the trigger for the change. Or so, at least, Esmond claimed himself on the few occasions when he was willing to talk about the transformation in his character.
Adrian had his doubts. True, Esmond had been besotted with the woman. But many men were besotted with women, and didn't react to their deaths in such a manner. Adrian thought the truth sat at a square angle, so to speak. He thought that Esmond's rage against anything Confederate had not been caused by Nanya's death so much as the fact that Esmond had not been able to prevent it.
Adrian had been standing at Esmond's side when it happened. Watching, along with his brother, the great roof beam in the burning mansion of the traitor Redvers when it collapsed onto Nanya and the other women of the household. They had come so close to saving her from the disaster. But-not close enough.
And so, Adrian suspected, Esmond had deflected his own feelings of guilt and failure onto Vanbert, which he'd already resented deeply for its conquest and exploitation of the Emeralds. Fueling his hatred and rage the same way Adrian's firebombs had fueled the conflagration which took Nanya's life. Firebombs which Esmond himself had been willing and eager to use in the battle, after all.
You're likely right, came Raj's words into his mind. But who's to say? The human mind is a complicated thing, and doesn't lend itself well to your scholarly methods.
Center spoke for the first time since they'd entered Esmond's tent. that is true. nothing in stochastic analysis has such great variables as what you call 'psychology.' which is a suspect term to begin with, since it presupposes a 'psyche' which may well not exist anyway. so far as i can determine, all that actually exists are electrochemical reactions.
Before Adrian could mentally mutter some curses on Center's typically detached analysis, Center pressed on. but it is all irrelevant to our purpose. this is very dangerous, what you are doing. the slave belongs to esmond. under both confederate and southron custom, he may do with such as he wishes. in practice if not in legal theory.
Adrian did not argue the point, although he could have. In fact, many Vanbert slaveowners did follow the law when it came to the treatment of their slaves, which forbade physical cruelty for anything other than specified offenses. Many of them even obeyed the spirit of the law, not simply the letter. And while Southron custom was not congealed in any written legal codes, the barbarian tribes were actually more lenient toward their slaves. If nothing else, they did not transmit slave status onto the offspring of slaves. Within a few generations most slaves had become incorporated into their Southron tribes. Incorporated at the bottom of the social pyramid, to be sure, but incorporated nonetheless.
Still, it was a pointless argument. There were more than enough violations of law and custom regarding the treatment of slaves, in all parts of the continent and the Islands, to make the likelihood of a transgressor being punished fairly remote. Especially one who, like Esmond, had achieved high status.
Which he certainly had, in the short time since he and Adrian had planted themselves among the Southrons. In every respect except his skill at handling velipads, Esmond was the southern barbarian's 'ideal type.' Those few who might have doubted, early on, did so no longer-for the simple reason that they were dead. Honor duels were an established custom, even a hallowed one, among the barbarians. Four warriors, putting too much credence in the tales of effeminate Emeralds, had challenged Esmond within the first two months of their arrival. He'd killed all of them, and each time with a display of martial prowess which had dazzled the onlookers. Leaving aside Esmond's skill with weapons, the body which wielded that skill was that of the near-perfect athlete who had once emerged the victor from the Five Year Games of the Emeralds.
So, Adrian did not bother to argue with Center. He didn't really need to, after all. Center, like Raj, shared Adrian's mind. But neither of them had any control over Adrian's body-or his will. In that respect, at least, none of Center's incomprehensible prattle about 'synapses' and 'neurons' matched reality nearly as well as the teachings of the scholars in the Grove who had trained Adrian.
Mind was Mind and Matter was Matter, there was an end to it-and Adrian, not Center, controlled the matter that was his body.
He scooped the boy up in his arms and lifted him. Then, turned his head to the barbarian who had taken him to Esmond's tent. The old man was one of Adrian's spies. Spies whom he had hired, initially, to keep an eye on his new Southron 'allies'-but had then found it necessary to keep an eye on his own brother. This oldster had been the one who had told Adrian of the tortures Esmond was inflicting on a new slave.
The man was very agitated by now, practically dancing on his feet.
'Hurry-hurry-young master!' he hissed. 'Your brother will return soon. If he finds us-'
Adrian saw no point in arguing that point, either. The spy's worry was too shortsighted, for one thing. It had been midmorning when Adrian entered the tent. Leaving now, still before noon, they would be seen by dozens of the barbarians who teemed in the great annual meeting ground outside Marange. There was no way Esmond would not find out who took the boy. By the end of the day; probably even before nightfall.
Esmond would be… enraged. Furious enough that he might even attack his own brother. He would certainly seek vengeance on the spy.
As he stalked through the tent flap held open by the spy, carrying the boy's body quite easily for all his own short stature, Adrian paused a moment and said: 'Take the gold in the pouch at my belt. There's enough there to reach your village-it's on the other side of the continent, I believe-and leave a goodly bonus for you. Take it and leave immediately.'
He heard the spy whisper some kind of thanks, in a dialect he could not really understand. A few quick fingers working at the pouch-no tyro at theft, either, this spy-and the old man seemed to vanish.
Well done, said Raj. With some humor: That's an expensive bonus, but still a smart move. Your other spies will know what happened, and trust you for it. Half of them are probably watching right now.
Adrian hadn't thought in those terms-he'd simply felt himself responsible for his employee's welfare. Not for the first time, Adrian was reminded that Raj Whitehall, unlike himself, was a master tactician.
He didn't doubt for a moment Raj's assessment of what his own spies were doing. As he threaded his way through the crowds spilling in the spaces between the multitude of tents and huts which made up the barbarian encampment, Adrian was almost amused to see how many eyes followed his progress. There were times, in his more sour moments, when Adrian wondered how the Southrons even managed to stay alive. They didn't seem to do very much except quarrel-with words and weapons both-and spy on each other ceaselessly. that's the men, commented Center. the women do most of the daily work. that's always been one of the problems pastoralism poses for civilization. herders have too much time on their hands, at least part of the year. so they make mischief all out of proportion to their numbers.
It doesn't help any that their skills are so readily adapted to war, added Raj. Riding, hunting, the lot. Even their diet makes for easier logistics.
It was true enough. On two occasions since he'd arrived in Marange, at the invitation of important chieftains, Adrian had accompanied Southron tribesmen in their treasured great hunts. He'd always known the Southrons were skilled cavalrymen and weapons handlers, however undisciplined they might be in battle. What he hadn't realized was how adept they were at living off the land. Vanbert or Emerald noblemen, when they went hunting, took a huge caravan with them laden with supplies. A Southron, even a chieftain, took nothing more than what he could carry on his own mount and a pack animal.
He reached his own tent, stooped through the entrance, and set the boy down on a thick pile of rugs toward one side. Then, commanded one of his three slaves to fetch a healer. The healer, he knew, would be what civilized people would call a 'witch doctor.' But since his arrival, Adrian had actually been rather impressed with the skill and knowledge of the old women. Strip aside the florid incantations and rather grotesque dancing they insisted upon, and the herbal remedies and poultices were often quite effective.
And now, we wait for Esmond.
This is going to be hairy, predicted Raj. you are insane, tossed in Center for good measure.
Adrian said nothing. His soul was at peace for the first time in many months. The rupture with his brother had been inevitable; so, best it be done with. The pain of prolonging it was simply unbearable.
Esmond was, indeed, in a rage-and a very public one. He stormed into Adrian's tent followed by all nine of the major chieftains of the Southrons. None of whom, it immediately became clear, had come to take sides. They were simply curious to see how the more mysterious of the pair of mysterious noble brothers from fabled Solinga would handle such a matter.
