Conqueror

wonderful view of the tumbled ruin of the main defensive bastion beside the gate. Eroded-looking stumps stood up above rubble that had filled in the moat and made a perfect ramp up into Fort Wager. In fact, it even looked accessible on dogback. Every minute that Courtet had to watch it from this angle was a blow struck at his morale, which looked none too steady to begin with. According to the intelligence, he'd been pushed forward by the local military council because he was the only officer of sufficient birth and rank who wasn't as defeatist as Colonel Boyce.

As completely defeatist as Boyce. Senior officers with military ability or ambition didn't come to Stern Isle.

Besides, Courtet's aide was worth a little attention: he looked the way a noble Military Government warrior was supposed to in the legends and so rarely did in practice. Twenty, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, regular bronzed features and tourmaline eyes, long blond hair flowing to his shoulders and close-trimmed barley- colored beard. Uniform of beautiful materials, elegantly understated, but the breastplate commendably hacked, battered and lead-splashed.

Gerrin fought down a friendly smile; besides, Bartin was acting as his aide. The senior officer, a junior, and a bannerman, as was traditional.

'There's no point in wasting time,' Staenbridge went on, when it was plain Courtet would not speak. Possibly could not. 'You're getting the third and last chance to surrender.'

'Ah. .' Courtet coughed rackingly. 'Same terms?' He wet his lips, visibly thirsty. Out of the corner of his eye, Gerrin could see the fine-drawn lip of the Brigadero aide curl.

'Of course not,' Staenbridge snapped. 'You know the laws of war concerning fortified places, colonel. We summoned you first when we invested the fort, and again before we commenced firing. Terms become more strict with each refusal.'

He pointed with a gauntleted hand. 'Now we've put a workable breach in your defenses. If you refuse and we storm the position, your lives are forfeit. And believe me, if you force us to take unnecessary casualties, we'll throw any survivors over the cliffs and their families will be turned over to the men. Who will not be in a gentle mood.'

Courtet looked from one Civil Government officer to the other, from the dark suave face of a killer to the cheerful, handsome young man with the razor-edged steel hook for a left hand. The flower tucked behind his ear made the sight worse, not better.

'What terms, gentlemen?' he said hoarsely.

'Personal liberty for your families. All able-bodied males and their households to be sent to East Residence, men to be enrolled in our forces under the usual provisions-no service against the Brigade. The remainder to be released after giving their parole never to bear arms against the Civil Government. Personal property except arms to be retained by the owners, and officers' sidearms and dogs for those discharged. Forfeiture of real property beyond one house and forty hectares. And if that seems harsh, messers, consider the alternatives.'

'Can I, ah, consult with my officers?'

'With this gentleman and no others.' Although I wouldn't mind consulting with him myself, under other circumstances. 'Are you in command, Colonel Courtet or not?'

Probably not but he could lead his men in the obvious direction. There was nothing more demoralizing than being shelled without a chance to reply, except possibly knowing your family was there with you. The blond aide drew Courtet aside and whispered urgently in his ear.

When he turned back, the Brigade commander's face was like gelid fat. His aide dismounted and helped him to the ground; they both drew their swords and offered them hilt-first across their forearms.

A huge roaring cheer rose from the Civil Government troops downslope, in their hasty fieldworks. Even with the mortars in support, taking the fortress would enact a big enough butcher's bill to daunt anyone. The fort's ramparts were black with watchers as well, and the sound that came up from them was a long hollow groan, the sort of noise you hear on a battlefield after dark when the wounded lie out. Calling for water, or their mothers, or in wordless pain.

The Civil Government officers each took his counterpart's blade, flourished it overhead, and returned it. Then Staenbridge pulled out his watch.

'My felicitations on an honorable but difficult decision,' which you should have made yesterday, you butchering moron. 'Colonel Courtet. Your men will march out within twenty minutes and stack arms,' he said, 'or you'll be in violation of the truce. Colonel, you'll remain with me until that's done. Sooner begun, the sooner we can get the wounded attended to and your women and children settled.'

Courtet nodded heavily, resting one hand on the saddle of the dog beside him.

'Where's Whitehall?' he burst out.

The two Descotters looked at him expressionlessly. He blinked, and amended: 'Where's Messer General Whitehall? They say,' the Brigadero went on, 'the demons fight for him. I could believe that.'

'General Whitehall is where he thinks best,' Staenbridge said. And I violently disagree; he should be here, and I on that boat. 'And the holy Avatars fight for him, Colonel. He is the Sword of the Spirit of Man-hadn't you heard?'

Courtet was silent but his aide bowed courteously. 'I had heard that, sir,' he said, in fair if slow Sponglish. 'We yield our swords to the might of the Spirit, then, to take them up again against Its enemies, heathen and Muslim.' He turned and spurred for the gates.

They opened, and remained that way. A squad came forward to put Courtet under guard; Bartin Foley murmured to the lieutenant in charge, and a table, chair and tumbler of brandy appeared. The fat old man in too- tight armor looked at them and then put his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving.

Staenbridge heeled his dog off to one side. Bartin leaned toward him.

'You said that as if you meant it,' the younger man said. 'About Messer Raj being the Sword of the Spirit; and here I thought you were a sceptic.'

'I find myself growing less sceptical, comrade of my heart. Less sceptical than I would wish.'

'Envious?' Bartin grinned.

Gerrin Staenbridge shuddered elaborately and began stripping off his gloves. 'Merciful Avatars-if there are any-no! Plenty of fame in being one of the selfless, faithful Companions, as I don't doubt the lying histories will call us all, forgetting we're each the central characters of our own stories.' He thought for a moment, watching the screeching gulls and cawing dactosauroids over the harbor.

'Bad enough to be a hero, and carry the burdens of human expectations. To shoulder those of Something Else. . even a soul like Raj's will crack under the burden in the end. No matter that all of us do what we can to help.'

He looked at the younger officer and smiled. 'The flower's charming, by the way. And since it's on the left today. .?'

CHAPTER NINE

Raj Whitehall looked past his booted feet where they rested on the table, down the long conference chamber and out the french doors and balcony at the other end. From here you could just see the blue-and-silver Starburst banner of the Civil Government floating over Fort Wager against the violet morning sky and the pale translucent globe of Maxiluna. Soon to be renamed Fort Tinneran, for all the good it would do. There was something satisfying in the sight. Also in getting some honest work done. This meeting was informal, the Companions and one or two others, but there were things that needed doing.

Grammeck Dinnalsyn ruffled a stack of papers. 'Just mason's work for now, general,' he said. 'The fort's sound.'

'Not until it gets overhead protection for the guns, and something that can drop plunging fire on the beach,' Raj said crisply. 'Cursed if I'll see it taken back by the same tricks I used, Grammeck.'

Although that would be a lot more difficult without Center. It had been close enough even with the Spirit lending a direct hand.