Caliphate

weekend.' The agent laughed. 'You can marry up to four at a time, if your tastes run to the kinky,' he added.

'What's the going rate?' Hamilton asked but, before Bongo could answer, laughed and said, 'No, I'm really not interested.'

'Actually,' Bongo said, 'you need to visit the place and make use of the . . . facilities. For one thing, in case you've forgotten, our chippie contact is in there. For another, it will give me a chance to nose around the castle that we really are interested in.'

'Oh, the sacrifices I make for the Empire.'

'Speaking of sacrifices for the Empire,' Bongo said, 'we'd best deliver these human sacrifices. And that's not something to laugh about.'

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 10 Muharram,

1538 AH (21 October, 2113)

'There are, of course, a few side benefits of being stationed here,' the colonel told Hans, as they walked through the stone corridors of the castle. 'One is that we get a substantial discount at the whorehouse. At least, the officers do. And the manager, Latif, prides himself on providing only the best. You can even get a decent vodka there.'

'Vodka? But—'

'The holy Koran forbids the drinking of fermented grain and grape. Vodka is made from potatoes . . . '

'Ah,' Hans said.

'After what I have to show you,' the colonel added, 'you're going to need a drink. If it makes you feel any better about it, I'll have the regimental surgeon prescribe it for you.'

'Maybe,' Hans half agreed. 'And I've been there, actually, though I didn't drink. It's a very nice place.'

The colonel cocked his head. 'Really? When were you there?'

'My senior instructor at al-Harv Barracks, Abdul Rahman von Seydlitz, brought the entire company there for our graduation party,' Hans explained.

The colonel smiled warmly. 'I know Abdul Rahman. A fine old janissary, if a little too softhearted.'

'His softheartedness was tolerably hard to see, for a new recruit,' Hans said. 'And I think it's mostly that he's just a man filled with the love of Allah and for his fellow man . . . and perhaps for women, as well.'

'That would be Abdul Rahman. Turn right here,' the colonel said. 'Down those stone stairs and I'll introduce you to the renegades. And remember what I told you about awful things.'

A heavy clattering coming from outside stopped the two janissary officers in their tracks.

'What the Hell is that?' Hans asked.

'Delivery of the new batch of experimental subjects, I suspect,' the colonel answered. He walked to the window and beckoned Hans over. Hans saw several trucks, what looked to be a couple of hundred children, a black man in livery and a well-dressed white he took to be a slave dealer.

The colonel said, 'You'll see where they're going down below.'

It was a small mercy, Hamilton thought, standing in the chill air, his breath frosting before his face, that we packed the kids in like sardines. They'd have frozen to death otherwise.

The children, all of them drained and numb, and numb with more than cold alone, shuffled stiffly out of the cargo trucks and began forming up in a mass as they'd learned to do. In this strange, cold and forbidding place, none even tried to make an escape, though guards were watching just in case.

A janissary noncom—Funny that I never saw a janissary before this trip—emerged from the main gate and politely introduced himself. Once Hamilton had made his business clear, the janissary sent for another man, this one responsible for logistics. The logistician counted the children, carefully, twice, and signed for them. His signature on the inventory sheet was all that was required for payment to be completed.

The noncom, he'd given his name as 'Mashouf,' looked Hamilton over with something between contempt and pity. Whether that was because Hamilton's assumed persona was that of a Boer infidel, or because he was in the distasteful business of selling children, Hamilton couldn't have guessed.

But it couldn't be worse than I feel about myself.

Hamilton felt no better as he and Bongo checked into one of the town's better hotels. The manager was all obsequious politeness as he showed the two to the 'deluxe' suite. It had a living room and two bedrooms, was more or less reasonably furnished, although the furniture tended to the tacky in Hamilton's opinion.

'The maid will clean daily,' the manager had said, 'and if you need, she can perform other services as well.'

'No . . . no, we won't need her for either,' Hamilton answered. 'My man here will keep the place up and if I need a woman, I'll probably go up to the other castle.'

'Very good, sir. If you do, ask for Latif and tell him you're a guest of this hotel. We have an agreement for a discount.'

'Thank you, I will.'

Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 10 Muharram,

1538 AH (21 October, 2113)

The sun was long down, and Hans had repaired to the brothel with almost frantic haste. Ling hadn't been expecting him so soon, less still had Petra. If Ling was expecting anyone it was the agent from the American Empire, whose image had been electronically transferred via her chip directly to her memory.

Nonetheless, Ling cleared her slate while Petra rescheduled to give herself an hour's free time before the customers began rolling in heavily. The two had then taken charge of Hans.

In fact, they took very close charge of the man. Ling, with one look at his stricken face, had settled him in an alcove in the common room and then raced off to Latif to beg for him a bottle of forbidden alcohol.

'Sure, why not?' the whoremaster had shrugged. 'You're one of my best girls . . . I can spare you a bottle in a worthy cause . . . for, let us say, five dinar?'

'Don't be a pirate, Latif,' Ling had answered. 'The stuff's worth no more than a few dirhem.'

'For you,' Latif countered, 'four dinar.'

'Twelve dirhem.'

They'd finally settled on 'one dinar, five dirhem'—objectively outrageous, but Ling had had little alternative—to be added to Ling's freedom price. Since she was not just a slave, but a chippie and hence could never be truly free, that seemed a small matter to her.

Now, Ling and Petra poured the stuff into Hans while he poured forth his story.

'It's monstrous,' he said, not merely visibly shaken but visibly shaking, despite the copious amount of unfamiliar alcohol he'd taken on. 'What goes on down in that castle is just . . . beyond belief . . . they're infecting people with a disease just to see if it works and to see if they can turn it off on command. Mostly old slaves but today they brought in a shipment of children. Can you imagine? Children?'

A little voice in Ling's head told her, Get him to shut up. At least get him out of there. What he's talking about so freely could get you all put to death.

'Come on, Petra,' Ling said, as naturally as if there were no voice. 'We'll take him to my quarters. This is too public.'

Expertly, the girls got Hans to his feet and maneuvered their way under his arms. This was not so unfamiliar a sight in the common room that any of the other clients really paid any attention, though Ling, of course, immediately alerted on her contact.

At least, none of the customers paid attention until Hans screamed, 'Monster' and launched himself at a newly arrived customer, a tall, slender white type in clothing that screamed, 'Infidel.'

Hamilton had remembered a picture book from his childhood, showing a fairy castle then lost behind the 'Iron Veil' of the

Caliphate. As a boy, the romance of the thing, the beauty in the pictures, hadn't moved him nearly so much as the crenellated battlements and towers. The differences he saw in the exterior of the castle were substantial enough that he had doubts the two images were even of the same structure. And, of course, the thing hadn't been painted in a very long time. White had changed to a dirty gray. Even the golden dome didn't really shine. It was all rather sordid and disappointing.

The inside of the place was still pretty splendid, Hamilton had to admit. Better than the thatched roofs and dirt floors of Moroland, in any case. And that's even before counting