Zenya

frankly, I can't see that you would be an asset. Here you are doing a good job; out in the field you would be simply a man with a gun. I want more than that.'

'You'll get more! Damnit! Must I stay here at a desk just because my father…' Fran broke off, controlling himself. More quietly he said, 'You'll need communications equipment and someone who knows about such things. I am an expert in the field.'

Knowledge and eagerness, two assets for any task, and Dumarest hesitated, conscious of Colonel Paran, the delicate situation. He was in no position to make enemies.

And then the colonel said flatly, 'All right, Fran. I won't stand in your way. If Earl is willing to take you, I'll arrange for your replacement.'

'Sir!' The salute was a model copied from a book. 'Thank you, sir. When do I start?'

Dumarest glanced at Captain Louk, who had remained silent during the exchange. 'Is there a place we can use for intensive training?'

'Yes, marshal. The Lambda warehouse.'

* * *

It was a big, rambling structure still redolent of the goods it had once held, the sacks of lofios blooms, the precious oils. Open ground flanked it, now filled with marching men, uniforms bright in the prenoon sunlight. A hoarse-voiced officer yelled commands, sending them through routine motions, turning, wheeling, keeping step. His salute was casual, the gesture of a man who knew his business to those who, in his estimation, didn't.

Captain Louk said, 'Lieutenant Thomile, Marshal Dumarest.'

Thomile grinned, jerking his thumb at the marching men. 'New intake,' he explained. 'Raw, as yet, but they'll improve.' His eyes studied Dumarest. 'I've heard about you, marshal. From Samalle, right? What do you think of the men?'

Dumarest said harshly, 'When talking to me, you stand at attention. You address me as 'sir.' As for your question, the men look like yourself, dirty, lax, more of a mob than a disciplined unit. How long have you been training them?'

'Eight days.'

'What?'

'Eight days… sir.'

'In my experience, you should have reached this point at the end of the first day. Basic maneuvering is used only to instill obedience to orders and to achieve an esprit de corps. I don't want a machine, I want men who can move and fight and think for themselves. Soldiers, not automatons. Now, get out there, lieutenant, and get to work. Real work. Move!'

As they moved toward the open doors of the warehouse, Louk said, 'You were hard on him, marshal. Thomile's a good man.'

'Too good to be allowed to fall into bad habits,' agreed Dumarest. 'And while we're on the subject, I noticed too many soldiers in the streets. They should be at camp, training, not displaying their new uniforms to admiring females. See to it.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You don't agree?'

'Well, sir, they are young, and it's natural to show off a little. Also it helps recruiting, and-'

'You think I'm acting like a thick-headed martinet, right?' Dumarest shrugged, as the other made no comment. 'As you heard me tell Fran Paran, war isn't a game. Each of those men may have to risk his life and the only thing they will have between living and dying is the training given to them. A good officer hates waste, the waste of his men most of all, and if he is careless of lives, then he is unfitted to hold command. If I appear hard, it is with reason.'

He glanced toward the field, where Thomile's voice could be heard. It was different now, harsher, more savage, and beneath its lash the men had straightened, moved with grim purpose instead of casual indifference.

'Take my compliments to the lieutenant. Ask him to select a group of men from those he has trained. They are to be tough, skilled, clever, and obedient. He won't find many, but have him send those he picks to the warehouse.'

'Sir!'

'You have an intensive training program already under way?'

'Yes, sir. Captain Raougat is in command.'

He stood at the back of the vast building surrounded by a circle of men stripped to shorts and shoes. He was of medium height, well-muscled, his torso scarred from old wounds. He moved like a cat, poised on the balls of his feet, and watching him, Dumarest was reminded of a fighter, a skilled professional who had earned his living in the arena.

Raougat was talking, his voice like a purr, echoing softly from the beams overhead.

'Now, listen and pay attention. I'm going to show you how to take care of an enemy guard. You there!' He pointed. 'You get up here. Stand in front of me, back toward me, looking ahead.'

From a seat he took a length of rope about a yard long, wrapping each end around his hands and leaving a loop of about eighteen inches. Approaching the back of the waiting soldier, he threw the loop over the man's head, and as it came level with his throat, lifted his right knee and ground it against the back as he jerked. Coughing, the soldier doubled, retching, rubbing at his neck.

'I was gentle,' purred Raougat. 'A trifle more force, and he would be dead now. It never fails.'

Dumarest said loudly, 'Like hell it doesn't.'

'You doubt me?' The captain smiled as Dumarest stepped forward. 'And you are…?' The smile widened as Dumarest introduced himself. 'Ah, our famous marshal. The man dedicated to war. Perhaps you are willing to show me how I am at fault?'

There was no humor in the smile, and less in the soft purr of the voice, and looking at his eyes, Dumarest knew that, this time, there would be no control of the force used, that given the chance, the man would willingly snap his spine and rupture his throat.

'You want to demonstrate on me?' Dumarest said quietly. 'Is that what you are asking?'

'With respect, sir, if you are willing. Of course, we will all understand if you are not.'

'Commence.'

Dumarest turned, waiting. He sensed rather than heard the soft pad of feet, the blur as the rope dropped before his eyes. The man had used his right knee, and he spun to the left as it rose, left arm slashing sideways to catch the thigh, to knock it away, sending Raougat falling hopelessly off-balance. The rope jerked at the back of his neck, and Dumarest followed it, ignoring it as his right hand lifted with his knife, the point halting as it touched the skin of the captain's throat.

For a moment they lay staring into each other's eyes, and then Dumarest said gently, 'I have proved my point, I think?'

'A knife-'

'A guard would be armed. And a knife is unessential.' Dropping it, Dumarest rested the tips of his fingers beneath the other's eyes. 'I could have blinded you.' The hand lifted, the fingers clamped to form a blunt spear, falling to rest on the point of the throat beneath the ear. 'Or killed you. You see, I had a choice.'

'Fast,' whispered Raougat. 'You were too fast. I have never seen anyone move as quickly. And now?'

'You work,' replied Dumarest as quietly. 'Doing what you love-teaching men how to kill. But from now on, you will do it without tricks and without sadistic demonstrations of your skill. If not, we will meet again. You understand me?'

'Too well.' Raougat, his dignity and position saved, essayed a grin. 'But, my lord, should you ever grow tired of the work you do, the stadiums are always waiting. In a year, less, you could be a champion on any of a dozen worlds.'

Rising, Dumarest said to the watching men, 'That was a lesson. Never make a simple action complex. Never make the mistake of underestimating your opponent. If you want to kill a guard, do it like this.' His hand lifted, swept down, the stiffened edge halting at the base of Raougat's spine. 'Use the barrel of your rifle, the butt, anything heavy and sharp. And never be gentle. You want to kill him, not bruise him. Hit hard enough, and he will drop like a sliced tree. Now, get dressed, quickly!' A soldier said, 'For exercise?'