by David Drake
The Companion nodded. “At least we know that they’re not short of powder,” he went on.
“That and a good deal else,” Raj said absently.
He trained his binoculars on the harbor, studying the narrow shelf below the bluff and the fort. There were piers at the cliff-face nearest the harbor, but the ground rose steeply, no access except by covered staircases in the rock. Impossible to force; the defenses were built with that in mind. The main guns of the fort couldn’t bear on the beach, but anyone trying to climb the cliff would face streams of burning olive oil out of force-pumps, at the very least. Further on, the cliffs bent sharply to the east; even steeper there, and waves frothed in complicated patterns on rock and reef further out.
following changes since last data update, Center said.
I hate it when you suddenly drop into Church jargon, Raj grumbled. He counted himself a pious man, but he’d never understood why the priests had to call commonplace facts “data.” It wasn’t as if they were speaking of something from the Canonical Handbooks, for the Spirit’s sake. Center had the same unfortunate habit at times. One had to make allowances for an angel, of course. . . .
thank you. The water vanished from his sight, leaving the pattern of underlying rocks clear; then schematics snowed the flow of currents.
“Hand me that map, would you?” he asked. A clipboard braced against his saddlebow, and he sketched without looking down. “There.”
“Also the Brigade’s not as unpopular with its subjects as the Squadron was,” Muzzaf Kerpatik said as he reclaimed the papers.
“Details?” Raj said.
“I have used my contacts,” the little man said; he seemed to have an infinity of them, from Al Kebir and the Upper Drangosh to all the major ports of the Midworld Sea. As usual, he was dressed in dazzling white linen, a long-skirted coat after the fashion of Komar and the southern border Counties; he was one of the new class of monetary risk-takers growing up there in recent years. The white cloth and snow-white fur of the borzoi he rode contrasted with the carefully curled blue-black hair and goatee and the teak-brown skin.
The pepperpot revolver tucked into his sash had seen use, however.
“The Brigade commanders here have followed general policy; no persecution of Spirit of Man of the Stars clergy unless they meddle in politics.”
Raj nodded; the Brigade depended on the old civilian power structure to maintain administration, and the civilian magnates stubbornly refused to abandon the orthodox faith for the heretical This Earth cult. Down in the Southern Territories the Squadron had run a purely feudal state; they had dispossessed the native aristocracy completely, and didn’t much care if urban services went to wrack and ruin. They’d had a nasty habit of burning Star Spirit churches with their clergy in them, too. The piratical heritage of old Admiral Geyser Ricks, and one which had simplified Raj’s task.
“In fact, there are large colonies of Colonial Muslim merchants, and even Christos and Jews, here and in most Brigade-held port cities. Merchant guilds are in charge of collecting the customs dues and urban land-tax, since the Brigade commanders care little as long as the money comes in. This arrangement is less, ah, rigorous than that common in the Civil Government.”
Raj nodded again. The Civil Government’s bureaucracy was corrupt, but that was like caterpillars in a fruit tree, tolerable if kept under reasonable control. What was important was that it worked, which gave the State a potentially unbeatable advantage. The laxness of the Military Governments was a compound of sloth and incompetence, not policy—they couldn’t tighten up much no matter what the emergency.
“Speaking of religion, Messer . . . a delegation of priests in East Residence has presented a petition to the Chair and the Reverend Hierarch Arch-Sysup Metropolitan of East Residence, protesting your policy of toleration towards This Earth cultists in the Southern Territories.”
“Damn!” Raj bit out. Barholm took his ecclesiastical duties as head of Holy Federation Church quite seriously. Theology was a perennial hobby of Governors, Church and State being as closely linked as they were. He didn’t need Center to tell him what the consequences would be if the Chair tried to reunite the faiths by force and overnight—
revolt in former military government territory, probability 72% ±5, Center said. mutiny among ex-squadron personnel with expeditionary force, probability 38% ±4. mutiny among ex-squadron troops elsewhere in civil government area, probability 81% ±2.
And there were six battalions of former Squadrones on the eastern frontier, keeping watch on the Colonists. Wouldn’t that be a lovely gift to Ali, hungry for vengeance for his dead father! The Fall seemed to continue by mere inertia. There were times when he felt like a man condemned to spend eternity trying to push an anvil up a slope of smooth greased brass.
indeed, i have done so for a thousand years.
“Tzetzas,” he said aloud.
“The Chancellor may have been involved in gathering the petition,” Muzzaf said, and grinned whitely.
Back when he’d been the Chancellor’s flunky and accomplice he had lived in terror, and in the certain knowledge that Tzetzas would throw him aside like a used bathhouse sponge whenever he ceased to be useful. Now he was one of the Companions of Raj Whitehall, and he knew with equal certainty that Tzetzas would have to come through Raj and every one of the Companions to get him—and had better make sure that none of them survived to avenge him, either. That didn’t make him feel immortal; the casualty rate among the Companions was far too obvious. It did make him feel just as dangerous as Chancellor Tzetzas, which was better than feeling safe. If he’d wanted to be safe, he would have stuck to running a date-processing business like his father.
“However,” he went on, “Governor Barholm has stated that any reversal of policy is premature.” Raj relaxed.
“Not until we’ve got the Brigaderos safely under his thumb,” Kaltin said with cold cynicism. “Then he’ll send in the Viral Cleansers.”
probability 96% ±2 within five years of successful pacification, Center said, consequences—
I can imagine. “We’ll take the problems one at a time,” Raj said.
Muzzaf turned pages. “The soldier’s market will be held in the main square,” he went on. Troopers were generally expected to buy their own rations out of their pay when the army wasn’t on the march, and an efficient market was important to morale and health. More armies had died from bad food and runny guts than all the bullets and sabers ever made. The markets Muzzaf supervised were generally very efficient. “Bulk supplies are coming in with acceptable speed, since we pointed out that the Government receipts used to pay for them are exchangeable against taxes. In fact, a secondary market in receipts has arisen.”
Raj blinked in bewilderment, then waved aside the explanation. He’d abandoned attempts to understand that sort of thing when Kerpatik tried to tell him how you could make money by buying tobacco that hadn’t been planted yet on land you didn’t own and then selling it before it was harvested. Every word he’d said had been in Sponglish, but it might as well have been an Azanian witch doctor explaining the esoterica of his craft. The cobbler should stick to his last, and I to the sword, he thought.
“And I have coordinated the six-month receipts for your personal accounts with Lady Whitehall and your clerks.”
Raj accepted the paper, raised his brows at the total, and handed it back. For himself he’d as soon have just bought land with his share of the plunder; it was the traditional safe investment, even successful merchants always tried to buy an estate. Kerpatik had convinced him—convinced Suzette, actually—that it would be better to spread it out in part-shares of the new combined capital ventures all over the Civil Government. It certainly seemed to work, and was less trouble even than collecting rents. For that matter, he’d be content to live from his pay and the income from Hillchapel, the Whitehall estate in Descott. Wealth was a tool, occasionally useful but not central to his work.
“And the special equipment will arrive
from Hayapalco within the month.”
“Good work, Muzzaf. My thanks.”
“Oh, and Kaltin,” Raj said.
They heeled their dogs out to follow the last infantry unit; the 7th Descott Rangers were bringing up the rear, and the troopers raised a baying cheer to see their Major and Raj fall in below their banner, a running war-hound over the numeral seven and the unit motto: Fwego Erst—Shoot First. The dogs joined in, a discordant but somehow musical belling.
“Suzette and I are having a small get-together tonight,” Raj went on. “Provided we can get those imbeciles—” he nodded toward the fortress “—to stop showing how brave they are by shelling the slums. The usual thing, reassure the local grandees; we need them cooperative. I know you’re busy, but why don’t you drop by?”
Gruder looked over at him; the left side of the Companion’s face was lined with parallel white scars, legacy of the Colonial pompom shell that had also scattered his younger brother’s brains across his torso.
“I, ah, have—”
“A billet that just happens to contain a pretty young widow?” Kaltin Gruder was not nicknamed “The Rooster” by his men for nothing.
Kaltin coughed into one hand. “Grass widow, actually.”
“Leave her or bring her,” Raj said offhand. The Companion eyed him narrowly. “Everyone will be there. Old friends, like Messer Reggiri.”
They were passing a lone Star Spirit priest, come out to bless the representatives of Holy Federation Church. Kaltin’s sudden clamp of legs around the barrel of his dog made the animal skitter sideways in an arc that nearly smashed the unfortunate cleric against the wrought-iron grillwork of a courtyard door.
“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 Commander’s 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 wi
th 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.
