David Weber - How firm a foundation

There was time, Sahdlyr told himself, and so far the uprising’s sheer suddenness and ferocity were carrying everything before them, but it was messy. And it was throwing him behind schedule. He should already have reached Constitution Square and the Lord Protector’s Palace, and here he was instead, trying to drag his men away from the arson and looting-and, undoubtedly, rape, he thought bleakly, looking at a half-naked young woman lying sprawled in death almost at his feet-going on throughout the Charisian Quarter.

Damn it, Father Saimyn and Bahzkai had other groups poised and ready for that part of the operation, and they were doing it. The smoke and screams-and bodies-were proof enough of that! He was supposed to be making certain Stohnar and his accursed minions didn’t manage to escape. The last thing they needed was for those bastards to get away to someplace like Charis and try to foment trouble back here on the mainland from their safe, comfortable exile!

“They can have all the slack they want once we’ve got Stohnar and his Council in the bag!” he snapped now, glaring at Kaillyt. “Are they here to do God’s will, or simply to steal anything they can’t burn?!”

The question came out with deliberate, sneering contempt, and Kaillyt’s eyes flashed with anger. Which was exactly what Sahdlyr had wanted.

“We’re not just a bunch of thieves!” he shot back furiously.

“No?” Sahdlyr matched him glare for glare for a moment, then allowed his own expression to soften… slightly. “I don’t think you are,” he said, “but that’s what we’re acting like, and we’ve got more important things to do!” He held the other man’s eyes for another heartbeat, then hardened his voice again. “So let’s get them moving again, shall we?”

Kaillyt looked around, as if truly seeing the confusion and the chaos for the first time. Then he gave himself a visible shake and looked back at Sahdlyr.

“Yes, Sir!” His sword flipped up in salute. “I’ll do that little thing.”

He turned away and started bellowing orders at their smaller unit commanders, and Sahdlyr nodded in satisfaction.

“Langhorne!” Greyghor Stohnar muttered, standing on the balcony of one of the Lord Protector’s Palace’s ornate towers.

The official seat of the Republic’s government had never been designed as a serious fortification. Its defense was the Siddarmarkian Army and its pikemen, not stone and mortar. Now, as he watched smoke rising over the city-and not just over the Charisian Quarter, any longer-he found himself wishing its architects had given just a little more attention to stopping blood-maddened street mobs short of the Chamber of the Senate and the Hall of Records.

And don’t forget about short of your own hide, Greyghor, he reminded himself grimly.

“Where the hell are they all coming from?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Henrai Maidyn admitted. The Chancellor pointed out across the city at the scores of smoke columns rising from the Charisian Quarter. “I didn’t think they had enough manpower to do that and come after the Palace.” He shook his head, and his expression was grim.

Stohnar nodded. Part of him wanted to lash out at Maidyn and point out that it had been his job to determine what was actually coming, but it would have been pointless. It would have been unfair, too, for that matter. The Chancellor had brought Stohnar regular reports, and the Lord Protector had agreed with his conclusions. Only it appeared they’d both been wrong.

“We should have detailed more troops to protect the Palace,” Maidyn continued. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who-”

“It’s not ‘your fault,’ Henrai,” Stohnar interrupted. “I agreed with you and Samyl that we had to give priority to protecting the Quarter.” He laughed harshly. “Not that it appears we’re doing a lot of good over there, either!”

“Where the hell is Daryus?” Maidyn demanded, wheeling to glare towards the north. “What the hell is taking him so long?”

“Probably more of that, ” Stohnar replied, gesturing disgustedly at the burning tenements of the Charisian Quarter. “Or more crap like it.” He shrugged angrily. “I was wrong not to go ahead and muster the Regulars right here in the city and the hell with keeping them out at Raimyr.”

“Without a better indication the wyvern was about to take flight, you couldn’t risk warning-”

“Spare me the excuses,” Stohnar said wearily.

Unlike Maidyn, the Lord Protector had risen to regimental command before he left the Army, returned to his native Siddar City, and entered politics. He should have remembered, he told herself. Whatever the arguments in favor of making certain Clyntahn was clearly guilty of the first move, he should have paid more attention to Daryus Parkair’s argument that it was even more important they hang on to the capital in the first place. They could always argue over who’d started what later-assuming they survived to do the arguing-the Seneschal had observed acidly. And nobody who was inclined to believe Clyntahn in the first place would be impressed by any claims the Republic was an innocent victim of the Grand Inquisitor’s lust for vengeance, no matter how truthful they were.

And I shouldn’t have detailed so many of the troops we do have in the city to protect the Quarter, he told himself even more grimly. He hated to even think thoughts like that, yet there was a cold, bitter edge of truth to it. You wanted to prevent massacres? Well, holding on to the damned capital would have helped a lot in that little endeavor! Instead, you parceled your troops out in tenth-mark packets trying to protect the Charisians, and look at it! Accomplished one hell of a lot, didn’t you? Now you’re going to lose both of them!

He forced himself to straighten his shoulders as he looked down into Constitution Square at the single regiment of pikemen deployed to cover the approaches to the Palace. There weren’t enough of them to cover all the entrances into the square, so they’d been stationed along the huge plaza’s eastern edge to protect the enormous arched gate through the Palace’s ornamental outer wall. The wall would probably help some, but that regiment simply wasn’t big enough to cover its entire length, and then there was that damned, wide-open gate. If enough rioters came storming across the square It’s not as bad as you think it is, Greyghor, he told himself harshly. You don’t have a single reliable report about what’s going on out there. Daryus could be a lot closer than you think he is, and all that smoke is bound to make the situation in the Quarter look worse than it really is. And however many men they may have in the streets, most of the population’s staying home and keeping its head down. It’s not like the entire damned city is really up in arms, so if you can just hang on long enough for Daryus to get here…

Byrk Raimahn looked back and swore with bitter, savage venom. They’d been lucky so far, but their luck had just run out.

The outriders of the mob had spotted the small band of refugees he and his grandfather had collected on their flight towards the docks. Part of him had never wanted to slow down for a moment, but he’d been unable to harden his heart enough to ignore the tattered drifts of terrified people-more often than not women or children-who’d clustered around them. He suspected they’d been drawn by his grandparents’ well-to-do appearance and the general aura of composure and command they couldn’t help projecting even in the middle of a murderous riot. But perhaps it had simply been the fact that the Raimahns were obviously going somewhere, not simply fleeing. It certainly couldn’t have been because of how well armed and numerous they were!