Adrian stifled his momentary urge to dispute that claim. That was his initial impulse, but. . He'd made the mistake, once, of bragging about the subtleties of the Emerald philosopher Llawat's political theories. Raj and Center had mercilessly shredded his opinion. The gist of their argument, to which Adrian had no real counter, was that Llawat's supposedly sophisticated pyramidal schema for how a society should be organized amounted to nothing more than giving organized plunder an elaborate set of fancy clothes.
Just so. As usual, Raj's words carried an undertone of humor. "My officials and scribes and priests and accountants have you by the throat today." That's what Llawat's blather amounts to.
Prelotta cleared his throat. It was a polite reminder to Adrian that he'd been silent for some moments and that it was perhaps time to return to the subject under discussion.
"My apologies, Chief." Adrian unlaced his fingers and spread them outward, indicating the expanse of the rug with the gesture. "I was just taken with admiration for the design."
Prelotta looked down at the rug. Then, glanced into the corner where his chiefly paraphernalia was kept. "Ah, yes. I'm partial to it myself. But I've never seen any need to be exclusive about such things. Not at the moment, certainly."
Adrian didn't need to look into the corner to understand the subtleties of the remark. Prelotta, like all Southron chiefs, had the usual symbols of authority. The ceremonial ax, indicating his power; the stool he sat upon, intricately carved and made from the horns of a greatbeast, indicating his judgement; and the clutch of birds' eggs in a basket, indicating his fecundity. There was no symbol, needless to say, celebrating his wisdom. Much less his mercy.
Later for that. So long as authority comes only from having a hand on a throat, wisdom and mercy are a moot point.
"True enough," murmured Adrian. Then he raised his head and gave Prelotta a direct gaze.
Again, he pointed to the rug. "If your weavers can do such intricate work, relying only on designs from their own heads instead of nature, I imagine they could do the same working with steel and iron."
Prelotta pursed his lips. The expression, combined with the scars, gave his face a particularly grotesque appearance.
"I should think so," he replied forcefully. "If not the weavers themselves, then certainly other members of my tribe. We do have blacksmiths, remember."
Adrian hesitated. "Yes, of course. But, in my experience, blacksmiths are often set in their old ways. It might perhaps be better—"
"Not my blacksmiths." Prelotta inclined his head toward the corner where his chiefly paraphernalia rested. "One of them made that Ax of Power, you know. The blade is quite sharp, for all the curlicues on the handle. Perfectly capable, I assure you, of removing the head of any stubborn blacksmith."
Seeing the little wince on Adrian's face, Prelotta chuckled. "You worry too much, my delicate Emerald friend. Blacksmiths are especially prone, among Reedbottoms, to belong to the Young Word. Not hidebound by tradition at all, most of them. I expect no difficulty."
The humor vanished. "But it is not your concern, in any event. Understand this, Adrian Gellert. I will not agree to your proposal unless you agree to train my own people in the design and manufacture of your new weapons, as well as their use. That is the one and only point on which I am not prepared to bargain."
very smart chief. Center's voice almost had a tone in it. Respect, that would have been. he understands, where most barbarians do not, that it is the ability to make a weapon rather than use it which is the ultimate source of military power.
Yes. Agree to it, Adrian, urged Raj. The long-term benefits will be even greater than the short-term. Not for the Confederacy as it is, of course, but that thing is doomed anyway.
Adrian had had no intention of refusing. He was simply a bit skeptical about whether Prelotta's people were able to do what their chief wanted of them. But, glancing again at the rug, he decided that they might well be. And it wasn't really his problem, anyway.
"Agreed, Chief." It was his turn to clear his throat. "But in return—"
Prelotta grinned — that made for an even more grotesque face — and held up his hand.
"Please! Now that negotiations can begin, we will need refreshments." He clapped his hands loudly; an instant later, a slave appeared through the flap which separated the inner chamber of the tent from the rest of the huge pavilion.
"You will want beer, I assume."
No. You need a clear head, lad. I'd—
Adrian sent some very unkind thoughts toward Raj. "I'm not a child, damnation!" were the only ones of them which weren't obscene.
"No, thank you, Chief. Something else." Inspiration came to him. "Whatever you'll be having."
Prelotta's grin widened, and Adrian felt his stomach lurch.
"Ah. Amazing!" exclaimed the Chief. "Most people not from our tribe — Southrons as much as civilized folk — detest our favored beverage."
Thank the gods I can't actually taste anything, remarked Raj idly. The squeezings from swamp weeds, added to rancid milk, all of it left to stew for weeks. .
very nutritious, though, added Center. assuming you survive.
* * *
The concoction was just as awful as Adrian feared. And politeness forced him to drink three cups of it, in the long hours of haggling which followed.
In the end, however, he did survive. And at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he'd driven a good bargain, as he tottered his way back to the section of Marange which his soldiers had turned into their own quarter of the city.
It was almost nightfall when he arrived before the building which his men had erected to be his own dwelling as well as headquarters. No tent, this, but a wooden structure — and a well-built one, at that. His men might be mostly Emeralds, but many of them had served for a time in the Confederate army. They had learned the Vanbert methods of erecting real fortifications everywhere they went. And so, in the months since their arrival at Marange, they had turned their section of the sprawling port into a fortified city within a city.
Adrian was surprised to see a group of strangers lounging at ease in front of the building. And no Southrons, these, but men from the north. Vanberts, from the look of them, perhaps a dozen in all — and obviously soldiers, even without their weapons.
The youngest of them caught his eye. The man was smiling at him oddly, almost as if he knew him. Adrian couldn't remember ever meeting the fellow before, but. . there was something about his face. .
observe, Center said.
A grid formed over the young man's face, emphasizing the lines of contour. Next to it appeared a face Adrian remembered perfectly. The resemblance, now that Center had brought it into focus, was unmistakable.
allowing for the difference in gender, the probability is 95 %± 2. unity, for all practical purposes.
"Gods," whispered Adrian. His stomach, already uneasy, began fluttering wildly. An instant later, doubling up, he vomited all over the ground.
The paroxysm of regurgitation submerged all other concerns. Not until he was finished did Adrian notice the presence of the man on one knee next to him.
"Gods, that stinks," said a cheerful young voice. "Tell me what it is later, so I can be sure to avoid the stuff. But in the meantime. . are you done?"
Adrian nodded weakly. A pair of strong hands seized him by the armpits and hoisted him easily back onto his feet. Adrian found himself staring at the face whose resemblance to another had sent his emotions whirling.
"Are you positive?" asked the young man, now grinning. "If there's any doubt at all, best you barf it up now. My sister's waiting for you inside, and — you know this much, I'm sure — the gods help you if you puke all over her."
Chapter 15
Marange was the most bizarre city Helga had ever seen. It reminded her of a madhouse more than anything else. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the way anything was designed or constructed, outside of the immediate harbor area itself.
Docks and piers, in the nature of things, look much the same the world over. She would have said the same about buildings in general, before she encountered Marange. Granted, architectural styles varied from one nation to the next. Still, all towns and cities of her acquaintance, even the exotic islander city of Vase, had a logic to them.
Not so Marange. Although the city was technically a Southron one — the only real "city" anywhere in the southern half of the continent — its population was not more than a third Southron by birth. At least, its more-or-less permanent population. And even the Southrons dwelling there were, for the most part, outlaws and outcastes from their own barbarian society.
The inhabitants of Marange were the flotsam and jetsam of the whole world. They came from everywhere; every part of the continent, and every island. The only thing they really had in common was that, for whatever reason, they had been discarded by their own folk — or, as often as not, forced to flee for their lives.
Marange only existed at all for two reasons. The first was that, located at the highest point of the Blood River which was navigable by seagoing ships — almost 150 miles upstream from the ocean itself — it made a good and safe harbor. Whatever trade did take place between the southern barbarians and the rest of the world was channeled through Marange.