Creed sighed. ‘Always you think in numbers, my old friend. That is your problem, all of you. You think this is purely a matter of resources and where to put them most efficiently. But you forget what we are, what we have.’
‘You think the chartassa alone can save us,’ interrupted Chonas. ‘That is what you mean, is it not? The famous Khosian chartassa, feared and respected by our many enemies. The Giant Killer, the Pathians called it. Defeat, the Imperials knew it as in Coros.’ Chonas shook his head sadly. ‘No, Marsalas. It is you who are mistaken. I may be a tired old politician. Our fighting esprit may be strong. But still the numbers cannot be washed away by some vainglorious gesture of defiance. Yes. The chartassa will make for a fearsome sight on the battlefield. And then they will die, all of them. And Khos will be lost to us for good.’
‘What choice do we have?’ snapped Creed. ‘Let them rape and enslave every town in Khos while we hunker behind the city walls? Is that what you would have us do?’
‘No, Marsalas. If we had any viable alternatives, it is not what I would have us do. But it is the terrible situation we find ourselves facing. Even now, the Imperial Fourth Army masses on the Pathian side of the Shield for a major attack on the walls. Listen to their guns! Listen! Have you heard such a thunder since the first years of the siege? They will be coming at the walls with everything they have now, and they will not cease this time – while you, you would take half our men into the field on some reckless venture in suicide.’
‘You will have General Tanserine, one of the finest tacticians in all the Free Ports, here to lead the defences. And with enough men to hold until our return.’
‘And what if you do not return?’
‘Then you must hold them off until more Volunteers can arrive from the League.’
‘And how will we do that without the reserves you are taking with you? No. We make our stand here in Bar-Khos. What we can spare, we will use to fortify and hold Tume. We will dig in and await aid.’
Creed flexed his jaw. ‘If we dig in, we may all be dead before reinforcements have time even to arrive. If we fight them, we can at least buy ourselves some time. Sweet Mercy, man! The Matriarch herself is here: don’t you realize what an opportunity that is for us?’
Chonas bowed his head as though he was no longer listening. On cue, a man stepped from the gathering of Michine and approached the desk. He wore the stiff bleached garments of a city professional.
‘General Creed,’ the man announced. ‘If I may draw your attention to article forty-three of the Concordance: At all times, the defence of the Shield must be paramount when apportioning supplies to offensive or defensive operations.’
‘Who is this man?’
‘An advocate,’ explained Chonas. ‘We felt he might be able to shed some light on our differences, should any be remaining.’
‘An advocate?’
‘What the man is saying is this: we can refuse you blackpowder for those cannon of ours you wish to take into the field. It is written in the martial law.’
Creed was speechless for a moment. ‘You would let us meet them without guns?’
‘We are rather hoping, without cannon, you will not go at all.’
The First Minister looked at Creed from beneath his bushy brows. He leaned closer, and when he spoke, he did so quietly. ‘I know you, Marsalas. You have had enough of sitting in your chair behind the Shield doing nothing for all this time. You wish to have a proper crack at them, for all they have done to us, for the lives they have taken, for your own father who died fighting them abroad. You see this as a last chance to meet them in the open theatre of war and prevail. But it is a grand folly only. I implore you to see this now.’
General Creed sat back in his chair, disarmed by the truth at the core of the First Minister’s words.
He was not a person prone to self-doubt, but for an instant he entertained the notion that he was in fact wrong in all of this, and that Chonas was right, that he was leading them all to their downfall. Since hearing of the invasion a few hours earlier, and whilst everyone around him seemed on the verge of losing their heads, Creed instead had found himself thrilled by this sudden development in the war, this chance to make a fight of it.
The Michine glared at him as he eyed each of them in turn.
It came to him that it wasn’t merely their fears that charged this sudden hostility towards him. He was the first Lord Protector in forty years to gain the full rights of his position under the terms of the Concordance – that century-old agreement forged between the Michine rulers and their military commander. Now the scales had shifted without warning. With invaders on Khosian soil, Creed could do as he pleased with the army, never mind what the Michine had to say on it. Predictably, these noble-borns were intolerant to such a turn of events, this sudden collective step down in the grand pecking order of power. And so here they were now, come to dispel such notions from him before he had a chance to exercise his new powers properly.
He thought of all the times they had restrained him, had stopped him from taking on the enemy face to face, more concerned with preserving the status quo than in breaking the siege. He looked to Chonas, the Michine’s expression eager beneath the great overhangs of his brows.
Aye, the First Minister might be a good man. But when it came down to it, he was still one of them.
Creed rose slowly to his feet. He was larger than these men before him, not in height but in bulk, and in his own capacity for action.
‘I will not stand by and do nothing while good people are put to the sword. My orders stand. We march in the morning.’
He held a hand up to silence them all, and felt a brief moment of satisfaction as their mouths closed again as one. ‘Gollanse!’ he called out.
His ageing orderly shuffled past the group of Michine, escorting a man who was also dressed in the clothes of a city professional. He had a leather satchel beneath his arm, and a pair of spectacles on his bland, sharp, clever face.
‘Ministers, this is my own advocate, Charson Fay. If you have any legal issues involving my orders then please address them to him. He will construct a case file so that we can all meet together in open session of court upon my return.’
The general closed the drawer with the gun and stepped around the desk. ‘Now, if you will excuse me. I have an army to prepare for the march. Good day to you all.’
Creed strode from the room with the murmur of their discontent like music in his ears.
‘Is it true?’ someone shouted at Bahn as he stepped through the gates of the Ministry of War into the crowd of people gathered there. Behind them, horns were blaring from the Stadium of Arms, calling the city’s soldiery to action; faint wails between the concussions of the distant guns. Every dog in the city seemed to be barking.
‘Have we been invaded, Bahn?’ came the voice again as he pushed through the crowd. He saw that it was Koolas, the war chattero.
Bahn brushed past the man without comment, but Koolas matched his stride as he headed for the path that would lead him down from the Mount of Truth. The war chattero was sweating even in the cool breeze that ran in from the sea, the man too heavy to make the hike to the summit easily. His great paunch bounced beneath his shirt at the pace Bahn set for them. Still, Koolas had energy enough to laugh incredulously as they walked, and to sweep the curls of his black hair from his face in strands wet enough for it to be raining.
‘It’s true, then!’
Bahn scowled at him but held his tongue. Koolas made his living by writing news on the war for the copy-houses of the city, and for the proclaimers on the wailing towers of the bazaars. He knew that within an hour the news would be spreading like wildfire throughout the city.