Grunts (28 page)

“What do you
want
, Major?”

Major Barashkukor’s ears flattened tightly down on his skull. He hastily took off his Ray·Bans and put them in his combats pocket, cringed, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Sir, it’s time, sir!”

Ashnak backhanded the small orc, who impacted against the oak door frame and bounced back off, shaking his ringing head.

“It’s bad timing, marine. And I do mean ‘marine.’” Ashnak shut the door behind him, clipping his web-belt and pistol holster around his muscular body. “Because if you interrupt any more of my interrogations, major, you’re busted down to marine, and on permanent latrine duty!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Barashkukor swallowed audibly. “But it’s one of the new halflings, sir. Cornelius Scroop—the Chancellor of Graagryk. He wants some cushions.”

“Whaddya mean, cushions?” Ashnak demanded. “This is an armed camp, for fuck’s sake; where does he expect me to find
cushions
!”

Major Barashkukor ceased punching the dents out of his formal marine flat hat, “Sir, both the halflings say they can’t see over the conference table. They’re right, sir. They can’t.”

Ashnak groaned. Dangerously quietly, he said, “Find some blankets. Fold them. Use those as cushions. Dismiss.”

“
Sir, yes sir!
”

Barashkukor precipitously fled.

“I’m surrounded by idiots!” Ashnak strode off down the tower stairs. Tech-Corporal Ugarit joined him on the way to the main hall.

“
Magic!
” the skinny orc muttered disgustedly.

“Instantaneous trans-location spells, Corporal,” Ashnak said expansively. “High-level, very expensive Southern Kingdoms magic. Has everyone that I want here for the conference arrived?”

“Yes, General! Had to site the transfer point outside the fort, because of the nullity talisman influence, but they’re here. All the way from the Southern Continent.”

Ashnak strode through the doors of the main hall. Commissar
Razitshakra saluted him from behind a table. She tore off a small piece of paper.

“Ticket for the Orc Ball, sir?”

“I’ve already got one!” Ashnak regarded the big hall. “This your idea of a high-level conference, is it?”

Marine flags were pinned up all around the walls of the bright, war-battered hall. One squad had sacrificed marine-issue sheets and a pot of khaki paint. The resultant banner read, N
IN
-E
DIN
A
NNUAL
M
ARINE
D
INNER
D
ANCE
. A bar, set up at the opposite end of the hall to the dais, was crowded with orc marines in off-duty fatigues. Above Ashnak’s head, among the spell-blackened beams and slit windows, a multifaceted glass ball began to spin. Small lights chased over the off-duty grunts.

“Wouldn’t want a high-level conference to look conspicuous, sir,” Commissar Razitshakra remarked. “This way it blends into the general victory festivities.”

Ashnak grinned.

A voice spoke from approximately the height of the great orc’s belt buckle.

“Lord General, I really must protest! You cannot expect us to sit on these greasy, smelly blankets. I demand that you find us either higher chairs or a lower table best becoming a Graagryk halfling’s dignity!”

Ashnak looked down at Cornelius Scroop. The halfling from the southern city of Graagryk wore a full-length fur gown, upon which rested his S-linked gold chain of office, and a velvet cap on his long, barbered red curls.

“Those are marine-issue blankets, Chancellor Cornelius, and marines get nothing but the best.”

“They’re
dirty
!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Unwashed, perhaps. Oh, you mean the
blankets
.”

“Things are not done like this in the South!”

Ashnak, who had been hearing that refrain for some hours now, merely rested a clawed hand on Scroop’s shoulder and pointed the halfling towards a long table standing by one wall. Corporal Ugarit clanked his way back carrying a tray of beer glasses.

Eight marines from the Badgurlz squad marched smartly up to the dais at the end of the hall, Major Barashkukor at their head. The small orc saluted Ashnak, then snapped his fingers. One marine set up a pot of greenery, hiding the
wall-map. The others unpacked what Ashnak took to be musical instruments of varying descriptions.

Barashkukor drew himself up to attention in polished and brushed brown dress uniform, surmounted by silver-surfaced spectacles and flat hat. “Sir, entertainment detail present and correct, sir!”

“Carry on, Major.”

The Badgurlz band launched into something with a good deal of rhythm and spark. Marines moved out into the cleared centre of the hall and began to jitterbug enthusiastically.

A soberly clad halfling in black silk doublet, breeches, half-cloak, and sword, already sat over a plate at the long table, jingling her spurs. She nodded cheerfully to Ashnak and offered her hand to the body-armoured Ugarit.

“Simone Vanderghast. Captain of the Graagryk city civilian militia.”

Ugarit inspected the small, callused hand. “General, it says it’s a civilian, General.”

“It’s an honourary marine for this evening, Corporal, and you are
not
to eat it, do you understand?”

Ugarit muttered, “Yes, General!” in a dispirited manner and clanked off to find the bar steward.

Ashnak seated himself at the head of the conference table. “Now, gentlemen.”

Chancellor Scroop sniffed. “This blanket is dirty. This mug has not been washed. Admittedly this is an orc encampment and has just suffered siege warfare, but nevertheless one has standards!”

Simone Vanderghast chuckled in her bluff, soldierly manner. “Come, Chancellor, these are times of war, rough times, one must make the best of it.
You!
One has just found a cockroach on one’s plate. Take it away!”

Commissar Razitshakra removed the offending insect in passing, her eyes gleaming avidly.

“We marines—” Ashnak slurped beer and wiped his tusked mouth with his sleeve. “We marines want to come to a business arrangement with Graagryk.”

“At last we get to it!” Cornelius Scroop spread his hands, upon the pudgy fingers of which rings glinted. “There is a problem. With all due respect, General, look at you. You’re orcs.”

Ashnak sat back in his chair. It creaked. His muscled bulk
overspread it considerably, and the wooden legs bowed. He glanced across Nin-Edin’s hall at the orc marines standing by the bar. Two hunch-shouldered grunts were engaging each other in a belching contest.

“You’re not meant to throw up when you do that!” Ashnak called. “Wipe the bar-orc down and order another drink. And
you
, orc. Stop picking your nose!”

“Yessir!” The third grunt cheerfully turned to picking the nostril of the orc next to her.

The Southern halfling groaned. “No one will trust you enough to deal with you, General. And if it were known we had dealings with orcs, then no one would trade with
us
.”

The music screeched to a halt. Ashnak glanced up as Major Barashkukor rapped the microphone. It squealed. Barashkukor beamed out at the hall full of orcs, tapping his baton to call the band to order.

“And now,” the small orc cried, “a song I’ve dedicated to Quartermaster Zaruk. He tells me he’s been getting a lot of requests from you orcs for those camouflage cloth squares you can roll up and tie around your head. Unfortunately there aren’t any left in the stores.”

“That right?” a grunt drawled from the floor.

“Oh, yes.” Major Barashkukor lifted his baton and launched into song. “
Yes, we have no bandannas
…”

Ashnak, who had opened his mouth, shut it again and shook his head. A movement caught his eye at the hall door.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “allow me to introduce another of the delegates to this conference.”

Magda Brandiman swept into the hall, her expression serene. She wore a full-length court gown which showed no signs of its having been cobbled together from reject parachute silk. She inclined her head to Ashnak and his guests.

“General. Chancellor Scroop. Captain Vanderghast.”

“Magda Brandiman, gentlemen.”

Ashnak, with extreme satisfaction, watched the halflings’ jaws drop.

“But—” Simone Vanderghast sprang to her feet, toppling off the chair and blankets in the process. She stared up from the floor, booted ankles tangled round her sword-scabbard, and shifted with difficulty onto her knees. “
Your Grace!
”

Chancellor Scroop slid until his heeled court shoes touched the flagstones. He stood and stared.

“Cornelius,” Magda Brandiman said gently, “is this manners?”

Scroop sank to one knee. “Your Grace…is it really you?”

She rubbed her hand ruefully across her fur-short hair as she seated herself at the conference table, leaving Scroop and Vanderghast kneeling on the floor.

“Has it been so long? I flattered myself I was still recognisable.” She turned graciously to Ashnak. “I apologise, sir. Magda is not my name. At least, not all my name. I am Magdelene Amaryllis Judith Brechie van Nassau.”

“Magdelene of Nassau!” Cornelius Scroop breathed. “The Duchess of Graagryk!”

Ashnak guffawed in mock surprise. “Graagryk! All those scrubbed streets and polished doorsteps. No wonder you left.”

Magda fixed the orc with a steely eye. “I
left
, sir orc, because I was thought unsuitable to be a duchess. Fortunately not all of my courtiers thought so. This is why I asked you to invite Master Scroop and Captain Vanderghast here for this conference. Ah, it has been so long since I saw any of my own people!”

“Ten years or more.” Simone Vanderghast regained her seat, still gazing in a dazzled fashion at Magda. “Your Grace, what have you been doing all these years? How have you lived?”

“There will be time for such discussions later,” Magda said smoothly. “After our business talks.”

“Smile for the camera!” a voice chirruped.

Light flashed.

Perdita del Verro had exchanged her pigeons, Ashnak saw, for some of the more complex reconnaissance equipment out of Dagurashibanipal’s caverns and was busy pointing a zoom-lens at him. He preened himself, adjusting bullet-bandoleers, combat-stained trousers, and combat jacket with the sleeves rolled up over his tattooed muscles, to best advantage.

“General, may I have full technical details of your new range of weapons?
Warrior of Fortune
would like to buy exclusive rights to details of weight, bore, stock length, magazine capacity, fire rate—”

Ashnak eyed Ugarit. The tech-corporal shrugged in an embarrassed manner.

“She was interested, Lord General. What could I do?”

The words “elf stew” went through Ashnak’s mind every time he looked into the elf’s warm golden eyes, but it is never entirely wise to offend the press.

“You can have an exclusive on any details cleared for general release,” he said pointedly. “We shall be issuing a conference statement
later on
.”

The elf reluctantly left the table.

“That,” Ashnak said, “brings me to the subject of these negotiations. We’ve won a victory here at Nin-Edin. That’s why my orcs are celebrating. But I think ahead, gentlemen. I think about the next few years. As you say, orcs are not well respected.”

Cornelius Scroop, re-seating himself on the greasy blanket, snorted.

Ashnak continued. “The marines want to come to a business arrangement with Graagryk. We have a problem, gentlemen. Namely—arms manufacture.”

Vanderghast took her eyes off Magda and gaped. “
What?
”

“We have a limited supply of the new weapons you’ve seen. At some point soon, we’re going to need to make more. However, gentlemen, you will have noticed that we have very little in the way of an industrial base up here in the Demonfest Mountains—which is why my Corporal Ugarit has done a great deal more experimental weapons
development
than manufacture. We need an ally who
does
have a substantial economic base.”

Ashnak flexed his talons.

“The economics of the problem are simple. It’s Dark-damned expensive to manufacture arms, because they’re complex—so we’ll have to make more than we ourselves need, purely to keep the price down to something economic. We will then have a surplus to sell.”

Simone Vanderghast looked at Cornelius Scroop. Then both of them looked at Magda van Nassau. She, in the process of lighting a long and slender roll of pipe-weed, glanced up. “The general is not the sort of orc you’re used to dealing with, Chancellor. Do try to bear that in mind.”

“A recent but classified development means that the orc marines are no longer seriously challenged by forces such as Amarynth’s. We would have very little trouble in coming south and taking over a kingdom or a duchy. But I find,” Ashnak said reflectively, “that warfare tends to wreck a
country’s economy. We don’t have time to rebuild it if we’re going to get a decent arms trade up and running in the next few months.”

The chancellor and the captain stared, the glazed shock on their faces giving way to something Ashnak had no trouble in identifying. Greed.

“This needs thought,” Captain Vanderghast said.

“Have some more food while you’re thinking.” Ashnak snapped his fingers, and Ugarit’s stewards replenished the plates. The halflings dug into the traditional mountain dishes of blackbirds, thrushes, and snails.

Ashnak pondered the advisability of eating raw food and decided against it. Even if it were dead raw food, it would probably not be tactful.

“I’ll leave you gentlemen to discuss matters.” He beamed at Magda. “And catch up on old times.”

Ashnak headed between the orc marines foxtrotting across the dance floor, making for the bar. His grunts greeted him with shouts and cheers. The wooden boards echoed to the stomp of combat boots. Witch-ball lights flashed. The Badgurlz ripped into keyboard, strings, and horn with vigour.

Perdita del Verro passed him, swaying to some ancient unheard ancestral music of her elvish blood. Major Barashkukor wheeled around on the podium, baton still keeping the rhythm, fixed his eyes on her, and began to sing: