The Reformer

them had a few years on him-and all fairly hard-bitten. Many of them wore sailors' knitted caps with tassels, and the Goddess only knew how they'd ended up so far from the sea. Sailing on merchantmen going foreign was the main way an Emerald could learn the use of arms these days, that and signing on with one or another of the Lords of the Isles as a mercenary. . or as a pirate, not that there was much difference in that part of the world. A few did a hitch with the auxiliary light-armed slingers of the Confed forces.

'Good,' he said, when no more volunteers stepped forward. He reached out his right hand, and his servant tossed a spear into it; the old Emerald pattern, six feet long with a narrow sharp-bladed stabbing head. 'Now let's see who can use a sticker. Then we'll go on to javelin, sling, sword and knife.'

The testing process lasted all afternoon, while the hot summer sun baked strong-smelling sap out of the eucalyptus trees that shaded the pasture beyond the corral. When he was finished Esmond's eyes looked twice as brilliant, staring blue out of the mask of reddish dust streaked with runnels of sweat. He gasped as he shoved his head into the bucket of water resting on the coping of the well, then poured the rest down his neck and tossed the bucket in for another load.

'Rejoice,' he said dryly as his brother came up, a look of intense concentration on his face and a staff-sling in his hands. 'Managed to bonk yourself on the back of the head again?'

'No, I think I'm getting the hang of it,' he said seriously, his thin, intelligent face warming. 'It's not that complicated once you grasp the basic theory.'

Esmond snorted. 'Weapons are something you have to learn with your skin and muscle and bone, not with your head,' he said.

'Oh, I don't know,' Adrian said mildly. 'Knowing the basic principles always makes things easier to learn. Here, I'll show you.'

The sling the younger Emerald held was a weapon popular because of its simplicity and compactness, but it needed as much skill to handle as a bow. There was a wooden handle four feet long, two silk cords of about a yard each-leather would have done, but not as well in damp weather-and a chamois pouch for the ammunition. Esmond blinked in slight alarm as his brother dropped an almond-shaped lead bullet into the pouch and let gravity draw the cords taut. Adrian's arms were well enough muscled, in a lean whipcord fashion; he'd be able to sling the bullet hard. Where it went was another question, and Esmond's fingers tightened on the single handgrip of the small round buckler he was carrying in his left hand.

'That tree,' Adrian said. 'Just below the forked branch.' He whipped the sling in a single 360-degree circle before he released the free cord.

The gum tree in question was a hundred and fifty feet away. It quivered and there was a hard thock; the bullet itself travelled too swiftly to be seen, except as an arching blur. A scrap of bark detached itself, and fell, exposing the lozenge-shaped hole in the pale wood of the eucalyptus.

Esmond blinked again. Dead center.

'Not bad, little brother, not bad at all,' he said. 'I wouldn't like one of those to hit my head.' Because it would spatter my brains for yards.

'Oh, it's not so hard. As I said, I understand the principle. . and when I throw, it's as if spirits were showing me where the shot will fall. I'll be-we'll be-throwing grenades,' he went on. 'They'll be more effective than lead bullets.'

'We just might make it,' Esmond said, with a slow smile.

'If Demansk comes in with his fourteen regiments,' Adrian said seriously. 'I'd say. .'

He turned his head to one side, as if listening; Esmond noticed because it was a habit he'd picked up since they came to Vanbert.

'That the chances are about fifty-fifty if we-our esteemed patron and his friends-enlist Demansk. Fifty-fifty for a prolonged war rather than immediate disaster, that is.'

'Without him, fucking zip,' Esmond said.

'Oh, not quite that bad. About one in twelve, really.'

* * *

'Where's the master?' the steward bleated.

'Under house arrest, you fool. I have fifty men with me. Food and wine for them, and send messengers to the battalion commanders to meet me here immediately.'

Johun Audsley's face was set like a death mask carved in bronze. It turned with the mechanical precision of a catapult on a turntable as Esmond bowed and saluted:

'My lord, what's the situation?'

'Who the daemons are. . oh, the Emerald with the toys. Well, boy, someone blabbed. Tows Annersun, at a guess-he never could keep his mouth shut while he was dipping his wick. Now the Speaker knows everything.'

'Councillor Annersun told Speaker Jeschonyk?' Esmond said.

'No, you idiot, but he was sleeping with the man's daughter, and she told him. He moved fast, I'll give the old bastard that. . stop wasting my time and get your Emeralds and their toys ready, for what they're worth.'

'My lord!' Esmond saluted.

The Confed ignored him, sweeping past with his entourage; they all had the look of men who'd ridden far and fast, and several wore bandages that were seeping red.

Esmond stood frozen on the stairs for a full three minutes. Amazing how many things you can think of at once, he thought. On an impersonal level: disaster for the conspiracy. Jeschonyk alive, and most of the Council. They'd be mobilizing this minute, no matter what other parts of the plan had come off on short notice. Audsley had nearly twenty thousand men here and on neighboring estates, but less than a third of them were fully equipped, and their organization was poor. And. .

Nanya. Left alone in the Redvers' townhouse, with the magistrate's guards, probably a force from the City Companies too. If the Speaker decided Redvers was too dangerous to live, they'd make a sweep of his household as well-

Esmond turned on his heel, clattering down the staircase and out through the service wing. His men were barracked in what had been spare housemaid's quarters; they looked up as he burst in, most of them sacked out on their straw pallets. Hands froze as they worked on gear, sharpened a sword blade, clattered dice ready to throw.

'Jusha!' he roared. 'Full kit, get your mounts, I want first company ready to move in fifteen minutes with one led remount per man. Full satchels of grenades, and five packhorses with spares. Canteens, but no food or bedding-we're going straight into the fight from a fast route march. Move!'

He'd had the training of these men for four months now. The long room dissolved into chaos, a chaos from which order grew. He walked to his own room, a boarded-off cubby, and hauled down what he needed; a bucket of javelins slung over his shoulder, his helmet, war gloves with brass and lead covers over the knuckles. And a map of Vanbert; they might have to take an indirect route out.

'Ready, sir.'

'Then let's ride,' he said, striding out to the entrance and vaulting into the saddle with a hand on the pommel, ignoring the weight of weapons and leather hauberk. His hand rose and chopped forward. 'Follow me!'

* * *

'No, no, no!'

Adrian Gellert turned and slammed the flat of his palm into the wall of the shed. The slaves looked up from pouring powder into small bronze kegs, then whipped their heads back to their work. The last four months had taught the survivors that handling powder was not something to do with half a mind. The sharp peppery-sulfur smell of the explosive filled the air inside the barn.

'No, no, tell me my brother's not as stupid as the hero of a street-epic!'

Adrian stopped, controlled his breathing and pressing his hands to his face. Suicide, he thought. He can't possibly cut his way into Vanbert-riots, chaos, street fighting-and get out with Nanya.

probability of success 35 %, ±7, Center said.

Surprise flashed through Adrian's mind. Raj's mental voice cut in: If you're going to stage a raid into a major city, riot and insurrection make it a lot easier.

A vision floated through Adrian's consciousness: East Residence, the capital of Raj's native land on Bellevue.