Conventions of War (54 page)

A hundred and ninety-five thousand zeniths, more or less. Hardly a sum to compare with the great fortunes of the High City, but enough to keep her in luxury to the end of her days.

The money was spare comfort. Perhaps she would throw it all off the terraces of the High City after all.

She held the pot between her hands as One-Step drove her back to the Commandery, and as her fingers blindly traced the smooth, cool crackle, she thought that perhaps she, as well as the pot, had outlived her proper time.

 

“I
have received the recommendations for awards and decorations that you have forwarded to me.” The image of Tork had been recorded seven hours earlier and spent the intervening hours in transit. Sula had made a point of finishing her luncheon before viewing it, as she knew it was bound to sour her digestion.

“I believe that on further review you will wish to reconsider some of the recommendations,” Tork said. “You have recommended commoners for awards that are customarily given only to Peers. A lower grade of decoration is surely more appropriate.”

A buzzing disharmony entered the Supreme Commander's chiming voice.

“And as for the amnesties that you have proclaimed for various citizens, I must question them. To fight bravely for the Praxis is no more than one's duty, and hardly excuses any criminal offenses that might have been committed earlier in life. I shall keep these for a careful review. And now…”

Tork's voice filled with clashing discord, a sound that raised the hackles on Sula's neck. She could imagine that the sound was intimidating at close range—even at the range of seven light-hours it was unpleasant enough.

“I must strongly disapprove,” Tork said, “of your appearance at the funeral of someone who seems to have led an—irregular—life. This is consistent neither with the dignity nor the gravity of an official of high rank. Nor did the—the ‘soldiers' at the funeral”—Sula could hear the quotes in Tork's voice—“display appropriate military discipline. I trust that there will be no repetition of this kind of disgraceful exhibition.”

The orange end-stamp appeared on the screen before Sula could hurl at it the obscenities she held pent-up in her lungs.

And then she thought,
How does he know?

The funeral had been broadcast on Zanshaa, but how had Tork heard of it light-hours away? No one was beaming news video from Zanshaa to the fleet.

Someone, Sula thought, had been sending Tork messages. She wondered who it was.

These speculations moderated the tone of her reply, though not by much.

She replied from the private quarters of the commander of the Home Fleet, with the polished silver symbol of the Fleet on the paneled wall behind her, and seated behind the commander's massive kesselwood desk.

The
ju yao
pot stood on a corner of the desk, just in pickup range.

“I would love to have rewarded Peers for their bravery, my lord,” she said, “but unfortunately most of them had already fled Zanshaa as fast as their yachts could carry them, and the ones that didn't seemed to have kept away from anyplace where bullets were likely to fly. So far as I know, there were only two Peers in the entire secret army, and I was one of them. The other, PJ Ngeni, you'll note I recommend for the Medal of Valor, First Class.

“The fact is, my lord,” she went on, gazing straight into the camera pickups, “the commoners have been far braver in this war than the Peers, and they know it. If we Peers want any credit at all, we should at least recognize the courage that these people displayed. All of my recommendations stand—and in fact they will be proclaimed publicly by the time you have a chance to view this.”

She offered the camera her most pleasant smile.

“Because the Peers and the political leadership fled, and because my own superiors were captured by the Naxids within days of their arrival, in order to carry on the war I was forced to make deals with individuals who hold…local power. One of the promises I made them was that of amnesty for any
‘irregularities,'
to use your term, they may have committed prior to their joining the army. If the word of a Peer is to mean anything…”

Anything more,
she thought,
than the word of the Peers,
Lord Tork among them, who swore to defend Zanshaa to their dying breath and then ran like dogs
.

“If the word of a Peer is to mean anything at all, I repeat, then these amnesties should stand. This list too will be made publicly available within the hour.”

She took a breath and leaned slightly forward. “As for the discipline of the army,” she said, “they were so busy killing Naxids that they didn't have a chance to learn to march properly.”
Perhaps in your own command,
she thought,
the reverse is true
. “I'll do my best to teach them the necessary skills, however.

“End communication.”

Sula sent the message before she had the opportunity to change her mind, then arranged for the Ministry of Wisdom to make public the list of decorations and amnesties. It was then that she received a message from the guard on the Commandery's main entrance saying that she was needed there urgently.

She arrived to find a group waiting at the front door in a drizzling rain. In the lead was a tall Torminel in the undress uniform of the Fleet, followed by others similarly clothed. Sula looked at the rank badges and saw that the leader was a lieutenant captain, and the rest petty officers.

The next thing she checked was to see if they were armed. No weapons were visible. She signed for the door to be opened.

“Yes?” she said. “Who the hell are you?”

The leader gave her a surprised look, the fur tufting up above her dark goggles. “I would expect a salute,” she said, “from a lieutenant.”

“From a military governor,” Sula said, “you get nothing till you tell me who you are.”

“Lieutenant Captain Lady Trani Creel, Action Group 569.” She reached in her pocket and produced a Fleet ID.

Sula looked at the picture now dotted with tiny drops of rain. Everything seemed in order.

“Ah. Hah,” she said. There had been Torminel missing from the Naxid roundup following the Axtattle battle, and now she knew where they were, all—she counted—thirteen of them.

It also occurred to her that she now knew who had been sending Tork reports of her activities.

Lady Trani licked her fangs delicately. “I would appreciate a report, Lieutenant,” she lisped.

Sula looked at her. “To what end?” she asked.

“So that I understand what's happening in my command. I gather that I'm the senior officer present.”

A burst of laughter erupted from Sula. “You can't be serious!” she said.

Again that surprised look. “Of course I'm serious. May I please come in out of the rain?”

“Why not?” Sula laughed again, and stepped back from the door. Lady Trani moved into shelter, brushing rain off her shoulders. Drops of water glittered like rhinestones on her goggles. The other Torminel crowded in behind her. The air began to smell of wet fur.

“Do you really expect to take command of my army?” Sula said.

“Of course. And the government as well, until a proper governor arrives from the Convocation.” Sula could see her reflection in the Torminel's dark eyeshades. “I'm still awaiting a salute.”

“You'll wait a long time if you expect a salute from the army,” Sula said. “May I ask where you've spent the war?”

“Kaidabal,” Lady Trani said, naming a city south of Zanshaa. “We ran there after we heard that everyone was being arrested. We stayed with a client of ours, a wealthy businessman.”

“And what did you do there?”

“Hid. We had no other options, because we had to abandon all our equipment in Zanshaa.” Lady Trani sighed. “There were such problems. We couldn't get ration cards, you see.”

“I see.” Sula looked Trani up and down and saw little evidence of starvation. Her fur was glossy and her bottom was no less plump than that of most Torminel.

“Lady Trani,” Sula said, “may we speak privately?”

“Of course.”

Sula took Trani's arm and led her to the room where important visitors had once been asked to wait while their escorts were found. The place still had its thick carpeting and expensive paneling, but the original furniture was gone, and had been replaced by some cheap sofas on which the guard took their breaks.

“My lady,” Sula said, “please believe I have your best interests at heart. I ask that you not make yourself ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Again that surprised look. “Whatever do you mean, Lady Sula?”

“You can't expect my army to respect a commander who spent the war hiding in Kaidabal when they were fighting and dying here in Zanshaa. And the government—I proclaimed myself Governor on the day of the victory and no one has disputed it.”

“But I'm the senior officer,” Lady Trani said, her lisping voice quite mild. “One doesn't salute the person; one salutes the rank—and obeys it too. You keep referring to ‘my' army, but it doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the empire, and I am the senior imperial officer present. I don't dispute that you're the military governor, just as I don't expect you to dispute the fact that I'm about to succeed you.”

“They'll laugh at you,” Sula said. Her own laughter had faded, to be replaced by a growing foreboding.

“As long as they laugh in private,” Trani said, her voice level. “If they laugh in public, or disobey, I shall be forced to cut their throats.”

Sula refrained from taking a step back, and reminded herself that Lady Trani was unarmed.

“I think,” she said, “that we should refer this matter to higher authority.”

The delay was mainly to allow herself time to think. Lady Trani no longer seemed a figure of fun. She was going to be a serious problem, and worse for the fact that Fleet law, custom, and the Praxis were all behind her.

Furthermore, the only person to whom Sula could appeal was Tork. He was exactly the sort of person who would find Lady Trani's simplicities appealing; and in any case, Sula very much doubted that Tork, on the heels of receiving her last message, would feel much in sympathy with her.

“While I don't dispute that Lady Trani outranks me,” Sula said in her message to Tork, “I am nevertheless concerned whether someone who spent the war in hiding, after abandoning her equipment, is going to receive the respect of the army and other institutions here in the High City. I don't want to push myself forward, but if the disparity in rank is truly a problem, you could solve the problem by promoting me. I'm already doing the work, after all.”

As Sula expected, Tork's reply, received some fifteen hours later, ignored this suggestion.

“It has long concerned me that a lieutenant of such youth and of only a few months' seniority held such a critical post,” he said in a message addressed to Lady Trani Creel. “It is meant as no offense to Lady Sula to say that she has suffered from her inexperience. Lady Trani, I am pleased to confirm you as Military Governor of Zanshaa. I hope you will rule with firmness, and consider it your first duty to kill the traitors who have caused our people so much suffering.”

Lady Trani turned from the screen to where Sula sat, in the office of the Home Fleet commander with its huge curved glass window.

“I believe I'll take that salute now, Lady Sula,” Trani said.

“Yes, my lady.” With grave deliberation Sula rose from her desk and braced.

“Thank you very much,” Trani said. She ambled across the office to join Sula behind her desk. She looked through the great curved window at the morning light shining over the Lower Town, the kingdom she had just conquered without firing so much as a shot.

“I'll need your access codes,” she said. “I trust you will remain on hand for the duration of the transition, after which I will find you a posting suitable to your station. And of course I'll recommend you for a nice decoration for all you've done here.”

Sula tried not to show the savage amusement she felt. No doubt Trani was trying to be kind.

“Thank you, my lady,” she said.

She'd had nearly fifteen hours to make herself ready for this moment.

Lady Trani looked down at the desk. “I'll also need to meet with your council, or cabinet, or whatever they're called.”

“I don't believe they have a name,” Sula said. “But I'll call them.”

“No,” Lady Trani said firmly. “
I'll
call them. If you'll provide me with contact information.”

“Very well.”

Sula had to admire Lady Trani's composure. She knew so very clearly what she wanted, what was proper, and what was her due.

Whether anyone else could be brought to agree with her was another problem.

“I've been reviewing the communications between the governor's office and Supreme Commander Tork,” Lady Trani told the meeting later. “The Supreme Commander has several areas of concern.

“First, the matter of punishments. We simply haven't been killing enough traitors. It's my understanding,” she said, turning to Sula, “that we have something like a thousand prisoners?”

“They're being debriefed,” Sula explained. “Once the interrogators are done with them—”

“Lord Tork said just to kill them,” Trani said. “It seems to me that we could do it all at once, with machine guns.”

“The penalty for treason,” Sula reminded, “is to be thrown from a height.”

“Blast. I forgot.” A shiver of annoyance crossed Trani's furry face. “Well, can't we machine-gun them first, then chuck them?”

The governing council gazed at her from their places. They used the room in the Commandery, all subdued lighting and polished wood, that had been used by the Fleet Control Board before the evacuation. Overhead glowed a wormhole map of the empire, Zanshaa a burning red jewel with its eight wormhole gates. The council sat at a U-shaped table, with the new lady governor at its center.