The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“It could be grim. Which is why Blaine can’t let them get away with it.”

“Yes. I thought as much. There’s more at stake here than Blaine and his reforms. Just how much of the crop has been withheld?”

“At least a quarter. Maybe as much as a third.”

Lysander whistled softly. “Colonel, that—that could mean—what? Half the Fleet’s operations budget?”

“Not quite that. The Grand Senate still appropriates something for operations. But it would certainly wipe out Grand Admiral Lermontov’s discretionary funds.”

“I can’t say I care for that. Still, Colonel, what can they do with their crop if they don’t sell it to the government? Surely they won’t carry out their threat to destroy it.”

Falkenberg laughed. “With that much money at stake? Hardly. I’m afraid there are a lot of markets, Prince Lysander. Some will pay more than the government.”

“But—”

“The most likely customer is a company owned by the Bronson family.”

“Oh. I see. Grand Senator Bronson. With his protection—”

“Precisely. His faction doesn’t control a majority in the Grand Senate, but he doesn’t have to, does he? No one else has a majority either. Lots of horse trading, I’m told.”

“Yes,” Lysander looked at the far wall. It was covered with holographs. One showed the Legion in formal parade with battle banners and victory streamers. “Still, I gather you don’t anticipate any trouble recovering the crops?”

“I always anticipate trouble, Your Highness.”

“Colonel, let me be frank. You’re very heavily involved in Admiral Lermontov’s plan, but we are even more so. Anything that changes or delays it—well, we would have to take that very seriously back on Sparta.” He spread his hands wide. “Of course I’m only a message carrier. I’m not empowered to negotiate.”

Falkenberg raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you say so. But you do carry messages to high places. Your Highness, you have to appreciate my situation. I’m certain this mess with the opposition planters will be cleared up in weeks, months at most. It will have to be. After that the regiment won’t be able to stay on Tanith very long. Certainly not five years. The economy won’t support us, and besides, I can’t condemn my people to five years in this place.”

“What will you do?”

“We have offers. I’ll have to take one of them.”

“Preferably something that doesn’t tie you down for too long—”

“Preferably,” Falkenberg agreed. “But the Regimental Council makes that decision.”

“Colonel, my father—all of us regret putting you in this situation.”

“I’m sure you do,” Falkenberg said. “How long will you be on Tanith?”

“It’s not definite, but—let’s say weeks. Months at most.”

Falkenberg smiled and nodded. “Right. I expect you’ll want to see a bit of the country beyond the capital while you’re here. I’ll have Captain Rottermill draw up a travel guide if you like.”

“Very kind of you. Should be helpful.” Lysander frowned. “Colonel, what is your impression of Governor Blaine?”

Falkenberg chuckled. “At the risk of being offensive, he seems much like the people who established your government. Let’s hope he learns as much from experience as your father and grandfather did.”

“I see. Do you think he will?”

“He has held on quite well so far.”

“Colonel, I have reasons for asking your opinion. I’m authorized to tell Governor Blaine certain things about Lermontov’s plans, provided you agree.”

Falkenberg touched a button on the side of his desk. “Whiskey and soda. Ice. Two glasses, please.” He turned back to Lysander. “I repeat. He has managed quite well so far.”

“With your Legion at his back. What happens when you leave?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Falkenberg touched controls in a desk drawer. The gray of the desktop flashed into a brightly colored map of the region around Lederle. “The main opposition to Blaine’s new policies is out here in the bush. Until recently they were unable to form any effective organization. Now they have done so. They’ve even hired a battalion of mercenaries. Light infantry, mostly.”

“I hadn’t heard that,” Lysander said.

“Governor Blaine isn’t particularly proud of having let things go that far.”

There was a tap at the door. An orderly brought in a tray and set it down. “Anything else, sir?”

“Thank you. No.” Falkenberg poured for both of them. “Cheers.”

“Cheers. Colonel, I notice that you haven’t told the governor anything—or if you have, he’s very discreet.”

“He is discreet, but in fact I was waiting for your father’s views. Incidentally, I’d be careful when and where you told him anything. This room is secure, but I wouldn’t bet that the governor’s office is. Or the study in his apartments, for that matter.”

“Who?”

Falkenberg shrugged. “When was a politician’s office ever secure? In this case it’s even more likely to be leaky. You will remember Mynheer ten Koop?”

“Certainly.”

“I don’t recall it was mentioned at Blaine’s dinner, but ten Koop’s oldest daughter is married to one Hiram Girerd—who just happens to be one of the leaders of the planters’ boycott. That’s just one of the odd mixtures you can find at Government House.”

“Hah. Then perhaps it would be best to wait until this boycott affair is settled before we come to any decisions about Tanith’s role in—” He shrugged. “We’ve no name for Lermontov’s grand scheme.”

“Just as well.”

“I suppose. In any event, Colonel, I can’t think that even with their mercenary battalion the planters could muster much force against your Legion.”

“Military, no. But they’ve hired Barton’s Bastards, and Major Barton is no fool.” Falkenberg chuckled. “If he were, I’d hardly say so. He was once a captain in the 42nd.”

“Oh? Why did he leave?”

“His hitch ran out and he got a better offer,” Falkenberg said. “After that we were allies for a while.”

“I see.” Classic situation? Lysander wondered. Two condottiere captains facing each other, neither willing to fight a battle because the losses would be too costly. A long confrontation but no fighting. Mercenary paradise. Surely not Falkenberg’s game? “What will you do?”

“That rather depends on what the opposition intends, doesn’t it?” Falkenberg studied the map table. “One thing is certain. They’ll have to deliver that crop to someone, presumably a Bronson agent. Major Barton will see to that. It’s the only way he can be paid, and he needs the money.”

“So if you can intercept the delivery—”

“The conflict is ended, of course. Governor Blaine will have his taxes, the Navy will have its drugs, and Lermontov will have his secret funds.” Falkenberg glanced at his watch and stood. “But first things first. This week we have to clean out that nest of pirates in the south.”

“Of course. Colonel, I don’t want to keep you from your work, but there is one thing. May—I would very much like to accompany your troops on this campaign.”

Falkenberg considered it for a moment. “I think not this time. Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind having a volunteer subaltern along, but this looks like a job for specialists. Hostage situations generally are.”

“Another time, then?”

Falkenberg looked thoughtful again. “It makes sense. In fact, it’s as good a way as any for you to get the intelligence your father will need. When we get back from this mission, you’ll be welcome aboard.”

IX

Mark Fuller awoke with a knife at his throat. A big, ugly man, burned dark and with scars crisscrossing his bare chest, squatted in front of them. He eyed Mark and Juanita, then grinned. “What have we got ourselves?” he said. “A couple of runaways?”

“I got everything, Art,” someone said from behind them.

“Yeah. Okay, mates, up and at ’em. Move out. I ain’t got all day.”

Mark helped Juanita to her feet. One arm was asleep from holding her. As Mark stood, the ugly man expertly took the gun from Mark’s belt. “Who are you?” Mark asked.

“Call me Art. Sergeant to the Boss. Come on, let’s go.”

There were five others, all mounted. Art led the way through the jungle. When Mark tried to say something to Juanita, Art turned. “I’m going to tell you once. Shut up. Say another word to anybody but me, and I kill you. Say anything to me that I don’t want to hear, and I’ll cut you. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Mark said.

Art laughed. “Now you’ve got the idea.”

They rode on in silence.

* * *

The Free State was mostly caves in hillsides above the sea. It held over five hundred men and women. There were other encampments of escapees out in the jungles, Art said. “But we’ve got the biggest. Been pretty careful—when we raid the planters, we can usually make it look like one of the other outfits did it. Governor don’t have much army anyway. They won’t follow us here.”

Mark started to say something about the mercenaries that the governor was hiring. Then he thought better of it.

The boss was a heavy man with long, colorless hair growing to below his shoulders. He had a handlebar mustache and staring blue eyes. He sat in the mouth of a cave on a big carved chair as if it were a throne, and he held a rifle across his knees. A big black man stood behind the chair, watching everyone, saying nothing.