The big shield with the crossed thunderbolts of Allfather of Vanbert on it-Allfather Greatest and Best-punched at him. The tip of the assegai glittered, held low and point-up for the gutting stroke. Esmond spun to the side, light on his feet as a dancer, hooking his buckler around the far edge of the oval shield and wrenching sideways to pin the Confed's spear arm against the frame of the door. His sword hilt went up high, like a beast fighter dispatching a greatbeast in the Vanbert arena after he'd teased it with the cape. The point punched down, in over the collarbone-unnecessary, the man hadn't had time to don his mail shirt, but you didn't think in a fight, you reacted on drilled reflex.
A wrench and jerk and the Confed went down. Esmond's foot and point snapped forward in a longe-lunge, skewered a thigh, pulled out with a twist to open the artery. He slammed his shoulder into another hastily-raised shield, and he was through the door. A Striker crowded through behind him, and in the dim light of the oil lamps he could see swarming confusion within, whores running and shrieking and the more sensible ones hiding under cots, men ripping weapons down from racks or stumbling in drunken bewilderment and getting in the way of their more sober comrades. . and more of his men coming in the tall open windows. Barracks didn't run to glazing, but you wanted plenty of ventilation in this climate.
"Strikers!" he shouted. "Strikers to me! Down Vanbert! Down Vanbert!"
The Strikers were mercenaries, yes. They were also Emeralds almost to a man, and if there was one battle cry in all the world Emeralds could agree on, it was that.
Half an hour later, Esmond tucked his helmet under one arm and walked into the shrine room of the Confed headquarters, stepping over the bodies of the knot of men who'd died on its threshold. The slash on his thigh would make the leg stiffen in a little while, but for now he ignored it as he lifted out the ebony pole, with its golden wreath and hand and campaign-ribbons. He carried it himself onto the colonnaded porch that overlooked the courtyard, and the assembled Strikers roared his name as he held it high.
"Men!" he shouted, when the noise had died down a little. "So much for the invincible Confederacy!"
Another roar, with heartfelt emotion behind it this time. "Strikers," he went on. "We're soldiers loyal to our salt. But we're Emeralds, too. This-" he waved the standard "-has fouled the land of the Hundred Cities far too long. This war is against the Confederacy." A hush, then. "You know the gods favor my brother and me."
Nods. Or at least, my brother's productively crazy. . hands of the Shades, maybe the gods do talk to him. Something does.
"The gods foretell the fate of the Confederacy-they tire of it. Vanbert shall burn!"
Wild cheers, and Donnuld Grayn looking at him with a raised eyebrow-the expression looked a little odd on the scarred, beaten-iron face.
"And think of the loot stacked up there," the mercenary shouted.
This time the cheers split the night.
* * *
"Where the hell were you?" Esmond asked.
"I had an errand to run," Adrian said, walking down the gangway.
Esmond peered behind him. "Where's Helga?"
"As I said, I had an errand," Adrian said, and forced a smile. "Look, let's forget about it, okay? Business."
"Certainly, brother," Esmond said. "This is Enry Sharbonow, Suttete of Preble, Chief Minister to the sovereign, Prince Tenny of Preble."
Adrian bowed, returning the Preblean magnate's more elaborate salute. "Everything went well? Where's the Prince?"
The northern dock of Preble was busy enough, although most of it seemed to be ships loading for departure-Adrian could see an entire household, from a portly robed merchant to veiled wives and a dozen children to skinny porters under huge bundles wrapped in rugs. They were scuttling up the gangplank of a freighter, and they were far from the only ones he could see. There was a smell of smoke in the air, as well.
"Things got a little out of hand," Esmond said. "There aren't many Confed civilians left in town, either. We're letting some of the non-Prebleans leave."
Enry spread his hands. "The Confeds are not-were not-popular here," he said.
Adrian nodded. They never were; the first thing that happened in a country taken under Confed "protection" was a tribute levy, and then officials to collect it. The Confed Council didn't like hiring bureaucrats much: too many opportunities for political patronage with implications at home. They put tribute and tax collection up for competitive bidding; that might not have been so bad, if it weren't for the fact that the successful bidders had no fixed fee. The winning syndicate made its profit by collecting whatever it could above the amount it had paid for the contract, with the Confed army to see that nobody objected. Then Confed merchants swarmed in, to buy up goods and property at knock-down prices as the locals frantically tried to raise cash, and Confed bankers to loan at fifty percent interest, compounded, to those who couldn't raise the cash. If anyone defaulted on the loan, they'd sell every stick and rag he had, and march him off to the auction block, and he'd find himself hoeing beans on some Confed Councillor's estate outside Vanbert.
The nod was general; everyone knew how the system worked. "Funny," Adrian said. "The Confed peasants go into the army, because they can't compete with the big slave-worked estates. . then they go out and get the Councillors the money and slaves they need to set up the estates in the first palace."
"Nice work if you can get it," Donnuld Grayn said. "Meantime the civvies ran down and killed maybe a thousand of 'em last night, once word got around we'd taken out the garrison." He smiled, a nasty expression. "Sort of commits 'em, don't it? What's that Confed saying?"
" 'I am a Confed citizen; let kings tremble,' " Adrian said. "They're not going to be happy at a massacre."
Enry Sharbonow shrugged. "I put my arse above the stake when I enlisted in Prince Tenny's cause," he said. "Now everyone else in town is in the same boat."
"Where's Prince Tenny?" Adrian asked.
Enry coughed discreetly; it seemed to be his favorite expression. "He is occupied with setting up the Royal household," he said. "In his mercy, he has decided to take into his hareem the now-protectorless females of the Confed commandant and his officers, or some of them."
Adrian winced slightly. One of the drawbacks of this business, Raj said at the back of his mind, is that you usually end up working for some son of a bitch. Politics attracts them.
"Well, we've got business to attend to," Adrian said. "I suppose I should start setting up the artillery?"
"Too right," Esmond said. "I don't think the Confeds are going to wait long to try a counterattack-some refugees will have made it out, over the wall and swimming if no other way."
"Sir!" One of the Strikers came up, panting. "Lord Esmond, Confed troops are putting out in small craft from the shore-barges, some ladders."
Enry made a small, appalled sound. Esmond nodded. "Numbers?"
"Fifteen hundred, sir."
The blond Emerald slapped Enry on the back. "Not to worry. That's the local commander, trying it on in case this is just some sort of pirate raid. Your militia ought to be able to see them off; there's seven or eight thousand of them."
"If they turn out," Enry said, taking a deep breath.
* * *
"Wait for it," Adrian said.
"Sor," Simun whispered back, "why don't we have the arquebuses up here? They're such lovely targets!"