The Reformer

the raised platform where he sat Casull could see past the Emeralds to the city, and to the black thunderclouds piling up on the eastern horizon.

Luridly appropriate, he thought.

'The. . grenade, did you call it? The grenade was very impressive. At sea, such weapons could be decisive-at least for the first few times, when the enemy were unused to them, and had none themselves.'

He spoke Emerald, the cultured version of Solinga's gentlefolk, not the patois of the sea. The younger Emerald's Islander was impressively fluent, but it wouldn't do to let him think he was dealing with a boor, a mere jumped-up pirate chief. Casull's mental eyes narrowed as he appraised this Adrian Gellert; outwardly he was very much a young Scholar of the Grove, but there was something else. . Harder than one might expect, he thought. And more perceptive-he misses nothing.

The brother was more outwardly formidable. A fighting man, Casull judged, and not just an athlete. The reports from the mainland, and from the spies among the barkeeps, whores and gamblers who'd had contact with the mercenary troop the Gellerts had brought with them, all said he had the baraka, the gift of inspiring men in battle. Wits besides; and he certainly looked like an incarnation of Wodep, the ancient War God of the mainlanders.

The younger Emerald bowed. 'O King, the grenades are the least of what can be done with the new. . new principle involved in these explosive weapons.'

Casull raised his eyebrows. The Emerald word meant underlying cause, and he didn't quite see how it applied.

'Speak on,' he said mildly, quelling a restless stir by his son Tenny. Let the boy learn patience; that's not the least of a ruler's virtues.

'If my lord the King would deign to look at these-the first is what is called a cannon, for hurling iron balls and giant grenades; to smash ships, or batter down the walls of a fort. .'

Two hours later Casull leaned back again. 'Interesting indeed,' he said. His eyes turned to Esmond. 'And you, young sir, what have you to say?'

Esmond smiled, a gesture that did not reach the cold blue eyes. 'My brother is the scholar,' he said. 'What I do is fight. I've managed to kill a fair number of Confeds, over the past six months. I intend to kill a good many more.' His fist tightened on his knee; the scars and burns across the back showed white against his tanned skin. 'For every slight, for every humiliation they've inflicted on me and my city, I shall take recompense in blood-and they owe me a debt beyond that. When the last trooper dies in the burning ruins of Vanbert and the Confederacy is a memory, then perhaps I'll consider the account settled.'

Casull nodded thoughtfully; he'd seen hatred before, but none more bitter. Pity, he thought. A man that eaten with hate turned inward on himself; his luck might be strong, but it would run too swiftly, carrying out the current of his life. But I can use him.

He clapped his hands. 'Hear the commands of the King!' he said, his tone slightly formal. The wakil leaned forward, pen poised over a sheet of reed-paper.

'It is the command of the King that the noble warrior Esmond Gellert's-son of Solinga, be taken into the forces of the King, to command the Sea Striker regiment; he shall rank as a Commander of Five Hundred-which is about what they'll come to, with the men he brought with him. The usual pay and plunder-shares.'

Esmond bowed again, and this time his smile was more genuine.

Casull turned his eyes back to the younger man. 'You shall have a chance to demonstrate your new weapons,' he said. 'It is the command of the King that Adrian Gellert be accepted into the Court with the rank of Scholar-Advisor, with the usual pay and perquisites. For the purpose of building his weapons, he may exert the royal prerogative of eminent domain, acquiring land, and requiring artisans and merchants to furnish the materials he needs. . saltpeter, you said? And the metals. He may use a royal estate to be designated hereafter, and royal vessels, within reason. All goods and labor to be paid for at fair market prices, of course.'

A King of the Isles was theoretically absolute; in practice there were always enough claimants that a monarch who angered enough of the powerful merchants and ship owners would find that the despotism was tempered by assassination and leavened by coup d'etat. He certainly wasn't going to risk that for this Emerald's untried notions. The potential payoff was certainly huge, though.

'Ah. .' Adrian looked uncertain. 'My lord King, this work will require considerable funds,' he said. 'Even for demonstration purposes. How. .'

Casull smiled at Enri and Pyhar Lowisson. 'Your patrons will, of course-out of patriotic duty as well-loan you the funds at a reasonable rate of interest. No more than fifteen percent, annual, compounded.'

The two Islander merchants winced; that was the rate for a bottomry loan, with no premium for risk.

'If the weapons are satisfactory, I will reward you richly; and they shall have the interest doubled from the royal treasury, as well as my favor, of course.'

He beamed at the Emeralds and the two Islanders as well. Unspoken went the fact that if the weapons failed to satisfy they would get nothing, and the Lowissons could try as best they could to get satisfaction from their penniless guests.

Casull clapped his hands. 'This audience is at an end!'

* * *

'By the Dog,' the mercenary officer said. 'Has the King sent us a pretty boy for a party?'

'The King has sent me here to command,' Esmond said. 'Name and rank.'

The mercenary turned crimson. 'I'm Donnuld Grayn, and I command here now that Stenson's dead, by the Dog!'

Esmond rested his hands on his sword belt and looked the man up and down. By his accent he came from Cable, ancient enemy of the Solingians-not that that mattered much, these days-and by his looks, scars upon scars, he'd been in this profession most of his thirty-odd years. And from the look of his bloodshot eyes. .

'Are you usually drunk this early?' he said. 'Or are you just naturally stupid?'

'Ahhhh,' the man said eagerly, his hand falling towards his sword hilt. 'I'll see your liver and lights for that, you mincing Solingian basta-'

The growl broke into a yelp as Esmond's thumb and forefinger closed on his nose and gave it a powerful, exactly calculated twist. As he'd expected, the mercenary forgot all about his steel and lashed out with a knobby fist.

Esmond's own hand slapped it aside, and his right sank its knuckles into his opponent's gut with the savage precision of the palaestra. As the man doubled over, the Solingian stepped to one side and slammed another blow with the edge of a palm behind his ear. The mercenary dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut and lay wheezing at the victor's feet.

The victor looked up; there were a crowd of Strikers looking on, together with some of the camp followers and children that crowded the barracks. Some were smiling, some glaring, most wavering between the two.

'You!' Esmond said. 'Name and rank, soldier.'

The man stiffened. 'Eward, sir-file closer, second company.'

'Eward, get Captain Grayn to his quarters-he needs to sleep it off. Trumpeter,' he went on, 'sound fall in.'

That took far too long, and he had to detail some of his own men to push the noncombatants out of the way. When it was finished there were about four hundred men standing on the pounded clay of the parade ground; it was surrounded on three sides by barracks, and on the fourth by a wall. Esmond paced down the ranks of the sweating, bewildered men, pausing now and then.

Not bad, he thought. About half-and-half javelineers and slingers. They all had linen corselets with thin iron plates sewn between the layers of cloth, shortswords, and light open-face bowl helmets. Most of them looked to be in reasonable condition, and King Casull certainly wouldn't be wasting his silver on deadbeats. From what he'd heard, a lot of them would be men who'd left the Emerald cities for reasons of health, or on their relatives' urgent advice; but war and the Confederacy had left a lot of broken men in the southern lands.

'All right,' he said at last, standing in front of them with his left hand resting on his hilt and the cloak thrown back from his shoulder. 'My name is Esmond Gellert.'

A slight murmur. He noted it without the pleasure it might have brought him a few months ago. He'd always been proud of the fame he'd won as a competitor in the Pan-Emerald Games-if not for undying fame, why would