A bunker, Raj decided. Cursed large one, too. Probably for Ali.
* * *
Raj blinked, conscious of the eyes on him. They were all used to his. . spells of inattention. . by now.
He cleared his throat. "Ali's reached Sandoral and he's digging in around the city. So far he hasn't mounted an assault-bringing up his siege train, at a guess. He's got the full fifty thousand men with him; it must be straining his supply of wagons and fodder to keep them fed. Tewfik's banner isn't with the main army."
There was a stir at that. "What do we do, mi heneral?" Staenbridge asked.
"We dig, and we wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For the wogs" — he nodded toward Ain el-Hilwa- "to take the bait. In which case, we-"
The officers waited in silence, a few taking notes. "Is all that clear?" Raj finished.
"No reserve?" Staenbridge asked.
"Not this time; it's a calculated risk, but so's this whole expedition."
He turned and looked at the Arab city, surrounded by the smoldering wreck of its suburbs, crammed to the very wall with refugees.
"Either this will be easy, or it'll be impossible," he said.
probability of action proceeding according to current projections, 78 %±7, Center said helpfully.
"I'd put it at about three to one on easy," he went on. "If not, we'll just have to react fast."
"When you go by the Camina Bellica
As thousands have traveled before
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw home anymore!
Oh, dear was the lover who kissed him
And dear was the mother that bore;
But then they found his sword in the heather,
And he never saw home anymore!"
"Ser." Antin M'lewis was Officer of the Day; he slipped into the circle around the fire. "Major Hwadeloupe t'see yer."
Raj finished the mouthful of fig-bread and dusted his hands, leaning back on the cushions-someone had salvaged them from a nearby Colonial mansion, and they were all resting on them and the Al Kebir carpets from the same source. A roast sheep on rice had been demolished, and they were punishing the sweetmeats and pastries the Colonials were famous for. The wine was too sweet, even diluted, but nobody was drinking all that much of it anyway; they knew him better than that. The firelight played on the faces around it, bringing out scars on Kaltin Gruder's as he leaned forward to light a twig and puff a cheroot alight.
"By all means, Antin, bring him along," Raj said.
Hwadeloupe commanded the 44th Camarina Dragoons, one of Osterville's battalions.
"An' ser. . he's got 'is men out there. Hunnerts of 'em, not too far."
"Keep an eye on them, Captain."
The strong male voices were roaring out the next verse, the one that had gotten the song officially banned centuries ago. It was a truth the Governors preferred that the Army not be too conscious of:
"When you go by the Camina Bellica
From the City to Sandoral,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the rifle and saber,
He stood his watch and rode tall,
Till the Army hailed him as Governor
And he rose to be master of all!"
"Glad you could join us," Raj said as Hwadeloupe strode up. "No, no, no salutes in the mess, Major. Have some wine."
The soldier-servant handed him a mug of half-and-half, watered wine. He gripped it distractedly, a middle-aged man with the marks of long service on the southern border on his leathery face.
"Mi heneral, if we could speak privately?"
"I have no secrets from my officers and Companions, Major." Not quite true, but it was a polite way of telling Hwadeloupe that he couldn't expect to hedge his bets.
"Ah. . sir, I would like to transfer my battalion to your command-to this encampment, that is."
The rest of the command group had fallen silent; Suzette kept strumming her gittar, but softly. Without the song, the minor noises of the camp came through: dogs growling, a challenge from the walls, the iron clatter of a field gun's breechblock being opened for some reason.
"If I might ask why?" Raj went on implacably.
Hwadeloupe stood very straight. "Sir. Colonel Osterville thinks there's no risk from the garrison of Ain el-Hilwa. But I know you don't think so, and I see your men still have their boots on, and your guns are limbered up. Colonel Osterville may be right. On the whole, though, when he and you disagree, I'll bet on you. With respect, sir."
Raj shoulder-rolled and came erect. "I can always use good men," he said. "And I don't think you'll regret that decision. Captain M'lewis will show your men to their bivouac area within the earthworks."
"Ah, sir. There's one other matter." Hwadeloupe kept his eyes fixed over Raj's shoulder. "We have, ah, a considerable quantity of booty with us. Just picked up, you understand. We'd like to turn it in now to the common fund, as per your standing orders."
Raj raised an eyebrow; one of Gerrin's expressions, and very useful in situations like this. "That's odd, Major. We've had several smaller parties in from Colonel Osterville's camp, and they've all had some late-arriving booty to turn in too." He extended his hand. "No hard feelings. M'lewis will settle your people in."
"I'll see to that myself, if it's all the same to you, mi heneral," Hwadeloupe said, taking the extended hand in his own. "And thank you, sir."
Raj returned to his cushion beside Suzette. "That's about two hundred in all," he said.
"Separating the sheep from the goats," Staenbridge replied. "Or those too stupid to live from the remainder."
Foley frowned. "Some of them are staying over there to follow orders," he pointed out.
"My dear," Gerrin said, "what's that saying-from the Old Namerique codexes-"
Foley was something of a scholar. " 'Against Fate even the gods do not fight,' " he quoted.
"Exactly."
Raj nodded and leaned back, his head not quite in Suzette's lap. Both moons were out and very bright, bright enough to interrupt the frosted arch of stars. Her fingers wandered over the strings.
"It's twenty-five marches to Payso
It's forty-five more to Ayaire
And the end may be death in the heather
Or life on the Governor's Chair
But whether the Army obeys us,
Or we serve as some sauroid's fare
I'd rather be Lola's lover
Than sit on the Governor's Chair!"
Cut-nose Marhtinez lay in the dark and breathed quietly. He was ten meters from the walls of Ain el-Hilwa, outside the north gate. An overturned two-wheel cart hid him; the bodies of the two dogs who'd been drawing it until they met a cannonball were fairly ripe after a day in the hot sun, and so was the driver: black, swollen, the skin split and dripping in places, like a windfallen plum. He'd had about seven FedCreds in assorted silver in his pouch, though.
The night was fairly dark, only one moon in the sky and that near the horizon. The starlight was enough for him to see men moving on the walls-and they were moving without torches. He could even hear some wog curse when he ran into something and barked his chin. A whistling and dull thudding followed, about the sound you'd expect one of those nine-barbed whips the wog officers used to make. The yelp of pain that followed was strangled, and the next slash brought no sound at all.
Quiet's a whorehouse on payday, he thought scornfully. It was a good thing there weren't any Bedouin scouts with the Ain el-Hilwa garrison. Those sand-humpers were too good for comfort.
Cut-nose moved his head slightly. The star he was using was still a fingerbreadth above the horizon. An hour and a bit short of dawn, call it an hour and twenty minutes.
He moved backward out of the wrecked cart, keeping it between him and the wall. Nothing on his body clinked or reflected light, and his hands and face were blacked; Mother Marhtinez might not have known exactly who his father was, but she h
adn't raised any fools. Pause, move, pause, until he was behind a snag of ruined wall, still hot enough from the fire to feel on his skin. He picked up his rifle-nothing but a hindrance and a temptation in the blind where he'd spent the night-and eeled cautiously back to his dog.
Captain M'lewis was waiting there. Cut-nose grinned ingratiatingly. He didn't have much use for officers, and still less for a promoted ranker who might be a kinsman. He did have the liveliest respect for Antin M'lewis's wits, his wire garrote, and the skinning-knife he wore across the small of his back beneath the tails of his uniform jacket. All the Forty Thieves-the Scouts-had a standing invitation to go out behind the stables and settle things with knives if they felt they couldn't obey someone who wasn't Messer-born.
So far only one fool had taken M'lewis up on it; he was on the rolls as a deserter. Nobody had found the body. Good riddance, Cut-nose thought. The Scouts beat regular duty all to hell. Less boring, more plunder-a lot more in some cases-and no more dangerous. M'lewis wasn't the charge-the-barricade type.
"They're movin', ser. Gittin' ready, loike," he said in a soft whisper, directed at the ground-nothing to carry far.
M'lewis nodded. "Messer Raj was expectin' it, an' t'scouts at t'other gate says th' same," he observed. "Here, git this t'him fast."
* * *
"Sir."
Kaltin Gruder's voice. Raj rolled out of his blankets; Suzette was already reaching for her carbine. He fastened his weapons belt. His boots were already on; if the men had to sleep in them, so could he.
"Message from M'lewis just got in."
A Scout was behind the battalion commander. "Ser. Noise in t'wog town. I weren't more 'n ten meters off, an' heard it plain. North gates."
The ones nearest Colonel Osterville's camp. Raj took the message and read it. "Boots and saddles, please. Quietly. We'll deploy as arranged."
"Line of march?"
"Scout troop has pickets along it. They'll signal with shuttered lanterns."
Raj could hear the noise spreading; not very loud, no shouting, but a long-drawn out clatter as men rousted out of uneasy sleep and saw to their equipment. The Companions arrived, and the other battalion commanders. Shapes in the night, dimly lit by the embers of the fire, a feeling of controlled anxiety. He grinned into the dark. A night march. Difficult. An invitation to disaster, with any but very experienced troops. The handbooks were full of bungled night attacks, men firing on their comrades, whole battalions wandering off lost, irretrievable disaster.
"Barton," he said. "What's that toast again?"
" 'He fears his fate too much, and his deserts are small, who will not put it to the touch-to win or lose it all.' "
"Exactly. Messers, to your units. Waymanos!"
An orderly brought up Horace; he put a foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The headquarters party fell in around him, bannermen and buglers and gallopers. Men blinked and dogs yawned cavernously; the wet clomp-clomp sound of jaws snapping closed rippled through the dark streets. Iron-shod wheels rattled on dirt as the 75s and splatguns moved. He cantered down the east-west notional laneway of the camp, the wia erente, keeping to the side. Men and dogs were moving the same way, the lead element of the 5th, followed by the 1st and 2nd Cruisers. The other gates were all open as well, flanked by lantern-bearing pathfinders. Thousands of heavy paws thumped the earth, an endless rumbling sound.
Flat terrain, mostly. Nothing between him and Osterville's camp but four kilometers of fields, with the occasional orchard or shallow ditch. The objective was on the same side of the Ghor Canal, thank the Spirit, even Osterville wasn't stupid enough to put an obstacle that needed bridging between him and the only supports available. Keep in column, he decided. In column they could move down the laneways, at a fast walk. Once deployed into line their speed would drop by four-fifths.
The night was still quiet, almost chilly in the last moments of predawn; overhead the arch of stars was a frosted road leading to infinity. The command group rode silently, no need for talk unless something went very wrong. The palms that lined the roadway were black silhouettes against the sky. He looked over his shoulder to the west and caught the faintest rim of peach-pink there.
He reined Horace sideways into the fields, a hunching scramble through the ditch, then stood in the stirrups to look. Nothing but a few watchfires from Osterville's camp. The north gates of the city were hidden by the western wall. Flags rippled behind him, his personal banner and the Star. Over his shoulder he could see the other gates of the camp, now; the spiked-log barricades were pulled aside, and a steady stream of men and dogs and guns was pouring out. Not a single jam-up, not a voice raised. . damn, but these are good troops.
Three columns, each about half a kilometer apart, each a little over two thousand strong. And-
" 'The gates flew back, and the din of onset sounded,' " Bartin murmured.
"More Old Namerique?" Raj said.
"From the Fall Codexes," the young man replied.
When the Fall began, books had died with the machines that recorded them-the Church called it the Great Simplification. In the first generation the survivors wrote down as much as they could, most of it in Old Namerique, the official language of the Federation. Bits and pieces survived, even a thousand years later.
The gates of Ain el-Hilwa had certainly flown back with a vengeance.
"One hell of a din, too," Raj said; even at more than three kilometers, it was louder than the noise his own men were making.
Then light winked from the parapet of the low-set city wall, and a deep whirring sound crossed the sky. A dull booming echoed, and under it the sharper sound of the exploding shells. The winking lights, scores of meters apart, rippled from east to west across the north face of the city. Heavy rifles, aimed at Osterville's camp. The shells seemed to be contact-fused rather than airburst, but it would still be an unpleasant way to wake up, and there were a lot of those guns.
The white dust of the road stretched out ahead of him. The dawn was just touching the western horizon behind him, but there was a sudden flare of white light stabbing north toward Osterville's position, arc-searchlights from the city wall. My, all the modern refinements, Raj thought. Intended to light up the Civil Government position for the attackers and blind any defenders looking toward the city.
Dun and off-white, men were running up the long gentle slope toward the smaller Civil Government camp. On foot, mostly, with gun teams among them, pulling the light five-shot pom-poms the Colonials favored for close support. They were shouting, too, high wailing shrieks. Raj unclipped his binoculars and brought them to his eyes, body adapting to the swing of his dog's trot with the unconscious skill of a lifetime.
Only half a kilometer from the walls. And they didn't dig in at all. Osterville had been very careless.
A stutter of gunfire broke out from Osterville's camp, building rapidly. Raj could imagine the chaos, men rushing half-dressed from their blanket rolls, grabbing up the rifles stacked by their campfires. Red light winked from the hilltop, muzzle flashes like fireflies in the dark; the sun was just edging over the horizon.
The Colonials were making some effort to deploy, spreading out in an irregular mass-more a thick skirmish order than a real firing line. The pom-poms wheeled about and opened up, firing uphill. The CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK of the clip-loaded weapons sounded through the dawn, and their little one-kilo shells burst upslope in petals of fire. The return fire was building fast, panicked, with no ordered crash of volleys. Smoke began to shroud the hilltop, from the defensive fire and the incoming Colonial shells, and-
"Bugging out already," he said. In the long-shadowed light of dawn he could see a trickle of mounted men heading north from Osterville's encampment. "Ludwig, how many of the Colonials would you say?"
"Seven or eight thousand at least, mi heneral."
Raj nodded thoughtfully. The whole garrison of Ain el-Hilwa, or near enough. Attacking Osterville's position was actually not a bad idea-he would have tried it, in their
position-but sending everyone haring out of the gates like this? No more sense than a bull carnosauroid in breeding season, he decided.
"Captain Foley, the signal."
Barton swung down out of the saddle and stuck the launching-stick of a small rocket in the dirt.
Fisssssth. The little rocket soared into the paling sky and burst with an undramatic pop. Red and blue sparks shot out in a perfect round puffball. Behind Raj trumpets sang in harsh antiphonal chorus. The long column dissolved as units spurred out left and right, like a huge fan snapping open. It was lighter now, light enough to tell a dark thread from a white, the traditional dividing line between night and day. Light enough for the men to move across the fields without much trouble, at least.
The other columns were following suit. Ten minutes, and there was a continuous two-deep line moving northeastwards with his banner at the center. Not parade-ground neat-the line twisted and curled a little around obstacles, with fifty meters or so of gap between each battalion. The guns pulled through, heading east and a little south, setting up by groups of batteries on prechosen hillocks. The Colonials were fully occupied, their front ranks within two hundred meters of Osterville's position and moving in fast. Close enough to use their carbines, and a huge snapping crackle went up from their front ranks; not only from their front ranks, either-they were losing men to friendly fire, if he was any judge.
"Sound Prepare for Dismounted Action," he said.
The bugles sang again, taken up and relayed down the line. Men pulled the rifles from the scabbards before their right knees, resting the butts on their thighs.
"Are they bloody blind?" Staenbridge asked in amazement, looking at the Colonials.
"No, just very preoccupied, and extremely badly led," Raj said.
There were probably individual men in the Colonial force who could see what was happening, but it was a scratch put-together and whoever had done the putting hadn't arranged for signals and gallopers. A penalty of taking all your best troops along in a single expeditionary force; what was left to defend against a counterstroke wasn't up to much.
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