"— are here to offer you the keys of Old Residence." Literally: a page was coming forward, with a huge iron key on a velvet cushion.
"My profound thanks, Your Holiness," Raj said.
Quite sincerely; the last thing he wanted to do was try to take a place ten times the size of Lion City by storm. He turned an eye on the assembled magnates.
"I'm pleasantly surprised at the presence of you gentlemen," he went on. "Especially since I'd heard the barbarian General had extorted hostages and oaths from you."
Paratier smiled. "Oaths sworn under duress are void; doubly so, since they were sworn to a heretic. These excellent sirs were absolved of the oaths by Our order."
Raj nodded. And I know exactly how much your words worth, he thought. Aloud: "However, the heretic garrison?"
Paratier looked around. He seemed a little surprised that Raj was speaking openly before his officers; a bit more surprised that Suzette was at his side.
"Ah —" he coughed into a handkerchief. "Ah, they have been persuaded . . ."
Lion City, Raj thought, did some good after all.
"Sir, please get on the train!"
Hereditary High Colonel Lou Derison shook his head. "The General appointed me commandant of Old Residence. Here I stay."
"Lou," the other man said, stepping closer. "We lost Strezman and four thousand men in Lion City. We can't afford another loss of trained regulars like that. There are only five thousand men in the garrison; that isn't enough to hold down a hostile city and defend the walls. But in the field, it may be the difference between victory and defeat. Once we've beaten the grisuh in battle, Old Residence will open its gates to us again — it's a whore of a city, and spreads its legs for the strongest."
Behind the junior officer a locomotive whistle let out a screech, startling Derison's dog into a protesting whine behind him. The little engine wheezed, its upright boiler showing red spots around the base, where the thrall shoveled coal into the brick arch of the furnace. Ten cars were hitched by simple chain links to the engine, much like ox-wagons with flanged wheels and board sides marked 8 dogs/40 men. These were all crowded with soldiers, the last of the Old Residence garrison. Most had left during the day and the night before. The tracks ran westward though tumbledown warehouses and then through the equally decrepit city wall. The driver yelled something incoherent back toward the clump of officers.
Derison shook his head again. "No, no — you do what you must, Torens, and I'll do what I must. Goodbye, and the Spirit of Man of This Earth go with you."
Major Torens blinked, gripped the hand held out to him and then turned to jump aboard the last and already moving car. The wheels of the locomotive spun on the wood-and-iron rails, and the whole train moved off into the misty rain with a creaking, clanging din that faded gradually into echoes and the last mournful wail of the whistle.
Derison sighed and put on his helmet, adjusting the cheek-guards with care. His armor was burnished and there was a red silk sash beneath his swordbelt, but the weapons and plate had seen hard service in their day.
"Come, gentlemen," he said. "We ride to the west gate."
A dozen men accompanied him, his sons and a few personal retainers. One spoke:
"Is that wise, sir? The natives are out of order."
Derison straddled his crouching dog, and it rose with a huff of effort. "A man lives as long as he lives, and not a day more. We'll greet this Raj Whitehall like fighting men, under an open sky, not hiding in a building like women."
Massed trumpets played in the entrance to Old Residence. Horace skittered sideways a few steps, and threw up his long muzzle in annoyance. Army dogs expected trumpets to say something, and these were just being sounded for the noise. The walls were tall but thin, and some of the crenellations had fallen long ago. There were two towers on either side of the gate, but no proper blockhouse or thickening of the wall. There had been kilometers of ruins first, before they came to the defenses. Some pre-Fall work; most of what the unFallen built with decayed rapidly, but the rest did not decay at all. Rather more of ordinary stone and brick, heavily mined for building material. Those would date from the third or fourth post-Fall centuries, when the Civil Government had been ruled from here and included the whole Midworld basin.
The wall itself had come later, a century or two — when the population of the city had shrunk and the situation had gotten worse. Old Residence fell to the Brigade about two generations after that.
There was no portcullis, just thick timber and iron doors. The roadway opened out into a plaza beyond, thick with a crowd whose noise rolled over the head of the Civil Government column like heavy surf. This was still a big city. The street led south towards the White River, but hills blocked its way, covered with buildings. The giant marble-and-gilt pile of the Priests Palace off to his left; not just the residence, but home for the ecclesiastical bureaucracy. Further to the right the rooftop domes of the Old Governor's Palace showed, with only a little gold leaf still on the concrete, and the cathedron and Governor's Council likewise — they were all on hilltops, and the filled-in area between them would be the main plaza of the city. The rest was a sea of roofs and a spiderweb of roads, and the familiar coalsmoke-sweat-sewage-dog scent of a big city. There were even cast-iron lamp-stands by the side of the main road for gaslights, looking as if they'd been copied from the three-globe model used in East Residence. Which they probably had been.
Delegations lined the street on either side; from the Church, from the great houses of the magnates, from the merchant guilds and religious cofraternities. Holy water, incense and dried flower-petals streamed out toward the color-party around Raj; with music clashing horribly, and organized shouts of Conquer! Conquer! That was a Governor's salute and highly untactful, because Barholm would have kittens when he heard about it — as he assuredly would, and soon.
Also waiting were a group of Brigaderos nobles, looking slightly battered and extremely angry. Raj and his bannerman and guards swung out of the procession and cantered over to the square of white-uniformed Priest's Guards who ringed them. The soldiers had shaven skulls themselves, which meant they were ordained priests.
"Who are these men?" Raj barked to their officer, pitching his voice slightly higher to carry through the crowd-roar.
"The heretic garrison commander. Thought he'd left with the rest, but they were heading this way. We have them in custody — "
"Where are their swords?" Raj asked.
"Well, we couldn't let prisoners go armed, could we?" the man said.
"Give them back," Raj said.
He turned his head to look at the white-uniformed officer when the man started to object. The weapons came quickly, the usual single-edged, basket-hiked broadswords of the barbarians. The Brigaderos seemed to grow a few inches as they retrieved them and sheathed the blades. Most of them looked as if they'd rather use them on the priest-soldiers around them.
"High Colonel Derison?" Raj asked, moving Horace forward a few paces.
"General Whitehall?" the man asked in turn.
Raj nodded curtly. The Brigadero drew his sword again and offered it hilt-first across his left forearm; the younger man by his side did likewise. Raj took the elder's sword, and Gerrin Staenbridge the younger; they flourished them over their heads and returned the blades. By Brigade custom that put the owners under honorable parole. He hoped they wouldn't make an issue of their empty pistol-holsters, because he didn't have any intention of returning those.
"My congratulations on a wise decision," he said.
Actually, staying on here was either a pointless gesture or cowardice. He didn't think the High Colonel was a coward, but it was a pity he'd decided to stay if he was merely stupid. Raj wanted all the unimaginative Brigade officers possible active in their command structure.
Derison inclined his head. "Your orders, sir?" he said.
"My orders are to convey you to East Residence," Raj replied. Derison senior seemed taken aback, but a flash of interest marked his son's
face. "You'll be given honorable treatment and allowed to take your household and receive the revenues of your remaining estates."
He'd also probably be shunted off to a manor in a remote province after Barholm had shown him around to put some burnish on the victory celebrations, and his sons and younger retainers politely inducted into the Civil Governments armies, but there were worse fates for the defeated. All Brigaderos nobles who surrendered were being allowed to keep their freedom and one-third of their lands. Those who fought faced death and their families were sold as slaves.
"In fact," he went on, "I'd be obliged if you'd do something for me at the same time."
Derison bowed again. Raj reached into his jacket. "Here's the key to Old Residence," he said. "Please present it to the Sovereign Mighty Lord with my complements, and say I decided to send it to him in the keeping of a man of honor."
The Brigadero looked down at the key — which was usually, for ceremonial purposes, left in the keeping of the Priest — and fought down a grin.
"Colonel Staenbridge," Raj went on formally.
"Mi heneral?"
"See that these nobles are conveyed to suitable quarters in the Old Palace, and guarded by our own men with all respect."
"As you order, mi heneral."
Courtesy to the defeated cost nothing, and it encouraged men to surrender.
And now to work, he thought.
"Have any of you ever heard the story of Marthinez the Lawman?" Raj asked.
He stood looking out of the Old Palace windows down to the docks. The gaslights were coming on along the main avenues, and the softer yellow glow of lamps from thousands of windows; both moons were up, the fist-sized disks half hidden by flying cloud. The picture was blurred by the rain that had started along with sundown, but he could just make out the long shark shapes of the Civil Government steam rams coming up the river, each towing a cargo ship against the current.
No complaints about the Navy this time, he thought. Have to look up their commander. The room was warm with underfloor hot-air pipes, and it smelled of wet uniforms and boots and tobacco.
Raj turned back to the men around the semicircular table. All the Companions, some of the other battalion commanders, and Cabot Clerett, who couldn't be safely excluded.
"Ah, Marthinez," Ehwardo Poplanich said. Suzette nodded. Her features had the subtle refinement of sixteen generations of East Residence court nobility, able to show amusement with the slightest narrowing of her hazel-green eyes. The rest of the Companions looked blank.
"Marthinez," Raj went on, pacing like a leashed cat beside the windows, "was a Lawman of East Residence." The capital had a standing police force, rather an unusual thing even in the Civil Government.
Someone laughed. "No," Raj went on, "he was a very odd Lawman. Completely honest."
"Damned unnatural," Kaltin said.
"Possibly. That's what got him into trouble; he blew the whistle on one of his superiors who'd taken a hefty bribe to cover up a nasty murder by a . . . very important person's son."
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 P
adan 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."
The Steel Page 8
