their own language whenever they were discussing immediate tactics, especially under pressure. But whenever they were in Adrian's presence, Prelotta had mandated Emerald as the language of choice.

That wasn't because Adrian didn't understand their own. He was quite fluent in it, as a matter of fact. That was the doing of his "spirits" again-just as they had been the ones who explained Prelotta's thinking.

"Trappings of civilization," indeed.

Prelotta was ambitious. And perhaps-it remained to be seen-had the intelligence to pull it off. He certainly had the willpower. One thing was certain: the chief of the Reedbottoms was determined to transform the balance of power within the Southrons themselves. Within a generation, no more, he intended to displace the Grayhills from their long period of predominance.

Doing so, however, required giving his own tribe a new basis for wielding power. That much of Adrian's transmission of his spirits' thinking Helga had no difficulty at all in understanding. So long as the Reedbottoms remained simply populous-their numbers were at least as great as the Grayhills-they would never become anything more than the "nephews of Assan." No other tribe tried to challenge the Reedbottoms seriously on their own terrain, true enough. But past attempts by the Reedbottoms to muscle their way out of the lowlands had been repulsed just as decisively.

The hardscrabble pig farmers of Vanbert had levered their way to power by using one of the tools of civilization: disciplined organization- government. That was beyond the still half-savage Reedbottoms. But a powerful military based on Adrian's new gunpowder weapons wasn't. Helga had understood another of Adrian's "historical dictums" quite well, from her experience with her brother's use of firearms: Guns spell the doom of nomad military strength. Always have; always will. Because barbarians can use guns, but they can't make them.

Somewhere far back in the great column of the Reedbottom army were the wagons of the blacksmiths. Those wagons were not the least of the reasons the column moved so slowly. They were almost manufactories-on-wheels. "Wagons" so big they reminded Helga of rolling houses-which couldn't possibly have been hauled by any animals smaller than the tuskbeasts of the Reedbottoms.

"How wide is the valley?" Adrian asked.

"Maybe ten miles, north to south; a bit less, east to west." For a moment, Prelotta's face twisted into a grimace. Half a grimace, rather; the kind of face a man makes when he's having second thoughts. "Are you sure you don't want the high ground? There's a very nice set of hills-"

"No," said Adrian firmly. "What's the point of high ground? Tomsien doesn't have any long-range artillery, and you're not going to be doing any cavalry charges. And if you did, you'd be using tuskbeasts anyway-which can't handle a downhill charge any better than your first mother-in-law."

That brought a little laugh from Prelotta and all his chieftains. The mother of his senior wife-who was no lightweight herself-was so obese she could barely move.

"A broad valley is what we want," Adrian continued. He turned slightly in his saddle and pointing back toward the column. "The laager should be a mile and a half around-almost half a mile across. Any smaller than that and you're wasting wagons-not to mention that you're probably going to need the room to fit all of the Jotties looking for succor and comfort."

Another laugh, and a bigger one. Whatever Prelotta's chieftains thought of his other ambitions, his determination to make the Reedbottoms preeminent among the tribes had their full approval. And nothing would advance that project further and better than defeating a major Vanbert army for the first time in history-with Grayhills and other routed Jotties huddling for shelter under Reedbottom protection.

"So be it," commanded Prelotta. He reached out both his arms and gave his hands a little forward flip, commanding his chieftains. "See to the thing! I want this column there by nightfall."

They obeyed instantly. Strange he might be to his subordinates, in many ways, but Prelotta was a charismatic leader. Even Helga would admit as much, his stench notwithstanding.

When the chieftains were gone, the stench came nearer. A minute later, as the column lurched back into motion, Prelotta was riding next to Helga.

Instead of Adrian. That was surprising. Prelotta was always polite to her, even pleasant, but he normally didn't pay much attention to her. As a rule, even among the chiefly class, the Southron tribesmen were easier going in their treatment of women than Vanberts-leaving aside the horrid practice of female circumcision-much less Emeralds or Islanders. But they still didn't include women in their political or military councils, even if they weren't kept secluded in their private homes the way noblewomen in civilized lands usually were.

"So tell me, Helga, what's your opinion?" He had a sly little smile on his face. Helga thought it looked even more hideous than the grin. "Should I adopt the Vanbert or Emerald custom, when it comes to public bathing?"

Jesting, is it? She gave Adrian a sly smile of her own.

"Ha!" she barked. "You savages parade around in public all but naked anyway. So why in the name of the gods would you want to saddle yourself with that Emerald silliness? Separate the sexes in the baths? That means twice the number of baths-and twice the work." With a sneer: "Only the damn Emeralds, who confuse simple arithmetic with 'Mystic Number,' would come up with such foolishness."

Helga glanced at Adrian to see if she was getting a rise out of him.

Nope. Hard to do, that. Harder than with any man I've ever known.

Adrian was smiling also. "I agree, Prelotta. And the gods know I'd rather look at naked women than naked men. I've been in both, and Vanbert baths are just plain more interesting. "

Prelotta nodded, as solemnly as if they were discussing the fate of the world. Which, in a weird and twisted way, Helga realized, they might be.

"Done, then. I shall so instruct my people." The solemnity was fleeting; the sly little smile was back. "And no doubt that will do much to reconcile my Vanbert subjects to their new status."

Helga tried to picture a Vanbert public bath, men and women mixed together casually, crowded with virtuous matrons and…

Dammit, I'm going to giggle again.