Ian cleared his throat. Hong did practice all manner of abominations when she got the chance, and from her file and her record in Alba, she probably did dress them up in cultic garb. Walker would cheerfully turn that to use, of course.
"Walker is a rebel against our rulers, just as Kurunta of Tarhuntassa is against you," he said.
"So here we have Lord Kurunta of Tarhuntassa in rebellion against the Great Throne, probably with the Wolf Lord's aid; and these barbarians invading us from the northwest, also with the Wolf Lord's aid," Tudhaliyas said. "And we have Wiulusiya, which may not be a loyal vassal… and Tarhuntassa will make it difficult to receive aid from your people in Babylon, since the best road-Carchemish- runs on the edge of his territory."
Ian sighed. It was becoming increasingly obvious what they'd have to do. The Republic calls, he thought, and surprised himself at how little irony there was in it. I'm getting patriotic in my old age.
"Well, always interesting to see a new town," Doreen said in English, reading his expression.
"No," Ian said. "I need someone here to coordinate… and besides, my dear, if things go wrong… well, it would be a hard day for David if we were both there, wouldn't it?"
Doreen scowled. "You fight dirty," she said.
"Of course," he replied. "I fight to win."
The Hittites were beginning to look uncomfortable with this consultation in a language they could not speak. "My Sun," Ian said to Tudhaliyas, "we have a means of… flying over… difficulties. And soon we should knit all the strands of our strength together, testing our opponents as we do."
"Sorry to interrupt your honeymoon, Sis," Brigadier Hollard said, reining his camel in beside hers. He lifted his hat and wiped at the sweat on his face and neck with an already sodden bandanna.
Kathryn, Lady of the Land, Commander of Chariots, grinned back at him. "Wouldn't want to wear things out so soon," she said with a chuckle.
The Marine column was singing as they swung along the dusty dirt track:
Oh, we're marching on relief through Iraq's burning sands
A thousand fighting Islanders, the General, and the band;
Ho! Get away, you bullock-man, you've heard the bugle blowed!
The New Corps is a 'comin', down the Hittite road!
"Burning sands is a bit much for Hangilibat," Kathryn said judiciously. "More like 'dry semi-arid.' "
Hollard looked around. Fair enough, he thought. Moderately rolling plains, cut by tributaries running down from the Anti-Taurus far to the north to feed the Khabur and then the Euphrates; that was why it was also called the Rivers. There was actual grass on the ground even here; sparse, clumpy, beginning to frizzle up toward summer, but grass nonetheless. Even a few fields plowed into it, and the odd low thicket of waxy-leaved scrub oak.
Or there had been fields plowed into it; a lot of the land was deserted, and they'd seen precious little livestock. Supply would be a real problem if the force got any bigger; they had two battalions of Nantucket Marines, six hundred of Babylon's New Troops, some specialists, a contingent of the Royal Guard-also retrained on Westley-Richards breechloaders-and…
"Lord Kenn'et!"
Raupasha's chariot drew up beside them; the girl leaned back, the reins in one expert hand, her grin brilliant through sweat-caked dust, the gray eyes shining. The horses snorted and shied a bit at the smell of camel, but a word and pressure on the reins controlled them. She was escorted by Marines, a section of mounted infantry with their rifles at their knees. They were mostly young too; half of them were grinning in sync with the girl's infectious enthusiasm.
She was wearing Marine khakis herself-rather incongruous with the golden fillet of royalty-a Python revolver at her belt and a Werder in a scabbard attached to the frame of the war-car, and he suspected that the gangling spotted hound standing with its forepaws on the front of the chariot and its ears flapping in the breeze was unorthodox too.
"Hello, Princess," he said. "What's new?"
"More men rally to us," she said with delight. "The Hurri-folk do accept me!" She flushed a little, and he squirmed at the look in her eyes. "I wasn't altogether sure they would, Lord Kenn'et, but you were right."
"How many does that make now?" he asked, then answered himself. "About three thousand." They came and went, but the total kept going up.
"These brought seven chariots," Raupasha said. "And a hundred footmen! You must meet their leaders when we camp tonight, Lord Kenn'et, and Lady Kat'ryn. When we reach Dur-Katlimmu, they will hear the word of the Great King concerning Mitanni, and I think they will hail it well. I go!"
She turned the chariot in a curve tight enough to bring one wheel off the ground and dashed back down the dusty column, her Marine escort swearing and thumping their heels against the ribs of their horses.
Kathryn leaned over and poked him in the ribs.
"Joan of Arc syndrome, ayup?"
"Well, she's living her daydreams," Hollard said. "What worries me is how we're going to feed all the let's-restore-the-good-old-days-of-Mitanni types she's gathering in. Even with those camel-drawn heavy wagons, we're getting a long way from where our steamboats can reach. But yeah, it'll be convenient; most of the non-Assyrian notables will be there and we can plug them into the new order. With luck we can install her at Dur-Katlimmu"-the largest approach to a city the area had, and the former seat of the Assyrian governor-"install a garrison, and then press on. We're getting real close to areas where this rebel against the Hittite king is operating, and he's in cahoots with Walker."
Kathryn nodded grimly. "Real work," she said. "Kash wishes he could be here, but he's got to consolidate back in Babylon. He said he's going to build a temple in thanks that we Nantukhtar aren't all like Walker."
"He should," her brother agreed.
A click and buzz came from the radio on the back of the tech riding next to him. He edged his camel closer, ignoring its complaints, and took the handset.
"Hollard here," he said. Kathryn watched his expression, and her own went blank.
"Great minds think alike," he said when he replaced the instrument. "Seems the Wolf Lord wants to steal a march on us. Those barbarian allies of his are moving on Troy."
"Troy VI, right enough," Ian muttered to himself.
"Councilor?" Vicki Cofflin asked.
The Emancipator was wallowing as she came in toward the city. A hundred or more hands were ready to take the released lines and guide the huge, light craft into the lee of the city's walls-the past three weeks had made them accustomed to it, even if they still tended to make warding signs and spit. He could see the harvesters at work among the fields, orchards and silvery-green olive groves among them, and tracts of bright pasture where the city's famous horses were raised. Most of the villages and all the manors of the surrounding lords were empty, though, and a last trickle of refugees was making its way into the six great gates. The grain was coming in too, as fast as it could be cut. The courtyards of houses and the rooftops had been turned into threshing floors.
"Archaeological reference, Ms. Cofflin," Ian said. "Everyone wondered which layer of the site of Troy was the Troy, of the Trojan War."
"Yes, but we still aren't sure that there would have been a Trojan War if we hadn't showed up, are we, Councilor? Maybe it was all just a story, the first time 'round?"
He snorted, and looked down. Yup. The king was waiting for him, anxious as ever.
"Sorry, Lieutenant. Don't want to bore you with this sort of thing."
"Oh, hell, no, Councilor. It's a lot more interesting than, say, listening to LG's talk about President Clinton."
He gave her bland smile a look of suspicion-"LG" stood for "Lost Geezer," a not-very-complimentary term the younger generation used for elders who couldn't get over the Event-and then chuckled before he turned and walked back toward the exit ramp with what he hoped was appropriate dignity for meeting a king.