age does. The man's been waiting out there for hours.'
The sergeant. Demansk had indeed forgotten all about him.
'I'll see him in my private quarters. Give me ten minutes to wash up a bit.'
The sergeant seemed a bit ill at ease when he came into Demansk's salon, but not as much as the Triumvir had expected. Oddly, the giant's uneasiness seemed to increase after Demansk ordered his three regular bodyguards to leave them alone.
'I'd have thought you'd prefer not having armed men standing at your back,' he said almost, but not quite, slyly. 'What with old village sayings about dead men telling no tales running through your head.'
The sergeant seemed to flush a bit. Then, after discreetly clearing his throat: 'T'ain't thet, sir. I was na worret 'bout thet.'
Demansk found it interesting that the man's eastern accent was so much more pronounced now than it had been when the sergeant was, so to speak, 'on stage.'
The next words confirmed the guess.
'Don' think tha's a man in tha regiments-nor yars, naebit-what does no trust ya, sar. A soldier's general, yar know'd t'be. 'Tis just…'
The huge soldier glanced around the room nervously. ' 'Tis just tha I don' know wha ta 'spect, sar. No used ta thet. Man o' my station does no speak privately with na gen'ral, naebit less na Triumvir.'
His head jerked a bit, as if he was sternly reminding himself of a silent vow. When he spoke again, the thick accent was almost gone and the clean-speaking sergeant of the drama was back.
'Sorry, sir. I imagine the Triumvir would like me-me and my squad-to serve him as bodyguards. That's what my men were thinking, anyway. In the new times a-coming, you'll be having some use for a bigger guard, they're thinking.'
Demansk was not surprised to discover that the sergeant had mentioned this upcoming private audience with his men-nor that the squad had apparently spent some time discussing the matter. The squad was the basic unit in the Vanbert army. Except in cases of extreme casualties, soldiers usually served their entire twenty-five-year stretch in the same squad. Half of the men in it would be related by blood, and almost all of them would come from the same village. 'Squad deep' was the way Confederate veterans would refer to a man or thing which could be completely trusted.
What Demansk did find a bit surprising-and certainly interesting-was the actual assessment the squad had made. 'New times a-coming,' indeed. As an officer, even a popular one, he was and had been for years insulated from the quiet thinking which percolated through the ranks. But he'd never made the mistake which many officers made of not realizing that such thinking was going on.
The perspicacity of the squad, and the obvious intelligence of its sergeant, crystallized a decision he'd been weighing in his mind. As it happened, he had originally intended to use them as bodyguards. But he decided he had a better purpose for them.
First, though, he had to see how far he could push the matter.
'And what do you think of such 'new times' yourself, Sergeant?'
The giant stared at him for a moment. Then, sloping his shoulders like a greatbeast leaning into a load, he said softly: ' 'Twere-it was-a sad day for my folk when Old Marcomann died, sir. Say what they will about his so- called 'tyranny,' but it never touched me or mine. Except to lighten the taxes and give a poor man a chance. All of which went like the dew when the sattra- uh, noblemen and their Council got back on top of things.'
The choked off word had been sattrasacht. An old word in the eastern dialects, it translated as 'gutworms'-a type of intestinal parasite which was prevalent in poverty-striken agricultural regions of the Confederacy. It was the private term which the Confederacy's peasantry used to refer to the Vanbert aristocracy.
'Marcomann did leave something of a mess behind, Sergeant.' Demansk's words were spoken in the tone of an observation, not a reproof.
The sergeant shrugged. Then, for the second time that day, Demansk saw the little gleam in a troll's smile.
'Yes, sir. But me and my boys figure you're a lot smarter than Old Marcomann, even if he was a great man and all.'
Demansk nodded abruptly. 'Done, then. I've a different job for you than bodyguard, Sergeant. I need you to keep an eye on Willech's old regiments for me, especially the Fourth Jallink. I'll give you and your squad the authority to sit in on all staff meetings, armed, and oversee everything they do.' He stifled a yawn. 'It's too late tonight to go into the details-truth is, I have to figure them out myself-but that's the gist of it.'
The uncertainty was back on the giant's face. So was the accent in his voice. 'Tha will no hart'ly allow no sergeant na 'is squad to do thet, sar.'
'Three things, Sergeant. First, let's start with your name. What is it?'
The sergeant blinked. 'Ma name? 'Tis Forent Nappur, sar.'
'Second. I'll need you to keep that accent under control. Outside of your squad quarters, at any rate. Can you do that?'
Another blink. 'Ah-yes, sir. I can do that. Sorry, sir. I'm just a bit unsettled at the moment.'
Demansk waved the apology aside. 'I understand. Not a problem, as long as you keep an eye on it. You know the sattrasacht, Forent Nappur. They'll forgive much, but never poor diction.'
The sergeant choked off a little laugh. Demansk smiled, and then finished the day's work.
'And-third thing-it'll not be sergeant any longer. It's Forent Nappur, Special Attendant to the Triumvir, from this moment forward.'
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
