by David Drake
Nods all around the table.
“Well, it would have been embarrassing to bring him to trial, so he was thrown in the Subiculum.”
That was the holding gaol for the worst sort of criminal. Usually the magistrates eventually got around to having the inmates given a short trial and then crucifixion or hanging or fried at the stake, depending on which crime had been the last before their capture. On the other hand, sometimes they just lost the name in the shuffle. A lifetime in the Subiculum was considerably worse than death, in most men’s opinion. Sometimes the loss was deliberate.
“As you can imagine, he wasn’t very popular there. Four soul-catchers”—kidnappers who stole free children for sale as slaves— “decided they’d beat him to death the very first night, since he’d put them in there.
“But,” Raj went on with a carnivore grin, “Marthinez was, as I said, a fairly unusual sort of man. When the guards came in in the morning, the soul-catchers mostly had their heads facing backward or their ribs stove in. Marthinez had some bruises. So they took him away to the solitary hole for a week, that’s the standard punishment for fighting in the cells . . .
“And as they were dragging him off through the corridors, he shouted: You don’t understand! I’m not trapped in here with you. You’re all trapped in here with me!”
“He made,” Raj concluded, “quite a swath through the inmates until Ehwardo’s grandfather pardoned him and made him Chief Lawman.”
Raj halted before the central window, tapping one gauntleted fist into a palm. “General Ingreid thinks he as me trapped.” He turned. “Just like Lawman Marthinez, eh?”
Kaltin nodded. “I don’t like losing our mobility, though,” he said. Which was natural enough for a cavalry officer.
Raj went on: “Kaltin, it’s not enough to beat the Brigade. Believe me, you can have a good commander and fine troops and win battle after battle and still lose the war.”
hannibal, Center said. Raj acknowledged it silently. He was still a little vague on precisely when Hannibal had fought his war—it didn’t seem like pre-Fall times at all—but Center’s outline of the campaign had been very instructive. Cannae was a jewel of a battle, as decisive as you could want. Even more decisive than the two massacres Raj had inflicted on the Squadron last year—except that Hannibal’s enemies hadn’t given up afterwards.
“To win this war, we have to do two things. We have to get the civilian population here to actively support us.”
There were snorts; Raj acknowledged them. “Yes, I know they’ve got no more fight than so many sheep, most of them—six centuries under the Brigade. But there are a lot of them.
“Second and most important, we’ve got to make the Brigade believe that they’re defeated. To do that, we have to get as many of them as we can in one spot; all the principal nobles and their followers, at least. And then we have to kill so many of them that the remainder are convinced right down in their bones that fighting us and death are one and the same thing. The best way I can think of doing that is persuading them to make head-on attacks into fortified positions.”
Gerrin raised a brow. “That assumes they will,” he said. “I wouldn’t. I’d entrench a large blocking force and send a mobile field army to attack our forward base in the Crown and mop up the areas we marched through.”
Raj snorted. “Yes, but Gerrin—you’re not a barb.” He jerked a thumb out the window. “According to the latest intelligence, Ingreid has about a hundred thousand men rallying to his banner; that’s most of the regular army of the Brigade, and all of their first-line reserves.
“First, remember that the Brigade are a minority here. They’re going to be worried about native and peasant uprisings, the more so since we’ve occupied Old Residence—which doesn’t mean anything of military importance by itself, but the people don’t know that. They’ll be impressed.
“Second, they’re stripping their northern frontier. The Stalwarts and the Guard will be raiding, even in winter. Especially since the Ministry of Barbarians is subsidizing them to do exactly that.”
He went to the frame and ran his hand across the map of the Western Territories at the latitude of Carson Barracks, a little south of Old Residence.
“Most of the Brigaderos live north of here; it was the first area they overran, back when, and it’s where most of them settled. The southern part of the peninsula was conquered more gradually, and the barbs are very thin on the ground there. So they’ll be anxious about their homes and families in the north, looking over their shoulders, eager to get it over with and go home. The Brigade doesn’t have the sort of command structure which can ignore that type of sentiment.
“Third, one hundred thousand men are going to be camping here, in the middle of a countryside which we shall systematically strip of every ounce of food we can. You know the Brigade; they could no more organize a supply system from the rear on that scale than they could fly to Miniluna by flapping their arms.”
“There’s the railroad to Carson Barracks,” Gerrin Staenbridge said thoughtfully. “With that, they can draw on the whole Padan Valley.” He turned to whisper to Bartin for a moment. “Yes, I thought so. Just capable of handling the necessary tonnage, but without much margin.”
Raj nodded. “Something will be done about that. So they’re going to be cold, and wet, and hungry, and after a while a lot of them will be sick, too. They’ll be thinking of their nice warm manors and snug farmhouses and hot soup by the fire.
“They’ll have to attack. And we have to be ready. Now, gentlemen, here’s how we’re going to do that. First, since we’re not blessed with a contingent from the Administrative Service, I’m appointing Lady Whitehall legate for civil affairs. Next—”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Most should recover,” the Renunciate Sister said.
Suzette nodded, stopping for a moment by one man’s bedside. His face glistened with sweat, more than the mild warmth of the commandeered mansion’s underfloor heating system could account for. He gave her a weak smile as a helper propped him up and lifted the bowl of broth to his lips. The air was full of a medicinal smell, mostly from the pots of water laced with mint and eucalyptus leaves boiling on braziers in every room and corridor. A low chorus of racking coughs sounded under the brisker sounds of orders and soup-carts.
“Lungfever is most serious when the body is debilitated,” the Renunciate went on, as they walked out of the room. “Cold, exhaustion, or bad food. With warmth, rest, careful feeding and plenty of liquids, most of these men should be fit for light duty in Holy Church’s cause within a month.”
Which would give the equivalent of a whole battalion back to Raj. Suzette nodded, smiling.
“You’ve done wonderful work,” she said.
The Renunciate sniffed. “The Spirit was with us, Lady Whitehall,” she said tartly.
Church healers accompanied any Civil Government army; these had been with Raj for going on three years now.
“But please tell the heneralissimo that men who sleep in cold mud while they’re too tired to eat properly will get sick.”
“What is the meaning of this?” the merchant demanded. “Out of my way, you peasants!”
He tried to push past the infantrymen standing in the doorway of his warehouse. The peon soldiers spoke no Spanjol and would have ignored him in any case. He walked into the crossed rifles as if into a stone wall, rebounding backward with a squawk. The morning sun glinted brightly on the honed edges of their bayonets as they swung up to present, the points inches from his chest. There was a four-dog carriage behind him, and two mounted servants armed with swords and pistols, as well as a crowd of his clerks and storesmen. None of them seemed likely to get him through into his place of business this day.
“Messer Enrike,” a soothing voice said.
Enrike turned; Muzzaf Kerpatik was coming around the corner of the tall building with an officer in Civil Government uniform.
“Messer Kerpatik, am I to be robbed, after all your assurances?”
the merchant demanded.
Rumor had it that Kerpatik was Raj’s factotum for purchasing, an enviable post. It was plain to see he at least was no Descotter—small and slim, dressed in dazzling white linen with the odd fore-and-aft peaked cap of the southern border cities of the Civil Government, along the frontier with the Colony. His Sponglish had the sing-song accent of Komar.
“Of course not,” the Komarite soothed. “Just some precautions.”
“Precautions against what?” Enrike demanded.
Muzzaf whispered in the officer’s ear. The man barked an order in Sponglish, and the squad sloped arms and wheeled away from the door. The others guarding the big wagon-gates of the warehouse remained, but the employees filed into the front section of the building.
Enrike snorted as he settled into the big leather armchair behind his desk. One of the clerks scuttled in to throw a scoopful of coal into the cast-iron stove in one corner, and a maidservant brought in kave and rolls.
“Precautions against unauthorized sales,” Muzzaf said. “You’ll find that all bulk-stored wheat, barley, maize, flour, rice, beans, preserved meats and so forth have been placed under seal. First sale priority goes to the authorized purchasing agents of each battalion, at list prices.” He pulled a paper out of his jacket and slid it across the desk. “Soldiers are free to buy additional supplies retail, of course.”
“Outrageous!” Enrike said, scanning the list. “These prices are robbery!”
“Reasonable for bulk sales,” Muzzaf replied. “And payable in gold or sight-drafts on Felaskez and Sons of East Residence.” The latter were as good as specie anywhere on the Midworld.
“Not reasonable in the least, given the situation,” Enrike said. “I hope your General Whitehall doesn’t think he can repeal the laws of supply and demand.”
He gave a tight smile; the Brigade’s nobles were mostly economic illiterates as well as actual ones. Enrike and his peers had done very well out of that ignorance, although it caused no end of problems when the Brigade tried to set policy.
“Oh, no,” Muzzaf said amiably. “And in any case, he has in myself and others advisors who can tell him exactly how to manipulate supply and demand. Marvelous are the ways of the Spirit, placing to hand the tools that Its Sword has need of. Incidentally, Lady Whitehall has been appointed civic legate. Any complaints will be addressed to her.”
Enrike’s face fell. Muzzaf went on: “You’ll note that after military requirements are met, each household is to be allowed to purchase a set amount once weekly. Also at list price.”
“How do you expect to enforce that?”
“Without great difficulty,” Muzzaf said. “Considering that we know how much each of you has on hand.” Enrike’s face fell again as Muzzaf reeled off figures. “And what normal consumption is. Incidentally, ships will be coming in from Lion City with additional supplies of grain from the Colonial merchants’ stocks which were forfeited to the State . . . we wouldn’t want anything like that to happen here, would we?”
“No,” Enrike whispered. The news of the massacre of the Lion City syndics had spread widely.
He had dealt with those men regularly; much of Old Residence’s grain supplies were shipped in from the Crown in normal years. This fall the city’s grain wholesalers had gone to huge expense to bring in more from the southern ports, or by railway from the Padan valley to the west. Everyone knew what the Skinner mercenaries had done to the Colonials of Lion City, and the unleashed common people to the wealthy.
“What the Army doesn’t need, we’ll hand out at the list prices in retail lots,” Muzzaf went on. “Just to prevent baseless speculation and hoarding, you understand.”
“I understand,” Enrike said, between clenched teeth.
He would make a fair profit this year—but nothing like the killing he’d anticipated. Not even as much as he’d have made off the shortages caused by the fall of the Crown and Lion City.
Damn this easterner general and his minions! The Brigade were far easier to deal with. Grovel a little and you could steal them blind. Small chance that that would work with Raj Whitehall. He might pass for a simple honest soldier in East Residence, that pit of vipers, but a simpleton from the Governor’s court could give lessons in intrigue to Carson Barracks.
As for fooling Suzette Whitehall . . . he shuddered, and covertly made the Sign of the Horns with his left hand against witchcraft.
“Watch that,” Colonel Grammeck Dinnalsyn said.
The officer in charge of the detail nodded nervously and stepped closer to inspect the bracing at the top of the wall. Twin timber-and-iron booms ran out on either side, with counterweighted wood-framed buckets on cables running over common block and tackle arrangements. The whole mass creaked and groaned alarmingly as the full bucket of dirt and rubble from outside the wall rose. Inside the wall ox-teams heaved at the cables, digging their hooves into the dirt as the long stock-whips cracked over their shoulders. The ton-weight of wet soil and rock groaned up to wall-level, then down to the stone as men hauled it in with hooked poles. Others sprang to the top of the load and unhooked the support cables, fastening them to the set running over the inner braces.
“Lock down the pulleys!” the officer Dinnalsyn had warned said. “Chocks. Take up the strain and sheet her home.”
Iron wheels squealed against their brake-drums as the bucket lurched up and out over the inner side of the wall. It went down the inner side in jerks as the men at the levers let cable pay out from the winches. When it thumped down the ox-teams heaved again, to tip it over. Hundreds of laborers jumped forward with shovels and mattocks and wheelbarrows, clearing it out and beginning to spread it as a base layer along the inside of the stone wall. More cranes were operating up and down the length of it, and laborers by the thousands. A step-sided earth ramp was growing against the ancient ashlar blocks of the fortification. Just in from it more work-gangs demolished buildings and hammered rubble and stone into smooth pavement; still more were resurfacing and widening the radial roads further in. Masons labored all along the wall, replacing the top courses of stones and repairing the parapets.
That would enable men and guns to shift quickly from one section of the outer walls to another, and let troops from a central reserve move swiftly. It was amazing what you could do in a few weeks, with enough hands and some organization.
The building contractor beside the officer shook his head; looking at the ant-hive of activity inside the wall, and the scarcely smaller swarm outside digging a deep moat.
“Amazing,” he said, in slow Sponglish with a strong Spanjol accent. The eastern and western tongues were closely related but not really mutually comprehensible. “How you get . . . what you say, organized so quick? Your Messer Raj—”
Cold glances stopped him. The troops referred to their commander that way, but it was not a privilege widely granted.
“—excuzo, your General Whitehall, he must understand such thing.”
Dinnalsyn shrugged. “He understands what needs to be done, and who can do it,” he said.
The contractor nodded enviously. He spent most of his time dealing with clients who thought they knew his job better than he did because they could afford to hire him. Working for someone who didn’t try to second-guess you was a luxury he coveted.
“How you get those riff-raff to work so hard?” he went on, looking at the laborers.
Soldiers were doing the overseeing and technical work; artillerymen, from the blue pants with the red stripes down the legs. His own skilled men were shoring and buttressing and timber-framing. The work-gangs who dug and lifted were townsmen also, but dezpohblado factory-hands and day-laborers, mostly.
“Bonus to the best teams, plus standard wages. We’re paying a tenth silver FedCred a day,” Dinnalsyn said.
The contractor’s lips shaped a silent whistle. “You paying cash?” he said.
Dinnalsyn nodded. The wage-workers of Old Residence were not peon serfs like the peasants of the countryside, precisely—but
their employers mostly paid them in script good only at stores the bosses owned. That let them set prices as they pleased, which meant the workers were usually short by next payday and had to borrow against their wages . . . also from their employers, and at interest.
“You going to get a lot of complaints about that,” the contractor said with the voice of experience. Most of his business was with the same magnates.
“No,” Dinnalsyn said. His smile made the contractor swallow nervously. “I don’t think we’ll get many complaints at all.”
“What’s that?” Lieutenant Hanio Pinya said.
His patrol of the 24th Valencia Foot were dog-weary with an uneventful night of walking the streets. Restless, too. They’d gotten used to thinking of themselves as real fighting men, after Sandoral and the Southern Territories and the campaign in the Crown. A month of warm barracks and good food and new uniforms had put a burnish on the horrors of the forced march down from Lion City. Messer Raj himself had complimented the infantry battalions on their soldierly endurance. Nothing had happened since except wall-duty, unless you counted drunk soldiers asking Guardia patrols directions to the nearest knocking-shop or bar . . . and after real soldiering, even an infantry officer got tired of being a pimp in uniform.
“Prob’ly some bitch havin’ a fight with ’er old man, sir,” the platoon sergeant said hopefully. Their bivouac wasn’t very far away.
The screams were louder, more than one voice, and there was a hoarse deep-toned shouting beneath them. It all sounded as if it was coming from indoors, not far down the brick-paved street.
“Come on,” Pinya snapped. “Messer Raj said we’re to keep strict order here.”
The patrol lumbered into a trot behind him, their hobnails clashing in the darkened street.
Dorya Minatili screamed with despair and faltered a step as she fled out the door of her home. The soldiers outside had the same uniform as the ones inside. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a long sword swing up, and a hand grabbed at her braid.