Island in the Sea of Time (71 page)

“That’s the
Yare
, isn’t it?” Ian Arnstein said, peering at the photograph. “And that other one doesn’t look at all like the Tartessian ships we saw this time last year.”

The Coast Guard officers looked at him, silent. “Well, I’m not an expert,” he said defensively.

“It’s a bloody brigantine,” Alston said. “
Look
at the thing, the way it’s rigged. Oh, she’ll have a lot of leeway sailing close and she’s too beamy to be really fast, but that bastard Isketerol didn’t waste his time on Nantucket, if he could build that from scratch.”

She saw his incomprehension. “Remember what I said, about sailing across the Atlantic in the ships they had?”

He nodded. She stabbed a finger into the picture and went on: “With this, he could sail across the
Pacific.
He probably broke up a couple of those ships we saw last spring to make it. You could circumnavigate the world in this—Magellan did it, in somethin’ less seaworthy—or carry a hundred men to Nantucket.”

“This brig isn’t just a copy, either,” she continued. “It’s a clever
adaptation
of our ideas for local use. That shallow draft . . .”

“You can beach it without damage,” Sandy Rapczewicz—she’d kept her maiden name in her second marriage too—said mournfully. “That’d be handy, for inshore work.”

“Or an invasion,” Alston said, nodding. “Well, taking Isketerol with us—I made a bad mistake, there. We’ve got to put a stop to this now, if we can.”

She looked up at Lieutenant Commander Hendriksson. The young Minnesotan drew herself a little more erect. “What did you make the water there, Ms. Hendriksson?”

“I had twelve feet, but that was quarter of a mile offshore,” she said. “From the color and the look of the bottom on the lead line, it shelves quickly.”

Alston picked up the photograph again and measured with her eye. A man was standing upright beside the beached hull of the Tartessian brig to give her some idea of the size. Somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred tons displacement, she decided. Slightly less than half the size of her two schooners, but much stubbier and tubbier than the
Tubman
or
Douglass.
Which meant . . .

“This thing may draw less than four feet,” she said.

“
And
the brig’s got oar ports,” Hendriksson pointed out. “That could be useful, inshore, given a calm or a wind right in her teeth.”

“Well, at least we know the range of those rock-throwers,” Alston said. “What did you make of their camp?”

“Ma’am, that wall and ditch they’ve got . . . I wouldn’t like to try and storm it.”

“No, you’re right on that,” Alston said. “If I know Walker, he’s had the Tartessians put underwater obstacles in, too.”

She spread her fingers on the table and looked around at the others. “I hope I don’t have to say keep a careful lookout,” she said dryly.

There were somber nods. Together the
Yare
and this brig could carry almost as many fighters as the expeditionary force numbered, at least for a short coasting voyage.

“From what Ms. Swindapa’s people were able to tell us, Walker has a strong position in the east—either he’s in charge, or nearly so, with a real army under his control. Plus we’re not nearly as completely in command of the sea as we’d hoped. We obviously need better intelligence, and we need help. This is the back crick of the beyond, by local standards. We’ll have to send a party inland.”

She smiled, a shark’s expression. “And perhaps we’ll give
him
a surprise or two, busy little bee that he’s been.”

“Ma’am? Lieutenant Commander Ortiz is back.”

She ducked her head out of the tent for a second; the commander of the
Frederick Douglass
was coming up from the improvised dock. She returned his salute.

“I’ve got ’em,” Ortiz said. “And ma’am, you’re welcome to them.”

Alston nodded, hands clasped behind her back, watching the livestock coming ashore from the schooner. All of it safely dead, at least; there was slaughter stock for sale a few hours’ run up the channel. They’d put in a small wharf, enough for the ships’ boats, and wheelbarrows and handcarts and strong young backs began trundling the carcasses up into the camp. Several dozen locals were among them, led by Pelanatorn’s sons and nephews, daughters and nieces.

“No problems, Mr. Ortiz?”

“Well, the locals are damned light-fingered, ma’am,” he said. “Anything metal particularly. And, ah, some of them are so friendly that it creates problems. Otherwise no; once we convinced them we weren’t pirates, they were eager to trade.”

“Good. Have a look at this, Mr. Ortiz—Ms. Hendriksson hasn’t been idle.”

He exclaimed over the picture of the
Yare
and the Tartessian brig. Alston stood deep in thought, rising and sinking slowly on the balls of her feet with her hands clasped behind her.

“Which brings me to a matter of standing orders,” she said. “Now, you’ve all read the briefing sheet. These people here don’t have anything like what we’d call a government. If we want to get them on our side—and we need them—we have to win them over small group by small group. Ms. Swindapa and the Arnsteins and I are working on the, ah, the Grandmothers—fairly soon we’ll be taking a party off to consult with more of them inland. However, they’ve also got a series of local councils and another great council covering most of the southwestern part of England that meets near Stonehenge. It’s a more of a
religious
institution, in charge of what they call the Sacred Truce, but it has a lot of influence. It’s composed of men, but they’re
selected
by the Grandmothers. On top of all this, there are the Spear Chosen, who are the closest thing the Fiernan have to millitary leaders. They’re not elected or appointed at all; anyone who gets a good reputation as a leader and who throws a lot of parties gradually becomes accepted as one—sort of a potlatch thing. Land here is owned by lineages; trading or owning a lot of cows is the only way you can become really rich. Evidently among themselves the Fiernan Bohulugi don’t really fight, they skirmish in a sort of ritual way with livestock as the prize.”

“Jesus, what a marvel of organization,” someone muttered. “Real Prussian stuff.”

Alston frowned; Swindapa was scowling at the slight on her people. “So if we want to get the Spear Chosen on our side, the way is to lavish hospitality and plenty of gifts. Hence this series of barbecues. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ortiz said. “Ah, the locals, they evidently have a rather, ah, wild idea of a party.”

Alston smiled thinly. “Well, that brings me to the next order of business. As you know, I’ve always insisted on enforcing the nonfraternization and public-displays-of-affection orders strictly on board ship. I intend to continue to do so.”

Nods went around the table. Shipboard was enough of a pressure cooker as it was.

“However, onshore, that’s a different matter. We have nearly four hundred healthy young people here, and they aren’t going to live like Cistercians indefinitely. Never give an order you know will be ignored.” Emphatic nods; doing that made the next one more likely to be ignored as well.

“I’d like to emphasize, however, ladies, gentlemen, and have you pass on to your commands, that any misuse of rank, in fact any fraternization up or down the chain of command, is going to be goddam painful for all involved. In short, I’ll come down on it like a ton of wet cement, and so will each and every one of y’all. Ditto anythin’ else that interferes with discipline or combat readiness. Every officer will take a personal interest in seein’ that any such individual will
suffer.
Clear? Off-duty, however, we’ll apply the consentin’-adults rule.”

She relaxed slightly. “However, that brings up another problem. Our expeditionary force is about two-thirds male, as you know. This can cause . . . awkwardness.”

More nods; in fact, it had created fairly serious problems back on Nantucket. The cadets were numerous enough in the island’s small young-adult population to throw the balance between the genders off, and there had been fights and tension over it.

“I anticipate that our position vis-à-vis the locals will, ah, lessen the problem.”

“God, yes, ma’am,” Ortiz said. “Like I said—very, very friendly around here.”

And we’ll probably end up with a fair number of war brides,
Alston reflected
. Nothing wrong with that; I could scarcely complain even if there was, all things considered.

She smiled secretly to herself behind an impassive face. Swindapa had also said, privately and emphatically, that if they were going to do this monogamy thing they could at least do it frequently.
Not much danger of Lesbian Bed Death there.

“Now, as soon as a fair number of locals come in,” she went on, “we’ll have to start outfittin‘ and trainin’ them.”

A crewman saluted. “Ma’am. The locals are at the gate.”

“Very well,” she said, returning the courtesy. “Ladies, gentlemen, we have guests.” Alston drew on her gloves; dress uniform again, even if it meant nothing to the locals.
Strange. Last time here it was for Daurthunnicar.
And hadn’t that been a total fuckup . . . she looked at the Fiernan girl.
Well, not quite. Not at all, personally speakin’
.

She ducked out of the tent, returning the sentries’ salutes, and toward the gate; it was local courtesy to greet guests at the door.

“So Walker is a king already, as he wished,” Swindapa said, while they walked toward the inland apex of the pentagonal fort.

“I”m sorry, ’dapa,” Alston said quietly. ”If we could have come again last year . . .”

“That wasn’t the way the stars moved,” Swindapa replied in a murmur. “It’s Walker’s fault, not yours.”

“Besides”—Swindapa shrugged—“if things weren’t bad, they might not listen to you. They might not anyway.”

They’d certainly
talked
a good fight here, full of anger against the Sun People, but Alston didn’t know how much of that was telling her what she wanted to hear. From what the Arnsteins and Martha had told her, most primitive people took hospitality very seriously—if you traveled at all, it had to be as a guest.
No HoJo’
s here
.

The locals were back—not the old woman in the intricately checked and embroidered cloak, but the middle-aged man and his sons, and this time some girls as well, dressed in string skirts and short-sleeved knitted shirts and colorful shawls. They looked around in awe, and there was well-hidden fear in the older man’s eyes.
Pelanatorn,
she remembered. The younger Fiernans called greetings to the sentries on the walls, and seemed surprised and a little hurt at being ignored; even more surprised at the way the gate guard braced to attention and saluted as Alston came up.

“Better explain, ’dapa,” she said.

“I have—I told them that it’s prayer, to please the Eagle People spirits of war.”

Alston’s mouth quirked.
That’s actually not far from the truth
. Most of the Fiernans were holding baskets, two had a gutted and dressed pig on a carrying pole thrust between its legs, and several children drove a pair of cattle and four sheep.

“And thank them for the gifts,” she said, after calling for a detail to come and take them.

“Oh, no—that would be impolite, thanking them for being hospitable, as if they might not be,” Swindapa said. “Just smile and nod.”

Well, thank God for interpreters,
Alston thought. They slowed things down so you could avoid putting your foot into it too badly.
I feel like Captain goddam Cook.

 

“Stop there, outlander. Who are you?”

Two warriors stepped out from behind the smooth, mottled bark of a huge beech. Isketerol reined in his horse.
I’m a man with a sore arse,
he said to himself; he’d learned how to ride over the winter, but doing twenty miles in a day still told. His horse seemed to agree, lowering its head and blowing out its lips.

“Isketerol of Tartessos, oath-brother of Wehaxpothis Hwalkarz of the Iraiina,” he said. “These are my handfast men,” he added, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the others and the train of packhorses.

“Oath-brother to the sorcerer?” The bearded faces behind the spearheads—steel spearheads, he noticed—went pale. “Pass.”

The weapons dipped in salute. The Tartessians booted their horses up out of the vale and onto the hillsides. The war camp of the Iraiina and their allies lay sprawled about them, a vast shapeless mass in clumps and clusters across the downs. There was no problem in finding his blood-brother. The Walkerburg men had pitched their tents in neat rows, northward and upstream of the others; some of them were still digging the latrines their lord insisted on, grumbling as shovelfuls of chalky subsoil flew. Sentries paced the outlines of the camp, full-armed; most of the rest lay around their cooking fires, throwing dice or talking, working on their gear or already rolled in their blankets and asleep. Servants carried grain and cut grass to the picketed horses, or tended the trek oxen near the wagons that made a wall around half the camp. Wind blew the scents of wildwood from the great forest to the north, overcoming the stench of massed humanity and animals. Meat roasted over the flames, and flat griddle cakes of wheat flour cooked.

Sentries cried him hail as he reined in, and men dashed over to care for his horse and his followers’. All the Walkerburg folk knew the friend of their chief, who guested with him so often. The Tartessian took the hot mead one offered and drank it gratefully, walking over to the
wehaxpothis
’s pavilion. It wasn’t a cold day, by the standards of spring in the White Isle, but the wind could still flog your blood to racing.

“Good to see you!” Walker said, in English. “Did you get the saltpeter? And the barrels from base?”

The Amurrukan were like that, abrupt; he meant no insult by it. “That I did,” he said. “And I left the saltpeter at Walkerburg. What do you need it for? All it’s good for is cooling the blood, as far as I know.” Isketerol sat in one of the folding canvas chairs before Walker’s tent.