couriers were men of some rank themselves, but it was still strange how unintimidated Heldeyz looked, even facing the stark fury in Barholm Clerett’s eyes. His own were fixed and distant, in a face still seamed by trail dust.
Barholm went on fretfully: “I don’t know why Ali has done this. The treaty after the last war was generous to a fault—particularly since we won the war. The gifts of friendship . . .”
observe:
Sweating slaves heaved at bundles of iron bars, heaping them on the flatbed rail-cars and lashing them down. One slipped and fell to the paving stones of East Residence’s main station. A bar snapped across; as a clerk bustled over a guard rolled the broken end beneath his boot.
“Spirit,” he said in a tone of mild curiosity. The interior of the fracture showed a gray texture. “That’s not wrought iron, it’s cast .”
Cast iron came straight from the smelting furnace; it was hard, brittle and full of impurities. Only after treatment in a puddling mill did it become the ductile, easily worked material so valuable for machinery and tools.
The clerk cleared his throat. “I think you’ll find,” he said significantly, “that the Chancellor has inspected the manifests quite carefully.”
The guard grinned; he was a thin man with a long nose and a pockmarked face, an East Residencer by birth with all the ingrained respect for a good swindle that marked that breed. He brushed his thumb over the first three fingers of his right hand. The clerk smiled back.
“Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said. “I think you’ll find that quality, quantity, and delivery dates on our tribute—pardon, our gifts of friendship—to the Colony have been below the Treaty terms.”
Figures scrolled before his eyes, and he read them in an emotionless monotone worthy of Center.
Barholm blinked. He turned his eyes on Tzetzas, and a fine beading of sweat broke out on the Chancellor’s olive face. “Sole Autocrat,” the minister said, spreading his hands. “When contracts are handed out, something always sticks—so many layers of oversight, so many hands—you know—”
The Governor’s fist struck the table. Gold-rimmed kave cups bounced and clattered in their saucers.
“I know who’s responsible for seeing that the payments were met!” he roared; suddenly there was the slightest trace of Descott County rasp in his Sponglish. “You fool , I don’t expect you to work for your salary alone, but I did expect you to know enough not to piss in our own well! D’you have any idea what this war is going to cost in lost taxes and off-budget funding?”
He paused, and when he continued his voice was calm. “You’d better have some idea, because you’re going to pay the overage—personally.”
“Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said. “Right now, I think we’d better concern ourselves with the state of the garrisons on the Drangosh frontier.”
Barholm snapped his fingers. “Gurnyca had a garrison of—”
“Ten thousand men, Sole Autocrat,” Mihwel Berg said helpfully. “At least, ten thousand on the paybooks.”
Chancellor Tzetzas busied himself with his papers. When Barholm spoke, it was to General Gharzia.
“General,” he said, his voice soft and even, “tell me—and if you lie, it would be better for you if you had never been born—how many troops were actually on the strength of the Gurnyca garrison? In what condition?”
Gharzia licked his lips, going gray under the tanned olive of his skin. “Two thousand, Sovereign Mighty Lord. In . . . ah, poor condition.”
Somebody had been collecting the pay of the missing eight thousand. All eyes turned to the Chancellor.
The ruler turned back to the courier from the east. “Now, Messer Heldeyz,” he said evenly. “Your report, please.”
“Yes, Sole Autocrat.”
Heldeyz stared at his hands. “I met the Colonials fifty klicks south of Gurnyca,” he began. “They—”
observe, Center said:
Terrible as an army with banners. Bartin
Barholm went on fretfully: “I don’t know why Ali has done this. The treaty after the last war was generous to a fault—particularly since we won the war. The gifts of friendship . . .”
observe:
Sweating slaves heaved at bundles of iron bars, heaping them on the flatbed rail-cars and lashing them down. One slipped and fell to the paving stones of East Residence’s main station. A bar snapped across; as a clerk bustled over a guard rolled the broken end beneath his boot.
“Spirit,” he said in a tone of mild curiosity. The interior of the fracture showed a gray texture. “That’s not wrought iron, it’s cast .”
Cast iron came straight from the smelting furnace; it was hard, brittle and full of impurities. Only after treatment in a puddling mill did it become the ductile, easily worked material so valuable for machinery and tools.
The clerk cleared his throat. “I think you’ll find,” he said significantly, “that the Chancellor has inspected the manifests quite carefully.”
The guard grinned; he was a thin man with a long nose and a pockmarked face, an East Residencer by birth with all the ingrained respect for a good swindle that marked that breed. He brushed his thumb over the first three fingers of his right hand. The clerk smiled back.
“Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said. “I think you’ll find that quality, quantity, and delivery dates on our tribute—pardon, our gifts of friendship—to the Colony have been below the Treaty terms.”
Figures scrolled before his eyes, and he read them in an emotionless monotone worthy of Center.
Barholm blinked. He turned his eyes on Tzetzas, and a fine beading of sweat broke out on the Chancellor’s olive face. “Sole Autocrat,” the minister said, spreading his hands. “When contracts are handed out, something always sticks—so many layers of oversight, so many hands—you know—”
The Governor’s fist struck the table. Gold-rimmed kave cups bounced and clattered in their saucers.
“I know who’s responsible for seeing that the payments were met!” he roared; suddenly there was the slightest trace of Descott County rasp in his Sponglish. “You fool , I don’t expect you to work for your salary alone, but I did expect you to know enough not to piss in our own well! D’you have any idea what this war is going to cost in lost taxes and off-budget funding?”
He paused, and when he continued his voice was calm. “You’d better have some idea, because you’re going to pay the overage—personally.”
“Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said. “Right now, I think we’d better concern ourselves with the state of the garrisons on the Drangosh frontier.”
Barholm snapped his fingers. “Gurnyca had a garrison of—”
“Ten thousand men, Sole Autocrat,” Mihwel Berg said helpfully. “At least, ten thousand on the paybooks.”
Chancellor Tzetzas busied himself with his papers. When Barholm spoke, it was to General Gharzia.
“General,” he said, his voice soft and even, “tell me—and if you lie, it would be better for you if you had never been born—how many troops were actually on the strength of the Gurnyca garrison? In what condition?”
Gharzia licked his lips, going gray under the tanned olive of his skin. “Two thousand, Sovereign Mighty Lord. In . . . ah, poor condition.”
Somebody had been collecting the pay of the missing eight thousand. All eyes turned to the Chancellor.
The ruler turned back to the courier from the east. “Now, Messer Heldeyz,” he said evenly. “Your report, please.”
“Yes, Sole Autocrat.”
Heldeyz stared at his hands. “I met the Colonials fifty klicks south of Gurnyca,” he began. “They—”
observe, Center said:
Terrible as an army with banners. Bartin
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