"Yes, sir," he mumbled.
The prince turned on his heel and walked away.
* * * * *
They gave him back his clothes, though someone had stripped the gold
braid and the medals away. Flandry looked at the soiled, ripped
garments and sighed. Tailor-made--!
He surveyed himself in the mirror as he washed and shaved. The face
that looked back was wide across the cheek-bones, straight-nosed and
square-jawed, with carefully waved reddish-brown hair and a mustache
trimmed with equal attention. Probably too handsome, he reflected,
wiping the blood from under his nose, but he'd been young when he had
the plasticosmetician work on him. Maybe when he got out of this mess
he should have the face made over to a slightly more rugged pattern to
fit his years. He was in his thirties now, after all--getting to be a
big boy, Dominic.
The fundamental bone structure of head and face was his own, however,
and so were the eyes--large and bright, with a hint of obliquity, the
iris of that curious gray which can seem any color, blue or green or
black or gold. And the trim, medium-tall body was genuine too. He hated
exercises, but went through a dutiful daily ritual since he needed
sinews and coordination for his work--and, too, a man in condition was
something to look at among the usually flabby nobles of Terra; he'd
found his figure no end of help in making his home leaves pleasant.
_Well, can't stand here admiring yourself all day, old fellow._ He
slipped blouse, pants, and jacket over his silkite under-garments,
pulled on the sheening boots, tilted his officer's cap at an angle of
well-gauged rakishness, and walked out to meet his new owners.
The Scothani weren't such bad fellows, he soon learned. They were big
brawling lusty barbarians, out for adventure and loot and fame as
warriors; they had courage and loyalty and a wild streak of sentiment
that he liked. But they could also fly into deadly rages, they were
casually cruel to anyone that stood in their way, and Flandry acquired
a not too high respect for their brains. It would have helped if they'd
washed oftener, too.
This warship was one of a dozen which Cerdic, the crown prince, had
taken out on a plundering cruise. They'd sacked a good many towns, even
some on nominally Imperial planets, and on the way back had sent down
a man in a lifeboat to contact Cerdic's agents on Llynathawr, which
was notoriously the listening post of this sector of the Empire. In
learning that there was something going on which a special agent from
Terra had been investigating, Cerdic had ordered him picked up. And
that was that.
Now they were homeward bound, their holds stuffed with loot and their
heads stuffed with plans for further inroads. It might not have meant
much, but--well--Cerdic and his father Penda didn't seem to be just
ordinary barbarian chiefs, nor Scothania an ordinary barbarian nation.
Could it be that somewhere out there among the many stars someone had
finally organized a might that could break the Empire? Could the Long
Night really be at hand?
Flandry shoved the thought aside. He had too much to do right now. Even
his own job at Llynathawr, important as it was, could and would be
handled by someone else--though not, he thought a little sadly, with
the Flandry touch--and his own immediate worry was here and now. He had
to find out the extent of power and ambition of the Scothani; he had to
learn their plans and get the information to Terra, and somehow spike
them even a little. After that there might be time to save his own hide.
* * * * *
Cerdic had him brought to the captain's cabin. The place was a typical
barbarian chief's den, with the heads of wild beasts on the walls and
their hides on the floors, old shields and swords hung up in places of
honor, a magnificent golden vase stolen from some planet of artists
shining in a corner. But there were incongruous modern touches, a
microprint reader and many bookrolls from the Empire, astrographic
tables and computer, a vodograph. The prince sat in a massive carven
chair, a silkite robe flung carelessly over his broad shoulders. He
nodded with a certain affability.
"Your first task will be to learn Scothanian," he said without
preliminary. "As yet almost none of our people, even nobles, speak
Anglic, and there are many who will want to talk to you."
"Yes, sir," said Flandry. It was what he would most have desired.
"You had better also start organizing all you know so you can present
it coherently," said the prince. "And I, who have lived in the Empire,
will be able to check enough of your statements to tell whether you are
likely speaking the truth." He smiled mirthlessly. "If there is reason
to suspect you are lying, you will be put to the torture. And one of
our Sensitives will then get at the truth."
So they had Sensitives, too. Telepaths who could tell whether a being
was lying when pain had sufficiently disorganized his mind were as bad
as the Empire's hypnoprobes.
"I'll tell the truth, sir," he said.
"I suppose so. If you cooperate, you'll find us not an ungrateful
people. There will be more wealth than was ever dreamed of when we go
into the Empire. There will also be considerable power for such humans
as are our liaison with their race."
"Sir," began Flandry, in a tone of weak self-righteousness, "I couldn't
think of--"
"Oh, yes, you could," said Cerdic glumly. "I know you humans. I
traveled incognito throughout your whole Empire, I was on Terra
itself. I posed as one of you, or when convenient as just another
of the subject races. I _know_ the Empire--its utter decadence, its
self-seeking politicians and pleasure-loving mobs, corruption and
intrigue everywhere you go, collapse of morals and duty-sense, decline
of art into craft and science into stagnancy--you were a great race
once, you humans, you were the first to aspire to the stars and we owe
you something for that, I suppose. But you're not the race you once
were."
The viewpoint was biased, but enough truth lay in it to make Flandry
wince. Cerdic went on, his voice rising: "There is a new power growing
out beyond your borders, young peoples with the strength and courage
and hopefulness of youth, and they'll sweep the rotten fragments of the
Empire before them and build something new and better."
_Only_, thought Flandry, _only first comes the Long Night, darkness and
death and the end of civilization, the howling peoples in the ruins of
our temples and a myriad petty tyrants holding their dreary courts in
the shards of the Empire. To say nothing of the decline of good music
and good cuisine, taste in clothes and taste in women and conversation
as a fine art_.
"We've one thing you've lost," said Cerdic, "and I think ultimately
that will be the deciding factor. Honestly. Flandry, the Scothani are a
race of honest warriors."
"No doubt, sir," said Flandry.
"Oh, we have our evil characters, but they are few and the custom of
private challenges soon eliminates them," said Cerdic. "And even their
evil is an open and clean thing, greed or lawlessness or something like
that; it isn't the bribery and conspiracy and betrayal of your rotten
politicians. And most of us live by our code. It wouldn't occur to a
true Scothani to do a dishonorable thing, to break an oath or desert
a comrade or lie on his word of honor. Our women aren't running loose
making eyes at every man they come across; they're kept properly at
home till time for marriage and then they know their place as mothers
and houseguiders. Our boys are raised to respect the gods and the king,
to fight, and to speak truth. Death is a little thing, Flandry, it
comes to everyone in his time and he cannot stay it, but honor lives
forever.
"We don't corrupt ourselves. We keep honor at home and root out
disgrace with death and torture. We live our code. And that is really
why we will win."
_Battleships help_, thought Flandry. And then, looking into the cold
bright eyes: _He's a fanatic. But a hell of a smart one. And that kind
makes the most dangerous enemy._
Aloud he asked, humbly: "Isn't any stratagem a lie, sir? Your own
disguised travels within the Empire--"
"Naturally, certain maneuvers are necessary," said the prince stiffly.
"Nor does it matter what one does with regard to alien races.
Especially when they have as little honor as Terrestrials."
_The good old race-superiority complex, too. Oh, well._
"I tell you this," said Cerdic earnestly, "in the hope that you may
think it over and see our cause is just and be with us. We will need
many foreigners, especially humans, for liaison and intelligence and
other services. You may still accomplish something in a hitherto wasted
life."
"I'll think about it, sir," said Flandry.
"Then go."
Flandry got.
* * * * *
The ship was a good three weeks en route to Scotha. It took Flandry
about two of them to acquire an excellent working knowledge of the
language, but he preferred to simulate difficulty and complained that
he got lost when talk was too rapid. It was surprising how much odd
information you picked up when you were thought not to understand
what was being said. Not anything of great military significance,
of course, but general background, stray bits of personal history,
attitudes and beliefs--it all went into the neat filing system which
was Flandry's memory, to be correlated with whatever else he knew or
learned into an astonishingly complete picture.
The Scothani themselves were quite friendly, eager to hear about the
fabulous Imperial civilization and to brag of their own wonderful past
and future exploits. Since there was obviously nothing he could do,
Flandry was under the loosest guard and had virtually the freedom of
the ship. He slept and messed with the warriors, swapped bawdy songs
and dirty jokes, joined their rough-and-tumble wrestling matches to win
surprised respect for his skill, and even became the close friend and
confidant of some of the younger males.
The race was addicted to gambling. Flandry learned their games, taught
them some of the Empire's, and before the trip's end had won back his
stolen finery plus several other outfits and a pleasantly jingling
purse. It was--well--he almost hated to take his winnings from these
overgrown babies. It just never occurred to them that dice and cards
could be made to do tricks.
The picture grew. The barbarian tribes of Scotha were firmly united
under the leadership of the Frithian kings, had been for several
generations. Theoretically it was an absolute monarchy, though actually
all classes except the slaves were free. They had conquered at least a
hundred systems outright, contenting themselves with exacting tribute
and levies from most of these, and dominated all others within reach.
Under Penda's leadership, a dozen similar, smaller barbarian states
had already formed a coalition with the avowed purpose of invading
the Empire, capturing Terra, destroying the Imperial military forces,
and making themselves masters. Few of them thought beyond the plunder
to be had, though apparently some of them, like Cerdic, dreamed of
maintaining and extending the Imperial domain under their own rule.
They had a formidable fleet--Flandry couldn't find out its exact
size--and its organization and technology seemed far superior to
that of most barbarian forces. They had a great industry, mostly
slave-manned with the Scothan overlords supervising. They had shrewd
leaders, who would wait till one of the Empire's recurring political
crises had reduced its fighting strength, and who were extremely well
informed about their enemy. It looked--bad!
Especially since they couldn't wait too long. Despite the unequalled
prosperity created by industry, tribute, and piracy, all Scotha was
straining at the leash, nobles and warriors in the whole coalition
foaming to be at the Empire's throat; a whole Galactic sector had been
seized by the same savage dream. When they came roaring in--well,
you never could tell. The Empire's fighting strength was undoubtedly
greater, but could it be mobilized in time? Wouldn't Penda get gleeful
help from two or three rival imperia? Couldn't a gang of utterly
fearless fanatics plow through the mass of self-seeking officers and
indifferent mercenaries that made up most of the Imperial power today?
Might not the Long Night really be at hand?