The Anvil
Page 29
"Also," he went on, "I saw how your own guild reacted to my warning."
Placeedo Anarenz started slightly, and stared for a moment. "You," he breathed. "You were one of the guards?"
Raj nodded. "This —" he indicated the podium and the plaza "— is something of a reunion. Even the syndics are here."
They were standing under guard in front of the assembled citizens. It was a larger crowd than the town meeting, most of the adult population of Lion City. Much quieter as well, ringed with troops holding their bayoneted rifles as barricades; battered-looking men, many in remnants of militia uniform. Equally battered-looking women, in ripped and stained clothing hastily repaired or still gaping. Torches on poles lit their upturned faces, staring at him with dread.
Another building-block in the reputation of Raj Whitehall, he thought bitterly.
"I was a syndic," Anarez said. "Why aren't I down there with them?"
"Because you argued for opening the gates," Raj pointed out. "Also you're the next Mayor."
Anarenz grunted in shock, staggering until the two burly sailmakers at his side steadied him. Pain-sweat glistened on his forehead from the jostling that gave his wound.
"Why me?" he said. "I thought you'd have some bureaucrat ready . . . or one of our local arse-lickers who'd buy his way into your favor the way he did with the Brigade. De Roors is good at that."
Anarenz was a brave man. He still shivered slightly at Raj's smile.
"You actually care about the welfare of the citizens," the general said. "That makes you more predictable; men like de Roors don't stay bought. I'm going to need stability here. I'll be leaving plenty of the Administrative Service to oversee you, don't worry. Messer Historiomo to begin with, but he'll be taking over all occupied territory, and I've advised him to consult you."
Raj turned to face the wounded man. "There's a saying, Goodman — Messer Alcalle — Anarenz, back in the east. That the Governors Chair rests on four pillars of support: a standing army of soldiers, a sitting army of bureaucrats, a kneeling army of priests, and a creeping army of informers. It's a settled way of doing things, and it functions . . . but here I need the active support of the people I'm liberating from the Brigade."
He nodded to the huddle of Syndics below the podium. "After this, I don't think the magnates of other cities will try to sit things out."
Aloud, he went on: "Citizens of Lion City!"
A signal, and the soldiers ripped the rich clothing from the former oligarchs of the town, leaving a group of potbellied or scrawny older men edging away from the bright levelled menace of the bayonets, and a few others trying hard to look brave — a difficult task, naked and helpless. There were a hundred or so of them, all the adult males of the ruling families.
"Here are the men," Raj went on, pointing, "who are the true authors of your misfortunes. Here are the men who refused to open the gates peacefully and exposed your city to storm and sack."
An animal noise rose from the crowd. Oligarchs were not popular anywhere, and right now the commons of Lion City needed a target for their fear and fury, a target that wasn't armed. De Roors turned and knelt toward the podium, bawling a plea for mercy that was lost in the gathering mob-snarl. A rock hit the back of his head and he slumped forward. The old Syndic who'd had his guard try to assassinate Anarenz spat at the mob, lashing out with his fists as work-hardened hands cuffed him into the thick of it. A knot of women closed around him, pried-up cobblestones flailing in two-handed grips. The others disappeared in a surge of bodies and stamping feet, dying and pulping and spreading as greasy stains on the plaza pavement.
"Spirit of Man," Anarenz shouted, pushing forward. "Stop this, you butcher! Hang them if you want to, that'll terrify the syndics of the other cities."
"No," Raj replied.
His voice cut through the noise much better than the sailmaker's did, and the mob were recoiling now — from themselves, as much as from what remained of the city's former rulers.
"No, doing it this way is better. The magnates elsewhere will know I've a much more terrible weapon to use against them than my army." He nodded to the crowd. "And they will know there's no going back; if the Brigade wins, it'll make an example of Lion City."
Anarenz looked at him with an expression more suitable for a man who'd stumbled across a pack of carnosauroids devouring an infant.
"For the Spirit's sake, is there anything you won't do to win your bloody war?" he shouted. "Anything?"
Raj's head turned like a cannon moving with a hand on its aiming-wheel. "No, Messer Alcalle," he said. "There's nothing I won't do to unite civilization on Bellevue, and end things like this forever. For the Spirit's sake."
Suzette sank down beside Raj and leaned her head against his shoulder. "You did what you had to do, my love," she said softly.
His hands knotted on the table, and the empty bottle of slyowtz rolled away. The spray of plumb-blossom on the label curled about a stylized H; it was the Hillchapel proprietary brand. How long was it since he'd been home?
"Only what you had to do."
Raj's arms groped blindly for his wife. She drew his head down to rest on her bosom, rocking it in her arms.
Lady Whitehall is correct, Center said, observe —
I know! Raj cut in. Lion City rising behind him, other cities closing their gates. Costing him men, costing him time, neither of which he had to spare.
"I know," he said aloud.
"Shhhh, my love." The commandeered room was quiet, only the light hissing of the lantern breaking the silence. "You're with me now. No need to be the General. Peace, my love. Peace."
For a moment the hard brilliance of another image gleamed before Raj: the Old Residence seen in the near distance, its wall towers and walls silent but threatening simply for their enormous extent.
The vision faded, yes, said Center. Peace, for now.
THE END