The Anvil

by S. M. Stirling

  "Sorry, Reverend Father," the Descotter cast over his shoulder, as his usual skills reasserted themselves and the mount went dancing back in a sidling arc to Raj's side.

  "I don't need a new dog, or a slavegirl," Gruder said. Kaltin had led the escort party that took Suzette to Reggiri's manor for a dinner-party Raj was too busy to attend. The officers in that escort had all been sent off with lavish gifts; it was notable that Kaltin Gruder had sold the dog immediately. Although he'd kept the girl, a redhead of Stalwart background named Mitchi.

  "Oh, I somehow suspect Messer Reggiri will be giving us all gifts," Raj said quietly.

  The two Descotters met each other's eyes. After a moment, they began to smile.

  "Why thank you, Cabot," Suzette said, fanning herself and taking the glass of punch.

  The ballroom was bright with oil lanterns and hot, despite the tall glass doors that stood open to the early summer night Couples swirled across the marble, bright gowns and jewels and uniforms glittering under the chandeliers. A band of steel drums, sitars and flutes filled the room with soft music; few of the revellers bothered to look up at the fortress on the bluffs, silhouetted against the great arc of Maxiluna. Suzette sang softly to the slow sweep of the music:

  "If every man does all he can —

  If every man be true

  Then we shall paint the sky above

  In Federation blue . . ."

  "Are those the words to that tune?" Cabot asked.

  They were leaning on the railing just outside the windows, looking down over the city. There were fewer lights than usual, except the reddish glow of the fires that persisted long after the shelling had ceased in accordance with the twenty-four hour truce. The flames gave a brimstone tinge to the air, under the breeze coming in from the sea and the gardens of the Commanders palace.

  "Very old words, but old songs are a hobby of mine," Suzette said, leaning a little closer.

  "Very true, too," Cabot replied. He looked up at the fortress, and his strong young swordsman's hands closed on the fretted bronze and iron of the rail. "If we'd all just work at it, that barb wouldn't be up there laughing at us."

  Suzette put a hand on his forearm. "I rather think Colonel Courtet is feeling more inclined to gnash his teeth, at the moment, Cabot. Since this is his residence we're dancing in."

  The young man shook off his mood. "Another dance?" he said.

  She shook her head, laughing and tapping him on the shoulder with her fan. "Do you want the other ladies to scratch my eyes out? Four quadrilles in a row with the Governor's nephew! Poor things, it's not often they get the chance to whirl in the arms of a handsome gallant from the capital, and here I'm monopolizing you."

  "Provincial frumps," Cabot said, bowing over her hand "Let them suffer — and make me happy."

  "Later, you scamp. Let an old woman have a chance to catch her breath."

  "Old!" he said breathlessly, tightening his grip on her hand "You — you're as ageless and as beautiful as the Stars themselves."

  "Now you'll get me in trouble with the Church."

  Not to mention that at several years short of thirty it was early days to be calling her ageless.

  "Nonsense; I'll proclaim a new dispensation from the Chair."

  Don't let your uncle hear you talking like that, she thought. He doesn't have much of a sense of humor.

  "Later, Cabot. I really do need some rest and it's a sin for a dancer like you to be wasted even for an hour. I'll meet you later by the fountain."

  She watched him go, tapping her chin thoughtfully with the fan. "Hello, Hadolfo," she said, as Reggiri leaned against the railing in turn.

  The black and silver of his jacket and breeches made a contrast with her white-on-white torofib silk and the platinum-and-diamond hairnet that drifted in veils of mesh around her bare shoulders. He had a weathered seaman's tan, and there were calluses on the hand that held hers as he made his bow.

  "You seem to be seeing a lot of that young spark," he said.

  "Well, he is the Governor's nephew, Hadolfo. I can scarcely throw a drink in his face."

  "My dear, you not only could, you could make him — or any man — thank you for it"

  She laughed, a low musical chuckle, and tucked her arm through his. "Maybe I should work my witchery on Colonel Courtet," she said, nodding toward the fort

  "You might," he said. "I've had considerable dealings with the good Colonel, and in my experience he's extremely susceptible to feminine charm; unfortunately, also to Sala brandy and to whoever talked to him last."

  "You know a great deal about affairs here," she said.

  "I try to keep informed . . . as you may remember, dear Suzette."

  "Then why don't we go somewhere a little more private for conversation, Hadolfo?"

  He looked at her sharply, flushing. "Here?" he said.

  "Well, not exactly here," Suzette replied, steering him around the couples sitting out the dance and crowding to the punchbowls and buffets. "But it is a fairly large mansion, and one learns the way of things at Court; there's far less privacy in the Governor's Palace, believe me."

  She snapped open her fan, and flicked a breeze across his neck. "You're glowing, Hadolfo. Now stroll along with me, and tell me all the gossip, and we'll find a sofa somewhere for a cosy chat"

  Hadolfo Reggiri felt himself flushing and fought not to stammer as they pushed open the doors to the lower room; it was a storey down from the ballroom and across a courtyard, close enough to hear the music, but shadowed with the black velvet curtains. His tongue felt thick, far more so than a few glasses of wine would account for, caught between memory and desire.

  Get a grip on yourself, man! he thought You're not Spirit-damned sixteen any more!

  He could see how the witch kept the great General Whitehall dangling at her skirts. He could almost feel sorry for the man.

  The glow of two cigarettes in the far corner of the darkened room was like running into a wall of cold salt water. He stopped dead, his hand tightening unconsciously on Suzette's where her fingers rested on his right arm. She rapped him sharply across the knuckles with her fan, and walked to the waiting men with the same slender swaying grace, her gown luminescent against the dark woodwork and furniture. Reggiri kept walking numbly forward, because there simply didn't seem to be much else to do. His mind was like a ship he had once seen, whose cargo shifted during a storm. Staggering, everything out of alignment suddenly.

  He recognized the men as he approached; Raj Whitehall, and one of his officers, Kaltin Gruder. The scar-faced one he'd been convinced for a moment was going to shoot him last year, until Suzette's voice whipped him into obedience like a lash of ice. The self-appointed guardian of his master's honor.

  Both the officers were wearing long dark military-issue greatcloaks, probably to disguise the fact that they were also wearing saber and pistol — real weapons, not the fancy dress cutlery appropriate at a ball. Behind them were four cavalry troopers; they'd been washed up and their uniforms were new, but they carried rifles in their crossed arms. Bull-necked, bow-legged Descotters, as out of place at a party in the mansion as a pack of trolls at an elf convention. Their eyes stayed fixed on the merchant, more feral than any barbarian of the Brigade he'd ever seen.

  Hadolfo Reggiri was a good man of his hands; nobody could trade so long in the wilder parts of the Midworld Sea and survive unless he was. He also had no illusions about his own chances with Raj Whitehall or one of his picked fighting comrades; the troopers were a message, not a precaution. They paced out behind him now, hobnails grating on the parquet, looming presences at his back.

  "Bwenyatar, heneralissimo," he said, sweeping a bow. "Good evening, Most Valiant General. I've been hoping you'd have the time to speak to me for several days; as a loyal man, I've information on the enemy —"

  "I don't doubt you do," Raj said. He flicked at his cigarette and considered the ember. "Eighteen hundred men in the fort, half regular gunners, about four thousand refugees . . ."
/>   It was considerably more complete than the file Reggiri had been compiling.

  "Then, if I can't be of assistance, and since you're undoubtedly very busy," he began.

  Raj drew another puff. "Actually, messer, there is something you could help the war effort with. My aide Muzzaf Kerpatik tells me you have four ships currently at Sala."

  "Preparing to load sulphur, ornamental stone and fortified wine for East Residence," he confirmed.

  "They're needed for the war effort. I'd appreciate it if you'd send orders to their captains. They're to report to my base on the north coast and place themselves under the orders of Colonel Dinnalsyn of the Artillery Corps."

  "Artillery," Reggiri whispered. "You're going to waste my ships against that bloody fort!"

  "That's Messer General, t'yer," one of the troopers growled. Raj waved him to silence.

  "What," Kaltin said, "Would be the penalty, sir, for denying aid to officers of the Civil Government in time of war?"

  "Oh, crucifixion," Raj said pleasantly, "for treason. But that doesn't arise, I'm sure. Not waste, Messer Reggiri. Use. But I do think they'll be used up. War does that; ships, ammunition, men."

  "My ships," Reggiri said. They didn't carry insurance against war losses or acts of government; losing them would wreck him. "You can't steal my ships! Messer General," he added hastily as the soldiers stirred behind him. "I have friends at court."

  "I wouldn't dream of stealing them," Raj said. Beside him Suzette pulled a document from her reticule and handed it to her husband. He extended it to the merchant

  Reggiri strained to read it; one of the troopers helpfully lit a match against his thumbnail and held it over his shoulder. The hand stank of dog and gun-oil.

  Three thousand gold FedCreds, he read. Not quite robbery, but not replacement value for the ships either. And —

  "This is drawn on Chancellor Tzetzas!" he blurted. "I've a better chance of getting the money out of Ali of Al Kebir!"

  "Not satisfactory?" Raj said

  He plucked it back out of the other man's fingers and tore it in half. Suzette produced another sheet of parchment, and handed it to Raj. Reggiri took it with trembling fingers. It was identical to the first, except that the amount had been reduced to twenty-five hundred

  Reggiri looked up at Suzette; she stood beside her husband, one delicate hand touching fingertips to his massive wrist. Her eyes had seemed like green flame earlier; now they reminded him of a glacier he had seen once, in the mountains of the Base Area in the far north.

  "Bitch," he said, very softly. Then: "Unnhh!" as a rifle-butt thudded over his kidneys. White fire turned his knees liquid for a moment, and ungentle hands beneath his arms steadied him.

  "Watch yer arsemouth!" the trooper barked "Beggin' yer pardon, messer, messa."

  "Kaltin," Raj went on, his expression flat. "Messer Reggiri seems to have had a bit too much to drink, since he's forgotten how one addresses a messa. I think he needs an escort home."

  Gruder nodded: "Well, he is a slave-trader," he said in a pleasant tone. "Probably learned his manners pimping his sisters as a boy."

  Reggiri's hand came up of its own volition. Gruder's face thrust forward for the slap that never came, the scars that disfigured half of it flushing red.

  "Please," he said, his voice husky and earnest His lips came back from his teeth. "Oh, please. One of my men will lend you a sword."

  Raj touched his elbow. "Major," he said, and Gruder's hand dropped from the hilt of his saber. "I really do think Messer Reggiri needs that escort. And a guard for the next week or so, because he seems to be remarkably reckless in his cups."

  "I gave you Connor Auburn on a platter!" Reggiri burst out. The troopers fell in around him, as irresistible as four walking boulders.

  "And you're not dying on a cross right now," Raj said in the same expressionless tone. Only his eyes moved, and the hand bringing the cigarette to his lips. "Now leave."

  Suzette's fingers unfastened the buckle of Raj's military cloak and tossed it on the chaise-lounge behind them. She backed a step and curtsied deeply; Raj replied with an equally deep bow, making a courtiers leg. Music drifted through the open windows behind the black-velvet curtains, and the fading tramp of boots through the door.

  "Messa Whitehall, might I have the honor of this dance?" he said

  "Enchanted, Messer Whitehall."

  Their right hands clasped, and she guided his left to her waist before they swirled away, alone on the dim-lit floor.

  Chapter Eight

  "I told you these'd come in useful," Grammek Dinnalsyn said.

  The weapon in the revetment of sandbags, timber and sheet-iron on the forecastle of the Chakra was a stubby cast-steel tube nearly as tall as a man, joined to a massive circular disk-plate of welded wrought iron and steel by a ball-and-socket joint. It was supported and aimed by a metal tripod, long threaded bars and handwheels to turn for elevation and traverse. The bore was twenty centimeters, more than twice that of a normal field-gun, and rifled. Beside the weapon was a stack of shells, cylinders with stubby conical caps and a driving band of soft gunmetal around their middle; at the rear of each was a perforated tube. The crews would wrap silk bags of gunpowder around the tubes before they dropped them down the barrel, a precise number for a given range at a given elevation. The base charge was a shotgun shell; when it hit the fixed firing pin at the bottom of the barrel, it would flash off the ring charges around the tube.

  One thing Boyce had told them was that the casements of Fort Wager had no overhead protection. None was needed with normal artillery, given the placement of the fort.

  "I know they're useful, Grammeck," Raj said. "Their little brothers were extremely handy in the Port Murchison fighting." It had been more like a massacre, but never mind. "They're also extremely heavy. Get me one that can move like a field gun, and I'll take dozens of them with me wherever I go."

  He walked down the deck of the Chakra, striding easily; it had been two days from the north coast to Port Wager, more than time enough to get his sea legs back. Many of the platoon of 5th Descott troopers aboard were still looking greenly miserable, landsmen to the core. They'd do their jobs, though, puking or not, and he intended to give them a stable firing platform. The huge sails of the three-master tilted above him; she was barque-rigged, fore-and-aft sails on the rear mast and square on the other two. Water, wind and cordage creaked and spoke; he squinted against the dazzle and made out the tall headland of Fort Wager to the north. There was a brisk onshore breeze, common in the early afternoon. Center had predicted it would hold long enough today —

  Probability 78% ±3, Center corrected him. I am not a prophet. I merely estimate.

  — and at worst, they could kedge in the last little way, hauling on anchors dropped out in front by men in longboats.

  He leaned on the emplacement. The crew looked up from giving their weapon a final check and braced; most of them were stripped to boots and the blue pants with red-laced seams of their service.

  "Rest easy, boys," he said, returning their salute.

  Artillerymen were mostly from the towns, and their officers from the urban middle classes; both unlike any other Army units in the Civil Governments forces. Many cavalry commanders barely acknowledged their existence. Pure snobbery, he thought, they're invaluable if you use them right. Their engineering skills, for example, and general technical knowledge. Far too many rural nobles weren't interested in anything moving that they couldn't ride, hunt or fuck, like so many Brigaderos except for basic literacy.

  "This one's all up to you," he went on to the gunners. "Infantry can't do it, cavalry can't do it. You're the only ones with a chance."

  "We'll whup 'em for you, Messer Raj!" the sergeant growled

  "So you will, by the Spirit," he replied. "See you in the fort."

  Inwardly, he was a little uneasy at the way that verbal habit had caught on; Master Raj was the way a personal retainer back on the estate would have addressed him. His old nurse, for exam
ple, or the armsmaster who'd taught him marksmanship and how to handle a sword. Curse it, these men are soldiers of the Civil Government, not some barb chief's warband! he thought

  You are right to be concerned, Center said. However, the phenomenon is useful at present.

  He took a slightly different tack with the cavalry troopers waiting belowdecks. The ship's gunwales had been built up and pierced with loopholes, but there was no sense in exposing the men or hindering the sailors before there was need.

  "Day to you, dog-brothers," he said with a grin, slapping fists with the lieutenant in command "Done with your puking yet?"

  "Puked out ever-fukkin'-thin' but me guts, ser," one man said.

  "It'll be tax-day in Descott when you lose your guts, Robbi M'Teglez," Raj said. He'd always had a knack for remembering names and faces; Center amplified it to perfection. The trooper flushed and grinned "You're the one brought me that wog banner at Sandoral, aren't you?"

  "Yisser, Messer Raj," the man said "Me Da got it, an' the carbine 'n dog ye sent. 'N the priest back home read t' letter from the Colonel on Starday 'n all."

  The troopers comrades were looking at him with raw envy. Raj went on: "We'll be sailing in through the barb cannonade; oughtn't to be more than twenty minutes or so. Not much for those of you who saw off the wogboys at Sandoral. For those who weren't there —well, you get to learn a new prayer."

  "Prayer, ser?" one asked.

  He had the raw look of a youth not long off the farm, barely shaving, but the big hands that gripped his rifle were competent enough. Most yeomen-tenants in Descott sent one male per generation to the Army in lieu of land-taxes. There were no peons in Descott, and relatively few slaves. Widows, however, were plentiful enough.

  A squadmate answered him. "Per whut weuns about t'receive, may t'Spirit make us truly thankful," he said. "Don't git yer balls drawed up, Tinneran. Ain't no barbs got guns loik t'ragheads."

  That brought a round of smiles, half tension and half anticipation. Those who'd waited all day in the bunkers while the Colonist guns pounded them, waiting for the waves of troops in red jellabas to charge through rifle-fire with their repeating carbines . . . they'd know. Those who hadn't been there couldn't be told. They could only be shown.