The men wore even less. Nothing more than what Adrian thought of as a codpiece. Not even in battle, often enough. The warriors of most Southron tribes tended to scorn armor, other than whatever protection was provided by the quivers which held their arrows and, of course, the great velocipad-hide shields they favored. They considered armor effeminate and cowardly. Going into battle stark naked, covered only with wild and extravagant paint, was by no means uncommon.
The semi-nudity of the Southrons was natural enough, given the climate. At first, Adrian had assumed it was because of the heat. But after experiencing the constant rainfall, he and his brother had shed most of their own clothing. Skin dried quickly, once the rain stopped. The humidity was bad enough without being covered in soaked garments.
If he hadn’t been in the trance-haze, he would have sighed then. In truth, he detested the south—the barbarism of its inhabitants even more than the climate. What made it worse was that Adrian could not simply relegate the Southrons to the status of “barbarians” and then ignore their crudities, much as a man ignores the toiletry of animals.
Adrian could see past the surface, in a way that most civilized people could not. The Southrons were not “barbarians,” really. At bottom, they were people not much different from Adrian himself. The same intelligence—capacity for it, at least; the same emotions—mixed slightly differently, perhaps, but the same for all that. Hopes, fears, yearnings—all the same.
They were simply people, mired in centuries of barbarism. But it was still aggravating, for all that he understood the phenomenon.
“The Mission.” It had driven him to this place, whether he liked it or not. And, whether he liked it or not, had presented him with the Southrons as the raw material for his next work. Did a blacksmith “like” iron? It was irrelevant whether he did or not. Without iron, he had no work.
You’d have made a good general, came a thought from Raj. Adrian began to shape a witty denial, but let it go. Perhaps Raj was right. Whitehall had been a general himself, after all, when he had been alive. A great one, from what Adrian could tell, who had completed this same “mission” on his own planet extraordinarily well. So perhaps he knew whereof he spoke.
And that, too, was irrelevant. Raj and Center had not chosen Adrian for his martial prowess. There was no shortage of that on Hafardine, for a certainty. His brother Esmond provided enough of that for both of them—and, north of the narrow isthmus where the great Confederacy of Vanbert held sway over half the continent, there was already a man whose grim talents at war had become famous.
The thought of Demansk triggered Center. he will make his first move soon. if he has not already done so. probability 89%, ±3 for the former; 46%, ±10 for the latter. the variables there are larger.
The humor which bubbled up within Adrian was great enough to momentarily shatter the trance-haze. He burst into open laughter, even feeling the hammer of wet heat coming down on him.
You’re so wrong, you all-knowing damn machine. Demansk has already moved, be sure of it.
He waited for Raj’s input, wondering what it might be. It was an odd trio they made. A thinking machine called a “computer,” the recorded “spirit” of a long-dead general, and he himself—a living man still in his youth.
As a rule, Raj sided with Center in their little three-way debates and discussions. But, not always.
This time, he simply asked a question.
Why are you so sure of that, lad? I would think he’d wait a bit longer. I would, in his position. Unless he understands what you’re about, and he has no way—
The disembodied voice broke off suddenly. A moment later, Adrian sensed a ghostly chuckle echo in his mind.
I’d forgotten. It’s been so long since I was a man myself. Adrian caught a momentary glimpse of a beautiful, patrician face, cheek pressed into a pillow and smiling. Raj Whitehall’s wife Suzette, he knew. Now long dead herself.
There was no aura of sadness about the memory. Just . . . nostalgia? Hard to say.