Tatja Grimm's World

at Imar Stark, the crown’s chief of staff. The military didn’t think the Doomsdaymen should be cajoled. If these provincials refused to fight for their queen, they should be ignored until after the battle, and then dealt with as traitors. It seemed a waste of time to stand here debating while the opposing armies took their positions. And it seemed doubly strange that a militia leader should be in charge of that deployment. At this moment Jolle and midrank staff officers were down there in the darkness, deploying crossbow men, ground obstacles, FAOs, and art’ry pieces. Soon there would be nothing peaceful about the night.

Finally Observer Reynolt spoke. Some of the false servility was gone from his voice. “Yes, Marget, we realize this. We are very unhappy about the situation: you have caused us as much damage as the Rebels. But in the past you have been just and have truly protected us. What aid do you require? Your army—if our reports are accurate—is much larger than any trained force we Doo’d’en could field. And we have none of the bomb throwers which both you and the Rebels have.”

Tatja laughed softly. “My troops are great. They can whip twice their number—at sea level. But now we’re at fourteen thousand feet. I am sure you understand—even if my own advisors do not—what these altitudes do to unacclimated troops. My forces already hold decisive advantages: high ground, artillery superiority. But to be sure of victory I want two or three thousand Doomsday fighting men, uh, Celestial Servants.” She turned to her chief of staff. “How much time do we have, Immy?”

“The Provincial claims the Rebels won’t be in position for another six hours. Twilight begins about seven- thirty this morning, so we can expect engagement in six to eight hours.”

“Observer Reynolt, it is now thirty-nine-thirty,” she said. “Can you get a battle group of Celestial Servants into my command by four-thirty tomorrow morning?”

“Marget, permit me to signal O’rmouth. If my superiors approve, the Servants will be at your disposal in less than four hours.” The priest gave a shallow bow which was somehow more respectful than the extravagant obeisance he had made earlier.

On Reynolt’s departure, the generals moved in to discuss the details of the deployment. Strangely, Tatja made no move to dominate or even to participate in the conversation.

Soon she left the small stone building. Cor and Svir followed her. The newly plowed field outside was steeply sloping, and several times Cor nearly wrenched her foot in the narrow furrows. Ancho held tight to her neck. She had never imagined that ground this rough could be cultivated. Even though terraced, the fields had twenty-degree slopes. Only the hardiest vegetation could survive at these altitudes and in this soil.

Tatja stopped at the edge of the terrace and sat down. Cor felt Svir clutch her elbow. He wanted to pull her back, set himself in front of her. She disengaged his hand, held it for a moment. They had argued this over and over. If anyone could make the point that had to be made, it was she and not Svir.

Tatja’s voice was soft against the creaking of wagon wheels. “Sit down, you two.” They sat. “What do you think of the situation?” Here was the moment they had waited fifteen hours for: Tatja was alert, no longer the soft, yielding girl she had been with Jolle; that was obvious from the way she had just handled the Doomsday priest. They would never have a better chance to try to convince her of Jolle’s real objectives. In fact, they might never have another chance. If Profirio were destroyed this night, which seemed likely, Jolle would be left unopposed, and would have no further need of Tatja. Yet now Cor’s throat seemed frozen. She remembered what Svir had seen in the tent. Tatja had finally gotten what she wanted, an equal and a friend. How could they possibly persuade her to give up Jolle?

The silence stretched on for an endless moment. Finally it was Svir who answered the queen’s question in a voice a bit too high and forced to be natural. “I thought it was really something of a masterstroke, that of convincing the priest to let us use his men.” Tatja laughed for the second time that night. “No,” she said softly, “just the natural thing to do. And he really had to do what we asked. They know Profirio has caused much of the damage, and I have treated them fairly in the past. Too bad they’re such a bunch of fanatics. I wonder what their reaction will be when they find out that my side intends to desecrate the High Eye with its presence. I can just imagine their scream of ‘Betrayal.’ ”

“But Marget,” said Cor, puzzled. “You already say that we are poor fighters, even at fourteen thousand feet. We’ll be much worse at O’rmouth, and the observatory is nearly ten thousand feet above that. How can you expect success there?”

“You’ll see. I assure you, there will be nothing subtle about it. Jolle and I are sure it will work. In the meantime, we have a competent adversary down there below us. I’d give a lot to know what he is planning.”

So the conversation was back to that. She must speak now, Cor realized. Jolle would soon return from the front lines, and then it would be impossible to bring the matter up. Even if the alien didn’t kill them before they could finish the story, he could certainly persuade Tatja that it was a fabrication.

She tried to remember Tatja as she had been in her first days on the barge, when she hung on Cor’s every word, and her gratitude had been an obvious thing. Over the years, there had been occasional flickers of that, times when she was a confidante, almost a big sister … and not a pet. Was there anything left of that? When Cor finally spoke, the effect was strange—like listening to someone else talking or remembering a previous conversation.

“Tatja, you remember our talk yesterday morning at the watering stop?”

“Uh-huh.”

Cor didn’t lose stride. “We said the possibility that perhaps Jolle was lying, that Profirio was the gendarme, and Jolle the criminal.”

“Yes, I remember all that.” Tatja’s tone was good humored, if a bit distracted.

“You said that we must wait and watch. Well, Svir and I …

uh … we thought that the situation was so dangerous maybe more could be done. If Jolle were the evil one, maybe he lied about what he salvaged from his fight with Profirio. In fact, if these golems are so popular and if Jolle was the one who … uh … slaughters humans, then he might even have one with him.” There could be no more evasion. If she didn’t say it now, Grimm would get ahead of her.

“Tatja, this is exactly what we discovered. Jolle is the criminal. He has a golem with …”

“You were the one in the wagon.”

“We had to, Tatja! Jolle is the slaver. His golem can even talk, and no machine—”

“You peeping bitch, I’ll teach—” In the darkness Cor had no warning. The lower right side of her face went numb and splinters of pain spread through her head. Simultaneously Tatja’s other fist buried itself in her middle. The nylon webbing of Cor’s shrap vest could not protect her from the ramming force of the blow. It bowled her over the edge of the terrace and she tumbled down the slope. Ancho went flying off into space.

There was the sound of a body block, and Svir’s voice, “Don’t hit her again! It was me, me! I’m the peeper.” Cor’s head struck a rock, and for a moment all she knew was tiny yellow lights floating lazily before her eyes. She was lying at the base of the terrace slope; Tatja and Svir were scrambling toward her. She coughed back blood and felt the beginnings of triumph. Tatja had used nothing but her fists—and those ineptly. If they could survive just a few more seconds, Tatja would cool off, and Cor might really have a chance to convince her.

From behind her, Cor heard men moving through the darkness. One of them was running. Running? In this dark? The footsteps stopped. Strong hands lifted Cor to her feet, and a calm voice sounded in her ear. “Say friend, what’s the problem?” It was Jolle.

Twenty-one

To Svir’s amazement, they both still lived. He looked around dazedly. But for how long? This was Jolle’s territory:

Though the bunker had been hastily and crudely constructed, it was an effective job. The Crown’s Engineers had used a cleft in the terracing. It had been a simple matter to fill the open end with dirt-packed bags and to construct a roof of timber covered with three or four feet of dirt. The occupants of the bunker could survive all but a direct hit from a six-inch shell. Since the enemy was supposed to be without six-inch guns, the bunker should be safe unless it was overrun. There was no real floor to the room, just the curving rocky surface of the cleft. Despite the primitive aspect of the chamber, it was obviously a command post. A field table had been set in the middle of