“Yes, General! Had to site the transfer point outside the fort, because of the nullity talisman influence, but they’re here. All the way from the Southern Continent.”
Ashnak strode through the doors of the main hall. Commissar Razitshakra saluted him from behind a table. She tore off a small piece of paper.
“Ticket for the Orc Ball, sir?”
“I’ve already got one!” Ashnak regarded the big hall. “This your idea of a high-level conference, is it?”
Marine flags were pinned up all around the walls of the bright, war-battered hall. One squad had sacrificed marine-issue sheets and a pot of khaki paint. The resultant banner read, NIN-EDIN ANNUAL MARINE DINNER DANCE. A bar, set up at the opposite end of the hall to the dais, was crowded with orc marines in off-duty fatigues. Above Ashnak’s head, among the spell-blackened beams and slit windows, a multifaceted glass ball began to spin. Small lights chased over the off-duty grunts.
“Wouldn’t want a high-level conference to look conspicuous, sir,” Commissar Razitshakra remarked. “This way it blends into the general victory festivities.”
Ashnak grinned.
A voice spoke from approximately the height of the great orc’s belt buckle.
“Lord General, I really must protest! You cannot expect us to sit on these greasy, smelly blankets. I demand that you find us either higher chairs or a lower table best becoming a Graagryk halfling’s dignity!”
Ashnak looked down at Cornelius Scroop. The halfling from the southern city of Graagryk wore a full-length fur gown, upon which rested his S-linked gold chain of office, and a velvet cap on his long, barbered red curls.
“Those are marine-issue blankets, Chancellor Cornelius, and marines get nothing but the best.”
“They’re dirty!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Unwashed, perhaps. Oh, you mean the blankets.”
“Things are not done like this in the South!”
Ashnak, who had been hearing that refrain for some hours now, merely rested a clawed hand on Scroop’s shoulder and pointed the halfling towards a long table standing by one wall. Corporal Ugarit clanked his way back carrying a tray of beer glasses.
Eight marines from the Badgurlz squad marched smartly up to the dais at the end of the hall, Major Barashkukor at their head. The small orc saluted Ashnak, then snapped his fingers. One marine set up a pot of greenery, hiding the wall-map. The others unpacked what Ashnak took to be musical instruments of varying descriptions.
Barashkukor drew himself up to attention in polished and brushed brown dress uniform, surmounted by silver-surfaced spectacles and flat hat. “Sir, entertainment detail present and correct, sir!”
“Carry on, Major.”
The Badgurlz band launched into something with a good deal of rhythm and spark. Marines moved out into the cleared centre of the hall and began to jitterbug enthusiastically.
A soberly clad halfling in black silk doublet, breeches, half-cloak, and sword, already sat over a plate at the long table, jingling her spurs. She nodded cheerfully to Ashnak and offered her hand to the body-armoured Ugarit.
“Simone Vanderghast. Captain of the Graagryk city civilian militia.”
Ugarit inspected the small, callused hand. “General, it says it’s a civilian, General.”
“It’s an honourary marine for this evening, Corporal, and you are not to eat it, do you understand?”
Ugarit muttered, “Yes, General!” in a dispirited manner and clanked off to find the bar steward.
Ashnak seated himself at the head of the conference table. “Now, gentlemen.”
Chancellor Scroop sniffed. “This blanket is dirty. This mug has not been washed. Admittedly this is an orc encampment and has just suffered siege warfare, but nevertheless one has standards!”
Simone Vanderghast chuckled in her bluff, soldierly manner. “Come, Chancellor, these are times of war, rough times, one must make the best of it. You! One has just found a cockroach on one’s plate. Take it away!”
Commissar Razitshakra removed the offending insect in passing, her eyes gleaming avidly.
“We marines—” Ashnak slurped beer and wiped his tusked mouth with his sleeve. “We marines want to come to a business arrangement with Graagryk.”
“At last we get to it!” Cornelius Scroop spread his hands, upon the pudgy fingers of which rings glinted. “There is a problem. With all due respect, General, look at you. You’re orcs.”
Ashnak sat back in his chair. It creaked. His muscled bulk overspread it considerably, and the wooden legs bowed. He glanced across Nin-Edin’s hall at the orc marines standing by the bar. Two hunch-shouldered grunts were engaging each other in a belching contest.
“You’re not meant to throw up when you do that!” Ashnak called. “Wipe the bar-orc down and order another drink. And you, orc. Stop picking your nose!”
“Yessir!” The third grunt cheerfully turned to picking the nostril of the orc next to her.
The Southern halfling groaned. “No one will trust you enough to deal with you, General. And if it were known we had dealings with orcs, then no one would trade with us.”
The music screeched to a halt. Ashnak glanced up as Major Barashkukor rapped the microphone. It squealed. Barashkukor beamed out at the hall full of orcs, tapping his baton to call the band to order.
“And now,” the small orc cried, “a song I’ve dedicated to Quartermaster Zaruk. He tells me he’s been getting a lot of requests from you orcs for those camouflage cloth squares you can roll up and tie around your head. Unfortunately there aren’t any left in the stores.”
“That right?” a grunt drawled from the floor.
“Oh, yes.” Major Barashkukor lifted his baton and launched into song. “Yes, we have no bandannas…”
Ashnak, who had opened his mouth, shut it again and shook his head. A movement caught his eye at the hall door.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “allow me to introduce another of the delegates to this conference.”
Magda Brandiman swept into the hall, her expression serene. She wore a full-length court gown which showed no signs of its having been cobbled together from reject parachute silk. She inclined her head to Ashnak and his guests.
“General. Chancellor Scroop. Captain Vanderghast.”
“Magda Brandiman, gentlemen.”
Ashnak, with extreme satisfaction, watched the halflings’ jaws drop.
“But—” Simone Vanderghast sprang to her feet, toppling off the chair and blankets in the process. She stared up from the floor, booted ankles tangled round her sword-scabbard, and shifted with difficulty onto her knees. “Your Grace!”
Chancellor Scroop slid until his heeled court shoes touched the flagstones. He stood and stared.
“Cornelius,” Magda Brandiman said gently, “is this manners?”
Scroop sank to one knee. “Your Grace…is it really you?”
She rubbed her hand ruefully across her fur-short hair as she seated herself at the conference table, leaving Scroop and Vanderghast kneeling on the floor.
“Has it been so long? I flattered myself I was still recognisable.” She turned graciously to Ashnak. “I apologise, sir. Magda is not my name. At least, not all my name. I am Magdelene Amaryllis Judith Brechie van Nassau.”
“Magdelene of Nassau!” Cornelius Scroop breathed. “The Duchess of Graagryk!”
Ashnak guffawed in mock surprise. “Graagryk! All those scrubbed streets and polished doorsteps. No wonder you left.”
Magda fixed the orc with a steely eye. “I left, sir orc, because I was thought unsuitable to be a duchess. Fortunately not all of my courtiers thought so. This is why I asked you to invite Master Scroop and Captain Vanderghast here for this conference. Ah, it has been so long since I saw any of my own people!”