143
Tour
The snow flurry was thinning, but he needed it to hurry if he was to get a look at Oran’s party through the telescope mounted on the wall just for the purpose of watching this approach to the tableland. It was a major advantage over the Mark I eyeball, but both shared the limitation of not seeing through objects such as trees. There was a ridge in the way, too, and he gave thought to having it shaved off; there was no point in leaving any enemy a bit of cover to hide behind. Eyes closed, he tried to review....
“Samson, do we need enough rock that shaving that ridge off would fit the need?”
His new steward, another of their newly-come Yankees, whistled, not quite on-key. It was an odd memory assistant habit, but Antonio didn’t care; the kid could remember everything he heard so long as it integrated somehow with the running of the de la Vega domain. “Trees become charcoal, soil becomes fill or goes back down... there’s that hollow up on the north with the rim you wanted leveled, and the marsh along the road south, so.... It depends a bit on just what it’s made of, but if it’s typical of the west-side formations then it would fill needs for those projects and supply what the Engineers have asked through the end of Spring.” He scratched his right cheek, a nervous habit that announced he was going to amend the statement. “Unless the weather warms early. But there’s another ridge north of it an arrow-shot.”
Antonio nodded. The snow was clear enough – was Oran’s party still there? He had to back away once before remembering that in the cold weather, he needed to hold his breath to keep from fogging the lens. Yes, there was Oran, and that Me– well, the girl Celt who was enough of a Scout to have a cat. He counted the rest as well as he could, but didn’t finish: there was one, almost regal in bearing to his eye, that his three reports had mentioned. From the Quistadors, a sort of secret agent, just showed up and joined the group, was all he knew; he didn’t trust much more than observable information to riders, just to keep the habit. For nowhere near the first time, he wished for radios, even monstrous ones like in the movie
Saving Private Ryan: the semaphore system was great for places it reached, but groups moving around here in the shattered geology along the northern border of the Celts couldn’t exactly haul a signal tower and its equipment along – even if the British did it, they weren’t worried about who saw them, but his people were, and even though they wanted to be found and attacked, it had to be by the right people, when they were ready.
“Two hours and they’re here”, he mused out loud. “Screw it – I need a break, and Muskatel could use the exercise. Let’s give them a lordly welcome and see what that does to this secret agent’s mind.”
Ryan leaned back in a chair that not only swivelled, but tilted, and that with hinges so the back tipped even more, and springs to make it upright again. The map filling most of the east wall of his office told a story of how busy he was; the semaphore message pinned to it told of the current object of his thoughts – mostly.
“I had too much to do”, he told the map, “so I was getting worn out trying to lead everywhere at once. Now I have lots of leaders, and I have too much to do getting them settled into their jobs!” He really had no complaint, though; those who’d grasped and gotten on top of projects already running had relieved him of an immense load, enough that he was sleeping an additional hour each night, enough that twice a week now he had lunch with Lucinda just because he could.
And she
still wouldn’t let him into her pants! he fumed. By some bizarre quirk, she was allowed to satisfy his needs, but only with her clothes on. At first it had been pleasant enough to ejaculate by getting stroked instead of stroking... then the day after a number of Yankees had started settling in at Wizard’s Tower, one named Blake had walked in on her stroking away and looking frustrated. “There’s another way for that”, the kid – well, he was Ryan’s age, but after the experiences since being Snatched, the newcomers all seemed like kids – had said. “Allow me”, he’d continued, and just like that Lucinda had set back on her heels and Ryan had gotten perhaps the best blow job of his life. His response had amused Lucinda, who’d decided she need to know how to do that. Blake had locked the office, and in the next hour Ryan came five times, three to Blake and two to Lucinda – the second because Blake had scolded her for not swallowing. “If making a mess, one ought to manage it”, he’d admonished, “and besides, it’s good nutrition.” So Lucinda had learned to swallow....
“Antonio”, he said out loud, frowning at the semaphore message, knowing Oran and company should be arriving within an hour or so, “you’d better send a detailed report. I may not be king of the world, but Rigel isn’t here, and I have to know things so I can make decisions.”
Oran was surprised to see Antonio and a dozen other ride halfway down the great ramp to meet them. Two rifle squads sat horse at the top, one on either side, the great gates open as they usually were. He laughed silently at himself for the thought that there should be more banners and definitely trumpets, but no more showed that than the surprise. He allowed himself a pleased smile, which grew to a broad grin as Antonio spurred Muskatel ahead of his escort to come meet him.
“Hey, Scout-man. How was the journey?” Antonio reached out a gloved – no, mailed, Oran noticed, fine links of steel covering the leather – hand and they grasped wrists. It always made Oran feel as though he were in a movie, doing that, but it was starting to be the greeting of choice between the Snatched, and for those they trusted.
“Cold. Sun came up, sun went down, still cold. Did that a few times.” He blew on the fingertips of his right glove, then rubbed them against his chest as though polishing fingernails. “Met someone.” That turned Antonio’s attention to the cofradiador. They examined each other from a distance. Antonio broke that tableau by waving the man over. They grasped hands, a difference not at all lost on Dismas.
“Brother Dismas. You don’t look like a churchman”, Antonio observed.
Dismas turned and stared at Meckayh for a few seconds before she turned away; then he laughed. “I told her you were sending messages ahead”, he explained to Oran, “and she pretended she didn’t know anything about it. Then she said you wouldn’t need to.”
“So you won?” Antonio only barely made it a question.
“A lesson” Oran cut in. “She needs to do better at keeping things... secret.” He grimaced at the word. “Brother Dismas is very good at learning things people don’t want him to know.”
That gave Antonio pause. He looked Dismas over again, wondering how much he wanted to keep secret, anyway. Finally he nodded and turned Muskatel. What he wanted to do was wave the escort back up and back to work, but didn’t really want to have this visitor see them not obey. Instead he made it a quick trot to the top – on stone, a bone-shaking ride. There, the two rifle squads saluted before turning to depart, and the rest of his escort, once those were gone, did the same. Oran’s Scouts and the Riders with them flowed without hesitation or flaw into place as an escort, which was fine; they were essentially full-time at their jobs.
“I am no churchman”, Dismas replied once their escorts had departed. “A faithful son of the Church, however. As, by report, are you.” He nodded to Oran.
Antonio actually grinned. “Oran, you haven’t seen this, either. Come on!” He ratcheted the pace up to a canter and headed up the road toward the manor house, but diverged before they arrived, onto a road Oran didn’t recall –
very new, he noted; the gravel surface was still packing down into the crushed rock – ten to fifteen centimeters, over the top of thirty to fifty centimeter material Oran thought of as baby boulders. Apache really didn’t like the footing, so Oran hopped off and ran. Apache matched his rider’s pace, and Muskatel adjusted to Apache, so with Dismas watching bemusedly and Antonio laughing, they continued. The road merged with another, also new, and they topped a small rise.
“Saints and bards!” Oran swore, a phrase he liked and had adopted. To his side, Dismas crossed himself and gave his own oath: “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”, followed by a quieter, “and Joseph, faithful earthly father.”
Antonio stared across the scene where the foundation for what was obviously going to be a cathedral was growing – obviously, because a portable altar already sat where the real thing would be, and a temporary wooden bell tower held a large bronze bell. “The cathedral of All Saints”, he said softly. “It was going to be smaller”, he commented to Oran, “but one of our new Engineers knows some tricks. I asked what if we used steel, too, and he came up with a design that will have steel beams running through the bearing arches.”
“Can we do that?” Oran asked skeptically.
Antonio laughed, also softly. “No. But it will be three years before we need them, and one of his Wizard friends says by then we will.”
Dismas watched workmen easing a huge block into place, but his mind was projecting the implications of Antonio’s words. Something they couldn’t do now, but would be able to when de la Vega had need? What sort of people could look into the future and say, ‘Yes, by St. Jerome’s Day I will be able to do this, though I cannot do it now”?
Oran broke into his thoughts. “It’s not that hard. The Wizards
know how already, but they haven’t taught the smiths and craftsmen yet.”
Dismas grinned wryly. “You learn well, Scout. Did your cat friends aid you?”
Oran had to laugh, but did so lightly; laughing out loud seemed disrespectful. “Runner didn’t even come up – he’s down... “ – concentration took some effort; then he pointed – “over there, chasing furry things in the broken rocks.” It looked to him like the closest Runner could be to him but still be below. “So, no – you’ve got me listening to myself and thinking about what
you can learn from it. I just listened to Antonio and did the same thing.” A rare impish grin, a bit reminiscent of Casey, came into play. “But it makes my brain hurt.”
“Don Antonio, this cathedral will be grander than any in the Realm. DO you plan a city here?”
Antonio shrugged. “People come here from all over. I’ve got a lot of Celts and a lot of your people, and more keep coming. I figured just in case we ever need it, might as well have it. But that’s not all – over there, where the shops are? That will be a big school for all the children. And the mud pit?” He didn’t bother explaining what that was for; Oran wondered if Dismas knew. “It’s going to be a huge terrarium for growing every kind of plant we know of. And left of it, on the little mound; those are where the people in charge of this live, and that will become the homes for priests and monks and teachers.” He grinned wryly. “Big dreams, but if you don’t dream big, once you reach your dreams you don’t have much.” He let them watch for several minutes, knowing Dismas was estimating everything. For a few moments he entertained the notion of telling how many workers there were doing each thing, but...
let him do his own work.
Dinner was a quiet but drawn-out affair. That had been planned already to some extent for welcoming Oran back, and so he could listen to an account of the whole journey. But now Antonio told the staff to pull out the stops and show off what the tableland they were calling Plateau de la Vega could provide. He winced at what it was going to do to the food stores, but there were still deer in the forest, and they would hardly starve, just have a bit more meat in their diets than planned. But that was Samson’s job now, one he was very, very good at it – possibly because he seemed to enjoy it as much as he enjoyed giving blow jobs to the young men who had no partners. That was an oddity among the Yankees; most had partners and stuck with them, even if the bond lasted just a few weeks. On the other hand, Samson was different than most of the Yankees: he was one of three Jewish ones, with a tumultuous background in a Middle East as unsettled as Antonio remembered from news accounts.
That pointed up just how different the two worlds were, Antonio thought once again: in the Yankees’ world, there was no West Bank; the Israeli victory in their 1962 war had been so thorough that the Israeli Northern Command had driven north and bombarded Damascus for an hour just to show they could. The price for withdrawal had been taking all the residents of “Samaria” except any vouched for by Israelis, who wanted to remain. Jordan had offered to take half, if Israel paid for the relocation – not just travel, but places to live when they got there. The Imperial Jewish Foundation had jumped in, under the leadership of one Sydney Balfour who argued that only generosity could bring peace. Conservatives had protested, loudly and obnoxiously, at the next IJF Congress, but Balfour had faced them down simply by reciting entire chapters from the Prophets and the Psalms – chapters about mercy, both God’s and what He expected from His people – until they subsided before his unswervable will.
Similarly, there was no Gaza: The IDF had simply rounded up those inhabitants and asked whether they wanted to live in Egypt or the Sinai. They didn’t get the aid the “Samarians” did, but those who chose to settle in the Sinai were given the same benefits and assistance as those given to new immigrants to Israel, and had more than survived; they’d prospered. For that matter, Israel still held the Sinai, which had begun to blossom: of all things, they bought sewage and food refuse from Egypt, and one square meter at a time used it to turn desert into soil. And on the other end of Israel, to the north, was the Lebanon Protectorate, where government was local but the IDF ruled – but only in matters of foreign affairs and security, foremost among those being Israeli security.
The key to the whole thing was the same that made it possible to water the Negev and Sinai: Israeli scientists, immigrants from Russia and Ethiopia, had made the breakthrough to fusion power. Their first plant had gone into operation in 1989, to provide electricity to a burgeoning population with a very redundant power grid; the item that had swung funding in the Knesset was the secondary product: distilled water, in vast amounts. Just that first plant had provided more water than the largest British desalination plant, and to the Israelis it had been a pilot project; the later ones were five to ten times that size! It was a tale that had sent Ryan into near-rapture, except when he learned that Israel had never shared that technology: the Empire was still grinding away at it – and meanwhile, sucking up Middle Eastern oil, and the enmity of Al Markaz. Ryan wasn’t alone in thinking Israel was being foolish and short-sighted, refusing to admit that merely by licensing the technology they could reduce the tensions in the world.
Instead, terrorists had nuked Toronto, sending “six score and seventeen” gay and lesbian college students into oblivion – except that they’d been found by the Snatcher and dropped here. To Ryan, the tragedy that they hadn’t brought fusion technology seemed greater than the deaths of millions as city after city had flashed into death in a nuclear furnace. But Antonio had to concede that it was practical: he had people here to worry about, and though it was presently out of their reach, fusion as an energy source had to have seemed like the most incredible treasure.
Being a lord taught strange skills: Antonio nattered on in the sort of meaningless chatter that passed for conversation at formal dinners, even as his mind wandered from a steward gorging on an abundant protein source to Rigel’s de facto regent longing for an abundant energy source.
“Mirrors”, Oran was telling Dismas. “Even on a day like this there’s enough sunshine that mirrors can heat water. It doesn’t get the water
hot, but it does what we’d need wagon-loads of wood for.”
“Heat from the sun.” Brother Dismas looked like he was on information or conceptual overload; Antonio wondered what else Oran had said, while he himself had been making polite comments. “Always one appreciates the sun’s heat, but has anyone in the Realm ever harnessed it so?”
“It saves a lot of work”, Antonio pointed out, “not just wood. For every load of wood it replaces, that’s a team that doesn’t have to cut and split the wood, and another team that doesn’t have to keep the fire burning to keep the water hot.” As Dismas thought about that, Antonio mouthed to Oran,
What have you said? He couldn’t wait for an answer.
“Don Antonio, you could sell this”, Dismas mused. “The wealth... what is needed to build one such system?”
“Iron, copper, wood, and some silver”, Oran added. “I don’t know how much. Antonio?”
Antonio chuckled. “That’s why we have craftsmen.” Understanding dawned, and his respect for Oran rose a notch. “We’d need to know what your craftsmen can do, how much the different metals cost....”
Dismas laughed. “Oh, well played, Scout Oran! Yes, you would need to know such things.” His voice went serious and businesslike. “That is more than I dare reveal on my own – but I will ask my superiors if such information may be traded.”
Oran wasn’t done. “Your cofradia needs money – everyone needs money! Perhaps your superiors would be interested in.... Antonio, I’m not sure how to say it – a monopoly?”
Antonio wasn’t sure where this new Oran had come from, but he was impressed, and wanted to cheer. “I think you mean an exclusive marketing arrangement”, he answered, then turned to Dismas. “We’d make the systems, and your people would be in charge of selling them.” He grinned. “I have people who know how to talk about dividing the profits.”
Oran enjoyed the expression on the cofradiador’s face – it was a better reward than the earlier compliment. The agent had obviously never entertained the thought that the people he went to investigate would offer a partnership that could enrich his cofradia! The response that came was only icing on the cake.
“This....” Dismas shook his head in the most human gesture Oran had seen from him. “In all honesty, Lord Oran, Lord Antonio, you have just changed the game. I have not even the ability to comment on this – but I will present it to my superiors, and I will recommend it.” He gave a warped grin. “If for no other reason, they are likely to accept because it will open the opportunity to put someone such as myself here.”
“A spy, you mean”, Oran commented, jokingly. “But we’d need to send people along to help with the sales, and to put the systems together – so it works both ways.” The Scout turned more serious. “And at least we can trust you not to spread information to our enemies. I’m not sure Antonio trusts any of the traders he works with.”
A grimace and a shrug led Antonio’s response. “True. But that’s why we don’t use many.”
“You work through households you trust, not merchants”, Dismas guessed. He had knowledge that made it fairly certain, but it was still a guess.
“Actually – sort of”, Antonio admitted. “I happened to buy – but you probably know this.”
“The town house in Padillo? Yes. And you sell kitchen items to El Pollo Rojo, and they quietly sell to other inns and tavernas.” Dismas presumed they got information that way, but it was a poor pathway. “I believe there is a connection with La Hoja Brava, also. And in Pueblo Alvarez, La Posada dea Bota Tercera.”
Antonio winced at the corrupted conjunction. “Please – ‘de la Bota Tercera’. Do the people at that end of the Realm shorten things that way a lot? I’ve noticed some in Padillo and nearby, but not like out there.”
Dismas chuckled. “So you deflect my question – but in a way that says ‘yes’. So you sell a few things through a few places. In Padillo, but also in the west – where they indeed ‘shorten things’. To some”, he related, “they are considered nearly barbarians.”
Antonio was tired of the fencing. “Yes, we have a few quiet trade connections. Mostly so far they’ve shown that the things we think we can sell actually will. Those things we’ll keep selling, and probably through the same people, because they served us well in the past and we trust them. So far a half dozen small-load merchants have come looking for us; I let three of them find us” – he grimaced – “and didn’t let one go back until he’d learned a few things. But if your people can help sell sun-mirror heating systems, we’ll be happy to have you. And if there are other things you think might sell, we can talk about that, too.”
“Rifles.” Oran could tell Dismas was teasing; he didn’t think Antonio could.
“Not a chance in hell”, was the reply. Antonio didn’t realize that soon enough he’d be changing his mind.
Morning came as cold as night came early in the winter. It took morning for their visitor to truly appreciate the usefulness of that sun-driven heating system: it heated lots of water, not well enough for a bath, but well enough that a wood fire did the rest in a speed best appreciated when one’s breath was practically freezing on the walls. The baths weren’t private, but he couldn’t have everything. There, he met a young man he’d seen the night before, bustling about keeping things running smoothly.
“I’m Samson.” The intensity of the youth’s scrutiny made Dismas feel quite uncomfortable. He was settling so his chin just touched the bubbly froth on the water’s surface when he realized what that inspection indicated.
“Please keep to your side of the bath”, he requested.
Samson nodded; in this culture, or blend, or turbulent mix, he was getting used to that. He sensed that in this case there was no animosity, just discomfort. From comments and attempted explanations by Ryan and Antonio and others, he knew that the Snatched before them came from a place where they lumped all negative reactions to his sort “homophobia”, which was exceptionally irrational, on par with calling all canines “wolves”. His judgment of Dismas was that there wasn’t any fear present, just the discomfort of lack of experience – calling it a phobia made about as much sense as saying people heading for sex the first time experienced a phobia, when it was just nervousness. Even in the Empire there had been people who’d qualify as “homophobes”; something in their makeup made them actually afraid of people whose yearnings and urges – lusts, too, to be honest – were toward the same sex. He didn’t despise them, as apparently people in Rigel’s world did; if anything, he felt sorry for them as some sort of emotional cripple, with a disorder not much different than agoraphobia. Haters, though, he’d never experienced. The thought made him shudder; the man across from him represented a culture that would burn him at the stake if they caught him. It was one reason he’d chosen to set down with Antonio: he was signing on to a venture that meant to eradicate that, in blood and fire if necessary.
“I don’t bite – in case you’re wondering”, he related softly. The grin he flashed had melted the resistance of many boys attracted mostly to girls. “Unless you ask me to.” A tiny smile tugged one side of Dismas’ face ever so little. “The suds are an excellent idea, you know”, he went on, changing subjects totally. “When the air is so cold, the water cools off fast from the air. The suds are like a blanket – they keep the heat in. That saves wood, and work. It’s also nicer for us.”
Another young man came along. This one had the build of a near-pure Quistador line that had worked hard to maintain as much original Spanish blood as possible. Dismas estimated that as a slave, he could bring three excelentes – then he got a full side view, and decided that the equipment thus displayed, especially as the youth stood on tiptoes and reached to adjust something on the ceiling, would warrant an additional gold casco, depending on the buyer – a certain young viscount he’d once investigated enjoyed frolicking with a male partner and three or four girls.
“How much?” The young man had turned and was staring at Dismas from beneath the small fan he’d tugged down from its hiding place in the ceiling. “You’re estimating my value as a slave, aren’t you? It’s what you people do! So how much?”
Dismas had no reason to not be honest. “I know a buyer who would give me three excelentes and a casco for you. That’s enough to buy a decent house in a good town. You could pass for a Quistador noble – with training to do so, I could get four excelentes. But the reason I could get so much from this buyer – quite a lot more than from others – is that he likes to enjoy himself with well-endowed young men as partners in all manner of possibilities with three or four girls at once. And you plainly have the equipment to make them happy.”
“Farrel”, Samson began.
“It’s okay, Steward.” He grinned wickedly. “I guess you won’t get to try to swallow my ‘equipment’ until later.” Samson thought about telling the truth, that such a thing hadn’t been going to happen, and suddenly was very glad indeed for the suds; his ‘equipment’ was inflating with a vengeance – and he very much wanted to make it happen later!
“I’ve never observed that”, Dismas responded, no hesitation evident. “My profession is observing, and–“ Farrel turned and fled, pursued by the cofradiador’s soft laughter.
“That wasn’t nice”, Samson asserted, without much conviction.
Dismas shrugged. “You were definitely willing. And I spoke truth: I have never witnessed that, not man upon man. It might possibly have been instructive.”
Samson mentally recategorized his fellow bather. “You wouldn’t have been uncomfortable watching? You sure don’t want me close!”
“Two different methods of information gathering, young Steward. Watching and experiencing can be vastly different. I learn a great deal of information without joining the experience. Some of it you would not want to hear; some of it, hearing, you would refuse to believe. Seen against the rest, this would have been interesting and entertaining.”
“I knew you were strange.” Oran dropped his towel without slowing and jumped in just to Samson’s left. “If you were serious about watching... no, I’m not going to volunteer”, he told Samson. “I’ve done it for a good friend in need, but to me sex isn’t merely for pleasure. I try to keep it in perspective, because I don’t want anything to make me think my bride doesn’t measure up, on my wedding night.”
Dismas sat up and favored the Scout with a bow from the waist. “Your chastity commends you, Scout Oran. I believe you speak to describe yourself, not to make claims. That is rare among young men.”
“Too many people in my life made claims that turned out to be shit”, Oran replied, with little trace of the bite his voice had once had concerning the topic. “If I talk like them, what would that make me?”
Dismas had no answer. They sat quietly, soaking heat into chilled bones.
Yet another young man joined them. Oran chuckled, surprising Dismas. “Samson, stop punishing yourself – grab Weylan, and go take care of it.”
Weylan stopped with one foot in the water. “Lord Oran, I’m supposed to wait for Lord Antonio.”
“Samson works fast”, Oran said with a straight face. Samson actually blushed. “Score”, Oran whispered to the Steward. Samson splashed him, turned under water so he climbed out with his back to Dismas. Oran looked him over, a little awed at the long, slender, nearly vertical “equipment”, more than a little envious, and tried once again to imagine wanting one inside him. It was a leap he’d never made – and it suddenly sank in that his reason for it was gone: he’d been trying to imagine it for Austin’s sake, but Austin was no longer alone – and if here, would happily ‘take care’ of Farrel while Samson took care of him – and then probably want to switch. A memory of Austin’s face covered with delight the first time it had really hit that here, everyone he knew thought he was fit for life, and to hell with his father. At that moment, Oran almost made the leap... but, ever so close, it slipped away. “Make sure he gets that all the way down”, he whispered to the Steward, whose eyebrows shot up and tried to crawl under his hair line. Then Samson grinned, more than a hint of gratitude in the look; he reached and grabbed Weylan’s hand and led him out a small arch.
Dismas had watched it all and soaked it up. “No pederast in the Realm would be so bold”, he began. If it hadn’t been for the suds, he would have broken Oran’s tibia out of reflex; as it was, he got him around the neck only after pain erupted in his midsection.
“Scout, I meant no insult. In the Realm, the boldest of those men who prefer males are pederasts – yet they are not even in range of your young men’s boldness!” He grew thoughtful. “I could nearly admire them, for their pride.”
“It’s confidence”, Oran gritted out. “If you value your own ‘equipment’, let me go.” To drive his point home, he twisted suddenly, his elbow stopping just short of adding to the pain between Dismas’ legs. The arm released him.
“We do not share the same world”, Dismas said. “You observe well; for this I assumed too much, and did not think. I would offer amends – except you have already inflicted a penalty.”
Oran’s expression was calm, with traces of interest and acceptance. “Okay”, he said after a minute. “But where I come from –“ He shook his head. “Never mind. They have as much right to be proud of what they are and enjoy as you have to be of what you are, or anyone else. I tried it and found that when things are really bad, it can be comforting, but it’s just not my way.” He caught Dismas’ eyes and held them. “But I have a friend like them, and it is his way – and if you ever make a mistake like that where he can hear, I will kill you.”
“Or if you fail, your cat will.”
Oran grinned crookedly. “Him and about a dozen others. I know, you’d probably kill me if I tried – but some things are worth the risk.”
“Your loyalty commends you.”
“Wrestling in the baths – and before breakfast.” Antonio walked across the floor and joined them. “I trust matters of honor have been settled?” he asked, sliding into the water.
“Something like that”, Oran replied. “What took you so long?”
Antonio shrugged. “Issues – priority on supplies. Samson can handle getting supplies where they need to be; it’s my job to make priority calls.”
“No craft-hall?” Oran inquired.
Antonio shook his head; he was low enough it sent little ripples across the suds. “Not yet. That was a good idea someone had, using the smiths as a model. It works for the Celts just fine, but I’m not sure it will with Quistadors.” He looked over at Dismas. “What we mean is that among the Celts, the supply of some things isn’t up to the chiefs, but to the craft people. The smiths is a great example: they know how much ore can be had, how much they can turn to iron, how much each forge can use. The chiefs tell them what the clans need, and the smiths do the work of spreading it around in the best way. We’re trying to get that to work with lumber and rock.” He let out a deep sigh.
“Anyway, Oran, you’re on the hot seat – I’ve got some things to deal with.
“Sorry, Brother Dismas, but I’m a working lord; my time isn’t always my own. Oran and Samson can take you for a tour. Go anywhere you want, except places guarded by people with rifles, or inside any buildings without asking. Now, while it’s still before breakfast, is there anything else about me you’d like to know?”
“Are these youths slaves?”
Antonio’s face grew dark. “No. Slavery is an offense against God. To clain ownership of the image of God is blasphemy.”
Dismas’ eyebrows rose. “There is a debate you could have with some bishops.”
“It would distract them from other things”, Oran suggested, guessing that to be Dismas’ intent.
The lord of the manor snorted. “A tactic. I’m serious: to own slaves is to blaspheme.” No one ventured agreement or disagreement. “Breakfast will be ready soon. Anything else?”
Dismas didn’t hesitate. “In truth, yes: have you a wife?”
Oran grinned; Antonio looked wistful. “I have an intended. Her mother is willing, and the girl hasn’t told me to go away.”
Samson came scooting back across the floor and into the water. “Tell him your dream”, he urged with a grin.
Grin answered grin. “It’s silly”, Antonio conceded, “but I want us to be the first married in the cathedral when it’s done.”
Dismas smiled. “That gives you a schedule. She lives here?”
“No”, Antonio replied. “North of here.”
“A House alliance?” Dismas wondered.
Antonio shrugged. “Can’t hurt me, can it? But the point is – she fills up my soul.” With that he slipped under the suds for over a minute.
“Did you disappoint any stable boys?” Oran teased. Samson had ducked in and back out of the warmed watch-room of the stables quickly, grabbing an extra blanket for each horse. Vincent caught his gladly; he was quite a southern Yankee, and the blanket went across his lap. Dismas draped his across his lower back, while Oran tucked his into a cargo loop on Apache’s saddle.
“Saving the suction for someone special”, Samson quipped, blowing Oran a kiss as he slapped blanket on saddle and himself on the blanket. Wisely, Oran said nothing.
Setting out, Oran rode beside Dismas, letting the man observe. It wouldn’t have been his choice, but Antonio wanted him to see whatever he wanted. From the manor they circled, passing watch tower, castle, and watch tower before reaching the rim. Dismas reigned in by the telescope mounted for watching. At the moment it was tipped upright and covered; Oran was glad when he got no questions about it. A third of a minute passed before they moved on.
Oran didn’t remember which castle was which, here; all belonged to former Quistadors sworn to Antonio, and that was enough for him. But Dismas had questions anyway, at the third one, which was actively under construction . “Lord de la Vega said he holds no slaves.” The cause of his puzzlement was plain to see: two dozen workmen, all of Quistador heritage, labored in chains. All were watched by two Riders and what could only have been a knight – a caballero.
“They’re not slaves.” Inspiration landed softly. “Samson, you’re the Steward....?”
The Yankee was as ready for this as he had been in the bath. “Actually, Brother Dismas, they’re part of our solution to slavery – those men are slavers. Almost all the men you see working are slavers, if they’re Quistador. The sets in chains are under punishment; the ones in shackles are men who would not swear loyalty to don Antonio or to any of his caballeros; those with double shackles didn’t swear, but also while here they’ve committed a crime – stealing someone else’s food, mostly, but fighting, or damaging property.
“The ones not in chains have sworn loyalty, but have penalties to work off. When they finish that time, they can go free, or continue working to earn silver or land.”
Oran guessed one place Dismas’ thoughts might be going. “We don’t use the lash, or pillory. And leaving a man sitting in a hole eating food and not being useful is something we can’t afford. Anyone who commits a crime is going to pay a penalty in hard work.”
“Efficient”, Dismas observed softly. “Of course. Might I see some who have finished their... penalty time?”
Samson might have been embarrassed; he didn’t show it. “The minimum penalty for a slaver is three years, Brother. Even the caballeros are under the penalty, and none has been here so long.”
“There are a few exceptions”, Oran commented. “Some came at others’ orders; their time was shorter, and one came because he saw no other way to get money to save his family.”
Storm clouds had nothing on the darkness on the cofradiador’s brow. “One Count especially does this, driving those he dislikes into poverty. At least once he has used cofradia to lure them into slaving – but truly into a trap.”
“We saved one of them”, Samson recounted. “I’m not saying names, but they were east of here. A Scout – Scout Oran, is there a Scout Owen?”
Oran nodded. “He works with the border clans.”
“Then he was the one”, Samson said with a nod, then turned back to Dismas. “Scout Owen thought something was odd, and sent his partner to give the alarm. The custom is for the Scouts to work as a pair, but he thought this important.
“He was right: when the slavers paused, their ‘guide’ went ahead as though to scout the way, but then headed down a fair game path. Scout Owen was much faster”, he related with a grin; since he’d seen just how fast Oran and Casey could move in the woods, Dismas grinned along, “so he went to see what this guide sought. It was a party of Celts, renegades. Owen guessed they didn’t know exactly when this guide was supposed to tell them their prey was near, so he captured the guide and hid him.
“When his partner returned, it was with twenty-six Celts” – as his grin broadened, Oran suddenly knew what was coming – “and two dozen Riders, with rifles. They first faced the renegades, and after three who tried to escape were dragged back bound, unconscious, or dead, they surrendered. Then Owen led the Riders to meet the slavers. When his guess of treachery was confirmed, he offered them don Antonio’s welcome. They live now on Mesa de la Vega, as free men.”
“And the renegade Celts?” DIsmas inquired, curious.
Samson shrugged as though it meant nothing to him. “Some metals are harder to get from the earth than others. Some mines are more dangerous than others. The minecraft hall has them – two years, I think.”
Dismas shook his head. “And the rest of these men? Those from the Realm?” His expression grew puzzled as Oran shook his head.
“They’re slavers, Dismas. I know, the Celts used to kill slavers that they caught. Now, they don’t. We pay them for captured slavers – in rifles. We Scouts taught them ways to keep watch so there’s warning. We have Riders along the border to help, like they did with Owen. Not many slavers die any more – but none get back home, at least not on this part of the border.”
“Almost the whole border”, Samson informed him. “It’s not a total seal, but the clans have all decided that rifles are better than blood.” He turned to Dismas. “Over three hundred slavers live here, and four score free men. Don Antonio has five sworn caballeros on the plateau.” Dismas had already seen that there were five castles, besides the one near the entry ramp.
“They stay, while their families suffer?!”
Oran laughed. “Their families don’t suffer – how many are here, Samson?”
“Over half. The ones from farther north are hard, but there are ways.”
Dismas closed his eyes and sighed. “The thieves. There sat Esteban before my eyes, and all I saw was a little agent of a small effort to protect a bishop!” He directed his question at Oran. “You have thieves working to smuggle out these families, do you not?”
“It’s better than letting them suffer”, Oran responded. “And it shows them a different world – one where slavery doesn’t pay, and isn’t needed, one where a lord is expected to take care of his people, one where if a village is in danger, people get together and go help them.”
“And get paid in rifles.” Dismas groaned softly. “Lord Oran, you give rifles to the Celts – they will begin raiding the Realm!”
Oran laughed. “No, they won’t – it’s part of the deal. Any clan that breaks it gets no more rifles and no more ammunition for the ones they have, and the smiths won’t repair the rifles they do have.”
“It’s a war of the mind”, Samson explained. “Slavers march south – and don’t return. Where did they go? What happened to them? And the Celts remain in their places, so that the only answer from the south is silence. Silence can be very frightening.”
“But the families disappear....” Dismas shuddered just enough that Scout senses caught it. “That makes the mystery worse: the men marched off to get slaves, and they didn’t come back, and their families vanish into the silence, too.” He pinned Oran with his gaze. “And when the Realm is frightened enough, what then?”
Now Oran shrugged. “Hopefully, they stop trying to come capture slaves – that’s the deal with the clans: we’re just going to stop it. Some chieftains wanted to turn Quistadors into slaves... well, they’re not Christians, but they believe in the LifeGiver, and they’re pretty convinced that it’s an insult to the LifeGiver for a human to own a human. And their king sees the vanishing slaver business as a huge joke.
“So you don’t have to worry about that. Quistadors won’t be getting any more slaves from the Celts. And as long as they don’t send any big armies to try to change that, the Celts will leave them alone.” He recalled something from Artur’s king-making. “In fact, it would take a pretty big army to have a chance, now. Maybe you ought to pass that on to your superiors, Dismas: they could send an army of two hundred and I bet it would just vanish like the little ones.”
Dismas turned and rode back to the edge of the tableland, this time picking a high point. His manner was cold, pure business, when Oran caught up. Dismas pointed to a defile leading down the slope, and then a cleft, and what from below had looked a canyon. “You mean to be attacked! You mean to stir up the Realm, and draw them here to be slaughtered!” The intensity of the accusation drove Oran back a step in reflex; he tripped and fell into Samson’s arms.
“You’re close, but not on target”, another voice said before Oran had recovered himself. “There is one thing in the Realm we hate. Antonio hated it first, and his friends, and now scores of us who have come from afar hate it.
“Brother Dismas, look at Samson, and tell me what you see. Ah, you will not say it?”
“A lover of men”, Dismas stated, then started. “And you also”, he said to Vincent. His eyes went a little distant. “And Farrel, and Weylan! Lord Oran, how many of you....?”
“How many is the wrong question, asker-of-questions. Tell me”, Vincent demanded softly, “When Samson chooses a life mate, and it is another young man, if this was known in the Realm – who would speak on the matter?”
“The Inquisition.” Dismas saw the pieces fall into place. Seen this way, as a plan made by men who loved other men, by them and by their friends, even Theodoro was only a piece – and so was all the rest: town houses, trade, even stopping the slaving, it all aimed at the one thing. “Holy saints, aid us! You mean to anger the Inquisition beyond reason, and draw them here!” Out of long habit, he hesitated.
“But Lord Oran, you do not know how many they can summon! Even these lanes of death cannot be enough!”
Oran shuddered at the thought of all the death they’d planned. “The best guess is they’ll send four hundred against an upstart back-country lord. A hundred will be Inquisitors themselves. The rest will be elite butchers, men who delight in causing harm and suffering. They’ll think they don’t need to look around, because God is on their side.” He hopped up on the wall – that didn’t look like a wall, from outside – and pointed. “That nice meadow there, it’s an inviting camp, don’t you think? We made it that way – cut the trees, got rid of the stumps, raised it above the rest so it’s dry, then off to the side there’s a whole bunch of fallen trees, great stuff for camp fires. And from there, the places you pointed to look like fantastic places to attack – and we’ll let them think that, seeing how many we can kill before they’re going to figure it out... and then we kill everyone in them. That’s when we let them know we have horses – see over there? Horsemen charge down, fire off arrows, and run away. They’ll think, if horses came down, we can go up. And the Inquisitor in charge will be crazy-angry, and send the whole army up.”
He looked Dismas square in the eye. “And then they die. That’s one big trap. These are just the appetizers.”
“The entire army will disappear, and I don’t just mean it won’t go back”, Samson explained. “Once the battle is done, we’ll clean up everything, make sure there’s no trace at all that any army ever came here. Every arrowhead, every boot, every glove, even every bullet we can find, will be picked up and hauled up here. It will all look nice and peaceful, like nothing at all happened.”
Now Antonio’s Stewards eyes went distant. “If we’re really lucky, we’ll have a man or two still alive, but unconscious. We’ll keep them unconscious while we clean everything up, and then carefully put them back where they fell, and let them wake up.”
The cofradiador’s expression was a mix of horror, dismay – and sheer admiration. “And those men will go back to the Realm, with a tale of mystery and magic, and – Lord Oran, do you have any idea what will happen next?!”
Scout Two shrugged; he was enjoying Runner’s game of “almost catch the rabbit” far below. “Well, we hope they’ll slap together an army of every Inquisitor soldier they have left, summon all the Inquisitors who can walk, hire every piece of slime and bitterness on two feet in the Realm, borrow a bunch of the most vicious soldiers from all the Counts, and come racing back here – oh, with stakes for burning people, and all that. We’re sorta hoping for an army of two thousand or so. This time they’ll probably look around a little more, and find some more of the fake ways to the top and the inviting traps. I’ve got a bet with a friend that we can kill half the army before they get smart and – something bothering you?”
Dismas was staring. “You truly believe you can stop an army of
two thousand?!”
Oran grinned. “Remember what you said about a thousand men on horses, with rifles, trained?” he asked gently. “They’ll be here – and more. There are weapons I haven’t mentioned and you’re not going to get to see, and there are warriors and soldiers you might be able to imagine but the Inquisitors won’t. Yeah, I think we can handle two thousand, and still take a bath in the morning. Three thousand would be work. Four thousand – well, I suppose Antonio knows the plans for that; I haven’t been around that much. But unless they bring an army of five thousand or more, I’ll bet all the gold I have they won’t even get a foothold on top.”
Dismas said nothing.
“He speaks truth, Brother observer”, Samson declared, almost conversationally. “I know things Oran doesn’t, and they scare me. I have a question, though: these will all be men who believe deep in their hearts that I and all like me and probably my friends should die burning on a stake. What possible reason is there in this or any other universe that I should consider such men fit for life?”
