"Let me see that," Mittler said, taking the orders the Achaean captain was waving. "Hmmm. Yes, these specify Category One confinement; but they don't say anything about maintaining personal custody. I will carry out the King's orders, soldier. Section One is organized for the proper supervision of prisoners. You may return to the front and fight valiantly, as I'm sure you long to do, rather than staying here with the women."
No, no, no! Ian thought. Walker's tame German was being smart again, giving Philowergos an honorable excuse for obedience. And that flush was fear as much as anger. I don't blame you for that, I'm afraid of him… yes I do blame you for it, you cretin! He's manipulating you! Philowergos wavered, until an iron clangor of horseshoes came near.
"Ah," another voice said. "I thought you might be here, Lord Mittler."
It was a man standing in a chariot with two others. This voice's Achaean had a distinct accent; not a foreigner's, but some sort of regional burr, archaic even by Mycenaean standards. Much like a Scotsman's English.
Ian's eyes flickered to him. He saw a stocky man, short by twentieth-century standards, medium here; old white battle scars ran up the hairy, muscular brown forearms. The Achaean was in full nobleman's gear: long crimson cloak pinned at one shoulder; tunic; checked kilt with a fringe; linen gaiters and leather boots; gold-studded sword belt bearing a long double-edged blade. A diadem held long dark hair; trimmed beard with a few strands of gray; and a shaven upper lip. There was a very modern-looking revolver at the belt as well, and the second man in the war-car rested a hand casually on the butt of a break-open shotgun.
"Rejoice, Lord Regent," Mittler said. He bowed from the waist; the others all saluted, right fist to chest and then bowed as well. With a creeping feeling that tightened the skin on his stomach, Ian Arnstein realized who this man must be.
"Rejoice, Lord Mittler," the Greek replied. "This is the awaited one, then?"
"The prisoner Arnstein, yes," Mittler said. "I was just taking him into custody."
"Forgive me-I have gray in my beard and perhaps my ears do not hear as keenly as they did. Telemakhos," he said to the younger man beside him. "What did you hear of the King's will concerning this man?"
"That he be kept in honorable detention, Father," the second Greek said. He was taller than his sire, handsomer, but with something of the same quick intelligence in his eyes.
The first man held out his hand, smiling. After a second's hesitation, Mittler handed over the written order. The regent flicked it open with a swift motion of his wrist, sheltering it from the rain with his other hand.
"Very good," he said, folding it and tucking it into a pouch at his belt. "Thank you for your efforts, Lord Mittler, Captain Philowergos, and I'll take charge of this matter now." Smiling still, he held up his right hand, where a wolfshead signet rested.
Mittler's lips tightened slightly. "Section One is charged with internal security."
"Indeed." The chariot rider's thick arm pointed toward the western mountains. "There are bands of escaped slaves up there, and they raid the settled lands. There should be no distractions from your work."
"Very well, Lord Regent," Mittler said, bowing stiffly again. He turned to go, and hissed to Arnstein: "This is not the last you'll see of me, Jewboy."
In German, which Arnstein understood quite well. Ian bowed in his turn to the man in the chariot.
"Rejoice, my lord. I am Ian Arnstein, Councilor for Foreign Affairs to Jared Cofflin, Chief Executive Officer of the Republic of Nantucket."
The Greek gave him a nod. "Makhawon," he said, to the man driving the chariot. "Get down, meet me at the capital town house. You have silver? Good. Telemakhos, take the reins." The younger Greek did, with an air of quiet competence.
"Lord Arnstein," he went on. "I am Odikweos son of Laertes, Wannax of Ithaka in the West; this is my son Telemakhos. I say in turn, may you rejoice and live happy."
"Pleased to meet you," Arnstein said, and took the offered hand. It felt like a wooden glove inside a casing of cured ham, and helped him up into the chariot with effortless strength.
"But I really don't have much prospect of a happy life. Or reason to rejoice."
Odikweos grinned. Even then, Arnstein felt a returning touch of the glassy unreality people called post-Event-syndrome; he was talking to Odysseus. Or at least to another Greek King of Ithaka of the same name.
"Oh, yes, you do have reason to rejoice, Lord Arnstein," Odikweos said. "Reason indeed."
He looked after Mittler and began to laugh. After a moment, Ian joined him.
The Cofflins and their Coast Guard minder pushed through the crowds along the base of the dock.
Most were in the virtual uniform of raw-wool sweater, flat peaked cap or knitted toque, baggy pants, and sea boots that was working garb these days if you were out on the water in autumn. There was plenty of variety, though. They went past a uniformed customs agent arguing with a supercargo in blue coat and brass buttons; a woods-runner in from the mainland with a backpack of furs over his buckskins and a tomahawk slung through the back of his belt; Albans in kilt and leggings or poncho and string skirt; a Babylonian in spangled flowerpot hat, curled beard, and embroidered ankle-length robe looking about him with an iron control over a visible longing to gawk…
Straight Wharf was the basin over from Steamboat, for pleasure craft before the Event and the inshore fishery now, plus a few family boats like the Cofflins'. He smiled with pure satisfaction as they walked out on the creaking planks of the dock to where the Boojum II lay tethered. Being chief was important work, but he came of a breed with salt water in their veins. Before he went into police work he'd been a deckhand on a trawler himself, then a Navy swabby-brown-water Navy, a Mekong Delta gunboat.
The Boojum II was a simple enough craft, a Cape Cod cat-boat; the design was traditional in these parts, resurrected post-Event. From sheer cutwater to transom stern she measured twenty-eight feet, and fourteen feet of beam at the widest point, a third back from the bows; the shallow rock-elm keel was three and a half feet below the waterline when she was fully laden, considerably less now. Just a foot back from the bow was the one unstayed mast, a sturdy fifteen-foot length of scraped and varnished white pine that carried a single fore-and-aft sail between long boom and shorter gaff spars. There was a small cabin, but most of the boat was a cockpit and tiller.
He stepped down from the dock to the smooth varnished spruce planking of the deck-not far, since the tide was full and just beginning to ebb-and handed Martha down.
"Permission to come aboard?" his son asked solemnly.
Must have picked that up from Heather and Lucy, Jared thought, hiding his grin. The Alston-Kurlelo kids used their Guard associations mercilessly in the children's scuffles for status.
"Permission granted," Cofflin said gravely.
The cockpit filled with children, somehow taking up more room than adults would have. Petty Officer Martinelli handed down their overnight bags and the picnic baskets to be stowed in the compartments under the seats. Jared leaned a hand on the tiller and looked at the small forms scrambling about.
"What do we do first?" he asked.
"Ummm… life-jackets?" Heather said.
"You've got it, girl," Jared said. The cloth-covered cork jackets were produced and laced on. "Next?"
"Uh, the bilges and pump, Dad?" Jared Jr. said.
"Right. See to it, son."
He ran them through the checklist; he wanted his kids to enjoy the sea, but also to remember that you didn't take chances with it. He was also conscious that Martinelli was running a surreptitious check of his own. He didn't mind, much. The boy-young man, he reminded himself-was about nineteen, and conscientious. At that age, sixty must seem ancient beyond conception, just a step short of drooling idiocy. He grinned inwardly, remembering how old the first trawler skipper he'd worked for had seemed.