David Drake - Conqueror

Raj whistled silently, and a number of the cavalry troopers nodded. He went on one knee and extended his hand; someone put another canteen in it, and he used that and his neckcloth to wipe some of the crusted blood from the man's face. He was young, no more than his early twenties, and rather light-skinned.

corporal minatelli,Center supplied. enlisted in old residence two years ago. literate, watch-stander.Details from the service record ran through his mind with the icy certainty of the ancient computer's data-transfer.

Damn, if he's as good as he looks, make that Ensign Minatelli, Raj thought.

The noncom's eyes snapped open, and he started violently, hand reaching for the knife in his boot. Raj caught it with irresistible strength.

"Easy there, fellow soldier," he said.

Minatelli controlled a dry retch. Raj checked his pupils; no noticeable difference in the dilation, so the concussion couldn't be too bad. A day's weakness and a bad headache. Lucky: any blow strong enough to knock you out was a real risk to life and limb.

"Sor," he said. The situation seemed to be sinking in. "Anyone else, sor?" he said hoarsely, with a clipped Spanjol accent under the Army dialect of Sponglish.

Definitely Ensign Minatelli, Raj decided. He looked up at the 1/591st junior officer with a question in his face.

"One other, sir — we're giving him first aid now. Looks fairly bad but he might make it."

"Sorry, son," Raj said.

"Spirit," Minatelli whispered. "Did our best, sor, but t'ere was just too many."

"You did fine, soldier. You held them long enough for us to get here."

He slapped the young man gently on the shoulder and rose. Teams of stretcher bearers were coming up the stairs at a run, now that they were a little clearer. A messenger preceded them.

"Ser. From Colonel Staenbridge — wogs back on their sida t'wall. Same frum Major Belagez."

That was a relief, though not unexpected. This had been the most dangerous penetration, the one nearest to the main gate.

"Raj!"

He looked around quickly; it was Suzette, with Fatima in tow and a Renunciate nun-doctor, who was bending over the wounded men being loaded onto the stretchers. Raj looked down at himself. . well, it was a little alarming. She finished helping tie off a bandage and picked up her kit, walking over to him with a determined expression.

"It's not mine," he said, slightly defensive.

"Well, what about this ?" she asked.

Raj looked down in genuine surprise. There was a long slash down his right arm, starting just above the wrist and running to his elbow. He worked the fingers. Not deep enough to really hurt, and it was with the grain of the muscle anyway. The soft scab broke and fresh blood oozed out along the path the scimitar had traced. Must have been a good one, he thought absently. They had some really fine swordsmiths in Al Kebir and Gedorosia, who made blades you could cut through a floating scarf of torofib -silk with; ones that would keep the edge when they hacked through bone.

"Take that jacket off right now."

Suzette's voice was determined. Raj obeyed automatically, and caught some of the soldiers concealing grins. All part of the legend, he thought resignedly. Even Horace had his place in it, and they all had to follow their roles willy-nilly. He swore mildly as she swabbed out the cut with iodine and washed down the arm before bringing out a roll of bandages.

"Is all that necessary?" he said.

"It should have some stitches," she said tartly. "Try not to use it too hard."

"I'll try," he promised. Then he smiled. "I couldn't let you be the only one to collect a scar from this campaign, now could I? Think of my reputation."

She gave an unwilling snort of laughter. "Your reputation will suffer even more if you get killed doing a lieutenant's work. Let the younger men have a chance."

"When you stay home and do embroidery, my dear, it's a deal."

He levered himself erect from his seat on a ledge and looked up. 0900 , he thought. Less than two hours past dawn.

Looking down from the fighting platform, he saw that the cleared ring inside the walls was mostly empty. Except for the enemy dead, of course. Burial parties. He'd look in on the wounded. . Get those fires under control. The Colonial shelling had started more; luckily, Sandoral was mostly a city of adobe, brick, and stone with tiled roofs supported by arches — timber had always been expensive here, and he'd ripped out most of it for the bridge.

"Back to work," he said, and walked toward the staircase. Flies rose in a buzzing cloud from the stone, amid the faint sweetish smell of blood beginning to rot in the hot morning sun. A severed hand lay almost in his path; he started to kick it aside, then shook his head and walked down the stairs.

The flags crackled in the wind as his bannermen followed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Suzette was pale. Fatima looked up in alarm; neither of them was a stranger to field-hospitals after all these years, so it couldn't be that. With a shudder, the Arab girl remembered her first time here, the first battle, four years ago. Then there had been huge wooden tubs set up at the feet of the operating tables, to hold the amputated limbs. And they had been full, all that endless day. Bartin had lost his hand that day; she'd held his shoulders down while the surgeon worked.

This was mild, by comparison. Only a few dozen shattered limbs to come off, with plenty of time to dose the worst cases with opium. A few hundred others, and more than half would live. But Suzette did look ill as she walked among the cots set up in the main chamber of Sandoral's cathedron. The air smelled of old incense and wax, under the stink of disinfectant and blood.

She was still Messa Whitehall. She finished the conversation, turned on her heel, and walked without running to the door. Fatima followed, grabbing up a towel. Retching sounds came from the cubicle; it was a priest's vesting room, in normal times. Suzette knelt and vomited into a bucket. Fatima hurried up beside her and handed her the towel, then went back for water.

"I don't understand it," Suzette said, wiping her face and slumping back in the chair.

Fatima put a hand on her forehead. "You're not running a fever, Messa."

"No, I'm not. And I feel fine, most of the time; just these last couple of mornings I—" She stopped. "What date is it?"

"Second of Huillio . Why do you want to. . oh!"

Suzette's eyes went round. She turned her head slowly and met Fatima's gaze. The younger woman's mouth dropped open; she squeaked before managing to get out a coherent word:

"I thought. . I thought you couldn't, that is—" She stopped in embarrassment.

"No, there wasn't enough time," Suzette said dazedly. Then her face firmed. "This is not to go beyond these walls, understand?"

"Of course, Messa," Fatima said soothingly. "But wouldn't Messer Raj want to know?"

"Not while he's got so much to worry about," Suzette said.

* * *

The flat rooftop terrace of Sandoral's District Offices made an excellent observation post, being close to the river and higher than the tops of the maidan wall; it was also far enough in from the defenses that Colonial shells were unlikely to land in the vicinity. The noon sun pounded down, turning the blue tile of the floor pale, drawing knife edges of shadow around the topiaries and pergolas. City administrators had held their receptions here, amid the potted bougainvillea and sambuca jasmine that had already begun to wilt without care. The iron heel plates of the officers' boots sounded on the floors, harsh and metallic. A heliograph station occupied one corner, and a map table and working desk had been set up by the railing nearest the river.