The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (24 page)

Bit by bit the pain ebbed away, enough so that I tentatively opened one eye, then the other. The blue sky was clear above, the wind rustled the grain on which I lay. With great hesitation I rose up on one elbow and looked around me at the stricken army.

The field was littered with sprawled
bodies. Some of them were sitting up now, holding their heads, while one or two stronger – or stupider – soldiers were climbing unsteadily to their feet. Nearby lay the silvery, broken fragments of one of the attacking missiles, looking innocent enough now with the gas
dispersed. My head throbbed but I ignored it. We were alive. The gas had not killed us – it had obviously been designed only to
knock us out. Potent stuff. I looked at my shadow, not wanting to risk a glance at the sun yet, and saw how foreshortened it was. Close to noon. We had been asleep for hours.

Then why weren’t we dead? Why hadn’t the Capo Dinobli’s men pounced on us and slit our throats? Or at least taken our weapons? My gun was at my side; I broke it and saw that it was still loaded. Mysteries, mysteries. I jumped,
startled – instantly regretting it as my head throbbed – as the hoarse scream rang out. I managed to sit up and turn to look.

Interesting. It was Brother Farvel himself who was still shouting and cursing while he tore handfuls of hair from his head. This was most unusual. I had certainly never seen anything like it before. I rose hesitantly to my feet to see what he was upset about. Yes indeed,
I could understand his emotions.

He was standing beside one of his death-throwers which had been thrown a little death of its own. It had burst open, exploded into a tangle of twisted pipes and fractured metal. The long arm had been neatly cut into three pieces and even the wheels had been torn from the body. It was just a mass of unrepairable junk. Brother Farvel ran off, still shouting hoarsely,
wisps of hair floating in the breeze behind him.

There were more cries and shouts of pain from the other monks as Brother Farvel came staggering back, stumbling towards the Capo Dimonte who was just sitting up.

‘Destroyed, all of them!’ The Black Monk roared while the capo clutched his hands tightly over his ears. ‘The work of years, gone, crushed, broken. All my death-throwers, the steam-powered
battering ram – ruined. He did it, Capo Dinobli did it. Gather your men, attack the keep, he must be destroyed for this monstrous crime that he has committed.’

The capo turned to look towards the keep. It was just as it had been at dawn, quiet and undisturbed, the drawbridge still up, as though the day’s events had never occurred. Dimonte turned back to Brother Farvel, his face cold and drawn.

‘No. I do not lead my men against those walls. That is suicide and suicide was not our agreement. This is your argument, not mine. I agreed to aid you in taking the keep. You were to force entrance with your devices. Then I would attack. That arrangement is now over.’

‘You cannot go back on vour word …’

‘I am not. Breech the walls and I will attack. That is what you promised. Now do it.’

Brother
Farvel turned red with rage, raised his fists, leaned forward. The capo stood his ground – but drew his sword and held it out.

‘See this,’ he said. ‘I am still armed – all of my men are armed. It is a message that I understand quite clearly. Dinobli’s men could have taken our weapons and cut our throats while we lay here. They did not. They do not war on me. Therefore I do not war on them.
You
fight them – this is your battle.’ He nudged the toe of his boot into the bugler lying beside him. ‘Sound assembly.’

We were quite happy to leave the Black Monks there in the field, surveying the wreckage of their machines and their plans. Word quickly spread through the ranks as to what had occurred and smiles replaced the pained grimaces as the headaches vanished to be replaced by relief. There
would be no battle, no casualties. The Black Monks had started the trouble – and it had been finished for them. My smile was particularly broad because I had some good news for The Bishop.

I knew now how we were to get off the repellent planet of Spiovente.

Through the clear wisdom of hindsight I could understand now what had happened the night before. The approach of our troops in the darkness
had been observed carefully. With advanced technology of some kind. The hidden watchers must have also seen the track being constructed through the forest for the death-thrower and understood the significance of the operation. The loudspeaker had been placed in the tree directly above the site – then activated by radio. The gas that had felled us was sophisticated and had been delivered with pinpoint
accuracy. All of this was well beyond the technology of this broken-down planet. Which meant only one thing.

There were offworlders in the keep of Capo Dinobli. They were there in force and were up to something. And whatever it was had aroused the wrath of the Black Monks, so much so that they had planned this attack. Which had backfired completely. Good. Mine enemy’s enemy one more time. The
monks had a stranglehold on what little technology there was on Spiovente – and from what I had seen the technology was completely monopolised by the military. I cudgelled my brain, remembering those long sessions with The Bishop on geopolitics and economics. I was getting the glimmer of a solution to our problems when there was a wild shouting from the ranks ahead.

I pushed forward with the
others to see the exhausted messenger sprawled in the grass beside the road. Capo Dimonte was turning away from him, shaking his fists skyward in fury.

‘An attack – behind my back – on the keep! It is that son of a worm, Doccia, that’s who it is! We move now, forced march. Back!’

It was a march that I never want to repeat. We rested only when exhaustion dropped us to the ground. Drank some water,
staggered to our feet, went on. There was no need to beat us or encourage because we were all involved now. The capo’s family, his worldly goods, they were all back in the keep. Guarded only by a skeleton force of soldiers. All of us were as concerned as he was, for what little we owned was there as well. The knaves watching our few possessions. Dreng, whom I scarcely knew, yet felt responsibility
for. And The Bishop. If the keep were taken what would happen to him? Nothing, he was an old man, harmless, no enemy of theirs.

Yet I knew this was a lie even as I tried to convince myself of its validity. He was an escaped slave. And I knew what they did with escaped slaves on Spiovente.

More water, a little food at sunset, then on through the night. At dawn I could see our forces straggling
out in a ragged column as the stronger men pushed on ahead. I was young and fit and worried – and right up in the front. I could stop now for a rest, get my breath back. Ahead on the road I saw the two men spring from the bushes and vanish over the hill.

‘There!’ I shouted. ‘Watchers – we’ve been seen.’

The capo jumped from the war-wagon and ran to my side. I pointed. ‘Two men. In hiding there.
They ran towards the keep.’

He ground his teeth with impotent rage. ‘We can’t catch them, not in our condition. Doccia will be warned, he’ll escape.’

He looked back at his straggling troops, then waved his officers forward.

‘You, Barkus, stay here and rest them, then get in formation and follow me. I’m going on with all the fit men I can. They can take turns riding on the war-wagon. We’re pushing
forward.’

I climbed onto the roof of the cart as it started ahead. Men ran alongside, holding on, letting it pull them. The steam car wheezed and puffed smoke at a great rate as we clanked up the hill and onto the downslope beyond.

There were the towers of the keep in the distance, smoke rising from it. When we rattled around the next bend we found a line of men across the road, weapons raised,
firing.

We did not slow down. The steam-whistle screeched loudly
and we roared in answer, our anger taking us forward. The enemy fled. It had just been a holding party. We could see them joining the rest of the attackers who were now streaming away from the moat. When we reached the causeway it was empty of life. Beyond it was the broken gate of the keep with smoke rising slowly above it. I was
right behind the capo when we stumbled forward. Long boards were still in place bridging the gap before the splintered and broken drawbridge, half-raised and hanging from its chains. A soldier pushed out between the broken fragments and raised his sword in weary salute.

‘We held them, Capo,’ he said, then slumped back against the splintered wood. ‘They broke through into the yard but we held
them at the tower. They were firing the outer door when they left.’

‘The Lady Dimonte, the children … ?’

‘All safe. The treasury untouched.’

But the troops’ quarters were off the yard and not in the tower. I pushed ahead with the others who had realised this, climbing through the ruined gate. There were bodies here, many of them. Unarmed knaves chopped down in the attack. The defenders were
coming out of the tower now – and Dreng was among them, coming forward slowly. His clothing was spattered with blood, as was the axe he carried, but he seemed sound.

Then I looked into his face and read the sorrow there. He did not need to speak, I knew. The words came from a distance.

‘I am sorry. I could not stop them. He is dead, the old man. Dead.’

He lay on the bunk, eyes closed as though he were sleeping. But never that still, never. Dreng had drawn my blanket over him, up to his chin combed his hair and cleaned his face.

‘I could not move him when the attack came,’ Dreng said. ‘He was too heavy, too ill. The wound in his back was bad, black, his skin hot. He told me to leave him, that he was dead in any case. He said
if they didn’t kill him the ’fection would. They didn’t have to stab him though …’

My friend and my teacher. Murdered by these animals. He was worth more than the entire filthy population of this world gathered together. Dreng took me by the arm and I shook him off, turned on him angrily. He was holding out a small packet.

‘I stole the piece of paper for him,’ Dreng said. ‘He wanted to write
to you. I stole it.’

There was nothing to be said. I unwrapped it and a carved wooden key fell to the floor. I picked it up, then looked at the paper. There was a floor plan of the keep drawn on it, with an arrow pointing to a room carefully labelled
strongroom
. Below it was the message, and I read what was written there in a tight, clear hand.

His signature was carefully written below. I read the name – then read it again. It wasn’t The Bishop – or any of the other aliases he had ever used. He had left me a legacy of trust – knowing that I was probably the only person in the universe
who would value this confidence. His real name.

I went and sat down outside in the sun, suddenly very weary. Dreng brought me a cup of water. I had not realised how thirsty I was; I drained it and sent him for more.

This was it, the end. He had felt the approach of darkness – but had worried about me. Thought of me when it was really his own death that was looming so close.

What next? What
should I do now?

Fatigue, pain, remorse – all overwhelmed me. Not realising what was happening I fell asleep, sitting there in the sun, toppled
over on my side. When I awoke it was late in the afternoon. Dreng had wadded his blanket and put it under my head. He sat now at my side.

There was nothing more to be said. We put The Bishop’s body on one of the little carts and wheeled it along the
causeway to the shore. We were not the only ones doing this. There was a small hill beside the road, a slope of grass with trees above it, a pleasant view across the water to the keep. We buried him there, tamping the soil down solidly and leaving no marker. Not on this disgusting world. They had his body, that was enough. Any memorial I erected in his honour would be lightyears away. I would take
care of that one day when the proper moment came.

‘But right now, Dreng, we take care of Capo Doccia and his hoodlums. My good friend did not believe in revenge so I cannot either. So we shall call it simple justice. Those criminals need staightening out. But how shall we do it?’

‘I can help, master. I can fight now. I was afraid, then I got angry and I used the axe. I am ready to be a warrior
like you.’

I shook my head at him. I was thinking more clearly now. ‘This is no job for a farmer with a future. But you must always remember that you faced your fear and won. That will do you well for the rest of your life. But Jim diGriz pays his debts – so you are going back to the farm. How many groats does a farm cost?’

He gaped at that one and shuffled through his memory. ‘I never bought
a farm.’

‘I’m sure of that. But somebody must have that you know.’

‘Old Kvetchy came back from the wars and paid Widow Roslair two hundred and twelve groats for her share of her farm.’

‘Great. Allowing for inflation, five hundred should see you clear. Stick with me kid and you’ll be wearing ploughshares. Now get to the kitchen and pack up some food while I put part one of the plan into operation.’

It was like a chess game that you played in your head. I could see the opening moves quite clearly, all laid out. If they were played correctly, middle game and endgame would follow with an inevitable win. I made the first move.

Capo Dimonte was slumped on his throne, red-eyed and as tired as the rest of us, a flagon of wine in his hand. I pushed through his officers and stood before him. He
scowled at me and flapped his hand.

‘Away, soldier. You’ll get your bonus. You did your work
well today, I saw that. But leave us, I have plans to make …’

‘That is why I am here, Capo. To tell you how to defeat Capo Doccia. I was in his service and know his secrets.’

‘Speak!’

‘In private. Send the others away.’

He considered a moment – then waved his hands. They left, grumbling, and he sipped
his wine until the door slammed shut.