Lorance
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D E Austin
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Copyright © 2011 by D E Austin
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Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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All rights reserved.
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Deaustin.weebly.com
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Lorance
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Chapter 1
Jonn Lonry, command captain general of the first field group of the commonwealth guard, was the the age's "Caesar" in the opinion of his trusted lieutenants. And yet Jonn Lonry would far rather have remained just where he'd been for the past week now, secluded in the depths of a silent, ancient forest along the commonwealth's and civilization's northern frontiers, far from the unending, interminable annoyances of Candray town. But for a summons from the "revolutionary congress of the commonwealth of Lorance," Lonry might have remained in his quiet, wilderness refuge another month, might, had the mood struck, have wandered even further north into tribal country, a pleasant and amusing month with a gun truck company burning some misbehaving chief's corn down just to get his attention. And as likely as not, Jonn Lonry could simply have ignored the congress' summons with impunity. Having by and large consolidated his position as command captain general of the commonwealth guard over the past six months by various manner of posturing and intrigue, Jonn Lonry now occupied that position feeling reasonably secure, though never doubting that a perception of security could in the world as it was today easily prove illusory, a fact to which any of his immediate predecessors might certainly have testified had any still been alive to do so. For reasons of just that sort, Jonn Lonry had finally decided to avoid the risk of open conflict with Candray town and the commonwealth congress for the time being. Troubles with the congress and Candray town's social and political establishment would find him soon enough without his looking for them.
Pushing himself from his bedroll at first light, Lonry had decided to walk the mile and a half distance from the small forest clearing along the northern frontiers in which a company of guard gun trucks had been stationed for the past several days, their crews monitoring radio traffic among a half dozen tribes in the north, drinking beer when nothing of any great importance was to be heard on the radios. The chief of one country was summoning a militia from his outlying farms "in order to teach a low down, good fer nuthin' scoundrel" in another country a lesson. A few sizable highway gangs were attempting to loot out country farms in several other countries. Two other highway gangs warring over a truck load of gasoline had retired from the field when rocket propelled grenades launched by one gang toward the other hit the gasoline truck instead, the explosion declared "impressive" by amused guard flyers snapping pictures of the battle. Nothing heard on the airwaves in the wilds along the northern frontiers over the past several days, however, seemed greatly out of the ordinary, nor matters necessitating intervention by commonwealth guard regulars.
And so Jonn Lonry set off on foot along a narrow grass track through the forest, bound for another gun truck company currently encamped at the side of another commonwealth highway drinking beer. If not in the mood for a cup or two himself, he'd commandeer one of these gun trucks for the drive south and back to Candray. Idling without haste along narrow grass trails choked by the rain and mud of early spring, Lonry supposed he'd not have made more rapid progress from one encampment to the other in a truck, though he in no way supposed this the reason he had chosen to walk the distance. An easy, unhurried stroll through the restful silence of the forest with none for company but chattering birds and the occasional rabbit dashing from his path seemed a pleasant, final respite from the annoyances he would face when once more confronted by the commonwealth's human inhabitants, Candray town itself never less than an annoyance of constant, vexing aggravation. Pondering again the tedium which most likely awaited in the south, Lonry decided a half mile from the commonwealth highway that this was as good a place as any for a short rest. Leaning into the rough bark of a tall maple a few steps from the path, Lonry reached into a pocket for tobacco and paper, taking twice as long as usual rolling, fussing over the paper with meticulous attention to detail until he had crafted a neat, tightly wound cigarette. He then spent a few more minutes gazing idly into the distance as he smoked his creation, crows in nearby trees cawing noisily to their fellows further afield as interesting a study as any for a few more minutes. He might easily have passed the rest of the morning doing little more had the mood struck. The commonwealth congress, he decided again, wasn't a concern he was going to consider of any pressing urgency. They could just damn well wait. But his prolonged absence would, he sighed, undoubtedly alarm his colleagues at arms, particularly since he was now command captain general of the first, thus de facto commander the commonwealth guard in its entirety.
Jonn Lonry still, in the odd moment, shuddered for the fact, toyed with his cigarette another long moment, the past twenty years coursing a wondering path through his mind as he gazed into the silent depths of a secluded forest just a few minutes quick drive from the northern frontiers and the nearest tribes. For most of his twenty years in the commonwealth guard, Candray town and the social and political establishment had been of no greater concern to him than it had been to most other guard regulars. Candray town was the likes of the grandiose congress house, the center of commonwealth pomp and ceremony. The congress house and various other imposing government halls of Candray housed the elite of the social and political establishment - and the whole of it, of course, well infested with the congress' and the central committee's spies, plain clothed security operatives skulking their way through alleys and gutters. The place, most certainly, was no place for a soldier.
A little over six months ago, shortly before he had been thrust prematurely into present circumstance, Jonn Lonry had become privy to secrets little more than the subject of whispered speculation beyond the confines of Candray town's marble halls. Candray's grandiose congress house and a congress of eight dozen wealthy potentates from country across the commonwealth hadn't ruled a great deal more than the lawns of the congress house itself for at least the past twenty years now. After fifty years rule by a congress denounced by a great many as being ever more corrupt with every passing year, lessor potentates from town and country across the commonwealth had begun to question the wisdom of their parents' and grandparents' revolution in which the Lord Regent of Candray and his family had been sent packing, replaced by "the socialist and revolutionary congress of commonwealth government." Potentates of various "revolutionary" title from country across the commonwealth had twenty years ago begun proffering courtly, anticipatory bows to a commander of the commonwealth guard, he promptly summoning gold and silver smiths to his chambers in Candray fortress his table covered with sketches of crowns in various styles. The congress and its central committee's spies always expert and proficient, this unfortunate guards commander had been summoned to chambers in the basement of the congress house the congress assuring him that he wasn't to be shot. As soon as he had been, the congress had dispatched one of its own members to Candray fortress as commander of the first, he processing up to a locked gate, knocking furiously on the door, processing back to the congress house ten minutes later complaining that no one at the fortress would open the gates for him. And so, for the past twenty years now, it had gone, a member appointed by the congress as commander of the commonwealth guard sitting in chambers in the congress house staring at the walls, the commonwealth guard and by degrees most of the rest of the commonwealth firmly under the command of the guards' senior command captain, none of whom for twenty years now had commissioned the manufacture of a crown. All, however, had bowed little more than titular subordination to the commonwealth congress, had chosen their deputies with meticulous care. Jonn Lonry, suddenly finding himself heir apparent under the tutelage of his predecessor, had approached matters with his eyes wide open, was eminently aware that the commonwealth's most powerful position was also its most dangerous, the congress and it's central committee's spies still ranging the length and breadth of the commonwealth intent on various manner of mischief. Jonn Lonry felt a measure of settling ease, however, deciding again that a command captain general of the regular guard might consider himself appropriately situated standing under a tree in the commonwealth's northern forests, Candray town and crystal opulence in the likes of the congress house someone else's day to day concern.
And still, no matter what the current political situation, Jonn Lonry couldn't in good conscience pass the rest of the morning standing beneath a tree in the middle of nowhere, no matter how pleasant the prospect of doing so might at the moment have seemed. Crushing the stub of the cigarette beneath his boot, deciding a company of gun truck regulars stumbling about this wood in search of him must be declared blatantly counterproductive, Lonry pushed himself back onto the trail.
Short minutes later, he idled onto the well packed dirt and gravel of a commonwealth highway, glancing south a quick moment toward a cut of open pasture land and an out country farm, a community of four or five dozen not dissimilar to countless others across the commonwealth. An elderly sentinel, however, stood atop a watch tower on this farm, field glasses trained toward the north. Country everywhere along the northern frontiers currently needed attention of one sort or another, several dozen bands of highwaymen as often as not provided refuge by some ruling potentate of various title who needed to disappear. Other regulars, however, Jonn Lonry sighed, had all the fun. He, to his unending annoyance, was bound for Candray. Sighing again in groaning resignation, he set off for the gun truck company encamped another quarter mile to the south.
It came as no great surprise when cresting the top of a low rise he noticed one Abby Swane pushing her way along the highway with a long, crooked walking stick. Abby, Lonry chuckled, had appeared quite as ancient twenty years before when he'd first encountered her along this stretch of road, he at the time just accepted as a regular in the commonwealth guard. Mistress of a Way House tavern on a large out country farm a short distance over the nearest hills, Abby eagerly provided gun truck crews inexpensive beer in order to entice them into her Way House, Abby's profits derived from rents paid by attractive young ladies in upper chambers in the tavern these visited by overland freight drivers and more than a few gun truck crews. Lonry had never felt inclined to visit the upper chambers. He had, however, on more than a few occasions over the years, availed himself of Abby's beer.
Lonry rested at the edge of the highway in amused anticipation as an old woman of questionable mental faculty approached. Abby Swane drew to a halt a few paces away, fixing him a long moment with intense, studying eyes, just the subtle edge of amusement creasing the ancient lines of her face.
"Jonn Lonry," she finally began, a chuckling cackle of dry mirth, "they tell me you's running things now."
"I'm boss of the first, Abby."
"Sure you is," the same cackle of amusement. Abby, Jonn Lonry little doubted, knew exactly who he was, though he'd never understand how she did. The reigning potentates of any number of sizable towns in various corners of the commonwealth still supposed the congress of Lorance retained a least a measure of real authority.
"I believe, Jonn Lonry," Abby continued after another moment's studying scrutiny, "I believe that you's a good man. So you know what I's gonna do? I's gonna tell you bout a conversin' I had with my great grandma when I was a little girl long years back before."
"A - conversing?" Lonry chuckled, enjoying the mild spring breeze along this isolated highway so far from the demands of life he would face on the lanes of Candray town, Abby Swane he supposed, as lucid as she ever was, certainly no real nuisance.
"Yup, a conversin' tweens me and my great grandma, and that a conversin' on a conversin' what was tween her and her great grandma what lived way back when, though that conversin' was bout a conversin' ten or twenty more steps back beyond."
Still, Lonry decided with a quiet chuckle, at least moderately comprehensible.
"So the conversin' was spoke," Abby pronounced, "quite a bit back beyond, but now I knows that conversin' was spoke for you, Jonn Lonry. And that conversin' was spoke just after they burned the world down, turbul, horbul times what they said couldn't happen agin. So then a course they burned the world down a couple more times, and they burned it down cause people plays with fire. So there tis, Jonn Lonry. If you's don't wanna burn the world down, don't be playin' with fire."
"Abby - I'll keep that in mind."
"Sure you will," Abby Swane concluded in cackling amusement as she pushed herself on. "Sure you will, cause you's a good man, Jonn Lonry. Course you oughtn't a spend all you's time just drinkin' beer, you know. Y'oughta climb the stairs ever so often, enjoy the lady's company."
With a dismissing shrug of idle amusement, Lonry stepped on, wondering minutes later if the gun truck company had been moved until he caught just the glimpse of dull gray metal through a dense stand of brush a short distance from the edge of the road. Adequate concealment, Lonry decided in musing amusement. Unless someone had been diligently searching for the trucks, they would have escaped detection entirely.
Lonry pushed his way through another few yards of shrubbery, finally sighted Colan Horeshan leaning against the side of the nearest gun truck. Horeshan, tall, weather beaten features, was in his late fifties, had been a member of the guard fifteen years longer than Lonry, had known no other life since he had left his family's farm in his youth. Were the commonwealth guard ever to be engaged in large scale hostilities along civilization's eastern or southern frontiers, Jonn Lonry as its senior command captain would decide when and where. Colan Horeshan, however, a command captain general universally respected as a tactician of unrivaled skill, would as director of operations wage the front line battle. For the moment, however, both Lonry and Horeshan were more than content to pass their time roaming about the north inspecting company strength contingents of the guard facing highwaymen and a few belligerent chiefs beyond the frontiers. Both Lonry and Horeshan had participated in large scale hostilities twenty years before, Horeshan as a company captain, Lonry as a raw recruit. Neither looked forward to that which both now considered a horror to be avoided.
"Ain't you getting just a bit old for this traipsing around," Colan Horeshan began in easy amusement. "All over the woods - at your age -"
"I can out walk you any day of the week, old man," Lonry chuckled as he approached the gun truck, leaning then onto its side in order to relieve his weight, needing, he sighed, relief. "What's this bunch look like?"
Horeshan aimed a sighing nod toward another gun truck a few yards away, a company captain and three other guardsmen leaning at its raised hood.
"Ran it dry of oil," Horeshan groaned. "They'll be the day pulling the engine. Boss of this here company's one of them book leaned kids right outa Candray Academy, so soon as he gets the truck fixed I'm gonna have him down by the lake countin' rocks till he knows enough to keep his trucks in oil. So what's going on in Candray? Lines for toilet paper too long they need boss a the first down there to straighten it all out?"
"Who knows? The radios working?"
"Now and then. Still mostly noise. Nuther book learned kid says repeater links or something are down somewhere."
Lonry pushed himself to the gun truck's door, reached for the radio's microphone with one hand, adjusted frequency dials with the other, groaned annoyance when nothing crackling noisily through the speaker sounded promising.
"Caley, you there?" Lonry shouted into the microphone, a barrage of static rather than the voice of a clerk sitting with his feet propped on a table in Candray fortress.
"Candray fort - Caley - answer the damn radio," Lonry tried with no better results.
"Nothing all morning," Horeshan groaned as he leaned at the door. "Nothing since last night."
"Yeah. Maybe I oughta try aunt Molly?" Lonry groaned as well, debating the problem in musing quiet another quick moment. Degren Town lay five miles away just over the nearest hills, one aunt Molly Degren town and country boss of some extravagant title never Jonn Lonry's concern. Degren Town would be an easy reach for the radio. A message to Candray, however, would pass through a dozen telephone exchanges, would wait while someone in one exchange finished tea, would wait at another someone at the switchboard searching for a route which avoided the town boss with whom his own town's boss was currently feuding. The message, and the reply, would wind a tortuously circuitous path across the commonwealth over the course of a day, at the least. It just, Lonry finally sighed, wasn't worth the bother. And it was certainly obvious that a great deal of work remained to be done on the guard's communications infrastructure, a recently activated system of radio and telephone relay stations its design intended to reduce the commonwealth guard's dependence on the various whims of town and country bosses and the like. Less than half of the radio net, however, had been completed. A gun truck company patrolling the likes of the northern frontiers in search of renegade tribesmen was still, by and large, on its own for days at a time. Aircraft from fields along the frontiers might be dispatched searching for it if it hadn't been heard from for a week or two. And the commonwealth congress, Lonry sighed in vexing annoyance, had yet to appropriate funds for the maintenance of that part of the communications net which had been completed. Sheds housing radio relay equipment in isolated corners of the commonwealth burned to the ground by bored youths from the tribes or rampaging highwaymen were replaced only when clerks in Candray fortress could scrounge the money from "somewhere."
"Is this thing working at all?" Lonry asked.
Colan Horeshan reached for the microphone.
"Morrill, you there?" he shouted.
An answer from a company captain just a mile away crackled through the speaker a quick moment later.
"Yeah. Who's this? What d'ya want?"
"Nothing," Horeshan barked. "Shut up and stay off the radio."
Lonry chuckled in wondering amusement supposing he would never entirely understand the nuances of rapport which existed between Colan Horeshan and field commanders of the guard.
"So what are you up to next, old man?"
"Maybe poke on over into Fraelin if you don't need me for anything. Last I heard our people there are in pretty decent shape, oil in their trucks on a regular like basis, but never hurts to make sure. Couple more countries here abouts need work soon as I get time, nothing serious, mob runnin' gin out to the tribes, couple chiefs making a nuisance of themselves. Something stirring in the south?"
"Bellton's gonna let me know. He's got planes taking pictures. Nothing imminent."
"Good. That'll give me a chance to work on a few more chiefs and highway gangs up here."
"That'd please Candray, I suppose. Last time I talked with Bellton, a half dozen country bosses up here were screaming, just as many demands on Bellton's table from the congress, some want the tribes pacified, some want the bosses pacified, some just wanna burn everything out here down."
Horeshan shrugged, Candray and the commonwealth's political establishment never of any great personal concern to him.
"Exactly," Lonry chuckled in idle amusement as he settled onto the gun truck's seat, then with a sigh of finished resignation stepped on the starter. The truck's engine roaring to life, Lonry gazed another moment about the wood, toward a company of guard regulars patrolling it. They, Lonry decided, were the lucky ones.
"All right, Colan, stay in touch," Lonry sighed as he pulled the truck into gear, Horeshan slapping a parting thud to its hood as Lonry throttled it forward.
Lonry glanced a final moment into the mirror toward the shrinking forms of Colan Horeshan and the encamped gun trucks behind, sighed another long moment's annoyance that he couldn't accompany them on patrol. Horeshan, never one to spend any great length of time at table in Candray fortress, might pass another week along these frontiers prowling back wood trails looking for anything of interest. Companies of guard regulars might prowl up and down narrow back wood tracks leading into tribal country much of this a refuge for sizable bands of highwaymen. By and large, country north of the frontiers had been quiet for some time now, according Lon Bellton at Candray fortress compiling intelligence from spies and back wood scouts wandering the tribes. Merchanter agents in the employ of Candray, however, could always be counted on for various manner of mischief in the nations. Dish girls in wealthy residences across the commonwealth often turned out to be "princesses" stolen from the nations.
If in a mood, Colan Horeshan might wander across the eastern frontiers, burn some of boss Marquist's Fraelin down. Boss Marquist and the commonwealth of Fraelin, however, hadn't been a matter of pressing concern for at least the past generation, Fraelin's army a rag tag assortment of misfits and thugs capable of little more than sustaining the old, doddering boss in power, barely capable of containing highwaymen and the like within their own frontiers. Encounters between Candray's and Fraelin's regulars were normally little more than an opportunity to exchange samples of each other's liquor. After that, company captains might or might not get around to sharing information regarding the movement of highway gangs known to frequent the northern mountains of both commonwealths.
Candray, however, Lonry sighed in grudging resignation, was his problem for the moment, and he turned his attention back to a commonwealth highway adequately maintained by local country councils throughout most of the year. During the dry summer months, the drive from the northern frontiers to Candray could be accomplished in a day, particularly in one of the guard's sturdy gun trucks capable of speed even over northern roads more suited to horse and mule carts still predominant in this part of the commonwealth. Spring rains, however, had as usual washed gaping holes into the highway's dirt and gravel surface for considerable distances, a walking pace bone jarring. At least a day and a half, Lonry sighed, edging the gun truck across another washed out gully.
Pounding his way along a ridge overlooking the industrial smokestacks of Caerlen town by midmorning, Lonry again reached for the microphone. Perhaps he was close enough to an operating relay station by now.
"Caley - you there?" he called, a moment's static crackling through the speaker, then a faint though understandable voice.
"This is Candray speaking on guard one. You may proceed with your transmission."
Chuckling in easy mirth for the formal propriety in the voice of a young guards clerk who sat his feet propped at the radio table microphone in one hand and a glass of beer in the other, Lonry again raised his own microphone.
"Caley, get up off your ass and find Bellton."
The familiar voice of the guard's deputy commander crackled through the radio's speaker a minute later.
"Jonn - that you -?"
"Yeah, Lon - what's going on?"
"The commonwealth marshal general wants to see you, Jonn. The Lord High Marshal of the commonwealth insists," amusement evident even in a voice faint with distance.
The commonwealth marshal, Lonry mumbled, Candray's nominally the commonwealth's chief law enforcement official answerable only to the congress. As far as Lonry knew, only the central committee's private henchmen prowling both Candray's lanes and country across the commonwealth searching for the central committee's real or imagined enemies fell beyond the jurisdiction of the marshal general of the commonwealth.
"What the hell does the marshal of Candray want with the guard, Lon? Can't you see to it yourself? You're a lot better than I am with all this political garbage."
"This might be something you want to look into yourself, Jonn. It's the marshal himself who wants to see you, not one of the central committee's thugs. And there's nothing on paper, no warrant, summons, anything of the sort. Olven Lant, it seems, just picked up a telephone - translated, I don't think it's strictly a political matter."
Makes sense, Lonry decided, gazing toward the radio in speculative quiet another long moment. Town and country marshals and their uniformed deputies were still the most visible expression of civil authority across the commonwealth. Provided one's road tax was paid, however, and the vehicle against which the tax had been levied was driven at a reasonably sober speed, uniformed deputies across the commonwealth were not perceived by the citizenry as a personal threat. Marshals and their deputies seldom involved themselves in the political process, were content to ignore it as often as possible, were as content as anyone to ignore and be ignored by the central committee's spies. Cadres of these, stone faced, scowling individuals in plain business attire, might be found on any town corner across the commonwealth noting the movement of nonconformists labeled such by the central committee.
But it was Candray's marshal, according to Lon Belton, rather than the central committee's plain clothed political thugs, who wanted to see him.
"All right, Lon," Lonry sighed. "I'm still in the north. Tell the - lord high marshal to sit tight. I'll be there when I can."
The marshal of Candray, Lonry mumbled again, who'd obviously bypassed standard channels of communication in order to request a meeting with the commander of the guard. Lon Bellton, Lonry again decided, could far more easily than he determine the nuances of things, Lon Bellton comfortable at table in Candray fortress, adept at observing and interpreting the political process, quite as adept, Jonn Lonry chuckled, at manipulating the political process. The guard's deputy commander oversaw a network of spies as extensive as the congress' and the central committee's. Lon Belton sat at table in Candray amidst a couple dozen humming machines and an imponderable myriad of flashing lights the whole tended by a several dozen clerks and technicians scurrying about in every direction.
"Which is why the present age's 'Caesar' can spend his time in a truck in the middle of nowhere for weeks on end," amused mirth in Lon Bellton's features.
The marshal general of Candray, Olven Lant, as far as Lonry knew, had been marshal of some small, back wood country in the middle of nowhere for most of his life, had busied himself with anything from drunks to the local mob. The congress of Candray, turning to a political "outsider" such as Olven Lant after the death of the former commonwealth marshal rather than appoint someone from Candray, had obviously done so in an attempt to recoup at least a measure of its past authority, the new commonwealth marshal expected and supposed to subordinate himself to that authority, content himself tending to drunks and the local mob on Candray town's traffic lanes.
It had indeed been twenty years now since any commander of the guard had allowed other than nominal and superficial interference in the guard's internal affairs. Lon Bellton at table in the fortress adeptly identified and removed the central committee's spies who were occasionally infiltrated into the guard's officer corp. A great many older and established members of the congress resented the situation as it now stood, would never reconcile themselves to the loss of past authority and privilege.
When Jonn Lonry had assumed command of the guard six months ago, the congress of Candray meeting in a hastily summoned session had attempted to invalidate his appointment, arguing that it hadn't been approved in advance by either the congress in general session or the congress' central committee, no one in that which had obviously been a collective act of desperation bothering to consider that the commonwealth guard hadn't sought the congress' opinion on a great deal of anything for the past twenty years. Jonn Lonry had immediately called the congress' bluff. A sketch on the front page of Candray's and a dozen other newspapers across the commonwealth had shown a member of congress knocking on and then walking away from Candray fortress' main gate an angry scowl in his features. Jonn Lonry had positioned gun truck companies along every road leading into Candray, a massive military "exercise" its point lost on no one. The congress of Candray, more than a few of its members sitting in the congress house's spires, had had a clear view of gun barrels pointed in their direction, members who had climbed up to the congress house's spires frantically dashing back down the spiral stairs when guard aircraft their engines an ear splitting shriek began diving on those same spires.
The whole thing had simmered at the boiling point for a week. Telephone exchanges in country across the commonwealth had been jammed with all manner of rumor, civilization in its entirety shuddering with trepidation. Sirenia and the south had of course shuddered convulsively, massed formations of their gun trucks flung with frantic desperation onto their northern frontiers. Civil war in the commonwealth of Lorance, indisputably the military and industrial power of the age, wasn't to be taken lightly by anyone. And the whole thing, over the next several weeks, had just gone away, no clear resolution to the matter on either side. Jonn Lonry was de facto commander of the commonwealth guard, and that was that. Emissaries from neighboring lands still presented themselves to the congress of Lorance amid various manner of pomp and ceremony. An emissary's aids presented themselves to Candray fortress if matters other than those of ceremonial consequence needed attention. The entire affair had, however, left Jonn Lonry another week or two in brooding annoyance. Why had eight dozen old men in the congress chosen him in their attempt to recoup something which hadn't been a fact for a generation. By and large, however, Lonry was now more than content just to ignore Candray and its congress, might smirk a moment's amused mirth shown a cartoon in another newspaper depicting members of the the commonwealth congress climbing toward a toga clad figure in the fortress with laurel wreath on head. Jonn Lonry had even offered the occasional gesture of conciliatory, titular subordination, might engage in polite conversation with this or that ranking member of congress encountering them near the fortress, though he always retreated from such impromptu encounters watching his back, anxious for the quiet seclusion of some back wood where he could just escape Candray and its unending political intrigue.
Lonry glanced another few moments toward another out country farm nestled in a green, picturesque valley in Caerlen country. A small procession of pony carts laden with vegetables plodded along a narrow dirt track beneath the ridge along which he now drove. An overland freight belching black clouds of smoke lumbered along in the near distance. Plunging finally into another stretch of dark, silent forest, Lonry throttled the gun truck to speed, one hand to the wheel as he gazed off into the wood in idle ease. Old plank bridges crossed the occasional swiftly flowing stream along the banks of which various manner of wildlife could be seen. The deer population had been high for several years now. A large buck with an impressive rack stood watching the gun truck's progress near another bridge. Lonry was tempted to reach for the rifle cradled between the gun truck's seats, decided against doing so, however, just as quickly. Caerlen's marshal happening along would likely protest the poaching with no great display of vehemence given the identity of the poacher. The congress, however, Lonry sighed, would perceive the incident as just another opportunity for various manner of mischief.
Climbing onto the high plains of Syrome country, Lonry gazed another idle moment toward a small herd of dairy cattle grazing a short distance from another small out country farm. He'd been brought up on a farm very similar in appearance, wished at times that he'd never left it. Work on an out country farm could be as exhausting at any. Lonry had seen enough of it to be fully aware of the fact. But riding herd over cattle grazing placidly in the warming sun seemed preferable at the moment to the difficulties with which he now had to cope.
Finally deciding that he'd had enough of the gun truck for the day, Lonry edged it to a stop at the side of the highway. He sat another moment examining a stretch of road ahead, five hundred yards, straight and level. It would do, he decided as he reached for the microphone. He might, in another mood, have just idled on the rest of the day, might have arrived back in Candray "whenever." Not this time, he sighed, snapping the radio onto the air frequency.
"Who's up around Syrome?" he called into the microphone.
"Who wants to know?" came a quick, curt answer.
"Lonry, boss of the first."
Another short interval of silence, and then the same voice in tones markedly more respectful.
"Anson here, boss, over White Hill."
"Anson - I need you two miles north of Syrome. You'll see a truck long side the highway. Think you can get here without getting lost?"
"Ten minutes, boss."
Lonry set the microphone aside, climbed from the truck, and leaned at its hood, the gentle warmth of the sun another moment's respite from life's annoyances. Ten minutes later the distinctive drone of an aircraft's engine resounded in the near distance.
"Couple degrees right," Lonry called.
"Got ya," the radio crackled.
"Good. You got a couple hundred yards of road in front of the truck, plenty wide, no wind. Think you can handle that without denting my airplane?"
"No problem, boss."
In easy amusement, Lonry gazed toward a type four aircraft handled with reasonable proficiency, a cautious, circling approach as it descended toward the highway, a quick puff of dust as it settled into a landing roll. A short minute later, the young flyer had maneuvered the plane back toward the gun truck, rolling to a stop a few yards away.
"I need to borrow this thing for awhile," Lonry pronounced as a young flyer climbed to the ground. "Take the truck. Try and get it back to your fortress in one piece," and an eighteen year old guardsman, Lonry supposed, would steal as much of the day as possible in a Syrome town Way House tavern. The gun truck roaring off down the road, Lonry turned for the aircraft, a type four a deadly looking machine indeed, heavy caliber guns in both wings, struts along the fuselage onto which various manner of ordinance could be attached. The casual observer, however, could never appreciate the capabilities of this aircraft on the ground, they eminently observable only in the air by potential adversaries. Aircraft, twenty years ago when Lonry had first contracted into the guard, had been little more than flying kites. A particularly daring flyer might have been capable of rendering a gun truck inoperable popping bullets into it's engine from his pistol, would, however, have been hard pressed to escape return fire in a machine capable of little more than ninety knots. The type four was something altogether different. Old Abby Swane, Jonn Lonry sighed, was quite correct. The commonwealth guard armed as it now was, its commander if in a mood was quite capable of burning most of civilization to the ground. He and Colan Horeshan just several months ago had witnessed aircraft deliver ordinance onto testing grounds not far from Candray, the explosions of sufficient strength, both Lonry and Horeshan had grinned in unpretended satisfaction, to rattle every window in the congress house.
Climbing onto the wing and finally settling behind the plane's controls, Lonry decided as he had often enough over the past twenty years that he hadn't any particular desire to find either himself or the commonwealth guard engaged in hostilities of the sort one might anticipate with Sirenia and the south. Tribal country in the north or a doddering old boss in Fraelin provided the guard more than sufficient occupation for the time being.
Engaging the aircraft's starter, the engine spinning rapidly to life, Lonry turned his attention fully and finally to the task at hand, a type four demanding little less. Grasping the stick with his right hand, the throttle with his left, he edged the plane forward, lined carefully onto the highway, then pushed the throttle to the stop. The quiet rumble of the engine quickly wound into an authoritative, powerful whine, the aircraft surging forward with a rapidity still seeming a piercing little thrill. Short seconds later, Lonry sensed the wheels floating tentatively from ground. Had this been the mile long runway at Candray's fortress, he might have held the stick forward, allowing the plane into the air at a shallow angle its speed sufficient for an eighty degree bank toward the spires of the congress house, amusement in his features for imagined scowls on the faces of congress members another guards aircraft rattling their windows. Threatening trees in close proximity along this out country highway in the north, however, Lonry feathered the stick back with gentle urging pressure. Even so, the type four bit into the air with uncanny rapidity. Remarkable, he decided again, musing over launches he'd performed twenty years ago in the biwing kites, airplanes in which one clawed for speed and altitude. The type four shot through three hundred feet only seconds after it had left the ground.
Banking onto an southerly heading, Lonry settled the plane into an easy climb. That which might have been another day and a half pounding along commonwealth highways in a gun truck was now a bizarre thirty minutes. It was yet again something to which Jonn Lonry supposed he would never become entirely accustomed. He gazed another idle moment down toward several dozen out country farms now visible from his otherworldly vantage point in the air, gazed down toward communities of four or five dozen in the midst of pasture land cut from the surrounding forest, could easily imagine youths standing at the farm's gates supposing the next farm over the nearest hills another world. He'd stood at Sudentol's gates in his own youth the commonwealth an academic vaguery, a visit to town a day's adventure, the mannerisms of visitors from the industrial south odd and foreign.
Pulling the throttle back only minutes after he had launched, settling the plane into an easy descent, Lonry finally gazed brooding study toward Candray town itself. It was indeed "town" in every sense of the word, a mile and a half's spreading expanse of brick and stone, smokestacks rising above awe inspiring mases of industrial tin and steel, the whole of it complexities which a field commander of the commonwealth guard supposed he would never comprehend.
"It's the age's Rome or New York,'" Lon Bellton, always fond of historical analogy, argued.
Jonn Lonry scowled another moment's annoyance toward the spires of that which had once been the residence of the Lord Regent, was today the congress house. Lonry fancied for another brooding moment that all was as it might have seemed from a thousand feet in the air, he just another soldier guarding the commonwealth's frontiers.
And with a sigh of finished resignation, Lonry edged his gaze toward the fortress laying along the northern edge of town. Sighing himself back into the reality of the moment, he reached for the microphone.
"Caley - twist some knobs on your radios. I wanna speak to Olven Lant."
Several minutes later a barked "what?" issued through the radio's speakers.
"Lant - Olven Lant -?"
"Yeah. What -?"
Chuckling in idle amusement for a reply as curt and succinct as any to be heard on guard frequencies, Lonry again raised the microphone.
"This is Jonn Lonry. Where are you?"
"Paran," something like insistence, Lonry decided, now evident in Lant's voice. What the hell was the marshal of Candray doing in Paran?
"All right, Lant. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Ten minutes -?"
"I'm in an airplane," and Lonry banked onto a easterly heading, ran the engine to power another several minutes, Paran visible through the canopy a quick few minutes later. Settling into a landing approach, Lonry guided the aircraft toward a narrow grass strip near the edge of a commonwealth highway, allowed himself a smile of contented satisfaction when he'd rolled to a stop in little more than two hundred yards. The twenty year old kid from whom he'd commandeered the airplane hadn't managed better. Any number of times in the past, particularly when he'd first started flying, he'd badly miscalculated speed or altitude attempting landings on narrow highways or short, hastily cleared fields along the frontiers, pounding onto the ground with a teeth jarring jolt, then bouncing back into the air, sometimes finding it necessary to thrust the throttle to the stop as the last bit of usable runway slipped away beneath his plane.
Shutting the plane down, Lonry climbed to the ground, standing another minute feeling the same vexing aggravation having been called from the restful quiet of his secluded forest encampments. He turned a quick minute later toward a small utility truck pulling to a stop at the edge of the strip, two men climbing from it, gazing curious suspicion toward the airplane, one of the men finally stepping forward. Olven Lant, heavy set in his mid fifties, seemed anything but a creature of Candray's social and political establishment. He was, Lonry decided in amused mirth, everything he was depicted to be in satirical newspapers, the congress of Lorance in gaudy, flowing ostentation standing on that which was obviously a lane in the Americas of antiquity facing an Olven Lant with a tin star on his chest, gun belt and ammunition openly displayed about his waist. Jonn Lonry prior to the moment might have envisioned the marshal general of the commonwealth little differently than anyone else might have, he and his deputized agents of various order in ostentatious business attire processing up and down the steps of the congress house, clerks busying themselves in the midst of all manner of electronic gadgetry trying to collect taxes from the commonwealth's industrial or mob establishment. Olven Lant, as he approached, appeared anything but expensive or clerical, was attired in denim, a revolver stuck onto his belt, a tin badge indeed rather than a gold chain and seal of office. Olven Lant, Lonry decided, would have appeared quite in place on any single lane farm town along the northern frontiers.
"Never saw one of these things close up before," Olven Lant began without preliminaries, glancing unfeigned awe toward a guard aircraft's wings and heavy caliber gun nozzles. "You got a couple hundred of 'em now, eh?"
"Maybe. We don't advertise exact figures."
"No, spose not," Lant glancing toward his associate still standing a few yards away as though just to reassure himself that he was still there. Had they stood now on Candray's lanes instead of on a small airstrip near Paran, Lant might, Lonry supposed, have stood searching for one of the central committee's spies. Was that the reason the commonwealth marshal had arranged a meeting in Paran?
"So, Lonry, you've been top dog six months now, run Candray, they say, good as anyone -"
"The congress governs the commonwealth, Lant. You should know that. I'm just another soldier guarding the frontiers."
"I'm sure," skeptical amusement in Lant's features.
"What d'ya want, Lant? And what the hell are you doing out here anyway? I'd think the commonwealth marshal would sit behind table in Candray."
"You know boss Cartfel, Lonry?"
"Runs Paran," Lonry nodding toward smoke stacks in the near distance and an industrial town of considerable size.
"That he does. Cept boss Cartfel wants Paran town and country what way down south is, his own private kingdom, his say so law no questions asked. Bosses of a couple dozen farms hereabout been intimating boss Cartfel's vision for the future ain't exactly in accord with their own. Boss Cartfel's got mob and hired guns traipsin' around Paran country now trying to convince the farm bosses of the error of their ways."
"I've heard there's problems out here," Lonry began, not quite certain whether venting his annoyance was appropriate yet. "There's petty little squabbles of the sort everywhere in the commonwealth, couple of good sized wars. I just don't have time for them all, Lant. Cartfel - he's Society anyway, ain't he -?"
"Course he is. You don't get to be boss of a town Paran's size without toeing the party line, spout out socialist propaganda and keep a sharp eye out for the central committee's goons crawlin' through the gutters. But spreadin' the Society message ain't really boss Cartfel's agenda. Cartfel's agenda is nothing more than money, other bosses hereabouts expected to sign blank account tallies."
"All right. But it's still their own private little war. The guard just doesn't have enough people -"
"We found something out here you're gonna be very interested in, Lonry," Lant nodding toward his associate. "Recognize it?" Lant asked as the other man approached, holding a rifle in his hand. Lonry stared in wide eyed amaze.
"It's Sirenian, assault class, fully automatic. Where the hell did you get that, Lant? You know it's illegal as hell outside the guard."
"Like I said, Cartfel's been sending hired guns cross country raisin' all kinds of hell. The marshal a Wondal got wind that goons was headin' their way, asked me for help. I posted a squad of revenue long side the road, and sure enough long about midnight a couple truckloads a boss Cartfel's goons come bouncing along. You can imagine the look on my people's faces seeing they're up against these," Lant nodding toward the assault rifle. "My people are well paid for a reason, riff raff no match even out gunning 'em. We got boss Cartfel's goons cooling their heals back in Candray, but you sure as hell can see my point, Lonry. Competent as my people are, we ain't equipped for this on a regular basis."
"Have you confronted Cartfel?"
"Not yet. It's a touchy situation. I go bustin' into Paran myself and we're likely to have a nice little war on our hands."
Lonry stood now in musing vexation. He'd never in the past glanced more than passing notice toward bickering of one sort or another in any of a hundred towns across the commonwealth. Lon Bellton at Candray fortress overseeing the gathering of intelligence beyond the commonwealth's frontiers might on occasion gather it within the frontiers, might dispatch aircraft equipped with surveillance cameras in order to be certain that local bosses of various title restricted their squabbles to pot shots within their own countries. Policing these, however, was ordinarily the concern of the congress, the guards' responsibilities legally and usually in fact restricted to threats along and beyond the frontiers. It was also no secret whatsoever that several, at least, of the commonwealth marshal's chief deputies were on intimate terms with either the central committee or its spies, a myriad of competing interests the complexities of which Jonn Lonry hadn't the least interest. And still, Lonry had never heard anything of a particularly derogatory nature about Olven Lant, other than the obvious fact that the marshal general of the commonwealth was supposedly under the direct authority of the congress. Something in Lant's words and mannerism, however, seemed to strike an honest note.
"So there's a definite problem here," Lonry stated, watching carefully for Lant's reaction. The commonwealth marshal continued with calm but deliberate vehemence in his voice.
"I never had to mess with anything quite like this when I was marshalin' down in Pretcan. The congress has been on my back to keep things quiet. But I don't like the idea of loose weapons like automatic rifles floatin' around. I'd like to have a little talk with boss Cartfel in Paran, but that's not gonna be easy. I sent a couple of my people in there just to look around, and they tell me Cartfel's got guards posted on the lawns of the town hall. You believe that? A town hall forty miles from Candray with hired thugs standing at the gates. Cartfel's trying to start his own little kingdom."
"Sounds like it," Lonry agreed, brooding over the situation another moment, deciding it was time just to get on with it all. "But this whole thing's still a matter for the congress, ain't it? Sounds like it's all politics, and the guard doesn't get involved in politics. Neither does the commonwealth marshal, last I heard."
"Perhaps not," Lant stated, fixing Lonry with a steady, unwavering gaze. "But we got these here rifles to think about. We could try to handle this by ourselves. I could get a couple more squads of revenue agents down here, marshals from a couple nearby towns who owe me favors. How many people you got active in the guard now, Lonry? Some say ten field groups, and a whole lot more reserve answering to you no matter what the congress says. And you got a whole lot more a these things," Lant motioning toward the automatic rifle.
Lonry nodded, a sigh a musing amusement. The commonwealth marshal's numbers were quite correct, although both men were quite aware that the situation was a great deal more than numbers. Agencies of various sort under the jurisdiction of the commonwealth marshal were armed with pistols and rifles, civil agents in most cases as physically adept as the average member of the commonwealth guard. Lant himself, despite his age and weight, was reputed to be proficient with a pistol, had according to rumor proven himself so a half dozen times over the years. But the weapons under Lonry's control far outclassed anything owned by the civil authority. A single guards gun truck usually contained more raw fire power than that owned by a company of revenue agents overseen by the commonwealth marshal.
Lonry nodded again toward the automatic rifle.
"You wanna get rid of that thing, marshal. Illegal as hell, you know."
"Yeah. You know what pisses me off more than anything else, Lonry? The central committee's hired thugs come marching into my jails, usually long about midnight or so, flashing those special badges of theirs. They're usually after someone who's run off at the mouth against the Society. It's gonna be a real pain in the ass if the central committee's goons start getting their hands on large numbers of these assault rifles. A lot more people across country gonna start disappearing in the middle of the night. Who knows, maybe the central committee wants to start making its hired goons into another guard. Maybe there's a good reason these rifles got into the hands of a local town boss. Maybe the congress wants to see if anyone does anything about it before they start passing rifles out to their own people. I'd sure as hell like to do something about it, but I'll have a hell of a time trying to do it by myself."
"Yeah, marshal, I see what you mean. So when are you moving into Paran?"
"Maybe tomorrow. You know, it'd sure irritate the old boys on the central committee back in Candray to see a whole bunch a your gun trucks moving right through the middle of a town in the middle of the commonwealth, maybe a couple companies, eh?"
"Yeah, I bet it would," Lonry agreed with a sighing nod of his head as he turned for the aircraft. "Keep in touch, Lant. You know how to reach me."
Lonry glanced a final moment over his shoulder, detected at least the trace of a satisfied smile in Olven Lant's features.
The company of gun trucks with which Colan Horeshan now patrolled rolled slowly and cautiously along winding forested roads leading toward Truron close to the commonwealth's northern frontiers, roads which received some amount of maintenance, though far less than was considered appropriate in the industrial south. Guard patrols from fortresses along the northern frontiers usually bypassed Truron itself, scouting instead along rugged, back wood logging trials. Horeshan sent the other gun trucks of this company along one such trail a few miles north of Truron, then motioned the young captain at the wheel of the truck in which he now rode on toward town.
"Right through the middle of town?" a young guards captain asked.
Horeshan glanced a quick moment's curiosity toward another graduate of an upper level academy who in spotless and immaculate uniform might have appeared quite in place standing in a ball room in Candray's congress house with a dainty crystal glass in his hand. This young social climber, Horeshan sighed, was Lorance's future, he it's past.
"Yeah, kid," Horeshan answered, "right through the middle a town. Last I knew, the Senold brothers had people out here. They were a pain in my ass when I was your age. Let's have a look around, see what we come up with."
Unlike the sprawling industrial towns in the south, the majority of Truron's buildings were clustered along a single lane, a quagmire of mud from which paths led to dilapidated, unpainted barns and sheds. A few of the Truron's residents took notice of the heavy gun truck now rolling along the lane, though neither Horeshan nor a young guards captain noticed anyone who seemed unduly concerned.
"There's Lanson," Horeshan stated, pointing to a middle aged man wearing a small tin badge on his coat standing in conversation with several other men in front of a building which served both as a stable and a repair shop for motor tractors now common even this far north.
"Stop, boss?" the young captain asked.
"Yeah, we better."
It wasn't absolutely necessary to consult with local officials of the various towns near which the guard patrolled, particularly when a patrol consisted of a company of heavily armed gun trucks answering to no one. Colan Horeshan, however, amusing himself from time to time along the northern frontiers for many years now, had always found that a quick chat avoided any number of troublesome little problems, and at times even yielded valuable sources of information regarding doings along the frontiers. Lon Bellton's spies generally restricted their activities to the industrial south. Situations which were better handled by the application of raw force were usually left in Colan Horeshan's hands.
Truron's marshal wearing a sidearm in open display on his belt walked up to the gun truck as it pulled to a stop.
"Colan Horeshan - my gawd, it's been years. What the hell's the guard doin' in my town?"
"Ain't you heard, Lanson? We're getting ready to invade you. Candray says it's time you got civilized and culturized up here."
Truron's marshal broke into easy laughter, nodded appreciation as Horeshan held a Sirenian cigarette through the window.
"So what's the news from Candray way and civilization, Colan?"
"Lonry's there now."
"Yeah? That's unusual. He's usually in the back woods somewhere."
"Rumor I heard, boss Cartfel in Paran's been at it again. Wouldn't matter spit except the old boss is just a little crazy. You know how these little wars have a habit of spilling over from one country to the next. They get as bad as all them king types in the south, half a dozen little wars going on all the time. Anyway, Lonry's the one has to worry about all this political garbage. All I gotta do is drive gun trucks around where he wants 'em."
"So you after the Senolds, Colan?"
"Yeah, them and whoever else needs got."
"Part a the gang's holed at the old Shawnway camp, bout five miles north. One or two a the brothers might be there too, last I heard. Far as I know most a the others are still out in the tribes raising hell with the chiefs. Those at the Shawnway are the worst a the lot, though. Been wonderin' if you'd ever be back for 'em."
"Never had the time, mentioned 'em to a couple kids coming out this way and that got papers filled out at the fortress and nothing done. So now I'm out here myself and I got a free moment you can show me the way," amusement in Colan Horeshan's features, the same in a town marshal's as he settled onto the truck's rear seat.
Lifting a map into his hands as the gun truck rolled from town, Horeshan jabbed a finger onto it, the guards captain at the truck's wheel nodding, reaching for the radio's microphone. A guard gun truck pulled to a stop short minutes later at the crest of a low rise. An abandoned tribal camp appeared little different than any other to be found along the frontiers, a half dozen dilapidated log structures, another half dozen drab and colorless barns and sheds. A shabbily attired, unshorn man who had been standing near one of the sheds holding a rifle ran toward one of the residences. Several dozen men poured from these a quick minute later, climbing onto a dozen ramshackle utility trucks.