Conqueror (72 page)

The windows were open, to catch the first air of the early spring afternoon. It was still a little chill, but on a sunny day no more than made a jacket comfortable. The air smelled cleaner than usual in a city; coal was running short, even for cooking-fires.

"How many does that make?" Gerrin Staenbridge said. "Landings in the Crown as a whole."

Jorg Menyez shuffled papers. "Five regular infantry battalions," he said. "Ordinary line units, suitable enough for garrison work. And seven battalions of regular cavalry. The 10th Residence, 9th and 11th Descott Dragoons, 27th and 31st Diva Valley Rangers, the 3rd Novy Haifa, and the 14th Komar. Plus about six batteries of artillery, say twenty to twenty-four guns."

"Good troops," Raj said. "And as much use in the Crown as they would be in bloody East Residence—or Al Kebir, for that matter."

"You've got plenary authority as Theatre Commander," Gerrin pointed out.

Raj indicated a pile of letters, his correspondence with the commanding officers of the reinforcements. His teeth showed slightly in a feral smile of tightly-held rage.

"I've got power of life and death over the whole Western Territories—in theory," he said. "Half of them didn't even reply. The other half said they can't get into a city
surrounded
by a hundred thousand troops."

"Odd, since we've no problem getting small shipping in every night," Staenbridge said.

Antin M'lewis nodded. "Ser," he said. "Me boys could git hunnerts in by land, any night ye name. Them barbs is stickin' real close-loik ter their walls."

"The fix is in," Dinnalsyn said.

Raj nodded. "Informally, I've had word from Administrator Historomo. The battalion commanders are under word-of-mouth instruction from the Chair not to place themselves under my orders. They're not under
anyone's
orders, really, although for most purposes they seem to be doing what Historomo says. He's got them split up in penny packets doing garrison work his militia and gendarmes could handle just as well."

He swore again, bitterly. "With another four thousand cavalry I could
end
this bloody war before wheat harvest." That would be in four months. "Without them, it may take
years.
"

"The Brigaderos are in pretty poor shape," Staenbridge said judiciously. "They must have lost twenty thousand men in those attacks over the winter—probably thirty thousand all told, if you count the ones rendered unfit-for-service."

"And they're losing hundreds every week to general wastage," Menyez said. "They've had a visit from Corporal Forbus."

M'lewis nodded, and there was a general slight wince. Cholera in a winter camp was a nightmare. "Them camps is smellin' high," he said. "An' their dogs is in purly pit'ful shape."

"They still outnumber us five to one," Raj said. "We're losing men too, to snipers and harassing attacks. Not as many, but we didn't have as many to start with. Jorg, what about the militia?"

"Limited usefulness only,
mi heneral,
" Menyez said. "The full-time battalions can hold a secure fortified position with no flanks, but I wouldn't ask more of them. The part-timers aren't even up to that. Local recruits in our regular infantry units have settled in splendidly . . . but that's largely because we took only the best and in small numbers."

Raj nodded. "Where's Clerett?" he asked.

"Ah . . ." someone coughed. "He was at luncheon with Lady Whitehall and some of his officers, I think."

"Well,
get
him here,"

He paced like a caged cat until the younger man arrived. When he did, Raj kept his face carefully neutral.

"Sir." Clerett saluted with lazy precision.

"Major," Raj replied. He indicated the map boards with a jerk of his head. "We were going over the general position, now that winter is coming to an end."

Cabot looked at the maps. "Stalemate," he said succinctly.

"Correct," Raj replied.
He's no fool, and he's learned a great deal,
he thought carefully. Judging a man you disliked was a hard task, calling for mental discipline. "We are now considering how to break it. Specifically, we need the four thousand cavalry currently sitting in the Crown."

"With their thumbs up their bums and their wits nowhere," Gerrin Staenbridge added.

Cabot Clerett's face was coolly unreadable.
He
has
learned,
Raj thought.

"Sir?" the younger man prompted.

Raj returned to his chair and sat, kicking aside the scabbard of his saber with a slight unconscious movement of his left foot. He paused to light a cigarette, drawing the harsh smoke into his lungs, then pulled out a heavy envelope from the same inner pocket that had held the battered platinum case.

"Under my proconsular authority, I'm promoting you to Colonel." He held out the papers; Clerett took them and turned the sealed envelope over in his hands.

A
pro forma
murmur of congratulations went around the table. Cabot Clerett bowed his head slightly in formal acknowledgement. The promotion meant less to the Governor's nephew than to a career officer, of course.

"I'm also detaching you from command of the Life Guards. You will proceed to Lion City immediately, and take command of the forces listed in your orders—essentially, all the cavalry and field-guns in the Crown. Pull them together, put them through their paces for a week or so, improvise a staff. Then move them out; the Brigade hinterlands have been pretty well stripped of troops, so there shouldn't be much in your way. Use your discretion, but get those men and dogs near here as quickly as possible. Then communicate with me; we'll use the river-barges, slip the troops in at night."

"Sir." Cabot smiled, a slow grin. A major independent command . . . and given because the reinforcing units would obey
him.
Since he was the heir, they'd better. "Sir, do you think it advisable to trap another four thousand men here behind the walls?"

"I do," Raj said dryly.

The militia and the regular infantry between them could hold the city walls against anything but an all-out attack. With fourteen thousand Civil Government cavalry, he could take the mounted units out and use them as a mobile hammer to beat the enemy to dust against the anvil of the fortified city.

Cabot tucked the unopened envelope into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket.

"I'm to proceed to Lion City, mobilize and concentrate the cavalry and guns, form them into a field force, and rejoin the main Expeditionary Force, using my discretion as to the means and place?" he said.

"Correct, colonel."

"Immediately?"

"As soon as possible."

"I believe I'll be able to proceed tonight," Cabot said cheerfully. "If you'll excuse me, sir? I have some goodbyes."

Raj ground out the cigarette savagely as the Governor's nephew left the room.

"Was that altogether wise?" Gerrin murmured.

"Perhaps not," Raj ground out. "But it's the only bloody thing I could think of." He looked around. "Now let's get on with the planning, shall we?"

"Glad to see you again, Ludwig," Raj said.

Ludwig Bellamy grinned. The expression was not as boyish as it had been four months ago. His face had thinned down, not starved but drawn closer to the strong bones.

"Glad to be back,
mi heneral,
" he said.

They turned their dogs and rode inward from the gate where the last of the 2nd Cruisers was entering; it was pitch-black, overcast and with no moon. Dim light came from the lanterns on the gate towers above, and from shuttered lanterns in the hands of some of the officers. The heavy portals boomed shut behind them, and the locking bars shot home in their brackets with an iron clanking.

"Captain M'lewis did excellent work getting us past the enemy pickets," Ludwig went on.

"Warn't hardly nao problem," M'lewis said. "Them barbs ain't stirrin' by noight."

"We could smell them," Ludwig said. "Although what they've got left to crap, I don't know."

Raj rode in silence for a few moments. An occasional sliver of light gleamed from a second-story window, as some householder cracked a shutter to check what was going by outside. The dogs' paws beat on the pavement, a scud
-thump
sound, in time with the creak of harness among his escort. Bellamy's men had theirs stuffed with rags to muffle noise. A mount sneezed and shook its head with a jingle of bridle irons.

"The railroad's wrecked, then?" he said at last.

"They're repairing segments with plain wood rails," Ludwig said; pride showed in his voice. "And hauling trains with oxen. The whole area's up in arms, peasant revolt and famine, with three or four regiments beating the bush for
insurectos.
We swung north, and they're trying to run wagon trains from the Padan River down to the camps here. Also we saw troops heading north, toward the frontier; the peasants gave us rumors about Guard and Stalwart raiding, and pirates along the coast."

Raj nodded. "Scavengers around a dying bull," he said. "Commodore Lopeyz has sunk three corsairs in the last month, found them hanging about just over the horizon." One hand indicated the delta of the White River to their left. "What with one thing and another, I think the enemy will be forced to make a move soon."

"How's the supply situation, sir?"

"Not bad, but getting worse. We've enough to keep the men and dogs on full rations for now, although the civilians are being shorted. No famine, though."

Apart from the odd body found dead in a doorway in the morning, but that happened in any city, under siege or not.

"What'll they do?"

"I'm not sure . . . but they'll do something. Soon."

"No!" Ingreid Manfrond said, sweeping the map aside.

His eyes were bloodshot as he glared at the other Brigade commanders.

"Lord of Men—" Teodore Welf began.

"Shut up, you puppy!" Ingreid roared. "You lost me twenty thousand men with your last bright idea."

Teodore stepped back from the table, clicked heels—his armor clanked too—and gave a stiff bow before leaving. Ingreid stared after him; it was a breach of protocol to leave the General's presence before permission was granted. Most of the other officers looked elaborately elsewhere; a few looked calculating, wondering if the triumvirate was breaking up. The weak spring sunlight came through the tentflap with a gust of air, ruffling the maps on the table. The sour smell of the camp was worse, men with runny guts and dogs too.

"Your Mightiness," Howyrd Carstens said, "he was right this time. We've got to deal with this new army." His thick calloused thumb swept over to the Crown, then up the peninsula from Lion City.

"They're over the Waladavir," he said. "Our arse is hanging in the breeze like a bumboy's, and if he heads southwest and cuts us off from the Padan valley we're fucked—how many men are dismounted already because we can't bait their dogs?"

"You think I should send Welf off, with his mother's milk still wet on his lips?" Ingreid said. "Give him fifteen regiments?"

His voice was no longer a roar, but still hoarse with anger. He snapped his fingers, and a servant came forward with wine. It was too early in the day . . . but he needed it. The raw chill of this damned winter had gotten into his bones.

I'm not sixty yet, he thought. I can out-ride and out-fight any of them. But the price kept going up every year.

Carstens shook his head. "Whoever you want," he said. "Send me, or go yourself. Take twenty thousand men, the ones with the best dogs and the fewest troopers down sick. That'll still leave us with seventy thousand fit for service here, more than enough to blockade the city. Stamp on this little Civvie column—there can't be more than four regiments' worth. Then come back here."

Ingreid shook his head. "I'm not splitting our forces," he said. "I'm through underestimating Whitehall, Spirit of Man of This Earth curse him. What we'll do is—"

He began giving his orders, pointing with a stubby finger now and then.