The Professor-Mage dug in the capacious pockets of her frock coat, extracted a silver box, opened it, and sniffed a pinch of some substance up her right and left nostrils. “That’s—asschuuu!—essentially correct, Your Grace. It would cost us too much time to sell the talismans to individual customers. And in any case, they’re highly experimental technology. Probably unsafe. Civilians wouldn’t use them without far more extensive testing. Asshhuu!”
Julia Orrin wiped her streaming eyes and continued, “Which are all good reasons why this commerce is becoming too risky for the Visible College to continue it. If we’re found to be involved with gr—with orcs, then our reputations…”
Magda removed her pipe-weed stub, dropped it on the floor of the coach, and crushed it under one tiny heel.
“Let me introduce you to some of the facts of life, Madam Orrin. As far as the general public is concerned, dogtag talismans are standard protective devices. It is not known that they nullify magic. If that were known a scandal would ensue, and enquiries would be made about the talismans’ origin.”
“Madam,” Julia Orrin protested.
Magda continued relentlessly. “The Southern Kingdoms can’t damage the Visible College. They would be stupid to try. But in the face of public scandal—for example, proof of your selling proscribed magic to orcs—I think they might decline to sell you any magical ingredients you need for your research programmes. I really think they may do that.”
Professor-Mage Julia Orrin sat sweating and completely silent.
“And if your sources of supply dry up…well, as you say, you’re a pure research institute. You don’t produce a product. Nothing to prevent your bankruptcy, anyway. Madam Professor, the Visible College was lost from the first day, when you took my sons’ money for nullity talismans—and didn’t enquire too carefully to whom they would be sold.”
The Duchess Magdelene Amaryllis Judith Brechie van Nassau leaned forward and put her small hand on the Man’s knee.
“Don’t cancel a deal that’s advantageous to both of our peoples. Don’t worry about selling experimental magic to orcs. Your job is to worry about research. I suggest,” Magda said, “that you return to the city of Fourgate and continue it. I’ll handle the business end in Graagryk. I’m sure we’ll continue to deal usefully together for many years to come.”
Magda sat back in her seat and smiled at the back of the frock-coated Man, descending to the steps of the coaching inn.
She remained gazing at the summer sky for some moments.
“Why,” she murmured, “couldn’t I get the easy job, gallivanting around the Kingdoms running elections? Orcs!”
Beyond Graagryk the roads run south away from the Inland Sea, into the heart of the great and ancient Southern Kingdoms.
Ashnak chewed on the butt of an unlit cigar, his head lifting momentarily as he watched a wind-clipper sail over the roofs of the Serpent Temple in Shazmanar. In the great cities and civilisations of the south there are no ox-carts plodding dusty roads. The mage-powered ship’s wooden keel brushed the tops of palms growing on the temple’s roof-garden. The clipper spread more sail to catch the sun. Hull-down, it drove west.
“Very pretty,” the chief Serpent-Priest remarked.
General Ashnak, in full dress uniform of brown tunic, trousers, and flat peaked cap, reassured him, “Orcs don’t mind beauty. We’re broadminded. It doesn’t offend us. Much.”
The orc gazed across the square at the Serpent Temple’s candystick pillars, wide atrium, and snake-pattern mosaics.
“I’m officially requisitioning that building.” Ashnak belched. “In the name of Ferenzia. Lieutenant Chahkamnit, make a note of the marine temporary campaign headquarters. Priest, let the townspeople know that voting will take place this afternoon, after speeches by Her Dark Magnificence, the Lord of the Empire of Evil.”
“Yessss…” The priest, naked but for chainmail groin-covering, hissed agreement and glided off towards the ochre-and-crimson-painted temple. His skin was curiously sheened for one of the Man-race.
The black orc lieutenant at Ashnak’s elbow beamed. “First class accommodation, sir, what? Nothing’s too good for Herself. Shall I see about mobilising the orcs, sir?”
Ashnak growled, “Get this set up at the double, L.t.!”
“Absolutely, sir.” Lieutenant Chahkamnit saluted. “Only too pleased to be of assistance. Over here, if you please, Corporal Hikz!”
Around midday, the general of the orc marines stood squat-legged on the roof-garden of the Serpent Temple, surveying what could be seen of Shazmanar. The Shazmanarians thronged the main square, staring, with eyes that did not blink in the scalding southern light, at the five parked Bedford trucks and two M113 APCs under a palm tree. The temple beneath echoed to the tramp of combat boots and the bellows of orc NCOs.
“General, sir…” a voice creaked.
Ashnak turned his heavy-jawed head. The midday sun shone on a skeletal orc lieutenant whose rotting black uniform and flesh were rapidly mummifying in the southern heat. One hand, on whose fingers no flesh remained, saluted. Pinpricks of red light burned in rotting eyes and sockets.
“Sir, beg pardon, sir.” Lugashaldim came to attention. “The lieutenant wishes to have the general’s permission to form the Undead marines into a new unit.”
Ashnak pulled a frond from the nearest palm tree, chewed on it experimentally, and spat it out. His dress-uniform jacket pulled tight across his bulging shoulders.
“And why’s that, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, problems of being Undead, sir. We’re magical. Can’t wear nullity talismans.” The orc lieutenant made the kind of motion that in a living orc would indicate taking a deep breath. “Can’t use talisman-protected weaponry either, sir. Have to use it without the nullity talismans. That means the Special Undead Services have had to become very good at covert actions. Sir, I want permission for the Undead to form a unit that can act covertly in military and civil situations.”
Ashnak’s beetling brows raised. “Explain, Lieutenant.”
“Covert Intelligence Actions, sir, that’s what I thought we could call ourselves. We’ve been working on new technology for our CIA elite force, too.” The orc lieutenant, enthusiastic, swung his backpack from his rotting shoulders and began to rummage through it. “Here, sir.”
A skeletal hand proffered a miniature crossbow, almost lost in Ashnak’s hand when the big orc took it. The Undead lieutenant held up a crossbow bolt, and a set of headphones.
“Put the headphones on, sir. That’s it. Now if I take this crossbow bolt with me, over to the far side of the roof…that’s it…you couldn’t hear me now, sir, normally, sir, could you?”
Ashnak peered through palm tree fronds. The sun beat down on the roof-garden. Only a faint smell of carrion gave away the presence of the orc lieutenant. “Very clever, Lugashaldim.”
Lugashaldim thrashed back through the plants to emerge beside the orc general. “It’s a microphone, sir, fitted in the bolt of the crossbow. We can fire this from long distance into a wall or a room and overhear anything that takes place there!”
Ashnak leaned his elbows on the parapet of the roof-garden. He pointed at a slit-windowed building on the far side of Shazmanar’s main square. “Target that second window on the left, Lieutenant. Let’s see if this mother works.”
The Undead orc took the crossbow, swiftly fitted the bolt, raised it and sighted through one milk-blue dead eyeball, and fired. The bolt impacted.
“Holy shit!” Ashnak snatched the headset from his hairless, pointed ears. “Next time you do that without a warning, marine, your balls are going to be on my breakfast table!”