Lord of Janissaries (25 page)

There was no point in telling him about starships and the
Shalnuksis
. That still left a lot. “I come from a land far to the south and so far west that one could sail for weeks before reaching it,” Rick said. “There we have many old documents, and there we know that the stories of the worlds are true. If you wish a sign, look to the skies. The Demon Star comes close, and soon there will be fire and flood and famine in the land.”

The Roman’s eyes narrowed. “I have heard such tales,” he said. “And I have heard another, that you come from farther away than the other side of the world.”

Now who’s been talking
? Rick spread his hands. “The old legends are true,” he said. “As to the other story, I do not gainsay it, but I make no such claim. Now listen and I will tell you of the times to come. They are times to make brave men fear.”

PART SEVEN

SCHOLARS

1

Snow lay deep in the passes of Tamaerthon. Rick could hear the winds from the north scream past the walls of his lodge.

There were no palaces in Tamaerthon. Drumold’s lodge home, over a hundred feet long and half that wide, with walls of earth and stone ten feet thick, was the largest structure the hill country boasted. When the army returned from the raid on the Empire, the tribesmen built a lodge for Rick within the stone fortress circle and close by Drumold’s. It was nearly as large as the chief’s, which meant that the great hall was nearly impossible to heat, and Rick spent most of his time in the smaller room he had built to use as an office. It had whitewashed walls he could write on with charcoal.

He had intended to work there, but he found that very difficult. There was no glass. The best they had for windows was thin, oiled parchment; there was no good light even in daytime. He began to understand why the Northmen had slept late and spent their evenings at drinking bouts and listening to bards recite. What else could they do?

He desperately needed to plan for spring, but that was difficult. No one in Tar Tageral was skilled at making parchment, and the ink was terrible. He could make notes by scrawling on the whitewashed walls with charcoal, or using his ballpoint pen to write on a precious page of his notebook. But when pen and notebook were gone, there would be no others.

At first he’d thought it would be easy to bring technology to Tran. Now he knew better. He had to concentrate on tools; in fact, tools to make tools, and often that meant going back to first principles. Wire, for example. He knew that ancient jewelers had made small quantities of wire by painstakingly hammering it. About the time gunpowder was invented, the Venetians discovered the art of drawing wire through holes in an iron plate. The craftsman sat on a swing powered by a water wheel and seized the wire with tongs, letting his weight on the swing aid the work. But how thick a plate? How do you drill holes in iron? And where do you get the copper bar stock to make wire from?

And steel. Knowing that steel was iron with just the right amount of carbon was all very well, but how much is the right amount? And how do you experiment if you can’t operate a forge and you don’t want the smiths to think you a fool?

There were dozens of similar problems, and they gave him a headache. For relaxation, he invented the English custom of tea parties. Of course they didn’t have tea here, but they had a plant whose boiled leaves made a caffeine drink. Rick was getting used to the somewhat bitter flavor—and teatime was a good way to spend an afternoon. He was drunk in the evenings more often than he liked.

Sometimes he would invite twenty or thirty people; sometimes none but Gwen, if she cared to join him. He was not unhappy if she chose to stay in her rooms at the far end of the great hall from his “office.” She had grown increasingly moody and uncommunicative as her time approached, and her gloom and that of the weather in combination were more than enough to depress him.

But each afternoon he would have tea in his great hall. Any diversion was welcome.

* * *

Corporal Mason brushed snow from his sheepskin greatcoat and dashed for the hearth fire. He warmed his hands thankfully before turning to the others. “Cap’n, its
cold
out there,” he said.

Tylara laughed. “This is a mild winter. The Firestealer has plunged into the True Sun, but the ice in the middle of the lochs is barely thick enough to walk on.”

“Thank God I wasn’t here for a bad winter,” Mason said.

“Each winter will be milder,” Gwen said. “And each summer hotter.” She clutched her teacup close to her swollen belly and stared into the fire.

“Aye,” Tylara said. “The Demon Star is visible a full hour after sunrise, though both suns are in the sky.”

“I’ve lost track of how many Earth days we’ve been here,” Gwen said. She patted her swollen belly. “About eight months, obviously. We’ve missed Christmas.”

“It’s probably local Christmastide for the Romans,” Rick said. “Or is it? I don’t remember when the Catholic Church officially adopted Winterset as the day for Christmas. Anyway, we can have our own.”

“We’ll have to share,” Gwen said. “Yanulf is making preparations for his own ceremony . . . I suppose to ensure that spring will come.”

“No,” Tylara said. “We have long known that spring will come whether we coax the Firestealer out of the True Sun or no. But should we not give thanks for the signs that winter will end?”

Mason shivered exaggeratedly. “God knows that’s something to be thankful for,” he said. He took a seat near the fire. “Be glad when spring’s here.”

“Not half as much as I will,” Rick said. He grinned at Tylara.

Her answering smile was warm. “We always celebrate the return of spring. This year will be double joyful.”

“Even for your father?” Rick teased.

She laughed. “It is only his way, to complain that the dowry will impoverish him. He will drink as much at our wedding as any three others.”

Rick looked curiously at Gwen. Caradoc, who had been invaluable during the battle and now was commander of the archer company that was Rick’s personal guard, was often in Rick’s great hall. Usually he had business there, but sometimes what he wanted to discuss was trivial. He always managed to say a few words to Gwen before he left.

Would the spring ceremony be a double wedding? Officially, Gwen was the widow of an Earth soldier; the story provided an acceptable explanation of her condition. Only peasant women had illegitimate children. Since no one knew precisely when by local time Gwen’s husband had been “killed,” it was decided that her period of mourning would end at the same time as Tylara’s.

“Spring’s a long time away,” Rick said. “Too long. For now, let’s have an old-fashioned Christmas. No turkey here, but we can have a goose—”

A distant trumpet sounded.

“That’s the lads down in the lower village,” Mason said. “Reckon I’d better go see what it’s about.”

“You don’t have to go out in that cold,” Rick said. “That wasn’t an alarm—”

“It’s all right, Cap’n,” Mason said. “I’m glad of something useful to do. I’ve been getting cabin fever.” He got up and put on his heavy coat. The wind blew flurries of snow into the great hall when he went out.

* * *

The letter was on thick parchment. It was brought to Rick in his office.

The Roman had spoken the same language as Tylara, and she had told Rick that there was one universal tongue from the Five Kingdoms to Rustengo. But the letter was written in Latin—Rick could read enough of it to know that. He sent for Gwen and handed her the parchment. “Can you read that?”

“Just barely. I had three years in high school.” She sat near the fire and read laboriously.

“ ‘From Caius Marius Marselius, onetime Prefect of the West, to Lord Rick, war leader of the tribes of Tamaerthon, greetings. Peace be with you and your house. This letter is sent by the hands of Lucius, my freedman and friend, who brings you—’ I think that’s ‘gifts’—‘and a message which I hope—’ I don’t know that verb. It’s future tense. From the content I’d guess it was ‘will heed.’ Anyway. He says, ‘Lucius has power to speak for me.’ It’s signed with a lot of flourishes.” She handed Rick the parchment.

He looked at it curiously. “No way to tell if it’s genuine. But I suppose it is. Who’d fake it?” He nodded to his freedman attendant, a young NCO who’d escaped from a Roman slave barracks and fled to the hills. “Send their leader in, and see that the others are given food and drink and a fire. They are my guests.”

“Sir!” Jamiy stamped to attention, did an aboutface, and left the room.

Gwen giggled. Rick looked wryly at her.

“Well, it’s funny, that’s all,” she said.

“I tend to agree,” Rick said. “Blame Mason. He’s the one who’s been teaching them military manners—mostly learned from watching old British Army movies, I think. It amuses him.” And he thought, it’s not really so funny. There’s a point to military ceremonial. Under the circumstances, I’m not so sure Mason’s wrong. We’ll probably have to fight again. Even if I manage to wriggle out of it, I’ll need disciplined forces.

The visitor was wrapped in woolen clothing so that only his nose and eyes showed. When he took off his scarves—three of them, counting the one wrapped around his face—and the hooded cloak and the thick gloves, Rick saw that he was quite elderly and very thin. His beard and long hair were nearly white, and he had almost no teeth.

Dentistry, Rick thought. Have to invent that from scratch. Thank God my teeth are in good shape, but that won’t last. If I live long enough, I’ll lose them all. Dentistry’s another benefit of civilization you take for granted until you haven’t got it.

“Were you able to read my master’s letter?” the elderly man asked.

“Yes. What is your message?”

“Do you object if I sit? My bones are old, and the cold has made them brittle.”

“Please do.” Rick indicated a chair near the fireplace. “The matter must be urgent, to bring you here at Winterset.”

Lucius sat heavily and huddled forward for warmth. “It is that. But first—” He reached down to a leather case he carried and took out a thick roll of parchment. He held that near the fire to warm it until it would unroll slightly, then held it out to Rick. “Marselius thought you might prize this,” he said.

Rick took it curiously. The letters were handprinted in a block form and easily recognized. He read slowly. “Ego Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus—” He broke off, staring. “Is this truly a copy of the great history by the Emperor Claudius?”