Authors: S.M. Stirling,David Drake
Hope Renewed (10 page)
The garrison left much more quickly than they’d assembled. Raj nodded once, tapping a thumb against his chin. “I think they’re getting the message,” he said. “Now for Osterville.”
Antin M’lewis was muttering under his breath. Raj knew the song without needing to hear words or tunes: it was an old Army ditty whose chorus went
Lovely loot/That’s the thing makes the boys git up an’ shoot!
Commandant Osterville’s house was a looter’s dream. The outer gates were gilded wrought iron, the inner Zanj ebony studded with miniature silver sauroid heads. A chandelier of Kolobassian crystal hung overhead, to light the three-story atrium. Floor and sweeping staircases were of marble; the walls held gilt-framed mirrors and paintings; man-high alabaster urns held trailing bougainvillea . . . Punkahs swayed, moving air cooled by fountains playing over fretted stone and scented by orange-blossom.
The majordomo bowed himself out of the way—a plump eunuch with a Colonial accent.
Poor bastard can’t help it,
Raj thought; but they always put his teeth on edge. Osterville had put on weight and lost a lot of hair since Raj had seen him last. He’d always been ambitious, and Capital-smooth; now he had a sour pinch to his mouth and lines between there and his nostrils. Which were turned up as if at a bad smell. There was a crowd of hangers-on by him, aides and flunkies and the battalion commanders of the garrison.
“Whitehall,” Osterville said frigidly. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, coming in here and giving orders outside the chain of command?”
There was a murmur of indignation from the flunkies; but the battalion commanders stayed stony-silent, with a slight unconscious withdrawal, as if Osterville had something contagious. Raj gave them a swift glance. None of them had been living on their pay here—not with Osterville’s example before them, not if Abdullah’s reports were true—but they didn’t love the Commandant for it. Especially not now that their careers and lives were on the line.
Raj reached into his jacket. “Commandant Osterville. By Gubernatorial Rescript, I have been given command of all Civil Government troops in this area. I hereby notify you that I am assuming control.”
Osterville read through the note. “I acknowledge your overall authority,” he said after a moment.
Raj could see the wheels turning behind the narrow black eyes.
Whitehall’s in disfavor. Even if he wins, he’ll be removed.
“But this document does
not
give you authority to interfere in the internal command structure of the units under my authority as district commandant. You may give your orders to me, and I will carry them out as I see fit.”
Divided command . . . Behind Raj, the Scout Troop—the Forty Thieves—tensed; they hadn’t followed the exchange, not really, but they could read the hostility in the air well enough.
M’lewis had recruited the Scouts himself. None of them were men likely to hesitate if ordered to arrest the Commandant . . . or to take him and the others out back and shoot them, if it came to that. Osterville looked past Raj and his complexion turned a muddy gray.
Disaster
, Raj knew. A good chance of a firefight right here in the city, or at least wholesale passive resistance by the garrison troops. This mission balanced on a knife edge as it was . . .
. . . and Osterville wouldn’t back down. Not openly; whatever else the man was, he wasn’t that type of coward.
Suzette moved forward. “Hernan, Hernan,” she said, tapping him on the arm with her fan. “Last time I was in Sandoral there were more interesting things than a lot of smelly soldiers.” She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a
complete
provincial out here, my dear. And you were such a gay blade back in the City.” When someone in the Civil Government put a capital on it that way, only one city could be meant.
Osterville bowed over her hand.
“
I’ve
been trapped on a troop train for three days. Couldn’t you find a decent meal for a poor, benighted gentlewoman so far from home? And fill me in on what passes for society out here?
And
find me a decent bath and somewhere to change out of these
impossible
clothes?”
Osterville was giving a good impression of a man who had just been struck between the eyes with a bag full of wet sand, but he rallied; after all, he
had
been at Court for the better part of a decade.
“Enchanted, Messa,” he said suavely. “Business, however . . .”
Suzette made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, Raj just wants some help unloading trains.” She tucked her hand under his arm. “Please?”
Osterville snapped his fingers at an aide. “Luiz, draw that up; here, I’ll sign it. Certainly, certainly, my dear Messa Suzette . . . trains, you say? Logistics, clerks’ work.”
Raj stood silently as they strolled away across the intaglio floor. His head moved back to the officers who’d been attending Osterville, with the smooth tracking motion of a track-mounted fortress gun.
“Messers,” he said flatly. “I remind you that you’ll be needed with your units later this afternoon in the main cavalry barracks. Good day to you. Captain M’lewis, if you please.”
He turned on his heel. Faintly, he could hear:
“. . . quite acceptable dessert wines, but far too sweet for table. But I’ve found a mountain vintage from this village in the Oxheads . . .”
CHAPTER SIX
The City Offices of Sandoral were nearly as crowded as the barracks, although they smelled of musty paper and lamp-soot and ink rather than sewage and dogshit. Clerks in knee breeches and dirty ruffled shirts were running in all directions, waving papers in the air; abacuses clicked; wheeled carts full of folders of documents rumbled over the tiled floors of the corridors. There were petitioners in plenty about, too. The clamor died as Raj shouldered through; the forty troopers of the 5th tramping behind him with their rifles at port, bayonets fixed, were a stark reminder of why Sandoral was in an emergency in the first place.
Raj strongly suspected that most of the bureaucrats would continue to think of it as a tiresome interruption of routine right up until the Settler’s troops came over the wall.
Civilization,
he thought sourly, watching one man blink at him through thick lenses, fingers pausing on the counting stones.
The sacred trust I defend. The reason I obey purblind idiots.
They clattered up a broad stairway; the upper corridor was considerably less crowded, a condition enforced by several slope-browed men with cudgels. All of whom sensibly faded into doorways at the sight of the naked steel and harsh uniform clatter of hobnails.
“You can’t go in there! That’s Chief Commissioner Kirmedez’s—”
“Siddown,” M’lewis snarled at the functionary. The man sat.
Kirmedez looked up from his desk as Raj entered. He was a thin dark man with receding hair, dressed plainly with a simple cravat. His eyes widened slightly as he took in Raj and the soldiers behind him; he rose and bowed.
“Heneralissimo,”
he said politely. “How may I serve you?”
Raj took the measure of the man.
Honest,
he thought,
for a wonder.
oversimplification,
Center said,
but a valid approximation.
A grid snapped onto the administrator’s face, with mottled patterns showing heat and the dilation of his pupils.
proceed.
It was impossible to lie to Raj Whitehall . . . with an angel looking out through his eyes. He didn’t like it, but it was useful, and he’d use any tool to get the job done.
Anything at all.
“Messer Kirmedez,” Raj said, “Sandoral will be under siege by the Colonials within two weeks maximum. Possibly less.”
Kirmedez sat and tapped the piles of documents on his desk.
“Heneralissimo
, this city cannot stand siege. We’re grossly over-crowded, and the grain reserves are low.”
Raj nodded. By law, a fortified border town like this was supposed to keep a year’s reserve of basic foodstuffs, in return for remission of some taxes. He didn’t need to ask what had happened to it.
“Exactly, Messer. I’m therefore evacuating all civilians to East Residence.”
Kirmedez’s hard thin face went fluid with shock for an instant. “That’s impossible.”
Raj allowed himself a flat smile. “On the contrary. Anyone who leaves on their own feet—or on dogback or in a carriage or by ox wagon—can take whatever they wish to carry. But whenever a troop train gets in, and I expect them at four-hour intervals, the garrison is going to sweep up enough people to fill it for the return trip. There will be absolutely no exceptions. Messer Commissioner, you’d also better inform the citizens immediately, because the first twelve hundred will be leaving in about two hours on the train that brought me. Is that understood?”
Kirmedez closed his mouth. He stared at Raj for a full thirty seconds, then looked at the feral faces of the Descotter gunmen behind him.
“You mean it,” he said softly.
“I’m not in the habit of making empty threats, Messer,” Raj said, equally quiet.
Kirmedez nodded.
The door was open, and the word had spread swiftly. A roar sounded through the offices, shading up into a hysterical wail. Kirmedez rose and reached for a brass bell on his desk, but Raj put out one hand.
“Captain,” he said to M’lewis.
The Scout commander turned and barked an order. The column in the corridor outside turned and brought their rifles up in a single smooth jerk.
“Fwego!”
BAM. The volley slammed into the lath and plaster of the ceiling. Chunks and dust rained down on the faces of those who’d come out of their offices, and down the open stairwell onto the crowd below.
“Reload!”
Silence fell amid the
ping
of spent brass landing on the tiles and the metallic clatter of rounds being thumbed home and levers worked. Gray-white gunsmoke drifted down the hall and carried the stink of burnt sulfur.
Silence fell. Kirmedez’s bell sounded through it. “Back to work, if you please,” he called. “Messer Hantonio, step in here. We have a great deal to do.”
He nodded thanks to Raj. “And they’ll take it seriously, too. Good day to you,
Heneralissimo
.”
Raj raised an eyebrow; it wasn’t often you met an administrator with that firm a grip on reality.
“Bwenya Dai,”
he replied politely.
And the bureaucrat was right. There was a great deal to do, fortunately. You could forget a lot, when you had work on hand.
Chief Commissioner Kirmedez snapped his fingers impatiently. “Stop babbling, man!” His assistant fell silent.
“It doesn’t
matter
if it’s impossible; it has to be done anyway. Now, send out the criers. But first, send runners to all the following households.”
He handed over a list. The assistant whistled. “My apologies,
patron
,” he said. “I should have thought of that.”
Kirmedez nodded. “Hantonio, when this war is over, I will still be Chief Commissioner of Sandoral and District, whoever is Commandant. Those men will still be wealthy and powerful. And they will remember who gave them advanced warning to gather their personal possessions and their households for evacuation.”
The assistant smiled with genuine admiration.
Kirmedez smiled back. “Favors are the grease that let the civil service wheels turn, Hantonio. Never forget it.”
And Heneralissimo Supremo Whitehall has done me a favor, he thought, pausing briefly. I wonder if he realizes it?
“Jorg!” Raj called, pleasure in his voice.
Jorg Menyez pulled up his riding steer. It lowed, then swung a long brass-tipped horn down in Horace’s face. The hound whuffled and reconsidered the grab it had been thinking of making at the long-legged riding animal’s shank.
“Just in,” the infantry commander said.
Behind him a column of footsoldiers poured down the street, shouldering the milling civilians aside; this time they were trying their best to get out of the way, not blocking the road with their welcome. The furled colors of the 17th Kelden Foot went by, to the steady
thrip . . . thrip
of the drum.
“The heliograph says Gerrin just boarded the last train out of East Residence, and Bellamy and his trained barbs are making good time, should be here in three days maximum.”
“Spirit,” Raj said, mildly surprised. “It’s actually working.”
Both men spat to their left and made the sign of the horns with their sword-hands; Raj touched his amulet, a circuit board blessed by Saint Wu herself a century before.
“You’ve seen where the infantry are kenneled?” Jorg said, anger flushing his fair-skinned face.
Raj nodded. “Think they’ll be fit for anything?”
“Nothing complex, but we may be able to put some backbone into them,” Jorg said. “They ought to enjoy the first part of the plan, anyway. Any trouble with Osterville?”
“No,” Raj said.
Menyez hesitated, then let the bitten-off syllable stand.
The barracks-yard was far more crowded this time; all the cavalry, the ragged ill-kept lines of the infantry units, the two hundred of the 5th Descott beside Raj, and the neat formations of the 17th Kelden and 24th Valencia to either side. The sun was sinking behind the western edge of the barracks; Raj narrowed his eyes against it, seeing only the black silhouettes of the troops.
“Fellow soldiers,” Raj said.
Of a sort.
It wasn’t these men’s fault that they’d been badly commanded, but he didn’t intend to let the consequences keep him from carrying out the mission. A lot of them were going to pay with their lives for their officers’ slackness, before this was over.
“We’ve very little time. The 33rd Drangosh, the 12th Pardizia” —he listed the infantry battalions, about half the two thousand available— “will turn to and begin construction of the necessary boats and gear for a pontoon bridge to cross the Drangosh and carry our invasion force. This task will be performed under the direction of Colonel Dinnalsyn of the Artillery Corps.”
A long murmur swept through the packed garrison formations. Raj stood like an iron idol, hands clasped behind his back, while the shouts of
Silence in the ranks!
controlled it. None of his veterans had moved; probably because none of them were surprised at what he intended.
“The cavalry formations based in Sandoral will immediately assume control of the gates. Only military personnel will be allowed to enter the city or approach on the main roads.
“The remainder of the infantry will begin clearing Sandoral and evacuating the civilian population to the railroad station, commencing immediately. No resistance is to be tolerated. All units will be accompanied by parties of the 5th Descott, the 17th Kelden, or the 24th Valencia.
“I’m aware that you men of the district infantry battalions have been seriously neglected. Effective immediately, all arrears of equipment, rations, and pay will be made up from the stocks in the city’s treasury and arsenals. For the duration, you will be quartered inside the walls—to be precise, in the housing of the evacuated civilians.”
Stunned silence sank over the parade ground. The formations rippled slightly as men turned to one another, then back to the figure standing on the stone dais. A helmet went up on a rifle among the infantry, and a voice cried out:
“Spirit bless Messer Raj!”
“Raj!”
“Raj!”
“RAJ! RAJ!”
He let it continue and build for a moment, judging, waiting until they were about to break ranks and crowd around him. A raised hand brought the sound back down from its white-noise roar, like receding surf on a beach.
“Cheer after we’ve beaten the wogs back to their kennels,” he said. “Until then, we’ve a man’s job of work to do. See to it.”
“RAJ! RAJ! RAJ! RAJ!”
Corporal Minatelli turned back down the street. “
What’s
the problem now?” he barked.
“Theynz warn’t open up,” the garrison soldier said timidly in a thick yokel burr. “They wouldn’ give us no food either, when we wuz hongry. Turned us’n away frum d’doors.”
Minatelli sighed.
Raggedy-ass excuse for a soldier
, he thought disgustedly. Literally; the man’s buttocks were hanging out a great rent in his trousers, and the blue of his jacket was faded to sauroid’s-egg color. He had a beard, too, like a barb or a wog.
“
Here’s
how ye do it, dickhead. Y’ain’t askin’ ’em to dance, see?”
He stepped to one side and put the muzzle of his rifle against the lock.
Bam
, and bits of lead and metal pinged and whistled across the street. The ragged soldier yelped as one scored a line of red across the side of his face. Minatelli slammed the sole of his boot into the door beside the lock, and the wood boomed open against the hallway.
“What’s the meaning of this?” shouted the man inside. “It’s impossible—you peon scum, where’s your officer? I’ll have you flogged,
flogged
—”
Smack.
The side of Minatelli’s rifle-butt punched into the man’s face. Blood spattered down the lace sabot of his shirt. The soldier chopped the butt up under the man’s short ribs, and he folded over without a sound. Minatelli grabbed him by the collar and threw him out into the street.
“Anyone what ain’t out in ten, gits shot!” he shouted to the crowd of family and servants. “Out, out,
out
. T’wogs is comin’!”
A torrent of civilians poured out of the townhouse door. Minatelli grinned to himself; a couple of them trampled on the head of the household before two with more presence of mind or family affection picked him up and carried him out into the crowded darkness of the street. The gas lamps were on, but the reddish light only made the milling crowd seem less human, a gleam of eyes and teeth and wailing voices in the hot night. Both sides of the street were lined with troopers, their fixed bayonets a bright line containing the shapeless movements of the crowd. Occasionally one would jab at someone who crowded too close, and a scream of pain would rise above the hubbub of confusion, fear and anger.
Minatelli’s grin grew broader. Back in Old Residence, he’d been a stonecutter like his father and grandfather before him. They’d have sent him around to the servants’ entrance if he so much as called on a house like this. Now he got to buttstroke one of the breed of stuck-up
riche hombes
bastards. Military service definitely had its good points.
The garrison soldier gaped at him for a slow twenty seconds. Then his crooked brown teeth showed in an answering smile. The glitter in his eyes was alarming.