The Tyrant

Chapter 15

Marange was the most bizarre city Helga had ever seen. It reminded her of a madhouse more than anything else. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the way anything was designed or constructed, outside of the immediate harbor area itself.

Docks and piers, in the nature of things, look much the same the world over. She would have said the same about buildings in general, before she encountered Marange. Granted, architectural styles varied from one nation to the next. Still, all towns and cities of her acquaintance, even the exotic islander city of Vase, had a logic to them.

Not so Marange. Although the city was technically a Southron one-the only real "city" anywhere in the southern half of the continent-its population was not more than a third Southron by birth. At least, its more-or-less permanent population. And even the Southrons dwelling there were, for the most part, outlaws and outcastes from their own barbarian society.

The inhabitants of Marange were the flotsam and jetsam of the whole world. They came from everywhere; every part of the continent, and every island. The only thing they really had in common was that, for whatever reason, they had been discarded by their own folk-or, as often as not, forced to flee for their lives.

Marange only existed at all for two reasons. The first was that, located at the highest point of the Blood River which was navigable by seagoing ships-almost 150 miles upstream from the ocean itself-it made a good and safe harbor. Whatever trade did take place between the southern barbarians and the rest of the world was channeled through Marange.

Secondly, it provided the Southrons with a gathering place for their annual intertribal assembly. That annual assembly, which took place in the autumn, was a great event for barbarian society. Its official purpose was to elect the Chief of Chiefs and settle whatever intertribal quarrels could be settled short of warfare. But it also provided them with a combination fair, trading mart, wife-seeking market, athletic contests, jousts, carnivals-and, of course, the most important time in the year for buying exotic goods brought from the civilized lands to the north.

Marange nestled against the eastern bank of the Blood River. Beyond the city's limits-insofar as it could be said to have any definite "limits"-stretched a rolling plain which provided a suitable meeting ground for the assembled barbarian tribes. During the assembly, that plain was well-nigh covered with the tents and huts erected by the tribesmen. Those temporary dwellings ranged in size and splendor from holes dug in the ground and covered with branches to the gigantic pavilions erected by the tribal chiefs.

The city itself had a similar cacophony. There was no real government ruling the place. Technically, Marange was neutral territory not allied to any tribe, and thus came under the official and direct jurisdiction of the Chief of Chiefs. But, in the real world, a Chief of Chiefs was a largely ceremonial post. The Chief of Chiefs had no residence separate from his own tribe. And, once the assembly was over, the Chief of Chiefs would depart the area and spend the rest of the year living in whatever portion of the southern continent his tribe happened to lay claim over.

As a result, the Chief of Chiefs paid no attention to Marange. For all practical purposes, the only order and authority which existed in the city was whatever its own inhabitants provided. And since they, in turn, were hardly any less tribal in their own way than the Southrons, no one had ever really tried to exercise authority over the city as a whole. Each group of outcasts tended to congregate in its own quarter. What "order" existed was whatever they saw fit to provide-and then, only for their own.

Needless to say, this posed a perilous situation for an uninformed visitor. "Dangerous as Marange" was a saying which could be found in all the major languages of the north and the Islands.

For most visitors, however, the danger was not too great. That was for the simple reason that most visitors were northern and Islander merchants, and each of those groups had their own well-established quarters in the city. The northerners-mostly Emeralds-directly north of the harbor area; the Islanders-mostly from Vase-directly east. A merchant doing business in Marange quickly learned to establish a firm relationship with the resident "traders' associations," which would provide him both with secure lodgings and an armed escort whenever he found it necessary to take his goods inland to the fairs themselves.

Anyone else took their chances. Emeralds might try to find a refuge in the "Emerald Quarter," located in the city's southern portion. But even for an Emerald, that was chancy. The Emeralds who lived there were either half-breeds or criminals or, usually, both-and despite the vigor with which they defended their "Emerald" status, seemed no less inclined to rob and murder an Emerald than anyone else.

Outcasts from the Islands had a similar quarter, located more or less in what could be called, more or less, Marange's "downtown."

There were also, scattered here and there and intermingled with various tribal groups, portions of the city inhabited by people from the Vanbert Confederacy. These areas were even more dangerous, however. The inhabitants were not so much criminals, in the professional sense of that term which could be applied to the Emerald or Islander exiles, as they were people so destitute and desperate that they had fled the Confederacy for the shaky refuge of Marange. Runaway slaves, for the most part.

Finally-so Sharlz Thicelt discovered with a little investigation as soon as they arrived and moored at one of the piers-there was a new sector in the city. Located next to the familiar "Emerald Quarter," it was being called the "New Emerald Quarter." The distinction was apparently not a subtle one. It seemed that shortly after their arrival, one of the "new Emeralds" was robbed and murdered by a gang of Emerald criminals-and the rest of the "new Emeralds" had immediately responded by massacring every member of that gang, some dozen or so others who happened to have the misfortune to be in the area, and had then for good measure burned down a goodly chunk of the old Emerald Quarter in order to create a no-man's-land between it and the new complex of residences they were erecting on the southern outskirts of the city. Which, Thicelt was told, resembled a Confederate army camp more than anything else.

"That's our boys," announced Jessep with satisfaction, upon being told the news. "Are you ready, girl?"

Helga nodded. Not more than five minutes later, she was being escorted to her destination through the streets of Marange by Jessep's hundred as well as Trae's unit of arquebusiers-all of them scowling at every resident of the city they came upon. They were a most ferocious looking crew, and even the crowded streets and alleys of Marange opened up before them.

Needless to say, neither Helga herself nor any of the other women nestled in the center of this column were molested along the way. The only man who did have the temerity to ogle them found himself lying bloody-faced on the street seconds later.

One of Trae's men did for that. The arquebusiers had discovered early on that a gun-butt, reversed, made an excellent club in close quarters. Trae had to restrain the man from shooting his victim; and only managed to do so by appealing to the need to conserve ammunition. Helga's escort was practically bristling, like a very large dog will when he encounters strange mutts.

When they finally arrived at the New Emerald Quarter, Helga saw that it did indeed resemble a Confederate army camp. "Resembled," in fact, was too weak a term. For all practical purposes, at least in terms of its design and construction, it was a Confederate camp-and one of the "permanent" ones, too, not one of the hastily-erected field camps which the army would use for a single night.

"Good construction," grunted Jessep approvingly. "Too heavy on the wood-extravagant, that, not to mention a bit crude. But-"

Helga chuckled. "Half of the country around here is one great big forest. So why not use heavy logs? Easier than planing boards, when you get down to it."

Jessep didn't argue the point. Clear enough, the veteran would feel happier himself once they got within those reassuring walls.

Doing so took a bit of effort. The soldiers guarding the gates were none too keen to allow a large group of armed strangers into their compound-the more so once they got a look at Trae's arquebuses. They were quite familiar with the devices, obviously. Helga could see at least four arquebuses trained on them from watchtowers along the wall.

Trae was doing the negotiations instead of Jessep, since he was far more fluent in the Emerald language. His task wasn't made any easier by the fact that Helga insisted he keep her own identity a secret. Whether that was necessary or not was pure guesswork on her part. But she and her father had kept her carefully secluded since her return, especially once they realized that she was pregnant with Adrian Gellert's child. The likelihood that someone from Marange would think to take that information to the Vanbert capital, more than two thousand perilous miles away, on the off chance that someone would be willing to pay for it, was unlikely. But if a stray remark happened to reach one of the northern merchants who was returning to civilization anyway…

No. Best keep it a secret for as long as possible. Outside of Jessep and Trae and Thicelt, the only people here who knew that Adrian Gellert was her child's father were the women. And she trusted them to keep their mouths shut.

Eventually, the guards agreed to let in a delegation. Trae, a dozen of his soldiers, Jessep and Ilset, and Helga herself. Then, twice that number of guards insisted on escorting them to the building which Adrian used for his dwelling.

As they approached, Helga found herself more nervous than she could ever remember being in her life. Then, when she discovered that Adrian was not home-one of his officers explained that he was meeting with a Southron chief-she found herself more upset than she would have believed possible.

But she let none of it show. The officer recognized her, as it happened. His name was Donnuld Grayn, and Helga could remember him as one of the soldiers in Adrian's company during the time she had spent as Adrian's "captive."

Grayn was affability itself, once he understood who she was. Quickly, he ordered the escort to let the rest of Helga's people into the compound, and invited Helga and Jessep and Ilset to wait for Adrian in his apartments. Trae and his men waited outside, with Grayn keeping them company.

And then… she waited. Perched on a couch, the baby in her arms, all of her anxiety returning with a vengeance. She was too preoccupied to even notice the surroundings, or pay any attention to Ilset and Jessep's idle chitchat. She had waited for this moment-yearned for it, in truth-for well over a year. Now that it was here, she was almost gasping for breath. Her worst fears surged to the fore.

He won't even remember me. Barely, at best. By now he must have another woman. Some exotic Southron bitch. I bet he won't even***

Then, he was standing in the open door, staring at her, with Trae's grinning face visible over his shoulder.

His face was much as she remembered it, if quite a bit more pale. But his first words were… nothing she had ever imagined in her many daydreams of this moment. They were uttered almost desperately, and in a much thinner voice than she remembered him having.

"If I get sick all over you, please don't take it personally. It's just that I found it necessary to share a cup-several, in fact-with one of the chiefs, and the stuff is the most horrible-they make it from- ulp- "

He did manage not to puke on her, but it was a close thing. If she hadn't hastily lifted her feet, she would have had to wash herself afterward. And, judging from the smell, would have had to discard the sandals entirely.

"You drank that?" She burst into laughter and held up her baby so the boy could admire his father. "See? Don't let anybody ever claim you were sired by some kind of Emerald wimp."

Ashen-faced, Adrian lifted his head and smiled weakly. Then, seeing the child, his eyes grew vague and unfocused. Helga remembered that weird expression, and almost shivered. Adrian's spirits were communing with him.

"He is your son," she said, softly but firmly. "I know it, even if I can't prove it."

The color was returning to Adrian's face. His smile grew firmer. "No need, Helga. He's my child, I'm quite certain of it."

Adrian used the word certain in a way which Helga had never heard any other man use it. Always, as if he were- certain. That was those mysterious "spirits" again. Somehow, in a manner which Helga did not understand, they had examined the boy and told Adrian that he was surely his own offspring.

Jessep came over and handed Adrian a rag, which he'd obtained somewhere in the apartment. Then, with several others, began cleaning up the mess on the floor. The former First Spear was no stranger to cleaning up vomit, clearly enough.

Adrian gave him a nod of thanks and wiped his mouth. Then, his eyes moving back and forth from Helga to the baby, asked in a still stronger voice: "What's his name?"

"I don't know. I never named him. I thought that since you were the father, you'd want to have a say in the matter. And-" She took a deep breath. "I always knew I'd see you again." The last statement sounded more like a plea than a statement.

Adrian's eyes were now focused entirely on her. She remembered those bright blue eyes. Could remember drowning in them at night and warming in them at dawn. She almost uttered the word please! — but managed to retain enough dignity not to say it aloud.

"Me too," he whispered. "The gods only know how much I've missed you."

Now she was laughing again, and it felt like all the tension of the past year was pouring out of her in the laughter itself-like water storming through a broken dike. And Jessep was laughing, and Adrian-Ilset too, with her own baby gurgling happily.

Only the child of Adrian Gellert and Helga Demansk was silent, staring wide-eyed at this strange new apparition in his young life. Wondering, perhaps, how anything in the world could be so blue.

A bit later, after Adrian and Jessep had finished cleaning up, Helga shooed everyone else out of the apartment. She handed the baby to Ilset on the way out. That had been prearranged between the two of them. By now, Ilset had nursed Helga's baby as well as her own any number of times, and she would have no trouble taking care of the infant until the following morning.

"Bet you won't have to fake it, either," murmured Ilset slyly, as she passed through the door. Helga's riposte came immediately to her lips, but before she could utter it, Adrian was closing the door and had her in his embrace.

A minute or two later, Helga murmured it in his ear. "That's one advantage to a man in a savage's loincloth. I don't have to wonder if he's faking his affection."

Adrian chuckled, but said nothing. By now, Helga was delighted to note, his normally fluent language had degenerated entirely into a series of growls.

The other advantage to a loincloth, she quickly discovered, was how easily it came off. The rest of it gave her no surprises, except that it was even better than she remembered.

Trae and Thicelt left a week later. Only Jessep and the hundred remained behind. On the morning that they left, Trae was quietly taken aside by Helga and handed a sealed and bound codex.

"Give this letter to Father," she said.

Trae hefted the packet. "Letter? This weighs as much as an Emerald tome."

Helga smiled. "Well… I guess it is, in a way. Adrian wrote most of it. He even gave the thing a title, believe it or not." She shook her head fondly, the way a woman will do at the antics of a man she loves but finds often eccentric.

"A title?" Trae stared down at the package. "I won't read it, of course. But I'm curious. What's the title?"

"He called it Meditations on Successful Tyranny."

"How spiritual sounding!" chortled Trae.

Helga, remembering the "trance-haze" in which her lover had spent many hours writing the thing, knew that the jesting phrase was far more accurate than Trae imagined. Adrian had finally explained to her the nature of his "spirits." Helga didn't really understand it, not fully at least. She wasn't happy at the thought that two other disembodied intelligences were sharing Adrian's mind-certainly not when they were making love! — but she had reconciled herself to the reality. And she understood how valuable their advice would be, to her father even more than Adrian himself.

"Just make sure he gets it," she snapped. "Mind your big sister!"