CHAPTER THREE
Governor Barholm stood while the servants stripped off the heavy robes; apart from Raj, they were the only people in the chamber who didn’t look terrified . . . and they didn’t have to watch the Governor’s face. A sicklefoot had that sort of expression, just before it pivoted and slashed open its prey’s belly with the four-inch dewclaw on one hind foot.
The Negrin Room was three centuries old. Walls were pale stone, traced over with delicate murals of reeds and flying dactosauroids and waterfowl; there was only one small Star, a token obeisance to religion as had been common in that impious age. The heads of the Ministries were there: Chancellor Tzetzas, of course; General Fiydel Klostermann, Master of Soldiers; Bernardinho Rivadavia, the Minister of Barbarians; Mihwel Berg of the Administrative Service; Gharzia, Commander of Eastern Forces. The courier from the east as well.
It was strange not to see Lady Anne Clerett, the Governor’s wife. Barholm didn’t have anyone he really trusted now that she was dead, and it was affecting his judgment.
“Heldeyz,” Barholm snapped. “Give us the report, man.”
Ministerial couriers were men of some rank themselves, but it was still strange how unintimidated Heldeyz looked, even facing the stark fury in Barholm Clerett’s eyes. His own were fixed and distant, in a face still seamed by trail dust.
Barholm went on fretfully: “I don’t know why Ali has done this. The treaty after the last war was generous to a fault—particularly since we won the war. The gifts of friendship . . .”
observe:
Sweating slaves heaved at bundles of iron bars, heaping them on the flatbed rail-cars and lashing them down. One slipped and fell to the paving stones of East Residence’s main station. A bar snapped across; as a clerk bustled over a guard rolled the broken end beneath his boot.
“Spirit,” he said in a tone of mild curiosity. The interior of the fracture showed a gray texture. “That’s not wrought iron, it’s cast.”
Cast iron came straight from the smelting furnace; it was hard, brittle and full of impurities. Only after treatment in a puddling mill did it become the ductile, easily worked material so valuable for machinery and tools.
The clerk cleared his throat. “I think you’ll find,” he said significantly, “that the Chancellor has inspected the manifests quite carefully.”
The guard grinned; he was a thin man with a long nose and a pockmarked face, an East Residencer by birth with all the ingrained respect for a good swindle that marked that breed. He brushed his thumb over the first three fingers of his right hand. The clerk smiled back.
“Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said. “I think you’ll find that quality, quantity, and delivery dates on our tribute—pardon, our gifts of friendship—to the Colony have been below the Treaty terms.”
Figures scrolled before his eyes, and he read them in an emotionless monotone worthy of Center.
Barholm blinked. He turned his eyes on Tzetzas, and a fine beading of sweat broke out on the Chancellor’s olive face. “Sole Autocrat,” the minister said, spreading his hands. “When contracts are handed out, something always sticks—so many layers of oversight, so many hands—you know—”
The Governor’s fist struck the table. Gold-rimmed kave cups bounced and clattered in their saucers.
“I know who’s responsible for seeing that the payments were met!” he roared; suddenly there was the slightest trace of Descott County rasp in his Sponglish. “You fool, I don’t expect you to work for your salary alone, but I did expect you to know enough not to piss in our own well! D’you have any idea what this war is going to cost in lost taxes and off-budget funding?”
He paused, and when he continued his voice was calm. “You’d better have some idea, because you’re going to pay the overage—personally.”
“Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said. “Right now, I think we’d better concern ourselves with the state of the garrisons on the Drangosh frontier.”
Barholm snapped his fingers. “Gurnyca had a garrison of—”
“Ten thousand men, Sole Autocrat,” Mihwel Berg said helpfully. “At least, ten thousand on the paybooks.”
Chancellor Tzetzas busied himself with his papers. When Barholm spoke, it was to General Gharzia.
“General,” he said, his voice soft and even, “tell me—and if you lie, it would be better for you if you had never been born—how many troops were actually on the strength of the Gurnyca garrison? In what condition?”
Gharzia licked his lips, going gray under the tanned olive of his skin. “Two thousand, Sovereign Mighty Lord. In . . . ah, poor condition.”
Somebody had been collecting the pay of the missing eight thousand. All eyes turned to the Chancellor.
The ruler turned back to the courier from the east. “Now, Messer Heldeyz,” he said evenly. “Your report, please.”
“Yes, Sole Autocrat.”
Heldeyz stared at his hands. “I met the Colonials fifty klicks south of Gurnyca,” he began. “They—”
observe, Center said:
Terrible as an army with banners. Bartin Foley had quoted that to Raj, once; it was a fragment of Old Namerique, from the codices that survived the Fall.
There were plenty of banners in the forefront of the Colonial host that crossed the Drangosh. The green flag of Islam, marked with the crescent, or with the house blazons of regiments and noble amirs. The peacock-tail of the Settlers; that meant Ali was present in person. And a black pennant marked with the Seal of Solomon in red. Tewfik. Ali’s brother, disqualified from the Settler’s throne because of the eye he’d lost in the Zanj Wars, but the Colony’s right arm nonetheless.
Raj recognized the terrain instantly; he’d campaigned out east himself, five years ago. Generations of the Civil Government’s soldiers had taken their blooding in that ghastly lunar landscape of eroded silt, and all too many left their bones there. Just north of the border and the river forts, by the look of it, in one of the locations where the right—the western—bank was too high for irrigation. In consequence nothing grew there, except for a few bluish-green native shrubs.
The oily-looking greenish-gray waters of the Drangosh were a kilometer and a half across. A bridge of boats had been built across it, big river-barges of the type used for trade up and down the river from Sandoral to Al Kebir and the far-off Colonial Gulf. Good engineering, Raj thought; as good as the Civil Government’s army, or a little better. The barges were lashed together with huge sisal cables as thick as a man’s waist; then timbers and planks were laid across to make a deck, and pounded clay half a meter thick on top of that to give the men and animals a firm surface. There were even straw balustrades on either side, chest high, to keep the beasts from spooking at the water curling up around the blunt prows of the barges.
Men flowed across in a steady stream: Colonial dragoon tabors, battalions, riding in column of fours, mainly. Mounted on slender Bazenjis and greyhounds, lever-action repeating carbines in scabbards by their right knees, scimitars or yataghans at their belts, bandoliers over the chests of their faded scarlet djellabas. The sun glittered on the polished spikes of their conical helmets, and the pugarees wound about them fluttered in the breeze. Between the blocks of cavalry came guns: light pompoms, quick-firers throwing a two-kilo shell from a clip magazine; field guns, much like the Civil Government’s 75mms; and heavier pieces drawn by oxen. Those were cast-steel muzzle-loading rifles, heavy pieces up to 150mm, siege guns. And there was transport, light dog-drawn two-wheel carts, heavy wagons pulled by sixteen pair of oxen.
Officers directed the traffic with flourishes of their nine-tailed ceremonial whips, each thong tipped with a piece of jagged steel.
Where— Raj thought. Center’s viewpoint shifted to the western bank.
In the Colony’s army, as in the Civil Government’s, infantry were usually second-line troops, good enough to hold forts and lines of communication. Ali—Tewfik, probably—had sent his over first, and they were hard at work. Swarms of men stripped to their loincloths or pantaloons, burned from their natural light brown to an almost black color, swinging picks and shoveling dirt into the baskets others hauled. They moved over the land like disciplined ants, and a pentagonal earthwork fortress was rising around the western end of the pontoon bridge. A fairly formidable one, too; deep ditch, ten-meter walls, ravelins and bastions at the corners with deep V-notches for the muzzles of the guns. The Colony’s green flag and the Settler’s peacock already flapped around a huge pavilion-tent in its center. Within, ditched roadways had been laid out, and neat rows of pup tents, heaps of stores, and picket-lines for the dogs were rising.
Enough for—
“Sixty thousand men,” Raj said. “Fifty thousand cavalry, ten thousand infantry or a little more to hold the bridgehead.”
Heldeyz stopped, flustered. “Yes, heneralissimo,” he said; evidently the news of Raj’s demotion hadn’t reached the eastern marches yet. “That’s my estimate. How did you know?”
“Logistics. If Ali’s planning on moving as far north as Sandoral, that’s the maximum number he can supply overland from the bridgehead. Our forts at the border can hold out for six months or more, even if the Colony put in a full attack—which they won’t or they couldn’t put that large a field army into action. They’ll have blockforces around the frontier strongpoints, but they can’t use river transport to supply Ali. So they moved north and crossed upstream of the forts.”
Both the Colony and the Civil Government had put generations of effort into those defenses. The giant cast-steel rifles in the forts would smash anything that tried to steam past them on the river. That ruled out supply by riverboat.
“Ali—Tewfik—must have built a railroad line to the east bank,” Raj said. “But on the western shore, it’ll be animal transport. Even with what they can forage, no more than fifty thousand men and riding dogs. They wouldn’t bring less, not for a full-scale invasion, and they couldn’t feed more.”
Barholm shot Raj a considering look. “Go on,” he said to Heldeyz.
The courier nodded. “I met—”
observe, Center whispered in Raj’s mind:
Heldeyz knelt before a throne. It was lightly built, of cast bronze fretwork, but inlaid with gold and gems in a pattern that flared out behind the seat like a peacock’s tail. A man in shimmering cloth-of-gold sat on it. Throne and man glittered when stray beams of light penetrated the lacework canopy that slaves held above it; a spray of peacock feathers sprang from the great ruby in the clasp at the front of his turban. Around the Settler stood generals and noblemen, a few Bedouin chiefs in goathair robes and ha’ik, mullahs in black, servants with flasks of iced sherbert, crouching clerks and accountants with paper and pen and abacus. None of them came within the ring of guardsmen, black slave-mamluks with great curved swords naked in their hands, or bell-mouthed riot guns at the ready.
“Your master, the kaphar king, has offended me grievously,” Ali said, speaking fair Sponglish. “He has violated the terms of our treaty . . . and my father’s blood cries out for vengeance. No duty is more sacred. Yet Allah, the Merciful, the Lovingkind, enjoins us to peaceful deeds.”
Ali’s face was heavy-featured but regular, the curved beak of the nose dominating, offset by full red lips and a forked beard. His eyes were large and brown, luminous and somehow disturbing. Apart from an occasional twitching tic of his right cheek, the expression was one of mild reason.
An officer approached, going down on both knees and bowing until the point of his helmet-spike touched the glowing Al Kebir carpets that covered the ground before the Settler’s pavilion and campaign-throne.
“Amir el Mumineen, Commander of the Faithful, the infidel emissaries from the city of Gurnyca crave the honor of your presence.”
Ali’s eyebrows rose slightly. He leaned back in the portable throne, and servants stepped forward to spray rosewater from crystal ewers through rubber bulbs. He sipped sherbert from a glass globe through a silver straw and waited.
“By all means, let them enter,” he said gently.
The delegates ignored Heldeyz, prone on the carpet before the Settler. There were half a dozen of them, mostly in the dress of wealthy merchants, one in Civil Government uniform. They threw themselves prostrate; a gesture that only the ruler of the Gubernio Civil was legally due. In fact, it was forbidden to any other on penalty of death, but the Governor was in East Residence, and Ali was very much present before their gates with fifty thousand men.
“Sovereign lord,” the head of the delegation mumbled into the carpet; he was an elderly man, sweating in the heat, the wattles under his chin sliding down into the expensive but dust-stained silver lace of his cravat. “Spare us.”
Well, thought Raj. That’s straightforward enough.
“Surely,” the alcalle of Gurnyca said, “we may make amends to Your Supremacy for any offense we have unwittingly given. We are but poor merchants, not the lords of State. We have no knowledge of high matters. Yet if wrong has been done you, we are willing to pay. Surely there can be peace—who would benefit from war?”
Ali smiled. “There may be peace, if God wills. There is but one God, and all things are accomplished according to the will of God.” He nodded, and added in his own tongue: “Salaam, insh’allah.”
One ringed hand stroked his beard, and he flicked a finger at a clerk. “You spoke of payment. The tribute from you kaphar ingrates is in arrears to the extent of—”
“—twenty-one hundred thousand gold dinars, O Lion of Islam,” the clerk said. “That is not counting interest on late payments at—”
“Silence,” Ali purred, a lethal amusement in his voice. “Am I a merchant, to haggle? By all means, if this is made good, let there be peace.”
Even under the Colonial guns, that brought a wail of protest. “Lord, Lord,” the alcalle said. “We are but one city! There is not that much gold in all Gurnyca, not if we stripped the dome of the cathedron and the fillings from our teeth.”
“Both of which,” Ali pointed out genially, “will be done if the city is put to the sack.” He raised a hand. “It is the time of prayer. Surely, we may speak again of this later; and you shall return to your city with an escort and safe passage. In the morning, I shall give my final decision.”
The scene shifted, the sun dropping toward the horizon and both moons high, looking like translucent glass against the bright stars. Date palms and orange groves stood in darkening shadow as the Gurnyca elders and Heldeyz rode their dogs through the belt of irrigated land surrounding the city. Water chuckled in the canals that bordered the fields, oxen lowed, but there was no sight or sound of human beings, no smoke from the whitewashed huts of the peasantry. Fields lay empty, scattered with tossed-aside hoes and pruning hooks; a manor stood ghostly among its gardens, with only the raucous sound of a peacock strutting along the tiled portico.
Frontier reflexes, Raj thought grimly. They know when to make a bolt for the walls.
There were no buildings or trees within a half-kilometer of the fortifications, only pasture and field crops; and the city defenses were first-rate. Raj remembered them well from the archives, which he’d memorized long before Center entered his life. Modernized a century ago, and then again in his father’s time. A clear field of fire, good moat, new-style walls sunk behind it, low and massive. Ravelins and bastions at frequent intervals, giving murderous enfilade fire all along the circuit, with a strong central citadel near the water. The guns were cast-iron muzzle-loaders like most fortress artillery, but formidable and numerous; there were some very up-to-date rifled pieces among them.
Resolutely held by a strong garrison, the city could have held for months against the Colonial army—and it would be impossible to bypass. Taking it by siege would require full-scale entrenchments, pushing artillery positions forward inch by bloody inch, escalade trenches, until enough heavy howitzers were close to the wall and you could pound it flat. Even then, storming it would be brutally expensive. By that time, the Civil Government would have had time to mobilize its field armies in the East and march to the city’s relief. It was a strategy that had worked a dozen times in the endless eastern wars.
If the garrison was up to strength and competently led.
Center’s viewpoint switched to the escort, a full half-battalion of them, two hundred and fifty men. They didn’t look particularly impressive at first sight, dark bearded men, many with the tails of their pugarees drawn across their faces like veils. Raj looked for telltale signs: their hands, the wear on the hilts of scimitars and carbines, the way they sat their dogs, how often they had to check or spur to keep their dressing.
These lads have been to school. Their commander was a stocky man, one of the ones with the tail-end of his turban drawn across his face. Scars seamed the backs of his hands, and another gouged down from forehead to nose . . .
. . . and his eye was unmoving on that side. Tewfik. Raj cursed to himself. With a glass eye for once, rather than his trademark patch. He’d met the Colonial commander once, in a parley before the Battle of Sandoral, four years ago. What’s he doing there? It was a job for a minor emir, not the commander-in-chief.
An image flickered through Raj’s consciousness, tinged somehow with irony: himself, leading the 2nd Cruisers through the tunnel under Lion City’s walls.
Point taken, Raj noted dryly.
The white dust of the road shone ruddy with the setting sun, streaked with the long shadow of the tall cypresses planted by its side. They came to the outer gatehouse of the city’s defenses, where the highway crossed the moat on stone arches. Civil Government troops opened the iron portals: infantrymen, slovenly-looking even for footsoldiers. Raj ground his teeth at the rust on one man’s rifle barrel. They eyed the Colonial troops with the prickly nervousness of a cat watching a pack of large dogs through a window. Heldeyz saluted their officer and opened his mouth to speak.
Tewfik drew his revolver and shot the man in the face.
A red spearhead seemed to connect the Arab’s hand and the guard officer’s nose for an instant, and then the footsoldier jerked backward as if kicked in the face by an ox. His helmet rang against the stone of the gatehouse, the last fraction of the clank lost in the snapping bark of carbines as the Colonials cut loose with their repeaters. They boiled forward, screaming in a wild falsetto screech. One of the Civil Government soldiers managed to get a round off, the deeper boom of his single-shot rifle painful in the confined space. Then he went down under a Colonial officer’s yataghan, still stabbing upward with his bayonet.
The fight in the gateway lasted bare seconds, leaving Heldeyz and the city fathers sitting their dogs and gaping at the litter of bodies. Puffs of off-white smoke drifted by; the Colonials were wasting no time. Dozens of them stuck their carbines through gunslits in the doors and fired blind, as fast as they could work the levers, sending a lethal hail of the light bullets to ricochet off the stone walls within. Hand-bombs and axes pounded the doors open. The rest of the Colonial force formed a dense four-deep firing line at the inner gate, thumbing reloads from their bandoliers into the loading gates of their weapons. Heldeyz’s head whipped around at the high shrill scream of a Colonial bugle.
Mounted men were pouring out of the orchards that ringed the city, spurring their dogs. The animals bounded forward at a dead run, covering the ground in huge soaring leaps as they galloped with heads down and hind legs coming up nearly to their ears on every jump. Rough hands threw the courier aside as the column poured into the strait confines of the gatehouse and broke out into the cleared ground beyond; a battery of pompoms followed, their long barrels jerking wildly as the gunners lashed their dogs. Iron wheels sparked on the paving stones, and behind them the roadway was red with crimson djellabas . . .
Barholm’s fist hit the table as the courier’s words stumbled into silence. He didn’t have Center’s holographic visions to flesh them out, but there was nothing wrong with his wits.
“They knew the wogs were there in force and they didn’t keep a better guard than that?” he said.
“Sole Autocrat, the garrison was under-strength and badly trained,” Raj said quietly. “In any case, they paid for their folly.”
“Yes,” Heldeyz said, his eyes remote. “They paid.”
observe, Center said.
The scimitar flashed in the sun. A heavy thack sounded, with the harsher wet popping of fresh bone underneath. The alcalle’s head rolled free; his body collapsed from its kneeling position, heavy jets of arterial blood splashing into the reddish mud that stained the ground. Clouds of flies lifted, then settled again. The executioner flourished his heavy two-handed curved sword ritually.
The smoke from the burning buildings covered the smell, even from the pyramid of heads the Settler’s mamluks were building beside the outer gate. Few of the chained coffles of Gurnycians marching out paid much attention to it; their faces were mostly blank, eyes to the ground. Mounted Colonial guards urged them on with snaps of the kourbash, the long sauroid-hide whip. They were the lucky ones: pretty women, strong young men, craftsmen, and children old enough to survive the trip south to the markets of Al Kebir.
Ali pointed. “No, cut that one’s throat,” he said, indicating a Star priest with a thin white beard. The executioner lowered his sword.
The old man’s eyes were closed; he was praying quietly as the black-robed mamluk stepped up behind him and drew the curved dagger. Ali giggled when the body toppled thrashing to the ground.
“The halall,” he said, sputtering laughter. The ritual throat-cutting that made meat clean for Muslims to eat. “Is it not fitting, for these beasts?”
Raj noted a mullah’s lips tightening at the blasphemy. Nobody spoke.
The good humor on Ali’s face turned gelid as he gripped Heldeyz’s face in his hand and turned it to the heaps of severed heads.
“Do you see, infidel?” he screamed. “Do you see?”
A portly man in a green turban shoved his way through the crowd. A string of prisoners followed him, mostly girls in their early teens, with a few younger boys. He prostrated himself.
“Oh guardian of the sacred ka’ba, you wished—” he began in a falsetto voice.
Ali released the Civil Government courier. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. His hand flicked to a girl and a boy. “Those two, and don’t bother me again before the evening meal.” He jerked his head at his guards. “Come. Bring the pig-eating kaphar.”
Wagons took up most of the roadway, oxen lowing under the load. Inside, in the cleared space within the walls that Civil Government law commanded, were huge heaps of spoils; officers were directing the troopers as they piled it in neatly classified heaps. Cloth, metalware, tools, coin, precious vessels from the Star churches and temples . . . Beyond, only a few buildings still stood. As Heldeyz watched, a merchant’s townhouse collapsed inward about the burning rafters, the thick adobe walls crumbling like mud. A ground-shaking thump, and the great dome of the Star temple followed; Raj recognized the sound of blasting charges.
“See, unbeliever,” Ali went on. “The pig and son of pigs Barholm—it was not enough that he cheated me of the blood-price of my father’s death, he expected me—me—Ali ibn’Jamal, to sit among the women and do nothing while he conquered all the world. Conquered all the world, then turned on me! Turned on the Faithful! No, kaphar, Ali ibn’Jamal, Guardian of Sinar, Settler of the House of Islam, is not such a fool as that.
“Tell Barholm I am coming for him.” Ali’s mouth was jerking, and his voice rose to a shrill scream. “Tell him I have something for him!”
Colonial soldiers were setting a sharpened stake in the ground. They dragged out the Arch-Sysup Hierarch of the Diocese of Gurnyca. He was a portly man, flabby in middle age, stripped to his silk underdrawers. The black giants holding his arms scarcely lost a step when he collapsed at the sight of the waiting impaling stake . . .
Silence fell around the table. At last, General Klosterman cleared his throat.
“Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt as to Ali’s intentions,” he said.
Barholm nodded abstractedly. “General Klosterman, how long would it take to mobilize all available field forces and meet the Colonists in strength?”
Klosterman paled. Master of Soldiers was an administrative post, but it did give the elderly officeholder a good grasp of the state of the Civil Government’s defenses.
“Lord, Ali has fifty thousand of his first-line troops with him. If we summoned all available cavalry, we couldn’t field half that in time to meet him south of Sandoral, or even south of the Oxhead Mountains . . . and forgive me, Sovereign Mighty Lord, but the troops we could summon would not be in good heart.”
observe, said Center.
This time Center’s projections started with a map. Raj recognized it, a terrain rendering of the Civil Government’s eastern provinces. The Oxhead Mountains ran east-west, then hooked up northward; north of it was the sparsely settled central plateau, and to the south and east was the upper valley of the Drangosh and its tributary. That was densely settled in part, where irrigation was possible; elsewhere arid grazing country, with scattered villages around springs in the foothills.
Colored blocks moved, arrows showing their lines of advance. He nodded to himself; so and so many days to muster, supplies, roadways, the few railroad lines. Twenty thousand men maximum, perhaps thirty thousand if you counted the ordinary infantry garrisons called up from their land grants. And . . .
Men in blue and maroon uniforms fled, beating at their dogs with the flats of their sabers or with riding whips. A ragged square stood on a hill, with the Star banner at its center. Black puffballs of smoke burst over the tattered ranks, shellbursts, and Colonial field guns hammered giant shotgun blasts of canister in at point-blank range. Men splashed away from the shot in wedges. A line of mounted dragoons drew their scimitars in unison, flashing in the bright southern sun. Five battalions, Raj estimated with an expert eye. Twenty-five hundred men. Trumpets shrilled, and the scimitars rested on the riders’ shoulders. Walk-march. Trot. The blades came down. Gallop. Charge. A single long volley blew gaps in their line, and they were over the thin Civil Government square. The Star banner went down. . . .
“Lord,” Klosterman went on, “with humility, my advice is that we throw as many men into Sandoral and the eastern cities as we can. Ali cannot take them quickly.”
Tzetzas spoke for the first time. “But he could bypass them,” he said.
Raj nodded silently, conscious of eyes glancing at him sidelong.
observe, said Center.
From horizon to horizon, the land burned; ripe wheat flared like tinder under the summer sun, sending clouds of red-shot black into the sky. Denser columns marked the sites of villages and manor-houses. In an orchard, peasants worked under Colonial guns, ringbarking the trees and piling burning bundles of straw against their roots.
A flicker, and he was outside a city: Melaga, from the look of the olive-covered hills around it. Raw red earth marked the siegeworks about it, a circumvallation with a high wall topped by a palisade. Zigzag works wormed inward from there, each ending in a redoubt protected by earth-filled wicker baskets. Swarms of men hauled cannon forward and dug at the earth. Guns boomed from the city walls, and men died in the siegeworks, but more took their places. Howitzers lobbed their shells into the sky, the fuses drawing trails of smoke and fire until they burst within the walls . . .
“No, that would be far too uncertain,” Tzetzas went on. “Instead, well, the treasury is unusually full. We could offer Ali twice, three times the previous tribute.”
Barholm snorted. “After we shorted him on the last agreement? I can just see him quietly going back to Al Kebir, demobilizing his army and waiting for the gold to arrive.”
“Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Heldeyz said, “he’s not here for gold. He’s here for blood. He’s . . . he’s not going to be bought off. You have to see him—”
ali would agree to the increased tribute, but remain on civil government soil, probability 97%, ±2. observe, said Center.
“Filth!” Ali screamed. He strode through the pavilions, kicking over platters filled with whole roast lambs, rice pillaus, fruits, and ices. “You call this a feast of welcome! Filth!”
The syndics of the town shrank backward, looking around with the instinctive gesture of men in a trap with no exit.
“That pig Barholm, that two-dinar Descotter hill chief who calls himself a conqueror, it isn’t enough he makes me wait for my tribute, but he insults me too.”
Ali stopped, smiled, relaxed. The expression was far more frightening than the bloodthirsty madness of a minute before.
“Well then, we’ll have to show the kaphar what it means to insult the Commander of the Faithful, won’t we?” he went on.
He eyed the assembled syndics with much the same expression that a farmwife would have, standing in the yard and fingering her knife as she selected a stewing pullet.
observe:
A younger Ali knelt behind a girl. Gardens bloomed around them, thick with flowers and softly murmurous with bees; the stars shone above, the only light on the rippling water of the fountain save for a few discreet lanterns. Ali had a hand on the girl’s neck, pushing her face below the surface of the water as he thrust into her. He let her rise for an instant, long enough to take one breath and scream.
It bubbled out as he pushed her down again. Her hands beat against the marble of the pool’s rim, leaving bloody streaks on the carved stone.
observe:
Ali sat at a chessboard, across from a grave white-bearded man. The pieces were carved from sauroid ivory and black jadeite; they played seated on cushions of cloth-of-gold, beneath a fretted bronze pergola that served as support for a huge vine of sambuca jasmine. A slender girl naked except for the filmy veil that hid half her face poured cut-crystal goblets full of iced sherbert. Droplets of condensation stood out on the silver ewer.
“Checkmate, Prince of the Faithful,” the older man said. “Congratulations. This is your best game yet.”
Ali looked down at the chessboard, his lips moving as he traced out the possible movements. When he moved, it was so swiftly that the serving girl had time for only the beginning of a scream.
His hand grasped the cadi’s white beard, and the dagger slashed it across. He threw the tuft of hair in the older man’s face.
“Sauroid-lover,” he screamed. “You dare to insult me?”
The old man drew himself up. “You forget yourself, Ali,” he said. “I am appointed by the Settler to guide your footsteps. You must learn restraint—”
Ali moved again, very quickly. The curved dagger in his hand was hilted with silver and pearls, but the blade was layer-forged Sinnar steel, sharp enough to part a drifting silk thread. It sliced more than halfway through the cadi’s throat. The old man turned, his blood arching out in a spraying stream of red across the priceless silk of the cushions and the white body of the girl. Ali stood silent, panting, watching the body tumble down the alabaster steps of the gazebo. Then he turned toward the servant, smiling. Blood ran down his mustaches, and speckled his lips.
observe:
Ali sat on the Peacock Throne of the Settlers, in a vaulted room whose ceiling was an intertwining mass of calligraphy picked out in gold, the thousand and one names of Allah, the Merciful, the Lovingkind. From a glass bull’s-eye at the apex, light streamed down, mellow and gold, to the tessellated marble floor. Guards stood motionless around the walls of the great circular chamber. Others dragged a man forward; he was stripped to his baggy pantaloons, a hard-muscled man in his thirties with a close-cropped beard and a great beak of a nose.
“Greetings, Akbar my brother,” Ali called jovially. “How good, how very good to see your face again!”
The Settler’s brother drew himself up and spat on the marbled floor. “You have won, Ali,” he said disdainfully. “Yours is the Peacock Throne. Bring out the irons and have done.”
“Irons?” Ali said.
That was the traditional punishment for the losers, when a dead Settler’s brothers fought for the throne. Only a man complete in his limbs and organs could be Commander of the Faithful; Tewfik was disqualified because he had lost an eye in battle. A red-hot iron fulfilled the same purpose.
“Irons?” Ali said again. “Oh, may Allah requite me if I should put out the eyes of one born of the same seed, of Jamal our father.”
Eunuchs brought out a stout iron framework, like a high bedstead with manacles at each corner. Akbar began to bellow and thrash; the guards held him down with remorseless strength while the plump, smooth-faced eunuchs snapped the steel cuffs around wrist and ankle.
“Shaitan will gnaw your soul in hell if you shed a brother’s blood!” Akbar yelled.
Ali stood and made a gesture. The guards saluted with fist to brow, and marched out of the great chamber.
“I? Shed your blood? Never, my brother.”
Ali stood by the iron rack, stroking his beard. He pulled a handkerchief from one sleeve of his pearl-sewn robe and made as if to wipe his brother’s face; when the other man opened his mouth to shout a curse Ali deftly stuffed the length of silk into it.
“There. It is unmannerly to interrupt the Settler. Do you not remember, brother, how you boasted to your captains during our brief, unfortunate civil strife—how you boasted to them that I should be sent into exile on an island in the Zanj Sea with only a mute crone to attend me? That a . . . how did you phrase it? A perverted bastard son of a diseased sheep like me did not deserve the delights of the hareem, and that the pearl-breasted beauties who served me would be shared among your amirs.”
He clapped his hands. A line of women filed into the throne room, the long robes of their chadors brushing the floor and the sleeves hiding their hands.
Ali turned. “Zufika, Aisha,” he said. “All of you—hide not the light of your faces.”
Obediently, they dropped the filmy black cloaks to the floor. Several of them were carrying long slim knives; two bore a charcoal brazier between them, holding the metal frame with iron tongs. Others set a stool by the iron frame. Ali sank down with a satisfied sigh.
“No, I shall not shed a drop of your blood,” he said. “But you surprise me, with this unseemly conduct. Don’t you know it is unfitting for an entire male to look on the faces of the Settler’s women?”
Zufika came forward, the knife in her hand. “Attend to it, my sweet one.”
Through the gag, Akbar began to scream.
“Sovereign Mighty Lord,” Raj said quietly.
Silence fell; even Barholm checked himself, dropping the finger he’d been wagging under Chancellor Tzetzas’ nose.
“With your permission, lord, I’ll take command in the East. Superseding the Commander of Eastern Forces and the garrison commandants.”
There were nods all around the table, even from Gharzia. Right now the high command in the east was the sort of honor you took with you to an unmarked grave.
“And I’ll take seven thousand cavalry to the border.”
“Ridiculous—”
“That’ll strip the garrisons of—”
“D’you want Ali to march right into East Residence—”
Raj raised his hand. “Sovereign Mighty Lord, the troops are on their way to East Residence as we speak. Most of the garrison of the Western Territories. Veteran fighters, the cream of our armies.”
Barholm looked at him narrow-eyed. And the soldiers most loyal to you. The thought needed no words.
“That’s forty-five hundred men, perhaps a little more. I’ll take another two thousand of the Brigaderos prisoners who’ve been reequipped and organized along Civil Government lines, and some of the battalions who were with me in the Southern Territories campaign and are now attached to the Residence Area command.”
Gharzia was scribbling on his pad. “Heneralissimo—” he began, giving Raj the title he’d been formally stripped of “—that’ll still leave you well below Ali’s numbers, discounting his infantry and line-of-communications troops. Shouldn’t we pull back more of the Southern and Western Territories garrisons?”
Raj spread his hands. They were brown with sun, battered and nicked and callused from swords and reins, as out of place in this quiet elegant room as the man himself.
“That would take too long. Messers, Sole Autocrat, we don’t have the time. Please understand, no matter what I do, the border area is going to get the worst working-over it’s had in a century or more.”
observe, Center said.
—and Colonial dragoons rode through a Borderer hamlet, tossing torches through the windows. Fire belched back, red flames and sooty smoke turning the whitewash black above the openings. Here and there a limestone lintel burned with white-hot fire as it sublimed.
—the last of a line of Arabs picked himself up off a woman and adjusted his robe. She lay motionless in the dust of the street, eyes empty, spittle running down from the corner of her mouth. The Colonial kicked her in the ribs, then called an order to the others. He had the crossed lines of a naik, a corporal, on the sleeve of his djellaba. Two of the troopers picked the woman up by the ankles and wrists, grunting at the limp dead weight. The naik jerked a thumb, and they dumped their semi-conscious victim head-first down the well.
—bursting charges spouted plumes of smoke and rock and pulverized dirt across the massive sloping front of the dam. It stretched two hundred meters across a U-shaped valley amid dry rocky hills, a stone-paved road on its top and stone and iron gates at one side where the tumbling water of the flume was channeled into a canal. For long moments nothing seemed to happen, and then water sprouted from the surface where the explosives had been laid. It gouted like erupting geysers, turning to rainbow splendor at the edges under the bright noon light. The sappers whooped and danced as the rushing torrent eroded the earthwork of the dam like a lump of sugar under a spout of hot tea. Then the earth shuddered as the dam collapsed in earnest, and the lake headed downstream in a roaring wall of brown silt and tumbling rocks.
“Yes, yes,” Barholm said. The other advisors were silent as the two Descotters met each other’s eyes.
“I think I can retrieve the situation,” Raj said calmly. “Provided, of course, I have my Governor’s full confidence. Do I have your confidence, my lord?”
Barholm’s lips tightened. “Yes, yes,” he said again. He snapped his fingers for a parchment, wrote, signed, extended his hand for the Gubernatorial seal. It thwacked into the purple wax with an angry sound.
He pushed it across the polished flamegrain wood of the table. Raj picked it up. It was a delegation of viceregal power, requiring all officers and officials of the Civil Government to tender him full cooperation—rare for a commander sent out into the barbaricum, unheard-of within the borders.
If I smash the Colonials, Raj thought—unlikely as that seemed right now—that’ll be the last strong opponent the Civil Government faces. He’d reconquered the Southern and Western Territories; the Base Area was far away, and the Zanj states of the Southern Continent even farther. Once the Colony had been beaten back, Barholm Clerett’s position would be safer than any Governor’s in the past five hundred years. Safe enough that he would certainly no longer need a heneralissimo supremo.
“Yes,” Barholm repeated. “Who could doubt that you have my full confidence?”
Raj stood, bowing and tucking the Gubernatorial Rescript into the sleeve-pocket of his uniform jacket.
“Then if you’ll forgive me, Sovereign Mighty Lord, Messers.”
His face held an abstracted frown as he left the room, ignoring the murmur behind him. Landing five thousand men and thirty guns, with all their dogs and stores, wasn’t easy at the best of times. Getting them straight off the ships and headed east fast without a monumental foul-up would be real work.
disembarkation would be most efficiently achieved as follows, Center began.