The Sword

by S. M. Stirling

  "Refugees," Raj said grimly. "Must be fifty or sixty thousand of them inside the walls."

  "Sandoral has fifty thousand people in normal times," Suzette said. "With that many more . . ."

  Raj nodded. "We'll definitely have to do something about that."

  They drew rein before the barracks, a series of two-story buildings connected by walls and iron-grille gates, enclosing a central parade ground. They smelled even worse than the rest of the city, not just the inevitable aroma of dogshit that was inescapable where cavalry were stationed, but the fetid stink of overcrowding and neglect. They looked neglected—gates awry, stucco flaking in damp patches from the walls. But with the units as under strength as his intelligence had it, they shouldn't be crowded—and washing was hanging from the windows, women and children too numerous for camp followers leaning out and pointing, or lounging in the doorways.

  "Captain Foley," Raj said. "Dismount the men, rifles, and a watchstander and troop here. Then accompany me, if you please."

  The bugle sang. The men sheathed their sabers and pulled the Armory rifles out of the scabbards. Another call, and the dogs sank to a crouch; the men stepped free of the stirrups and bent to loop their reins over the hitching rail and watering trough that lined the plaza side of the garrison buildings. A long clicking sounded as they loaded their weapons; the 5th Descott didn't carry guns for show, and when they made a threat they meant it.

  An officer came out of the main gate, fastening his sword belt. Raj ran an eye over him: thirty or so, but with an older man's belly straining against the sash and belt, unshaven, the blue uniform coat stained under the armpits. He didn't expect soldiers to waste time trying to look strack in the field, but in garrison keeping neat reminded them that they were soldiers; it was a sign of self-respect. They had running water here, for the Spirit's sake! And every eight-man section of cavalry troopers was allowed one soldier's servant to handle routine fatigues.

  Also an officer should set an example.

  Just about what I expected, in short, Raj thought, a cold anger tightening its hand under his breastbone. He returned the stranger's salute.

  "Captain Hamelio Pinochet, 47th Santanner Dragoons," the man said.

  "Heneralissimo Raj Whitehall," Raj replied. "I'm here to take command, Captain."

  The unfortunate officer swallowed, attempting to brace to attention. "Ah, mi heneral, you'll understand, with the emergency and the refugees—"

  "I understand perfectly, Captain." With housing at a premium, somebody had seen the profit potential in renting out the military's spare space. "Lead on."

  Milling civilians looked at them curiously as they walked through the long barracks halls; each had space for a hundred men's cots, with rooms for the lieutenants and a suite for the company commander, plus a ready room and mess. Right now they were crowded with twice that number or more of refugees; from their clothes, well enough off to be making a fortune for whoever was running this scam. A swelling murmur ran through them as Raj passed. By the time they reached the buildings still in military use, it had preceded them a little; enough for protesting feminine squeals to be fading as women were hustled out of the barracks, and for the soldiers to have made emergency repairs. Not much in the way of repairs. Gear was piled in heaps all over the floors, few of the men were in full uniform, and there were still cards and dice lying in some corners. The troopers stood braced at the foot of their cots, visibly willing their vital functions to cease.

  Raj ignored them for a moment. Instead he stripped a rifle out of the rack by the locker at the head of a cot and worked the action. "No rust here, at least," he said mildly. Then:

  "Captain Pinochet, how many men are on muster here? You're rated at four battalions." Twenty-four hundred men or so, in theory.

  "Ah . . . about one thousand, sir. Most of the officers aren't, ah . . ."

  "Present at the moment, yes," Raj said. "Fall the men in, if you please, Captain."

  Raj crossed his arms and waited while the bugles rang. It took a very long time for the garrison troops to sort out their equipment. Starless Dark knows what shape the infantry's in, he thought with a mental wince. This was the elite cavalry.

  "Ten'hut."

  The noncom's bark brought the men to a ragged attention as Raj strode out; the banner of the 5th Descott was at his back, and his personal blazon. The two companies of the 5th tramped out at the double, and fell in at his back with the smooth economy of endless practice, the uniform crash of their hobnails sounding across the drillground and echoing back from the barracks and stables that ringed it.

  Raj waited for a minute. "Men," he said at last, "I'm going to keep this short and sweet."

  He pointed over his shoulder. "There's a bloody great wog army coming up the Drangosh; they're about five days' march that way. I've got troops coming in from the west, but we're going to need every man who can ride and shoot. That means you. Every soldier, that is. I'll be back in a few hours, and I expect to see you looking and acting like soldiers by then." He paused again.

  "Captain Pinochet, please send runners to the remaining battalion officers of this command. You may inform them that any man holding the Governor's commission not present when I return may consider himself dismissed from the service." He turned his head to the bugler. "Sound dismissed to quarters."

  The garrison left much more quickly than they'd assembled. Raj nodded once, tapping a thumb against his chin. "I think they're getting the message," he said. "Now for Osterville."

  * * *

  Antin M'lewis was muttering under his breath. Raj knew the song without needing to hear words or tunes: it was an old Army ditty whose chorus went Lovely loot/That's the thing makes the boys git up an' shoot!

  Commandant Osterville's house was a looter's dream. The outer gates were gilded wrought iron, the inner Zanj ebony studded with miniature silver sauroid heads. A chandelier of Kolobassian crystal hung overhead, to light the three-story atrium. Floor and sweeping staircases were of marble; the walls held gilt-framed mirrors and paintings; man-high alabaster urns held trailing bougainvillea . . . Punkahs swayed, moving air cooled by fountains playing over fretted stone and scented by orange-blossom.

  The majordomo bowed himself out of the way—a plump eunuch with a Colonial accent. Poor bastard can't help it, Raj thought; but they always put his teeth on edge. Osterville had put on weight and lost a lot of hair since Raj had seen him last. He'd always been ambitious, and Capital-smooth; now he had a sour pinch to his mouth and lines between there and his nostrils. Which were turned up as if at a bad smell. There was a crowd of hangers-on by him, aides and flunkies and the battalion commanders of the garrison.

  "Whitehall," Osterville said frigidly. "What the devil do you think you're doing, coming in here and giving orders outside the chain of command?"

  There was a murmur of indignation from the flunkies; but the battalion commanders stayed stony-silent, with a slight unconscious withdrawal, as if Osterville had something contagious. Raj gave them a swift glance. None of them had been living on their pay here—not with Osterville's example before them, not if Abdullah's reports were true—but they didn't love the Commandant for it. Especially not now that their careers and lives were on the line.

  Raj reached into his jacket. "Commandant Osterville. By Gubernatorial Rescript, I have been given command of all Civil Government troops in this area. I hereby notify you that I am assuming control."

  Osterville read through the note. "I acknowledge your overall authority," he said after a moment.

  Raj could see the wheels turning behind the narrow black eyes. Whitehall's in disfavor. Even if he wins, he'll be removed.

  "But this document does not give you authority to interfere in the internal command structure of the units under my authority as district commandant. You may give your orders to me, and I will carry them out as I see fit."

  Divided command . . . Behind Raj, the Scout Troop—the Forty Thieves—tensed; they hadn't followed the exchange, not really
, but they could read the hostility in the air well enough.

  M'lewis had recruited the Scouts himself. None of them were men likely to hesitate if ordered to arrest the Commandant . . . or to take him and the others out back and shoot them, if it came to that. Osterville looked past Raj and his complexion turned a muddy gray.

  Disaster, Raj knew. A good chance of a firefight right here in the city, or at least wholesale passive resistance by the garrison troops. This mission balanced on a knife edge as it was . . .

  . . . and Osterville wouldn't back down. Not openly; whatever else the man was, he wasn't that type of coward.

  Suzette moved forward. "Hernan, Hernan," she said, tapping him on the arm with her fan. "Last time I was in Sandoral there were more interesting things than a lot of smelly soldiers." She wrinkled her nose. "Don't tell me you've become a complete provincial out here, my dear. And you were such a gay blade back in the City." When someone in the Civil Government put a capital on it that way, only one city could be meant.

  Osterville bowed over her hand.

  "I've been trapped on a troop train for three days. Couldn't you find a decent meal for a poor, benighted gentlewoman so far from home? And fill me in on what passes for society out here? And find me a decent bath and somewhere to change out of these impossible clothes?"

  Osterville was giving a good impression of a man who had just been struck between the eyes with a bag full of wet sand, but he rallied; after all, he had been at Court for the better part of a decade.

  "Enchanted, Messa," he said suavely. "Business, however . . ."

  Suzette made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, Raj just wants some help unloading trains." She tucked her hand under his arm. "Please?"

  Osterville snapped his fingers at an aide. "Luiz, draw that up; here, I'll sign it. Certainly, certainly, my dear Messa Suzette . . . trains, you say? Logistics, clerks' work."

  Raj stood silently as they strolled away across the intaglio floor. His head moved back to the officers who'd been attending Osterville, with the smooth tracking motion of a track-mounted fortress gun.

  "Messers," he said flatly. "I remind you that you'll be needed with your units later this afternoon in the main cavalry barracks. Good day to you. Captain M'lewis, if you please."

  He turned on his heel. Faintly, he could hear:

  ". . . quite acceptable dessert wines, but far too sweet for table. But I've found a mountain vintage from this village in the Oxheads . . ."

  Chapter Six

  The City Offices of Sandoral were nearly as crowded as the barracks, although they smelled of musty paper and lamp-soot and ink rather than sewage and dogshit. Clerks in knee breeches and dirty ruffled shirts were running in all directions, waving papers in the air; abacuses clicked; wheeled carts full of folders of documents rumbled over the tiled floors of the corridors. There were petitioners in plenty about, too. The clamor died as Raj shouldered through; the forty troopers of the 5th tramping behind him with their rifles at port, bayonets fixed, were a stark reminder of why Sandoral was in an emergency in the first place.

  Raj strongly suspected that most of the bureaucrats would continue to think of it as a tiresome interruption of routine right up until the Settler's troops came over the wall.

  Civilization, he thought sourly, watching one man blink at him through thick lenses, fingers pausing on the counting stones. The sacred trust I defend. The reason I obey purblind idiots.

  They clattered up a broad stairway; the upper corridor was considerably less crowded, a condition enforced by several slope-browed men with cudgels. All of whom sensibly faded into doorways at the sight of the naked steel and harsh uniform clatter of hobnails.

  "You can't go in there! That's Chief Commissioner Kirmedez's—"

  "Siddown," M'lewis snarled at the functionary. The man sat.

  Kirmedez looked up from his desk as Raj entered. He was a thin dark man with receding hair, dressed plainly with a simple cravat. His eyes widened slightly as he took in Raj and the soldiers behind him; he rose and bowed.

  "Heneralissimo," he said politely. "How may I serve you?"

  Raj took the measure of the man. Honest, he thought, for a wonder.

  Oversimplification, Center said, but a valid approximation. A grid snapped onto the administrator's face, with mottled patterns showing heat and the dilation of his pupils. Proceed.

  It was impossible to lie to Raj Whitehall . . . with an angel looking out through his eyes. He didn't like it, but it was useful, and he'd use any tool to get the job done.

  Anything at all.

  "Messer Kirmedez," Raj said, "Sandoral will be under siege by the Colonials within two weeks maximum. Possibly less."

  Kirmedez sat and tapped the piles of documents on his desk. "Heneralissimo, this city cannot stand siege. We're grossly overcrowded, and the grain reserves are low."

  Raj nodded. By law, a fortified border town like this was supposed to keep a year's reserve of basic foodstuffs, in return for remission of some taxes. He didn't need to ask what had happened to it.

  "Exactly, Messer. I'm therefore evacuating all civilians to East Residence."

  Kirmedez's hard thin face went fluid with shock for an instant. "That's impossible."

  Raj allowed himself a flat smile. "On the contrary. Anyone who leaves on their own feet—or on dogback or in a carriage or by ox wagon—can take whatever they wish to carry. But whenever a troop train gets in, and I expect them at four-hour intervals, the garrison is going to sweep up enough people to fill it for the return trip. There will be absolutely no exceptions. Messer Commissioner, you'd also better inform the citizens immediately, because the first twelve hundred will be leaving in about two hours on the train that brought me. Is that understood?"

  Kirmedez closed his mouth. He stared at Raj for a full thirty seconds, then looked at the feral faces of the Descotter gunmen behind him.

  "You mean it," he said softly.

  "I'm not in the habit of making empty threats, Messer," Raj said, equally quiet.

  Kirmedez nodded.

  The door was open, and the word had spread swiftly. A roar sounded through the offices, shading up into a hysterical wail. Kirmedez rose and reached for a brass bell on his desk, but Raj put out one hand.

  "Captain," he said to M'lewis.

  The Scout commander turned and barked an order. The column in the corridor outside turned and brought their rifles up in a single smooth jerk.

  "Fwego!"

  BAM. The volley slammed into the lath and plaster of the ceiling. Chunks and dust rained down on the faces of those who'd come out of their offices, and down the open stairwell onto the crowd below.

  "Reload!"

  Silence fell amid the ping of spent brass landing on the tiles and the metallic clatter of rounds being thumbed home and levers worked. Gray-white gunsmoke drifted down the hall and carried the stink of burnt sulfur.

  Silence fell. Kirmedez's bell sounded through it. "Back to work, if you please," he called. "Messer Hantonio, step in here. We have a great deal to do."

  He nodded thanks to Raj. "And they'll take it seriously, too. Good day to you, Heneralissimo."

  Raj raised an eyebrow; it wasn't often you met an administrator with that firm a grip on reality.

  "Bwenya Dai," he replied politely.

  And the bureaucrat was right. There was a great deal to do, fortunately. You could forget a lot, when you had work on hand.

  * * *

  Chief Commissioner Kirmedez snapped his fingers impatiently. "Stop babbling, man!" His assistant fell silent.

  "It doesn't matter if it's impossible; it has to be done anyway. Now, send out the criers. But first, send runners to all the following households."

  He handed over a list. The assistant whistled. "My apologies, patron," he said. "I should have thought of that."

  Kirmedez nodded. "Hantonio, when this war is over, I will still be Chief Commissioner of Sandoral and District, whoever is Commandant. Those men will still be wealthy and powerful. And th
ey will remember who gave them advanced warning to gather their personal possessions and their households for evacuation."

  The assistant smiled with genuine admiration.

  Kirmedez smiled back. "Favors are the grease that let the civil service wheels turn, Hantonio. Never forget it."

  And Heneralissimo Supremo Whitehall has done me a favor, he thought, pausing briefly. I wonder if he realizes it?

  * * *

  "Jorg!" Raj called, pleasure in his voice.

  Jorg Menyez pulled up his riding steer. It lowed, then swung a long brass-tipped horn down in Horace's face. The hound whuffled and reconsidered the grab it had been thinking of making at the long-legged riding animal's shank.

  "Just in," the infantry commander said.

  Behind him a column of footsoldiers poured down the street, shouldering the milling civilians aside; this time they were trying their best to get out of the way, not blocking the road with their welcome. The furled colors of the 17th Kelden Foot went by, to the steady thrip . . . thrip of the drum.

  "The heliograph says Gerrin just boarded the last train out of East Residence, and Bellamy and his trained barbs are making good time, should be here in three days maximum."

  "Spirit," Raj said, mildly surprised. "It's actually working."

  Both men spat to their left and made the sign of the horns with their sword-hands; Raj touched his amulet, a circuit board blessed by Saint Wu herself a century before.

  "You've seen where the infantry are kenneled?" Jorg said, anger flushing his fair-skinned face.

  Raj nodded. "Think they'll be fit for anything?"

  "Nothing complex, but we may be able to put some backbone into them," Jorg said. "They ought to enjoy the first part of the plan, anyway. Any trouble with Osterville?"

  "No," Raj said.

  Menyez hesitated, then let the bitten-off syllable stand.

  * * *

  The barracks-yard was far more crowded this time; all the cavalry, the ragged ill-kept lines of the infantry units, the two hundred of the 5th Descott beside Raj, and the neat formations of the 17th Kelden and 24th Valencia to either side. The sun was sinking behind the western edge of the barracks; Raj narrowed his eyes against it, seeing only the black silhouettes of the troops.