And it never hurt to acknowledge when a man did something right, either. Another thing too many nobles did was simply snap their fingers and expect things to fall into place. It was the engineers and administrators that made the Civil Government more than another feudal pigsty.
Muzzaf grinned. "Half of it was your lady's labors," he said. "Without her keeping the patricians off my back. ." He shrugged meaningfully.
Raj nodded. Suzette Whitehall had been born in East Residence, to fifteen generations of city nobility. Nobody knew how to work the system better. It was one of her manifold talents. The wonder is she picked a hill-squireen like me, he thought with a smile. He'd been nothing in particular then, just another land-poor Descotter nobleman making his way in the professionals like his fathers before him.
And where-
"My lady," he said.
She stood with the command group, but she turned quickly at the sound of his voice. Her smile was slight, but it warmed the slanted gray eyes; Horace crouched, and Raj stepped free of the stirrups and bent over her hand. She was in Court walking-out dress, lace skirt split at the front and pinned back to show embroidered leggings, mantilla, the works. It surprised him; he'd expected her traveling gear. Fatima was beside her, carrying a tray with a bottle of Kelden Sparkler and several long-stemmed glasses, each with half a strawberry on its ice-cooled rim.
He reached out a hand-not for the wine, it was too early for him-but for the fruit. She touched his fingers with her folded fan.
"That's ammunition, my knight," she said.
A party of officials was picking their way through the shouting chaos of soldiers and guns and dogs, heading his way. He recognized the Municipal Prefect of East Residence-the Governors didn't allow the city an alcalle of its own, knowing the fickleness of an East Residence mob-and he looked deeply unhappy. Raj braced himself.
"More time lost," he growled deep in his throat.
Suzette touched him on the arm. "A minute, darling," she said. "I expected this. That's Rahol Himentez, and he had a mob stone his townhouse when the coal ran out one winter. He's had a bee in his breeches about it ever since."
She swept off towards the dignitaries.
"— winter reserves," Raj could hear the Prefect bleating. "And the enemy's on the Lower Drangosh, not the Upper-"
But he stopped, and his flunkies with him, milling around as Suzette's soothing voice cut through the plaintive whine.
Beside him, Gerrin Staenbridge chuckled with admiration. "Cut off by the flying squadron, by the Spirit," he said. "Commandeered my mistress to do it, too."
One of the other officers laughed. "Small loss to you," he said. Staenbridge had an eye for handsome youths.
"Well, she is the mother of my heir," he pointed out, and cocked an eye toward the civil servants Suzette had intercepted. They were beginning to move back towards the headquarters building, in a sort of Brownian motion gently shepherded by the women.
Raj nodded curtly. "Right, gentlemen," he said to the circle of battalion commanders; most of them his Companions, all of them veterans. "Now, you've all got your maps?"
They did, although some of the ex-barbarians, Squadrones and Brigaderos, were looking at them a little dubiously. The Civil Government's cartographic service was one of a number of advantages it had had over the Military Governments. Unfortunately, the Colony's mapmakers were just as skillful.
"This campaign," he went on, meeting their eyes, "is what we've been training for these past five years."
"Conquering half the world was a training exercise?" Ludwig Bellamy blurted.
Raj nodded, with an expression a stranger might have mistaken for a smile. "No offense, Messers, but we're not fighting barbarians this time. If we hold out a sausage grinder, they're not going to scratch their heads, mutter and then obligingly ram their dicks into it while we turn the crank.
"These are disciplined troops with first-rate equipment, operating closer to their base of supplies than we will be. And they have a first-rate commander; Tewfik ibn'Jamal is nobody's fool. I've fought him twice; lost one, won one-and the time I won, Tewfik had his father Jamal looking over his shoulder and jogging his elbow. Jamal was no commander."
Gerrin nodded. "This time he's got Ali along," he pointed out. His square, handsome face was dark olive, more typical of Descott than Raj's, who had a grandmother from Kelden County in the northwest. "Ali's not only no commander, by all accounts he's a raving bloody lunatic."
"That's our only advantage, and we'll need it. Messers, no mistakes this time. We move fast, and we hit like a hammer. Gerrin, detail two hundred of the 5th to me, and I'll take them ahead on the first train. You'll be rearguard here and come in on the last with the remainder of the battalion."
He held up a hand when the other man began to protest. "I need someone here I can trust to see the plan carried out, Colonel."
"We also serve who only stay and chivvy bureaucrats," Staenbridge said.
"Ludwig," Raj went on. "We're short of rolling stock. I'm giving you the 1st and 2nd Mounted Cruisers" — the former Squadron troops- "and the 3/591, 4/591 and 5/591" — all Brigaderos from the Western Territories- "and you'll follow on dogback. Entrain your baggage, commandeer what remounts you need from the Residence Area pens, and keep to the line of rail. You can pick up supplies at the railstops; nothing on the men but their weapons and personal gear. Understood?"
Ludwig Bellamy slapped one gauntleted fist into the other. "Ci, mi heneral," he said, his Sponglish as pure as a native Civil Government officer; it even had a hint of a Descott Country rasp.
Nobody would mistake him for an Easterner, though. He stood a finger over Raj's 190 centimeters, and the hair cut in an Army bowl crop was yellow-blond. He'd been the son of a Squadron noble, one who surrendered to Raj to keep his lands. Ludwig had been part of the deal, a hostage for his father's good behavior. He was far more than that now. The man beside him was like enough to be his brother, and was his cousin-in-law; Teodore Welf, former second-in-command of the Brigade.
He tapped his fingers on his sword-hilt; unlike his kinsman by marriage, he kept the shoulder-length hair of a Military Government officer, and wore the basket-hilted longsword of the Brigade rather than an Easterner's saber.
"Good thinking, mi heneral," he said. "Some of the men. ." He shrugged at the shrieking locomotives around them. "Well, they're not used to these modern refinements."
"True, Major Welf," Raj said. Meaning, he thought, that steam engines scare them spitless. They probably thought they were captive demons. "It'll toughen them up, too. See that they get in some drill with their Armory rifles, Ludwig."
Bellamy tossed his chin upward slightly in affirmation; with a slight start, Raj recognized the gesture as one of his own. How times change.
"The Brigaderos can use some hard marching," Ludwig Bellamy said judiciously. Welf shrugged unwilling agreement. "They're good shots and good riders, but a bit soft in the arse."
For that matter, there were plenty of officers in the Civil Government's armies who wouldn't dream of campaigning without half a dozen servants and a wagonload of luxuries.
Not the ones who went to war with Raj Whitehall, though.
"So." Raj turned to the other commanders. "Jorg, you and Ferdihando will bring the 17th Kelden Foot and the 24th Valencia on the next series of trains, right after me and my detachment of the 5th."