Hope Renewed Page 8

  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.

  She had her gittar in her lap, gently plucking at the strings.

  “Thinking about Descott, and Hillchapel,” Raj said. “Damn, but it’s been a long time since we’ve seen it.”

  Suzette nodded. She’d fitted in surprisingly well; if she considered it a bleak stone barn in the middle of a wilderness, she’d never said so. Well, compared to East Residence, that was what it was; a kerosene lamp was a luxury, in Descott. Most of the County was upland volcanic wilderness, thin forest and thinner stony pasture where you needed ten hectares to feed a sheep. Bandit country too, and bad for killer sauroids.

  He missed it.

  “This is as domestic as we get, I’m afraid,” Suzette said lightly.

  Raj glanced around the railroad car. It had been fitted with table and chairs; there was a commode behind a blanket screen, a couple of skins of wine-and-water hanging from the wall, a lantern overhead, and a box of field rations—Suzette’s version, and a vast improvement on Army issue. One of his aides was snoring on the floor.

  In a car behind, the troopers were singing—they probably thought of it as singing, at least—in a roaring chorus:

  “We’re marchin’ on relief over burnin’ desert sands

  Six hundred fightin’ Descotters, t’ Colonel, an’ t’band

  Ho! Git awa’, ye bullock-man—ye’ve heard t’bugle blowed

  The Fightin’ Fifth is comin’, down the Drangosh Road—”

  “We’re luckier than they are,” Suzette said, lifting her head and looking off into the gathering night. “We’re together, at least. . . . Their women have to sit and wonder. And every time someone rides up to the farmhouse door it might be a messenger with a bundled rifle and saber that’s all they’ll see of a lost husband, or a son.”

  “It’s not much of a married life I’ve given you,” Raj said.

  Suzette smiled at him. “I wouldn’t exchange it for any other,” she replied. “I don’t think you’re one of those who’re allowed to have a normal life, anyway.”

  “Not yet, at least,” Raj said. Never, went unspoken between them.

  It wasn’t as if Barholm would give Raj an honored retirement, even, as a reward for victory.

  i have found it unwise to use the term never, Center said.

  Suzette’s fingers strummed the gittar again. Raj pulled the greatcoat around his shoulders and let his head fall back. Just a moment, he thought. A moment’s rest.

  “Git yer arses out offen t’floor,” the sergeant barked. “We’ll be there anytimes.”

  Corporal Robbi M’Telgez blinked awake.

  “Jist when I waz gittin’ t’hang a sleepin’ on these things,” he said mournfully, picking straw out of his hair and yawning in the hot close darkness of the boxcar, thick with the smell of sweat.

  The train was slowing, swaying more from side to side. All around was the flat irrigated plain of the Upper Drangosh. M’Telgez put his eye to the slats in the boxcar; it was good-looking country, dry but fit to sprout shoelaces where there was water. The wheat and barley were in, the fields being plowed for a summer crop of corn or millet; cotton and sugarcane and indigo were all well up, and there were orchards in plenty as well, mostly dates and citrus.

  Good land fer the gentry, hell on farmers, he thought idly. Rich land meant poor men to work it; they’d all be peons around here. Hotter n’ blazes, too.

  They passed through a belt of country places, retreats for rich cityfolk built in an open, airy style that looked indecent somehow compared with the foursquare solidity of the houses he was accustomed to—but then, Descott was a long way north of this, and highland country too. He didn’t suppose it got cold here even in winter. Then there were shanties on both sides of the rail line, crude booths of straw and reeds. He swore softly when he saw who was in them, besides refugee peasants from the countryside. Among them were men in Civil Government uniforms, only infantry, but still . . . they looked hungry.

  “Ain’t they supposed to pay ’em when they calls ’em in from t’farms?” he said.

  The troop sergeant laughed sourly. “Wuz ye born yesstiday, M’Telgez?”

  Trooper Smeet put his eye to a crack. “Good’s a place t’ croak as any,” he said mournfully. “We’ll a’ git kilt, ye know. I hadda dream—”

  The rest of the platoon threw bits of hardtack and cold bacon-rind and anything else handy.

  “Ye keep sayin’ thayt long ‘nuff, it’ll happen, yer bastid,” M’Telgez said disgustedly.

  Smeet grinned; he was missing his two front teeth, and his face was a brown wrinkled map of twenty years’ service. “Ye knows a way ‘t live ferever, loik?”

  Just inside the city walls the train screeched to a stop; he braced himself against the planking and shaded his eyes as the doors were thrown open.

  “Come on,” the sergeant yelled again.

  The boxcars emptied rapidly, the men stretching, the dogs barking with hysterical relief. It was just as hot outside, with the dry baking heat that he remembered from the first campaign down here five years ago, but at least you could breathe in the open. M’Telgez unsnapped the lead-chain of his mount and spent a moment soothing her.

  “Sooo, quiet now, Pochita, ye bitch,” he said. A tongue the size of a washcloth and rough as industrial abrasive lapped at his face. “Quiet—down, girl.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Messer Raj and the company commander and the captain in charge of the Scouts—M’lewis and his Forty Thieves were along, best to double-strap your pouch—talking earnestly. He worked faster, sliding his rifle into the scabbard at the right front of his saddle, tightening the girth and breast-straps, checking the neck-bandolier and the fastening on the saber hanging from the other side. He slid the blade free a handspan and tested the edge, then checked the loads on the revolver he had tucked into one boot-top.

  Messer Raj would have a job of work for them to do, and no mistake. He’d been in the 5th Descott for five years now, and that was one thing you could rely on.

  “Nice to be loved,” Bartin Foley said.

  “Not when they get in the way,” Raj replied.

  They rode at the head of the column, slowly. Cheering civilians packed the sidewalks, hysteria in their voices. Rose petals and rice showered down on the troops, as if they were a party of groomsmen bringing a bride home from her father’s house. Individuals darted out to offer bottles of wine to the soldiers or, even more dangerous, food to the dogs. What do they think’s going to happen when they stick a roast in a war-dog’s face? Raj thought, turning in the saddle to see one of the crowd reeling back and clutching a gashed-open forearm. The crowd-stink was as palpable as the blurring waves of heat that radiated back from the whitewashed adobe of the buildings and soaked the uniform coat beneath his armpits.

  The noise was spooking all the dogs, a solid roar between the whitewashed, blank-walled, flat-roofed houses.

  “Trumpeter!” Raj snarled. “Sound Draw.”

  The sharp notes cut through the white-noise background of the crowd, as they were designed to cut through the clamor of battle. Two hundred hands slapped down on the saber hilts slung to the offside of their saddles; two hundred blades came free in a single slithering rasp, then flashed as they were brought back to rest over the shoulder. The dogs knew the calls as well as the men, and they snarled in unison, a chilling bass rumble. Long wet fangs glistened, each backed by half a ton of carnivore. War-dogs were bred for aggressiveness and trained to kill, and the bristling snake-headed posture of these indicated they were perfectly ready t
o do just that.

  The crowd screamed and surged away; there would be deaths in the trampling . . . but not nearly as many as there would be if Ali sacked the city, which was what was going to happen if they kept getting in his way. Overhead, doors slammed shut as the wrought-iron balconies emptied. Raj heeled Horace into a trot; the bugler signaled again, and the whole column rocked into motion behind him. The iron wheels of the splatgun battery clattered behind them.

  “Well, that’ll make us less popular, mi heneral,” Bartin said.

  “Popularity be damned,” Raj replied, feeling some of the tension drain out of his shoulders.

  They broke into the Plaza Real, the square that formed the center of all Civil Government cities. The usual buildings fronted it: the Star Temple with its gilded dome, the arcaded Government House, the townhouses of wealthy landowners and merchants . . . and the cavalry barracks, conveniently to hand in case of trouble. Highly unusual were the tents and shanties that had gone up all over the square, crowding right up to the ornamental fountain and gardens in its center; the sour smoke of their cooking fires lingered, and the stink of an overloaded sewer system.

  “Refugees,” Raj said grimly. “Must be fifty or sixty thousand of them inside the walls.”

  “Sandoral has fifty thousand people in normal times,” Suzette said. “With that many more . . .”

  Raj nodded. “We’ll definitely have to do something about that.”

  They drew rein before the barracks, a series of two-story buildings connected by walls and iron-grille gates, enclosing a central parade ground. They smelled even worse than the rest of the city, not just the inevitable aroma of dogshit that was inescapable where cavalry were stationed, but the fetid stink of overcrowding and neglect. They looked neglected—gates awry, stucco flaking in damp patches from the walls. But with the units as under strength as his intelligence had it, they shouldn’t be crowded—and washing was hanging from the windows, women and children too numerous for camp followers leaning out and pointing, or lounging in the doorways.

  “Captain Foley,” Raj said. “Dismount the men, rifles, and a watchstander and troop here. Then accompany me, if you please.”

  The bugle sang. The men sheathed their sabers and pulled the Armory rifles out of the scabbards. Another call, and the dogs sank to a crouch; the men stepped free of the stirrups and bent to loop their reins over the hitching rail and watering trough that lined the plaza side of the garrison buildings. A long clicking sounded as they loaded their weapons; the 5th Descott didn’t carry guns for show, and when they made a threat they meant it.

  An officer came out of the main gate, fastening his sword belt. Raj ran an eye over him: thirty or so, but with an older man’s belly straining against the sash and belt, unshaven, the blue uniform coat stained under the armpits. He didn’t expect soldiers to waste time trying to look strack in the field, but in garrison keeping neat reminded them that they were soldiers; it was a sign of self-respect. They had running water here, for the Spirit’s sake! And every eight-man section of cavalry troopers was allowed one soldier’s servant to handle routine fatigues.

  Also an officer should set an example.

  Just about what I expected, in short, Raj thought, a cold anger tightening its hand under his breastbone. He returned the stranger’s salute.

  “Captain Hamelio Pinochet, 47th Santanner Dragoons,” the man said.

  “Heneralissimo Raj Whitehall,” Raj replied. “I’m here to take command, Captain.”

  The unfortunate officer swallowed, attempting to brace to attention. “Ah, mi heneral, you’ll understand, with the emergency and the refugees—”

  “I understand perfectly, Captain.” With housing at a premium, somebody had seen the profit potential in renting out the military’s spare space. “Lead on.”

  Milling civilians looked at them curiously as they walked through the long barracks halls; each had space for a hundred men’s cots, with rooms for the lieutenants and a suite for the company commander, plus a ready room and mess. Right now they were crowded with twice that number or more of refugees; from their clothes, well enough off to be making a fortune for whoever was running this scam. A swelling murmur ran through them as Raj passed. By the time they reached the buildings still in military use, it had preceded them a little; enough for protesting feminine squeals to be fading as women were hustled out of the barracks, and for the soldiers to have made emergency repairs. Not much in the way of repairs. Gear was piled in heaps all over the floors, few of the men were in full uniform, and there were still cards and dice lying in some corners. The troopers stood braced at the foot of their cots, visibly willing their vital functions to cease.

  Raj ignored them for a moment. Instead he stripped a rifle out of the rack by the locker at the head of a cot and worked the action. “No rust here, at least,” he said mildly. Then:

  “Captain Pinochet, how many men are on muster here? You’re rated at four battalions.” Twenty-four hundred men or so, in theory.

  “Ah . . . about one thousand, sir. Most of the officers aren’t, ah . . .”

  “Present at the moment, yes,” Raj said. “Fall the men in, if you please, Captain.”

  Raj crossed his arms and waited while the bugles rang. It took a very long time for the garrison troops to sort out their equipment. Starless Dark knows what shape the infantry’s in, he thought with a mental wince. This was the elite cavalry.

  “Ten’hut.”

  The noncom’s bark brought the men to a ragged attention as Raj strode out; the banner of the 5th Descott was at his back, and his personal blazon. The two companies of the 5th tramped out at the double, and fell in at his back with the smooth economy of endless practice, the uniform crash of their hobnails sounding across the drillground and echoing back from the barracks and stables that ringed it.

  Raj waited for a minute. “Men,” he said at last, “I’m going to keep this short and sweet.”

  He pointed over his shoulder. “There’s a bloody great wog army coming up the Drangosh; they’re about five days’ march that way. I’ve got troops coming in from the west, but we’re going to need every man who can ride and shoot. That means you. Every soldier, that is. I’ll be back in a few hours, and I expect to see you looking and acting like soldiers by then.” He paused again.

  “Captain Pinochet, please send runners to the remaining battalion officers of this command. You may inform them that any man holding the Governor’s commission not present when I return may consider himself dismissed from the service.” He turned his head to the bugler. “Sound dismissed to quarters.”

  The garrison left much more quickly than they’d assembled. Raj nodded once, tapping a thumb against his chin. “I think they’re getting the message,” he said. “Now for Osterville.”

  Antin M’lewis was muttering under his breath. Raj knew the song without needing to hear words or tunes: it was an old Army ditty whose chorus went Lovely loot/That’s the thing makes the boys git up an’ shoot!

  Commandant Osterville’s house was a looter’s dream. The outer gates were gilded wrought iron, the inner Zanj ebony studded with miniature silver sauroid heads. A chandelier of Kolobassian crystal hung overhead, to light the three-story atrium. Floor and sweeping staircases were of marble; the walls held gilt-framed mirrors and paintings; man-high alabaster urns held trailing bougainvillea . . . Punkahs swayed, moving air cooled by fountains playing over fretted stone and scented by orange-blossom.

  The majordomo bowed himself out of the way—a plump eunuch with a Colonial accent. Poor bastard can’t help it, Raj thought; but they always put his teeth on edge. Osterville had put on weight and lost a lot of hair since Raj had seen him last. He’d always been ambitious, and Capital-smooth; now he had a sour pinch to his mouth and lines between there and his nostrils. Which were turned up as if at a bad smell. There was a crowd of hangers-on by him, aides and flunkies and the battalion commanders of the garrison.

  “Whitehall,” Osterville said frigidly. “What the d
evil do you think you’re doing, coming in here and giving orders outside the chain of command?”

  There was a murmur of indignation from the flunkies; but the battalion commanders stayed stony-silent, with a slight unconscious withdrawal, as if Osterville had something contagious. Raj gave them a swift glance. None of them had been living on their pay here—not with Osterville’s example before them, not if Abdullah’s reports were true—but they didn’t love the Commandant for it. Especially not now that their careers and lives were on the line.

  Raj reached into his jacket. “Commandant Osterville. By Gubernatorial Rescript, I have been given command of all Civil Government troops in this area. I hereby notify you that I am assuming control.”

  Osterville read through the note. “I acknowledge your overall authority,” he said after a moment.

  Raj could see the wheels turning behind the narrow black eyes. Whitehall’s in disfavor. Even if he wins, he’ll be removed.

  “But this document does not give you authority to interfere in the internal command structure of the units under my authority as district commandant. You may give your orders to me, and I will carry them out as I see fit.”

  Divided command . . . Behind Raj, the Scout Troop—the Forty Thieves—tensed; they hadn’t followed the exchange, not really, but they could read the hostility in the air well enough.

  M’lewis had recruited the Scouts himself. None of them were men likely to hesitate if ordered to arrest the Commandant . . . or to take him and the others out back and shoot them, if it came to that. Osterville looked past Raj and his complexion turned a muddy gray.

  Disaster, Raj knew. A good chance of a firefight right here in the city, or at least wholesale passive resistance by the garrison troops. This mission balanced on a knife edge as it was . . .