Eric Flint's Blog, page 274

Sanctuary – Snippet 16

Sanctuary – Snippet 16

Let Zilikazi get close enough… as was bound to happen if Kororo warriors had to fight the noble’s army at close range…

There would be no way to resist him. Not even with the help of the gantrak. Sebetwe could only control one of the creatures, and then only with the assistance of the two Mrem dancers. He could not be certain, of course, without making the attempt. But he didn’t think he could withstand Zilikazi’s power at close range.

If they had more dancers, the situation might be different. Although even with the help of two gantraks, Zilikazi couldn’t be held off indefinitely.

If they had more gantrak… which would require still more dancers…

He came to his reluctant conclusion.

“We must leave the eyrie and retreat through the mountains,” he said. “In the ranges, we can slow down Zilikazi. Even without rock falls prepared ahead of time, we can improvise traps and barriers. On the plateau, we can’t. It’s as simple as that.”

He looked around the circle. “And we need to find more Mrem. Without more dancers, we can’t control enough gantrak to make a big enough difference.”

One of the Krek’s two main war leaders grunted. Logula, that was. “If we can find enough gantrak in the first place. The beasts are not plentiful, and not easy to catch.”

There was that, too. But Sebetwe still didn’t think they had any choice.

“Perhaps Zilikazi will turn back…” That tentative musing came from Nokom, the oldest of the females on the council. There is really nothing here worth his while.”

Meshwe make a sharp gesture of negation. “That’s an idle fancy. If Zilikazi were going to turn back he would have done so already. And there is something here worth his while to destroy — the Krek itself. So long as we exist, he will consider us a threat to his rule.”

He swiveled his head and gazed at the wall on the southeast side of the yurt beyond which, still a considerable distance away, was the Dzundu Sea. There were rumored to be lands on the other side of that sea, but its far shores had never been observed by any of the Kororo scouts who had ventured that far. Their reports only spoke of a large island a fairly short distance from the mainland.

“Fairly short” was an abstract measurement, however. The span of water between the mainland and the island was quite large enough for the huge monsters who swam in the seas. The scouts had them coming to the surface.

Needless to say, no scouts had ever made the attempt to cross over to the island. Swimming would be simple suicide, even if anyone were strong enough to get all the way across, and using a boat wouldn’t be much safer. It might be possible to build a raft big enough to withstand the assault of a sea monster. But no one knew for sure.

With the exception of a few clans, neither Liskash nor Mrem were skilled at sea travel. Whenever they did venture onto the sea — even very large lakes — they generally used simple skiffs and coracles and stayed very close to shore. Marine and aquatic predators were much bigger and more powerful than even the largest land carnivores.

“We will have to hope that one of two things is true,” Meshwe continued. “First, that once we retreat far enough Zilikazi will be satisfied that we no longer constitute a danger to him and will turn back.”

Logula issued another grunt. “Not likely. There is no more persistent noble in the world.”

Meshwe nodded. “Still, he can’t pursue us forever. We can travel faster than he can, with that huge force he has. Which brings me to our second hope, which is that we can continue retreating once we reach the sea.”

Nokom looked up with alarm. “We don’t know?”

“I am afraid not. Our scouts never followed the shore for any distance to the south. We have no idea what might lie in that direction.”

“What about following the shore toward the north?” Asked Logula.

“Not possible,” said Meshwe. “Not for the whole Krek, at any rate. A few particularly hardy individuals might manage to do it. There is a very deep canyon with a swiftly moving river at the bottom. Almost sheer cliffs, according to the scout who discovered the canyon some years ago.”

“Canyons can be crossed, even ones with swift rivers,” said Logula.

“Yes, certainly. But not without building bridges and laying guide ropes — and how long would that take? We can’t move that much faster than Zilikazi. Long before we finished constructing what we’d need to get through the canyon, his army would have arrived — and we’d be completely trapped.”

Again, Logula grunted. The sound, this time, conveyed agreement, if not satisfaction.

Meshwe now turned back to Sebetwe. “And that brings us to the next and perhaps most difficult questions. Can we find more Mrem? And would they agree to help us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

Achia Pazik

“I don’t know the answer to either question,” Achia Pazik said to Sebetwe. “But since the answer to the second question depends upon answering the first, we should make plans to that end.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” said Sebetwe. “Where are more Mrem from your tribe most likely to be found?”

Achia Pazik had to restrain herself from throwing up her hands in a gesture of futility. “I don’t know the answer to that question either,” she admitted.

Sebetwe got an expression on his face that resembled a yawn. Achia Pazik thought was the Liskash equivalent of a smile. It was hard to tell. The features of the reptiles were stiffer and less mobile than those of her people.

“So it seems we need to address that one first,” he said. “How many of your people can you send out to accompany our scouts? I think without you to talk to anyone we encounter, they will not be willing to listen to us.”

Achia Pazik chuckled. There wasn’t much humor in the sound. “They’d be much more likely to try to kill you.”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 04

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 04

Chapter 3

August, 1635

Near Paris

Before the sun reached its height, the royal party was on the king’s road to Fontainebleau. The queen and king rode in a luxuriously-appointed carriage, escorted by two dozen members of the king’s Musketeers, and followed by carriages bearing gentlemen and ladies of the royal courts. The fresh air of late summer was a welcome change from the smoke and stink of Paris.

Anne had a complex work of needlepoint in her lap to which she gave scarce attention. Louis’ breviary lay beside him on the seat.

“This is very pleasant,” Anne said. “Just the two of us . . .”

“Yes,” Louis answered. He stretched his legs out, almost touching the hem of his queen’s long skirts, then hastily pulled them back. “I feel as if a weight is gradually lifting from my shoulders. And you?”

“I’m not sure that’s what I meant.”

“Is there some other meaning I should divine?”

“I . . . no,” she said. “No. But we have rarely been in so quiet a setting. Alone.”

He narrowed his eyes. “This — this sounds like an amorous advance.”

Anne looked down at the needlepoint: a half-finished depiction of the blessed Saint Clotilde, the mother of King Clovis, who helped bring the light of the Gospel to the Franks. She was just starting to pick out the little church she held in her hands.

Queen, she thought to herself. And soon, if God wills it, Queen Mother.

“I meant nothing of the sort. And if you are offended, I most humbly beg pardon — but this is no circumstance for me to bow low and curtsy.”

“It is not necessary.”

“I thank Your Majesty for his magnanimity.”

“Are you mocking me, My Lady? Is this — is this another jest, another opportunity to remind me of what kind of husband I am?”

“No. Of course not.”

He was armed with a severe reply, but hesitated. Anne’s face was a mask of civility, but somewhere in her expression he could see the face of the young princess he had taken as his wife more than twenty years ago.

“I think it is I who should beg your pardon,” he said, and laid his hand on his breviary, but did not take it up. “During my time on the throne I have had many hands turn against me: nobles and churchmen, high and low, men and, and women. It is like being strapped to a Catherine’s wheel.” He drew out a lace handkerchief and coughed delicately into it.

“It is as I read in a play,” Ann answered. “La tête couronnée dort à l’œil ouvert . . . ‘the crowned head sleeps with one eye open.’ In English it reads, ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.'”

“The English are clever with words, Madame. Not as clever as the French by half, but still clever. And in this case they are on point.”

“I was given a translation of this play by the cardinal. He took quite a fancy to it. He is deficient in many things, but he is clever beyond doubt. Look at what he has arranged for us.” She smiled, and then laughed briefly: not the sharp, cruel laughter that had so often troubled Louis, but a soft, musical sound.

“The four of us . . .” Louis began, and trailed off. Anne knew who the fourth one was: Giulio Mazarini, the one who now styled himself Jules Mazarin, just as he had done in the up-time world, her ally in the future when she became regent for the young king upon the death of this one.

And in this world — her lover? At least for now, with royal sanction he was her partner by this arrangement.

“Yes, my king?”

“The four of us will always have a bond,” he said at last. “We do this for France. I tell myself that, that it must be done. It makes you more of a queen, rather than less. It is just as we discussed months ago; and yet, and yet now we stand on the precipice of this event and I confess myself somewhat faint.”

“I remain your queen, Sire. As long as you wish it.”

“I have never wished otherwise.”

“Never?”

“You have my word as your king and your husband. Is that sufficient?”

She knew that he was not telling the truth — or, to be generous, that he deceived himself that it was true. After she miscarried the first time; after the intrigues that had associated themselves with her, the lonely and neglected Queen of France; at the Day of Dupes, when she was certain she would be sent back to Spain — yes, she was sure that he might have put her aside as his father had put aside his first wife because Paris is well worth a mass. In the course of twenty-one years she believed the opposite: that he had wished often and most fervently that she was not his queen, that she had never become his queen, that there were a hundred other diversions more interesting and less threatening.

And now, at this precipice as he put it, he found himself faint, and spoke gallant words? Her Hapsburg temper made her want to throw the words back in his face.

That was not a choice.

“Quite sufficient,” she said.

In the needlepoint, Anne thought she recognized a faint smile on Saint Clotilde’s face.

Château de Saluce

The royal party halted just before dark at the Château de Saluce, deep in the Forest of Senârt south and east of Paris. They had followed the king’s high road across the Meuse over the bridge that Louis’ father Henry IV had fortified early in his reign; from there the land gave way to rolling hills and a deep forest, its greens showing the first hint of browns and oranges, a sign of the coming change of seasons.

Senârt was a royal preserve, managed by foresters in service to the king and, lately, watched by troops loyal to the cardinal. Highwaymen and robbers had long since found more fruitful hunting grounds, but the veteran musketeers made sure that no one even approached. The chateau was a hunting lodge enhanced with creature comforts: it was hardly the Louvre — or Fontainebleau, for that matter — but it was a long way from rustic either. The troops dismounted first and made the place secure; servants and courtiers entered next, so that when the king and queen alighted from their carriage all was ready.

Louis and Anne parted in the entrance hall to refresh themselves from the trip, and reunited at a dinner laid on by the staff. After the first few courses, the poet Corneille — one of Richelieu’s cinq auteurs, patronized by the court — appeared to declaim verses in praise of truth and love and virtue.

The queen, placed to the king’s right, whispered, “will the gentleman be accompanying us to Fontainebleau?”

“I had thought to send him back to Paris tomorrow,” Louis replied. “Is he to your liking?”

“He preaches like a Calvinist and prances like a fine horse,” Anne said. “I would rather be purged than hear him in the palace.”

“My physician could — could certainly oblige you, Madame,” Louis said. “But I shall dispense you from the obligation. Monsieur Corneille will part from us tomorrow.”

“I shall say additional prayers for you, Sire.”

“Thank you.”

Corneille completed his current verse and offered a deep bow to the royals. Louis made an indulgent gesture with his hand, making the poet beam. Anne merely gave Corneille a frozen smile.

****

The queen retired first by the king’s leave, her ladies escorting her from the dining hall. As this progress was intended to portray a romantic retreat by king and queen, Louis made a great show of kissing Anne’s hand and presenting her with a beautiful, perfect rose before she departed. Those of the court on hand for the scene gossiped to themselves, which made the king smile.

Louis went to his own chamber not long after. While he was preparing for his rest, a tentative knock came at the door. Beringhien went to the door; after a moment he returned, bearing a folded sheet of foolscap which he carried to the king.

The faint perfume told Louis immediately who had sent it. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it and read the short note.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 15

Sanctuary – Snippet 15

Chapter 7

Nurat Merav

Nurat had watched the quick and efficient slaughter of the badly-wounded Liskash soldier carried out by the females in the yurt. She’d also observed the encounter between the females and the male who’d briefly entered the yurt afterward. He’d seemed to be an official of some kind.

Her view of the incidents had been limited, just what she could see through the small opening — no more than a slit — she’d created in the pile of hides and thrushes the females had hastily piled on top of her and her kits. She’d understood none of their speech, either. She thought she recognized two of the words they’d used, although she wasn’t even sure of that.

But, by now, one thing was clear to her. For whatever reason, the female Liskash were protecting Nurat and her kits. They’d not only provided her with healing treatments but they’d gone to considerable length — and considerable personal risk, she suspected — to keep the Mrem hidden.

Hidden from who? She didn’t know, precisely. But whatever Liskash officials they were hiding them from, ultimately they were hiding them from Zilikazi himself.

How could they be doing that? Nurat had felt herself the Liskash noble’s incredible might. She wouldn’t have thought a small group of female Liskash could counter that mental power.

But, then, she understood very little of the way that mind control worked. Perhaps it could be evaded, if not directly countered.

If you knew how to do it, which she didn’t.

And why hadn’t Zilikazi detected her, for that matter? He’d seemed to have no trouble finding the minds of the dancers and the warriors in the battle and crushing them like so many eggs.

Everything was a mystery, everywhere she looked.

She would have to learn the Liskash language, as fast as she could.

This Liskash language, she reminded herself. Unlike the Mrem, the Liskash had a vast array of tongues and speech.

Nurat Merav had always been adept at learning different Mrem dialects. Hopefully, that skill would apply here as well.

Zilikazi

Something was stirring up the females. Zilikazi could sense their unease — and what seemed to be unrest, perhaps even a small amount of resistance. But his mental powers did not enable him to understand the actual thoughts of others, only their emotions — and those, only blurrily.

The ability of a Liskash noble to force others to do his (and very occasionally her) bidding rested, ultimately, on the noble being able to grasp the emotions of those he would subordinate. But the grasp was that of a hand — and a gloved hand at that — upon a crudely-felt object, not that of delicate fingers probing the subtle texture of a surface. A noble could crush an egg, so to speak, but he could not really feel it or even give it a slight crack.

Besides, Zilikazi was pre-occupied with the campaign against the Kororo, which was proving to be considerably harder than he’d anticipated. So he gave little thought to whatever might be happening with the females. Why bother? There would be plenty of time after the campaign to deal with any problems that might exist. As long as he controlled his army, what difference did it make what got females agitated? Like eggs, they too could be crushed.

Another rock slide came crashing down the slope of the mountainside. Once again, Zilikazi’s mind tried to find and destroy the will of those who opposed him, but he could not find them. It was as if his gloved hand groped at slippery fish wriggling down a fast-moving stream. He could sense them but not their precise locations.

This, he now realized, was what the Krek meant by their concept of “tekku.” He had thought it to be nothing much more than twaddle, but he’d been mistaken. Somehow the Kororo were using an attunement to certain animals — predators, he thought, with clear and simple purposes — to provide them with a shield against him.

Tekku was a real mental ability, then, albeit subtle and certainly nothing compared to his own in terms of sheer force. Eventually he would pin them down and force them to submit.

Sebetwe

“They’ve reached Nesudi Pass,” reported the runner from the Krek warriors trying to resist Zilikazi’s advancing army. “We can probably fend them off for two more days, but no longer.”

Despite the distance he’d traveled as fast as he could, Khuze was not breathing hard. He’d had to rest for the night before reaching the Krek, and had taken the time in the morning to warm up before resuming his run. That last stretch had taken only a short time, as runners measured such things.

Watching Khuze as he spoke, Sebetwe found himself — as he did quite often of late — envying the ability of the Mrem to handle cold temperatures as well as they did. There were major disadvantages to being a mammal, to be sure. The amount of food the creatures needed to consume was astounding! How did they get anything done besides eating? But he still envied them, every time he or the Krek had to wrestle with the drawbacks of living in the mountains.

Khuze’s statement had been greeted with silence. A bit belatedly, because he’d gotten distracted by his musings, Sebetwe realized the Krek guiding council was waiting for him to respond.

Why? He was the most skilled of the younger tekkutu — more skilled than any of the older ones except Meshwe, for that matter — but he was not a war leader. Like any adult Kororo he was proficient in the use of weapons and knew the basic principles of tactics. That was as far as it went, however. There were three or four people squatting in the command yurt who would have a far better notion than he did of how to handle the current situation.

Once Zilikazi’s army forced its way through Nesudi Pass, there would be no obstacle to their further progress until they reached the next range of mountains, where the Krek eyrie was located. They’d be passing across a broad and fairly flat plateau which provided little opportunity for the sort of long-distance ambush that had been the Krek’s most successful tactic thus far.

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 03

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 03

“Madame, I –”

“Sire.” She turned on her backless chair, affecting to see him for the first time, and allowed herself to fall to one knee. “I beg your pardon. I did not hear you come in.”

“It is nothing. A few moments.” In a few steps he was before her and extended his hand, which she took. He assisted her to rise.

“I do not wish Your Majesty to think me discourteous or ill-bred.” She smiled.

“I could not imagine such an accusation. You are my queen, my betrothed, and . . .” It was his turn to smile. “A true daughter of Hapsburg. I am pleased that you would receive me so early.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s service, as he knows.”

“Yes. I know.” He let go of her hand and walked slowly toward the patio doors, closed against autumn morning chill. Beyond, a beautiful day beckoned, the leaves on the trees in the enclosed garden just beginning to turn.

She followed, stopping at a respectful distance.

“We have not spoken for some time,” Louis said. “Not like — like this. The two of us. No courtiers, no cardinal. No confessors or — or — others.”

“As you wish.”

“Not as I wish: not, not just as I wish, Anne. I would have wished otherwise, I think, if things had been different.” He turned to face her. “I have reached the conclusion after many years that — that you have been ill-used. Perhaps I have been as well. When we married . . . when we were first together . . . we were not ready. Neither of us.”

Anne looked down at her hands, folded in front of her. She wanted to say, I was ready: I was trained to be ready. You were . . .

You were your mother’s son, she thought to herself. Marie de Medici, the domineering, controlling, manipulative queen mother who was Regent of France during Louis’ minority had done everything in her power to make sure she maintained that situation, even as she stunted the maturity of the king of France. Indeed, they fought two wars in the space of a year, his partisans on one side and hers on the other. But it took a personal, direct conflict to make him decide between mother and minister.

And to many, she thought, you simply became the cardinal’s creature. Weak, indecisive, tongue-tied . . . and even now without an heir of your body, or mine.

I was ready, she thought. But she did not say it.

“Things have not gone as planned, Sire,” she said at last.

“Louis.”

“Louis,” she repeated, and though she spoke French very well it still sounded like Luis. “My king. I consented to this arrangement so that there might be a future for the royal house, but it would not have been my decision if it had not been decided for me. The . . . Cardinal, your servant, saw it as a practical solution, and I allow that it is so.”

“It was his arrangement, Anne,” he said. “But it is — it is my will.”

She looked down again at her folded hands. “I know it is your will, Sire. But you asked my consent — or, rather, your . . . servant . . . asked it, and I gave it. It is my choice to participate.”

“My servant loves France, and so do I.”

“And so do I, Louis. I am its queen. Though you sometimes doubted it, though there have been times that my actions and words have not truly convinced you that it is true, I love France.” She was not looking down now: she was looking directly into his eyes. She had not meant to be so emotional, but she felt that it was time for truth. After all of the intrigue, all of the scheming, all of the failed pregnancies and petty jealousies and court rivalries — after all of that — it was time for truth.

“I want — I want to believe you.”

“Do you not?” She continued to stare at him. “I cannot imagine what I must do to convince you that I speak the truth. Words fail me. Only deeds will do.” She reached forward and took his hand in both of hers. He did not pull away: there was no one to see the gesture, no one to titter at her sentimentality or at his discomfort. Perhaps Madame de Chevreuse or one of the other ladies of her chamber was watching the scene — or perhaps one of the cardinal’s spies, for that matter: they said that his eyes and ears were everywhere. She had already decided that she did not care. “We will undertake this and we will do it for France. For you, Sire, and even for . . . for your servant.”

“It is not for him.”

“Then it is for France, My Lord.”

“I can accept that. We do this for France, My Lady. For the France that will be — not what the up-timers speak of in their mysterious future past, but for our, for our France of the near future. I ask for a son, Anne, who will be king after me — another Louis. Louis the Fourteenth, when I am in my tomb.”

“I pray that is far from now, Sire. After all of this time you deserve to see that son, and perhaps many more.”

He smiled slightly, wistfully. “The nation has not always done well when there are many sons.”

She lifted the hand she still held between her own, and softly kissed it. His lip trembled as she did so, but he did not pull it away.

“For France,” she repeated, and let go of his hand, offering him a deep curtsey that would have made the sternest instructor in Madrid beam with delight.

****

“Inde vero, morte suae matris audita, reversus in Franciam, sic sanctitatis insistebat operibus quod ut ipsius jejunia vigilias et disciplinas multimodas pretereamus.

“Plura monseria et pauperum hospitalia constuxit, infirmos et decumbentos inibi visitando personalieter, et minibus propriis ac flexo genu eis cibaria ministrando . . .”

Cardinal Gondi, archbishop of Paris droned on, reciting Joinville’s account of the great deeds of the king’s blessed namesake: of his crusades against the infidel and of piety and devotion to works of humility, particularly after the death of his mother. The ceremony was held in the great church of Paris’ patron saint and his great church. When the oriflamme went abroad with King Louis IX — and others — the French knights had rallied to the cry of “Montjoie! Saint-Denis!” Montjoie meant ‘showing the way’, and Saint Denis was the bishop and martyr who had so alarmed the pagan priests of the Parisii that they beheaded him on the highest hill nearby, the mons martyrius — thus Montmartre.

The story didn’t end there, much to the delight of the hagiographers. After the deed was done, Denis picked up his head and walked several miles, preaching a sermon all the way. Where he stopped walking was consecrated with a shrine. Now the holy relics of both Saint Louis and Saint Denis lay beneath the altar of the great church on Montmartre that the blessed Sainte-Geneviève had originally begun fourteen centuries ago.

The king and queen rose to join in the Collect and attended closely to the words of the archbishop as he recited from the second letter to the Corinthians and the Gospel of Matthew:

You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltness be restored? It is no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trodden under foot by men. You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hid. Nor do men light a lamp and put it under a bushel, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. 

When they rose for the responsory —

Although they go forth weeping

Carrying the seed to be sown,

They shall come back rejoicing,

Carrying their sheaves.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Louis thought he saw the hint of those tears in the eyes of his queen: and in that moment, with cloudy morning light filtering through the stained-glass of the great church, she had never seemed more beautiful.

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 02

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 02

Chapter 2

August, 1635

Paris

On the morning of the Feast of St. Louis, the king of France awoke in the darkness. He was unable to sleep any longer. By the time he rose and shrugged into his robe, his ever-attentive valet Beringhien was already in his bedchamber, building up the fire to help his master ward off the unexpected late summer chill.

Beringhien knew better than to ask Louis why he was up and about at this hour. The king had long since ceased to observe the hours an adult man would normally keep. The lever and the coucher took place at the appointed times, so that the gentlemen who had the honor of assisting with the royal robing and disrobing could be present as needed. But what took place behind the door of the king’s cabinet was entirely different.

This was a special morning. Beringhien had laid out some of the king’s wardrobe when he retired just before Matins, and as soon as he dealt with the fireplace he retired without a word to complete the task, leaving Louis to attend to his duty with the chamber-pot.

In his dressing chamber, the king yawned, removing his robe and dropping it on the ground so that he could stand in his small-clothes. As he noted the attire that his valet had chosen he favored Beringhien with a slight smile. Even in the chilly pre-dawn dark it warmed the valet’s heart to see it. So little brought his royal master to smile these days, with the press of duty and the swirl of intrigues and the weight of the crown upon Louis’ brow.

“Send word to Father Caussin that I desire to have him hear my confession,” he said when he was done. “And present my respects to my lady, my lady the queen and inform her that I wish to call upon her when she is ready to receive me.”

“Majesty –” Beringhien began to reply, and then saw the expression on his master’s face: excitement, tinged perhaps with impatience. “Sire. It is two hours before dawn.”

“You do not think that my confessor will be, be ready to serve me at this hour?”

“No, Sire . . . but the queen . . .”

“When my spiritual duty is done she shall receive me. See to it, see to it,” he said, waving the valet off.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Beringhien answered, and bowed himself out of the king’s presence.

****

The stern voice of Père Nicolas Caussin, the king’s Jesuit confessor, pronounced the absolution upon the king as he knelt in the confessional. After a few polite words thanking His Majesty for his piety and his goodness in setting an example, Caussin withdrew from his side of the screen, leaving the king alone.

He offered up a private prayer and rose, stepping back into his private chapel, and then made his way along a corridor, just beginning to brighten with the first rays of sunlight. Three of his gentlemen-in-waiting kept a respectful distance from the king as they followed. In the distance, the first lauds-bells were chiming across the city, calling the faithful to prayer.

Presently he came to the apartments in the Louvre set aside for the queen. The outer door was already open. As he walked through, he received a low bow from François de Crussol, the duke of Uzès, gentleman-in-ordinary to the queen. He was of an age with the king and had been in Anne’s service for a dozen years, attending her before and at the lever — when she rose from bed and emerged to greet her courtiers. He had received word from Beringhien, and though he appeared to have scarcely performed his morning toilet, was alert and ready to receive the king.

“Sire,” Uzès said. “Her Majesty humbly begs her pardon as she is not yet ready to receive you, but asked that I present you in just a few minutes.”

“Very well, very well. It is — it is quite early.”

“Indeed so, my lord. I trust you rested well, Sire?”

“I could hardly sleep. A great day, a great day, Uzès.” The king shifted from foot to foot, then turned suddenly to his entourage. “My good gentilhommes, your service is not required — I shall call for you at once if you are needed.”

The three young noblemen offered deep bows and withdrew, scarcely concealing their delight in being released from the royal presence. They knew not to stray far, since the king’s mood might suddenly change, but they were clearly eager to be away from his sight.

The king turned again. “And how do you, Monsieur le duc? Are you well this fine day?”

“I thank Your Majesty for asking. I am quite well.”

“And the queen?”

“I believe she does well also. I –”

His reply was interrupted by the opening of the inner door of the chamber and the appearance of Marie-Aimée de Rohan, the Duchess of Chevreuse, the principal lady-in-waiting for the queen. The king disliked the duchess. At one time they had been very close, when she was married to Charles d’Albert, duc de Luynes — the king’s falconer and favorite, who had died fifteen years before. Since then she had descended into various intrigues, primarily aimed at Cardinal Richelieu. She had even been dismissed and exiled at one point, only to be reinstated earlier this year at the request of his queen.

As in so many things, Louis felt that circumstances had trapped him into such a decision — but it would soon be of no matter.

“Madame,” the king said, removing his hat. “Is Her Majesty ready to receive me?”

“Yes, sire,” the duchess answered. “She has just risen from her bed and made her morning prayer. She begs to receive you in her cabinet.”

“Splendid, splendid,” Louis said. “I would speak with her alone.”

The duchess de Chevreuse let one eyebrow drift upward, as if it were the strangest thing in the world for husband and wife — king and queen — to be alone together. But she had no inclination to gainsay her sovereign, and merely stood aside as the king entered the chamber. Uzès remained without, and the duchess closed the door behind her and looked at him.

“Do you have any idea –” she began.

“I have found that it is best not to ask, Madame,” the duke answered. “I am sure that if it is intended that I know, that I shall learn in due time.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Do you wish the polite answer or the truth?”

“The truth, of course.”

“I am insanely curious. The king here, at dawn? I have no idea why he might come, and then seek private audience with our mistress. But it is his right. Perhaps they want to –”

“On a feast-day? Really, François –”

The duke shrugged, with a slight smile at her shocked look. He thought she was being quite disingenuous. When they were much younger they had both seen the loose morality of the court when Louis’ father was king. There had been eight légitimés, the recognized offspring of Henry IV with his various mistresses, and God only knew how many other by-blows that had never been brought to court.

“The calendar is stuffed with feast-days, Marie. I rather think the saints turn a blind eye to it all.”

She gave him another shocked look, which he continued to disregard. She reached for the door-handle as if preparing to stalk back into the queen’s inner chambers, then, realizing the order for privacy, let her hand drop to her side, and settled with as much dignity as she could manage into a chair.

****

Louis stood just inside the doorway for several seconds. Anne — who at court was called Anne of Austria though she was a Spanish princess — his wife of more than twenty years, sat at her toilet-table, her back to him; her long tresses lay loosely on her shoulders rather than being bundled up in a chignon or elaborately pinned in a coiffure, as she preferred and as court style demanded. She was dressed in a long plain underdress, and was examining herself in the mirrors at the back of the table.

She had seen him there; but it was some sort of game for her to pretend she had not. At another time, with an audience, this was something she might have prolonged to keep him waiting — to make sure he understood that he moved in her realm, that in these rooms he followed an orbit around her rather than she about him. But the time for such artifice and entertainment was past, if indeed it had ever been the true course she had wished to follow.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 14

Sanctuary – Snippet 14

What did bother Zilikazi — not quite concern, but close — was the method used by the Krek’s warriors. The Kororo had been able to trigger the rockfalls while staying far enough away to nullify Zilikazi’s mind power. He could detect them, but their mental auras were somehow obscured as well as dimmed by distance. Trying to impose his will upon them, at this range, was like trying to catch fish swimming in a murky stream with your bare claws. He might be able to move fast enough but he couldn’t detect their location well enough.

How were they doing that? And how were they causing the rockfalls? Presumably his soldiers would discover those secrets once they advanced further into the range. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done but heal those who could be healed and euthanize those who would never recover.

Zilikazi did not maintain a medical corps, as such. He relied on the females who still adhered to the Old Faith to serve him in that capacity, since the witless creatures insisted on maintaining their silly beliefs and rituals. They might as well be good for something. He did, however, keep a cadre of medical inspectors who would ensure that the females did not waste valuable resources tending to those injured soldiers who were doomed anyway.

The Old Faith’s notions of khaazik and duzhikaa were not absurd, in and of themselves. Any sensible and capable ruler understood the principles of thriftiness and obedience to norms. But the relative weight that the Old Faith assigned to those beliefs was impractical at best. Why keep a soldier alive who was so badly injured that he would never again be able to serve his purpose? That was simply a waste of food and healing supplies. Better to put him down quickly and efficiently — and painlessly, so far as possible, there was no need to be cruel — in order to concentrate resources on those who might someday be able to rejoin the ranks and be of use to Zilikazi.

But he spent little time musing on the matter. The medical inspectors would take care of the problem for him.

Zuluku

“What should we do?” asked Raish, peering through the slightly-open flap of the yurt. Her anxiety was plain in the timber of her voice. “The inspector will be here soon. If he comes in, he’s bound to discover…”

She nodded toward the far side of the yurt, where they’d hidden the Mrem and her kits under a mound of hides and thrushes. That had been enough to fool the soldiers who’d carried in their terribly injured comrade and given him over for treatment. They’d been in a hurry, since Zilikazi’s officers didn’t tolerate slackness when it came to minor tasks like tending to the wounded. But it wouldn’t be enough to fool the inspector. Adherents to the Old Faith had been known to hide severely damaged soldiers and the inspector would be on the alert for that. He’d poke through any piles that were big enough to hide a large body.

Zuluku wasn’t worried about the wounded soldier himself. He was barely alive and certainly wasn’t conscious.

What to do…?

Raish drew back from the open flap, a look of surprise on her face. A moment later, Njekwa came through into the yurt, pushing Raish aside not by physical force but by her sheer presence. When she chose to be, the priestess could be intimidating.

Njekwa cast a quick, knowing glance at the pile of hides and thrushes, and then looked down at the wounded soldier.

“Idiots,” she said, her tone calm and even. “Did you give any thought to what might happen?”

The priestess knelt and gave the soldier a quick and thorough examination.

“He has no chance,” she said. “Not once the inspector sees him. Bring over the blade and the bowl.”

Zuluku, realizing her intent, hesitated.

“Now,” Njekwa commanded.

Whatever her qualms and doubts might be, Zuluku had obeyed that voice since she was a youngling. She and Raish moved quickly to bring over the implements.

“Hold up his head,” Njekwa said. “Over the bowl. You know –”

She didn’t need to say anything further. Zuluku had done this before, on three occasions. She lifted the soldier’s head, as gently as possible, and brought it over the wide bowl that Raish held in position.

Neatly, quickly, efficiently, Njekwa severed one of the great veins in the soldier’s neck, being careful not to slice the artery. The cut was as small as possible for the purpose, not a great gash that would allow fountains of blood to spill everywhere.

It didn’t take long for the soldier’s life to drain away. Thanks to Brassu, the goddess of tranquility, he never regained consciousness.

When it was done, Raish removed the bowl and Zuluku lowered the soldier’s head back onto the hide he’d been resting on. After cleaning the blade, Njekwa assisted her in rolling the hide around the corpse.

Zuluku was about to finish the process, covering the face and tying the laces, when Njekwa said: “Wait.” The priestess’ head was turned toward the entrance flap.

Listening, Zuluku could hear footsteps approaching. A moment later, the medical inspector came into the yurt. He took two steps within, gazed down at the corpse and the three females — one of them still holding the bowl full of blood — and grunted with satisfaction. Then, without a word, turned and left the yurt.

Sighing, and trying not to quiver from tension, Zuluku said softly: “Thank you, Priestess.”

Njekwa’s responding grunt held more in the way of sarcasm, perhaps, than satisfaction. But she said nothing further and a moment later, she too had left the yurt.

Meshwe

“Now I understand,” said Meshwe to Sebetwe. “The Mrem dancing gives us strength — say rather, finer control — at the same time as it confuses — say rather, confounds — the gantrak.”

Sebetwe issued the throaty Liskash version of a chuckle. “I’m still groping for the right words. I think we may have to invent some. But, yes, that’s about my sense of what happens also.”

Both of them studied the gantraks. They had to look up to do so. It had taken the better part of the afternoon, but the family of predators had now settled down, more or less. Working hard under Meshwe’s commands, members of the Krek had erected a fair imitation of a gantrak nest atop a small hillock on the edge of the town.

Then, they studied the Mrem. The mammals had been given three yurts not far from the hillock. They were supply yurts, not personal dwellings. But they were clean and had been emptied of their former contents.

Most of the Mrem were inside the yurts, no longer visible. But their leader, the young female called Achia Pazik, was squatting outside one of the yurts and returning their scrutiny.

Calmly. And there was obvious calculation in that gaze.

Good signs, both.

“We will need to find more Mrem dancers,” Sebetwe said.

Meshwe made no reply. The conclusion was also obvious.

The scouts had come back with their reports. Zilikazi was coming. The traps would damage his army, but not enough.

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 01

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 01

1636: The Cardinal Virtues

Eric Flint and Walter H. Hunt

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

Late July, 1635

Outside of Paris, France

The need for secrecy was constant. No one believed that more strongly than Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duke de Richelieu, Principal Minister to His Most Christian Majesty Louis XIII, king of France. Within the palace of the Louvre as well as at his own residence, the Palais-Cardinal, secrets were guarded most jealously. They were a valuable commodity, esteemed by the cardinal and protected by those who surrounded him — those particular to the crown and those plucked from other nations.

However, the secret now contemplated was too sensitive even for those protected within the halls of king and cardinal; an even more private venue was required. Thus it was that when the king of France rode to the hunt on a sultry, humid July morning, his entourage included his minister astride a fine horse, riding at his side.

The courtiers and servants gossiped about it among themselves — quietly, of course, out of the sight and hearing of their betters. Whenever the searching glance of Cardinal Richelieu settled upon them they fell silent and avoided his eyes.

For his part, King Louis — always at greater ease on the hunt than at court — was pleased to have his minister by his side. Those usually accorded the privilege of taking up the position had to remain at a respectful distance.

The morning was not productive, the hounds and beaters flushing only inferior prey: a few rabbits and foxes, nothing worthy of His Majesty’s attention. But it was the hunt itself and not the results that pleased the king. Toward midday Louis called a halt. The royal stewards began the process of laying out a repast for the gently-born in a beautiful clearing, while grooms attended to their mounts.

Minister and king walked away from the crowd, seeming to enjoy the scenery. But far from the court and away from prying ears, their conversation turned to more serious manners.

“I trust all is in — in readiness,” the king said.

“I am pleased to say that it is, Majesty. We have secured the Château de Baronville in Beville-le-Comte for the queen’s use during her seclusion; and I have engaged the services of an up-timer physician.”

“Is he anyone I know?”

“She, Majesty. And no, I do not believe that you are acquainted with her. She is a distant relative of the Masaniello family.”

“The Steam Engine people.”

“Exactly, Sire. She has put certain up-timer protocols into practice that have caused marked improvement in the health of the technical center employees. The queen will be in good hands.”

“Their midwives qualify as physicians also?”

“Up-timers,” Richelieu said in response, as if that was sufficient explanation.

“Is my lady wife prepared?”

Richelieu permitted himself the slightest smile. “I daresay that her work does not come until somewhat later. The other participant in the event is ready to do his duty, however. He will be at the Château Fontainebleau, where you and Queen Anne will be making a progress.”

“When?”

“Whenever you are ready, Sire, but if I may suggest that the Feast of Saint Louis — the twenty-fifth of August — might be a propitious occasion.”

“Our noble ancestor and namesake. We can hear Mass and wave royally. At least it’s less unpleasant than Saint Denis. The sight of some peasant dressed as the saint, carrying a plaster head under his arm, always disturbed me.”

“As Your Majesty says,” Richelieu said. “The people will enjoy being reminded of the divinity of kingship.”

Louis shrugged. “As you say. So — the Feast of Saint Louis it is. You will inform Queen Anne that we shall progress to Fontainebleau. But . . . why not, why not simply complete the matter at Baronville?”

“Ah.” Richelieu removed a speck of dust from his soutane. “I would think, Sire, that we would prefer the location to remain secret, to be used when Her Majesty is more advanced in her pregnancy. There is no reason to reveal it sooner.”

“Yes. Quite — quite correct. You have been most thorough, Monseigneur.”

“I thank you, Sire.” Richelieu inclined his head. “I seek only to serve; and in this instance I wish to leave nothing to chance.”

“Nothing . . . other than the occasion itself. And that is in the hands of God.” He crossed himself and looked upward.

Richelieu followed the gesture, but refrained to mention to the king the many methods the up-timers knew about to help assure success.

“God will smile upon France, I am certain,” he said after a moment.

 

Sanctuary – Snippet 13

Sanctuary – Snippet 13

Chapter 6

Meshwe

“Tekkutu! Tekkutu!” Little Chello came racing toward Meshwe. She was still limping a bit from the lingering effects of the tritti-bite, but was so excited that she ignored the pain.

Excited by what? Meshwe wondered. He could see nothing behind her but the narrow lane winding between the town’s yurts. Although, now that he concentrated, he thought he could hear some hubbub in the distance.

He wasn’t certain, though. At his age, his hearing was mediocre at best.

“What is it, child?” he asked, as the little one raced up. She tried to stop too abruptly, stumbled, and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

“It’s Sebetwe and the others!” cried Chello. “They’re back. And they brought with them — oh, you won’t believe me! Come see for yourself!”

The youngling got back on her feet and began tugging Meshwe by the wrist. “Come see! Come see!”

****

As they neared the town’s central plaza, the hubbub resolved itself into the excited speech of a large crowd. Judging from the tone, the crowd seemed agitated but not panic-stricken.

Once they got still closer, Meshwe could distinguish a single voice rising above the others. That was Sebetwe, he was sure. So the hunting party must have returned, then.

Finally, just two rows of yurts from the plaza, Meshwe could make out the words Sebetwe was shouting.

“Stay back, you idiots! If we lose control of them, some of you will get killed!”

That sounded… dangerous. Even if the crowd’s hubbub still didn’t seem that frightened.

“Come on, tekkutu! Come on!” Chello was so excited she finally let go of his wrist and raced ahead of him. He hurried his steps but didn’t break into an outright run. At his age, running was not the least bit enjoyable.

He came into the plaza and stopped. Very abruptly. The sight before him was without a doubt the most bizarre thing he’d ever seen — and Meshwe had lived a long and varied life.

In the center of the plaza were two adult and two juvenile gantrak. Judging by the size and subtleties of coloration of the adults, one was female and one was male. A family group, presumably. The trappers who’d gone out to capture (hopefully — the prospect was always chancy) a juvenile gantrak were positioned on either side of the predators, keeping a wary eye on them. The leader of the little party, Sebetwe, had a look of intense concentration on his face.

Meshwe recognized the expression. It was that of a skilled tekkutu maintaining control over a predator.

But controlling an adult gantrak? It was unheard of! Meshwe himself would not dare to do it, not even if he had several other tekkutu to assist him.

Then, further back, Meshwe spotted a still more outlandish sight. There was a party of Mrem in the rear. Two handfuls, perhaps more. And in the fore were two Mrem he thought to be females. Both of them were advancing with a peculiar manner — a bizarre one, actually. They were prancing and capering about as if possessed by demons or under the influence of one of the jatta syrups.

It took him a few moments to realize that the Mrem females were engaged in that weirdly frenzied mammalian version of dancing. And another few moments to remember that according to reports the Krek had gotten from its spies in the lowlands, Mrem dancers were able in some unknown and mysterious way to counter the mental power of the Liskash nobility.

Was it possible that…?

Ignoring the noise and excitement around him, Meshwe squatted and began the process needed to place him in tekku. There were several stages to that process — the exact number varied depending on circumstances — and with his long experience and proficiency he was able to pass through the initial ones quickly. But then, entering the phase known as efta duur — merging with the target spirit — Meshwe encountered an obstacle.

Not an obstacle so much as turbulence, he realized. It was as if, wading into what he’d thought was a pool, he’d encountered rapids. The clear, crisp, harsh minds of the great predators he sensed nearby were constantly being undercut — perplexed; disarranged, disoriented — by…

What, exactly? He could detect Sebetwe’s presence in that turmoil. The young tekkutu seemed to be guiding the gantrak through their confusion, giving them desperately needed clarity and focus. It was only that controlled orientation that kept the ferocious beasts from running wild.

But how was he doing it? No tekkutu, no matter how strong and adept, could possibly maintain that control while simultaneously undermining the normal instincts of a predator. It would be as hard as trying to run a race while juggling knives. Possible theoretically but not in practice.

It was the Mrem, he realized. Somehow, in some way, their dancing — or rather, the mental concentration — no, it was more like force, vigor, tension — they derived from the dancing, was the main factor keeping the gantrak off balance. The mammals, with their weird prancing about, unsettled all of the predators’ normal rhythms of behavior. In desperation, the gantrak then leaned on Sebetwe’s tekku presence to provide them with a focus. Their spirits converged with his, as it were.

He was not controlling them in the normal manner of a tekku handling a predator. With minds this great and fierce, that would be impossible. Instead, he was guiding them through the chaos, reassuring them. He was not their master so much as their mentor — it might be better to say, their spiritual counselor.

No — ha! Who could have imagined such a thing? — He was their shaman!

Zilikazi

The first attack from the Kororo came as Zilikazi’s army was marching up a narrow and steep col two days after they entered the mountains. He’d been expecting it and had warned his commanding officers to be prepared, but it was still an unpleasant surprise.

The surprise — certainly the unpleasantness — came from the manner of the ambush, not the casualties it caused. Empathy was an emotion that, while not entirely absent from the caste of noble Liskash, was very limited in its range. More so for Zilikazi than most. The sight of his soldiers crushed and mangled by the rocks that had come crashing down the slopes was purely a matter for tactical calculation. Suffering casualties, including fatal and crippling ones, was a necessary feature of soldiers, no more to be rued or regretted than the rough hides of draft animals.

 

Eric Flint Newsletter – 13 MARCH 2015

I’ve discussed my publication schedule with Baen Books and here’s how it looks now:

1636: The Cardinal Virtues will be coming out in July, 2015.

1635: A Parcel of Rogues will be coming out in January, 2016

Ring of Fire IV will be coming out in May, 2016



1636: The Ottoman Onslaught will be coming out either in late summer or early fall of 2016.

The Span of Empire will be coming out either at the end of 2016 or early in 2017

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught is my next solo novel in the 1632 series and is the direct sequel to 1636: The Saxon Uprising (as well as “Four Days on the Danube,” my short novel in Ring of Fire III). The Span of Empire is the third book in the Jao Empire series, which began with The Course of Empire and The Crucible of Empire. David Carrico is my co-author on the book.

I’m only listing new titles. There will also be a number of reissues – Mother of Demons (April), 1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies (June), Cauldron of Ghosts (October) and 1636: The Viennese Waltz (November).

I also have coming out:

— a short novel (“Sanctuary”) coming out in April in Bill Fawcett’s anthology By Tooth and Claw

— a novelette (“Operation Xibalba”) in an anthology dedicated to Poul Anderson that Baen is reissuing in June (Multiverse)

— and a short story (“A Flat Affect”) that will be included in a David Drake commemorative anthology being edited by Mark Van Name. I don’t know yet when that will be published.

Change of Venue for 1632 con

We were going to hold the annual 1632 series convention at Contemporal in Raleigh NC this year, but that’s fallen through because of organizational problems on their end. We’re looking into alternate venues and we should have something settled within a week or so.