The Reformer g-4 Page 12

  "I can see why," Adrian said, bracing a hand against the mast of the transport, where it ran through the maintop. He'd been at sea long enough now to sway naturally with the motion of the ship, exaggerated by the sixty-foot height of the mast. They were both used to the bilge stink and the cramped quarters by now as well, and the unmerciful heat of the reflected sun that had tanned them both several shades darker.

  "This is a tough nut," he said to his brother.

  Esmond grunted agreement. "Harbor shaped like a U," he murmured, half to himself. "Steep rocky ground all around-absolute bitch getting men up those, never mind the walls at the top. Let's see. . harbor wall just back from the docks, looks like it started out as a row of stone warehouses. Streets-tenement blocks, mansions, whatever, all bad-then the citadel itself on that low ridge."

  Esmond squinted carefully, then looked down at the map King Casull's spies had provided. "Now, that's interesting," he said.

  "What is?"

  "This shows a ruined tower back of the rear wall of the citadel-unoccupied. Careless of them."

  Adrian peered over his brother's armored shoulder. "That commands the citadel walls?" he said.

  "Looks like. It's a thousand yards from the rear wall of the citadel, say a quarter-mile from the inner face of the works facing the harbor," he said. "Hmmm. Well out of bow and slingshot, of course, and you couldn't mount a useful number of torsion machines there."

  He looked up, and for a moment his grin made him look young again, the youth who'd stood to be crowned at the Five Year Games. "But they don't know about your toys, do they?"

  Smart lad, your brother, Raj said. He's got a real eye for the ground. That's extremely important-nobody fights battles on a tabletop, and a rise of six feet can be crucial.

  "No, they don't," Adrian said, smiling back. Oh, shit, he thought to himself.

  King Casull looked up at the burning fortress at the outer harbor mouth of Vase. It was a low massive blocky building, set cunningly into the rocky crags and scree, well placed to rain down arrows and burning oil and naphtha on any force trying to scramble up the gravel and boulder-littered slopes to its gates. That had helped it not at all when the shells from Adrian Gellert's mortar landed behind the battlements. A thick column of greasy black smoke rose, heavy with the scent of things that should not burn, a smell he was intimately familiar with comprised of old timber, paint, leather, cloth, wine, cooking oil, human flesh.

  "How do you advise we assault the town and citadel, General Gellert?" he asked.

  "If it please my lord the King," Esmond said, "we'll send in the gunboats now."

  Those were waiting beside the royal galley, keeping station with occasional strokes of their oars. Ten of those to a side, with two men on each; the single cannon fired forward, over the bows; a long inclined wooden slide reached backward to nearly amidships, letting the weapon run in when it was fired or be lashed over the center of gravity when the gunboat was at sea. The crews waved respectfully as they saw the royal eyes fall on them.

  "And we'll send the troop transports close behind. The cannon will fire solid shot until they've battered down a gate, or a suitable breach in a wall."

  Casull nodded; it was often better to break down a wall, if you could-the rubble provided a natural ramp for assault troops, and gates usually had nasty dogleg irregularities and unpleasant surprises waiting for a storming party.

  "That will give us the town," Esmond said. "But the guns are large-getting them up to the inner edge of the Directors' citadel, that will be difficult. Most of it's within bowshot of the walls, and all of it's within range of the boltcasters."

  He nodded towards Vase. Two tall semicircular towers rose from the edges of the citadel facing the town. That was a curve itself; the whole inner complex where the ruler resided was shaped like an irregular wedge of pie, with the palace and keep occupying the outer, narrow tip.

  "Well, my lord King," Esmond said. "My brother and I have thought up something that may distract the men on the battlements quite considerably."

  * * *

  "Here you are, sir," the transport captain said.

  Adrian nodded, modeling his expression on the one Esmond used. Firm, confident, in charge, but not hostile or remote, he told himself.

  Men were going ashore in relays; the little semicircle of beach was too small to take the ship, or more than a few score at a time. Three hundred men didn't seem like too many, until he saw them all together like this. A hundred of the Sea Strikers had gone ashore first: Esmond's security detachment-light infantry with sword, buckler and javelin. The two hundred arquebusiers and grenade slingers were following more slowly, burdened with their heavy weapons and ammunition. Adrian heard a thump and a volley of curses from the netting on the side of the ship where men climbed down into the boats. Long, clumsy and heavy, he amended to himself.

  Beyond the little cove rose stony hills covered in thorny scrub. . and beyond those, the ruined tower where he was supposed to "amuse" the enemy and keep them from hindering the main assault. Adrian shook the captain's hand, adjusted his satchel of grenades, and swung over the bulwark himself.

  "Feet here, sir," one of the Emerald slingers said cheerfully.

  * * *

  "What's that sound?"

  "Ninety-nine, one hundred," Helga Demansk said, completing the series of sit-ups.

  "Oh, stop that, Helga and come look," Keffrine said.

  The woman who'd once been the pampered daughter of a Confederation Justiciar unhooked her feet from the back of the chair and padded over to the high barred window. If she stood on tiptoe, she could see some of the rooftops of Vase, down from the citadel. If she sprang up and gripped the bars, she could see a good deal more. She did, jumping nearly her own height and holding herself up easily, shaking tawny hair out of her eyes and peering against the bright light of morning reflecting off sea and roof tile.

  "Oh, you're so strong," Keffrine said, batting her eyes upward. "Don't you think you should have a back rub, after all that exercise, though?"

  "Can it, Keffie," Helga replied with a half-amused, half-exasperated twist of her lips. "I'm not that desperate yet."

  "I can wait," the younger girl grinned. "Nobody's going anywhere."

  Helga suppressed a shudder at that; even when the Director died, nobody in the hareem would go anywhere but into retirement. . which meant they'd be shut up together until the last of them died of old age, and they'd never see another entire male until the day they did die-not even a loathsome toad like the Director. She pushed her mind back into the present, recoiling from the waste of years that stretched ahead. It could be worse; not so many generations ago, the hareem of an Islander magnate accompanied him to the tomb, with a cup of hemlock if they were lucky.

  I wonder what that noise is? Helga thought. And: Sky-Father Almighty, I'm tired of waiting.

  She hadn't thought that being sold into the hareem of a pirate chief would be tedious-other things, but not that. The Director of Vase was an old, fat, worried, overworked pirate chief, though, with the fifty concubines that custom and prestige demanded. After the brutality of the pirate crew-exactly according to legend-and the transit here, she'd thought that a deliverance. . for the first four months in this velvet-cushioned, lavender-scented prison where nothing, absolutely nothing ever happened. There was a pool, where she could swim about six paces; there were a few chess sets and card decks; there were no books at all-it would never occur to an Islander chief that a woman would want to read. After a full year, only keeping up her training regimen and pretending she was going to escape had preserved her sanity and kept her from strangling someone at the seven hundredth repetition of the same inane gossip, the same shrill giggling at the same stupid jokes, the same fatuous cow-eyed flirting, the same. .

  Being summoned to the Director's quarters at least meant she got out for an evening, even if under guard. Usually the old heap of lard couldn't do anything anyway.

  "Smoke from the harbor," Helga said meditatively
. "And I think I can hear. . yes, that's an alarm drum."

  There was a section of garden and wall below the window, just visible. A dozen men trotted through it; archers, in brass-scale hauberks and spiked helmets, led by an officer with his saber drawn.

  The young Confed woman released the bars and dropped back, her lips shaping a soundless whistle.

  "War, I think," she said. "Wasn't there a rumor that the Director was having trouble with the King in Chalice?"

  Keffrine nodded eagerly, blond bangs swinging around her ears and releasing a strong waft of verbena. Helga wrinkled her nose a little; she still didn't like the way Islander women slathered themselves with scent. That and cosmetics were the main pastimes here, along with intrigue and love affairs; one couldn't even dress up much, since tradition mandated hareem occupants wear filmy trousers and spangled halter tops.

  "Isn't it exciting?" Keffrine squealed.

  Helga sighed. Well, what can you expect. Keffrine was a gift from Sub-Director Deneuve, and born in his hareem. This sort of environment was all she'd ever known. And I thought I'd led a sheltered life.

  "It may get more exciting than you'd like," Helga said. "Come on, we'd better go talk to the Eldest Sister."

  The old bat was a harridan of the first order, but she'd been here since the Director was sixteen, and he told her things. If anyone knew. .

  "Yes, let's!" Keffrine grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the corridor, past arches and mosaics, into the main circular room where a dozen or so of the others lounged on couches, nibbled snacks, or paddled languidly in the pool about the carved youth whose seashell spouted warm scented water. The light from above was filtered through a fretwork stone dome.

  Helga felt her heart beat faster. More exciting than they'd care for, she thought. But any change is an opportunity. I've been here far, far too long.

  Keffrine was really starting to look tempting, for instance.

  Far, far too long.

  * * *

  "Oh, what a beautiful, beautiful position," Simun wheezed.

  Adrian nodded, breathless himself despite being twenty years younger and less burdened. The tower was ruined in the sense that some of the internal floors had collapsed, fire or rot destroying the beams. The central spiral staircase was stone, though, and still reasonably sound. So was the uppermost floor, and the crenellations were still waist-high. That would give the arquebusiers cover and excellent rests for their weapons; they were setting up now, with a little amiable squabbling for the best shooting spots. The infantry from the Sea Strikers had taken up ground around the tower's base, blending in to the maquis-covered slopes. The air had a slight brimstone smell from the black powder in grenades and cartridge boxes, and a wild spicy scent of crushed herbs from the ground around. It was warm now, and insects buzzed through the flowers; fliers darted by snapping at them.

  Vase was laid out before them like a relief map, too-he could see men hurrying in and out of the two towers that anchored the citadel's harborward wall, others massing on the wall itself, still more movement in the narrow twisting streets beyond. Overhead the sky was a hot white-blue; he could even see the banners snapping on the gunboats in the harbor beyond, and the foam where the measured centipede stroke of their oars churned up the water. As he watched, a puff of smoke came from the lead craft. A measurable time later the flat deep thudump reached his ears, like a very large door slamming far away. A slightly louder explosion came from among the warcraft packed along the docks in front of the sea wall; they were firing shell initially, then. Smoke and fragments vomited up over the harbor defenses, and a slender galley began to burn and sink at its moorings, spine snapped. It couldn't sink far, in water only six feet deep under its keel, but that served to put the fire mostly out.

  By the time the fourth round had hit, the remaining crews were scrambling ashore, tiny as ants as they swarmed through the sally ports next to the main gates.

  "Ah, already spooked from the forts at the outer harbor, sor," Simun chuckled. "Ah, this is a fight how I loik it, sor," the middle-aged mercenary went on. "No risk, none of that there nasty hand-to-hand stuff."

  Adrian smiled in turn. Odd, he thought. This man and he had as little in common as two beings of the same species, gender and nationality could, yet in a way they'd become good friends. .

  Comes of risking your lives together, son, Raj thought, amused. One of the things that, unfortunately, makes war possible.

  "Sort of a commentary on humankind, I suppose," Adrian muttered.

  "What was thot, sor?"

  "Just regretting you weren't a beautiful woman, underofficer," he said briskly.

  Simun chuckled. "Well, then I'd be out of place here, eh, sor? Place for everything, yis, yis." He looked at the minarets, domes, gardens of the palace citadel ahead of them. "Though they say hareem girls smells tasty enough, yis. Hey, sor, you oughtn't to be doing that, now!"

  Adrian ignored the hand that anchored the back of his weapons belt as he leaned over the crumbling sawtooth outer wall of the tower. "Simun," he said sharply. "Take a look there-do you see a mark in the ground there, leading from the tower to the citadel wall?"

  The noncom respectfully but firmly pulled him back, then leaned over and peered himself. "Hmmm, now that you point it out sor, so I do, indeed. Old wall, mebbe? Hard to see why, though-just the one-tis not a walled way to this here tower, that would make sense, though. ."

  Adrian craned his neck. The line through the scrub was irregular, as much a trace-mark in the vegetation as anything, an absence of the low thorny scrub trees in the middle and a thicker line of them on either side.

  He froze as Center's icy presence seized his eyes. For a moment the world became a maze of lines and points and moving dots, a glimpse of something too vast and alien for him to comprehend. Then it settled down to a schematic-clear white lines outlining the trace through the slope, and a cross-diagram beside it showing a tunnel with an arched stone roof.

  covered way, sunken to escape detection. The machine intelligence sounded inhumanly confident. . but then, it always did, even when confessing a rare error. since the tower went out of regular use, the initial covering of soil has partly eroded from the upper surface of the ceiling.

  "Yes, by the Gray-Eyed Lady!" Adrian said.

  Simun was looking at him with mingled alarm and expectation-the Gray-Eyed was also a Goddess of War; more precisely, of stratagem and ploy, as opposed to Wodep's straightforward violence. Adrian knew that the Emerald mercenaries they'd brought with them thought he communed with Her regularly; Esmond's new troops were picking up the superstition rapidly.

  "That's a tunnel-a covered way into the citadel," Adrian said.

  "Oh, ho!" Simun said. "First in, first pickings. . no, sor, though, even Islanders, they wouldn't leave it open-not when this here place ain't garrisoned, no, no."

  "We'll take a look," Adrian said. "Can't hurt."

  Simun nodded. Yes, I know Esmond set you as my watchdog, Adrian thought without resentment-after all, he was the younger brother, and not trained to war. On the other hand, curiosity was an Emerald characteristic; where it concerned his trade, even a professional like Simun had his fair share.

  "Oll right, sor, but me'n the squad, we goes along."

  "No argument."

  * * *

  "The city of Vase is under attack," the Eldest Sister said calmly.

  A chorus of squeals and giggles died down into uncertain murmurs as the figure beside the head of the hareem stepped forward-it was an entire man, one of the few Helga had seen since she passed through the door. A soldier, one of the Director's personal guard, slave soldiers bought in infancy and raised in the household; armored from head to foot in black-laquered splint mail, with a broad splayed nasal bar on his helmet that hid his face. He rested the point of his huge curved sword on the carpet and folded his hands on the hilt.

  "Do not worry!" the stout, robed, middle-aged woman said. "In all things, we will accompany our lord."

  Helga w
as standing well to the back, among the junior and childless members of the hareem-even then she took a moment to thank the Mother Goddess for that mercy. Although there was a rumor that all the pregnancies recently were the result of the Director sending in his younger brother under cover of darkness. . She was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Keffrine, and felt the other girl suddenly begin to tremble. Helga decided that she didn't need to hear the rest of the Eldest Sister's speech.

  "What is it?" she whispered sharply in her ear, then gave her arm a pinch to shock her out of the wide-eyed stare. "Keffrine, what is it?"

  "Wuh-wuh-"

  "Keffrine!"

  A few others glanced at her reprovingly as her voice rose a little. That seemed to bring Keffrine back to herself a little; she dropped her eyes and whispered.

  "They think we muh-muh-might lose," she said.

  "What?"

  "What the Eldest Sister said, about accompanying our lord."

  "What, into exile? Ransom-"

  The guileless blue eyes turned to her, and tears slid down the lovely cheeks.

  "No. The Director's honor can't let other men touch his women. They'll cu-cu-cut our th-th-"

  Quietly, hopelessly, Keffrine began to sob; she wasn't the only one, either.

  Cut our throats, Helga Demansk realized; that was the end of the sentence. In more ways than one.

  * * *

  The plug at the end of the tunnel took on the flat, greenish-silvery look that Adrian's vision always did when Center was amplifying the available light. Something about extrapolating from partial data. . He shoved away the neck-tensing eeriness and instead tapped on the concrete and rubble with the hilt of his dagger, pressing his ear to listen. Only a dull clink came back through the ear pushed against the porous roughness, but Center spoke with mountainous certainty:

  the blocking segment is from five to eight and a half feet in thickness. beyond it the tunnel resumes with the same dimensions.

  A picture formed in his mind; the covered passageway on the other side of the block, and then a wooden door beyond that-thick with dust and cobwebs.