Yasim wondered if there was an accusatory tone in Hazin’s voice. He had leveled Bukara, which had gone over to his cousin Tagamish. Over two hundred thousand had died.
“They had given a sacred pledge of support and then betrayed it. That was always our custom.”
“Before, you would have slain but the leaders of the city and their retainers. The entire city, though?”
“War changes. The city was a base. Its factories in the hands of a rebellious cousin unacceptable, and we could not hold it. Destruction was the only answer.”
“That is my point,” Hazin replied. “You did what was necessary, but that necessity is destroying us, while eventually the Republic of humans will expand until it is too late.”
“Visha started the change. We have reached the limits within our empire. So we expand.
“Your Shiv, though, I wonder what they will lead to.”
“Perhaps we should try the same experiment with our own race,” Hazin said, his voice barely a whisper.
Yasim felt a wave of revulsion, and he wondered if his reaction showed.
“Seriously, my lord. Why not? Allow our strongest, our most fit, our most brilliant to breed.”
“The rest?”
“There are ways to discourage them, or if need be prevent them.”
“Impossible.”
“Is it?”
“You’ve contemplated this?”
“I contemplate all things possible,” Hazin said with a smile.
Yasim slowly shook his head.
“You might see differently someday. But as for the Shiv, we have several alternatives. They were simply an experiment that has proven fruitful. Now we shall unleash them upon the North. If the Republic breaks apart, which I suspect it will after the first onslaught, they can rule. Then, if we actually achieve a gate, we can push them through and see what the results are.”
“Or slaughter them all,” Yasim said quietly.
Hazin smiled. “Yes. Once they’ve served their purpose, that might be necessary. You see, there is always the prospect that the experiment will work too well, that they just might be superior. That is why I suggest what I do as to our own race.”
“My original thought, Hazin, was to kill you now, to sink the transports. Your words push me.closer to doing it.”
“Majesty, never whisper your inner thoughts too loudly.”
“Damn you.”
“We are locked in an embrace, sire. You fear me and that is wise. I need you, for never would the families of the blood accept a base-born bastard such as me as emperor. If we understand that, together we can have our arrangement.
“Believe me, sire, kill me, slaughter all the Shiv, and there will still be another such as I, and yet another behind him, or her. Always remember the old adage that it is better to have an enemy that you know beside you than an enemy that you do not know behind you.”
Yasim turned away, hands clasped behind his back, and walked to the far end of the bridge. The staff who had been gathered there respectfully withdrew through a hatchway into the cramped quarters of the weather bridge.
The scum is right, he thought. War is the eternal nature of the race, but if it continued internally, we would eventually annihilate ourselves while the humans to the north inherit the planet. If I ever breed a son, I want to hand him an empire, not a smoking ruin.
Yet will he ever rule? Will there be a Hazin standing behind his shoulder with a hidden needle of poison? If I have more than one son, will they slay one another as I’ve slain my brothers?
He looked back at Hazin, who was leaning over the railing, back turned.
This war against the Republic, I must win it swiftly, he realized. Let my cousins be in the forefront, kill off as many of them as possible, and let the others think it was for glory, promising the survivors more and yet more to drive them forward.
And then annihilate the Order once the war is won.
As Emperor Yasim of the Kazan contemplated these ideas, little did he realize that his rival, standing but forty feet away, was contemplating the exact same path.
“You did what?”
Qar Qarth Jurak flung down his cup and stood up to face the courier.
“My Qarth wishes to report that a regiment of the Yankee horse riders has been destroyed.”
“By all the Ancestors, that is not what I ordered. I said, hold them at a distance.”
“My Qar Qarth, they were within an hour’s ride of our column of yurts. It was either that or submit to slaughter. I was there. They deployed into battle order, weapons drawn, and were preparing to attack.”
“Which regiment?”
The courier, bowing, went back to his lathered mount and pulled out a flame-scorched yellow flag and handed it to Jurak.
“Third Regiment, Army of the Republic,” Jurak read. He balled the flag up and tossed it to the ground.
That was Keane’s regiment. He remembered the brass number on the boy’s collar. If the boy was dead, then the full fury of the father might very well be unleashed.
“Did you kill all of them?”
“Not yet all. Some of them gained a hilltop, but surely they are all dead by now. We could see that the only ammunition they had was what they carried on their horses. The wagons were taken. The other half of the regiment came up to support them and fell into the second trap. All of them died.”
Jurak looked around at those gathered about him. More than one was grinning with delight, a few venturing to approach the courier to slap his shoulders. One of them ceremonially offered him the gift of his knife, the traditional present for a bringer of glad tidings.
“This means we are at war,” Jurak announced.
“We were never at peace to start with,” one of the Qarths growled. “We merely waited until a new generation could be bred to avenge their fathers.”
Word of what the courier had reported was spreading like wildfire through the encampment. A shaman began a chant to the heroic dead, calling on the Ancestors to greet them with drink and the flesh of cattle, a chant not heard in the camp for over twenty years. The chant was picked up, other voices joining in. A nargas sounded, its deep brazen tone chilling, awe inspiring.
Jurak stared at the fire, kicking the glowing embers with The toe of his boot.
So it has begun, he realized. In the morning they might think differently, though. We must push hard, outrun their pursuit and gain the mountains, then pray that the ambassador of the Kazan spoke the truth, that an army will land bringing with it the weapons we need to survive.
He lowered his head. He had liked the boy. A pity he was dead. A pity for this entire damned world. He wondered what the elder Keane was actually thinking. Would he be motivated now by hate? Would he seek out his old foes, but this time slay them all? Or would it now be the other way around, that the Bantag shall join with the Kazan and slay the Republic and all who lived there?
Either way, he felt, I shall lose, and my people, the Bantag, shall lose.
FIFTEEN
“Now remember, you clear the deck and keep your nose down, let her drop. You’ve got over thirty feet to play with before leveling out. If anything goes wrong and you have time, push her to starboard. That way when you go in the drink you’ll be off to one side and not get plowed under by your ship.”
Adam Rosovich, with Theodor by his side, paced in front of the pilots and gunners gathered around him on the deck. A brisk wind was up, whipping his hair, and he turned into the breeze.
“We’ve got a good thirty-knot blow running between the ship and the wind. You shouldn’t have any problems.”
He looked around at the pilots. More than half of them were graduates of this year’s class from the academy. Most of the rest had come out a year or two ahead of him. One of them had been his senior cadet commander when he had been a first-year plebe. It felt strange to be giving advice and orders to them. The new captain’s bars pinned to his collar seemed ponderously heavy, and in a way he felt like a fraud. He had gained the rank simply because he had been available and done all this first. Granted, he would admit to himself that he was a damn good pilot. But the technical side of it had actually captivated him during his work with the Design Board, and besides, it was a hell of a lot less suicidal than the assignment he now had.