Warlord

It was fastened to the beam above, tightly enough that he had to rise on his toes on the wobbling surface. He could tell that, despite being limited to sight and sound in the vision, because of the little desperate catches of breath as he shifted; it is not easy to balance like that, with hands tied tightly behind the back. A crowd of Squadron civilians shifted and seethed behind a barrier of warriors standing with the points of their swords resting on the earth; they screamed curses in guttural Namerique and threw things, lumps of cow dung and tomatoes. A barbarian noble was walking along in the shadow the beam threw, black on the white dust of the square. His floppy-brimmed leather hat was tooled and inlaid with silver, and there were jewels in the hilt of his sword. Raj's viewpoint saw him pause at each stool, each stool supporting a Civil Government officer.

At some he kicked the support out with a booted foot, watching for a moment while the prisoner writhed and kicked. Before the others he put the point of his sword on flesh and pushed with gradually increasing force until the victim's feet slipped. Each time there was a roaring cheer from the bystanders. His grin was broad as he stopped before Raj and rested the point of the blade on his genitals-

* * *

— and Raj opened his eyes and looked down at the woman.

'You'll have justice,' he said, laying a hand on Horace's neck. 'Military justice.'

Which was to real justice as military music was to music, but you settled for what was available.

'Captain Foley,' he said, swinging down out of the saddle and looping the reins over the pommel. Horace folded to the earth with a grateful muff and laid his chin flat on the ground, watching and hiking up his ears. 'Attend, if you please. Lieutenant Dyaz, you as well. Have your man bring chairs: do you have a watch-stander here?' Watch-standers received extra pay and reduced duties in return for literacy.

'Ah, yes-Sergeant Hiscobar.'

'Have him join us and take notes, if you please, Lieutenant. We'll use this table. And-' He looked behind him; yes, the 5th's chaplain was with the guard platoon. 'Under-Hierarch Dohminko, do the honors, please.'

Dyaz's dull eyes flickered with belated recognition-three commissioned officers were the standard for a court-martial on a capital case-and began to snap orders. Soldiers of the watch platoon set up the cleared table facing the cages, with three chairs behind it.

'You,' Raj went on, 'get those witnesses here. You and you-' He changed his mind and turned to the ranks of the 5th. 'Lieutenant Gonhalvez, a squad to bring out the prisoners, please.'

Eight of the Descotters dismounted and started toward the cage, winding the lashes of their dogwhips around one hand to use the flexible hafts and iron-bound pommels as clubs. The infantry backed away, keeping their bayoneted rifles leveled. The Descotter noncom in charge of the squad checked for a moment, turning to look at them.

'Ye peon dickheads, put them stickers up, an' git yer fingers off the triggers,' he snarled. 'Now, do it now, er we'll ram 'em up yer bums.'

The infantrymen backed away and fell into line, nervously clicking on their safeties and sloping arms.

'And hand over t' key.' One of them extended it gingerly.

'Right,' he said, turning his full attention back to the cages. 'Everybody ready.' The cavalry troopers withdrew the sabers from the taches at the left sides of their belts and stacked the weapons in tripods, brass basket hilts together; then they rolled up the sleeves of their uniform jackets.

The cells were cubes of welded iron bars, fastened along the edges with thumb-thick nuts and bolts for easy take-down. The door was fastened with an ordinary iron padlock. He turned the lock with a click and threw back the door.

Whump. The dazed-looking Skinner came up off the floor like a hyperactive sack- racer and sprang into the air, kicking out with his bound feet. His judgment was a little off, or he might have missed his footing on the uncertain iron-bar floor, and the sergeant was already blocking; instead of breaking the trooper's neck the feet punched into his stomach and knocked him back a dozen paces, winded. The other Skinner hopped forward, growling.

The Descotters piled into the cage, cursing and swinging the weighted handles of their dogwhips. The sergeant followed, limping.

The chaplain was standing before the officers, holding out the small-print copy of the Canonical Handbook that was part of his kit. All three extended their left hands to touch it, gripping their personal amulets with their right.

Saint Wu, aid me now, Raj prayed fervently. The circuit-board amulet he bore had been blessed by her, over a century ago. Beside him Foley was licking his lips nervously; it was hard to remember the boy-man-was still over a year short of twenty, sometimes. And he had never sat on a court-martial.

'You are met here to decide on a matter of human life,' the priest said. He spoke pure Capital-dialect Sponglish, a bit surprising, since his features and the old saber-slash down one cheek made him look like a caricature of a thirty-year man out of the County backwoods. 'Do you acknowledge this?'

'We do.'

'The Spirit of Man of the Stars is with us always; Its justice is perfect, even as all data is stored in Its cores, ROMed forever. Do you acknowledge this?'

'We do.'

'Do you swear to act with impartial justice, excluding all tainted Data Entry, exercising only the Authorized Codes, deviating not from the subroutines of Correct Evaluation?'

'We do.'

'Then may your souls receive Input from the Holy Terminal, be lifted into the Orbits of Righteousness, and be as one with the Net; spared from all infection of the Virus of Corruption, in the name of Holy Federation Church. Endfile.'

'Endfile,' they murmured.

Raj sat, his left foot making the automatic sweep that knocked the scabbard of his saber out of the way; the homey familiarity of the motion bringing home the strangeness of the action. I've killed and ordered killings before, he thought. But these are my men. Part of the force under his command, at least. . So was Private Floreyz Magon, he reminded himself coldly. And even Halfas Arreyo was a citizen of the Civil Government of Holy Federation.

'Bring forth the prisoners,' he said.

Battered and bleeding anew, the Skinners were shoved and hauled to within double arm's length of the table. The sergeant was a disciplined man, and did not use the improvised club in his hand on them again, although it was quite obvious how much he would have liked to.

Raj's head turned to the clot of witnesses. Several of them flinched, trying to hide among a miniature crowd of a dozen or so; most of them looked to be the type for whom any sort of court was bad news. He pointed at one in a brown jacket with the remains of a good lace cravat and silver-buckled shoes.

'You. Did you see the deceased killed?'

'Yes, Messer General,' the man said.

'By the accused?'

'Yes, Messer General.'

'Did he provoke them?' A blank look. 'Did he strike first? Insult them?'

'No, Messer General. Halfas was pretty dumb, but not that dumb. He just sort of smiled when he raked in the pot.'

'Were the accused drunk?'

'Yes, Messer General, at least, they'd been knocking back the arrack pretty fast. Hard to tell with barbs, you know? Staggering drunk, I'd've said, but then they moved so fast. . Anyways, there was a pipe going around, mahrawan, and I think it had some opium in it.'

Raj nodded. 'Did any of the rest of you see the fight?' he said.

One of the witness half-raised his hand. 'Weren't a fight, m'lord,' he said. 'One held him, other cut him. Cut him slow. When the gunboys got there, the barbs just grabbed the first one and turned his head around till it looked backways, then the others, ones that didn't run, just started hitting the barbs with their rifle butts and stuff. Would have run myself if I hadn't had to go within reach of 'em to get out the door.'

Raj turned back to the Skinners. 'Hustai able Sponglishi?' he said: do you speak Sponglish? Blank looks answered him; he was close enough to smell the mercenaries, a mixture of the fresh sweat