by David Drake
One shot, thought Charles Desoix.
He couldn't see Trimer's face, but there was a line of bare neck visible between mitre and chasuble. No armor there, no way to staunch the blood when a cyan bolt blasts a crater the size of a clenched fist.
And no way for the small group of soldiers to avoid being pulled into similarly fist-sized gobbets when the mob took its revenge in the aftermath. "Not our fight," Desoix muttered to himself.
He didn't have to explain that to any of his companions. He was pretty sure that Sergeant Kekkonan would kill him in an eye-blink if he thought the UDB officer was about to sacrifice them all.
"We will wait a day, in God's name," the Bishop said. He was standing with his arms outstretched.
Trimer had a good voice and what was probably a commanding manner to those who didn't see him from above—like Charles Desoix and God, assuming God was more than a step in Bishop Trimer's pursuit of temporal power. He could almost have filled the huge church with his unaided voice, and the strain of listening would have quieted the crowd that was restive with excitement and drink.
As it was, Trimer's words were relayed through hundreds of speakers hidden in the pendentives and among the acanthus leaves of the column capitals. Multiple sources echoed and fought one another, creating a busyness that encouraged whispering and argument among the audience.
Desoix had been part of enough interunit staff meetings to both recognize and explain the strain that was building in the Bishop's voice. Trimer was used to being in charge; and here, in his own cathedral, circumstances had conspired to rob him of the absolute control he normally exercised.
The man seated to Trimer's right got up. Like the Bishop, he was recognizable by his clothing—a red cape and a red beret in which a bird plume of some sort bobbed when he moved his head.
The Bishop turned. The gallery opposite Desoix exploded with cheers and catcalls. Red-garbed spectators in the nave below were jumping, making their capes balloon like bubbles boiling through a thick red sauce, despite the efforts of the hospital orderlies keeping the two factions separate.
All the men on the dais were standing with their hands raised. The noise lessened, then paused in a great hiss that the pillared aisles drank.
"Ten minutes each, we agreed," one of the faction leaders said to the Bishop in a voice amplified across the whole cathedral.
"Speak, then!" said the Bishop in a voice that was short of being a snarl by as little as the commotion below had avoided being a full-fledged riot.
Trimer and most of the others on the dais seated themselves again, leaving the man in red to stand alone. There was more cheering and, ominously, boos and threats from Desoix's side of the hall. Around the soldiers, orderlies fought a score of violent struggles with thugs in black.
The man in red raised his hands again and boomed, "Everybody siddown, curse it! We're friends here, friends—"
When the sound level dropped minusculy,he added,"Rich friends we're gonna be, every one of us!"
The cheers were general and loud enough to make the light troughs wobble.
"Now all you know there's no bigger supporter of the Bishop than I am," the gang boss continued in a voice whose nasality was smoothed by the multiple echoes. "But there's something else you all know, too. I'm not the man to back off when I got the hammer on some bastid neither."
He wasn't a stupid man. He forestalled the cheers—and the threats from the opposing side of the great room—that would have followed the statement by waving his arms again for silence even as he spoke.
"Now the way I sees it," he went on. "The way anybody sees it—is we got the hammer on Delcorio. So right now's the time we break 'is bloody neck for 'im. Not next week or next bloody year when somebody's cut another deal with 'im and he's got the streets full a' bloody soldiers!"
In the tumult of agreement, Desoix saw a woman wearing black cross-belts fight her way to the front of the spectators' section and wave a note over the heads of the line of orderlies.
The black-caped gang boss looked a question to the commo-helmeted aide with him on the dais. The aide shrugged in equal doubt,then obeyed the nodded order to reach across the orderlies and take the note from the woman's hand.
"Now the Bishop says,"continued the man in red,"Give him a little time,he'll waste right away and nobody gets hurt. And that's fine, sure . . . but maybe it's time a few a' them snooty bastids does get hurt, right?"
The shouts of"yes" and "kill" were punctuated with other sounds as bestial as the cries of panthers hunting. It was noticeable that the front rank of spectators, the men and women with estates and townhouses, either sat silent or looked about nervously as they tried to feign enthusiasm.
While the red leader waited with his head thrown back and arms akimbo, the rival gang boss read the note he had been passed. He reached toward Bishop Trimer with it and, when another priest tried to take the document from his hand, swatted the man away. Trimer leaned over to read the note.
"Now I say,"the man in redresumed ina lull,"allright,we give Delcorio time. We give the bastid as much time as it takes fer us to march over to the Palace and pull it down—"
The black-caped gang boss got up, drawing the Bishop's gaze to follow the note being thrust at the leader of the other street gang.
The timbre of the shouting changed as the spectators assessed what was happening in their own terms—and prepared for the immediate battle those terms might entail.
"The rightful President of Bamberia is Thomas Chastain," cried the blackcaped leader as the cathedral hushed and his rival squinted at the note in the red light.
The man in red looked up but did not interrupt as the other leader thundered in a deep bass, "He was robbed of his heritage by the Delcorios and held under their guards in the Palace—but now he's escaped! Thom Chastain's at his house right now, waiting for us to come and restore him to his position!"
Everyone on the dais was standing. Some of the leaders, Church and gangs and surely the business community as well, tried to speak to one another over the tumult. Unless they could read lips, that was a useless exercise.
Desoix was sure of that. He'd been caught in an artillery barrage, and the decibel level of the bursting shells had been no greater than that of the voices reverberating now in the cathedral.
Bishop Trimer touched the gang bosses. They conferred with looks, then stepped back to give the Bishop the floor again. Though they did not sit down, they motioned their subordinates into chairs on the dais. After a minute or two, the room had quieted enough for Trimer to speak.
"My people," he began with his arms outstretched in benediction. "You have spoken, and the Lord God has made his will known to us. We will gather at dawn here—"
The gang bosses had been whispering to one another.The man in black tugged the Bishop's arm firmly enough to bring a burly priest—Father Laughlin?—from his seat. Before he could intervene, the red-garbed leader spoke to Trimer with forceful gestures of his hand.
The Bishop nodded. Desoix couldn't see his face, but he could imagine the look of bland agreement wiped thinly over fury at being interrupted and dictated to by thugs.
"My people," he continued with unctuous warmth, "we will meet at dawn in the plaza, where all the city can see me anoint our rightful president in the name of God who rules us. Then we will carry President Chastain with us to the Palace to claim his seat—and God will strengthen our arms to smite anyone so steeped in sin that they would deny his will. At dawn!"
The cheering went on and on. Even in the gallery, where the floor and the pillars of colored marble provided a screen from the worst of the noise, it was some minutes before Kekkonan could shout into Desoix's ear, "What's that mean for us, sir?"
"It means," the UDB officer shouted back, "that we've got a couple hours to load what we can and get the hell out of Bamberg City."
He pauseda moment,then added,"It means we've had a good deal more luck the past half hour than we had any right to expect."
Chapter
Twenty-Three
"We got 'em in sight," said Scratchard's voice through Tyl's commo helmet. The sergeant major was on the roof with the ten best marksmen in the unit."Everybody together, no signs they're being followed."
Tyl started to acknowledge, but before he could Scratchard concluded,"Plenty units out tonight besides them, but nobody seems too interested in them nor us. Over."
"Out," Tyl said, letting his voice stand for his identification.
He locked eyes with the sullen Guards officer across the doorway from him, Captain Sanchez, and said, "Open it up, sir. I got a team coming in."
There were two dozen soldiers in the rotunda: the ordinary complement of Executive Guard and the squad Tyl had brought with him when Desoix blipped that they were clear again and heading in.
Earlier that night, the UDB officer had talked Tyl and his men through the doors that might have been barred to them. Tyl wasn't at all sure his diplomacy was good enough for him to return the favor diplomatically.
But he didn't doubt the locals would accept any suggestion he chose to make with a squad of Slammers at his back.
Sanchez didn't respond, but the man at the shutter controls punched the right buttons instantly. Warm air, laced with smoke more pungent than that of the omnipresent cigars, puffed into the circular hall.
Tyl stepped into the night.
The height and width of the House of Grace was marked by a cross of bluish light, a polarized surface discharge from the vitril glazing. It was impressive despite being marred by several shattered panels.
And it was the only light in the city beyond hand carried lanterns and the sickly pink-orange-red of spreading fires. Streetlights that hadn't been cut when transformers shorted were tempting targets for gunmen.
So were lighted windows, now that the meeting in the cathedral had broken up and the gangs were out in force again.
Tyl clicked his face shield down in the lighted courtyard and watched the seven soldiers jogging toward him with the greenish tinge of enhanced ambient light.
"All present 'n accounted for, sir," muttered Kekkonan when he reached Tyl, reporting because he was the senior Slammer in the unit.
"Sergeant major's got a squad on the roof," Tyl explained. "Make sure your own gear's ready to move, then relieve Jack. All right?"
"Yes sir," said Kekkonan and ducked off after his men. The emotion in his agreement was the only hint the noncom gave of just how tight things had been an hour before.
"Lachere,make sure Control's core pack's ready to jerk out,"Desoix said."We've
got one jeep, so don't expect to leave with more than you can carry walking."
The clerk's boots skidded on the rotunda's stone flooring as he scampered to obey.
Desoix put his arm around Tyl's shoulders as they followed their subordinates through armored doors which the guard immediately began to close behind them. Tyl was glad of the contact. He felt like a rat in a maze in this warren of corridors and blocked exits.
"I appreciate your help," Desoix said. "It might have worked. And without those very good people you lent me, it would—"
He paused. "It wouldn't have been survivable. And I'd have probably made the attempt anyway, because I didn't understand what it was like out there until we started back."
"Iguess . . ." Tyl said. "I guess we better report to,to the President before we go. Unless he was tapping the push. I guess we owe him that, for the contract."
They stepped together into the small elevator. It was no longer separately guarded. The Executive Guardsmen watched them without expression.
A few of the Slammers stationed in the rotunda threw ironic salutes. They were in a brighter mood than they'd been a few minutes before. They knew from their fellows who'd just come in that the whole unit would be bugging out shortly.
"You're short of transport too?" Tyl asked, trying to keep the concern out of his voice as he watched Desoix sidelong.
"I can give my seat to your sergeant major, if that's what you mean," Desoix replied. "I've hiked before. But yes, this was the base unit they robbed to outfit all the batteries on Two that had to be mobile."
That was exactly what Tyl had meant.
The elevator stopped. In the moment before the door opened, Desoix added, "There's vehicles parked in the garage under the Palace here. If we're providing protection, there shouldn't be a problem arranging rides."
If it's safe to call attention to yourself with a vehicle, Tyl thought, remembering the fire trucks. Luxury cars with the presidential seal would be even better targets.
Tyl expected Anne McGill to be at the open door connecting the Consistory Room with the presidential suite, where she could be in sight of her mistress and still able to hear the elevator arrive. She was closer than that, arm's length of the elevator—and so was Eunice Delcorio.
The President was across the room, in silhouette against the faint glow which was all that remained of the City Offices toward which he was staring. His nephew stood beside him, but there was no one else—not even a servant—in the darkened room.
"Charles?" Anne said. Her big body trembled like a spring, but she did not reach to clasp her lover now, in front of Eunice.
Tyl let Desoix handle the next part. They hadn't discussed it, but the UDB officer knew more about things like this . . . politics and the emotions that accompany politics.
Desoix stepped forward and bowed to Eunice Delcorio, expertly sweeping back the civilian cape he still wore over his gun and armor."Madam,"he said."Sir—" John Delcorio had turned to watch them,though he remained where he was."I very much regret that it's time for you to withdraw from the city."
The President slammed the bottom of his fist against the marble pillar beside him. Anne was nodding hopeful agreement; her mistress was still, though not calm.
"There's still time to get out," Desoix continued. Tyl marvelled at Desoix's control. He wanted to get out, wanted it so badly that he had to consciously restrain himself from jumping into the elevator and ordering the unit to form on him in the courtyard.
"But barely enough time. The—they are going to anoint Thom Chastain President at dawn in the plaza, and then they'll come here. Even if they haven't gotten heavy weapons from one of the military arsenals, there's no possible way that the Palace can be defended."
"I knew the swine were betraying me,"Delcorio shouted. "I should never have let them live, never!"
"We can cover the way out if you move fast enough," Tyl said aloud. "Ten minutes, maybe."
What he'd seen in the Consistory Room and heard from Desoix's terse report on the way back to the Palace convinced him that Delcorio, not Thom Chastain, was responsible for the present situation. But why didn't matter anymore.
"Allright,"the President said calmly."I've already packed the seal and robes of state. I had to do it myself because they'd all run, even Heinrich . . . ."
"No," said Eunice Delcorio. "No!"
"Eunice," begged Anne McGill.
"Ma'am," said Tyl Koopman desperately. "There's no way."
He was unwilling to see people throw themselves away. You learn that when you fight for hire. There's always another contract, if you're around to take it up . . . .
"I've been mistress of this city, of this planet," the President's wife said in a voice that hummed like a cable being tightened. "If they think to change that, well, they can burn me in the Palace first."
She turned to stare, either at her husband or at the smoldering night beyond him. "It'll be a fitting monument, I think," she said.
"And I'll set the fires myself—" whirling, her eyes lashed both the mercenary officers "—if no one's man enough to help me defend it."
Anne McGill fell to her knees, praying or crying.
"Madam," said Major Borodin, entering from the hall unannounced because there was no greeter in the building to announce him.
The battery commander looked neither nervous nor frustrated. There was an aura of vague distaste about him, the way his sort of officer alwa
ys looked when required to speak to a group of people.
This was a set speech, not a contribution to the discussion.
"I urge you," Borodin went on, reeling the words off a sheaf of mental notes, "to use common sense in making personal decisions. So far as public decisions go, I must inform you that I am withdrawing my battery from the area affected by the present unrest, under orders of my commander—and with the concurrence of our legal staff."
"I said—" John Delcorio began, ready to blaze up harmlessly at having his nose rubbed in a reality of which he was already aware.
"No, of course we can defeat them!" said Eunice, pirouetting to Borodin's side with a girlish sprightliness that surprised everyone else in the room as much as it did the major.
"No,no,"the President's wife continued brightly, one hand on Borodin's elbow while the other hand gestured to her audience. "It's really quite possible, don't you see? There's many of them and only a few of us—but if they're in the plaza, well, we just hold the entrances."
She stroked Borodin's arm and waved, palm up, to Tyl and Desoix. Her smile seemed to double the width of her face. "You brave lads can do that, can't you? Just the three stairs, and you'll have the Executive Guard to help you. The Bishop won't make any trouble about coming to the Palace alone to discuss matters if the choice is . . . ."
Eunice paused delicately. This wasn't the woman who moments before had been ready—had been ready—to burn herself alive with the Palace."And this way, all the trouble ends and no one more gets hurt, all the rioting and troubles . . . ."
"No," said Major Borodin. His eyes were bulging and he didn't appear to be seeing any of his present surroundings. His mental notes had been hopelessly disarrayed by this—
"Yes, yes, of course!" President Delcorio said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation."We'll see how much Trimer blusters when he's asked to come and there's a gun at his head to see that he does!"
Tyl had pointed enough guns to know that they weren't the kind of magic wand Delcorio seemed to be expecting. He looked at Desoix, certain of agreement and hopeful that the UDB officer would be able to express the plan's absurdity in a more tactful fashion than Tyl could.
