- Chapter 14

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Chapter 14
That explains it, said Raj. No wonder he's much more sophisticated than you'd expect. 
yes, chimed in Center. the taking of hostages is common practice in iron age cultures. 
Adrian ignored them both, as he had learned to do easily enough in the many months since the odd duo had entered his mind. He kept his concentration entirely on Prelotta. Mostly, he kept his concentration on the imperative need not to burst into open laughter.
The young chief's statement was still reverberating in his mind. Adrian was trying to picture Prelotta spending five years as a boy in Vanbert, the capital city of the Confederacy. The hairdo alone . . . 
Something in his tight face must have been interpreted correctly by the leader of the Reedbottom tribe. Prelotta's scarred face crinkled.
"No, no—I assure you! Not even a rash and foolhardy Southron boy was stupid enough to wear his native dress in Vanbert. Other than my pale skin and light hair, I appeared quite the normal civilized young lad."
His fingers brushed along his forehead. "Of course, the tattoos were already there, so the disguise really fooled no one. But at least I hadn't had the ceremonial scars added yet."
That made sense, Arian realized. Prelotta would have had the scars added later than usual. The normal custom among Southrons, although the specific practices varied from tribe to tribe, was to have boys tattooed at the age of four and undergo the other, more brutal, ceremonies upon reaching puberty. Prelotta had been turned over as a hostage to the Confederacy at the age of twelve, following a clash between the Southrons and the Vanberts which went badly for the tribesmen. That meant he wouldn't have been able to undergo the tribal "coming of age" ceremonies until he was seventeen.
Which, for the most part, was probably an advantage. A seventeen-year-old would have had an easier time dealing with the pain than a younger one. Except—
He winced. Prelotta, showing the perceptiveness which Adrian had come to expect from him, grinned widely. Then, grabbed his crotch in an exaggerated protective gesture.
"Yes, the circumcision was awful. I have to say—privately, of course—that you Emeralds have the right of it there. Cut the foreskin off while the newborn babe is still indignant about everything anyway."
Not for the first time, Adrian found himself liking Prelotta. Partly that was because the Reedbottom chief was far more sophisticated than any other Southron Adrian had yet encountered. But, mostly, it was simply because he'd come to like the man. Granted, Prelotta's fundamental view of the world was still that of a barbarian. But Adrian found a thoughtful barbarian—as rare as such were—to be less offensive than most Vanbert aristocrats. Or Emerald ones, truth be told.
Yes, Prelotta's basic view of things divided the world into nothing more complicated than takers and takees. Yes, he gave no more thought to the use of force and violence as the solution to most any problem than a direbeast. But in those respects, once you stripped away the veneer, he was really no different than most civilized noblemen. Adrian even found it a pleasure not to have a straightforward discussion of a plundering war dressed up with sophistries.
Really, the only thing Adrian still held against Prelotta was his smell. And even that, he suspected, was simply due to Prelotta's care in maintaining a proper outward respect for Southron custom. Left to his own devices, Adrian was almost certain that Prelotta would have joined him and the other Emeralds in their daily bath—instead of "cleaning" himself by simply slathering on another layer of oil.
* * *
Thinking of the large public baths which Adrian and his Emeralds had insisted on building as soon as they arrived in Marange brought mixed emotions.
Sadness, because his brother Esmond no longer participated in that ancient and treasured ritual of Emerald daily life. Since Esmond had recovered from the wounds Adrian inflicted on him during their duel, his brother had restricted himself exclusively to the company of the Southron tribesmen who had adopted him as one of their champions. (Esmond's defeat in the duel had not been held against him. All tribesmen except Reedbottoms considered slings a fundamentally sneaky weapon.) He exchanged fewer than twenty words a week to any Emerald, even the soldiers who had once been his own troops.
On the other hand, Esmond's self-imposed exile had been a blessing for Adrian, from a tactical point of view. At one time, when they served under King Casull of the Isles, Esmond had been the commander of the so-called "Sea Striker regiment of Emerald Free Companions." Hired killers would have been a more accurate term. Although most of the five hundred Strikers were Emerald in origin, they had taken service as mercenaries with the islanders.
All of them, with only a few exceptions, had accompanied Esmond and Adrian to Marange—as had every single member of Adrian's own unit of two hundred arquebusiers, the "Lightning Band." Counting the small horde of camp followers who had attached themselves to the two mercenary units, Adrian and Esmond had brought well over two thousand people with them to Marange.
The loyalties of the Lightning Band had never been in doubt, given a rupture between Adrian and Esmond. Adrian's brother had been quite willing to use the Band's special skills in battle. But he'd never shown any particular fondness or interest in their newfangled gunpowder gadgetry, other than for the effects they could produce. They were Adrian's men, pure and simple.
With the Strikers, the situation was more complicated. They were lightly armored infantrymen, using traditional weapons—basically, javelins and slings for missiles and short swords for close-in work. Once Esmond had established his authority among them, the Strikers had taken to him quite warmly. Esmond really was a superb battlefield commander, even leaving aside his charismatic personality. Under his command, the Strikers had won much booty and suffered relatively few casualties in the doing.
Under normal circumstances, they would surely have sided with Esmond against Adrian. But Esmond's increasing madness had driven them away. Not his cruelties, so much as his rapid adoption of Southron manners. Mercenaries or not, most of the Strikers were Emeralds—and Emeralds, in their own way, were the world's most notorious cultural conservatives. Whether or not any individual Emerald mercenary soldier had ever read any of the Emerald philosophers, he respected those who had. The fact that Esmond was a cultured man from a good Emerald family had counted for much with them. As much, truth to tell, as the fact that Esmond had been a winner in the Pan-Emerald Games.
After the duel, however, Esmond's break from Emerald customs had been rapid and extreme. As soon as he had recovered sufficiently from his wounds, Esmond had even insisted on undergoing the scarification ritual in order to become officially adopted into the Grayhills, the largest tribe of the barbarians and the one whose chief, Norrys, had just been elected as Chief of Chiefs of the loose Southron confederation. He had begun growing his hair to the length needed for the elaborate hairstyles favored by Southron warriors, and had stopped coming to the public baths altogether. Those who had spoken with him in recent weeks said he was beginning to smell as ripe as any barbarian.
That had been too much for the Strikers. Some of the Strikers were themselves Southron in origin—the Strikers, like all mercenary outfits, had people from all over the world. But even most of them had decided to give their allegiance to Adrian. Having spent some years in a largely Emerald cultural environment, most of the former barbarians had no desire to go back to a Southron lifestyle. As one of them put it to Adrian: "It's hard to give up the habit of being clean, once you've learned the trick. Dirt and grease itch, dammit."
So, in the end, not more than thirty Strikers had broken ranks with the others and gone with Esmond. And then all of them except Southrons came scampering back the next day, after discovering that Esmond expected them to undergo the same bloody rituals. The rest of the unit, at a formal vote, had decided to give their allegiance to Adrian.
Adrian had promptly appointed Esmond's former lieutenant Donnuld Grayn as the new commander of the Strikers. Grayn was a capable man, and Adrian wanted to be able to give his full attention to expanding the Lightning Band and trying to get the Southrons to adopt at least some of his new weapons and tactics.
The end result was that Adrian had almost seven hundred men under his command, and Esmond was left with nothing more than the status he could achieve for himself as a war leader among the Grayhills. It was as good a result from the rupture as could have been hoped for.
* * *
Adrian forced his mind away from Esmond. What was done was done. Or, as the famous phrase from Jopha's Observations on Fate put it: "The past is the one path which cannot be retraced." And before this latest little digression, he had been on the verge of reaching agreement with Prelotta.
He leaned forward on his stool, planting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together. For a moment, as he collected his thoughts, he studied the rug on which both his stool and Prelotta's were resting.
It was an interesting object, as well as a decorative one. As could be expected in the quarters of a major chief, the rugs which covered the floor were very finely made. As were the tapestries which were hung on the walls of Prelotta's private tent within the pavilion.
They had been made by local weavers—Reedbottom ones, rather. Southrons had no need to import rugs. In fact, their own rugs and tapestries were one of the few manufactured items for which there was a ready market in the civilized lands to the north. That was especially true for Reedbottom products. The vivid colors which the northeastern weavers were able to obtain from various of their marsh plants were quite striking.
But what Adrian found more interesting about the rug he was studying was the design itself. Most Southron weavers favored the depiction of scenes from legend on their rugs and tapestries. Usually a scene from one of the exploits of the Southrons' mythical hero Kladdo, although often a scene depicting one or another of their multitude of gods and goddesses.
Reedbottom rugs were often different, in this even more than in their vivid coloring. As was the rug he was staring at.
A new cult had arisen among the Reedbottoms about a century earlier, founded by a man known only as Young Word. The odd name was appropriate, perhaps. The man had not lived much beyond his mid-twenties, before an irate sub-tribe had murdered him in a fit of outrage at Young Word's heretical mouthings. The execution had had the usual Southron flourish—the heretic had been disemboweled and his entrails spread across the large bush to which he'd been tied.
But his cult had grown, nevertheless—explosively so, over the past generation. His followers had seized upon the manner of his death, added it to Young Word's own remembered sermons, and created out of the mix an elaborate framework of beliefs and rituals which had proven too popular to be subjected to much in the way of persecution after the first generation. By now, from what Adrian could determine, at least a third of the Reedbottoms were adherents to the "Young Word" faith.
In fact, the cult had begun spreading beyond the Reedbottoms themselves. Although the northeastern tribe was still the center of the new creed, there were Young Word devotees scattered throughout the southern half of the continent.
The rug, placed as it was in the most prestigious place in Prelotta's tent—right under the Stool of Chieftainship—indicated that Prelotta himself was a supporter of the creed. Or, at least, did not hesitate in making his partiality to it publicly known.
not surprising, interjected Center. prelotta's ambitions, as we have already ascertained, extend beyond the usual barbarian limits. there are great advantages to monotheism for such a one. 
It was an odd thought, but Adrian found himself agreeing. The rug's intricate and abstract design contained a subtle message, if one considered it carefully. The Young Word cult had incorporated the image of entrails spread across branches into all their artwork. There were no "scenes," as such. Simply an intertwining of red and green strands, coiling about in a complex manner.
Complex—but not chaotic. Always, one's eyes were drawn to the center. Always, one's mind was given a reinforcement of the principal tenet of the Young Word: that all reality, all men and gods, were but manifestations of the one Fixed God. "Assan," the prophet had named that deity, using the term for the mystical ancestral spirit which was common to all Southrons.
True enough, came Raj's thought. In the crude material world as in the spiritual one: all things must have a center. That's the best justification for monarchy you could ask for. Way better than "I've got you by the throat today," which is about as sophisticated as political theory has ever gotten here on Hafardine. In the north as much as the south or the Islands.  
Adrian stifled his momentary urge to dispute that claim. That was his initial impulse, but . . . He'd made the mistake, once, of bragging about the subtleties of the Emerald philosopher Llawat's political theories. Raj and Center had mercilessly shredded his opinion. The gist of their argument, to which Adrian had no real counter, was that Llawat's supposedly sophisticated pyramidal schema for how a society should be organized amounted to nothing more than giving organized plunder an elaborate set of fancy clothes.
Just so. As usual, Raj's words carried an undertone of humor. "My officials and scribes and priests and accountants have you by the throat today." That's what Llawat's blather amounts to. 
Prelotta cleared his throat. It was a polite reminder to Adrian that he'd been silent for some moments and that it was perhaps time to return to the subject under discussion.
"My apologies, Chief." Adrian unlaced his fingers and spread them outward, indicating the expanse of the rug with the gesture. "I was just taken with admiration for the design."
Prelotta looked down at the rug. Then, glanced into the corner where his chiefly paraphernalia was kept. "Ah, yes. I'm partial to it myself. But I've never seen any need to be exclusive about such things. Not at the moment, certainly."
Adrian didn't need to look into the corner to understand the subtleties of the remark. Prelotta, like all Southron chiefs, had the usual symbols of authority. The ceremonial ax, indicating his power; the stool he sat upon, intricately carved and made from the horns of a greatbeast, indicating his judgement; and the clutch of birds' eggs in a basket, indicating his fecundity. There was no symbol, needless to say, celebrating his wisdom. Much less his mercy.
Later for that. So long as authority comes only from having a hand on a throat, wisdom and mercy are a moot point. 
"True enough," murmured Adrian. Then he raised his head and gave Prelotta a direct gaze.
Again, he pointed to the rug. "If your weavers can do such intricate work, relying only on designs from their own heads instead of nature, I imagine they could do the same working with steel and iron."
Prelotta pursed his lips. The expression, combined with the scars, gave his face a particularly grotesque appearance.
"I should think so," he replied forcefully. "If not the weavers themselves, then certainly other members of my tribe. We do have blacksmiths, remember."
Adrian hesitated. "Yes, of course. But, in my experience, blacksmiths are often set in their old ways. It might perhaps be better—"
"Not my blacksmiths." Prelotta inclined his head toward the corner where his chiefly paraphernalia rested. "One of them made that Ax of Power, you know. The blade is quite sharp, for all the curlicues on the handle. Perfectly capable, I assure you, of removing the head of any stubborn blacksmith."
Seeing the little wince on Adrian's face, Prelotta chuckled. "You worry too much, my delicate Emerald friend. Blacksmiths are especially prone, among Reedbottoms, to belong to the Young Word. Not hidebound by tradition at all, most of them. I expect no difficulty."
The humor vanished. "But it is not your concern, in any event. Understand this, Adrian Gellert. I will not agree to your proposal unless you agree to train my own people in the design and manufacture of your new weapons, as well as their use. That is the one and only point on which I am not prepared to bargain."
very smart chief. Center's voice almost had a tone in it. Respect, that would have been. he understands, where most barbarians do not, that it is the ability to make a weapon rather than use it which is the ultimate source of military power.  
Yes. Agree to it, Adrian, urged Raj. The long-term benefits will be even greater than the short-term. Not for the Confederacy as it is, of course, but that thing is doomed anyway. 
Adrian had had no intention of refusing. He was simply a bit skeptical about whether Prelotta's people were able to do what their chief wanted of them. But, glancing again at the rug, he decided that they might well be. And it wasn't really his problem, anyway.
"Agreed, Chief." It was his turn to clear his throat. "But in return—"
Prelotta grinned—that made for an even more grotesque face—and held up his hand.
"Please! Now that negotiations can begin, we will need refreshments." He clapped his hands loudly; an instant later, a slave appeared through the flap which separated the inner chamber of the tent from the rest of the huge pavilion.
"You will want beer, I assume."
No. You need a clear head, lad. I'd— 
Adrian sent some very unkind thoughts toward Raj. "I'm not a child, damnation!" were the only ones of them which weren't obscene.
"No, thank you, Chief. Something else." Inspiration came to him. "Whatever you'll be having."
Prelotta's grin widened, and Adrian felt his stomach lurch.
"Ah. Amazing!" exclaimed the Chief. "Most people not from our tribe—Southrons as much as civilized folk—detest our favored beverage."
Thank the gods I can't actually taste anything, remarked Raj idly. The squeezings from swamp weeds, added to rancid milk, all of it left to stew for weeks . . .  
very nutritious, though, added Center. assuming you survive. 
* * *
The concoction was just as awful as Adrian feared. And politeness forced him to drink three cups of it, in the long hours of haggling which followed.
In the end, however, he did survive. And at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he'd driven a good bargain, as he tottered his way back to the section of Marange which his soldiers had turned into their own quarter of the city.
It was almost nightfall when he arrived before the building which his men had erected to be his own dwelling as well as headquarters. No tent, this, but a wooden structure—and a well-built one, at that. His men might be mostly Emeralds, but many of them had served for a time in the Confederate army. They had learned the Vanbert methods of erecting real fortifications everywhere they went. And so, in the months since their arrival at Marange, they had turned their section of the sprawling port into a fortified city within a city.
Adrian was surprised to see a group of strangers lounging at ease in front of the building. And no Southrons, these, but men from the north. Vanberts, from the look of them, perhaps a dozen in all—and obviously soldiers, even without their weapons.
The youngest of them caught his eye. The man was smiling at him oddly, almost as if he knew him. Adrian couldn't remember ever meeting the fellow before, but . . . there was something about his face . . . 
observe, Center said.
A grid formed over the young man's face, emphasizing the lines of contour. Next to it appeared a face Adrian remembered perfectly. The resemblance, now that Center had brought it into focus, was unmistakable.
allowing for the difference in gender, the probability is 95%± 2. unity, for all practical purposes. 
"Gods," whispered Adrian. His stomach, already uneasy, began fluttering wildly. An instant later, doubling up, he vomited all over the ground.
The paroxysm of regurgitation submerged all other concerns. Not until he was finished did Adrian notice the presence of the man on one knee next to him.
"Gods, that stinks," said a cheerful young voice. "Tell me what it is later, so I can be sure to avoid the stuff. But in the meantime . . . are you done?"
Adrian nodded weakly. A pair of strong hands seized him by the armpits and hoisted him easily back onto his feet. Adrian found himself staring at the face whose resemblance to another had sent his emotions whirling.
"Are you positive?" asked the young man, now grinning. "If there's any doubt at all, best you barf it up now. My sister's waiting for you inside, and—you know this much, I'm sure—the gods help you if you puke all over her."
 
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