The Reformer g-4 Page 17

  "Yeah, waiting's the worst," Donnuld Grayn said.

  Esmond started slightly. "Hell, I didn't know I was talking."

  The older mercenary grinned gap-toothed, and offered a skin of well-watered wine-one part to three. "This business, you spend most of the time being bored, and a few minutes out of every hour shitting yourself," he said philosophically. "When you're not being seasick, that is. . this tub pitches worse than a galley."

  The Briny Kettle carried no cargo but armed men; five hundred of them, packed like cured fish below decks, or lying flat on deck to ride concealed from anyone else-anyone, for instance, like the inspector in the little customs galley that was coming alongside. Its dozen oars easily matched the long slow rocking-horse pitch of the merchantman, avoiding the bows where a creamy V of white water pointed towards the low dark bulk of the city ahead. Reddish lights glimmered on the water from some of the lights there, and from masthead lanterns on the clustering ships docked to it, and from sentries pacing on the high crenellated walls.

  "You're late, Sharlz," the official called out, holding up a lantern.

  That glittered on the water, on his bald scalp and big-nosed face and on the gold hoop in one ear. He was an Islander himself, not a Confed-Preble was officially a free city in alliance with the Confederacy, although the Confed prefect here would have a lot more say than the council of magnates.

  "Tide and wind and a woman's mind, Juluk," the captain said, scratching at his hairy chest where the open shirt showed a mat of grizzled hair; he was a very tall man, enormously tall for an Islander, and his nose was a beak that made even the customs officer's look moderate.

  "Where from, this trip, and what cargo?"

  "Chalice. Ornamental stone, fig brandy, dried tentacle fish and hot peppers, indigo in cakes, conqueror root, and coffee," he replied calmly.

  "Ah. Any sign the King in the Isles is getting stroppy?"

  "Not that I saw-but I keep my head out of such things."

  "Well, good for you," the customs man said. "Keep it under seal until tomorrow, eh?"

  "You eat shit too, Juluk-am I going to start breaking bulk in the middle of the night?"

  "I could come aboard and inspect now, Sharlz."

  Captain Thicelt unhooked a purse from his belt and tossed it across the gap that the customs boat's crew kept open with fending oars. "The usual sweetener-and you don't need to share it with your boss, out here."

  "Not all of it," Juluk said, weighing it. "Sail on."

  They came to the entrance of the narrow canal that split Preble from north to south-a natural channel between two skerries, when this had been a dwelling place of fliers and seabeasts, rather than men. A semicircle marked the harbor, wharves and jetties three-deep with ships, some as large as theirs, others of all sizes down to fishing smacks. Their masts made a lifeless, leafless tracery against the sky, an angular forest that creaked and rustled and swayed. Light died as ships and buildings dimmed moons and stars, and the clean smell of the sea gave way to the ever-present stink of a major port. Plops and rustlings came from the water, and once a pair of huge silvery eyes glinted-the scavengers that feasted on the filth, and inconvenient bodies, and drunks who fell off gangways at night.

  "Strike sail," the captain of the Briny Kettle said, and turned to Esmond. The Emerald could see the sheen of sweat on his face by the dim reflected lights of lanterns and sky, and smell it. "Out sweeps to the canal entrance. . All yours from here on, excellent sir General."

  Esmond clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work," he said. "You've earned what the King pays you-and more besides. Don't forget to come and see me about it after the city's ours."

  A grin split the tall Islander's face. "That I'm not shy about, you'll find, excellent sir."

  Even this late at night dock-wallopers were ready with a team of heavy greatbeasts. They caught the cable the sailors threw, hitched their team, and began hauling the ship through the sea gates and into the town.

  Paved roadways lined both sides of the canal, from one half-moon harbor to the other; behind them warehouses loomed, linked until they formed seawalls of their own, preventing any enemy from storming into the city from this open water. Heavy iron grills closed the occasional roadway that led deeper into the town; iron chains could close the canal at need, as well.

  Men were waiting halfway down the length of the canal, men with shuttered lanterns that they blinked briefly. They surrounded the laborers, and Esmond caught a gleam in their hands-probably long knives in one, and gold in the other. He knew which he'd have taken if he was a sleepy municipal slave on night watch at the harbor. They backed away, followed by their bewildered greatbeasts, and more lines flew to the roadway. Willing hands grasped them, drew them tight. Timber crunched against stone.

  "For the King and the gods," a voice called softly.

  "For Prince Tenny and liberty," Esmond replied.

  He vaulted easily from the rail to the pavement four feet below. "General Esmond Gellert, with the Prince's troops. You're ready?"

  "Enry Sharbonow, Suffete of Preble. Ready and more than ready. This way."

  Esmond turned. "Disembark according to plan," he called. "No shouting, and I'll geld the first man that breaks ranks!"

  Except him, of course, he thought sourly, as Prince Tenny jumped ashore in a swirl of purple cloak and clash of silvered armor-plumed spired helmet, back-and-breast, engraved armguards. . The half-dozen friends-cum-hangers-on he had with him were just as gorgeous, or had been before some of them got seasick. Tenny, to give him credit, didn't look nervous as some of them did, either. Brave, or too stupid to understand the risks, or both, Esmond thought.

  The Prebleans went to one knee before the Prince. He smiled and signaled them to rise. "Be at ease, my friends," he said, in a trained orator's voice. "Soon the night of Confed tyranny will be lifted-as the sun rises, so will a new, independent city of Preble."

  Several of the Preblean conspirators seemed inclined to answer the Prince's speech with ones of their own. Esmond was relieved to see that Enry wasn't one of them.

  "Your Highness, welcome to your loyal city," he said. "This way, please-the garrison doesn't patrol, but they're not blind and somebody will alert them if we don't move quickly."

  The Strikers had formed up rapidly, and with as little noise as five hundred armored men could when moving on flagstones in the dark. Esmond fell in at their head, beside the banner and the commander's runners. Donnuld Grayn grinned at him out of the side of his mouth.

  "Think the Prince'll screw things up really bad?" he said, sotto voce.

  "Hopefully, not until we've taken the town," Esmond said. "By the way, I wasn't joking about taking the balls of anyone who starts chasing coin or skirt."

  Grayn nodded. "You'll have to take 'em off the man dead, after I'm through with him," he said. "Probably will be one or two idiots-keeping hired soldiers in line in an enemy town, at night, ain't going to be easy."

  "This isn't an enemy town. It's supposed to be our town, and we're taking it from the Confeds."

  Grayn's grin grew wide. "That's not a distinction your average trooper is real interested in," he said. "But they'll understand my boot up their backside-and don't worry, sir, they're not going to upset a good thing. You've won us a couple of hard fights now; if you say paint ourselves green and hop around like kermitoids, most of the men'll do it."

  * * *

  "They've got the gates open?" Donnuld said incredulously.

  "Wouldn't have believed it either, if I hadn't seen it myself," Esmond said.

  Enry Sharbonow coughed discreetly; he was a discreet man, middle-aged and slim, with a pointed beard and a small gold ring through his nose; the cutlass at his side looked to have seen some use, though.

  "We arranged a party for the commandant and his officers," he said. "As proof of our loyalty to the Confederation, you might say. They're all away at the Town Guildhall right now. And we sent in a wagonload of wine and roast pigs and fairly high-priced girls so the men c
ould have a good time too. Some of the girls are getting a bonus, and they saw to the door."

  "Brilliant." Esmond grinned. "I hope you'll do as much for my men."

  "Oh, of course, excellent sir," Enry said. "And we won't spike the wine with cane spirit, either."

  Esmond laughed aloud. Colorless and tasteless, but if you tried to drink it like wine. .

  "All right," he said, unfolding a square of reed-paper. "Donnuld, Makin, as far as I can see there's nothing to prevent us going straight in the front gate. The barracks are in a square around a paved court with a well, the usual arrangement; Confed regulars on these two sides, this is the command block, and here's where the light infantry are stationed. Half of the men are out in the square, eating and boozing, and half are back in their barracks screwing their brains out, or vice versa. They've been at it for a couple of hours, more or less. Makin, you bottle up the light infantry. We'll try and get them to surrender. Donnuld, you take care of the men in the square. I'll secure the barracks and the headquarters."

  It was no use trying to get Confed regulars to give up, unless they bashed their heads in first. That was one of the reasons Confed armies usually inflicted heavier losses than they suffered, even when they lost-they rarely ran away, and it was in rout and pursuit that the real killing was done. One could spear a running man in the back while chasing him, but he couldn't fight back.

  He looked up at the Preblean conspirator. "What about the commandant and his staff?"

  "Oh," Enry said, "I don't think you need worry, excellent sir."

  Esmond winced mentally; the wine servers stepping up behind men relaxed and unwary, only this time with curved daggers in their hands, instead of flasks. That had happened to the commanders of a famous Emerald mercenary unit serving in Chalice, just after the Alliance Wars, although the men had mostly been able to fight their way out-quite an epic. In a way it was fortunate, reminding him of the thin crust he walked, over an active volcano. He was never safe here, never. . and it was no consolation that the local magnates played the same game among themselves. They were Islanders; they liked it.

  It was strange. He hadn't really been happy since Nanya died; but it wasn't like he was numb. He could still feel some things just as well; he could be afraid, anxious, angry. . hatred was stronger than ever. It was as if some section of his psyche had been cauterized.

  And I can still fight, he thought. And now he could fight Confeds, not just Islander pirates. I was wrong. I can still be happy. . in a way.

  He drew his sword. "Walking pace," he said. Men running were more alarming than men walking. "Follow me."

  Esmond turned the corner, walking lightly on the slimed cobbles. The streets here were narrow between banks of four-storied tenement houses, canyons of darkness with only a narrow slit of stars and moons above. The bright lights from the Confed garrision buildings were almost blinding by comparison, although the broad square of light there was narrowing quickly.

  "Shit-charge!" Esmond yelled.

  So much for being subtle. The doors were still open, but they were swinging closed; a section of frowsy-looking Confed regulars was doing it, under the direction of a noncom, a brick-built bristle-headed graying man with legs and arms like gnarled, scar-slashed tree trunks. He was wearing a scarlet dress tunic rather than armor and transverse-crested helmet, but there was no mistaking exactly what he was-and drunk or sober, he wasn't going to leave that door open. It was sixty yards between the alley where the Strikers had been waiting and the barracks gate. . they'd have plenty of time to drop the bar in place before the first Emerald mercenaries reached them. It wouldn't save them-the force had grappling hooks and ropes and the wall was low-but it would turn the battle into a bloody dogfight.

  Esmond's body reacted with automatic reflex, turning his run sideways as the javelin went back over his right shoulder. One skipping sidestep, two, and arm and back and shoulder moved with the smooth inevitability of a machine. The javelin disappeared, arching up into the night. He'd practiced throwing at the mark, stationary and moving hoops, nearly every day of his life since he went into the boys' palaestra at six.

  The Confed noncom looked up at the whistle of cloven air just before the long narrow steel head of the throwing spear punched into his throat above his breastbone. Eight inches of it disappeared, and the point crunched into his spine between the shoulderblades. He toppled like a cut tree, with only a single galvanic jerk as his heels came off the ground.

  That paralyzed the men pushing at the door for a crucial two seconds; few of them had the noncom's experience, and they'd all been drinking wine much more potent than they thought it was. Time enough for twenty or thirty other Strikers to throw; they weren't Five Year Games victors, but they were closer, and there were a lot of them. Falling bodies knocked the gates wide again, and the Strikers burst through, roaring.

  The courtyard had been set with trestle tables and lighted with tall iron tripods holding baskets of burning pinewood. Most of the Confed soldiers were sprawled about the picked-clean remnants of the pigs, bowls and cups in their hands, some of them with women in their laps, others watching a convoluted act involving four nude dancers and a very large trained snake. It took them gaping seconds to react, and none of them had weapons other than their eating knives at hand when hundreds of fully-armed alert soldiers poured through.

  The first rank of Strikers launched their javelins and drew their swords; the second rank threw over their comrades' heads and plunged after them. Confed soldiers were dying-not only soldiers, Esmond vaulted over a whore in spangles and body paint, whimpering and pulling at the spear through her gut-and others were running, probably for their weapons. Some tried to make stands, grappling with the Emeralds or snatching up stools and eating utensils.

  Esmond plunged through the chaos, over flagstones slippery with wine, spilled food, already wet with blood. Sword and buckler moved in clear, precise arcs; he seemed to be wading through honey, in a strange amber world in which everyone else moved very slowly, and he had more than enough time to do whatever was necessary. A solid wedge of men were following him, shields up and swords out. . A scrim of bodies marked the entrance to the barracks, men trying to get in, others trying to get out with snatched-up shields and assegais. The one in front of him stumbled and went down with a spear in his back, and then Esmond was facing an armed man at last.

  The big shield with the crossed thunderbolts of Allfather of Vanbert on it-Allfather Greatest and Best-punched at him. The tip of the assegai glittered, held low and point-up for the gutting stroke. Esmond spun to the side, light on his feet as a dancer, hooking his buckler around the far edge of the oval shield and wrenching sideways to pin the Confed's spear arm against the frame of the door. His sword hilt went up high, like a beast fighter dispatching a greatbeast in the Vanbert arena after he'd teased it with the cape. The point punched down, in over the collarbone-unnecessary, the man hadn't had time to don his mail shirt, but you didn't think in a fight, you reacted on drilled reflex.

  A wrench and jerk and the Confed went down. Esmond's foot and point snapped forward in a longe-lunge, skewered a thigh, pulled out with a twist to open the artery. He slammed his shoulder into another hastily-raised shield, and he was through the door. A Striker crowded through behind him, and in the dim light of the oil lamps he could see swarming confusion within, whores running and shrieking and the more sensible ones hiding under cots, men ripping weapons down from racks or stumbling in drunken bewilderment and getting in the way of their more sober comrades. . and more of his men coming in the tall open windows. Barracks didn't run to glazing, but you wanted plenty of ventilation in this climate.

  "Strikers!" he shouted. "Strikers to me! Down Vanbert! Down Vanbert!"

  The Strikers were mercenaries, yes. They were also Emeralds almost to a man, and if there was one battle cry in all the world Emeralds could agree on, it was that.

  Half an hour later, Esmond tucked his helmet under one arm and walked into the shrine room of the Confe
d headquarters, stepping over the bodies of the knot of men who'd died on its threshold. The slash on his thigh would make the leg stiffen in a little while, but for now he ignored it as he lifted out the ebony pole, with its golden wreath and hand and campaign-ribbons. He carried it himself onto the colonnaded porch that overlooked the courtyard, and the assembled Strikers roared his name as he held it high.

  "Men!" he shouted, when the noise had died down a little. "So much for the invincible Confederacy!"

  Another roar, with heartfelt emotion behind it this time. "Strikers," he went on. "We're soldiers loyal to our salt. But we're Emeralds, too. This-" he waved the standard "-has fouled the land of the Hundred Cities far too long. This war is against the Confederacy." A hush, then. "You know the gods favor my brother and me."

  Nods. Or at least, my brother's productively crazy. . hands of the Shades, maybe the gods do talk to him. Something does.

  "The gods foretell the fate of the Confederacy-they tire of it. Vanbert shall burn!"

  Wild cheers, and Donnuld Grayn looking at him with a raised eyebrow-the expression looked a little odd on the scarred, beaten-iron face.

  "And think of the loot stacked up there," the mercenary shouted.

  This time the cheers split the night.

  * * *

  "Where the hell were you?" Esmond asked.

  "I had an errand to run," Adrian said, walking down the gangway.

  Esmond peered behind him. "Where's Helga?"

  "As I said, I had an errand," Adrian said, and forced a smile. "Look, let's forget about it, okay? Business."

  "Certainly, brother," Esmond said. "This is Enry Sharbonow, Suttete of Preble, Chief Minister to the sovereign, Prince Tenny of Preble."

  Adrian bowed, returning the Preblean magnate's more elaborate salute. "Everything went well? Where's the Prince?"