Lands of Red and Gold Interlude #1: In The Balance
Lands of Red and Gold Interlude #1: In The Balance
I'm only briefly in town en route to a new destination, so there aren't any big new LRG instalments coming for a while yet.
In the meantime, though, I can offer a brief glimpse of one part of the future...
* * *
The Huntsman’s Club
Providence [Mwanza, Tanzania]
A cool evening breeze blew off Lake Fons [Lake Victoria], swirling through the columns that formed the outer wall of the Club. Wonderfully cooling, wonderfully soothing.
“This is the life,” Peter muttered to himself. He held a glass of duranj [1] in his hand, and took another slow sip of the sweet beverage.
No need to hurry. Nothing at the Club needed to be rushed. A relict of a former age, that. A time of culture and pleasure now fading. The Club stood as one of the last bastions of that elder time.
A few other men shared the lower dining level with him, clustered in groups of two or three or four. All had tables shaded beneath the columns, but with enough room that they kept at least one table between them.
The Club had higher levels; the columns supported private balconies on the floors immediately above, and the rooftop level – the Lodge – was reserved for the most distinguished guests. Or wealthiest, at least; in the elder age which the Club preserved, those two were usually synonymous.
Peter had never been as high as the Lodge. No mere commander of mercenaries would be so considered, according to the ancient traditions of the Club, except by invitation only. He did not really care, in truth. Being admitted to the Club was welcome enough, and even the common dining room here was exquisite.
He took another measured sip of the duranj. Perfect in its flavour, of course. The Club would not serve anything of lesser quality, whether drink or food.
A discreet cough made him turn to the immaculately dressed black waiter who stood behind him.
The waiter said, “The Colonel presents his compliments, sir, and asked me to give you this.” He handed over a note.
Peter took it with a murmured word of thanks. He knew more than a few colonels, but only one who would use the unadorned title as his name.
Sure enough, when he opened the note, it read: “Please join me for dinner up at the Lodge.” It bore a simple signature: Hans.
A welcome invitation, as far as Peter was concerned. The note was sufficient to gain him entry up the three flights of stairs that led up to the Lodge.
Here, he found that the main part of the Lodge consisted of a large dining room, with widely-spaced oak tables – a valuable import in itself – and comfortable leather lounge chairs arranged around them. A piano played softly in the corner; the white musician had picked a tune which Peter did not recognise, but which sounded suitably soothing.
“Peter!” the Colonel exclaimed, and rose from his seat to clap the other man around the shoulder.
“Good to see you again,” Hans said.
“Likewise,” Peter said. “You’re looking well.”
The phrase was more than just polite chit-chat. Hans wore his full dress uniform, mainly cobalt blue with scarlet trimmings, and scarlet and gold epaulettes that bore two diamonds and stylised eagle’s wings. That appearance suited him better than he had looked when in the field, although even then the Colonel had always maintained a sense of quiet dignity.
Hans signalled for a waiter. “What are you drinking?”
“Duranj.”
“Ah, a good choice, here,” the Colonel said. “Not my own preference, though.”
When the black waiter arrived, Hans ordered duranj for Peter but sake for himself. “Won’t drink anything else while I’m in the Club,” the Colonel explained. “Would even have it in the field, if we could get it.”
“While they’re coming, can I offer you a cigar?” Hans said. “Habana gold.”
“Thank you, no,” Peter said. A very odd choice, even in the Club. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you smoke tobacco before.” He produced a pack of klinsigars [cigarettes] and said, “Kunduri has always been my choice; much more soothing.”
Hans shrugged. “Quality tobacco suits me, when I can find it. Not many places can make a decent cigar, but Habanas are always worthwhile.”
Peter had his own views on that, but no point to disagreeing openly with as eminent a man as the Colonel. He just lit a klinsigar of his own, and let the sweet relaxation fill him.
The drinks arrived, but Hans did not touch his until he had his cigar let, inhaled, and blew a near-perfect smoke ring. “This is what we’re here for: a place of peace.”
“A peace too long in coming,” Peter said.
“I’ll drink to that, by God!” the Colonel said. True to his word, he held up his glass, tapped it against Peter’s, and said, “To peace. Long in coming, and long may it last.”
Peter matched the toast, then drank. He added, “Good not to worry about skinnies charging out of unknown shadows and shouting danadiri [2].”
“Aye, we both saw too much of that,” the Colonel said. He inhaled from the cigar and blew another smoke ring, this one more deformed than the first. “So many memories... but the skinnies will long remember us, too.”
Peter nodded, and turned his attention to finishing his klinsigar. Feeling much more comfortable, he said, “Maybe we could have done some things better, but my boys – and your regulars – taught the skinnies that we won’t give up.”
“Do you think-” Hans said, then paused as the waiter returned. “Another duranj and sake. Then all three courses, please.”
The black man nodded and effortlessly vanished into whatever space waiters occupied when they weren’t needed.
The order at the Lodge was another reminder of that fading elder age. The Club had no menus for food. If you wanted food, you ate whatever the chef had prepared for each meal. Your only choice was ever how many courses you wanted.
Over more drinks and inhalants, they reminisced about the uprisings, and their careers in them. They spoke of good times and bad times, of fallen comrades, of setbacks and victories.
The food arrived one course at a time, and they ate while they talked. The first course was creamed mushrooms in barley soup, with toasted sticks of cheese fingerbread on the side. High quality, of course. If anything, even better here at the Lodge than downstairs in the Club’s ordinary dining room – and what was served down there was magnificent.
The main course was black noodles with beef and diced tomatoes, seasoned with peanut sauce and crushed sweet peppers, with roasted murnong sprinkled with garlic on the side. “Superb, as always,” the Colonel said, after they had worked most of their way through their portions of mains.
Peter wondered, vaguely, what dessert would be.
He would never get to find out.
They finished their mains, and the waiters were unexpectedly slow in clearing away their used plates. Most unlike the service at the Lodge; enough to make the Colonel signal for a waiter again.
One came quickly enough when summoned. “We’re ready for dessert,” the Colonel said.
The waiter cleared the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
Apparently satisfied, the Colonel went back to discussing the Battle of the Gorge, where it seemed that his regulars had played a more successful part than Peter recalled.
Another waiter appeared from the kitchen, moving rather slowly, and stood in the middle of the dining room. An odd location to wait, that, since waiters were usually against the walls. Peter turned enough to look at the water, and realised that the man was talking to himself. After several field interrogations, Peter knew enough to read the waiter’s lips and recognise the words for what they were: a prayer for final harmony.
Instinct took over. Peter pulled the Colonel to the ground, tipped the table to its side, and crouched behind it, hoping that the solid weight of oak would offer enough protection. He just had time to cover his ears to protect against the worst of the noise when he heard a great shout of “Danadiri!” Followed by an explosion, then screams.
Peter held the Colonel down until it was clear that the explosion had passed, then stood to look out over a scene of carnage. Nothing much was left of the waiter who had immolated himself. Around that lay wrecked men and wrecked furnishings; men dismembered or otherwise grievously injured.
“Merciful God,” the Colonel said. “That man just...”
“Those heathen skinnies have just started a new kind of war,” Peter said. “One I’m not sure I know how to fight.”
* * *
[1] Duranj is gum cider, brewed from the sweet sap of trees native to *Tasmania.
[2] Danadiri is the Bantu-ized equivalent of dandiri, a Nangu (and other Plirite) word which means roughly “bringing order” or “bringing harmony”.
* * *
Thoughts?
I'm only briefly in town en route to a new destination, so there aren't any big new LRG instalments coming for a while yet.
In the meantime, though, I can offer a brief glimpse of one part of the future...
* * *
The Huntsman’s Club
Providence [Mwanza, Tanzania]
A cool evening breeze blew off Lake Fons [Lake Victoria], swirling through the columns that formed the outer wall of the Club. Wonderfully cooling, wonderfully soothing.
“This is the life,” Peter muttered to himself. He held a glass of duranj [1] in his hand, and took another slow sip of the sweet beverage.
No need to hurry. Nothing at the Club needed to be rushed. A relict of a former age, that. A time of culture and pleasure now fading. The Club stood as one of the last bastions of that elder time.
A few other men shared the lower dining level with him, clustered in groups of two or three or four. All had tables shaded beneath the columns, but with enough room that they kept at least one table between them.
The Club had higher levels; the columns supported private balconies on the floors immediately above, and the rooftop level – the Lodge – was reserved for the most distinguished guests. Or wealthiest, at least; in the elder age which the Club preserved, those two were usually synonymous.
Peter had never been as high as the Lodge. No mere commander of mercenaries would be so considered, according to the ancient traditions of the Club, except by invitation only. He did not really care, in truth. Being admitted to the Club was welcome enough, and even the common dining room here was exquisite.
He took another measured sip of the duranj. Perfect in its flavour, of course. The Club would not serve anything of lesser quality, whether drink or food.
A discreet cough made him turn to the immaculately dressed black waiter who stood behind him.
The waiter said, “The Colonel presents his compliments, sir, and asked me to give you this.” He handed over a note.
Peter took it with a murmured word of thanks. He knew more than a few colonels, but only one who would use the unadorned title as his name.
Sure enough, when he opened the note, it read: “Please join me for dinner up at the Lodge.” It bore a simple signature: Hans.
A welcome invitation, as far as Peter was concerned. The note was sufficient to gain him entry up the three flights of stairs that led up to the Lodge.
Here, he found that the main part of the Lodge consisted of a large dining room, with widely-spaced oak tables – a valuable import in itself – and comfortable leather lounge chairs arranged around them. A piano played softly in the corner; the white musician had picked a tune which Peter did not recognise, but which sounded suitably soothing.
“Peter!” the Colonel exclaimed, and rose from his seat to clap the other man around the shoulder.
“Good to see you again,” Hans said.
“Likewise,” Peter said. “You’re looking well.”
The phrase was more than just polite chit-chat. Hans wore his full dress uniform, mainly cobalt blue with scarlet trimmings, and scarlet and gold epaulettes that bore two diamonds and stylised eagle’s wings. That appearance suited him better than he had looked when in the field, although even then the Colonel had always maintained a sense of quiet dignity.
Hans signalled for a waiter. “What are you drinking?”
“Duranj.”
“Ah, a good choice, here,” the Colonel said. “Not my own preference, though.”
When the black waiter arrived, Hans ordered duranj for Peter but sake for himself. “Won’t drink anything else while I’m in the Club,” the Colonel explained. “Would even have it in the field, if we could get it.”
“While they’re coming, can I offer you a cigar?” Hans said. “Habana gold.”
“Thank you, no,” Peter said. A very odd choice, even in the Club. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you smoke tobacco before.” He produced a pack of klinsigars [cigarettes] and said, “Kunduri has always been my choice; much more soothing.”
Hans shrugged. “Quality tobacco suits me, when I can find it. Not many places can make a decent cigar, but Habanas are always worthwhile.”
Peter had his own views on that, but no point to disagreeing openly with as eminent a man as the Colonel. He just lit a klinsigar of his own, and let the sweet relaxation fill him.
The drinks arrived, but Hans did not touch his until he had his cigar let, inhaled, and blew a near-perfect smoke ring. “This is what we’re here for: a place of peace.”
“A peace too long in coming,” Peter said.
“I’ll drink to that, by God!” the Colonel said. True to his word, he held up his glass, tapped it against Peter’s, and said, “To peace. Long in coming, and long may it last.”
Peter matched the toast, then drank. He added, “Good not to worry about skinnies charging out of unknown shadows and shouting danadiri [2].”
“Aye, we both saw too much of that,” the Colonel said. He inhaled from the cigar and blew another smoke ring, this one more deformed than the first. “So many memories... but the skinnies will long remember us, too.”
Peter nodded, and turned his attention to finishing his klinsigar. Feeling much more comfortable, he said, “Maybe we could have done some things better, but my boys – and your regulars – taught the skinnies that we won’t give up.”
“Do you think-” Hans said, then paused as the waiter returned. “Another duranj and sake. Then all three courses, please.”
The black man nodded and effortlessly vanished into whatever space waiters occupied when they weren’t needed.
The order at the Lodge was another reminder of that fading elder age. The Club had no menus for food. If you wanted food, you ate whatever the chef had prepared for each meal. Your only choice was ever how many courses you wanted.
Over more drinks and inhalants, they reminisced about the uprisings, and their careers in them. They spoke of good times and bad times, of fallen comrades, of setbacks and victories.
The food arrived one course at a time, and they ate while they talked. The first course was creamed mushrooms in barley soup, with toasted sticks of cheese fingerbread on the side. High quality, of course. If anything, even better here at the Lodge than downstairs in the Club’s ordinary dining room – and what was served down there was magnificent.
The main course was black noodles with beef and diced tomatoes, seasoned with peanut sauce and crushed sweet peppers, with roasted murnong sprinkled with garlic on the side. “Superb, as always,” the Colonel said, after they had worked most of their way through their portions of mains.
Peter wondered, vaguely, what dessert would be.
He would never get to find out.
They finished their mains, and the waiters were unexpectedly slow in clearing away their used plates. Most unlike the service at the Lodge; enough to make the Colonel signal for a waiter again.
One came quickly enough when summoned. “We’re ready for dessert,” the Colonel said.
The waiter cleared the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
Apparently satisfied, the Colonel went back to discussing the Battle of the Gorge, where it seemed that his regulars had played a more successful part than Peter recalled.
Another waiter appeared from the kitchen, moving rather slowly, and stood in the middle of the dining room. An odd location to wait, that, since waiters were usually against the walls. Peter turned enough to look at the water, and realised that the man was talking to himself. After several field interrogations, Peter knew enough to read the waiter’s lips and recognise the words for what they were: a prayer for final harmony.
Instinct took over. Peter pulled the Colonel to the ground, tipped the table to its side, and crouched behind it, hoping that the solid weight of oak would offer enough protection. He just had time to cover his ears to protect against the worst of the noise when he heard a great shout of “Danadiri!” Followed by an explosion, then screams.
Peter held the Colonel down until it was clear that the explosion had passed, then stood to look out over a scene of carnage. Nothing much was left of the waiter who had immolated himself. Around that lay wrecked men and wrecked furnishings; men dismembered or otherwise grievously injured.
“Merciful God,” the Colonel said. “That man just...”
“Those heathen skinnies have just started a new kind of war,” Peter said. “One I’m not sure I know how to fight.”
* * *
[1] Duranj is gum cider, brewed from the sweet sap of trees native to *Tasmania.
[2] Danadiri is the Bantu-ized equivalent of dandiri, a Nangu (and other Plirite) word which means roughly “bringing order” or “bringing harmony”.
* * *
Thoughts?
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