"Three things, Sergeant. First, let's start with your name. What is it?"
The sergeant blinked. "Ma name? 'Tis Forent Nappur, sar."
"Second. I'll need you to keep that accent under control. Outside of your squad quarters, at any rate. Can you do that?"
Another blink. "Ah — yes, sir. I can do that. Sorry, sir. I'm just a bit unsettled at the moment."
Demansk waved the apology aside. "I understand. Not a problem, as long as you keep an eye on it. You know the sattrasacht, Forent Nappur. They'll forgive much, but never poor diction."
The sergeant choked off a little laugh. Demansk smiled, and then finished the day's work.
"And — third thing — it'll not be sergeant any longer. It's Forent Nappur, Special Attendant to the Triumvir, from this moment forward."
Chapter 14
That explains it, said Raj. No wonder he's much more sophisticated than you'd expect.
yes, chimed in Center. the taking of hostages is common practice in iron age cultures.
Adrian ignored them both, as he had learned to do easily enough in the many months since the odd duo had entered his mind. He kept his concentration entirely on Prelotta. Mostly, he kept his concentration on the imperative need not to burst into open laughter.
The young chief's statement was still reverberating in his mind. Adrian was trying to picture Prelotta spending five years as a boy in Vanbert, the capital city of the Confederacy. The hairdo alone. .
Something in his tight face must have been interpreted correctly by the leader of the Reedbottom tribe. Prelotta's scarred face crinkled.
"No, no — I assure you! Not even a rash and foolhardy Southron boy was stupid enough to wear his native dress in Vanbert. Other than my pale skin and light hair, I appeared quite the normal civilized young lad."
His fingers brushed along his forehead. "Of course, the tattoos were already there, so the disguise really fooled no one. But at least I hadn't had the ceremonial scars added yet."
That made sense, Arian realized. Prelotta would have had the scars added later than usual. The normal custom among Southrons, although the specific practices varied from tribe to tribe, was to have boys tattooed at the age of four and undergo the other, more brutal, ceremonies upon reaching puberty. Prelotta had been turned over as a hostage to the Confederacy at the age of twelve, following a clash between the Southrons and the Vanberts which went badly for the tribesmen. That meant he wouldn't have been able to undergo the tribal "coming of age" ceremonies until he was seventeen.
Which, for the most part, was probably an advantage. A seventeen-year-old would have had an easier time dealing with the pain than a younger one. Except—
He winced. Prelotta, showing the perceptiveness which Adrian had come to expect from him, grinned widely. Then, grabbed his crotch in an exaggerated protective gesture.
"Yes, the circumcision was awful. I have to say — privately, of course — that you Emeralds have the right of it there. Cut the foreskin off while the newborn babe is still indignant about everything anyway."
Not for the first time, Adrian found himself liking Prelotta. Partly that was because the Reedbottom chief was far more sophisticated than any other Southron Adrian had yet encountered. But, mostly, it was simply because he'd come to like the man. Granted, Prelotta's fundamental view of the world was still that of a barbarian. But Adrian found a thoughtful barbarian — as rare as such were — to be less offensive than most Vanbert aristocrats. Or Emerald ones, truth be told.
Yes, Prelotta's basic view of things divided the world into nothing more complicated than takers and takees. Yes, he gave no more thought to the use of force and violence as the solution to most any problem than a direbeast. But in those respects, once you stripped away the veneer, he was really no different than most civilized noblemen. Adrian even found it a pleasure not to have a straightforward discussion of a plundering war dressed up with sophistries.
Really, the only thing Adrian still held against Prelotta was his smell. And even that, he suspected, was simply due to Prelotta's care in maintaining a proper outward respect for Southron custom. Left to his own devices, Adrian was almost certain that Prelotta would have joined him and the other Emeralds in their daily bath — instead of "cleaning" himself by simply slathering on another layer of oil.
* * *
Thinking of the large public baths which Adrian and his Emeralds had insisted on building as soon as they arrived in Marange brought mixed emotions.
Sadness, because his brother Esmond no longer participated in that ancient and treasured ritual of Emerald daily life. Since Esmond had recovered from the wounds Adrian inflicted on him during their duel, his brother had restricted himself exclusively to the company of the Southron tribesmen who had adopted him as one of their champions. (Esmond's defeat in the duel had not been held against him. All tribesmen except Reedbottoms considered slings a fundamentally sneaky weapon.) He exchanged fewer than twenty words a week to any Emerald, even the soldiers who had once been his own troops.
On the other hand, Esmond's self-imposed exile had been a blessing for Adrian, from a tactical point of view. At one time, when they served under King Casull of the Isles, Esmond had been the commander of the so-called "Sea Striker regiment of Emerald Free Companions." Hired killers would have been a more accurate term. Although most of the five hundred Strikers were Emerald in origin, they had taken service as mercenaries with the islanders.
All of them, with only a few exceptions, had accompanied Esmond and Adrian to Marange — as had every single member of Adrian's own unit of two hundred arquebusiers, the "Lightning Band." Counting the small horde of camp followers who had attached themselves to the two mercenary units, Adrian and Esmond had brought well over two thousand people with them to Marange.
The loyalties of the Lightning Band had never been in doubt, given a rupture between Adrian and Esmond. Adrian's brother had been quite willing to use the Band's special skills in battle. But he'd never shown any particular fondness or interest in their newfangled gunpowder gadgetry, other than for the effects they could produce. They were Adrian's men, pure and simple.
With the Strikers, the situation was more complicated. They were lightly armored infantrymen, using traditional weapons — basically, javelins and slings for missiles and short swords for close-in work. Once Esmond had established his authority among them, the Strikers had taken to him quite warmly. Esmond really was a superb battlefield commander, even leaving aside his charismatic personality. Under his command, the Strikers had won much booty and suffered relatively few casualties in the doing.
Under normal circumstances, they would surely have sided with Esmond against Adrian. But Esmond's increasing madness had driven them away. Not his cruelties, so much as his rapid adoption of Southron manners. Mercenaries or not, most of the Strikers were Emeralds — and Emeralds, in their own way, were the world's most notorious cultural conservatives. Whether or not any individual Emerald mercenary soldier had ever read any of the Emerald philosophers, he respected those who had. The fact that Esmond was a cultured man from a good Emerald family had counted for much with them. As much, truth to tell, as the fact that Esmond had been a winner in the Pan-Emerald Games.
After the duel, however, Esmond's break from Emerald customs had been rapid and extreme. As soon as he had recovered sufficiently from his wounds, Esmond had even insisted on undergoing the scarification ritual in order to become officially adopted into the Grayhills, the largest tribe of the barbarians and the one whose chief, Norrys, had just been elected as Chief of Chiefs of the loose Southron confederation. He had begun growing his hair to the length needed for the elaborate hairstyles favored by Southron warriors, and had stopped coming to the public baths altogether. Those who had spoken with him in recent weeks said he was beginning to smell as ripe as any barbarian.
That had been too much for the Strikers. Some of the Strikers were themselves Southron in origin — the Strikers, like all mercenary outfits, had people from all over the world. But even most of them had decided to give their allegiance to Adrian. Having spent some years in a largely Emerald cultural environment, most of the former barbarians had no desire to go back to a Southron lifestyle. As one of them put it to Adrian: "It's hard to give up the habit of being clean, once you've learned the trick. Dirt and grease itch, dammit."
So, in the end, not more than thirty Strikers had broken ranks with the others and gone with Esmond. And then all of them except Southrons came scampering back the next day, after discovering that Esmond expected them to undergo the same bloody rituals. The rest of the unit, at a formal vote, had decided to give their allegiance to Adrian.
Adrian had promptly appointed Esmond's former lieutenant Donnuld Grayn as the new commander of the Strikers. Grayn was a capable man, and Adrian wanted to be able to give his full attention to expanding the Lightning Band and trying to get the Southrons to adopt at least some of his new weapons and tactics.
The end result was that Adrian had almost seven hundred men under his command, and Esmond was left with nothing more than the status he could achieve for himself as a war leader among the Grayhills. It was as good a result from the rupture as could have been hoped for.
* * *
Adrian forced his mind away from Esmond. What was done was done. Or, as the famous phrase from Jopha's Observations on Fate put it: "The past is the one path which cannot be retraced." And before this latest little digression, he had been on the verge of reaching agreement with Prelotta.
He leaned forward on his stool, planting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together. For a moment, as he collected his thoughts, he studied the rug on which both his stool and Prelotta's were resting.
It was an interesting object, as well as a decorative one. As could be expected in the quarters of a major chief, the rugs which covered the floor were very finely made. As were the tapestries which were hung on the walls of Prelotta's private tent within the pavilion.
They had been made by local weavers — Reedbottom ones, rather. Southrons had no need to import rugs. In fact, their own rugs and tapestries were one of the few manufactured items for which there was a ready market in the civilized lands to the north. That was especially true for Reedbottom products. The vivid colors which the northeastern weavers were able to obtain from various of their marsh plants were quite striking.
But what Adrian found more interesting about the rug he was studying was the design itself. Most Southron weavers favored the depiction of scenes from legend on their rugs and tapestries. Usually a scene from one of the exploits of the Southrons' mythical hero Kladdo, although often a scene depicting one or another of their multitude of gods and goddesses.
Reedbottom rugs were often different, in this even more than in their vivid coloring. As was the rug he was staring at.
A new cult had arisen among the Reedbottoms about a century earlier, founded by a man known only as Young Word. The odd name was appropriate, perhaps. The man had not lived much beyond his mid-twenties, before an irate sub-tribe had murdered him in a fit of outrage at Young Word's heretical mouthings. The execution had had the usual Southron flourish — the heretic had been disemboweled and his entrails spread across the large bush to which he'd been tied.
But his cult had grown, nevertheless — explosively so, over the past generation. His followers had seized upon the manner of his death, added it to Young Word's own remembered sermons, and created out of the mix an elaborate framework of beliefs and rituals which had proven too popular to be subjected to much in the way of persecution after the first generation. By now, from what Adrian could determine, at least a third of the Reedbottoms were adherents to the "Young Word" faith.
In fact, the cult had begun spreading beyond the Reedbottoms themselves. Although the northeastern tribe was still the center of the new creed, there were Young Word devotees scattered throughout the southern half of the continent.
The rug, placed as it was in the most prestigious place in Prelotta's tent — right under the Stool of Chieftainship — indicated that Prelotta himself was a supporter of the creed. Or, at least, did not hesitate in making his partiality to it publicly known.
not surprising, interjected Center. prelotta's ambitions, as we have already ascertained, extend beyond the usual barbarian limits. there are great advantages to monotheism for such a one.
It was an odd thought, but Adrian found himself agreeing. The rug's intricate and abstract design contained a subtle message, if one considered it carefully. The Young Word cult had incorporated the image of entrails spread across branches into all their artwork. There were no "scenes," as such. Simply an intertwining of red and green strands, coiling about in a complex manner.
Complex — but not chaotic. Always, one's eyes were drawn to the center. Always, one's mind was given a reinforcement of the principal tenet of the Young Word: that all reality, all men and gods, were but manifestations of the one Fixed God. "Assan," the prophet had named that deity, using the term for the mystical ancestral spirit which was common to all Southrons.