The tramp of feet in the access trenches died away. The columns were in position.
Tegestu leaned against the wall of the trench, seeking its support as he stood in the darkness and contemplated his treacheries. They were his alone; he had consulted no other, not even Grendis — all was on his head. Was he ar-demmin, as bad as Tastis? Or worse, since he was betraying a lord who had behaved toward him only with honor and decent intentions?
He shook his head, trying to clear it of self-reproach. It was too late: the decision had been made. He could always claim that he had been pushed by circumstance.
It bothered him that he would have to claim anything at all. Actions, he thought, should be clean, unambiguous, like a swordstroke — they should serve as their own justification.
He jerked his head up as he heard the sound of a distant trumpet. Then there was the booming of a drum, then more trumpets. Tastis’ sortie had come crashing against the men of Prypas. He knew that the sortie would not fare well; Palastinas had “suggested” to the Prypas commanders that they stage an exercise in repelling a sortie; and Tegestu had also made a private suggestion to Tanta that he take the exercise seriously indeed — neither Handipas nor Tanta were the sort to take a suggestion like that lightly.
Another treachery, Tegestu thought; this time he had betrayed Tastis’ sortie.
The distant sounds of battle did not entirely hide the sudden clack of slipping pawls, and Tegestu’s heart leaped as he realized that the drawbridge of the White Tower Gate was coming down. Victory! he thought.
No, not victory, he corrected. Only the start of another war.
The scouts reported back as ordered, though their messages were redundant by the time they arrived. The drawbridge was down, the portcullis raised, and they had heard the hoofbeats as Tastis’ remaining gate guards ran for the Long Bridge to Neda. Tegestu gave heartfelt thanks to the gods, then walked down the trench to the roof dugout where his staff waited.
“Send to tell ban-demmin Grendis I will send in my assault columns,” he said. “Ban-demmini, we may begin.”
The first column, spearmen in light armor, began their race through the assault trenches: Tegestu could hear their drumming feet through the earth. They were under the command of Dellila Gartanu Sepestu y’Dantu, the young captain who had so distinguished himself fighting Tastis’ raiders weeks ago, before the battle at the ford; they would enter the city at the run, turn left, and make a dash to raise the water gate blocking access to the barge train. There would be other obstacles as well, no doubt, cables stretched across the canal and so forth, and Dellila and his people would have to remove these.
After that, Tegestu knew, his people would be safe. For at least a year, until requisitioned food ran out.
Tegestu heard the reverberating sound of the spearmen’s feet on the drawbridge. The leaders were already in the city.
The second column came dashing out of the trenches. This group, heavily armored men with rhomphia, would secure the gate itself. After that the entire Brodaini force, every one of them, including the Classani and their Hostli men of business, all their tents and supplies and baggage animals, would begin to file into the Calacas, and Tegestu’s banners would be raised from every tower.
Messengers began to come back to the bunker, reporting gates seized, towers occupied, palaces overrun. There was no resistance in the silent city: Tastis’ soldiers had crossed the bridges into Neda. Any left behind would be spies, and they would not be seen, not yet. And then at last the message came that Tegestu had been waiting for:
“Ban-demmin Dellila reports the water gate has been seized, and cleared of obstacles.”
Tegestu allowed himself a smile. “Order ban-demmin Acamantu to bring the barges into the city.”
“Aye, bro-demmin.”
“Send a message to our fleet commanders. Tell them scarlet tide.”
“Aye, bro-demmin.” Scarlet tide was the code word to bring the galleys under Brodaini command into the now-secure outer harbor of Calacas. Once there, they could be protected by a cable stretched across the harbor’s mouth.
“You have the messengers to Amasta, Astapan, and the north standing by?” Tegestu asked.
“Awaiting your command, bro-demmin.”
“Send them.”
Amasta, commanding now in the Arrandal keep, would receive word of his actions before the two days were out, thanks to a fast twelve-oared dispatch galley with the new fiono sails. Amasta had already been warned, orally the night before she left, to move as many supplies as possible into the Brodaini quarter and to be prepared to cut herself off from the rest of the city; she had also been told to prepare orders informing the Brodaini forces on the islands and in all the provinces to return to garrisons and shut themselves in.
Amasta, like the others, had not been told why. No doubt she, like Cascan, had drawn her own conclusions.
Astapan, the drandor of Prypas, would also have the news, and be able to make what preparations he could. Other fast dispatch boats would be running north before the wind, carrying Tegestu’s messages to the other Brodaini aldrans-in-exile. Tegestu could not command them, but he hoped they would make preparations to protect their folk if the Elva wished to make this a cause for a war of extermination.
“We will move our command post to the White Tower Gate,” Tegestu said. “Leave an officer here to direct any further messages.”
Tegestu felt a thrill as his foot touched the drawbridge, knowing he was stepping, though no one but he knew it, onto his own land. Sovereign Brodaini territory, here on the southern continent, subject to his own aldran, flying his own banners. For what lesser prize, he thought, would a man of demmin risk so much, and betray so many?
He climbed wearily up one of the towers that guarded the gate and then stepped into the guarded walk, seeing the slate roofs of Calacas below him. Our city, he thought fiercely. To replace Pranoth, and all that we have lost. Pray the gods our betrayals will not curse it.
“Send for a messenger,” he said. “Make him one of those Cascan has trained.” Cascan’s scouts and spies were trained to memorize oral messages swiftly, and repeat them without flaw.
The messenger, a young woman hardly more than a girl, came onto the battlements and bowed. “A message to bro-demmin Tanta Amandos Dantu y’Sanda,” he told her. “Give him salutations, and my wish that his arm never weaken. Remind him of the conversation we had while watching Second Moon, and say that it would be wise for the Brodaini of Prypas to meet the morning under arms. Say that it would be unwise to move from their camp. Say that bro-demmin Tanta would be wise if he were to obey his canlan, General Handipas, and all their commands. Say also that he is wisest of all if he does not alarm Handipas or any of the Elva men in the next few hours. Repeat this, ban-demmin.”
The girl repeated it flawlessly. Tegestu smiled and sent her on her way.
Perhaps, he thought, Tanta will forgive me this. If not, my house has made an enemy it can ill afford.
The messages continued to come. Tegestu looked down at the drawbridge, seeing the long files entering the city, burdened down with their baggage. How much more lightly would they step, he thought, if they knew they were entering their own nation?
A messenger had come. “A message from bro-demmin Acamantu. The barges are all in the city, and the gate is down.”
Slow triumph filled him. “Give ban-demmin Acamantu my thanks,” he said.
“There is a herald, bro-demmin,” said one of the officers. “He comes from Necias, who wishes to know if we have yet entered the city.”
“Let him come.”