Eric Flint's Blog, page 273

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 09

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 09

Chapter 5

Turin

“You look fine, my dear. For Heaven’s sake, stop fussing.”

Terrye Jo twisted, trying to settle the fall of her very full skirts, draped over pleated pads at the hips and ending in a small train. There were petticoats and underclothes, more than she knew existed. The front of the gown was a single piece, while the back was separated at the uncomfortably high waistline. The bodice had a wide neck, with the side seams running into the full sleeves, which puffed out like a pair of frilly balloon animals. And she wasn’t even able to describe the boning at the waist.

“Your Grace must realize how uncomfortable this all is.”

“Mademoiselle, I am perhaps two months from term. If you think that you are uncomfortable, consider my position.” Duchess Christina Maria smiled and reached out a hand, clad in a delicate, white lace glove. “Really, Teresa. It will be all right. Now put on your gloves and your smile.”

Terrye Jo drew on her own gloves, of thin doeskin leather. At least they covered up her hands, which showed ample evidence of hard manual work — but even though they were comfortable and beautiful, they seemed alien on her.

As for the smile, it came much more easily.

“That’s better,” Cristina said. “Now you have no need to be nervous. You have attended to your bows and curtseys with military attention — you will do fine.”

“That’s not what worries me, Your Grace.”

“Then what is it, dear?”

“I’ve . . . never met royalty before.”

“You’ve met a Duke. And a Duchess,” Cristina added, smiling again. “Whose father was a king. That’s almost the same.”

“I suppose it is, but not quite. I mean no offense, Your Grace, but an heir to a throne is a different thing.”

“Gaston is just a man, my dear. He’s my unrepentant, dissolute brother. He sits at table and squats in the privy like every other man. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then . . .”

“I — nothing. I don’t know.” Terrye Jo walked away from Cristina, turning her back on her — which was probably bad protocol, but she didn’t know if she cared. Honestly, she wanted to run away, even though she wasn’t exactly wearing shoes for running.

Cristina had a temper and was a little thin skinned, but she was very fond of Terrye Jo. Rather than follow her first instinct, she waited for her up-timer friend to gather herself.

“I’m sorry,” Terrye Jo said at last. She came back to stand before the duchess. “I beg your pardon, Madame.”

“Oh, nonsense.” The duchess extended her hands to Terrye Jo, who took them and held them for several moments. “Let me tell you something. The world of the court — this one, any one, really — is a man’s world. There are kings and princes and dukes and ministers and archbishops, and any number of courtiers. The best of them include and honor their ladies, but many do not. We are no more than ornaments, decorations. Brood mares.”

She placed her hand on her womb. “And we are otherwise ignored. But that does not make us less: it makes them weaker for ignoring us. Teresa, when we walk out into court and are presented, we should hold our heads high and look each man in the eye. Even if the man is the heir to a mighty throne.”

“I still have to bow.”

“Unless it is your up-time custom not to do so. I’m told that there aren’t many princes there.”

“I’ve never met one, Your Grace. Not even here down-time. You and the duke are the first great lords I’ve ever met.”

“And we’re not so bad, are we?”

“No, you’re –” Terrye Jo folded her hands in front of her and blushed. “You’ve been so nice to me.”

“We don’t do that for everyone, my dear.” When Terrye Jo didn’t answer, she turned to a mirror and adjusted the fit of her bodice and continued, “All right, then. Let’s go in.”

****

When she was growing up, Terrye Jo’s dad was a big fan of graphic novels — what some folks in Grantville called grown-up comic books. That came to mind when she first saw Monsieur Gaston. One of the ones her father liked was a sort of scary dystopian future in which the government was brought down by a freedom-fighting terrorist in a mask — a “Guy Fawkes” mask with a pointy beard and moustache and painted-on smile. That was the face she saw on the heir to the throne of France: a permanent charming grin and deep brown eyes.

When she was finally presented to the prince, he took her hand in his and afforded her a first-class royal smile. Terrye Jo could hardly take her eyes off him; he seemed to draw attention to himself from every corner of the room. She managed the curtsy that the duchess had made her practice. Just as Gaston was taking her hand, she glanced aside at the duchess of Orleans, Marguerite, who didn’t look at all pleased. But, even with the tightness of her dress, she breathed much easier.

As she stood a little while later on the side of the room watching the festivities, she saw Monsieur Gaston extricate himself from a small knot of people and make his way toward her, the crowd of people parting to let him through. His wife seemed to be watching him carefully, and Terrye Jo noticed that the duchess had taken note as well. For a few seconds she thought he might be headed toward someone else, but it seemed as if anyone within ten feet of her moved away until she stood alone beside a small alcove.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, offering her a courtly bow. “If you would indulge me with a few moments of your time?”

She gave him a curtsy. “Of course, Your Royal Highness.” All of a sudden she felt as if her French wasn’t up to the task.

“Excellent,” he said, steering her gently by the elbow into the alcove. They were still completely visible from the hall, but were afforded a small bit of privacy. Terrye Jo composed herself, hoping she didn’t look as alarmed as she felt.

Head high, she thought.

“Mademoiselle Tillman,” Monsieur Gaston said. “I am honored to have the chance to speak with you. I have met so few up-timers. I know that my associate has already visited you to discuss my need for your specific services.”

“He was . . . pretty direct, Highness.”

“I apologize most humbly, Mademoiselle. He has spent far more time in the saddle than at a court.”

“It’s all right.” She absently tugged on the sleeve of her right glove. “I’m used to it.”

“Ah, but you should not have to be. I think that you put the fear of God into him.”

“I’m used to that too.”

Gaston smiled. “I expect you are. Tell me, young lady, what do you think of France?”

She wasn’t quite ready for the question. “I . . . I don’t know, Highness. France used to be our enemy, the USE’s enemy. I guess it isn’t anymore.”

“No. Our countries are now at peace. And tell me, Mademoiselle Tillman . . . what do you think of Cardinal Richelieu?”

“I’m not sure. He’s — well, I guess we don’t trust him.”

“As well you should not.” Gaston ran a finger along his cheek. He wore the carefully-trimmed chin beard and flowing moustaches, but his jaw was clean-shaven. “Richelieu is a spider in the middle of a web, Mademoiselle. He keeps secrets and makes plots and intrigues, and holds lives and souls in the palm of his hand. All of his secrets are, as he says, ‘beneath his red robe.’

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 21

Sanctuary – Snippet 21

If Zilikazi’s absence from his lands was prolonged, and if he’d left a large force behind, one of his lieutenants was likely to grow ambitious. After the successful wars he’d waged against his neighboring nobles, the strongest enemy he could face would come from within his own ranks, if he let slip his grip.

No, best to bring everyone with him. Under his direct and watchful eye, none of his subordinates would even think of rising against him.

Meshwe

“You’re certain?” Meshwe asked.

The scout nodded firmly. His fellow added: “There’s just no way, Tekkutu. It’s not a deep ravine the same as it is trying to the north. But the river that runs into the sea on the south is very wide, and there are marshlands on both sides. We could certainly cross it, given time –”

“A lot of time,” the first scout said.

“– but I don’t think we’ll have much time. Not enough.”

Meshwe looked away and pondered the matter. “But you say the area is wooded?”

“It’s something of a forest, even down close to the shore,” said one. “But it isn’t dense enough for us to hide from Zilikazi in it. Not the whole Krek.”

Meshwe shook his head. “I understand that. But is there enough wood to build rafts that would allow us to cross over to the island?”

Now, the scouts looked confused.

“Well… Yes, certainly. But…”

“But…” his companion chimed in.

Meshwe grimaced. “I know the strait is full of monsters. But surely some of the rafts would make it across. And what other option do we have?”

Sebetwe

The trap was almost ready. Sebetwe just had to hold Zilikazi’s mind at bay for another five minutes. By then, the lead elements of his army would be too far into the gully to make their escape when the dam was ruptured.

The flood that followed wouldn’t be enough to hurt most of that great army. They’d only had two days to let the water pile up behind the dam, and it wasn’t a great river to begin with. More in the way of a large creek, really. Still, there’d be enough of a flood to kill dozens of Zilikazi’s troops; maybe as many as a hundred, if luck went their way.

Looked at from one angle, that wouldn’t be much more than a pinprick. Sebetwe had now gotten close enough to have a good idea of the size of Zilikazi’s army. There had to be at least six thousand warriors down there. More, if you added those still too injured to walk but recuperating.

There were other factors involved than simple numbers, however. Sebetwe was pretty sure the morale of Zilikazi’s army wasn’t too good right now. Better than it had been two or three days ago, yes, due to the greater ease of traveling across the plateau. But if they suffered a sudden and sharp blow just as they entered the next range of mountains…

That army had its own scouts, who’d been ranging ahead off to the sides. By now, at least some of them would have returned and given their reports. The gist of which would be that this next mountain range was wider than the first had been, and if the terrain was no worse — might not be quite as bad, in fact — the roads were ancient memories and the trails were mostly figments of the imagination.

Zilikazi would order the scouts to remain silent, but they were bound to talk to their mates nonetheless. As word spread through the noble’s army that they still had many days of slogging ahead of them, their morale would sag again. The flood would damage their spirits far more than it would their bodies.

There came another unseen blow from Zilikazi’s mind. The noble was now just trying to batter his way past Sebetwe’s shield. He’d apparently given up trying to penetrate the psychic fog that Sebetwe had created.

The force of that blow was well-nigh astonishing. It was almost like being struck by a physical blow delivered by an ogre. But, again, Sebetwe was able to shed the force. The pure focus — you could even call it indifference — that the gantrak’s narrow fierce mind gave to Sebetwe was in its own way also well-nigh astonishing.

Whether he was real or not, Sebetwe whispered a murmur of thanks to Ghammid, the god of good fortune. The day the god’s blessing — or fate, or destiny, or sheer blind chance, it didn’t really matter — brought Achia Pazik to them, had been a most fortunate day indeed. Without her, Sebetwe could never have hoped to keep the gantrak under any control, much less the tight reign he needed to withstand Zilikazi.

Just three minutes, now.

Achia Pazik

Achia Pazik was tiring, but neither she nor Gadi Elkin faltered in their steps. The two dancers had been trained in a harsh school that prized endurance and they came from a breed of folk who were contemptuous of self-pity. They’d drop unconscious before they began fouling the dance.

Which… they might, if Sebetwe kept this up much longer. With experience, Achia Pazik and Gadi Elkin had learned how to modify the dance in ways that suited this purpose better. The initial effect was to make the strain of the dance less harsh. They were working with a Liskash tekkutu and his predator partner, not directly against a noble. Still, the force of Zilikazi’s mind, even when it came second-hand and filtered through Sebetwe, was wearying. As he got closer, it felt more and more like they were dancing in a sea of spiritual mud.

Finally, she saw Sebetwe give the signal. A moment later, grinding noises from above were followed by what sounded like a thunderclap in the distance.

Sebetwe rose and moved toward the gantrak. The beast was perched on a nearby rock, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings.

“Let’s go,” he said. “You can stop the dance in two minutes, Achia Pazik. By then, the turmoil in the minds of Zilikazi’s troops will require his full concentration.”

Two minutes. Not so bad.

She and Gadi Elkin even finished with a flourish.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 20

Sanctuary – Snippet 20

Chapter 9

Nurat Merav

“Are we finished with the mountains?” Nurat Merav asked weakly. The past few days had been very hard on her. Despite the best efforts of the young Liskash females who’d been sheltering her and her kits, the rigors of travel through rough terrain had almost killed her. So it felt, anyway.

Twice, they’d had to dismantle the yurt completely, since the trail was too steep for the big draft animals that normally carried it perched on a great litter. Too narrow, rather — the beasts were immensely strong and surefooted, but they had to be able to march two abreast to carry the litter. During those periods, Zuluku and the other females had concealed Nurat Merav within a great rolled bundle carried by one of the animals.

They’d been warm, at least. But the constant jolting had been stressful, and the lack of food even worse. It seemed that during times like this, Liskash simply went without eating for two days or even more. They’d made up for it when they reached the plateau by preparing a great feast.

While that sort of regimen might have suited the reptiles well enough, it was not good for Mrem, even healthy ones. For someone trying to recover from injuries like Nurat Merav’s, it was far worse.

She hadn’t complained, though. She knew the reason the female Liskash hadn’t fed her during those periods was because they couldn’t. At Zilikazi’s order, all foodstuffs and cooking equipment and implements had been stored away. They’d most likely have been spotted if they’d tried to feed Nurat Merav and her kits.

Thankfully, her kits were not much given to squalling. It was a good thing, too. While the Liskash beasts of burden made quite a racket themselves, there was precious little resemblance between their basso grunts and bellows and the high-pitched squeals of unhappy Mrem kits.

“Yes,” Zuluku replied. “For at least four <garble something>.” Nurat Merav wasn’t sure, but from the context she thought the word she hadn’t understood meant days.

“And after that?” she asked.

Zuluku looked unhappy. From experience, the Mrem dancer was coming to recognize the facial expressions used by Liskash. She’d found they substituted subtleties in the way they moved their jaws for the lack of mobility in other parts of their faces. This particular half-open, lower-jaw-skewed-to-the-left grimace indicated a mixture of distress and apprehension, but one which fell short of extreme anxiety. That would have been indicated by jaws held wide open.

“Not sure,” was the answer. “If the Kororo fight <garble something>, travel may become very hard again.”

The lower jaw closed further and shifted to the right. That seemed to indicate something along the lines of dawning-hope, or maybe anticipation-of-improvement. An Mrem would assume an exaggerated upside-down smile and a wag of the head.

“But the warriors I talked to <garble something> that was not likely.” That word must mean thought, or maybe believed. “They say the Kororo can no more use <garble something> because they won’t have time to the way they did before. If they try, Zilikazi will get close enough to .”

That seemed… fairly clear. If she was interpreting Zuluku correctly, the Kororo would not be able to put up enough resistance in the next range of mountains to require Zilikazi and his army to move off the road into the narrow trails. The yurt would remain intact, which would make it easier for them to keep Nurat Merav and her kits hidden — and fed.

Moved by a sudden impulse, she said: “You have been a good friend. I thank you for it.”

The expression that now came to Zuluku’s face was not one Nurat Merav had seen before. It seemed to have traces of uncertainty and… chagrin? No, more like doubt.

But all the Liskash said was: “We are > by Morushken to be thrifty in all things.”

Zilikazi

After the frustrations of the passage through the mountains, Zilikazi was almost enjoying the march across the plateau.

Exasperating, that had been. The traps, pitfalls and rockslides set off by the Kororo had taken a toll on Zilikazi’s equanimity as well as his army’s numbers. Many more of his soldiers had been injured than killed, it was true. But Zilikazi wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. While on campaign, one wounded warrior required two or three to tend to him. Injury depleted an army’s strength faster than death did.

But the wounded could not be left behind, or dispatched, unless they clearly couldn’t survive their wounds. There were limits to any noble’s power, even one as mighty as Zilikazi. His control over his warriors depended more on their acquiescence than his sheer force of mind. If nothing else, he had to sleep — and who would protect him from his protectors then?

In the end, as in any society of intelligent and social animals, the power of the masters depended on a great lattice of custom, ritual and accepted practice. Brute force was needed to maintain that lattice, for there were always those who sought to unleash chaos. But force could not substitute for it.

So, the wounded were tended to — and well; better than they would have been in most Liskash armies. And the army’s lord and master accepted the need for patience.

But he was glad now that he had made the decision to bring his whole realm on the march. He had left no one behind except those too ill or infirm or old to march, and the few needed to take care of them. Doing so had run the risk of allowing one of his neighbors to overrun his lands, but he had deemed it a risk worth taking. If need be, he could retake the lands when he was done with the Kororo and he thought all his neighbors understood that quite well. He’d already beaten the most powerful of them, had he not?

The greater danger had been rebellion. He could not predict how long the campaign against the Kororo would take, for some of the terrain would be new to him — most of it, if the Kororo chose to flee. (As, indeed, they had chosen to do.)

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 08

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 08

“At least in regard to politics,” Terrye Jo said.

“Yes. Of course. As for the rest . . .” he settled himself in a creaky armchair and flipped a page in the book in front of him. “There is much I could teach you, Signorina, if you would merely open your mind to science.”

It was an old argument, and she bit back a reply. Him chiding her about science was . . . typical, if absurd.

“Why do you think that the duke wants to contact Paris?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what? I didn’t take breakfast this morning. Wasn’t hungry.”

“We have a guest. His Highness Gaston Jean-Baptiste de France, and his lovely wife Marguerite de Lorraine. Come to pay his sister a visit.”

“Gaston.” Terrye Jo knew the name, but wasn’t up on the politics. “Monsieur Gaston, except they always call him Monsieur Gaston. The king’s younger brother.”

“Estranged brother, I daresay,” Baldaccio said. “He is in exile from France for his intrigues. Yet, for all that, he is the heir to the throne, since the king appears . . . disinclined to produce one of his own.”

“So he’s the next king of France? What’s he doing here?”

“I would not venture to say. But I suspect that your — instruments –” he gestured toward the disassembled antenna strut in front of Artemisio. “They might have something to do with it. The prince is here to make use of them.”

“Huh. But . . . you said he was in exile.”

Baldaccio sighed. He leaned back, making the chair complain. “Foolish girl. Monsieur is in exile, but not all of his friends are so disadvantaged. He is here — but his friends are there.” He folded his hands over his ample belly, looking satisfied — like a snake that has just enjoyed a particularly filling meal.

She ignored the foolish girl, though she had an image in her mind of stuffing the words one letter at a time down his throat. “I got the impression that Duke Victor Amadeus is a friend of the king of France. You’re suggesting that he’s part of some intrigue with Monsieur Gaston.”

“I am not suggesting anything, Signorina, and will deny any imputation of the sort. I am merely employing logic, which is a key to science, as –”

“As you’d teach me if I’d only listen. I understand.” She sat on the bench next to the antenna. Artemisio, who had remained silent through the entire exchange, joined her at once. “I’ve got work to do. Maybe later.”

****

Monsieur Gaston’s reasons for visiting his sister were made clear to Terrye Jo a few days later. She was in the operator’s room, a cubicle below the tower that was built into the ceiling above the workshop; it was accessible by a staircase made of new, unfinished wood.

It was dusk, the shadows from the mountains lengthening across the valley. She was trying to pick up a broadcast signal from Magdeburg when she felt, rather than heard, the tramp of boots. When they came into the cubicle, she had taken off her headphones and stood up to see who had come to visit.

“Mademoiselle Tillman.”

The man who addressed her was young — about Terrye Jo’s age — and richly dressed in the latest fashion. He had a piercing gaze with deep blue eyes and a smooth, clear voice. The four men with him were also well-dressed, but were clearly no more than ornaments for the one who had spoken.

“Monsieur,” she said, standing. Her Italian was better than her French, and this man was a native speaker.

“No, please sit. I am François de Vendôme, at your service.” He offered a courtier’s bow. “And you are the most distinguished up-time . . . er, radio operator.”

“Yes. My Lord,” she added, realizing it was appropriate and he’d be expecting it.

A tiny smile appeared on François de Vendôme’s face. “My father is César de Vendôme, Mademoiselle. I am in Monsieur Gaston’s company, and at his direction I have come to . . . inspect your facility. With the permission of His Grace the duke, we will require some extra work from you.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Terrye Jo said. She had decided to remain standing, rather than sit in the presence of this nobleman. “Extra work?”

“Yes. Some communications. Do not worry, you will be paid well for your trouble.”

On vous paiera bien de vos travaux. It sounded very nice in French. “I am always happy to hear that,” she said. “I would like assurance that it is with the permission of the duke.”

Louis looked over his shoulder at his companions, then back at her. “Do you have any doubts, Mademoiselle?”

“The . . . no, Monsieur. My Lord, I do not doubt your intentions, but this equipment is in my care, and I am obligated to the duke as an employee. If anything were to happen it would be my responsibility, no matter who is operating it.”

“It would be you, surely?”

“Not necessarily. There are a dozen people qualified to run it at the moment,” she said. “But it’s me in charge regardless of who –”

“You are quite right to be cautious, Mademoiselle, but it would be His Highness’ wish that for his communications that it would be you, and only you, at the instrument.” He held up one hand, the lace cuff hanging limply at the wrist, as if to forestall any response. “Your ability at teaching the skills are not in question. I can assure you –”

“I am sure you can.”

“What do you want? Exactly?”

“I think written permission would be helpful. A note with Duke Victor Amadeus’ signature and seal would do, indicating that I should be selected to do what a dozen people at the Castello del Valentino can competently handle.”

The little smile disappeared. For a moment, Terrye Jo wasn’t sure whether she’d stepped across some line with the man. Then she decided that she didn’t care — this was her gear, and she was responsible. Getting bullied by some French prince, or duke, or whatever he was, wasn’t going to work.

“I assume that there won’t be any problem with that.”

“You are a very determined young woman, Mademoiselle. Is this a characteristic of all up-time females, like . . . trousers?”

She smiled. Her working clothes weren’t exactly what someone like François de Vendôme was used to.

“Only the tough ones.” She smiled, and François’ expression softened slightly. “I don’t know about the others.”

“In the instance that I obtain this permission I will expect that you will provide the service that Monsieur Gaston requires, and that you will keep all that you see — and send over your radio — in confidence. This is most important, Mademoiselle. Many things, and many people, depend on your care in this matter.”

“I know how to keep secrets, My Lord,” Terrye Jo said. “You can ask the duke and duchess.”

“Yes,” he answered. “I already did. You are highly regarded. Particularly by the duchess.” He looked her up and down, from the fierce smile to the trousers and work boots. “Otherwise we would not be having this conversation.”

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 19

Sanctuary – Snippet 19

As Chefer Kolkin did. And the pack chafed. Especially in the morning.

True be told, he was feeling pretty peevish himself.

Lavi Tur

As it happened, an Mrem still too young to be a warrior was contemplating the same idea. In his case, though, without the irritation of a heavy pack weighting him down since he was walking alongside the litter carrying what few possessions his Mrem band had retained when they joined the Kororo and — never let it be said that diplomacy didn’t have its uses — Achia Pazik had persuaded the Kororo to give them two beasts of burden to do the work of hauling those possessions.

True, the beasts had their full share of reptilian sullenness at this high altitude. You had to be careful not to place your feet when they could step on them or the rest of your body where they could nip you. Surly brutes.

But they didn’t smell bad — they hardly seemed to defecate, either — and a bit of wariness was far less tiring than hard labor, when you got right down to it.

Lavi Tur also had the benefit of his age. He’d often been irritated by the limits that age placed upon him. But he also lacked the much deeper irritation of a full life spent being limited by experience. His mind could range freely; more than those of most Mrem.

So, he was contemplating the possibility that the very nature of the Liskash could, at least in some circumstances, give them a mental advantage over Mrem. Less able to deal with reality by the use of sheer vigor, perhaps they compensated to a degree with reflection and meditation. An Mrem had to remind himself to look before he leapt; to measure before he cut; to think twice before he acted. To a Liskash, those things came rather naturally.

This much he had concluded so far, in the manner that brash youth sniff disdainfully at the stolid certainties of their elders: even from what little Achia Pazik had translated for him, it was clear to Lavi Tur that the Kororo creed was far more sophisticated than the one he’d been raised within.

When you got right down to it, Mrem tribal beliefs — he thought they barely qualified as religion — were child-like. Downright silly, in many cases.

From what little he knew of them, he thought traditional Liskash creeds were no more sophisticated, and probably even less.

The teachings and beliefs of the Kororo, on the other hand…

The day before, Achia Pazik had explained to him that the old Kororo priest (or was he a shaman? possibly even a sorcerer?) named Meshwe did not believe any gods were real. Not, at least, in the way that the Mrem envisioned Aedoniss and Assirra — as real beings, who could not be seen simply because they were so gigantic and powerful that their forms fell beyond mortal vision.

Meshwe didn’t believe in any of the Liskash gods, either — even though the Liskash had far more of them than did the Mrem. They had gods or goddesses for everything, it seemed. Achia Pazik had told him of some of them:

Huwute, the sun goddess.

Ishtala, the moon god.

Ghammid, the god of good fortune.

Yasinta, the goddess of the evening.

Morushken, the goddess of thrift. She also seemed to be a deity given to pity and compassion, but those aspects were less prominent. The Liskash had a thrifty sense of mercy, apparently. As an almost-warrior, Lavi Tur didn’t really disapprove.

But however many deities the Liskash professed to believe in, the creed of the Kororo was that none of them were truly real. They were simply manifestations of what they called “the Godhead,” produced by the inherent limits of mortal minds. In the very nature of things, neither Liskash nor Mrem could grasp divinity in its full and complete splendor. So, mortals essentially invented “gods and goddesses” as a means of comprehending at least some of the aspects of divinity — and those, only poorly and in part.

Meshwe had told Achia Pazik that mortals were like insects trying to grasp the nature of a Liskash. (Or an Mrem, he had added, perhaps out of politeness.) With their poor vision, able to see only a portion of a Liskash at a time, they would come up with the idea that there was “a toe goddess” and a “claw god.” And they would imagine those toes and claws in their own insectile manner.

Lavi Tur had no idea if Meshwe and the other Liskash priests were right in their beliefs. What he did know was that those beliefs were far more interesting than the tales of Aedoniss and Assirra.

What a marvelous adventure this was turning out to be!

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 07

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 07

She set the last sheet aside, making a neat stack, and lay the quill next to it. The window was still there, and she could throw it all away and start again. Or not.

After some dithering she sealed the letter, with no further corrections, and passed it to a courier. Dad would have it in a few weeks, and maybe it would make him feel better. In any case writing back to Grantville had lightened her mood.

****

Even before the radio team arrived, the Castello del Valentino had been regularly under construction since 1630. It had been the private home of the duchess of Savoy — Christina Maria, the sister of King Louis of France — and she kept carpenters, stonemasons and other craftsmen continually occupied with renovations. The Castello was an impressive building: square and roughly horseshoe-shaped, with four towers along the central edge and two each on each of the legs; an interior courtyard ended in a rounded arch with a gate-tower in the center, taller than all the rest. Tree-lined avenues framed gardens beyond, leading off into the countryside, while the long side of the building faced the Po River. A river-gate in the middle of a palisaded wall led down a few steps to a dock.

Despite the noise, Her Grace seemed very comfortable there. Whenever she was with child — which, as far as Terrye Jo could tell, was just about always — she had left Turin and come out into the country. A Grantville-trained doctor — really a down-timer with a few months’ education in up-time nursing techniques — had been hired out by the duke to attend her, and he had a permanent apartment in the north wing. His expertise was the first up-time knowledge that Duke Victor Amadeus had imported into his lands, and it was better than a chirurgeon who knew nothing other than bleeding and purging.

Late in 1634, the duke had decided that Savoy needed a radio transmission facility, and had paid handsomely to have it built. Along with the spiderwork of antenna wires that now draped it, stretching between the many parapets and towers of the Castello. Naturally, that meant more renovation and construction. It also meant that the duke himself spent more time in residence.

The duchess might have resented it, except that she considered Terrye Jo herself a project. Her Grace had one daughter, Luisa Cristina, six years old but already court-wise and self-assured, but hardly someone who could be dressed and groomed quite yet. Terrye Jo was twenty-one, and gave no indication of interest in marrying or child-rearing. It was a challenge for both noblewoman and country girl, but it was a nice interruption from the workshop.

This morning, with her letter sent off, Terrye Jo made her way from her apartment in an upper floor of the south wing to the workshop, located in one of the towers that overlooked the Po. It was a big, airy place, originally designed for something else — a ballroom, maybe — but had been cleared out for work. The framework of the radio tower had been built above, and the hardware installed in the room. Long tables of planed timber had been placed there to hold equipment and parts and tools.

“Ah, Donna Teresa.” Artemisio Logiani, a local Torino who had graduated from castle handyman to junior radio tech, looked up from his work and offered her a bow she didn’t deserve. “You brighten up the morning.”

It would have been all too serious but for the wink and the grin.

“I doubt it.”

“Forgive me, Donna,” he answered. “I cannot help myself.” He smiled, showing not enough teeth. “I can scarcely focus my eyes in your presence.”

She ignored the compliment. It was a little dance she did with the down-timer every morning. She knew what he had in mind — there was really no question — but of the crew of radio operators she’d trained, he was the best. He could send almost as fast as she could. “How are you doing with the long-range antenna adjustment?”

“It goes slowly,” he said. “The materials are poor, especially now that there is war.” He gestured to a stretch of wire on the table behind him, painstakingly hand-twisted and mounted on an antenna strut. “I try to follow the book, but it is difficult.” He tapped the open book, a manuscript copy of a radio operator’s manual from the 1930s that the team had brought with them.

“I’m sure we’ll get it. We can reach Lyon now, but the duke said that he needed to get a further reach — someplace like . . .”

“Paris.”

They both looked across at the voice. Terrye Jo sighed. Artemisio made a face, but not so the newcomer could see it. The young assistant was no fan of Dottore Umberto Baldaccio — and to be honest neither was she.

“Might be,” Terrye Jo said. She put her hands on her hips. “Do you know something we don’t, Umberto?”

He scowled: he preferred his title to his Christian name, which was why Terrye Jo didn’t use it.

“I know nothing that you do not,” he said, walking across to his part of the workshop. He occupied roughly a quarter of the usable area with books and crates and jars full of who know what, and glassware and powders and strips of metal and all kinds of unidentifiable crap.

When they’d installed and tested the equipment for the radio facility, most of the team had declined Duke Victor Amadeus’ offer to remain in Turin on retainer. There wasn’t anything wrong with Turin — it just wasn’t Rome or Paris or London or Magdeburg. Only Terrye Jo had stayed behind, as much an expert radio operator as down-time Turin had ever seen. The duke had assigned her this workshop but Baldaccio had already moved in, taking up from a third to a half of the available space. She’d gone to the duke herself and complained. He was a fraud, he was an alchemist, for Christ’s sake — but it turned out he was a well-established and well-connected fraud with the full confidence of the duke, who brushed off her protests. She’d gone away dissatisfied.

Then she’d gone to the duchess.

Christina Maria had been in Savoy for twenty years as the wife of the prince of Piedmont, who had come into his inheritance as Duke of Savoy in 1630. She was still thought of a foreigner even so. After her first son had died stillborn and her second had died young, during her third pregnancy (when she was lying-in here at Castello del Valentino) the duke had sent Umberto Baldaccio to her. He was a loyal retainer who had saved the duke’s life in some fashion that was never discussed, and he used all of the standard practices available to a seventeenth-century physician: purging and bleeding and hocus pocus and astrology. The baby turned out to be a girl (apparently Baldaccio’s prediction that it was a boy was conveniently forgotten) and the experience was enough for her to want to keep him as far away as possible. Thus, she warmed to the task of helping the young up-timer against the old charlatan.

One morning, Baldaccio ambled into the workshop to find that Terrye Jo and a group of retainers had gotten there far earlier and had moved his equipment and tools and dusty books full of Latin gibberish into neat stacks in the draftiest corner of the big room, close enough to a window that he could point his telescope but far enough to keep from being underfoot. He had been furious — but when Terrye Jo had smiled sweetly and invoked the name of the duchess, he had gone quiet and set to work disorganizing his work area to his own satisfaction. A large metal crate part way down on the two closest work benches served as an effective barrier, preventing him from taking over any more territory.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 18

Sanctuary – Snippet 18

Thirdly, because the Mrem accompanying them, a warrior named Chefer Kolkin, seemed to have no trouble at all getting started at daybreak.

Fourthly, because it was obvious the miserable furball managed that annoying feat by eating twice as much as anyone else in the party!

Being fair about it, the Mrem was carrying his own food.

Being petty and ill-humored about it, his food smelled bad.

Being really petty and ill-humored about it, the food didn’t taste very good either — which Nabliz knew because the miserable furball had offered him some, thereby upsetting his well-constructed view of the inherent selfishness of furballs.

(They ate too much. It followed that they had to squabble over food, didn’t it? And didn’t it thereby also follow that they were by nature a squabbling and quarrelsome breed?)

(Apparently not — which just gave Nabliz yet another source of vexation. He disliked it when reality did not match his preconceptions. Especially in the morning.)

On a more positive side, Nabliz knew from experience that his foul temper would fade away within two hours after sunrise. A wiser and more charitable soul than himself — Meshwe, and probably Sebetwe as well — would have accepted all along that the disagreeable nature of the Mrem at dawn was really a function of the Liskash’s own metabolism, and that the furball was quite innocent in the matter.

The knowledge did him no good at all at the moment, though. It just gave him a sixth reason to be grouchy. Early in the morning, Nabliz disliked wise and charitable souls.

Being fair about it, early in the morning, Nabliz disliked pretty much anything and everyone. At home, back in the comfort of the Krek, he’d still be asleep at this wretched time of day, as would any sensible Liskash.

So, he spent the next hour or so detesting Zilikazi, who was, after all, ultimately responsible for Nabliz’s foul state of mind that morning.

And every morning, for that matter.

And every afternoon and evening too, now that he thought about it. The vile noble had a lot to answer for.

Chefer Kolkin

Now that he’d had a bit of experience dealing with the Liskash at close quarters, Chefer Kolkin had learned to keep his distance from them in the morning. The reptiles tended to be surly in the first hour or two, especially if they arose as early as they had been since they began this expedition. Even though he was the grouchiest of the small group at that time of day, the one named Nabliz who was in charge insisted that they all be ready to resume the expedition by dawn.

Chefer Kolkin understood the reason for their peculiar behavior — or thought he did, at any rate. The Liskash were not exactly reptiles, although Chefer Kolkin routinely used the word to refer to them, as did all Mrem. They seemed to be somewhere between mammals and reptiles, in terms of their energy and activity levels. Unlike true reptiles, they had a certain — fairly large, in fact — reserve of energy which they could draw upon even when they were cold. They benefited from basking in the sun, especially at daybreak, before they tried to engage in any activity that was more energetic than eating. But they weren’t as dependent on using sunlight to raise their energy levels as true reptiles were.

Perhaps oddly, what Chefer Kolkin found most unsettling about them was how little they ate. More precisely, how little they ate most of the time — and how much they gorged when they did finally sit down for what they considered a real meal.

There hadn’t been any of that on this expedition, though. The similarity between Liskash and true reptiles was most evident after they’d gorged themselves. The next day, they were almost as torpid as a snake who’d swallowed whole prey. They weren’t very active the following day, either.

In the safety and comfort of the Krek’s eyrie, that hadn’t been a problem. But it was clear to Chefer Kolkin that Nabliz had ordered his warriors to refrain from any heavy eating on this expedition. They couldn’t afford to waste a day or two just digesting a big meal. So, they made do on what the Liskash seemed to consider light rations — which, from Chefer Kolkin’s point of view, barely qualified as snacks.

For the first time in his life, the Mrem warrior was contemplating the idea that perhaps there were some advantages to being a Liskash instead of an Mrem. The notion was unsettling, of course. But he was an experienced warrior and a proficient scout, and it was a simple fact that for all their grumpiness in the morning, the Liskash were covering at least as much ground as a party of Mrem were — in part, because they weren’t laden down with the heavy packs that an Mrem needed to carry his food in these barren highlands.

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 06

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 06

PART I: THE VIRTUE OF TEMPERANCE

A due restraint upon affections and passions

Chapter 4

November, 1635

Castello del Valentino, near Turin in Savoy

Terrye Jo Tillman had spent at least an hour sitting at the writing desk, leaning back in the chair and looking out across the beautiful mountain view outside her window. The blank letter paper lay stacked, the quill sharpened and the ink mixed, ready for her to start the letter; but it was hard to find the right way to begin.

Uncle Frank’s letter was nearby. She still wasn’t sure how he’d found out where to send it, but it had arrived that morning and was delivered to her apartment by a liveried footman on a silver platter as if she were royalty, or at least nobility. She’d managed a gracious thank you. Her French and Italian was much improved from when she’d arrived a year ago with the team hired to build Duke Victor Amadeus’ radio tower. It had to improve: the rest of the group had gone home or elsewhere, turning down the duke’s invitation to stay, but she’d remained to operate the shiny new up-time technology for Victor Amadeus.

For her part, Terrye Jo didn’t want to go back to Grantville, and didn’t really have anyplace else to go.

The letter’s not going to write itself, girl, she thought. Mooning out the window doesn’t help.

She hated it when she was right.

She sat up straight in the chair and pulled back her sleeves. It was a new blouse and it wouldn’t do to get ink-stains all over it. Then, with a sigh, she pulled a sheet of paper off the stack, took the quill and dipped it in the ink, and began to write.

Dear Dad,

I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to write to you. I want to say it’s because it’s been so busy here, setting up the radio tower and getting everything settled, but you know it’s not a good enough excuse. I was angry when I left, and so were you, and maybe it’s time for that to end. I left you to take care of Mom without me — but you’d had to do that when I was in the army, and she didn’t recognize me anymore. There was nothing left to do but kiss you goodbye. Uncle Frank’s letter told me that she died in the spring. When I come home I’ll visit the grave with you, if you want.

She paused and put the quill down. For a moment she thought about crumpling up the paper and tossing it out the window. That was a terrible way to begin. It was worse than just being unable to find the words — it was as if there weren’t any right words.

Her mother was dead. Her doctor had called it Huntington’s chorea — the same thing that had taken her Aunt Gloria two years after the Ring of Fire. Both Mom and Gloria had been messed up even before the Ring, but there were medications and treatments. Dad and Uncle Jim took turns driving them up to Wheeling and they were both better for a while afterward.

Then Wheeling disappeared, along with the rest of the twenty-first century. They did the best they could after that, which wasn’t very good. Her aunt was already gone by the time Terrye Jo graduated. Dad came alone to see it, because Mom was having a bad week. He’d only gotten to eighth grade, and had been so proud of his daughter who made it through even though it happened back here in the seventeenth century.

By the time she came home to work for VOA, her mother didn’t even know her own daughter. That was when she knew it was time to leave. The invitation from the duke of Savoy came at just the right time.

Just a year or two, she’d thought. Then she’d come home with enough to live well. But she didn’t go home.

I’m living in the Castello del Valentino, which is the ducal palace. I have a room about the size of our old house and a workshop downstairs. The duke and duchess have been very kind to me. Duke Victor Amadeus is about your age and very handsome — he’s got one of those pointed beards and has turned-up moustaches, and has a huge wardrobe. Every day I see him wearing something new. His wife Christine — the duchess — is much younger. She’s the sister of the king of France, and has a temper worse than Gramma Dorothy. She mostly uses it on the servants — I think the duke told her not to scare the up-timer away. She did come to me before a ball and told me that my jeans and flannel shirts were quite unsuitable, and had her dressmaker fit me for a beautiful pale blue gown. The court artist did sketches of all the ladies. You wouldn’t be able to tell I was an infantry grunt in disguise.

A few weeks ago the court took a trip to a monastery, Hautemont Abbey, which is on a tall hill overlooking a lake. It’s a gorgeous place, like something out of a fairytale movie. A few dozen of the duke’s ancestors are buried there, and he and his wife expect that they’ll go there too, but hopefully not any time soon. They took all of their children along. They have three and the duchess is pregnant with another. She’s already lost two others — one stillborn, another when he was just six. They want to bring in an up-time doctor, and they hoped I was trained for that too. Even with nothing more than field medic training they’re glad to have me nearby.

She almost threw this sheet out the window too. Nice going. Focus on death — the place where the dukes of Savoy get buried and the number of kids the duchess has lost.

She set that thought aside and plowed ahead.

I want you to know that this is a great situation for me, even though it’s far from home. I miss you, and Uncle Frank and Aunt Lana and Uncle Jim and my grandmothers and Grampa Fogle too. But I can’t come home now, even though you want me to. I need —

She stopped and scratched out I need. She didn’t need anything. It was her Dad who needed what she was going to ask. She was almost to the bottom of a page, so she set the current one aside and started with a new sheet.

When Aunt Gloria died, you cursed the Ring of Fire, and you cursed fate, and a whole lot of other things. There was no medicine, no up-time clinic, nothing to help her get better. I’m pretty sure you did the same when Mom died. It’s all true, but even up-time neither of them were getting better — they were mostly staying the same, and not a lot of that. You can blame God and curse fate all you want, but not the Ring of Fire. They didn’t die because we’re back here. They died because there was something that killed them. In the Guard we lost people — up-timers — who survived coming back to this time only to be killed. It didn’t make sense, it wasn’t fair, but it happened all the same. I don’t know why we’re here in this time, but we’re here and we’re not going back.

Because of that, I need to ask you something important. I need to ask you to move on: from Mom, from the Ring of Fire, from wanting me to be in reach to lean on. Even Uncle Frank told me that I have to find my own way in this world and that I’ll be a better daughter because of it.

I hope you will love me anyway and that you’ll write back

With love, your daughter

Terrye Jo

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 05

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 05

“Beringhien,” Louis said. “Who brought this note?”

“Madame de Chevreuse, Sire,” he answered. “She was most furtive.”

“Indeed.” He took the letter and tucked it into his doublet. “I can imagine.”

“Is there anything amiss, Majesty?”

“The queen requests my presence. She — she wishes me to visit her cabinet.” He stood in the middle of the room, arms hanging loosely at his sides. His valet was hesitant to speak; in the candlelight he could see a faint sweat on his master’s brow.

Finally Louis walked to the sideboard, where a crystal decanter and two goblets were laid. Beringhien moved to pour wine for the king, but Louis waved him away. He poured wine into a glass, spilling some onto the table. He took a long drink.

“Shall I send word that you are not available, Majesty?”

“No — no. I shall go.” He walked slowly past, holding out the glass. Beringhien took it from him and watched as he went through the door and into the hall.

****

As the king stood outside the queen’s chamber, he wondered to himself what Anne intended. There had been so many ploys, so many embarrassments, so many times that his discomfort and awkwardness had made him an object of ridicule among her ladies. He had thought that this progress was evidence that in the end Anne was truly what she had said — the queen of France: not his tormentor, not an estranged, bitter, childless Spaniard. He couldn’t be wrong — could he? Not after all this?

He knocked at the door. Madame de Chevreuse opened it, a candle in her hand.

“Majesty,” she said, bowing. “The queen will be so happy to see you.” She beckoned him within. He hesitated, then crossed the threshold. The duchess closed the door behind him and gestured toward the bedroom. There were no ladies in sight; the sitting-room was empty. Madame de Chevreuse handed him the candle, bowed again, and withdrew into the shadows.

He knew what was intended as he took the candle-holder in his hand. He felt like walking away; he felt like running. He was sweating and shivering: and even if there was no one watching while he stood there.

Then he realized that this was a test as well. If he walked away from this, everyone would know and the deception they’d planned at Fontainebleau would be seen as a transparent lie.

If this was one last act of spite by his queen, then he would have to accept it and play it to the end.

He walked slowly toward the bedroom. In the dim light, he could see the queen of France alone on her bed, waiting.

Paris

The cardinal was not amused.

Pierre Corneille was a thorough courtier and accustomed to swings in a patron’s mood, whether king or cardinal; he kept his eyes averted and did not speak.

Richelieu paced back and forth, leaving the poet to stand uncomfortably before him.

“You’re quite sure?”

“It is without doubt, Eminence. The king left his chambers and made his way to those of the queen.”

“Unattended.”

“He was only accompanied by the duchess, Eminence. She brought him the note.”

Richelieu extended his hand. Corneille reached within his doublet and drew out the scented page. It had been a trifling thing to slip in and purloin it. The distracted king and his dullard valet would probably not even notice it was gone.

Corneille handed it to the cardinal, a slight odor of the queen’s scent wafting up from it. Richelieu did not seem to take notice other than a slight wrinkling of his patrician nose. He opened it and scanned its contents.

When he was done he flourished it in front of the poet. “Do you know what this means?”

“I am not sure, Eminence.”

“It means — ah.” Richelieu made as if to toss it aside, thought better of it and lowered his hand. “It means that our lady queen continues to be the same devious soul she has always been. She seeks to seduce him. Seduce him! Mother of God. I cannot imagine.”

“Eminence, the king went willingly to her chamber –”

Richelieu held his hand up.

“Do you question our sovereign?”

“No, of course not, but . . .”

“But?”

Corneille’s experience as a courtier gave him the intuition to know when his tongue had outrun his good sense. He realized that this was one of those times. One false word, one improper inclination and . . .

“Nothing, Eminence. Nothing at all. I ask your indulgence if I have spoken out of turn.”

Richelieu did not answer: he made him stand there at least a minute longer than was necessary. Corneille enjoyed being one of the favored poets at court — but as always, there was no doubt that it was as easy to lose that position as it was hard to gain it in the first place.

“You have a mission, Monsieur Corneille. You will ride to Fontainebleau and present yourself to Monseigneur Mazarin and with my compliments deliver a note which I shall compose. You will be sure to do this right away, before the royal party arrives.”

“But — Eminence — they are due to arrive there this night.”

“Then you should undertake to find a fast horse, Monsieur. And you should depart at once to fulfill this mission.”

Fontainebleau

From the window overlooking the courtyard, Jules Mazarin watched for the approach of the royal procession.

By the late afternoon light he opened and reread the letter from Cardinal Richelieu that the foppish poet Corneille had delivered a few hours earlier. The poet had ridden all night from Paris to Fontainebleau to bring it. Exhausted, Corneille had come into the palace looking for him: he made sure to be found in the chapel, assuming the proper air of sanctity and humility. He didn’t know how much Corneille knew about the reason for Mazarin’s presence here at the palace, but there was no reason to cause further idle gossip. Now, he assumed, the poet was in some tavern in Melun recovering from the stress that the cardinal had imposed on him.

Richelieu’s letter was considerate. Ruthless, but considerate.

There is some possibility that the king lay with his queen last night. There is also some possibility that our monarch will have become so discomfited by her approach that he may be unwilling to proceed. I will not pretend that it makes our task and your position any easier. Indeed, it may make it quite perilous.

It only slightly reassured him to think that Richelieu was concerned for his welfare. But His Eminence was two days’ ride away, and wouldn’t be subject to summary prosecution should the king’s mood turn against their plan.

And what a plan! To bring an heir to the kingdom of France they had decided — the four of them: king and queen, cardinal and . . . tool of the state, he supposed . . . to allow the tool to lie with the queen in the hope that this union would be more successful than the ones King Louis himself had attempted.

Was there something wrong with the royal seed? The cardinal had suggested that up-timer science considered it a distinct possibility: not that Louis did not want to father a child, but that he did not have the capability to do so. There were some at the court who said, behind their hands or in private gossip, that the king . . . walked on the other side of the avenue. Women seemed to make him nervous, especially the queen.

Mazarin looked back down at the cardinal’s letter.

I rely upon your discretion and your judgment to complete the task that is so crucial to the realm. Even more, I rely on the blessing of the Almighty to guide our counsels and vouchsafe our success.

Corneille had his stresses. But Mazarin himself had some stress coming. Assuming he wasn’t clapped in irons as soon as the royal party arrived, he would have to ask the queen the crucial question: did she sleep with her king?

It was a question that he would rather not ask.

In the distance he could see the dust rising off the road, caught by the slanting rays of late afternoon light — the horsemen and carriages carrying the king and queen and entourage.

All Mazarin could think of was an up-timer expression.

Showtime.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 17

Sanctuary – Snippet 17

Chapter 8

Meshwe

The Krek began its march two days later. By then, Zilikazi’s army had made its way entirely through Nesudi Pass and had come onto the plateau. Had that army been made up only of warriors, it would have been able to move more quickly. But it was not. For every warrior there were three or four camp followers, most of them females and younglings.

The Krek was not moving much faster. The Kororo also had younglings, elderly and infirm members, some of whom had to be transported if they could not move on their own. In addition, as was true of Zilikazi’s army, they had to bring supplies with them. They could not count on foraging — not enough, certainly — while on the march.

If anything, their burdens were even heavier. Beyond supplies, the invaders were bringing nothing with them except simple yurts. The Kororo, on the other hand, were trying to salvage as much as they could of all their belongings. Even if they were able to return to the eyrie someday, Zilikazi’s warriors and camp followers would plunder everything left behind and burn whatever they could not carry away.

But the Kororo had a greater incentive to move quickly, of course. The situation was another illustration of the old saw that, in a chase, the hunter runs for his lunch and the hunted runs for his life. Every member of the Krek knew full well that if they couldn’t stay far enough ahead of Zilikazi’s army, the noble would shackle their minds. The powers of the tekkutu could shield them to a degree, but that degree depended largely on distance.

Calling tekku a “shield” was misleading, actually. The main effect for a tekkutu of drawing upon the consciousness of a predator was to withdraw, in a sense, from the psychic realm in which the nobles held sway. A predator’s fierce and narrow mind ignored the faculties of the nobles altogether. They simply did not exist for them, any more than such a predator would be swayed or influenced by logical reasoning or argumentation or peroration — or poetry, for that matter.

That made the mind of the tekkutu partnered with the predator something slippery, its presence sensed but its location uncertain, undetected — hidden in a fog, mentally speaking.

But even the thickest fog can be penetrated, if the observer gets close enough. So it was here. Most of the Kororo tekkutu trailed behind the main body of the Krek, using their powers to veil them from Zilikazi’s mindsight. But they could only do so successfully if enough distance was maintained from the oncoming army.

Initially, Meshwe had hopes that Sebetwe’s control of the gantraks might enable them to hold off Zilikazi indefinitely. But that proved not to be true.

For one thing, they could only use one gantrak at a time. They’d found that if they tried to harness both of the adult predators simultaneously and make them leave their younglings behind, the creatures resisted fiercely. The risk of losing control of them entirely became too great.

So, the tekkutu could only use one of them if they left the Krek’s current immediate vicinity. And the strength of just one of the great predator’s spirits was simply not enough to enable Sebetwe — or any tekkutu including Meshwe himself — to withstand Zilikazi’s mind control if the noble got close enough.

That said, by coupling with a gantrak Sebetwe could accomplish two things. First, he could get much closer to Zilikazi than would have been heretofore possible. Not close enough to assassinate him, but still close enough to bring back much more precise information than they could have obtained by spying on the noble’s army from a great distance.

More useful, though, was the second ability Sebetwe gained. He could shield a number of the Krek’s warriors for much longer than he could have without the gantrak. Long enough to enable them to create bigger rockfall traps in Zilikazi’s path than they’d expected to be able to, and traps which could be set off with better accuracy and timing because Sebetwe could stay behind for much longer. They wouldn’t have to rely on mechanical triggers, which were imprecise and susceptible to being discovered by scouts and disarmed.

None of this allowed the Kororo to do anything other than retreat, true enough. But they could retreat in reasonably good order and at a pace that the entire Krek could manage.

What was perhaps most important was that the additional time Sebetwe could provide them would help their own scouting parties, both those ranging ahead seeking the best routes as well as those which were spreading through the mountains in search of other Mrem bands who had also managed to escape Zilikazi’s crushing of their tribe.

Nabliz

The leader of one of those scouting parties was feeling disgruntled, and for a variety of reasons.

First, because the terrain they’d been passing through for the past three days was rough, with little even in the way of animal trails. Secondly, because at this altitude and at this time of year, he and his fellow Liskash warriors were very sluggish in the morning.