by David Drake
He explained the uses of the Zanj drugs. Katrini gasped by the door; Marie signed her to silence and nodded thoughtfully.
“Ingreid hasn’t the brains of a sauroid,” she said thoughtfully. “Go on.”
“My lady has partisans of her own,” Abdullah said. “Those loyal to her family. Your mother is well-remembered, your father more so.”
“Few real vassals. The Seat controls my family estates, so I can’t reward followers. Fighting men have to follow a lord who can give gold and gear and land with both hands. And I’m held here without easy access to anyone but Ingreid’s clients and sworn men.”
Abdullah spread his hands. “Funds may be advanced,” he said. “Also messages carried. Not for any treasonous purpose, but is it not your right? By Brigade law does not a brazaz lady of your rank have a right to her own household, her own retainers?”
Marie nodded slowly. “We’ll have to talk more of this,” she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Right up ahead, ser,” the Scout said. “Turn right off t’road, up to the kasgrane, loik.”
The Expeditionary Force was winding its way through a countryside of low rolling hills, mostly covered with vineyards and olive trees and orchards; pretty to look at, even with the leaves all down, but awkward to march through. Villages grew more frequent as they approached Old Residence, and the kasgrane—manor-houses—were unfortified and often lavishly built with gardens and ornamental waterworks, the country-residences of the city magnates. The light airy construction showed that most of them would have been empty in winter anyway, but many of the villagers had headed for the security of city walls as well. There hadn’t been any serious war here in generations, but peasants knew down in their bones that there was usually not much to choose between armies on the march. Either side might loot and rape, perhaps kill and burn. Better to hide in a city, where only one side was likely to come and where commanders were more watchful.
Raj nodded and tapped Horace’s ribs with his heels. His escort trotted behind him, along the cleared space beyond the roadside ditch. Past infantry swinging along, their uniforms patched but glad to be out of the mud of the river bottoms, past guns and ox-wagons and more infantry and the hospital carts with the tooth-grating sounds of wounded men jolting over ruts in the crude gravel pavement of the road. Better than two hundred men down with lungfever, too; there’d be more, unless he got them under shelter soon. The nights were uniformly chilly now, the days raw at best, and it rained every second day or so. They’d come more than four hundred kilometers in only a month. The men were worn out and the dogs were sore-pawed.
And I’ve got the second-biggest city in the Midworld to take at the end of it, Raj thought grimly. Old Residence was only a shadow of what it had been in its glory days six hundred years ago, when it was the seat of the Governors and capital of the whole Midworld basin. There were still four hundred thousand residents, and it was the center of most of the trade and manufacture in the Western Territories.
They passed the head of the column; beyond that were only the scouting detachments, combing the hills ahead and around the main force to make sure there weren’t any surprises in wait. A platoon of the 5th Descott waited at the turn-off.
The private laneway was narrow, but better-kept than the public road, smooth crushed limestone and bordered by tall cypress trees. It wound upward through vineyards whose pruning had been left half-finished, some vinestocks cut back to their gnarled winter shapes and some with the season’s growth still showing in long bare finger-shoots. Untended sheep grazed between them on the sprouting cover crop of wild mustard. The kasgrane at the heart of the finca, the estate, was two stories of whitewashed stone and tile roof. The tall glass-paned doors on both stories showed it to be a summer residence; so did the hilltop location, placed to catch the breeze. The windows were shut now, and smoke wafted from the chimneys.
More came from the elaborate tents pitched in the gardens. Wagons and carriages and the humbler dosses of servants and attendants crowded about, and a heavy smell of many dogs. A resplendent figure in sparkling white silk jumpsuit and cloth-of-gold robe waited at the main entrance to the manor. A jeweled headset rested on his thin white hair, and the staff in his hand was topped by an ancient circuit board encased in a net of platinum and diamonds. It was the Key Chip of the Priest of the Residential Parish, symbol of his authority to Code the Uploading of souls to the Orbit of Fulfillment and the ROM banks of the Spirit. The vestments of the archsysups, sysups and priests around him made a dazzling corona in the bright noonday sun.
The pontiff raised staff and hand in blessing from the steps as Raj drew up. A bellows-lunged annunciator stepped forward:
“Let all children of Holy Federation Church bow before Paratier, the seventeenth of that name, Priest of the Residential Parish, servant of the servants of the Spirit of Man of the Stars, in whose hands is the opening and closing of the data gates.”
Raj and his officers dismounted. They and Suzette touched one knee to the ground briefly; Raj had the platinum-inlaid mace of his proconsular authority in the crook of his left elbow. That meant he was the personal representative of the Governor—and in the Civil Government the ruler was supreme in spiritual as well as temporal matters. Instead of kneeling, he bowed to kiss the prelate’s outstretched ring-hand. The ring too held a relic of priceless antiquity, a complete processing chip set among rubies and sapphires.
an FC-77b6 unit, Center remarked. generally used to control home entertainment modules.
“Your Holiness,” Raj said as he straightened.
The Priest was an elderly man with a face like pale wrinkled parchment, carrying a faint scent of lavender water with him. His eyes were brown and as cold as rocks polished by a glacial stream.
“Heneralissimo Supremo Whitehall,” he replied, in accentless Sponglish. “I and these holy representatives of the Church—”
The assembled clerics were watching Raj and his followers much as a monohorn watched a carnosauroid; not afraid, exactly, but wary. Few of them looked full of enthusiasm for a return to Civil Government rule. The Church had been the prime authority in Old Residence under the slack overlordship of the Brigade Generals. None of them had any illusions that the Civil Government would be so lax. And the Governors were also unlikely to allow the Priest as much autonomy; the Chair believed in keeping the ecclesiastical authorities under firm control.
“—and of the Governor’s Council—”
The civilian magnates. The Council had been important half a millennium ago, when the Governors ruled from Old Residence. There was still a Council in East Residence, although membership was an empty title. Evidently the locals had kept up the forms as a sort of municipal government.
“—are here to offer you the keys of Old Residence.” Literally: a page was coming forward, with a huge iron key on a velvet cushion.
“My profound thanks, Your Holiness,” Raj said.
Quite sincerely; the last thing he wanted to do was try to take a place ten times the size of Lion City by storm. He turned an eye on the assembled magnates.
“I’m pleasantly surprised at the presence of you gentlemen,” he went on. “Especially since I’d heard the barbarian General had extorted hostages and oaths from you.”
Paratier smiled. “Oaths sworn under duress are void; doubly so, since they were sworn to a heretic. These excellent sirs were absolved of the oaths by Our order.”
Raj nodded. And I know exactly how much your word’s worth, he thought. Aloud: “However, the heretic garrison?”
Paratier looked around. He seemed a little surprised that Raj was speaking openly before his officers; a bit more surprised that Suzette was at his side.
“Ah—” he coughed into a handkerchief. “Ah, they have been persuaded . . .”
Lion City, Raj thought, did some good after all.
“Sir, please get on the train!”
Hereditary High Colonel Lou Derison shook his head. “The General appointed me commandant o
f Old Residence. Here I stay.”
“Lou,” the other man said, stepping closer. “We lost Strezman and four thousand men in Lion City. We can’t afford another loss of trained regulars like that. There are only five thousand men in the garrison; that isn’t enough to hold down a hostile city and defend the walls. But in the field, it may be the difference between victory and defeat. Once we’ve beaten the grisuh in battle, Old Residence will open its gates to us again—it’s a whore of a city, and spreads its legs for the strongest.”
Behind the junior officer a locomotive whistle let out a screech, startling Derison’s dog into a protesting whine behind him. The little engine wheezed, its upright boiler showing red spots around the base, where the thrall shoveled coal into the brick arch of the furnace. Ten cars were hitched by simple chain links to the engine, much like ox-wagons with flanged wheels and board sides marked 8 dogs/40 men. These were all crowded with soldiers, the last of the Old Residence garrison. Most had left during the day and the night before. The tracks ran westward though tumbledown warehouses and then through the equally decrepit city wall. The driver yelled something incoherent back toward the clump of officers.
Derison shook his head again. “No, no—you do what you must, Torens, and I’ll do what I must. Goodbye, and the Spirit of Man of This Earth go with you.”
Major Torens blinked, gripped the hand held out to him and then turned to jump aboard the last and already-moving car. The wheels of the locomotive spun on the wood-and-iron rails, and the whole train moved off into the misty rain with a creaking, clanging din that faded gradually into echoes and the last mournful wail of the whistle.
Derison sighed and put on his helmet, adjusting the cheek-guards with care. His armor was burnished and there was a red silk sash beneath his swordbelt, but the weapons and plate had seen hard service in their day.
“Come, gentlemen,” he said. “We ride to the west gate.”
A dozen men accompanied him, his sons and a few personal retainers. One spoke:
“Is that wise, sir? The natives are out of order.”
Derison straddled his crouching dog, and it rose with a huff of effort. “A man lives as long as he lives, and not a day more. We’ll greet this Raj Whitehall like fighting men, under an open sky, not hiding in a building like women.”
Massed trumpets played in the entrance to Old Residence. Horace skittered sideways a few steps, and threw up his long muzzle in annoyance. Army dogs expected trumpets to say something, and these were just being sounded for the noise. The walls were tall but thin, and some of the crenellations had fallen long ago. There were two towers on either side of the gate, but no proper blockhouse or thickening of the wall. There had been kilometers of ruins first, before they came to the defenses. Some pre-Fall work; most of what the unFallen built with decayed rapidly, but the rest did not decay at all. Rather more of ordinary stone and brick, heavily mined for building material. Those would date from the third or fourth post-Fall centuries, when the Civil Government had been ruled from here and included the whole Midworld basin.
The wall itself had come later, a century or two—when the population of the city had shrunk and the situation had gotten worse. Old Residence fell to the Brigade about two generations after that.
There was no portcullis, just thick timber and iron doors. The roadway opened out into a plaza beyond, thick with a crowd whose noise rolled over the head of the Civil Government column like heavy surf. This was still a big city. The street led south towards the White River, but hills blocked its way, covered with buildings. The giant marble-and-gilt pile of the Priest’s Palace off to his left; not just the residence, but home for the ecclesiastical bureaucracy. Further to the right the rooftop domes of the Old Governor’s Palace showed, with only a little gold leaf still on the concrete, and the cathedron and Governor’s Council likewise—they were all on hilltops, and the filled-in area between them would be the main plaza of the city. The rest was a sea of roofs and a spiderweb of roads, and the familiar coalsmoke-sweat-sewage-dog scent of a big city. There were even cast-iron lamp-stands by the side of the main road for gaslights, looking as if they’d been copied from the three-globe model used in East Residence. Which they probably had been.
Delegations lined the street on either side; from the Church, from the great houses of the magnates, from the merchant guilds and religious cofraternities. Holy water, incense and dried flower-petals streamed out toward the color-party around Raj; with music clashing horribly, and organized shouts of Conquer! Conquer! That was a Governor’s salute and highly untactful, because Barholm would have kittens when he heard about it—as he assuredly would, and soon.
Also waiting were a group of Brigaderos nobles, looking slightly battered and extremely angry. Raj and his bannerman and guards swung out of the procession and cantered over to the square of white-uniformed Priest’s Guards who ringed them. The soldiers had shaven skulls themselves, which meant they were ordained priests.
“Who are these men?” Raj barked to their officer, pitching his voice slightly higher to carry through the crowd-roar.
“The heretic garrison commander. Thought he’d left with the rest, but they were heading this way. We have them in custody—”
“Where are their swords?” Raj asked.
“Well, we couldn’t let prisoners go armed, could we?” the man said.
“Give them back,” Raj said.
He turned his head to look at the white-uniformed officer when the man started to object. The weapons came quickly, the usual single-edged, basket-hiked broadswords of the barbarians. The Brigaderos seemed to grow a few inches as they retrieved them and sheathed the blades. Most of them looked as if they’d rather use them on the priest-soldiers around them.
“High Colonel Derison?” Raj asked, moving Horace forward a few paces.
“General Whitehall?” the man asked in turn.
Raj nodded curtly. The Brigadero drew his sword again and offered it hilt-first across his left forearm; the younger man by his side did likewise. Raj took the elder’s sword, and Gerrin Staenbridge the younger; they flourished them over their heads and returned the blades. By Brigade custom that put the owners under honorable parole. He hoped they wouldn’t make an issue of their empty pistol-holsters, because he didn’t have any intention of returning those.
“My congratulations on a wise decision,” he said.
Actually, staying on here was either a pointless gesture or cowardice. He didn’t think the High Colonel was a coward, but it was a pity he’d decided to stay if he was merely stupid. Raj wanted all the unimaginative Brigade officers possible active in their command structure.
Derison inclined his head. “Your orders, sir?” he said.
“My orders are to convey you to East Residence,” Raj replied. Derison senior seemed taken aback, but a flash of interest marked his son’s face. “You’ll be given honorable treatment and allowed to take your household and receive the revenues of your remaining estates.”
He’d also probably be shunted off to a manor in a remote province after Barholm had shown him around to put some burnish on the victory celebrations, and his sons and younger retainers politely inducted into the Civil Government’s armies, but there were worse fates for the defeated. All Brigaderos nobles who surrendered were being allowed to keep their freedom and one-third of their lands. Those who fought faced death and their families were sold as slaves.
“In fact,” he went on, “I’d be obliged if you’d do something for me at the same time.”
Derison bowed again. Raj reached into his jacket. “Here’s the key to Old Residence,” he said. “Please present it to the Sovereign Mighty Lord with my complements, and say I decided to send it to him in the keeping of a man of honor.”
The Brigadero looked down at the key—which was usually, for ceremonial purposes, left in the keeping of the Priest—and fought down a grin.
“Colonel Staenbridge,” Raj went on formally.
“Mi heneral?”
“See that these nobles are conveyed to suitable quarters in the Old Palace, and guarded by our own men with all respect.”
“As you order, mi heneral.”
Courtesy to the defeated cost nothing, and it encouraged men to surrender.
And now to work, he thought.
“Have any of you ever heard the story of Marthinez the Lawman?” Raj asked.
He stood looking out of the Old Palace windows down to the docks. The gaslights were coming on along the main avenues, and the softer yellow glow of lamps from thousands of windows; both moons were up, the fist-sized disks half hidden by flying cloud. The picture was blurred by the rain that had started along with sundown, but he could just make out the long shark shapes of the Civil Government steam rams coming up the river, each towing a cargo ship against the current.
No complaints about the Navy this time, he thought. Have to look up their commander. The room was warm with underfloor hot-air pipes, and it smelled of wet uniforms and boots and tobacco.
Raj turned back to the men around the semicircular table. All the Companions, some of the other battalion commanders, and Cabot Clerett, who couldn’t be safely excluded.
“Ah, Marthinez,” Ehwardo Poplanich said. Suzette nodded. Her features had the subtle refinement of sixteen generations of East Residence court nobility, able to show amusement with the slightest narrowing of her hazel-green eyes. The rest of the Companions looked blank.
“Marthinez,” Raj went on, pacing like a leashed cat beside the windows, “was a Lawman of East Residence.” The capital had a standing police force, rather an unusual thing even in the Civil Government.
Someone laughed. “No,” Raj went on, “he was a very odd Lawman. Completely honest.”
“Damned unnatural,” Kaltin said.
“Possibly. That’s what got him into trouble; he blew the whistle on one of his superiors who’d taken a hefty bribe to cover up a nasty murder by a . . . very important person’s son.”