He levered himself erect from his seat on a ledge and looked up. 0900, he thought. Less than two hours past dawn.
Looking down from the fighting platform, he saw that the cleared ring inside the walls was mostly empty. Except for the enemy dead, of course. Burial parties. He'd look in on the wounded. . Get those fires under control. The Colonial shelling had started more; luckily, Sandoral was mostly a city of adobe, brick, and stone with tiled roofs supported by arches-timber had always been expensive here, and he'd ripped out most of it for the bridge.
"Back to work," he said, and walked toward the staircase. Flies rose in a buzzing cloud from the stone, amid the faint sweetish smell of blood beginning to rot in the hot morning sun. A severed hand lay almost in his path; he started to kick it aside, then shook his head and walked down the stairs.
The flags crackled in the wind as his bannermen followed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Suzette was pale. Fatima looked up in alarm; neither of them was a stranger to field-hospitals after all these years, so it couldn't be that. With a shudder, the Arab girl remembered her first time here, the first battle, four years ago. Then there had been huge wooden tubs set up at the feet of the operating tables, to hold the amputated limbs. And they had been full, all that endless day. Bartin had lost his hand that day; she'd held his shoulders down while the surgeon worked.
This was mild, by comparison. Only a few dozen shattered limbs to come off, with plenty of time to dose the worst cases with opium. A few hundred others, and more than half would live. But Suzette did look ill as she walked among the cots set up in the main chamber of Sandoral's cathedron. The air smelled of old incense and wax, under the stink of disinfectant and blood.
She was still Messa Whitehall. She finished the conversation, turned on her heel, and walked without running to the door. Fatima followed, grabbing up a towel. Retching sounds came from the cubicle; it was a priest's vesting room, in normal times. Suzette knelt and vomited into a bucket. Fatima hurried up beside her and handed her the towel, then went back for water.
"I don't understand it," Suzette said, wiping her face and slumping back in the chair.
Fatima put a hand on her forehead. "You're not running a fever, Messa."
"No, I'm not. And I feel fine, most of the time; just these last couple of mornings I-" She stopped. "What date is it?"
"Second of Huillio. Why do you want to. . oh!"
Suzette's eyes went round. She turned her head slowly and met Fatima's gaze. The younger woman's mouth dropped open; she squeaked before managing to get out a coherent word:
"I thought. . I thought you couldn't, that is-" She stopped in embarrassment.
"No, there wasn't enough time," Suzette said dazedly. Then her face firmed. "This is not to go beyond these walls, understand?"
"Of course, Messa," Fatima said soothingly. "But wouldn't Messer Raj want to know?"
"Not while he's got so much to worry about," Suzette said.
* * *
The flat rooftop terrace of Sandoral's District Offices made an excellent observation post, being close to the river and higher than the tops of the maidan wall; it was also far enough in from the defenses that Colonial shells were unlikely to land in the vicinity. The noon sun pounded down, turning the blue tile of the floor pale, drawing knife edges of shadow around the topiaries and pergolas. City administrators had held their receptions here, amid the potted bougainvillea and sambuca jasmine that had already begun to wilt without care. The iron heel plates of the officers' boots sounded on the floors, harsh and metallic. A heliograph station occupied one corner, and a map table and working desk had been set up by the railing nearest the river.
"Well, he's not wasting any time," Raj said.
Through the tripod-mounted heavy binoculars the east bank showed plainly. Tewfik's seal-of-Solomon banner waved from the highest ground; around it several thousand men worked with pick and shovel.
Grammek Dinnalsyn was using a telescope, also mounted; he made a few precise adjustments to the screws and sketched on a pad.
"That's not intended for his whole force," he said. "About three, four hundred men, perhaps."
Raj nodded agreement and took another bite of his sandwich. Which reminds me. .
"Jorg," he said. "You've had your men on half-rations while we were away?"
"Si. Mostly hardtack and jerky, some fish and dried fruit."
"The whole command is back on full rations as of now," he said. "Bait the dogs properly, too. Muzzaf, get me a complete inventory of supplies. And fuel."
"Si," the little Komarite said. "Seyhor, I can tell you immediately-we have less than a week's supply at that rate of expenditure."
"Excellent," Raj said with a smile. The others looked at him oddly. "I presume Ali knows?"
"The outlines," Menyez said. "We've had a few deserters, mostly from the garrison units. Presumably they've 'taken the turban' and told him what they know."
Raj nodded thoughtfully. "Any the other way?"
"Three-two from their transport corps, claim to be Star Church believers conscripted for supplies. The other's a Zanj."
The Colony had conquered some of the outlying city-states there, but was fiercely resented. The Zanj were of different race than most of the Colonials, and followed a branch of Islam the conquerors thought heretical.
"They're probably spies, of course," Menyez concluded. "I've kept them in close confinement."
"I'll talk to them; I can usually get the truth out of a man," Raj said. He was conscious of sidelong glances; another part of the myth, that it was impossible to lie to Messer Raj. It is when Center's looking through my eyes, he thought. "In any case, it doesn't matter what Ali knows. Or even what Tewfik knows."
Barton Foley pointed. "They're bringing men across."
Everyone raised their glasses. An overloaded fishing skiff labored across the current, on a trajectory that would land it just south of Sandoral's walls on the western bank. Heads and V-marks of ripples showed where dogs on lead-halters swam in the boat's wake. On the riverbank it had left, men were building an earth ramp down to the water's edge and putting together a raft from bits and pieces, date-palm logs and thin boards that looked as if they'd come from some sheep fence.
"It'll take him a while to get his men back to Ali," Gerrin Staenbridge said, examining his nails. The way the Civil Government forces had scavenged up every small boat and all available materials was handicapping their enemies badly. "You have something in mind, don't you, mi heneral?"
Raj grinned at him. "Possibly. Can you think what?"
Staenbridge shook his head. Raj nodded amiably.
"And that's an excellent thing too," he said. "Because you're an extremely perceptive officer, and you have all the information. If you can't figure it out, probably Tewfik can't either. Gentlemen, I want you to spend the rest of today and tomorrow reorganizing. Don't let your men settle in too tight-I want full readiness to move at a moment's notice. Those units that've been hit hard, do the necessary shifting around immediately. Weapons maintenance, ammunition issues, the lot-again, immediately, please. Understood?"
Nods. "Grammeck, this afternoon I want to go over some matters with you; bring the complete plans for the pontoon bridge, please. If there aren't any questions, Messers?"
There was obviously one burning one, but nobody was going to ask it. Jorg Menyez remained when the others had left the flat rooftop.
"Colonel?" Raj asked. It wasn't like Jorg to talk for reassurance sake. He was obviously a little embarrassed.