Conqueror

death, he thought. All men die, but this has to be done. 'Let's turn in.'

* * *

'Precisely this bearing,' Raj said.

He drew a line in the dust with the stick. Behind him the artillerymen staked down their frame-two sets of rigid beams at right angles, with a slanted piece across the arms. They aligned it with the mark in the dust; once it was firmly in place, they pushed the gun up the slanted fronting of the frame and tied off the wheels at a chalk mark on the wood.

'Range is exactly 3,525 meters,' Raj said. 'Load contact, two-second delay.'

'Sir,' the gunner said, giving him a glance.

How could you know? Raj read in his face. And a trace of awe; men knew he didn't make empty boasts.

Raj walked on to the next gun's position as the iron clang of the breechblock sounded behind him. All fifty- eight surviving field guns were lined up just inside the north wall of Sandoral, all up on the frames; all aligned along the precise vector he'd drawn in the dirt for them. Every single one, as far as Center could judge, was now aiming at the exact midpoint of earth above Ali's command bunker, behind the Colonial outworks-where he invariably retired after the sunset prayer. All the fortress guns in the fixed positions on the wall were aligned as well, those of them that would bear on the target.

Irregularities-wear on the rifling of guns, slight differentials in shell loading and drag, whatever-would spread the projectiles. It ought to be an unpleasant surprise, nonetheless.

Dinnalsyn looked back at the long row of guns. 'Think we'll get him, mi heneral?'

'No,' Raj said. 'That's a very secure bunker. The last thing I want to do is put Tewfik in full command. But it'll certainly get his attention, and Ali's got a short temper. If I know my man, he'll do something stupid.'

The limbers stood in a row five meters behind the guns, the dog teams in traces and lying down.

'Are the rafts ready?' Raj said.

'Ready and waiting, sir,' Dinnalsyn said. 'The planking and decking from the pontoon bridge was exactly as much as we needed. . I suppose that's no coincidence?'

'You might say that,' Raj replied. He clapped him on the shoulder. 'Stay ready for it.'

The last of the cavalry battalions on special duty were sitting by the wall, finishing their evening meal: beans and pigmeat and onions, dished out from kettles over camp fires and scooped up with tortillas. It was the 5th Descott. They were professionals enough to concentrate on eating, but he could feel the tension crackling off them. He walked over and made a beckoning gesture. They crowded around him and crouched or sat at his hand signal; only about three hundred fifty left-and the battalion had been at double strength when he took it west to fight the Brigade.

'All right, dog-brothers,' he said quietly. That forced them to listen carefully and lean closer; it also made each man feel as if he was talking to that one alone, as an individual. 'You've guessed that something's up. Two hours after sundown-'

The sun was just touching the western horizon.

'— the guns are going to cut loose with a five-round stonk. The second the last gun fires-but not before-you give the wogs five rounds rapid. Then you come back down from the wall, ride your dogs to the docks, get on the rafts and off we go.'

He paused a moment. 'You're all fighting men and all Descotters,' he went on. 'My father and grandfather and great-grandfather fought the wogs, and so did yours.'

Nods; Descotter rancheros held their land on military tenure, paying their tax in men rather than money. Fathers and sons and brothers followed each other into the same battalions time out of mind; comrades were neighbors at home, officers the squire's sons.

'There's a lot of Descotter blood and bone buried around here. Now we have a chance to end it.' That caused a rustle, men coming forward in their crouch and leaning on their rifles. 'If we win this one, we break them-not just push them back, but wreck them for all time. If we lose. .' He grinned. 'Well, we haven't done much losing while we've been together, you and I, have we?'

A low snarl of agreement. 'Everything depends on the wogs thinking we're still here, at least for a while. You'll move back to the docks quickly and you'll do it quietly, and with no foul-ups. Understood?'

Gerrin Staenbridge stepped forward. 'You can count on us, mi heneral,' he said solemnly. Another growl from the ranks.

* * *

'Keep it quiet, keep it quiet,' Ensign Minatelli said.

There were only fifteen men left in his platoon, now-several of them lightly wounded-so it wasn't very different from running his squad. The star on the front of his helmet still felt like a weight of lead to his spirit, though. They formed up outside their bivouac, in the forecourt of what had been a nobleman's house. Minatelli walked down his platoon, giving everything a final check. The men's haversacks were full, three days' rations- smoked pork and hardtack, dried apricots and figs-and extra ammunition in their blanket rolls.

'Company G, fall in.'

The men found their places by instinct, in column of twos back from the company pennant. It was dark outside: the city gaslights were out, of course-nobody left to shovel coal and tend the tank-farms-and all torches and fires had been forbidden.

Just as well, he thought. It was frightening how few of them were left; the main Colonial attack had come right over their sector of the wall yesterday. Forty men in the company, barely a full platoon.

The battalion colors came by, and Major Felasquez carrying a shuttered bull's-eye light. His one eye gleamed a little as he turned, stopped for a brief murmur with Captain Pinya and stepped closer to the men.

'All right, lads,' he said, a little louder.

Don't expect the wogs could hear even if we shouted, Minatelli thought. On the other hand, it gets everyone thinking quiet.

'We've had enough from the towel-heads; now we're going to give it back, the way the monkey gave it to the miller's wife, by surprise and from the rear. Mind your orders, do it right, and with the Spirit's help and Messer Raj's plan, we'll whip them.' He stepped back. '24th Valencia Foot-Waymanos!'

The column moved forward jerkily; it was strange to the point of being dizzying not to step off to the beat of the drum, and the troops had been told not to march in step. The uniform clash of hobnails on stone pavement was like nothing else on earth, and it carried. Instead they walked, with an occasional quiet curse as somebody stepped on the heels of the man ahead. Guides stood at intersections, their lanterns the only light in the deserted city. Minatelli kept his hand on the hilt of his new sword and ignored the eerie quietness.

Through the river gate the darkness lifted a little; a one-quarter Miniluna and the stars reflected off the rippled surface of the water. Gravel crunched, then planks boomed a little under their boots. The column halted.

'24th Valencia?' someone asked ahead, a dim figure against the water. 'This way.'

They waited; the men ahead melted away company by company. 'Company G, this way.'

The men scrambled through the knee-high water and into the barge; it was one of the boxlike constructs he'd helped to cobble together out of wood salvaged from wrecked houses. A long steering-oar marked the notional stern, and there were men standing to the sweeps on either side, six to a flank. They had only a single shuttered lantern to work with, but despite the darkness and the crowding only an occasional thump and oath marked someone tripping as they clambered down from the planking to the hold of the crude vessel.

'You'll be pulling the outermost raft,' Captain Pinya said.

'That one, sir?' Minatelli said, pointing.

'That's right, Ensign.'

Ensign. Spirit. My folks will never believe it.

He shook himself back to the present. There were so many more ways to fuck up at a higher rank. Right now, that could get everyone killed.

He saluted and climbed down himself, a little awkward with no rifle on his shoulder and a sword and pistol at