Diplomat at Arms by Keith Laumer

jail by the Prime
Minister. To get back to the Little Picture: I see no point in our riding into
Elora City and being shot down at long range by Greenbacks—”
    “We’ll ride in at the Marivale Gate, move up through the
fire-lanes—”
    “If you’ll pardon my saying so,” Retief said, “I’ve got a
better idea. It’s only fifteen miles to the Grey Valley . . .”
    “So?”
    “So I suggest we take a ride over and look at the Volunteer
Navy.”
    “You just told me Prouch’s renegades are armed to the
teeth . . .”
    Retief nodded. “Since we need guns, Your Highness, I can’t
think of a closer place to get ’em . . .”
     
    At the head of the troop of thirty-eight riders, including
General Hish, lashed to a mount, Retief and Tavilan reined in at the crest of
the slope that faced the barracks of the Peoples’ Volunteer Naval Reserve, a
blaze of light all across the narrow valley. On the ramp a quarter of a mile
beyond the administrative and shop areas, fifty slim destroyers loomed, bathed
in the glare of polyarcs. Prince Tavilan whistled.
    “Prouch
and the CDT seem to have struck it off even better than I thought. That’s all
brand-new equipment.”
    “Just
defensive, of course,” Retief said. “I believe Minister Prouch has given
assurances that the elimination of Dangredi’s free-booters will be carried out
with dispatch—just as soon as the CDT recognizes his regime.”
    Tavilan laughed shortly. “I could have swept Dangredi off the
space lanes six months ago—if the CDT hadn’t blockaded me.”
    “Such are the vagaries of Galactic policy—”
    “I know: the Big Picture again.” Tavilan turned to Arrol.
“We’ll split into two parties, work around both ends of the valley, and pick
our targets at close range. Retief, you ride with me. Let’s move out.”
     
    It
was a forty-minute ride along the forested slopes walling the valley to the
rendezvous point Prince Tavilan had designated, a sheltered ravine less than a
hundred yards from the nearest of the parked war vessels. The access ladder was
down, and light spilled from the open entry port. A Reservist in baggy grey and
green lounged in the opening. Two more stood below, power rifles slung across
their backs.
    “You could pick those three off from here,” Retief remarked.
“Cross-bows are a nice quiet weapon—”
    Tavilan shook his head. “We’ll ride down in formal
battle-order. No war’s been declared. They won’t fire on the Prince Royal.”
    “There may be forty more inside—to say nothing of the crews
of the next ships in line, sentries, stand-by riot squads, and those two
pill-boxes commanding the ends of the valley.”
    “Still—I must give those men their chance to declare
themselves.”
    “As the Prince wishes—but I’ll keep my blaster loose in its
holster—just in case . . .”
     
    The
Prince rode in the lead with his guidon at his left, followed by thirty-five
men, formed up in a precise triangle of seven ranks, with two honor guards out
on the flanks. The rear guard followed, holding the reins of the mount to which
General Hish, still hissing bitter complaints, was lashed.
    The Invincibles moved down the slope and out onto the broad
tarmac, hooves clattering against the paved surface. The two men on the ramp
turned, stoop gaping. The one above at the ship’s entry port whirled,
disappeared inside.
    The troop rode on; they were halfway to the ship now. One of
the waiting Greenbacks unlimbered his power gun, cranked the action, the other
followed suit. Both stepped forward half a dozen paces, brought their weapons
up uncertainly.
    “Halt! Who the Hell’s there!” one bawled.
    Tavilan flipped the corner of his hunting cape forward over
his shoulder to show the royal Eloran device, came on in silence.
    The taller of the two Greenbacks raised his rifle, hesitated,
half-lowered it. Riding half a pace behind Tavilan, Retief eased his pistol
from its holster, watching the doorway above. On his right,