"I greet you," Giernas said to the chief. He had some scorch marks himself, and a crusted cut on the ribs.
"I greet you," the tribesman said gravely, squatting on his hams.
The usual translation difficulties came next, but at last Giernas managed to grasp what the Indian was driving at.
"No," he said. "I don't think you should destroy the place completely. Make the people inside come out and give up, yes… you'll want hostages when their leader and his warriors get back."
And won't that be some homecoming, he thought with a trace of glee, looking down at his son and woman where they sat on the deck beside him.
"But if we don't," Antelope replied, "how can we… make things as they were? Maybe they'll build their Big House again!"
Giernas hesitated. This man wasn't really a friend; they couldn't even talk without skull-splitting effort. But they'd fought together-
"Things will never be as they were, here," he said. "Too much has changed already; the sickness, the horses, and other new things. Also… these strangers are not the last who will come."
"Your people?" Antelope said, with a trace of suspicion.
"Perhaps. Maybe later, to trade and hunt here. But if not mine…" He waved around at the ship. "My people know how to build these ships. Others have learned, and more will learn. You have a fine land here, but you are few and you lack… the arts that make for strength. Others will come, like the Tartessians-strong, hungry peoples, numerous and…"
He looked at Eddie, where he was standing at the rail with an arm around Jaditwara's waist.
"… numerous and… heedless. You should be ready for them. To be ready, you need the Tartessians… what you can learn from them."
Chief Antelope's brows furrowed.
I hope that does you some good, he thought. Then the Indian spoke, and Giernas's sun-faded eyebrows shot up.
"You should stay. You could show us what we need; and your heart is good."
He flushed. Well, that's flattering as hell, he thought, and shook his head. "No, my friend; I have my own home and my own people to go to."
Shouts rose from the banks of the river. Giernas looked up, blinked, reached for his binoculars and swore softly as the motion jarred his injured leg. His first glance had been right; it was a standard Islander craft, a double-ended whaleboat of the type Guard frigates or large merchantmen carried, mounting a stubby lugsail. As he watched, that was struck and six oars a side flashed out and dipped in unison. They kept the mast up; besides Old Glory, it carried a white truce pennant.
Yup, that's the Guard, he thought, bewildered; blue sailor suits and flat caps, cutlasses and pistols. And they're probably wondering what a Tartessian ship is doing flying our flag. He looked up at the masthead; it was nice not to be the only one wondering what the hell was going on.
The whaleboat came alongside and an officer came up the companionway, looking around and then gaping at the burned-out Tartessian settlement.
"Permission to come aboard?" she asked. "Ensign Ellen Hanson, RNCGS Winthrop."
"Permission granted," Giernas said, and returned her salute. "Lieutenant Peter Giernas, Ranger Service. Pardon me for not rising. Ensign, but a Tartie put a bullet through my leg day before yesterday."
"Then you don't know… the war with Tartessos is over, sir!"
"We've been a bit out of touch," Giernas said. He looked around and smiled grimly. "But yeah, we were under the impression it was over, too."
Marian Alston-Kurlelo rose as Isketerol entered the conference room of the tent. Not entirely by accident, a VCR was running on a table in one corner, showing a tape of Tartessos from overhead during the bombardment by the Eades. The way the Tartessian King had been shown into the harbor of Cadiz
Base past the ranked frigates, the ironclad, and the steam ram hadn't been accidental at all. The honor guard formed an alleyway to the tent and snapped to present arms. Their officer drew the tent flap aside:
"The King of Tartessos, ma'am, and his aide."
"Let them in out of the wet, by all means, Lieutenant."
Rain hissed down outside and dripped from the cloaks of the Iberian King and his young aide…
No, that's his son-Sarsental, Alston decided, as they shed their sopping cloaks and the double flaps fell behind them. The cast-iron stove in the center of the room threw a grateful warmth, cutting the raw chill of the day. It was only an hour past noon, but already dim enough that the kerosene lantern swinging from the ridgepole of the tent was welcome.
His father looked dour, as if he hadn't been sleeping much; under a precocious gravity, Sarsental was taking everything in wide-eyed and eager, looking at her with awed interest, and at Swindapa…
Do Jesus, the little bastard's undressing her in the twinkle of a mind's eye, Alston thought, amused. Can't fault his eye for a fine fox, at least, or his brass.
"Greetings," she said calmly. "Be welcome for the duration of this truce."
Swindapa brought four cups of cocoa from a pot on the stove and set them on the table, then sat herself and tapped a stack of file folders.
"I hope you do not mind that I brought my son," Isketerol said. "It is well for him to learn of these things."
"Not at all," Alston said. "As it turns out, it's fortunate that you did. Shall we to business?"
The youngster-he looked a little older than the sixteen years she knew he had-concealed surprise and outrage. Marian gave him a brief smile:
"We're not a ceremonious people," she said. "And I less than most of us."
"As polite as the blade of an ax," Isketerol agreed. "Well, it cuts what it's swung at, well enough…"
"I suppose you're here because of that," she said, nodding toward the screen. Silent shells burst along the docks of Tartessos City, and fires raged.
The lines grew deeper in IsketeroFs face. "That, and the news that the territories south of the Pillars are in revolt." He sighed. "The fruit of much effort and work is being wasted."
Marian nodded. "I warned you of it, the last time we spoke," she said. "I also offered you terms."
Isketerol's teeth showed slightly, in what might have been a smile. "A King is the guardian of his people's honor, and their pride," he said. "I could not betray oaths and allies so easily."
"A good many people have died and towns have burned for the sake of that pride," she said grimly. But it does argue he'll keep an agreement with us. "Is it enough?"
The Iberian's fist clenched on the table. "You Islanders talk much of civilization-but it was you who made allies of the highlanders, who know only to burn and torture and kill."
Alston shook her head. "We armed them. We made no agreements or alliances."
"Ah," Isketerol said, thoughtful.
She could see the drift of those thoughts: The Amurrukan will not seek to prevent me pacifying the wild tribes once more.
"And you wouldn't have had so many problems with runaways and uprisings, if you hadn't had so many slaves who were ready to take any chance to strike back at you," she pointed out.
Isketerol shrugged: "Who would go down into the silver mines of the Black Mountains, who was not a slave in fear of the lash? Or work in the road gangs, or another man's fields? Not everyone can be a freeholder or master of his own workshop… but enough of that. I am ready to treat for terms." A wry gesture. "It is also the duty of a King to know when he must humble his pride, to preserve the kingdom's life."