Thus, while the Reedbottoms piled eagerly through the gates of Franness, Adrian and his men remained in their camp several miles outside the city. A camp which they had made, not by accident, northwest of the city.
Prelotta might even have believed him. For all his sophistication and comparatively wide experience, he hadn't actually had much contact with civilized nations since he was a boy. And then, his contact had not been with professional soldiers.
In truth, precious few of Adrian's men — or Helga's, for that matter — gave any thought at all to the conduct of the barbarian victors in Franness. Or, if they did, it was simply disgruntled envy that savages were enjoying pleasures which they weren't. "Civilized" or not, the soldiers under Adrian's command were essentially mercenaries. They took the abuses of conquerors for granted, and regarded plunder and rapine much as they did any other law of nature.
Once Prelotta and his tribesmen had installed themselves in their "new provincial capital," Adrian knew that he could escape any pursuit coming from them. Reedbottoms were slow-moving at the best of times. Not even Prelotta would be able to get an effective pursuit started with tribesmen drunk on the wine and women and wealth of Franness.
He was far more concerned about Esmond and the Grayhills. Who, if they were so moved, could easily mount a pursuit. Of course, catching up with Adrian's people — well over a thousand men now, including Helga's hundred, along with their camp followers — was one thing. Catching them, with only three thousand Grayhills warriors, was another matter altogether. Adrian was quite confident that, with the guns of the Fighting Band, he could beat off any such cavalry attack. But he wanted to avoid the thing altogether, if possible. Esmond could certainly inflict casualties; and, what was worse, might pin down Adrian's force long enough for Prelotta to bring up the Reedbottoms. Things would get hairy, then.
Esmond's mood was impossible to determine any longer. The two brothers had not exchanged so much as a single word in months. Indeed, they had rarely even been within eyesight of each other. To all intents and purposes, Adrian no longer felt he understood Esmond at all.
So, for days, he chewed on the matter. Finding no real help from Raj Whitehall and Center, and coming to no clear decision. Then, on the morning of the third day after the victory over Tomsien — what was becoming known as the Battle of Lurion, named after a small town in the valley — word came that the Grayhills were beginning their retreat. After participating in the initial looting of Franness, the Grayhills had apparently decided to return to the southern half of the continent.
"Seems awfully quick, doesn't it?" he asked Jessep. Frowning: "I'd expected them to stay as long as there was anything left to plunder. Not as if they have to worry about any Confederate army stopping them, until next year at the earliest. Not after Lurion."
Jessep's shrug expressed a simple notion: Who can possibly understand what a savage thinks?
A more coherent answer came from Raj. I'm willing to bet Norrys is dying from his wounds. That'll mean electing a new chief of the Grayhills, and everyone wants to get back for the dickering.
probability 68 %, ± 12, agreed Center. the mongols broke off their conquest of europe for that same reason, when the khan ogodai died.
Adrian vaguely remembered the name "Mongols," and a bit about their history. One of the multitude of historical episodes which Center seemed to have at its command at all times. At least half of which seemed to have taken place on this "Earth" the computer insisted was the original homeland of the human race. Skeptical at first, Adrian had come to believe the claim — simply because where else would human beings have managed to commit every atrocity and error conceivable. As well, he would admit, as every glory and grandeur.
* * *
Raj and Center were right. By now, Adrian's Strikers and Fighting Band had collected a fair number of Southron camp followers in addition to the people picked up in Marange. Through them, and their conversations with passing Grayhills, Adrian learned that Norrys was indeed not expected to survive much longer.
He was not surprised. On matters of this nature, at least, he had come to respect deeply the opinions of his two "spirits."
He was surprised, a bit, to hear that Esmond himself was apparently considered one of the top contenders for the chieftainship. But, there too, Raj and Center enlightened him.
Barbarians are usually less preoccupied with matters of bloodlines than civilized nations. And they take adoption seriously. With his usual wit: Damn well better, as miserable and painful as they make the whole process.
yes. genghis khan did not disown his wife after she was captured and raped by enemies. nor even the son who was born thereafter, whose paternity was never certain. that son was eliminated from consideration during the succession because of it, years later, but never penalized otherwise. the whole matter was simply treated by the mongols as a practical problem, not an issue of shame and disgrace.
Thinking of Helga's situation after her own capture by pirates, Adrian couldn't help wincing. Had her father been anyone other than Demansk, she would have been kept in real seclusion, not simply the appearance of it. Among Emeralds, truth to tell, even more than Vanberts. "Shame and disgrace." There were times when he wondered if civilization was anything more than barbarism with fancy trimmings.
Oh, it's a lot more than that, Adrian. It's just that civilization brings with it vices of its own. All of which, however, is academic at the moment. The key thing is that the Grayhills are leaving — tied up and slowed down by their great booty of livestock, to boot — and with Esmond being one of the main contenders for the chieftainship he certainly won't be prone to breaking off on any sudden chases. Now's the time. There won't be any better.
* * *
Quietly, Adrian passed the word to Donnuld Grayn to get the Strikers ready for a forced march. Helga and Jessep, of course, would handle their own men, just as he'd do the same for the Fighting Band. The camp followers wouldn't be a problem. In their own way, they were also veterans, accustomed to reacting quickly whenever their men told them to do so.
* * *
Adrian began the escape shortly after midnight, taking advantage of a clear sky and a full moon. His camp was far enough away from Franness that it couldn't be seen directly; nor, of course, would anyone be able to hear the sounds of an army on the march. Not as much noise as there was filling the streets of a city being sacked. A relatively mild sort of sack, granted, since Prelotta was making sure the city itself and its populace was not destroyed. But any kind of sack does not lend itself to maintaining sober and alert sentries.
To the disgruntlement of the Vanbert-trained veterans among his men, Adrian ordered the camp left intact instead of dismantled. Pulling apart the temporary fortress would take hours better spent creating as much distance as possible between them and Franness. And there was always the chance that the Reedbottoms would even be fooled through a good portion of the following day, seeing, at a distance, the camp still erect and apparently occupied.
* * *
In the event, there was no pursuit. Save only a small band of Reedbottoms who caught up with them two nights later. But they were more in the nature of a delegation than anything else.
One of Prelotta's chieftains was in charge. When Adrian came up to him, after the chieftain was allowed into the camp which had been erected that night, the man did not dismount. Although he looked as if he wished he could. Reedbottoms always looked a bit awkward perched on saddles.
The chieftain's name was Rawal, and Adrian remembered him as being a rather good-natured fellow. Which, indeed, he was.
"Great Chief Prelotta says you are a fool, Adrian Gellert. But" — here, a magnanimous wave of the hand—"he does not curse you. Although I shall, since you've led me on a miserable chase. Damned velipads. Ought to roast the lot of them and be done with the stupid business."
Rawal shifted in the saddle, easing obviously stiff muscles. Then, grinning: "Thought you'd have gone straight north. That woman of yours, again. Talked you into returning her to her western homeland, didn't she? Ha! You should beat her more often."
Adrian returned the grin, willingly enough. He'd hoped they might make this mistake.
"Please, Rawal! You insult me. We want lands of our own — without having to quarrel over it — and the best pickings will be on the coast." He dismissed the rest with a shrug. "The woman knows the area well. She is my hunting bitch, no more."
Helga emerged from their quarters just in time to hear the last remark. Fortunately — Adrian blessed every god and goddess there was, in every pantheon he knew — she did not understand the language of the Reedbottoms very well.
Rawal glanced at her, back at Adrian, back at her, back at Adrian. Between the grin and the facial scars, Adrian thought his face might actually explode.
"No doubt. But that is not why Prelotta sent me. He asked me to deliver to you a message." Rawal's voice assumed the slight singsong of one man quoting another verbatim:
" 'Do not forget, Adrian Gellert, my lust for the matrons.' " He sat back in the saddle. "That's it. Don't ask me what it means. I have no idea. The Great Chief Prelotta is sometimes a bit odd."
And with not another word, he reined his velipad around and trotted off.
"What was that all about?" asked Helga.
Adrian translated, leaving out certain unnecessary passages involving female animals and hunting.
" 'Lust for the matrons'?" she puzzled. "What does that mean?"
Adrian scratched his head. "I'm not sure myself." Inwardly: Raj? Center?
After a moment, Whitehall's voice came. Interesting. Center, what was the name of that king? The one from that country named France, I think. Henry this or that. Said something—
paris is worth a mass.
* * *
The march to the sea was a nightmare. Not dangerous, particularly, for such a large and well-organized and well-armed group of men — except for the ever-present dangers of hunger and disease. Just hideous.
The barbarian invasion had ravaged the southern provinces, saving only the larger walled towns. Then, and in many ways even worse, the rebellions and slave revolts which erupted throughout the southern Confederacy after Tomsien's disaster at Lurion ravaged them further. Landowners and nobles often escaped the barbarian bands roaming the countryside haphazardly. It was much harder for them to escape their own infuriated underlings, who not only knew where they lived but had a personal grudge to settle. The landscape across which Adrian and Helga and their little army marched was dotted with the burned shells of noble villas and estates — and, not infrequently, the corpses of their former owners. Who, as often as not, had been put to death in a manner whose gruesomeness would have shaken the most barbarous Southron warrior.
Nor were slaves and landless laborers the only ones with grudges to settle. After decades of increasingly extortive and corrupt rule, the Confederation was a crazy quilt of hatreds and resentments. All of which seemed to boil over at once.
Tax farmers suffered even worse casualties than landowners. If for no other reason than because the wealthiest landholders tended to be absentee owners. Their country estates could be put to the torch, but they themselves were safe — for the moment at least — behind the walls of Vanbert or the other great cities. Whereas, in the nature of things, a tax farmer needs to live close to his "crop." When the long-simmering eruption took place, tax farmers were much in the same position as a peasant standing in a field of corn — every one of whose stalks was suddenly alive, armed, and filled with bitter memories of the fate of their predecessors.