Hope Renewed (27 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Suzette was pale. Fatima looked up in alarm; neither of them was a stranger to field-hospitals after all these years, so it couldn’t be that. With a shudder, the Arab girl remembered her first time here, the first battle, four years ago.
Then
there had been huge wooden tubs set up at the feet of the operating tables, to hold the amputated limbs. And they had been full, all that endless day. Bartin had lost his hand that day; she’d held his shoulders down while the surgeon worked.

This was mild, by comparison. Only a few dozen shattered limbs to come off, with plenty of time to dose the worst cases with opium. A few hundred others, and more than half would live. But Suzette
did
look ill as she walked among the cots set up in the main chamber of Sandoral’s cathedron. The air smelled of old incense and wax, under the stink of disinfectant and blood.

She was still Messa Whitehall. She finished the conversation, turned on her heel, and walked without running to the door. Fatima followed, grabbing up a towel. Retching sounds came from the cubicle; it was a priest’s vesting room, in normal times. Suzette knelt and vomited into a bucket. Fatima hurried up beside her and handed her the towel, then went back for water.

“I don’t understand it,” Suzette said, wiping her face and slumping back in the chair.

Fatima put a hand on her forehead. “You’re not running a fever, Messa.”

“No, I’m not. And I feel fine, most of the time; just these last couple of mornings I—” She stopped. “What
date
is it?”

“Second of
Huillio
. Why do you want to . . . oh!”

Suzette’s eyes went round. She turned her head slowly and met Fatima’s gaze. The younger woman’s mouth dropped open; she squeaked before managing to get out a coherent word:

“I thought . . . I thought you couldn’t, that is—” She stopped in embarrassment.

“No, there wasn’t enough time,” Suzette said dazedly. Then her face firmed. “This is
not
to go beyond these walls, understand?”

“Of course, Messa,” Fatima said soothingly. “But wouldn’t Messer Raj want to know?”

“Not while he’s got so much to worry about,” Suzette said.

The flat rooftop terrace of Sandoral’s District Offices made an excellent observation post, being close to the river and higher than the tops of the maidan wall; it was also far enough in from the defenses that Colonial shells were unlikely to land in the vicinity. The noon sun pounded down, turning the blue tile of the floor pale, drawing knife edges of shadow around the topiaries and pergolas. City administrators had held their receptions here, amid the potted bougainvillea and sambuca jasmine that had already begun to wilt without care. The iron heel plates of the officers’ boots sounded on the floors, harsh and metallic. A heliograph station occupied one corner, and a map table and working desk had been set up by the railing nearest the river.

“Well, he’s not wasting any time,” Raj said.

Through the tripod-mounted heavy binoculars the east bank showed plainly. Tewfik’s seal-of-Solomon banner waved from the highest ground; around it several thousand men worked with pick and shovel.

Grammek Dinnalsyn was using a telescope, also mounted; he made a few precise adjustments to the screws and sketched on a pad.

“That’s not intended for his whole force,” he said. “About three, four hundred men, perhaps.”

Raj nodded agreement and took another bite of his sandwich.
Which reminds me . . .

“Jorg,” he said. “You’ve had your men on half-rations while we were away?”

“
Si.
Mostly hardtack and jerky, some fish and dried fruit.”

“The whole command is back on full rations as of now,” he said. “Bait the dogs properly, too. Muzzaf, get me a complete inventory of supplies. And fuel.”

“
Si
,” the little Komarite said. “
Seyhor
, I can tell you immediately—we have less than a week’s supply at that rate of expenditure.”

“Excellent,” Raj said with a smile. The others looked at him oddly. “I presume Ali knows?”

“The outlines,” Menyez said. “We’ve had a few deserters, mostly from the garrison units. Presumably they’ve ‘taken the turban’ and told him what they know.”

Raj nodded thoughtfully. “Any the other way?”

“Three—two from their transport corps, claim to be Star Church believers conscripted for supplies. The other’s a Zanj.”

The Colony had conquered some of the outlying city-states there, but was fiercely resented. The Zanj were of different race than most of the Colonials, and followed a branch of Islam the conquerors thought heretical.

“They’re probably spies, of course,” Menyez concluded. “I’ve kept them in close confinement.”

“I’ll talk to them; I can usually get the truth out of a man,” Raj said. He was conscious of sidelong glances; another part of the myth, that it was impossible to lie to Messer Raj.
It is when Center’s looking through my eyes,
he thought. “In any case, it doesn’t matter what Ali knows. Or even what Tewfik knows.”

Barton Foley pointed. “They’re bringing men across.”

Everyone raised their glasses. An overloaded fishing skiff labored across the current, on a trajectory that would land it just south of Sandoral’s walls on the western bank. Heads and V-marks of ripples showed where dogs on lead-halters swam in the boat’s wake. On the riverbank it had left, men were building an earth ramp down to the water’s edge and putting together a raft from bits and pieces, date-palm logs and thin boards that looked as if they’d come from some sheep fence.

“It’ll take him a while to get his men back to Ali,” Gerrin Staenbridge said, examining his nails. The way the Civil Government forces had scavenged up every small boat and all available materials was handicapping their enemies badly. “You have something in mind, don’t you,
mi heneral
?”

Raj grinned at him. “Possibly. Can you think what?”

Staenbridge shook his head. Raj nodded amiably.

“And that’s an excellent thing too,” he said. “Because you’re an extremely perceptive officer, and you have
all
the information. If you can’t figure it out, probably Tewfik can’t either. Gentlemen, I want you to spend the rest of today and tomorrow reorganizing. Don’t let your men settle in too tight—I want full readiness to move at a moment’s notice. Those units that’ve been hit hard, do the necessary shifting around immediately. Weapons maintenance, ammunition issues, the lot—again, immediately, please. Understood?”

Nods. “Grammeck, this afternoon I want to go over some matters with you; bring the complete plans for the pontoon bridge, please. If there aren’t any questions, Messers?”

There was obviously one burning one, but nobody was going to ask it. Jorg Menyez remained when the others had left the flat rooftop.

“Colonel?” Raj asked. It wasn’t like Jorg to talk for reassurance sake. He was obviously a little embarrassed.

“
Heneralissimo,
” he said. “Ah . . . I thought you’d want to know about Osterville.”

“Osterville?” Raj asked. It was an effort to remember the man; he hadn’t thought of him since Ain el-Hilwa.
And good riddance.
“It’s enough that he isn’t here, making trouble.”

“No, he won’t be doing that,” Menyez said. “It was unpleasant, but as you said, it was necessary.”

Raj looked at him. Menyez flushed. “All right,
mi heneral.
I destroyed the letter and your seal, and he went into the Drangosh with a sixty-kilo roundshot tied to his ankles . . . but I still don’t like it.”

Raj nodded. “Of course, Jorg.”
Only Suzette has my seal.
“I understand.”

He shivered slightly, despite the heat of the day.

A dot of red light arched over the wall, trailing fire through the darkness.
Thud.
It exploded among the vacant houses—hopefully vacant houses—and a column of fire rose into the night. Another spark.
Thud.

“That makes six the past hour,” Raj murmured to himself.

in the past fifty-five minutes thirty seconds,
Center added.
harassing fire.

“Ali’s obviously decided to starve us out,” Raj agreed.

An image drifted across his eyes: his own emaciated body, still living, naked and covered with weals and burns. Pairs of dogs were hitched to chains attached to each ankle and wrist. The drivers urged the dogs forward slowly, gradually taking up the slack. Ali ibn’Jamal sat watching, pounding his fist on the arm of his portable throne and laughing with pleasure, licking his full lips. Tewfik stood to one side, arms crossed and a look of faint disgust on his face, echoed by most of the noblemen and officers around him. Behind him a gallows stood skeletal against the sky, with the bodies of the Companions dangling from it—by meathooks through their ribs. Several of them were still writhing . . .

Raj made a grimace of distaste. “Even by the standards of Mihwel the Terrible, Ali is a prime case.”

a subjective judgment, but accurate. child-rearing practices among the colonial royal family are conducive to severely dysfunctional personalities.

A step sounded on the tiles behind him. There had been no challenge and response from the sentries on the stair below, so it could be only one person.

Suzette leaned on the railing beside him, looking out over the city and the glistening water. “Full circle, my love,” she said. “Sandoral, and a battle to come.”

“And men dying unexpectedly,” he said.

She turned her face towards him, drawn and pale beneath the moons. “Osterville couldn’t lead and wouldn’t follow and wouldn’t get out of the way and let you work, either. Can you imagine the sort of havoc he’d have created back here, with everything depending on Jorg keeping things running smoothly? We’d have ended up
swimming
across, while Osterville tried to make everyone do things his way.”

“Jorg—”

“Jorg is good man and a good officer, but he doesn’t have your talent for facing men down—especially not men higher on the chain of command. You know that.” A little anger crept into her voice: “How many better men have been killed on this campaign so far?”

Raj smiled ruefully and shook his head. “You always could out-argue me,” he said. A shrug. “I just don’t like having a fellow officer killed like that. It’s the sort of thing Tzetzas does.”

Suzette sighed. “I don’t like it either,” she said quietly. “But it had to be done.”

Raj nodded. They watched another Colonial shell come over the walls.

“It’s cold,” Suzette said in a small voice.

Raj extended his arm and the long military cloak he wore. Suzette came under it and laid her cheek against his chest.

“We can’t afford any mistakes this time, can we?” she said after a moment.

“No,” Raj replied. He looked up at the moons. They’d be rising late, tomorrow evening.
Victory or death,
he thought.
All men die, but this has to be done.
“Let’s turn in.”

“Precisely this bearing,” Raj said.

He drew a line in the dust with the stick. Behind him the artillerymen staked down their frame—two sets of rigid beams at right angles, with a slanted piece across the arms. They aligned it with the mark in the dust; once it was firmly in place, they pushed the gun up the slanted fronting of the frame and tied off the wheels at a chalk mark on the wood.

“Range is exactly 3,525 meters,” Raj said. “Load contact, two-second delay.”

“Sir,” the gunner said, giving him a glance.

How could you know?
Raj read in his face. And a trace of awe; men knew he didn’t make empty boasts.

Raj walked on to the next gun’s position as the iron clang of the breechblock sounded behind him. All fifty-eight surviving field guns were lined up just inside the north wall of Sandoral, all up on the frames; all aligned along the precise vector he’d drawn in the dirt for them. Every single one, as far as Center could judge, was now aiming at the exact midpoint of earth above Ali’s command bunker, behind the Colonial outworks—where he invariably retired after the sunset prayer. All the fortress guns in the fixed positions on the wall were aligned as well, those of them that would bear on the target.

Irregularities—wear on the rifling of guns, slight differentials in shell loading and drag, whatever—would spread the projectiles. It ought to be an unpleasant surprise, nonetheless.

Dinnalsyn looked back at the long row of guns. “Think we’ll get him,
mi heneral
?”

“No,” Raj said. “That’s a very secure bunker. The last thing I want to do is put Tewfik in full command. But it’ll certainly get his attention, and Ali’s got a short temper. If I know my man, he’ll do something stupid.”

The limbers stood in a row five meters behind the guns, the dog teams in traces and lying down.

“Are the rafts ready?” Raj said.

“Ready and waiting, sir,” Dinnalsyn said. “The planking and decking from the pontoon bridge was exactly as much as we needed . . . I suppose that’s no coincidence?”

“You might say that,” Raj replied. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Stay ready for it.”

The last of the cavalry battalions on special duty were sitting by the wall, finishing their evening meal: beans and pigmeat and onions, dished out from kettles over camp fires and scooped up with tortillas. It was the 5th Descott. They were professionals enough to concentrate on eating, but he could feel the tension crackling off them. He walked over and made a beckoning gesture. They crowded around him and crouched or sat at his hand signal; only about three hundred fifty left—and the battalion had been at double strength when he took it west to fight the Brigade.

“All right, dog-brothers,” he said quietly. That forced them to listen carefully and lean closer; it also made each man feel as if he was talking to that one alone, as an individual. “You’ve guessed that something’s up. Two hours after sundown—”

The sun was just touching the western horizon.

“—the guns are going to cut loose with a five-round stonk. The second the last gun fires—but not before—you give the wogs five rounds rapid. Then you come back down from the wall, ride your dogs to the docks, get on the rafts and off we go.”