Things moved with glacial slowness; every so often Ian would look up at the Emancipator. He could go…
The herald had brass lungs and spoke the Trojan dialect well; he was also dressed in a uniform of gray tunic and trousers, black boots and belt-definitely not one of the horde.
"My lord summons you to parlay," he said. "Outside the walls."
"Does your lord take me for a suckling babe?" Alaksandrus yelled back.
"Do you distrust his word of honor?"
A derisive laugh arose from those crowded near the square towers that marked the gate bastions. The herald nearly wheeled his borrowed Ringapi chariot about to leave, then visibly controlled himself.
"Each party may bring six men. The meeting shall be there-" he pointed to a small hillock in plain view. "Thus neither side may gain unfair advantage."
Alaksandrus nodded slow assent. Ian felt himself doing likewise. It was the old curse; he had to know.
The sun was almost to the western horizon, backlighting the masts of the ships anchored offshore with boats going to and fro to unload barrels and sacks. Ian noted other developments with interest; from this ground level position he could see that the prisoners of the horde, and many of its members, were digging a trench and earthwork all around the city.
It would make life much easier, he thought, if villains were stupid poltroons. Unfortunately, Walker isn't. Mean as a snake, yes. Stupid, no, and nerve enough for three.
The Trojan party walked forward; three of the guards were Marines with rifles. The group standing to meet them seemed to be mixed, barbarian Ringapi flamboyance and Walker's men in their grimly plain outfits in about equal numbers-and two extra figures whom he took for midgets and then realized with astonishment were children, tow-headed and about ten years old. It wasn't until he was within talking distance that the tall figure in the center threw back the hood of his cloak and Ian Arnstein saw again that boyish, square-jawed, hated face.
Not so boyish anymore, he thought savagely. The left eye was gone, courtesy of Marian's katana, and a V of scar ran up under the eye-patch. Some lines there, too, and a weathered outdoors look. Looks healthy, dammit.
The woman beside him hadn't aged too much either, but the changes in her face-Ian shivered slightly. Objectively speaking, she was a petite, pretty, well-kept Oriental woman in her thirties. But somehow it was if the skull beneath the skin was far more visible now.
"Well, if it isn't the Professor!" Walker laughed delightedly.
Ian replied with a curt nod, making sure that the Python was there under his jacket. For a moment he considered pulling it out and using it-Walker's death was, he decided coldly, worth his own-but it would be foolish. William Walker was far more experienced and deadly at personal violence than Ian Arnstein was ever going to be.
Even the commodore had taken only his eye, the last time they were within arm's reach of each other.
Walker shrugged at his silent glare. "Okay," he said, then dropped into Achaean. A scholar's corner of Ian's mind noted that it was virtually devoid of accent now.
"Here are my terms," he said. "If the city surrenders and admits my troops, I'll keep the Ringapi out-they'll be content to move east, provided the city gives them half its gold and silver-and the lives, personal freedom, and remaining property of the inhabitants will be safe; they can have the status of freemen in the kingdom of Mycenae. If you resist, I'll turn my allies loose to sack it when I take it. And I will take it."
King Alaksandrus followed the man's words well enough, but Ian could see that their lack of the formal phrasing annoyed him, even now.
"What of the king, and the nobles?" he said.
"Deportation to Sicily, or other places of my choice," Walker said. "I'll grant them fiefs equivalent to their lands here, which are forfeit to the crown; they can take a moderate amount of their personal property. And never, never return, under pain of death. The Royal Guard to be split up and enlisted in my regiments."
Ian nodded; that would disperse the Trojan notables, and in a generation or two they'd merge and vanish with the gentry wherever Walker settled them. Assuming that Walker intended to keep his word.
"And if you don't surrender, I won't have the king"-Walker's eye speared Alaksandrus, with a slight smile at the plain armor that was supposed to disguise him-"or his family and nobles killed. I'll turn them over to the Despotnia Algeos, and she won't have them killed either. Show them your masterpiece, Alice."
Alice Hong's smile wasn't a snarl. It was bright and cheery, and far, far worse for that. She pulled the concealing cloak and mask off the figure standing beside her. Ian Arnstein took one look, and knew that however long he lived he would wish he hadn't. He quickly turned his eyes above Hong's head, concentrating on not humiliating himself by vomiting or fainting.
They're trying to shake you, Arnstein. You will be calm. Or at least look calm, if that was the best he could do. Far and faint he heard a child's voice mutter in accented English, "Oh, yuk-o, Auntie Hong!" Somehow that made him feel even more furious, but it also made him more able to ignore Hong's cheerful explanations:
"-problem of preventing infection with the exposed bone here and here, but-"
"Take that… thing away," Alaksandrus said. He spat, and then spoke one word: "No."
"No?" Walker said. "Last chance. Or-" he indicated the vaguely humanoid figure that didn't move except to breathe, as if each breath were fresh torment.
"No. And the gods my ancestors will receive me if I fall; I will not be taken alive. Your threat is empty."
Walker shrugged and made a sign with his hand; Hong stooped and draped the cloak about the unmoving figure with an obscene tenderness.
"I'm just as glad," he said casually. "The troops need a little blooding." He looked at the city. "Somebody's been giving you advice, I see. But being able to take it doesn't help if you can't dish it out as well." He looked at Ian. "Special offer for you, Professor. I could use a man like you-and I know how to reward service, too. Who knows?
You might like working for me more than that old fossil Cofflin. We might turn out to be simpatico, you and I."
"Now you're getting nasty," Ian said quietly. "I'll wait, thank you very much."
"For what, the Riders of Fucking Rohan to come galloping to the rescue with their horns blowing and slaughter us insensitive ores?" he jeered and waved an arm in an expansive gesture. "Sorry, Professor, no TV cameras. This is Big-People Land-out here, things don't work that way."
Arnstein met his eyes. "Your father," he said flatly, "was a hamster. Your mother smelled of elderberries. Now go away, you silly Greek knigget, or I will taunt you once again."
Walker's face was equally cold for an instant. Then he smiled again. "Don't catapult any cows at us," he said. "You're probably going to need them all, if you're lucky."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
August-September, Year 10 A.E.
"Command us, Lord Kenn'et!"
Hell, Kenneth Hollard thought, looking at the motley crowd assembled behind Raushapa's chariot. And I thought the Babylonians were ragged.
Many of the men gathered under the flag of Mitanni-suggested by the Arnsteins, and consisting of a white chariot wheel on a blue background, with crossed thunderbolts behind-were literally ragged; peasants in rags armed with anything at all, down to and including rocks snatched up a few minutes ago.
Some had better equipment, which looked as if it had spent the past twenty years or so buried under the stable floor or hidden in caves. Wheels on chariots were actually wobbling, the horses were mostly elderly crow bait, and the bronze helmets and armor were green with verdigris where recent polishing hadn't revealed dents, nicks, and ominous-looking holes. Their smell was formidable, too, although there he had to grant that everyone was getting a bit gamey, with water short and a lot of work in the hot sun.