Conqueror

the Colonials were famous for. The wine was too sweet, even diluted, but nobody was drinking all that much of it anyway; they knew him better than that. The firelight played on the faces around it, bringing out scars on Kaltin Gruder's as he leaned forward to light a twig and puff a cheroot alight.

'By all means, Antin, bring him along,' Raj said.

Hwadeloupe commanded the 44th Camarina Dragoons, one of Osterville's battalions.

'An' ser. . he's got 'is men out there. Hunnerts of 'em, not too far.'

'Keep an eye on them, Captain.'

The strong male voices were roaring out the next verse, the one that had gotten the song officially banned centuries ago. It was a truth the Governors preferred that the Army not be too conscious of:

'When you go by the Camina Bellica

From the City to Sandoral,

Remember the Luck of the Soldier

Who rose to be master of all!

He carried the rifle and saber,

He stood his watch and rode tall,

Till the Army hailed him as Governor

And he rose to be master of all!'

'Glad you could join us,' Raj said as Hwadeloupe strode up. 'No, no, no salutes in the mess, Major. Have some wine.'

The soldier-servant handed him a mug of half-and-half, watered wine. He gripped it distractedly, a middle- aged man with the marks of long service on the southern border on his leathery face.

'Mi heneral, if we could speak privately?'

'I have no secrets from my officers and Companions, Major.' Not quite true, but it was a polite way of telling Hwadeloupe that he couldn't expect to hedge his bets.

'Ah. . sir, I would like to transfer my battalion to your command-to this encampment, that is.'

The rest of the command group had fallen silent; Suzette kept strumming her gittar, but softly. Without the song, the minor noises of the camp came through: dogs growling, a challenge from the walls, the iron clatter of a field gun's breechblock being opened for some reason.

'If I might ask why?' Raj went on implacably.

Hwadeloupe stood very straight. 'Sir. Colonel Osterville thinks there's no risk from the garrison of Ain el- Hilwa. But I know you don't think so, and I see your men still have their boots on, and your guns are limbered up. Colonel Osterville may be right. On the whole, though, when he and you disagree, I'll bet on you. With respect, sir.'

Raj shoulder-rolled and came erect. 'I can always use good men,' he said. 'And I don't think you'll regret that decision. Captain M'lewis will show your men to their bivouac area within the earthworks.'

'Ah, sir. There's one other matter.' Hwadeloupe kept his eyes fixed over Raj's shoulder. 'We have, ah, a considerable quantity of booty with us. Just picked up, you understand. We'd like to turn it in now to the common fund, as per your standing orders.'

Raj raised an eyebrow; one of Gerrin's expressions, and very useful in situations like this. 'That's odd, Major. We've had several smaller parties in from Colonel Osterville's camp, and they've all had some late-arriving booty to turn in too.' He extended his hand. 'No hard feelings. M'lewis will settle your people in.'

'I'll see to that myself, if it's all the same to you, mi heneral,' Hwadeloupe said, taking the extended hand in his own. 'And thank you, sir.'

Raj returned to his cushion beside Suzette. 'That's about two hundred in all,' he said.

'Separating the sheep from the goats,' Staenbridge replied. 'Or those too stupid to live from the remainder.'

Foley frowned. 'Some of them are staying over there to follow orders,' he pointed out.

'My dear,' Gerrin said, 'what's that saying-from the Old Namerique codexes-'

Foley was something of a scholar. ' 'Against Fate even the gods do not fight,' ' he quoted.

'Exactly.'

Raj nodded and leaned back, his head not quite in Suzette's lap. Both moons were out and very bright, bright enough to interrupt the frosted arch of stars. Her fingers wandered over the strings.

'It's twenty-five marches to Payso

It's forty-five more to Ayaire

And the end may be death in the heather

Or life on the Governor's Chair

But whether the Army obeys us,

Or we serve as some sauroid's fare

I'd rather be Lola's lover

Than sit on the Governor's Chair!'

Cut-nose Marhtinez lay in the dark and breathed quietly. He was ten meters from the walls of Ain el-Hilwa, outside the north gate. An overturned two-wheel cart hid him; the bodies of the two dogs who'd been drawing it until they met a cannonball were fairly ripe after a day in the hot sun, and so was the driver: black, swollen, the skin split and dripping in places, like a windfallen plum. He'd had about seven FedCreds in assorted silver in his pouch, though.

The night was fairly dark, only one moon in the sky and that near the horizon. The starlight was enough for him to see men moving on the walls-and they were moving without torches. He could even hear some wog curse when he ran into something and barked his chin. A whistling and dull thudding followed, about the sound you'd expect one of those nine-barbed whips the wog officers used to make. The yelp of pain that followed was strangled, and the next slash brought no sound at all.

Quiet's a whorehouse on payday, he thought scornfully. It was a good thing there weren't any Bedouin scouts with the Ain el-Hilwa garrison. Those sand-humpers were too good for comfort.

Cut-nose moved his head slightly. The star he was using was still a fingerbreadth above the horizon. An hour and a bit short of dawn, call it an hour and twenty minutes.

He moved backward out of the wrecked cart, keeping it between him and the wall. Nothing on his body clinked or reflected light, and his hands and face were blacked; Mother Marhtinez might not have known exactly who his father was, but she hadn't raised any fools. Pause, move, pause, until he was behind a snag of ruined wall, still hot enough from the fire to feel on his skin. He picked up his rifle-nothing but a hindrance and a temptation in the blind where he'd spent the night-and eeled cautiously back to his dog.

Captain M'lewis was waiting there. Cut-nose grinned ingratiatingly. He didn't have much use for officers, and still less for a promoted ranker who might be a kinsman. He did have the liveliest respect for Antin M'lewis's wits, his wire garrote, and the skinning-knife he wore across the small of his back beneath the tails of his uniform jacket. All the Forty Thieves-the Scouts-had a standing invitation to go out behind the stables and settle things with knives if they felt they couldn't obey someone who wasn't Messer-born.

So far only one fool had taken M'lewis up on it; he was on the rolls as a deserter. Nobody had found the body. Good riddance, Cut-nose thought. The Scouts beat regular duty all to hell. Less boring, more plunder-a lot more in some cases-and no more dangerous. M'lewis wasn't the charge-the-barricade type.

'They're movin', ser. Gittin' ready, loike,' he said in a soft whisper, directed at the ground-nothing to carry far.

M'lewis nodded. 'Messer Raj was expectin' it, an' t'scouts at t'other gate says th' same,' he observed. 'Here, git this t'him fast.'

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