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The radio handset in Alston's saddlebags hissed and popped. She took it out, looking up reflexively for the butterfly shape of the ultralight. "Commodore Alston heah."
"Commodore, this is Scout Flight One Niner. The Tartessians under the flag of truce are approaching from the north. Thirty-one in the party as per agreement, all mounted."
"Carry on, pilot," Alston said.
She and Swindapa and the standard-bearer remained mounted, but the Marines put their bicycles on the kickstands and formed up in a rank; the Gatling crew unhitched their weapon and swung it 'round. Lieutenant Ritter reached over her shoulder and proudly drew her new officer's katana.
"Fix… bayonets."
Hands flashed down to the left hip and the twenty-inch blades flashed free, rattling as they were clipped onto the Werders.
"Shoulder… arms."
The Marines stood like khaki statues, an image a little spoiled by the peeling sunburns many of them sported. That had been one reason she wanted a fall-winter campaign; with a force made up of people from cool misty northern islands, the relatively mild and cloudy season promised less in the way of heatstroke.
That's an irony, if you like, she thought, flexing a hand on the pommel of her saddle and looking at the natural UV protection of her eggplant-colored skin.
Still, this was the best season to fight here. Summer made water scarce in these hot lowlands and likely to be bad, and sharply cut into the fodder for draught animals. The Tartessian flintlocks were temperamental beasts that didn't like the damp, too; that had worked powerfully in the Nantucketers' favor during the spring invasion.
The clatter of hooves and a low cloud of dust came down the highway from the north. Alston soothed her mount with a hand on its neck and gathered the reins a bit as well. The colors of brightly dyed cloth and polished metal came into view next, westering sun winking blinding off edged metal; then figures became distinct, mounted men…
And one woman, she thought, slightly surprised; even more so when she saw it was Rosita Menendez… well, nee Menendez, she corrected herself.
That identification took a little doing, when her hair was coiled around her ears in circles bound with silver and turquoise, topped by a flat-topped headdress of silk a little like a wimple. Square fringed earrings, rings, belt flashing with golden studs; otherwise, her clothing was a practical-enough affair of long split tunic and loose trousers.
Isketerol rode beside her, in a polished gilded helmet with purple-dyed ostrich-feather plumes at the front, saffron tunic, gold disk across his chest supported by tooled-leather straps, silver-and-leather bracers on his wrists, jewel-hiked sword… and a very practical-looking revolver. He must be in his early forties now but looked ageless; still lithe and hard-muscled, but with deeper lines grooved into his face from nose to mouth. Menendez had put on some weight, in a solid matronly way.
The Tartessian troops carried rifles… Yes, that's Walker's imitation of the Werder. They couldn't have all that many of them, either. Most of the weapons captured after the sea fight had been copies of the older Westley-Richards flintlock. If he had more of those, he'd have used them.
Isketerol's standard-bearer and a herald rode ahead, drawing rein in the square a half dozen yards from her position. The herald had a curled trumpet over his shoulder, sunlight turning the polished metal to gold; he brought the mouthpiece to his lips and blew, a long harsh brass scream, and then shouted in Tartessian:
"The King comes! King Isketerol, Bridegroom of the Lady of Tartessos and the Grain Goddess, Embodiment of the Sun Lord, Lord of the Cold Mountains and the Hot and all between, Sea-King by favor of Arucuttag Lord of Waves. Who comes to treat with the Great King, the King who admits no rival or equal within the boundaries of his power?"
Alston listened to Swindapa's murmured translation, then nodded imperceptibly, sitting with her back straight, reins in her left hand and right on the butt of her Python. The younger woman heeled heir horse a few steps forward and called out in the local tongue, its harsh buzzing softened by her Fiernan accent-Tartessian and the language of the Fiernan Bohulugi were distantly related, but they sounded no more alike than, say, Swedish and Hindustani, which were similarly linked.
"Commodore Marian Alston, Founding Councilor, Nantucket’s Councilor for War…" She paused and added the proudest title of all, with a slight deliberate emphasis. "Citizen of the Republic of Nantiacket, comes to treat with King Isketerol."
Isketerol's hard hawklike olive-brown face showed a slight smile. When he spoke, his English was harshly accented but fluent, much morte fluent than it had been the last time she spoke to him in person-that was more than nine years ago, when he'd been on Nantucket, before he helped Walker hijack the Yare.
Ah, she thought. He must speak it with Menendez, and there are a few other Islanders… ex-Islanders… here, too. Smart of him to work at achieving full fluency. Reading the books that had been part of Yare's cargo, and ones he'd bought openly since, had 'doubtless helped as well. He'd also acquired a very slight Puerto Rican-Hispanic accent from his American wife, which was am irony, if you thought about it. As far as looks went, he could have been a brother of Victor Ortiz…
"Now that we have made the… you say… necessary gestures, shall we speak?" he asked.
"Yes," Alston said, surprised to feel a wry respect. Well, he's a pirate… but hie wasn't raised to know better.
The leaders and. their companions swung down from the saddle, handed the reins to attendants, walked a little aside. Isketerol looked up at the ultralight, westward to where the steam gunboat waited o›n the blue-and-cream waters of the gulf, pitching slightly with her head into the wind and paddles turning just enough to› keep her so. They sent a white froth down her sides as well, and coal smoke rose night-black against the crimson disk of the setting sun.
"A not bad time to end the war, from your point of… perspective? View? To ah, quit while you are ahead," Isketerol said.
"We're prepared to end it, on terms," Alston said. She nodded to the flag with the truce-ba
Isketerol nodded; the Islanders had a carefully maintained reputation of driving a hard bargain and then respecting it meticulously.
"Yes," he said. "That simplifies negotiations." A white smile, and he took off the helmet, showing a few silver hairs in the bowl-cut blue-black mane. He tossed his hair to let air blow through the sweat-wet thickness. "Unless you are waiting for the time when it really pays to lie."
Alston shrugged. "That's an argument without an answer," she said. "But think about this, King Isketerol of Tartessos, how far can you trust Walker's word? Did he give you every assistance he could? How hard would he fight for you, if he didn't stand to benefit by it?"
The olive face stayed imperturbable, but she caught a slight flare of the nostrils. Isketerol would make a good poker player, though. His fingers did not clench on the gilded helmet they were turning idly.
"He gave me enough help to become King and conquer an… empire, that's the term. And we have an alliance, and my word is good. You have won a battle, yes. You have not won a war, not against my kingdom. Still, you have won a battle. My word is this; if you will return home and trouble us no more, I will agree to the…" He turned and murmured in Rosita's ear and nodded at her reply. "To, you say, the status quo. Yes, things as they were before this war. Those are the terms of the King."