Helga's mounting irritation was suddenly broken. Not by Arsule's frown and torrent of words, but by the look of half terror/half excitement on Kata's face.
Gods, the girl's looking forward to it. A slave. An illiterate barbarian, to boot.
She looked down at the army camp. Tomorrow morning, the siege of Franness would begin. She could see that Adrian already had the handful of big siege guns at the gate, ready to be hauled out on the morrow. And, turning her head, she could see that the berms where those guns would be positioned were already finished and being guarded by several battalions.
And what do I have to do with all that?
Nothing.
Gods, she's right. I'm bored stiff. No wonder Adrian doesn't listen much to me anymore. I haven't got anything to say except what he already knows.
"What are 'saints'?" she asked.
Kata launched into a somewhat incoherent explanation, which was not helped any by the fact — soon obvious even to Helga — that the Reedbottom originators of the Young Word creed had all the usual sense of "logic" typical of barbarians anywhere. As sloppy as a pig trough.
"Never mind," she said at length. "Come back with me to the camp and we can talk about it more this afternoon. Maybe I'll be able to follow things better with a cup or two of wine. Adrian will be busy all day anyway."
To Arsule: "So let me understand you. You're thinking that Jassine. . but what about her priests?"
"Priests! They're all dependent on the state purse anyway, Helga — the cult of Jassine more than any of them. They'll trot into line, watch if they don't." More charitably: "Besides, Jassine's priests tend to be a fairly self-effacing sort, as priests go. Some of them are even quite pleasant fellows. I know, I've been spending a fair amount of time with them lately."
Arsule started to add something else, but closed her mouth. Which was something of a miracle in its own right.
Helga chuckled. She could just imagine what Arsule had been about to say. While you've been idling about contemplating your miseries.
"Oh, why not? If nothing else, it'll give me something to do." She placed a hand on Kata's shoulder and turned her back toward the trail. "Come on, girl. You can keep talking. That might slow us down enough to allow my blessed stepmother to keep up."
Behind her back, she heard Arsule sniff. "Hmph. Technically, I'm your mother. All the laws say so! Do try to show a certain modicum of respect, will you?"
There came another rapid set of sounds, ending with a thump. Helga turned around and saw that Arsule must have slipped.
"I admit it's sometimes a bit difficult," Arsule grumbled, as Helga helped her back onto her feet. "But, as I said, having a hefty ass helps. Matrons would be lost without it."
She gave Helga a half smile/half leer, and then swatted her on her own rump. "Gods, your butt's almost as solid as a man's. But don't worry, girl. By the time you need it, you'll have a proper ass."
As they resumed their downward progress, Arsule's voice provided a steady accompaniment. "All those hours, just sitting on couches. . the only exercise trying to keep philosophers from each other's throats. . good thing they're such a weedy and wheezing bunch, for a girl as strong as you it'll be easy. . remind them of the grisly fate of a certain band of pirates, now and then, that'll help. ."
* * *
Late that night, after Adrian returned to their quarters to get a few hours' rest before the trials of the morning, Helga insisted on making love. Adrian was willing enough, for all his tension. He didn't have all that much choice anyway, since — for the first time in weeks — Helga was being aggressive about it.
Afterward, as they lay in each other's arms, contently exhausted, Helga began casually mentioning some parts of her day's conversation with Kata.
Adrian was more-or-less oblivious to it, at first. But, after a while, his scholarly instincts were aroused, as Helga had known they would be.
She could see him frowning in the dim light thrown out by the small lamp in the bunker, as he stared up at the wooden logs which formed the rough ceiling.
"Doesn't make sense, Helga. Blithering barbarians! How can a man be both a prophet and the manifestation of a god at the same time? One or the other, fine, but not both."
"Well, it didn't make a lot of sense to me either. But Kata says—"
After a while, Adrian's lips quirked wryly and he gave his head a little shake. "Gods, what a tangled mess. As much rhyme and reason as a bramble bush. But. . for a moment there. . Heh. If I didn't know better, I'd swear I was listening to one of the Hallert school."
"Hallert? Who are they?"
" 'Him,' not they. Hallert's been dead for, oh, must be a century and a half, now. He was one of the founders of the Numerology School, which is still very prominent in the Grove. Hallert himself broke away, though, early on. He got obsessed with geometry instead of sticking with straight Number and Form. The convoluted stuff he came up with! I can still remember the headaches it gave me as a student. One of my tutors belonged to his school of thought."
Helga rolled her head into his neck. "What was his name?" she murmured. "The tutor, I mean."
"Schott. Kerin Schott. Nice enough old gent, mind you. Still pretty spry, too — at least, he was several years ago. Smart old man, no doubt about it. But, gods, what an obsessive maniac. Show him anything in the world, and he'd immediately try to figure out how it was all a manifestation of geometry."
"Really? How odd." She planted a wet kiss on the neck. "Introduce me to him, why don't you? When we get back to Solinga. I've always found geometry a bit interesting myself."
Adrian gave her shoulder a warm squeeze. "Certainly, love, if that's what you want. Though, I'm warning you. ."
But he fell asleep before he could do more than start warming up to the warning. Which, the more she heard, warmed Helga herself.
Fit a saint into the kaleidoscope, no sweat. I'll bet that old man eats kaleidoscopes for breakfast. If I can just get him interested in the problem. .
Chapter 31
The sounds now coming from behind the walls of Franness were those of gunfire — and velipads squealing with pain and fright, and men shouting in anger. The kind of bitter rage that comes from betrayal, not the simple fury of battle.
We've underestimated Prelotta all along, Raj Whitehall admitted. What a brilliant bastard. The number of barbarian warlords who can understand the difference between a defeat and a partial victory — which is all he can hope for now — are as rare as hens' teeth. Even rarer are the ones who can calculate it beforehand. Which he obviously did.
For a moment, Adrian was distracted by an idle question. What are "hens"? But the meaning of the expression was obvious from the context, and he was doing his level best to keep his thoughts concentrated. That was hard enough, under the circumstances.
yes. that is why he built those new fortifications. i was wrong.
That admission of error, coming from Center, almost amused Adrian enough to break through the bleak shell which had surrounded him for days. Center had stated — with his customary "stochastic certainty" — that the purpose of the new outer wall which Prelotta had built on the northern side of Franness had been. . nothing, really. Just the ignorance of a barbarian chief, fumbling with the concept of siege warfare for the first time. One wall good, two walls better. "Probability 68 %, ± 17."
The real purpose of the wall was now obvious. Adrian didn't know whether to bless Prelotta or curse him.
Inside that new outer wall — but kept out of the city proper — were the thousands of Southron cavalrymen, mostly Grayhills, who had been driven by Demansk's relentless campaign this spring to seek shelter from the storm. The only real shelter, of course, being the major walled city in the south under Southron control.
Franness, still the "new provincial capital" of the Reedbottoms — and with Prelotta himself, according to all spy reports, still resident. Along with most of the ten thousand men he had brought north with him the year before.
Thousands of Reedbottom warriors, trained and equipped to fight with the new guns. Well-equipped, in fact. In the months since he had taken the city, according to the spies, Prelotta had built up a significant arms industry around his initial core of blacksmiths. Whatever the other Vanberts of Franness might think of their new barbarian overlord, the metalworkers and apothecaries were quite pleased with him. They were more prosperous than ever.
But now, the Reedbottoms would be fighting from behind the very solid inner walls of the city. Prelotta had been smart enough to understand that the laager tactic which had worked so well against Tomsien would be suicide against Demansk. The Reedbottom chief, both Adrian and Demansk were positive, had his own corps of spies. They would have described to him, by now, how murderous the field guns which Trae had built over the winter in Chalice were proving to be against anyone who came against the Paramount.
Demansk had already crushed the only significant noblemen's revolt against him, just a few weeks earlier, using those guns. He would have crushed them anyway, using his three brigades of well-paid and disciplined Confederate regulars against the ragged "brigade" which the noblemen had manage to assemble in opposition. But he hadn't bothered. He'd simply had Adrian fire several volleys from the field guns, before the rebels could come within three hundred yards. At that range, against massed infantry, the skittering iron balls had wreaked havoc. A final volley of canister had ended the affair entirely.
The Southron cavalrymen whom Demansk had been hammering since then were not as susceptible to the weapons, of course. But they could not stand against them, either. And so, week after week, Demansk had harried the barbarians and driven them steadily out of the Confederate lands they had been ravaging again this spring.
According to Demansk's spies, the other tribal chiefs had pleaded — demanded, in the case of Esmond, who had been elected the new chief of the Grayhills — that Prelotta lead his men out of Franness and set up the laager again. But Prelotta, no fool, had understood perfectly well that the same wooden walls which had shrugged off javelins would be a death trap facing cannonballs. So, stubbornly, he had remained within the walls of his new capital — while inviting the other tribes to join him there in a certain-to-be-victorious defensive battle against the oncoming Vanberts.