There were only four civilian advisors in the room besides Berne. Five. A man whose suit was russet or gold, depending on the direction of the light, had been caught just short of getting into the elevator by Delcorio's return.
The Guards colonel was shaking his head."No,no,"he said."That won't do.If we open a shutter, they'll be in and, well, the way the fools are worked up, who knows what might happen?"
"But—" the President said, his jaw dropping. He'd aged a decade since he stepped off the porch. Hormonal courage abandoned him to reaction and remembrance. "But I must. But I promised them, Drescher, and if I don't—"
His voice would probably have broken off there anyway, but a bellow from the courtyard in thunderous synchrony smothered all sound within for a moment.
"Pick him up, then,"said Eunice Delcorio in a voice as clear as a sapphire laser. "You four—pick him up and follow. We'll give them their scrap of bone."
She strode toward the door, the motion of her legs a devouring flame across the intarsia.
Berne screamed as the soldiers lifted him. Because he was screaming, no one heard Tyl Koopman say in a choked voice, "Lady, you can't—"
But of course they could. And Tyl had done the same or worse, checking out suspicious movements with gunfire, knowing full well that nine chances in ten, the victims were going to be civilians trying to get back home half an hour after curfew . . . .
He'd never have spent one of his own men this way; and he'd never serve under an officer who did.
Colonel Drescher threw open the door himself, though he stood back from the opening with a care that was more than getting out of the way of the President's wife.
Tyl stepped out beside her, because he'd made it his job . . . or Hammer had made it his job . . . and who in blazes cared, he was there and the animal snarl of the mob brought answering rage to the Slammer's mind and washed some of the sour taste from his mouth.
The Guardsmen in azure uniforms and Berne in green made a contrast as brilliant as a parrot's plumage as they manhandled the prefect to the railing under the glare of lights. Floods were trained from at least three locations in the courtyard now, turned high; but that was all right, they needed to watch this, sure they did.
Eunice cried something inaudible but imperious. She gestured out over the railing. The soldiers looked at one another.
Berne was screaming wordlessly. His eyes were closed, but tears poured from beneath the lids. He had fouled himself in his panic. The smell added the only element necessary to make the porch a microcosm of Hell.
Eunice gestured again. The Guards threw their prisoner toward the courtyard.
Berne grabbed the railing with both hands as he went over. His legs flailed without the organization needed to boost him back onto the porch,but his hands clung like claws of east bronze.
Eunice gave a furious order that was no more than a grimace and a quick motion of her lips. Two of the soldiers tried gingerly to push Berne away. The prefect twisted his head and bit the hands of one. His eyes were open now and as mad as those of a backward psychotic. Bottles and stones began to fly from the crowd, clashing on the rail and floor of the porch.
The Guardsmen drew back into a huddle in the doorway. The man who still carried his rifle raised it one-handed to shield his face.
A bottle shattered on Tyl's breastplate. He didn't hear the shot that was fired a moment later, but the howl of a light slug ricocheting from the wall cut through even the roar of the crowd.
"Get inside!"Tyl's speakers bellowed to Eunice Delcorio as he stepped sideways to the railing where Berne thrashed. Tyl hammered the man's knuckles with the butt of his submachine-gun. One stroke, two—bone cracked—
Three and the prefect's screaming changed note. His broken left hand slipped and his right hand opened. Berne's throat made a sound like a siren as he fell ten meters to the mob waiting to receive him.
Tyl turned. If the Guardsmen had still been blocking the doorway, he might have shot them . . . but they'd fled inside and Eunice Delcorio was sweeping after them. Her head was regally high, and she was ignoring the streak of blood over one cheekbone where a stone had cut her.
Tyl turned for a last look into the courtyard. The rioters were passing Berne hand to hand, over their heads, like a bit of green algae seen sliding through the gut of a paramecium. There was greater motion also; the mob was shifting back—only a compression in the crowd at the moment, but soon to turn into real movement that would clear the courtyard.
They were leaving, now that they had their bone.
As the City Prefect was passed along, those nearest were ripping bits away. For the moment, the bits were mostly clothing.
Tyl stepped into the Consistory Room and slammed the door behind him hard enough to shatter a panel that hadn't been armored. He left his face-shield down, because if none of them could see his expression, he could pretend that he wasn't really here.
"Lieutenant Desoix," said Major Borodin. He wasn't speaking loudly, but no one else in the room was speaking at all. "Gun Three needs to be withdrawn. Will you handle that at once."
The battery commander's face looked like a mirror of what Tyl thought was on his own features.
"Nobody's withdrawing," said President Delcorio. He had his color back, and he stroked his hands together briskly as if to warm them. His eyes shifted like a sparkling fire and lighted on the Guards colonel. The hands stopped.
"Colonel Drescher,"Delcorio said crisply."I want your men on combat footing at once. Don't you have some other sort of uniforms? Like those."
One spade-broad hand gestured toward Tyl in khaki and armor. "Something suitable. This isn't a parade. We're at war. War."
"Well, I—" Drescher began. Everyone in the room was in a state of shock, hammered by events into a state that made them ready to be pressed in any direction by a strong personality.
For a moment, until the next stimulus came along.
"Well,get on with it!"the Presidents napped.While the squad of gay uniforms was just shifting toward the hall door, Delcorio's attention had already flashed across the other faces in the Consistory Room.
And found very few.
"Where's—" Delcorio began. "Where's—" His voice rose, driven by an emotion that was either fury or panic—and perhaps had not yet decided which it would be.
"Sir," said one of the Chastains, stepping forward to take the President by the hand. "Thom and I will—"
"You!" Delcorio screamed. "What are you doing here?"
"Sir," said Thom Chastain with the same hopeful puppy expression as his brother. "We know you'll weather this—"
"You're spying, aren't you?" Delcorio cried, slapping at the offered hands as if they were beasts about to bite him. "Get out, don't you think I know it!"
"Sir—" said the two together in blank amazement.
The President's nephew Pedro stepped between the Chastains and Delcorio. "Go on!" he snarled, looking like a bulldog barking at a pair of gangling storks. "We don't need you here. Get out!"