by David Drake
Cabot looked at the maps. “Stalemate,” he said succinctly.
“Correct,” Raj replied. He’s no fool, and he’s learned a great deal, he thought carefully. Judging a man you disliked was a hard task, calling for mental discipline. “We are now considering how to break it. Specifically, we need the four thousand cavalry currently sitting in the Crown.”
“With their thumbs up their bums and their wits nowhere,” Gerrin Staenbridge added.
Cabot Clerett’s face was coolly unreadable. He has learned, Raj thought.
“Sir?” the younger man prompted.
Raj returned to his chair and sat, kicking aside the scabbard of his saber with a slight unconscious movement of his left foot. He paused to light a cigarette, drawing the harsh smoke into his lungs, then pulled out a heavy envelope from the same inner pocket that had held the battered platinum case.
“Under my proconsular authority, I’m promoting you to Colonel.” He held out the papers; Clerett took them and turned the sealed envelope over in his hands.
A pro forma murmur of congratulations went around the table. Cabot Clerett bowed his head slightly in formal acknowledgement. The promotion meant less to the Governor’s nephew than to a career officer, of course.
“I’m also detaching you from command of the Life Guards. You will proceed to Lion City immediately, and take command of the forces listed in your orders—essentially, all the cavalry and field-guns in the Crown. Pull them together, put them through their paces for a week or so, improvise a staff. Then move them out; the Brigade hinterlands have been pretty well stripped of troops, so there shouldn’t be much in your way. Use your discretion, but get those men and dogs near here as quickly as possible. Then communicate with me; we’ll use the river barges, slip the troops in at night.”
“Sir.” Cabot smiled, a slow grin. A major independent command . . . and given because the reinforcing units would obey him. Since he was the heir, they’d better. “Sir, do you think it advisable to trap another four thousand men here behind the walls?”
“I do,” Raj said dryly.
The militia and the regular infantry between them could hold the city walls against anything but an all-out attack. With fourteen thousand Civil Government cavalry, he could take the mounted units out and use them as a mobile hammer to beat the enemy to dust against the anvil of the fortified city.
Cabot tucked the unopened envelope into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket.
“I’m to proceed to Lion City, mobilize and concentrate the cavalry and guns, form them into a field force, and rejoin the main Expeditionary Force, using my discretion as to the means and place?” he said.
“Correct, Colonel.”
“Immediately?”
“As soon as possible.”
“I believe I’ll be able to proceed tonight,” Cabot said cheerfully. “If you’ll excuse me, sir? I have some goodbyes.”
Raj ground out the cigarette savagely as the Governor’s nephew left the room.
“Was that altogether wise?” Gerrin murmured.
“Perhaps not,” Raj ground out. “But it’s the only bloody thing I could think of.” He looked around. “Now let’s get on with the planning, shall we?”
“Glad to see you again, Ludwig,” Raj said.
Ludwig Bellamy grinned. The expression was not as boyish as it had been four months ago. His face had thinned down, not starved but drawn closer to the strong bones.
“Glad to be back, mi heneral,” he said.
They turned their dogs and rode inward from the gate where the last of the 2nd Cruisers was entering; it was pitch-black, overcast and with no moon. Dim light came from the lanterns on the gate towers above, and from shuttered lanterns in the hands of some of the officers. The heavy portals boomed shut behind them, and the locking bars shot home in their brackets with an iron clanking.
“Captain M’lewis did excellent work getting us past the enemy pickets,” Ludwig went on.
“Warn’t hardly nao problem,” M’lewis said. “Them barbs ain’t stirrin’ by noight.”
“We could smell them,” Ludwig said. “Although what they’ve got left to crap, I don’t know.”
Raj rode in silence for a few moments. An occasional sliver of light gleamed from a second-story window, as some householder cracked a shutter to check what was going by outside. The dogs’ paws beat on the pavement, a scud-thump sound, in time with the creak of harness among his escort. Bellamy’s men had theirs stuffed with rags to muffle noise. A mount sneezed and shook its head with a jingle of bridle irons.
“The railroad’s wrecked, then?” he said at last.
“They’re repairing segments with plain wood rails,” Ludwig said; pride showed in his voice. “And hauling trains with oxen. The whole area’s up in arms, peasant revolt and famine, with three or four regiments beating the bush for insurectos. We swung north, and they’re trying to run wagon trains from the Padan River down to the camps here. Also we saw troops heading north, toward the frontier; the peasants gave us rumors about Guard and Stalwart raiding, and pirates along the coast.”
Raj nodded. “Scavengers around a dying bull,” he said. “Commodore Lopeyz has sunk three corsairs in the last month, found them hanging about just over the horizon.” One hand indicated the delta of the White River to their left. “What with one thing and another, I think the enemy will be forced to make a move soon.”
“How’s the supply situation, sir?”
“Not bad, but getting worse. We’ve enough to keep the men and dogs on full rations for now, although the civilians are being shorted. No famine, though.”
Apart from the odd body found dead in a doorway in the morning, but that happened in any city, under siege or not.
“What’ll they do?”
“I’m not sure . . . but they’ll do something. Soon.”
“No!” Ingreid Manfrond said, sweeping the map aside.
His eyes were bloodshot as he glared at the other Brigade commanders.
“Lord of Men—” Teodore Welf began.
“Shut up, you puppy!” Ingreid roared. “You lost me twenty thousand men with your last bright idea.”
Teodore stepped back from the table, clicked heels—his armor clanked too—and gave a stiff bow before leaving. Ingreid stared after him; it was a breach of protocol to leave the General’s presence before permission was granted. Most of the other officers looked elaborately elsewhere; a few looked calculating, wondering if the triumvirate was breaking up. The weak spring sunlight came through the tent-flap with a gust of air, ruffling the maps on the table. The sour smell of the camp was worse, men with runny guts and dogs too.
“Your Mightiness,” Howyrd Carstens said, “he was right this time. We’ve got to deal with this new army.” His thick calloused thumb swept over to the Crown, then up the peninsula from Lion City.
“They’re over the Waladavir,” he said. “Our arse is hanging in the breeze like a bumboy’s, and if he heads southwest and cuts us off from the Padan valley we’re fucked—how many men are dismounted already because we can’t bait their dogs?”
“You think I should send Welf off, with his mother’s milk still wet on his lips?” Ingreid said. “Give him fifteen regiments?”
His voice was no longer a roar, but still hoarse with anger. He snapped his fingers, and a servant came forward with wine. It was too early in the day . . . but he needed it. The raw chill of this damned winter had gotten into his bones.
I’m not sixty yet, he thought. I can outride and outfight any of them. But the price kept going up every year.
Carstens shook his head. “Whoever you want,” he said. “Send me, or go yourself. Take twenty thousand men, the ones with the best dogs and the fewest troopers down sick. That’ll still leave us with seventy thousand fit for service here, more than enough to blockade the city. Stamp on this little Civvie column—there can’t be more than four regiments’ worth. Then come back here.”
Ingreid shook his head. “I’m not splittin
g our forces,” he said. “I’m through underestimating Whitehall, Spirit of Man of This Earth curse him. What we’ll do is—”
He began giving his orders, pointing with a stubby finger now and then.
Carstens hawked and spat on the ground when he was finished. “Might work,” he said. “Anyway, you’re the General.”
Ingreid was conscious of their eyes on him. A proper General led the warriors of the Brigade to victory. So far he’d lost two-score regiments in battle, and half as many again to sickness. It wasn’t a distinguished record . . . and his grip on the Seat was still new and uncertain.
“I am the General,” he said. “And I’ll have Whitehall’s skull for a drinking cup before the first wheat’s reaped this year.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“He’s up to something,” Raj said. The setting sun glittered red on the lancepoints of a regiment of Brigaderos cuirassiers moving at the edge of sight. “Something fairly substantial.”
Once more they were gathered on one of the north gate towers; Suzette looking a little pale from the lingering aftermath of influenza and some woman’s problem she wouldn’t tell him about, curled up under a mound of furs.
“Movin’ troops,” M’lewis added, nodding. Parties of his Scouts were out every night, collecting information and the ear-bounty. “Looks loik back ’n forth, though.”
Gerrin and Ludwig Bellamy bent over the map table. “Well,” the older man said thoughtfully, “Ingreid’s done bloody silly things before. Hmmm . . . moved about ten thousand men from the south bank of the river to the north, and none of them have been moved back.”
“Ingreid’s trying hard to be clever,” Raj said absently, tapping his jaw with a thumb. “He’s going to do something—no way of hiding that—but he doesn’t want us to know where.”
“All-out assault?” Ludwig Bellamy said.
“Possibly. That would cost him, but we can’t be strong enough all along scores of kilometers of wall. With his numbers, he could feint quite heavily and then hit us with the rest of it somewhere else.”
A crackle of tension went through the officers, like dogs sniffing the spring air and bristling. Raj looked out again at the enemy camps; blocks of men and banners were moving, tiny with the distance.
observe, Center said.
The vision was a map, with counters to represent troops and arrows for their movements.
Are you sure? Raj thought.
probability 82% ±5, Center replied. examine the movements of artillery.
“Ah,” Raj said aloud. “He’s moving the men around, but the guns have been going in only one direction.”
The other men were silent for an instant. “Foolish of him,” Staenbridge said.
Ludwig nodded. “I think he’s short of draught oxen,” he said. “Probably they’ve been eating them. Shortsighted.”
“Then here’s what we’ll do,” Raj said. “Jorg, select the best eleven battalions of your infantry, and hold them in readiness down by the river docks. You’ll command. Move the rest up here to the northern sector. Gerrin, I want you here with me. Ludwig, you’ll take the armored cars and all the cavalry except the 5th and 7th—”
When he finished, there was silence for a long moment.
“That’s rather risky, isn’t it?” Gerrin said carefully. “I think it’s fairly certain we could stop Ingreid head-on.”
Raj smiled grimly. What’s that toast? he asked Center: it was something from one of the endless historical scenarios his guardian ran for him.
“A toast, Messers,” he said, raising his cup. “He fears his fate too much, and his desserts are small, who will not put it to the touch—to win or lose it all.”
“Where’re we going, Corporal?” rifleman Minatelli murmured.
The 24th Valencia were tramping down the cobblestoned streets toward the harbor in the late-night chill. They were still blinking with sleepiness, despite a hurried breakfast in their billets. Men with torches or lanterns stood at the streetcorners, directing the flow. It was dark despite the stars and moons, and he moved carefully to avoid treading on the bootheels of the man in front. The cold silty smell of the river estuary was strong, underneath the scent of wool uniforms and men. Occasionally a window would open a crack as the folk inside peered out at the noise below. Trapped and helpless and wondering if their fate was to be decided tonight . . .
“How da fuck should I know?” the Corporal snarled. “Jest shut—”
“Alto!”
“—up.”
Almost as helpless as I am, Minatelli thought.
Although he had his rifle. That was comforting. The Battalion was all around him, which was still better. And Messer Raj always won his battles, which was more comforting still—everyone was sure of that.
Of course, the last battle—his first—had shown him you could get killed very dead indeed in the middle of the most smashing victory. Gharsia’s lungs and spine blasted out through his back illustrated quite vividly what could happen to an experienced veteran on the winning end of a one-sided slaughter.
It wasn’t worrying him as much as he thought it should, which was cause for concern in itself.
The long column of infantry stumbled to a halt in the crowded darkness.
“Stand easy!” The men relaxed, and a murmur went through the lines. “Silence in the ranks.”
Minatelli lowered his rifle-butt to the stones and craned his neck. He was a little taller than average, and the street’s angle was downward. The long rows of helmeted heads stretched ahead of him, stirring a little and the dull metal gleaming in the lamplight; the furled Company pennants ahead of each hundred-odd, and the taller twin staffs at the head where the color sergeants held the cased national flag and battalion colors. Another full battalion was passing down the street that crossed the one from the 24th’s billet, marching at the quickstep.
“Something big on,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth to the Corporal.
Officers walked up and down beside the halted column. Another battalion was marching down behind them, crashing to a halt at a barked order when they saw the 24th blocking their way. Breath steamed under the pale moonlight.
“Doan’ matter none,” the corporal whispered back, without moving his head. “We jest go where we’re—”
The trumpet rang sharply. Men stiffened at the sound.
“Attent-hun. Shoulder . . . arms.”
“—sent.”
Minatelli came to and brought the long Armory rifle over his right shoulder, butt resting on his fingers. The trumpet sounded again. He wished the corporal hadn’t sounded a little nervous himself.
“Alo sinstra, waymanos!” By the left, forward.
His left foot moved forward automatically, without his having to think about it. Hobnails gritted on the cobbles; they were wet and slippery with the dew, although morning was still a few hours off. Marching was easy now, not like at first. The problem with that was that it gave him time to think. Where were they sending everyone? Because from the sound, there must be at least four or five battalions on the move, all infantry. They’d been turned out with full kit—but no tents or blanket rolls, only one day’s marching rations, and two extra boxes of ammunition each in their haversacks.
They marched through the Seagate and onto the road by the wharves. It was a little lighter here, because the warehouses were backed up against the wall and left more open space than the streets. Most of the docks were empty, looking eerie and abandoned with starlight and moonlight glittering on the oily surface of the water. They halted again at the fishing harbor, upstream from the berths where the deep-hulled ocean traders docked.
“Company E, 24th Valencia,” a man called softly.
Captain Pinya turned them left from the battalion column onto a rickety board wharf. Boats were waiting alongside the pier, fishing smacks and ship’s longboats and some barges with longboats to tow them. Men waited at the oars, in the ragged slops sailors wore; there were others directing the infantry, in Civil Go
vernment uniform but with black jackets, and cutlasses by their sides—marines. The company commander stepped down into a long-boat, followed by the trumpeter and bannerman.
The Lieutenant of Minatelli’s platoon hopped down into a barge. “Sergeant, get the men settled,” he said.
“Come on, straight-leg,” one of the marines snarled at Minatelli. He was holding a painter snubbed around a bollard, anchoring the flat-bottomed grain barge to the wharf. “Get your asses in it. I’ve got to help row this bleeding sow.”
The corporal clambered down. “About all yu good fur, fishbait,” he said. “Yu herd da man, boys. Time fur a joyride.”
“Easy, girl,” Robbi M’Telgez said. “Easy, Tonita.” His dog wuffled at him sleepily from the straw of her stall. The Corporal turned up the kerosene lamp and rolled up his shirtsleeves, taking the currycomb and beginning the grooming at the big animal’s head. Tonita’s tail thumped at the ground as he worked the stiff brush into the fur of her neck-ruff. It was not time for morning grooming, still hours too early, but the dog didn’t mind. Most of the other mounts were still asleep, curled up in their straw. The stable smelled of dog and straw, but clean otherwise; the animals were all stable-broken, and waited for their trip to the crapground. It was a regular stable, requisitioned from a local magnate when the 5th was billeted.
M’Telgez felt the dog’s teeth nibble along his shoulder in a mutual-grooming gesture as he worked over her ribs. The task had a homey familiarity, something he’d done all his life—back home on the farm, too; the M’Telgez family owned five saddle-dogs. He’d raised one from a pup and taken it to the army with him; Tonita was his second, bought with the battalion remount fund as a three-year-old, just before the Southern Territories campaign. War was hard on dogs, harder than on men. Idly, he wondered what his family would be doing right now. Pa was dead these two years; his elder brother Halsandro had the land. It was a month short of spring for Descott, so the flocks would be down in the valley pasture.