“Dismissed.”
The noncommissioned officers silently left the room. Master Sergeant Bisso conspicuously remained behind, guarding the door.
* * *
“Major Baker,” Rick began as the door closed, “I’d like to talk about a subject not in your templates. Treachery.”
Martins glanced towards Baker and blushed a little at the sound of that last word, Rick noted. Well, we’ll deal with that later.
“I’m concerned about Miss Spirit’s absence and the potential for trouble after the battle, assuming we win,” he continued, and looked at Saxon. “Why is she here on Tran?”
Saxon shrugged.
“Doctor Lee, back when he was still pretending to be CIA, said she’d help with security. I mean, she’d been a cop. Colonel, I have the same opinion as Cal. I never understood why she wanted to come—well, to go to Africa or wherever it was they were sending us. Or why they recruited her. And she didn’t make much of a fuss about it when we found out this wasn’t a CIA operation after all, that we’d never come home again. I had her figured for a feminist, but when we got here, the first thing she did was flirt with the Senator.”
He shrugged again.
“But she can operate any of the equipment you brought?”
“Sure. None of it’s that complicated, Colonel. She knows enough to get the manuals on screen, and after that it would be simple enough.”
As if I understood a word of that, Rick thought.
“So, if the Signory gets a container, they can use what’s in it?”
“If she helps, yes, Sir,” Saxon said, and Haskins nodded. “She has some kind of education,” Saxon continued, “and she was a San Francisco detective—”
“Uniform, Bart,” Haskins said.
“Okay, uniform not detective, but still she’d have had to pass an exam to get that far. I’d say she can make use of anything we have.”
“And if we use up all our ammo on the pirates, what keeps her and the Signory from taking whatever they want?” Harrison asked.
“You have any reason to think they’ll try, Jimmy?” Bisso asked.
“Not really,” Harrison replied. “They been decent enough so far, but you never know what people will do if the prize is big enough. And them containers are about the biggest prize on this planet and the Signory know it.”
“For the record,” Sergeant Clavell said, “they treated Jimmy and me just fine.”
“‘For the record,’” Rick repeated. “For the record, the Signory kidnapped you and held you incommunicado until I turned up with a fleet and demanded they turn you loose. I’m not exactly thrilled with the way they’ve acted since Mr. Saxon and his containers arrived, Sergeant. Still, Nikeis did send troops to the Ottarn, and they’ve been honest enough in their dealings with us since we got here. But you yourself warned me this is a place full of plots.”
“And assassins,” Mason added. “So what do we do about it? I mean other than keep our powder dry?”
“I don’t know yet,” Rick said. “You’ll think of something, Art.”
Mason grumbled something inaudible, and Rick smiled.
“All right,” he continued. “Mostly I just want to be sure we’re all on the same page where the . . . call them the ‘undercurrents’ are concerned.”
He looked around the circle of faces until everyone had nodded, then turned back to Saxon.
“The first priority is to get all three containers to the Doge’s Palace. Mr. Saxon, your job will be to negotiate with the Signory to get all three of your containers together and carried to San Marco’s. Work with Major Baker on where to place them. And we’ll need some local talent to bring in workmen and materials for the breastworks.”
“Wagon Box Fight,” Mason said.
“Or Jan Zizka,” Warner said. “Only you’ve got a lot better weapons.”
“Who or what is Jan Zizka?” Haskins asked.
“He was a Czech general in the early fourteen hundreds,” Rick replied. “He used armored wagons as a sort of tank with muskets and small cannons. He’d set his wagons in a circle at critical positions, forcing his enemies to come to him and break their teeth. Except that our wagons are going to be behind the front line.”
“Colonel,” Mason asked, “who tells the Signory that we want all those containers?”
“Start with Clavell. He can blame it on Mr. Saxon, and when that sets them off, you can blame it on me.”
“Maybe better to start with you?”
“No. The containers belong to Mr. Saxon, so he should be the one directing the Signory on their disposition. No point in confusing them. Besides, I want to emphasize the fact that he owns them—all of them—and that he means to go right on owning them.”
“And if they won’t let go?” Bisso growled.
“Clavell, try to be nice, but they don’t have any choice on this. Bisso, use what you have to to make that point. We need those containers.”
“I don’t suppose you mean that,” Bart Saxon said. “About who owns what, I mean. When the battle’s over.”
Rick frowned.
“Mr. Saxon, do you have some objection to what we’re doing here?”
“No, Colonel, I don’t. Not really. And there has to be a commander, and that’s most certainly you, not me. Apologies. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No harm done,” Rick replied. “After you work out the movement of the containers, I’d appreciate it if you’d get to work on those incendiaries. Please work with Mr. Warner. He’s developed a few tricks of his own over the years we’ve been here.”
Saxon nodded, and Rick turned his attention to the others.
“I’ll set up my command post in the upper city’s bell tower. McAllister will be with me. Once the sea battle gets close enough, he’ll take out as many steersmen as he can. Warner and Martins, you’ll be my liaison with the Roman squadron. I don’t want Ferox tied down in any melees. Hit them and move on. Don’t stay for a fight. The riflemen are there just to make sure you don’t get boarded. I’m sure Fleetmaster Junius will know what to do.
“Frick and McQuaid will take the recoilless on the Ferox, Art. Find a squad of volunteer mercs to go with them so we don’t lose it. Master Sergeant Bisso, your post will be in the Doge’s Palace off the lower square coordinating with the militia and the musketeers in the buildings flanking the square. The archers will be a mobile formation; I’ll leave them with you to deploy where they’re most needed. We’ll leave the rest of the city to the Signory’s militia, but we’ll stiffen them with small teams of mercs.
“Major Baker, you and your men will defend the containers. Your orders are to hold them at all costs and against anyone.”
* * *
Major Clyde Baker and his lieutenants stepped out of the headquarters palace on the way to rejoin their company. As they reached the courtyard, Baker paused and looked around to ensure no one could overhear them.
“Is it just me, or did Colonel Galloway appear a bit distracted?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir,” Martins agreed. “I think he knows about our conversation with the Romans.”
“Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to maneuver an American commander into doing the right thing by coordinating with the other coalition partners beforehand. Only in this case, this Yank is quite a bit smarter than those Yanks were. Most of them were so arrogant and stupid it wasn’t all that difficult to simply lead them about by the nose.”
“Major, I didn’t expect it to be so easy when you said you wanted to guide him subtly,” Martins replied. “After all the legends we heard in the Five Kingdoms about the great Warlord Rick, I expected him to be . . . ” The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t know. More assertive, perhaps?”
“Richard, you need to give the man a bit more credit. He wouldn’t be alive by now if he wasn’t at least as good as others give him credit for being. More than that, he’s wise enough—and willing—to solicit advice and information. Once he’s l
istened though, he doesn’t muck about in deciding or putting things into motion, either. We gave him a good plan, and he recognized that and accepted it, even after years of making it all up on his own as he goes along.”
Baker paused and looked up. Stars were starting to show as the light from the primary star faded, and his voice was soft as he continued.
“I expect he’s tired as hell—suffering battle fatigue. Wouldn’t you be tired after fighting for fourteen years straight on a primitive and savage planet? But that man’s brain works, and he’s thinking about a strategy that goes far beyond fighting over these little islands. He bloody well doesn’t need his elbow joggled while he does that, either. So we do our part to help him here on the ground, because at the end of the day, what happens to us and this entire damned planet depends on him.”
He looked at the two lieutenants, and they nodded, expressions sober.
“Yes, Sir,” Martins said, and Baker nodded back.
“That said, though,” he said, “perhaps I should have another talk with Publius.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TURN OUT THE WATCH
The fist pounding on the front door woke Lucia Michaeli.
It wasn’t late, only a couple of hours after the Firestealer had set, so she drew on a robe and went to find out what the racket was about. The downstairs part of the house was still partly lighted with oil lamps, and she heard her father and Professore Clavell shouting. Professore Clavell stood in the doorway. Her father, still dressed, had answered the door himself, which was an unusual thing for him to do. And the servant standing behind him held the old battle ax that had hung on the front room wall all of Lucia’s life.
There were armed men outside the door—a mixed group of Nikeis workmen and soldiers. Professore Clavell’s companion, the star man Harrison, with a hook instead of a hand. A dozen of the Doge’s halberdiers. A senator stood with them, and—she put her hand to her mouth. Bart Saxon was there. And Ginarosa Torricelli, roughly dressed as if for traveling, stood very near Professore Clavell. What was she doing out there?
“We need workmen,” Clavell was shouting to her father. “Timbers, nails, men, carpenters—anyone who can help build defenses at Palazzo San Marco. I’m told that many of those we need work for you. This is by the order of the Doge and the Signory.” He gestured to indicate Ginarosa, who held up a signet ring. “It’s all approved.”
“It is by order of my father,” Ginarosa added, waving the ring. “He is meeting with the Doge. I represent him.”
“I don’t question that, Ginarosa, but all the timbers will be in the Arsenale,” Lucia’s father replied. “And all the carpenters will be there or at their homes, not here! I have no men here.”
“We know. We’re going to the Arsenale now,” Ginarosa said. “There’s something else there we must have. We stopped here to ask you to gather all the men you can find and take them to Palazzo San Marco.”
Ginarosa stepped up to the doorway. She looked very serious, but she turned her head slightly to grin at Lucia before she smoothed her expression and turned back to Lucia’s father.
“Signore Michaeli, what we ask is that you designate the men we’ll need. You are empowered by the Council of Ten to exempt all you designate from their duties with the watch and the militia. You are yourself exempted, but you are ordered to accompany us to the Arsenale, then to Palazzo San Marco where we prepare our defenses.”
There were other shouts outside now, and Lucia ran to look out the window to the street. There was a militia officer with an escort of citizens with spear and shield, accompanied by apprentices carrying short spears—or drums. Lucia recognized the younger brother of one of her friends from Professore Clavell’s classes. Plutarco. His father was a wealthy goldsmith. Now Plutarco and four other youthful drummers marched to the middle of the street, beating a tattoo, while criers shouted.
“Turn out the watch! Turn out the militia! All those with arms, turn out in arms. Turn out to defend the city! To arms, to arms! Gather in the palazzos! Report to your officers! Turn out the watch! Turn out the ban! Turn out, turn out!”
“The pirates are here!” her father shouted. “Lucia, Lucia, hide—”
“Hold,” Ginarosa said impatiently. “The pirates won’t be here before daylight, if then. We prepare our defenses, but we have little enough time to do that. Now come with us—”
“Most of my workmen are at the Arsenale. Many sleep there now as we launch ships.”
“Yes, yes. We go to the Arsenale at once,” Ginarosa insisted impatiently. “There’s little time. Come with us.”
“Ah, but wait! There are work crews not at the Arsenale,” her father said. “Guido Facione and his sons and nephews. One of our best carpenter crews. They’ll be swept up with the band and the watch. You need workmen?”
“Yes, at San Marco’s, to aid in constructing defenses,” Ginarosa repeated, and Lucia’s father turned back into the house.
“Lucia!” he shouted. Then he saw her. “Lucia, get dressed. You must go to the house of Facione and tell him that he and all his work crew are summoned to Palazzo San Marco with their tools. Say that they’re excused from the watch and the ban by order of the Council of Ten. Hurry, and wear traveling clothes. Do not disguise yourself; you must be recognized so all will believe you speak for me.” He turned to his valet. “Marco, you’ll accompany Lucia on her errand. If anyone tries to interfere, say you have the orders of Councilor Torricelli. Lucia, hurry!”
“Yes, Father!”
Lucia rushed up to her room. Her older sister’s door was open and Catarina was up, as well.
“I heard,” she said, throwing on her clothes haphazardly.
“Where you going?” Lucia demanded.
“To the Arsenale!” Catarina shouted and ran out of her room and down the stairs.
Dressed like a servant girl, Lucia thought. She wasn’t surprised that her older sister was going to the Arsenale. Catarina practically lived there anyway. She knew more about bronze and iron casting than anyone else Lucia knew—almost as much as their father and far more than their brother. It was nearly unheard of for a woman to manage a trade or be accepted into a guild, but there was talk of allowing Catarina to have guild status. Their brother wasn’t interested. He worked as a salesman, as a factor, as a procurer and trader, and he was very good at that. He spoke four languages and could read and write them all. He would be a good proveditor, but he had little interest in the work at the foundry and probably didn’t know the formula for bronze, or how to add the charcoal to iron to make steel. Catarina knew all that and more, and the workmen respected her.
Lucia selected her own clothes with care. Time was short, but it was important she not look like a servant. She chose a thin linen skirt, elegant enough with a few beads and careful embroidery, but light in weight—a skirt she could run in if she had to. Thin cotton hose and her walking shoes with low heels and ankle straps so they wouldn’t fall off. They didn’t show off her trim ankles very well, but it would be dark out, and the cobblestones were rough. She dressed as swiftly as she could without showing that she’d dressed in haste, then went downstairs.
Marco Salata waited patiently by the front door.
“I have a lantern, Signorina,” the valet said. “But I don’t know the way to the house of Guido Facione.”
“I do.”
She looked around. There was no one else in the entry hall but older servants and women.
“Lucia!”
It was her mother, calling from the top of the stairs. She was dressed in nightclothes without a robe, and her voice was thin and strained.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed! Maria, put Mother back to bed. Immediately!” Lucia commanded.
“In due time,” Signora Michaeli said. “What do you intend, girl?”
“As Father commanded. I will summon Facione and take him to Palazzo San Marco,” Lucia said carefully.
“Take. You will go with him. To what purpose? They don’t need women for the w
ork they must do there.”
“I’ll find ways to be useful.”
Her mother frowned, then nodded.
“No doubt ways that will be noticed by the star men,” she said, and Lucia looked up, startled.
“Do you think I haven’t seen you since you met the star men?” her mother asked. “Be off with you. I would rather you here than your brother, but the militia will defend this house if it needs defense. And if they don’t, God’s will be done.”
Lucia stood dumbfounded.
“Now be off, girl!”
“Be safe, Mother.” Lucia turned to Marco. “This way.”
* * *
Some of the local militia fell in behind as Lucia hurried through the streets to the house of Facione. Someone had passed the word that she spoke for the Council of Ten, even for the Doge, and the militia officers followed her for want of other orders. Soon more than two score hurried in her wake. All of them were young, inexperienced. Probably of no use in defense of the city, but perhaps useful in whatever the star men needed constructed in the Palazzo San Marco. She took a guilty pleasure in having such a large escort, but—
She halted the ragtag column and eyed it critically, then spied Pietro, a boy not much older than she but far more richly dressed. His father, she remembered, was a senator.
“Pietro!”
“Signorina?”
“Are you in charge of these men?”
He looked around blankly, then back at her.
“I see no one of higher rank, Lucia.”
“Then command them for me. I have orders from the Council of Ten. You will assist me. Now get them into some order so that we don’t look like a band of robbers!”
The boy—he really isn’t a lot older than I am, Lucia thought—looked around in bewilderment. Then he drew himself into a military stance.
“Attention!” he shouted. “Form two files! Follow me in a column of two! Signorina, where are we going?”
“To the house of my father’s foreman, where we gather workmen and tools, then we take them to the Palazzo San Marco to aid the Professore and his star man companion.” She spoke loudly enough for the others to hear her, and she kept her voice serious and, she hoped, commanding, as if she expected to be obeyed. Pietro nodded, and the others arranged themselves into two straight lines behind him.
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