"Were numbers anywhere near even, they could. Stout-hearted defenders can beat off several times their number of attackers. But the foe now outnumber us fifteen or twenty to one—at least as far as real soldiers are concerned; I count not Vegh's and Amazluek's rabble. With the defenders so few, they could not man all parts of the wall at once. By throwing up ladders against parts of the wall that are bare for the nonce, the assailants can get a lodgment on the top. Once a few sections are taken, the attackers can stream down into the city and make their numbers felt.
"If the foe strike now, he'll have an excellent chance of overrunning the city; whereas, an he fool around with all these beautiful engines, he may find his advantage lost by Tereyai's arrival… Speaking of whom, has your scryer, what's his name, found out whether our messengers have yet reached General Tereyai?"
"Nedef has been at his crystal from dawn to sunset, but the scrying has been poor. I daresay the foe's wizards have cast spells to block it. Now and then Nedef gets a fix on some spot in northern Penembei, but all he sees are bare brown hills, with no sign either of our frontier army or of the messengers."
"Hmm." Jorian stared so long through his spyglass that Karadur said:
"What is it, O Jorian?"
"See you that thing between the camps of the Free Company and that of the Fedirunis?"
"It looks like another line of mantlets, does it not? My dim old eyes—"
"Aye, but what are mantlets doing so far back? Even a catapult couldn't reach 'em. They seem inordinately high, and methinks I detect activity behind them." Jorian turned on Karadur. "Could your scryer get a glimpse behind that fence?"
"He can try, whilst I essay to counter the interference of the foe's magicians."
An hour later, Jorian and Karadur sat in Nedef's chamber in the House of Learning. The scryer sat cross-legged on a bench, hunched over his crystal sphere, which rested upon a small stand of ebony carved into coiling dragons. Karadur sat, also cross-legged, on a cushion on the floor, leaning back with his eyes closed and moving his lips. Jorian sat in a chair, holding a stylus and a waxed wooden tablet. He leaned forward tensely, holding the stylus poised.
The scryer spoke just above a whisper: "The scene ripples and shifts, although it is not so confused as yesterday's… Methinks their wizards who cast interference upon me have been recalled to other tasks… Ah, now I see Iraz… The scene pitches and tosses, as if I were an insect riding an autumnal leaf borne along on the wind… Steady, steady… Nay, that is the wrong side of the besiegers' ring… Now I have the nomads' tents in view… More to the left! The left! Ah, here we are. Here is your fence, whereon I look down… Curse this interference; it is like trying to see the bottom of a river through the waters of a rapid. I see a great pile of long things; long things with crosspieces… Ah… Now I see men working on these objects… From my height, they look like ants; but… They hammer and saw…"
"Ladders?" said Jorian.
"Ah, that is it! Ladders! I could not be sure, because of bad scrying, but ladders they are."
"Can you estimate their number?" said Jorian.
"Nay; but there must be hundreds…"
Jorian looked at Karadur. "They're doing just what I said I should do in their place. The siege engines are a diversion, to make us think we have plenty of time to ready our defenses. Instead, they'll rush us early some morn with all those ladders and scramble over our walls ere we've rubbed the sleep out of our eyes. Once inside, they could stand off Tereyai for ay. With command of the sea, they could not be starved out.
"Keep Nedef at his crystal and command him to try to learn the foe's precise plans. If he could eavesdrop on a conference amongst the leaders, that might be helpful. Meanwhile, I must forth to tell Chuivir to build crutches."
"Crutches?"
"That's what we call those poles with a curved or forked crosspiece at the end, for pushing over ladders."
"Beware of arousing Chuivir's jealousy!"
Jorian had thitherto been careful to report back to the palace before issuing royal commands to Colonel Chuivir. But, as he strode through the streets between the House of Learning and the palace, an uproar drew his attention. A group of armed Kilts was chasing three Pants along the avenue, waving swords and shouting vengeance.
"Heryx blast them!" snarled Jorian to himself, stepping out into the street. As the Pants ran past him, he threw out his arms in a commanding gesture and roared: "Halt, in the king's name!"
At least, he thought, his glittering parade armor did have its uses. At the sight of his regalia, the pursuing Kilts halted. The three Pants clustered behind him, panting:
"They… would… slay us… good sir! And… for nought!"
"What is all this?" barked Jorian.
"Thieves!" screamed the leading Kilt. "We found them sneaking and snooping around our armory, to steal our weapons!"
"They lie!" cried a new voice. Jorian turned, and there was the plump Lord Vegh, stasiarch of the Pants. "I sent my trusty lads thither to ask a few civil questions of the other faction, as to what armament they thought most suitable—"
"Now it is ye who lie!" cried the gaunt, goateed Amazluek, pushing through the gathering crowd. "Civil questions, forsooth! Mere questioners need not try to pick the lock on the armory door—"
"There was no one on guard," shouted a Pant. "None to answer our questions, so we sought to—"
Amazluek: "Liar again! There is always a man—"
"Thou callest me liar?" yelled Vegh, drawing his sword.
"Liar, thief, and coward!" screamed Amazluek, drawing likewise.
"Stop it! Stop it!" shouted Jorian over the rising din. "Put up your blades, in the king's name!"
The clash and ring of sword against sword answered him. Spectators began to shout and to cheer on the combatants according to which faction they supported. They also began to bark threats and insults at each other. Jorian saw one man kick another's shins, another tweak another's nose, and a third seize another's hair and pull it. A full street battle was in the making. In desperation, Jorian drew his sword and knocked up the crossed blades of the stasiarchs.
"Keep out of this, dirty foreigner!" snarled Amazluek, making a thrust at Jorian's chest. Not expecting the attack, Jorian was slow in parrying. But his corselet saved his life as the stasiarch's point skittered off its scales and tore the sleeve of Jorian's jacket.
Vegh lunged at Amazluek, who had to leap back and make a hasty parry to save his own gore. Jorian unhooked his lead-pommeled dagger. Holding it by the sheath, he stopped behind Amazluek and brought the pommel down on the stasiarch's head.
Amazluek wilted to the cobblestones. When Vegh made to run the prostrate man through, Jorian knocked his blade aside and thrust his own point into Vegh's face.
"Get back, or I will give you some of the same!" he said.
"Who are you to order us about—" sputtered Vegh.
"I am who I am. You five Kilts, carry Lord Amazluek back to your headquarters. If water in the face fail to revive him, fetch a chirurgeon to tend him. Lord Vegh, will you be so good as to send your men back to their barracks? Meseems they need every waking hour for drill, if they are to withstand the foe."
The Kilts, cowed by Jorian's size and air of command, silently picked up their fallen leader and disappeared. Vegh grumbled some threat or curse under his breath. Being a full head shorter than Jorian, he seemed indisposed to carry the argument further. He and his trio also departed, and the crowd broke up.
Jorian hurried on to the palace. The sun had passed the meridian, and Jorian felt oppressed by the need for haste. The attack with scaling ladders might come at any time, and the disparity in numbers of hardened fighters grew with every additional Fediruni who halted his camel in the growing tent city east of Iraz.