provincial militia, but his chest bore not a single medal—which was unusual, since the Sfierranyii Militia gave medals for things like having clean fingernails.
“And who are you?” came Wechsler’s voice.
“Marget, I am Jolle. Until present difficulties I was a commercial chemist, but war makes different things of people, and the Provincial Assembly elected me military commander of this expedition.” There was a faint snort of disgust from the Crown’s Men. They had a saying in the civil service that a nation which elects its generals elects defeat.
Jolle spoke rapidly. He had the right words and syntax, but there was a Sfierro lilt to his pronunciation. “You see, Profirio has split his art’ry from his infantry. So, in fact, our misunderstanding this afternoon may give us a decisive advantage over the Rebels.”
“Hmm, that would take some explaining.”
Jolle nodded. “This Profirio fellow wants desperately to reach the mountains. We think he figures on persuading the Doomsdaymen to join his cause. After today’s encounter, we know the man has decided to gamble, to leave his art’ry behind and gain himself speed. I suspect he intended to put his troops between us and O’rmouth, so our artillery fire would provoke the Doomsdaymen to enter the contest on his side. At the same time, his own art’ry could follow both armies, along the Riverside Road. Thus he would end up with his art’ry on our flank and the Doomsdaymen against us, too.
“Unfortunately for him, the scheme hinged on our ignorance of it. This is why our misunderstanding of this afternoon is for the good: Profirio’s art’ry commander was flustered by your appearance. He opened fire, and destroyed his master’s plan. Knowing that his art’ry is hopelessly far behind,
Tatja considered. Profirio’s gamble had the ingenuity and daring she expected. It had failed because of a subordinate’s mistake and the unexpected appearance of her troops. There were still edges and ends that didn’t fit, but the more she saw, the more she was convinced that her goal was near.
How quiet everything was. It was late, and the animals of these lands had no Seraph to light their nights. The only sounds were insects creaking. It was hard to believe they were sitting in the midst of an armed camp. Inside the tent, things were quiet too. Even the officers who pretended to be awake sat with their eyes glazed. A sound suspiciously like a snore came from behind her. These poor weak people—given thirty hours of hard work, they were dead on their feet.
She looked up and found Jolle’s dark eyes gazing back. There was something unnatural about this one’s accent. Her next question was not directly related to the events of the day. “Have you any idea where the Rebels got their art’ry in the first place?”
Jolle shrugged. “No. Though he raided the ammunition stockpiles Your Majesty keeps in the provinces. I’ve heard the man is a foreigner.”
“Yes, I’ve, uh, suspected that. But where did you Loyalists get your artillery?”
“Well, the ammunition as Profirio did.”
“And the gun tubes?”
Jolle spread his hands in self-deprecation. “I am a chemist. I beg forgiveness if it displeases the crown, but I designed most of the artillery you see among the Sfierranyii. Without it we would have had no chance to protect Your Majesty’s interests.”
In that instant the silence seemed complete. One dark face filled the sensory universe; time itself slowed as she considered one fantastic possibility and then another.
Svir came awake with the lightheaded alertness that follows a short, uneasy sleep. He swallowed painfully, trying to remove a nauseous taste from his mouth. “What do you want?” he heard Cor say to the figure silhouetted in the entrance to the tent.
The shape whispered, “Ma’am, I have a message for you.” The courier reached forward, fumbled a parchment into Cor’s hand. Svir hunted about in his pack and came up with matches. The light was almost painfully bright.
The courier blew the flame out. “We’re under light security, sir. You can’t do that,” he said.
Svir’s voice was as close to a scream as a whisper can be. “How the hell can we read this without a light!”
“I didn’t make the rules, you—”
Svir was speechless for a second. Then he remembered that he was a person of authority and pulled rank. The messenger backed out of the tent, cowed. Svir carefully unsealed the flap, then lit another match, shielding it with his hand. The message was cryptic and simple: “Azimuth 30°. Do it now—T.”
“Oh, boy. Tatja wants us to go ahead with the Plan.” He began assembling the tripod and signaling equipment. Meanwhile Cor woke Ancho and fed him. The dorfox was not lively; they could expect trouble with him. Finally Cor convinced the little animal that there was a job to do. Ancho clung to her neck as she crawled out of the tent. Svir followed, dragging tripod and signaler.
For the moment, every sensation seemed intense. But his balance was poor and he still had that awful taste in his mouth. This was actually the middle of the night wake period, as practiced in Bayfast. In fact, for him it was nearly lunchtime. The long daylight march and the different sleeping customs of the Upcoast people had inverted his normal schedule. He felt alert only because his natural time sense told him he should be.
The trees were close set. Insect sounds were loud and there were no signs of human activity. Svir peered up through the branches at the stars. He couldn’t see enough sky to recognize constellations. He and Cor moved cautiously along an indistinct path. The air was cool, but his uniform was still damp with sweat. He couldn’t remember having felt more dirty and chilled.
He guided Cor—northward? Upslope, anyway.
There was a man-sized blotch about fifty feet away. He touched Cor’s shoulder, pointed the fellow out to her. He felt her nod. She reached to caress the dorfox. When she was satisfied that Ancho was alert and radiating, they resumed their walk. Svir breathed a nearly audible sigh of relief as they passed the sentry unchallenged. They were almost thirty yards past the hallucinated soldier when a low, determined voice spoke. “Halt. Who goes there?”
Svir froze. Damn. The first sentry was a decoy. They were lucky the second guy bothered to challenge them at all.
“I said, ‘Who goes there?’ Respond or I shoot.”
Svir gulped and said, “Erl Bonnip, trying to find the latrine.” As he spoke, Cor turned and walked toward the voice in the bush. Now that Ancho had noticed the other fellow, he was radiating I’m-not-here. Since the sentry was already alerted, the signal couldn’t cover Svir’s existence; he must stand exposed.
“Advance and be recognized.”
Svir moved cautiously toward the voice. At best he would be turned back—and that only if the sentry didn’t notice the tripod and signaler he was carrying…
There was a dull
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I didn’t hit him hard, but Ancho gave him a good dose.”
They continued along the trail. The night no longer seemed particularly tranquil. He knew this job was not the trivial errand Tatja had made it sound. If they weren’t shot by Sfierranyil or Crownesse sentries, there was always the possibility that Rebel infiltrators might get them. The ground sloped down now. Technically they were in the Picchiu River valley. A darkness at the bottom of the sky was the far side of the valley, seven miles away. Svir thought he could see the river itself, glinting here and there between trees. A fatbat cooed somewhere near. How many human eyes watched this scene?
The forest thinned, and they moved quietly into the open. Their first objective was to get far enough from the camp so its position wouldn’t be given away. He swore silently. If Tatja were sure of her theory, why bother? She’d gone over the plan in mind-numbing detail during the voyage from Bayfast. She thought an alien was marooned here, was using native materials and native armies to attain its incomprehensible goals. Now the presumed alien must be contacted, and since this was an operation at cross purposes with the crown’s official goal, he and Cor must do it on their own. They could get killed, all for an unsupported speculation.
