Warlord

sixteen, plumply pretty in the Arab fashion.

Boots rang on the stone behind her, not the soft-soled gear the irregulars wore. The first trooper out onto the veranda had a bayonet in his hand and his rifle slung muzzle-down across his back; four deep fingernail gouges ran across his face, and from the wide fixed stare he was fully aware that he had just missed having one eye scooped out to dangle on his cheek.

'The bitch,' he said, in a strangely distant voice, panting. 'The bitchcunt, we had 'er down, she clawed me, I'm gonna cut 'er four ways, the bitch.'

The girl ignored Foley's tentative attempts to push her away. When the trooper started forward she swung herself behind the young Descotter, gripping his harness again and holding him like a shield in front of her with hysterical strength, jumping up with hair billowing to shout Arabic curses and spit at the trooper over his shoulder. Frustrated, the soldier checked his rush just as his weight was going onto the balls of his feet and tried to angle around the younger man, snatching with his free hand.

Gerrin Staenbridge moved sideways, putting his palm over the girl's mouth. She tried to bite; the big hand clamped, and he barked two words in Arabic that left her standing silent except for the quick gasping of her breath. The trooper with the bayonet hardly seemed to notice.

'Get out a my ways, pretty boy,' he snarled.

Foley freed his shoulders with a jerk, straightened and set hands on hips, looking down his thin hooked nose.

'What was that, trooper?' he drawled, in a tone reminiscent of Captain Staenbridge's on inspection days.

The man blinked, looked around. A little of the glazed look faded from his eyes, and he straightened. The point of the bayonet turned down towards the ground, and his left hand fumbled automatically at the undone buttons of his jacket.

'Ah, beggin' yer pardon, ser,' he said, making a sloppy salute. 'That cunt, she's mine. We got 'er.' Three more troopers had followed the first: one was limping, and another sucking at the ball of his thumb where sharp teeth had taken out a thimble-sized lump of flesh. 'Jest step aside, ser, and we'll take care of it.'

Foley cast a glance back at the fear-wide eyes of the girl and then helplessly at Staenbridge. The older man stepped closer and laid a hand on his shoulder.

'I don't think so, soldier,' he said smoothly. 'There's plenty more over in the mosque, and less menace to your eyes.'

The trooper's fingers tightened on the bayonet, and he began shaking again with frustration and the terror of near-blinding transmuted into rage.

'Ser, it's gleanin's, it's our right.' That was dangerous, when a Descott man started to talk of his rights. 'An' beggin' yer pardon, ser, but what the fuck do yer two want wit' 'er?'

Staenbridge relaxed, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and offered one to the soldier with a smile, not ignoring the gap in rank but treating the matter as between one fighting man and another. The trooper took it awkwardly in one hand, then had to sheath his bayonet to light it.

'Look, soldier. . Trooper Hylio Henyarson, isn't it? Mamorres parish?' The man had blue eyes, rare anywhere and almost unheard of in Descott County. He nodded, and the Senior Lieutenant continued: 'Do you like wine?'

'Ci, ferrementi, seyor,' the trooper said, bewildered: 'Yes, of course, ser.'

'Beer?'

'Summat.'

'Slyowtz?' An enthusiastic nod; the plum brandy was by way of a Descotter national drink.

'Honey mead?'

'Nao, it leaves a funny taste at 't back a me throat, ser.'

'But you drink it now and then?'

'Well, of course, ser-' The trooper stopped with his mouth open, frowning in dissatisfaction and visibly searching for an answer, as the officer indicated the girl with a silent well, then. While he thought, Gerrin bent and pulled two bottles from the personal gear piled on the edge of the verandah; they were half-liter, of thick green glass with lithographed labels bearing the outline of a spray of plum blossom, sealed with wired corks and wax.

'Tell you what, soldier. . I'll trade you for her.'

'Holy Avatars of the Spirit,' one of the troopers behind Hylio whispered, licking his lips.

Holdor Tennan straightened up from his seat on the verandah railing and put companionable arms around the shoulders of two of the others. 'Hey, dog-brothers,' he said, 'I happen to know Sergeant Salton over there at the mosque is keeping some of the best back for last, and for a couple of hits of that liquor, with a little persuasion. .'

Hylio looked back at his friends, whose eyes were fixed on the bottles; Slyowtz and a woman each were obviously looking a lot more appealing than sloppy seconds after him and a grudge-producing pissing match with a company commander. They might have backed him anyway, on principle, but the bottles were a face-saving gesture for Hylio and a generous one at that, showing a commander careful of his men's honor.

'Ah, crash and coredump 'er,' he said. 'They're all pink insides, anyhow. Watch the nails, ser.'

'But. . but Gerrin,' Foley said. 'What will we do with her?' The girl had backed up against a pillar, one hand holding her vest closed and the other spread over her crotch.

Staenbridge smiled fondly at him, but spoke to the girl first, in slow careful Arabic, hands moving to indicate where the troopers had stood, and then the mosque. She swallowed and nodded, glancing back and forth between him and Foley, then accepted a cloak from the older man's hands.

'Continue your education, Barton dear,' he said, laying an affectionate arm around the youth's shoulders. 'After all, you'll need to marry and carry on your family name, someday, so you need to know something of women: I get along quite well with my wife, one week every six months when I'm back in the County. First lesson, don't hurt them; honey catches more flies than vinegar, and there's no rush.'

He nodded pleasantly to the other Companions. 'See you later, gentlemen. Come, Fatima.' Foley's ears were red to the tips as they walked away toward their billet.

'You know,' Raj said to the others, 'that was a very pretty piece of officer's work.'

Discipline was essential, but so were aggression and self-confidence; that was why the elite of the Civil Government's army was recruited from places like Descott County, or from the barbaricum beyond the frontiers, rather than the spirit-broken peons of the central provinces. Men trained to kill, and proud enough to advance into fire rather than admit fear, were never easy to control.

'Frankly, I'm a bit surprised,' Evrard said.

'You didn't know Gerrin when we were stationed on the western border, Evvie,' Kaltin replied.

Da Cruz spat meditatively out into the plaza. 'Messer Staenbridge knows his business,' the senior noncom said. 'But he needs sommone t'point him in the general direction, loik. Or he lets things slide a little at a time, and goes mean with it.' He dusted off the thighs of his uniform, saluted. 'You knows how to work with him. ser.'

'Think I'll do a tour of the vedettes,' Kaltin said. 'Keep their minds off how all their buddies are drinking and fucking while they roast in the sun.'

Antin M'lewis watched the others depart, all but the Captain; he stayed, standing with his arms crossed and watching out over the captured hamlet as if he were seeing visions. Don't cross 'im, the man from Bufford parish reminded himself. There was something spooky about the young commander, but he knew how to reward good service. . and to punish. Just as well to hitch your cart to a rising star; it would never be dull, he decided, and possibly very profitable indeed. Not safe, of course, but then neither would staying home have been, shovelling muck and branding cattle and likely as not ending with iron in his belly for something truly stupid: a cuckold mocked at a feast, a moved boundary stone, straying stock.

He reached into a pouch and fingered the dice, looking meditatively at the mosque. Headquarters noncom billet there. . and him a new-minted corporal. The dice flicked up into the air. M'lewis decided he could wait for the women; not that he didn't like a piece as well as the next, but he was no three-ball man, and in his experience they didn't grow shut again. It had been a source of amazement to him for years how mellow, how suggestible, how trusting men were right after they'd had their ashes hauled. Probably they'd just love a