Hope Renewed (8 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

“Damned hot,” Tejan M’Brust said, using an end of his neckerchief to wipe his face.

“No shit,” Ludwig Bellamy replied.

He reined aside to the verge of the road, his dog stepping wearily over the ditch and hanging its head, panting, under the shade of a plane tree.

The troopers’ dogs were panting too, a massed sound like hundreds of wheezing bellows as they rode by in column of fours. A knee-high fog of dust rose from the crushed rock surface of the road; he sneezed and hawked and spat to one side. The Descotter followed suit and offered him a canteen, water with vinegar. It cut the gummy saliva and dust nicely. Bellamy drank and watched the 1st and 2nd Mounted Cruisers go by, the dogs at a fast ambling walk. Both units were under strength—they’d paid a substantial butcher’s bill in the Western Territories and hadn’t had time to recruit back to full roster yet—but they shaped well, to his critical eye. A few were even talking or joking as they rode, though most slumped a little, reins in one hand and eyes fixed on the rump of the dog ahead. The unit dressing was crisp, though.

“They’re shaping better than the Brigaderos,” M’Brust said, echoing his thought. “I don’t think there’s a regular cavalry unit better, my oath I don’t. Not even the 5th Descott.”

Ludwig nodded, grinning tiredly. His people, the Squadron, were accounted wilder than the Brigade; they’d come down from the Base Area later, and the Southern Territories they’d conquered had been a backwater. But these battalions had been longer under Messer Raj’s discipline and were first-rate material to begin with, once they had childish notions about charging with cold steel knocked out of them.

For a moment the skin between his shoulders crawled, as he remembered the Squadron host advancing into volley-fire and massed artillery. The chanting, the waving banners, the sun bright on a hundred thousand swords . . . and Raj Whitehall waiting, his men a thin blue line looking as fragile and ordered as a snowflake by comparison. Waiting, then raising his sword and chopping it downward. . . .

He shook it off, removed his helmet and let the air dry his sweat-damp hair. To their left the land rose in rocky hills, dry and shimmering with heat in the summer sun. To the right were gentle slopes, citrus orchards, and then open grain-fields with peons bending over their sickles as they reaped. The dusty yellow of the wheat was like flashes of gold through the glossy green leaves of the fruit trees. More to the point, between road and orchards passed a rock-lined irrigation channel, and a slow current of water. It was dry and intensely hot here in the southern foothills of the Oxheads—the land was sloping down toward the sand deserts of the borderlands—and the sight and sound of the water was intoxicating. He squinted at the sun, then remembered to take out his watch and click open the cover; in the Southern Territories, even wealthy nobles hadn’t carried them. There was no point; nobody needed to know the time that precisely, and they were impossible to keep repaired, anyway.

Civilization.
“Benter,” he said to the younger brother who was his aide. “Twenty minutes. Water the dogs.”

He turned and heeled his dog westwards down the line of march; behind him the cool brassy notes of the trumpet sounded, and the signalers of each company passed it back. When it reached the rear of the column the last unit halted first—you had to do it that way, or the whole mass would collide with each other, like a drunken centipede. His lips quirked at the memory of his father trying to halt a mass of Squadron warriors on the move, back when he was a boy.
That
had taken the better part of an hour, even with the paid, full-time fighters of the household guard.

The three Cruiser battalions of ex-Brigaderos were full strength . . . except for their stragglers. Teodore Welf rode up, red in the face from the heat and from embarrassment.

“Major Bellamy,” he said, saluting.

“Major Welf,” Ludwig replied, glancing past him.

They spoke Sponglish, although the Squadron and Brigade dialects of Namerique were fairly close: regulations, and it was best to stay in the habit, since more than half the officers in their units were seconded Civil Government natives like M’Brust.

Men and dogs had collapsed in the road. Others were leading their animals from the wayside to the ditch, walking slowly with their legs straddled. A few had trotted over despite their saddle sores and lay with their heads and shoulders buried in the life-giving coolness. Ludwig frowned and jerked his head toward them.

Teodore cursed and drew his sword, spurring to the ditch. “Up and out of there, you slugs!” he shouted. The flat of the weapon whacked down on shoulders. “Purify it first, damn your arse! You can’t fight with the runs!”

The soldiers stood, dripping. Officers rode up, as dust-caked as their men, and the troopers formed lines. Some led the dogs downstream; others scooped their canteens full and added the blessed purifying chlorine powder; it was a rite shared by the Spirit of Man of This Earth cult they followed and the Star Church of the Civil Government, but not all commanders were equally pious. Messer Raj insisted on the full canonical treatment—water for human drinking to be purified by powder or by ten minutes at a hard rolling boil, with no exceptions.

The Spirit favored him for it, too. It wasn’t uncommon for armies in the field to lose five men to dysentery for every one killed in combat. That didn’t happen to troops under Raj’s command.

Welf trotted back. “Sorry, Ludwig,” he said. “The Western Territories aren’t this hot.”

Ludwig nodded. The Western Territories were damned cold and rainy, to his way of thinking—his own ancestors had plowed through them on their way to the southern side of the Midworld Sea, and he was glad of it. Of course, even the Western Territories were warm and dry compared to the Base Area, which explained why the Brigade had stopped there; they’d been the first of the Military Governments to pull up stakes and move south.

“And your fine gentlemen aren’t used to sweating this hard,” he replied, smiling to take the sting out of it.

“True enough,” Welf said. He flexed the arm that had been broken by a Civil Government bullet outside Old Residence, nearly two years ago. “I’d never have dared drive them this hard, back . . . well, back then.”

Ludwig nodded. Even the troopers had been nobles of a sort back home, with a few hundred hectares and peons to do the work. Of course, that had its compensations: plenty of leisure to practice and hunt. So they were fine riders, and mostly good shots. The Brigade had armed its men with muzzle loaders, but rifled percussion muskets, not the flintlock smoothbores that had been the best his people could make or maintain.

“How’s my fair cousin?” Teodore went on.

“Marie? Still pregnant, according to the last letter,” Ludwig said. “Thank the Spirit. Otherwise she’d be trying to outdo Messa Whitehall and riding with us.”

Teodore shuddered elaborately. He turned to watch a dog-cart creak up, loaded with sunstruck Cruisers, their dogs on leading-ropes behind. “Throw some water on those!” he ordered.

Ludwig put his helmet back on. The leather-backed chainmail of the pentail thumped on his neck, and sweat from the sponge-and-cork lining ran into his hair and down his cheeks, greasy and stale.

“I’m beginning to wish we’d taken the train,” he said.

“Getting there’s half the fun,” Teodore replied, blinking red-rimmed blue eyes.

A trainload of artillery began to pull out of the East Residence station, guns and men riding on flatcars, the draft dogs in boxcars farther back from the engine. As soon as it cleared the switchpoint, the remainder of the 5th Descott jogged forward, breaking into platoons as they swarmed into the last two trains.

“Alo sinstra, waymanos!”
By the left, forward march.
Ten minutes, and the final platoon was loaded into its boxcar.

Gerrin Staenbridge looked around. “The last?” he said.

Muzzaf Kerpatik looked just as exhausted as he did. “The very last,
mi colonel
,” he said.

Staenbridge ran a hand over his chin, the sword-calluses rasping against the blueblack stubble. “Hard to believe.”
Sleep. Razors. Food.
He didn’t believe in those anymore, either.

Some sort of Palace flunky-in-uniform was wading toward him over the tracks and the litter of the three-day emergency. They’d been operating in battle mode: throw anything that breaks or isn’t needed out of the way and think about cleaning up later. That included a fair bit of broken-down rolling stock, as well as dead dogs, dead draft oxen, about fifty tons of coal that had spilled in odd spots and wasn’t worth the time and effort of collecting, and spare gear. Central Rail stevedore-slaves, dockworkers, and press-ganged clerks lay about in various stages of collapse.

But no soldiers. Every man, dog, gun, and round of ammunition was on its way east.
Spirit of man, I could sleep for a week.

If that flunky meant what he thought it did—another message from some hysterical fool in the Palace who wanted his hand held—he’d be
talking
for a week. The people up on the First Hill hadn’t grown any less terrified of Ali over the last couple of days, and they were still given to brainstorms, most of which started and ended with keeping more troops around to protect their own precious personal fundaments. If he’d wanted to listen to bleating, he would have stayed at home on the family estate and herded sheep.

“See you in Sandoral,” he said to the little Komarite, and ran for the second train.

It was moving as he clamped his saber hand on an iron bracket and swung up onto the rear platform. This car had been tacked on at the last minute; it was the type used to carry railroad company guards through bandit country, with bunks and a cookstove inside. He’d found it parked on a siding, and be damned if he wasn’t going to keep it all to himself; that way he’d stand some chance of getting a little sleep in the fifty hours or so it would take to get to Sandoral. There was some hardtack and dried sausage in his duffel—

The smell of curry startled him as he opened the rear door of the guardcar; his stomach growled a reminder of how long it had been since he ate. Fatima cor Staenbridge—the
cor
meant freedwoman—glanced around from the little stove.

“Ready in a minute, Gerrin,” she said.

He opened his mouth to roar, thought better of it, and sat down, sighing and unbuckling his sword belt.
My own damned fault.
He’d rescued the girl during the sack of El Djem more or less on impulse; rather, she’d picked Bartin Foley to rescue her from a gang of Descotter troopers bent on gang rape, and he’d helped out. He’d
kept
her on impulse, too; Bartin had needed some experience with women—a nobleman had to marry and carry on his line eventually, whatever his personal tastes. She’d managed to keep up in the nightmare retreat through the desert, after Tewfik mousetrapped them, which demanded some respect; she’d also gotten pregnant—whether by him or Bartin was a moot point and no matter—which was more than the wife he visited once a year for duty’s sake had managed to do.

“Imp,” he said.

She stuck out her tongue at him and handed him the plate.
Spirit, she’s still only twenty.
He’d freed her, of course, and acknowledged the child—two, now—his wife hadn’t objected at all, since by Civil Government law he could divorce her for not giving him an heir. The children had to stay with her back on the estate most of the time after they were weaned, of course, as was fitting.

He began shoveling down the fiery curry, washing it down with water and a surprisingly drinkable red. Drinkable compared to ration issue, that was.
And to think I was accounted a gourmet once,
he thought. Polo, hunting, balls, theater, fine uniforms and parades and good restaurants, handsome youths, witty conversation . . . surprising how little he’d missed them, in the five years since Raj Whitehall had been given command of the 5th Descott and sent out to teach the wogs not to raid the Civil Government borders.

I resented him then,
he mused. Gerrin had been senior . . . but he’d needed a commander to bring out his best. A furious perfection of willpower possessed Raj; Gerrin could recognize it without in the least desiring to have it himself.
And it’s never been boring.
Back then, he’d been so bored he’d fiddled the battalion accounts out of sheer ennui.

He finished the plate. Fatima was sitting on the edge of the bunk, eyes demurely cast down; a good imitation of humility.
What an actress. The stage lost something when she was born Colonial.
Natural talent, he supposed, plus being hand-in-glove with Suzette Whitehall in her impressionable years.

Gerrin sighed again. As far as he was concerned, sex with women was like eating plain boiled rice without butter or salt—possible, but . . .
On the other hand.
A soldier learned to make do with what was at hand; when all you had was boiled rice, that was what you ate.

The mournful sound of the locomotive whistle echoed through the night. It was evening, and twilight was falling over the rolling hills of the Upper Hemmar River. To their right the last sunlight glittered on the surface of the river below, like a ribbon of hammered silver tracing its way through the darkening fields. The same light caught the three-meter wings of a pterosauroid as it soared over the water, gilding the naked skin and the short plush white fur of its body. Higher, the hills were dusty-green with olive trees, or carpeted with vines in their summer lushness. Terraced fields of barley were brown-gold on the lower slopes; cypresses and eucalyptus lined the dusty white streaks of roadway and surrounded the whitewashed adobe of villas.

Raj looked up from the maps. Center could provide better, holographic projections with all the information you needed, but he’d been raised with paper and it still had something the visions lacked. His father had taught him to read maps, going around Hillchapel—the Whitehall family estate, back in Smythe Parish, Descott County—with compass and the Ordinance Survey, until he learned to see the ground and the markings as one.

“
Sentahvo
for your thoughts, my heart,” Suzette said.