by David Drake
Raj drew another puff. “Actually, messer, there is something you could help the war effort with. My aide Muzzaf Kerpatik tells me you have four ships currently at Sala.”
“Preparing to load sulphur, ornamental stone and fortified wine for East Residence,” he confirmed.
“They’re needed for the war effort. I’d appreciate it if you’d send orders to their captains. They’re to report to my base on the north coast and place themselves under the orders of Colonel Dinnalsyn of the Artillery Corps.”
“Artillery,” Reggiri whispered. “You’re going to waste my ships against that bloody fort!”
“That’s Messer General, t’yer,” one of the troopers growled. Raj waved him to silence.
“What,” Kaltin said, “would be the penalty, sir, for denying aid to officers of the Civil Government in time of war?”
“Oh, crucifixion,” Raj said pleasantly, “for treason. But that doesn’t arise, I’m sure. Not waste, Messer Reggiri. Use. But I do think they’ll be used up. War does that; ships, ammunition, men.”
“My ships,” Reggiri said. They didn’t carry insurance against war losses or acts of government; losing them would wreck him. “You can’t steal my ships! Messer General,” he added hastily as the soldiers stirred behind him. “I have friends at court.”
“I wouldn’t dream of stealing them,” Raj said. Beside him Suzette pulled a document from her reticule and handed it to her husband. He extended it to the merchant.
Reggiri strained to read it; one of the troopers helpfully lit a match against his thumbnail and held it over his shoulder. The hand stank of dog and gun-oil.
Three thousand gold FedCreds, he read. Not quite robbery, but not replacement value for the ships either. And—
“This is drawn on Chancellor Tzetzas!” he blurted. “I’ve a better chance of getting the money out of Ali of Al Kebir!”
“Not satisfactory?” Raj said.
He plucked it back out of the other man’s fingers and tore it in half. Suzette produced another sheet of parchment, and handed it to Raj. Reggiri took it with trembling fingers. It was identical to the first, except that the amount had been reduced to twenty-five hundred.
Reggiri looked up at Suzette; she stood beside her husband, one delicate hand touching fingertips to his massive wrist. Her eyes had seemed like green flame earlier; now they reminded him of a glacier he had seen once, in the mountains of the Base Area in the far north.
“Bitch,” he said, very softly. Then: “Unnhh!” as a rifle-butt thudded over his kidneys. White fire turned his knees liquid for a moment, and ungentle hands beneath his arms steadied him.
“Watch yer arsemouth!” the trooper barked.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, messer, messa.”
“Kaltin,” Raj went on, his expression flat. “Messer Reggiri seems to have had a bit too much to drink, since he’s forgotten how one addresses a messa. I think he needs an escort home.”
Gruder nodded: “Well, he is a slave-trader,” he said in a pleasant tone. “Probably learned his manners pimping his sisters as a boy.”
Reggiri’s hand came up of its own volition. Gruder’s face thrust forward for the slap that never came, the scars that disfigured half of it flushing red.
“Please,” he said, his voice husky and earnest. His lips came back from his teeth. “Oh, please. One of my men will lend you a sword.”
Raj touched his elbow. “Major,” he said, and Gruder’s hand dropped from the hilt of his saber. “I really do think Messer Reggiri needs that escort. And a guard for the next week or so, because he seems to be remarkably reckless in his cups.”
“I gave you Connor Auburn on a platter!” Reggiri burst out. The troopers fell in around him, as irresistible as four walking boulders.
“And you’re not dying on a cross right now,” Raj said in the same expressionless tone. Only his eyes moved, and the hand bringing the cigarette to his lips. “Now leave.”
Suzette’s fingers unfastened the buckle of Raj’s military cloak and tossed it on the chaise-lounge behind them. She backed a step and curtsied deeply; Raj replied with an equally deep bow, making a courtiers leg. Music drifted through the open windows behind the black-velvet curtains, and the fading tramp of boots through the door.
“Messa Whitehall, might I have the honor of this dance?” he said.
“Enchanted, Messer Whitehall.”
Their right hands clasped, and she guided his left to her waist before they swirled away, alone on the dim-lit floor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I told you these’d come in useful,” Grammek Dinnalsyn said.
The weapon in the revetment of sandbags, timber and sheet-iron on the forecastle of the Chakra was a stubby cast-steel tube nearly as tall as a man, joined to a massive circular disk-plate of welded wrought iron and steel by a ball-and-socket joint. It was supported and aimed by a metal tripod, long threaded bars and handwheels to turn for elevation and traverse. The bore was twenty centimeters, more than twice that of a normal field-gun, and rifled. Beside the weapon was a stack of shells, cylinders with stubby conical caps and a driving band of soft gunmetal around their middle; at the rear of each was a perforated tube. The crews would wrap silk bags of gunpowder around the tubes before they dropped them down the barrel, a precise number for a given range at a given elevation. The base charge was a shotgun shell; when it hit the fixed firing pin at the bottom of the barrel, it would flash off the ring charges around the tube.
One thing Boyce had told them was that the casements of Fort Wager had no overhead protection. None was needed with normal artillery, given the placement of the fort.
“I know they’re useful, Grammeck,” Raj said. “Their little brothers were extremely handy in the Port Murchison fighting.” It had been more like a massacre, but never mind. “They’re also extremely heavy. Get me one that can move like a field-gun, and I’ll take dozens of them with me wherever I go.”
He walked down the deck of the Chakra, striding easily; it had been two days from the north coast to Port Wager, more than time enough to get his sea legs back. Many of the platoon of 5th Descott troopers aboard were still looking greenly miserable, landsmen to the core. They’d do their jobs, though, puking or not, and he intended to give them a stable firing platform. The huge sails of the three-master tilted above him; she was barque-rigged, fore-and-aft sails on the rear mast and square on the other two. Water, wind and cordage creaked and spoke; he squinted against the dazzle and made out the tall headland of Fort Wager to the north. There was a brisk onshore breeze, common in the early afternoon. Center had predicted it would hold long enough today—
probability 78% ±3, Center corrected him. i am not a prophet. i merely estimate.
—and at worst, they could kedge in the last little way, hauling on anchors dropped out in front by men in longboats.
He leaned on the emplacement. The crew looked up from giving their weapon a final check and braced; most of them were stripped to boots and the blue pants with red-laced seams of their service.
“Rest easy, boys,” he said, returning their salute.
Artillerymen were mostly from the towns, and their officers from the urban middle classes; both unlike any other Army units in the Civil Government’s forces. Many cavalry commanders barely acknowledged their existence. Pure snobbery, he thought, they’re invaluable if you use them right. Their engineering skills, for example, and general technical knowledge. Far too many rural nobles weren’t interested in anything moving that they couldn’t ride, hunt or fuck, like so many Brigaderos except for basic literacy.
“This one’s all up to you,” he went on to the gunners. “Infantry can’t do it, cavalry can’t do it. You’re the only ones with a chance.”
“We’ll whup ’em for you, Messer Raj!” the sergeant growled.
“So you will, by the Spirit,” he replied. “See you in the fort.”
Inwardly, he was a little uneasy at the way that verbal habit had caught on; Master Raj was the way a pe
rsonal retainer back on the estate would have addressed him. His old nurse, for example, or the armsmaster who’d taught him marksmanship and how to handle a sword. Curse it, these men are soldiers of the Civil Government, not some barb chief’s warband! he thought.
you are right to be concerned, Center said. however, the phenomenon is useful at present.
He took a slightly different tack with the cavalry troopers waiting belowdecks. The ship’s gunwales had been built up and pierced with loopholes, but there was no sense in exposing the men or hindering the sailors before there was need.
“Day to you, dog-brothers,” he said with a grin, slapping fists with the lieutenant in command. “Done with your puking yet?”
“Puked out ever-fukkin’-thin’ but me guts, ser,” one man said.
“It’ll be tax-day in Descott when you lose your guts, Robbi M’Teglez,” Raj said. He’d always had a knack for remembering names and faces; Center amplified it to perfection. The trooper flushed and grinned. “You’re the one brought me that wog banner at Sandoral, aren’t you?”
“Yisser, Messer Raj,” the man said. “Me Da got it, an’ the carbine ’n dog ye sent. ’N the priest back home read t’ letter from the Colonel on Starday ’n all.”
The troopers comrades were looking at him with raw envy. Raj went on: “We’ll be sailing in through the barb cannonade; oughtn’t to be more than twenty minutes or so. Not much for those of you who saw off the wogboys at Sandoral. For those who weren’t there—well, you get to learn a new prayer.”
“Prayer, ser?” one asked.
He had the raw look of a youth not long off the farm, barely shaving, but the big hands that gripped his rifle were competent enough. Most yeomen-tenants in Descott sent one male per generation to the Army in lieu of land-taxes. There were no peons in Descott, and relatively few slaves. Widows, however, were plentiful enough.
A squadmate answered him. “Per whut weuns about t’receive, may t’Spirit make us truly thankful,” he said. “Don’t git yer balls drawed up, Tinneran. Ain’t no barbs got guns loik t’ragheads.”
That brought a round of smiles, half-tension and half-anticipation. Those who’d waited all day in the bunkers while the Colonist guns pounded them, waiting for the waves of troops in red jellabas to charge through rifle-fire with their repeating carbines . . . they’d know. Those who hadn’t been there couldn’t be told. They could only be shown.
“Once we’re through, the gunners have their jobs to do. It’s our job to make sure the barbs don’t come down the rocks, wade out and take ’em. the way the wild dog took the miller’s wife, from behind. You boys ready to do a man’s work today?”
Their mounts were back at the base-camp, but the noise the men made would have done credit to the half-ton carnivores they usually rode.
“So commend your souls to the Spirit, wait for the orders, and pick your targets, lads,” he finished. “To Hell or plunder, dog-brothers.”
“I thought they were about to mutiny, from the sound,” Dinnalsyn said as Raj came blinking back into the sunlight on the quarterdeck.
“Not likely,” Raj said.
The headland was coming up with shocking speed and the four ships were angling in on the course he’d set, the one that would expose them to the least possible number of guns as they cut in toward the cliffs. Spirit of Man, but I feel good, he thought. Frightened, yes. Harbors attracted downdraggers, and he still had bad dreams about the tentacles and gnashing beaks and intelligent, waiting eyes crowding around the wharfs when they tipped the Squadron dead into the water after Port Murchison. Eight thousand men dead in an afternoon; the sea-beasts had been glutted, dragging corpses away to their underwater nests when their stomachs wouldn’t take any more flesh.
So he wasn’t easy about the chance of going into the water here, no. But after the grinding anxiety of high command, the prospect of action on this scale made him feel . . . young.
Starless Dark, he told himself. I’m not thirty yet!
“You shouldn’t be here, sir,” Dinnalsyn said, lowering his voice.
“You aren’t exactly the first one to tell me that, Colonel,” Raj said. His exuberance showed in the light punch he landed on the East Residencer officer’s shoulder. “But I have to take it when my wife says it. Let’s get on with the job, shall we?”
The Chakra was commanded from the stern, where the quarterdeck held the tall two-man wheel that controlled the rudder and the captain could direct the first mate. Nothing could be done about the vulnerability of the deck crew, who trimmed the lines and climbed into the rigging to wrestle with canvas in response to orders bellowed through a megaphone. Dinnalsyn had seen to putting a C-shaped iron stand around the helm itself, though, with overhead protection and vision-slits, boiler-plate mounted on heavy timbers.
The captain turned to Raj. “Rocks ’re bad here,” he said. In Spanjol, with a nasal accent; he was a tall ropey-muscled man with flax-pale hair shaven from the back of his head and long mustache. The tunic he wore was striped horizontally with black and white, heavy canvas with iron rings the size of bracelets sewn to it. With fighting possible, he had shoved the handles of short curve-bladed throwing axes through the rings, and had two long knives in his belt.
A Stalwart wandered down from the north, one of the latest tribe of barbarians to move south out of the Base Area. Possibly the fiercest of all; they would have been much more dangerous if fratricide and patricide hadn’t been the national sport of their kings. The day one of them managed to kill off all his rivals and unite the tribe would be a dangerous one for the world.
Raj was not particularly worried about treachery from Captain Lodoviko; offshore, the black plumes showed where the Civil Governments steam rams waited. They were too deep-draught to do this job themselves, but he’d given instructions that any ship which turned back without orders was to be sunk and everyone knew it. He’d also promised every man on board a bonus equivalent to a year’s pay, with new berths and commands for the mates and captains and enough to buy a share in their ship. Plus, of course, he had forty of his own troops on each ship, ready to shoot down any man who abandoned his station. Everyone knew that, too.
“Steer this course,” Raj said. A colored grid dropped down before his eyes, and he swung his arm to align with the pointer Center provided. “Precisely that course, Captain Lodoviko, and change precisely when I tell you. Understood?”
Lodoviko squinted at him, and murmured something in his dialect of Namerique; probably an invocation to one of the dozens of heathen gods the Stalwarts followed. Glim of the Waves, perhaps, or Baffire of the Thunder. Then he grunted orders to the helm and his first mate. The wheel swung, and feet rushed across the deck. Men swarmed into the ratlines, agile as cliff-climbing rogosauroids.
The ship’s bow swung and its motion altered as it took the waves at a different angle. The three ships behind swung into line, following as nearly as they could in line astern.
“We’re going too fast,” Raj said again, his tone remote. “Reduce by . . . two knots, please. Make ready to turn the boat to the left.”
“Ship to port. This ain’t steered from the same end as a dog, General.” Another set of orders from the megaphone, and canvas was snatched up and lashed to spars.
“Whatever. That’s right. Now turn to this angle.” His arm swung.
Ahead, they were close enough to see the tall cream-colored limestone cliffs, scarred and irregular but nearly vertical; the stone of the fort was the same color, only the smoothness and block-lines marking where it began and the native rock left off. Surf beat on the shingle beach below, and more white water thrashed over rocks and reefs further out. Any one of them could rip the timber bottom of the Chakra open the way a bayonet did a man’s belly.
I don’t envy Gerrin trying to make them think he’s going to do a mass attack in broad daylight, Raj thought, at some level not occupied with his passionless translation of Center’s instructions.
Dinnalsyn and his aide had quietly drawn their
revolvers, standing behind the binnacle that held the wheel. “Spirit, it’s really working,” the gunner whispered, in the abstracted tones of a man speaking to himself. “Spirit, maybe he is a bleeding Avatar.”
“This heading. Keep this heading.”
They were slanting in towards the cliffs at a sixty-degree angle, still more than a kilometer out. The breeze freshened. A cannon boomed, and everyone except Raj jumped. He was too fixed in the strait world of lines and markers Center had clamped over his vision.
“Colonel Staenbridge is demonstrating against the fort, and they’re warning him off,” he said calmly. “They don’t have enough men to crew all their guns. They’ll see we’re coming in soon enough.”
The path to the little pier around the harbor-side angle of the cliffs was much easier sailing, but the last thing he wanted was to be right at the foot of the covered staircase up to the fort. For one thing, small-arms fire from the ramparts could reach a ship there; for another, he was fairly sure the garrison wasn’t going to let him sit and shell them without trying to pay a visit.
His back was to the stern rail; he drew his own pistol and thumbed back the hammer. Lodoviko scratched his ribs; he might not have been toying with the haft of one of his axes.
BOOM. Smoke vomited from an embrasure on the seaward side of the fort.
“Think they’ve seen us,” Dinnalsyn said. The air ripped, and water fountained white two hundred meters off the Chakra’s bow.
BOOM. It went overhead this time, and the ball struck rock barely submerged a few hundred meters to their left, with a sound like an enormous ball-peen hammer on granite. It bounced back into the air and wobbled another hundred meters to splash in deeper waves.
“Yep, they’ve seen us all right,” the gunner went on dispassionately. “Undershot and overshot. Tricky, with a moving target like this.”
“Turn right. This far.”
“Y’heard the lubber, port ten!” Lodoviko snapped. Sweat was running down his boiled-lobster face and soaking his tunic, but his directions were precise.