Servants showed them into a square room with benches, probably some sort of guard chamber.
“Masquerade’s over,” Raske said.
“Good!” one of his officers said.
She stripped off the Unionaise clothing with venom; back in the Land, only Protégé women wore skirts. They switched into the plain gray uniforms in their packs and holstered their weapons. The lack of those had made them feel considerably more unnatural than the foreign clothing. Gerta Hosten gave him a bland smile.
“You do the talking, Horst,” she said.
He nodded stiffly. It wasn’t his specialty, airships were. On the other hand, a Unionaise general would probably be more comfortable talking to a man, and they needed this Libert . . . for the moment.
“Why on earth didn’t they send an infantry officer?” he asked plaintively.
“Behfel ist Behfel, Horst. This is the transport phase. They are going to send an infantry officer, once Libert’s on the ground and we start sending in our own people. “‘Volunteers,’ you know . . .”
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“Heinrich Hosten.”
* * *
Horst Raske smiled blandly at the Unionaise officer. General Libert was a short, swarthy, tubby little man with a big nose. He looked slightly ridiculous in the khaki battledress of the Union Legion, down to the scarlet sash around his ample waist under the leather belt and the little tassel on his peaked cap.
The Chosen airman reminded himself that the same tubby little man had restored Union rule here when the Errife war-bands were burning and killing in the outskirts of Skingest itself, and then taken the war into their own mountains and pacified the whole island for the first time. The way he’d put down the miners’ revolt on the mainland had been almost Chosen-like.
Libert abruptly sat behind the broad polished table, signaling to the staff officers and aides behind him. Raske saluted and took the seat opposite; Errife servants in white kaftans laid out coffee. He recognized the taste: Kotenberg blend, relatives of his owned land there.
“We agree,” Libert said after a moments silence.
Raske raised an eyebrow. “That simple?”
“You charge a high price, but after the fiasco at Bassin du Sud, time is pressing.” He frowned. “You would have done better to be more generous; the Land’s interests are not served by an unfriendly government in Unionvil.”
“Nor by a premature war with Santander, which is a distinct risk if we back you fully,” Raske pointed out. “That requires compensation, besides your gratitude.”
Libert allowed himself a small frosty smile, an echo of Raske’s own. They both knew what gratitude was worth in the affairs of nations.
“Very well,” Libert said. He held a hand up, and one of the aides put a pen in it. “Here.” He signed the documents before him.
Raske did likewise when they’d been pushed across the mahogany to him.
“When can we begin loading?” Libert said. “And how quickly?”
“I have twenty-seven Tiger-class transports waiting.” Raske said. “One fully equipped infantry battalion each; say, seven hundred infantry with their personal weapons and the organic crew-served machine guns and mortars. Ten hours to Bassin du Sud or vicinity, an hour at each end for turnaround, and an hour for fueling. Say, just under two flights a day; minus the freightage for artillery, ammunition, immediate rations, and ten percent for downtime—which there will be. Call it four days to land the thirty thousand troops.”
Libert nodded in satisfaction. “Good. This is crucial; my Legionnaires and Errife regulars are the only reliable force we have in the southern Union. We should be able to get the first flight underway by sundown, don’t you think?”
Raske blinked slightly. Beside him, Gerta Hosten was smiling. It looked as if they’d picked the right mule for this particular journey.
* * *
Jeffrey Farr closed his eyes. Everyone else in the room might think it was fatigue—he’d been working for ten hours straight—and he was tired. What he wanted, though, was reconnaissance.
As always, the view through his brother’s eyes was a little disconcerting, even after nearly twenty years of practice. The colors were all a little off, from the difference in perceptions. And the way the view moved under someone else’s control was difficult, too. Your own kept trying to linger, or to focus on something different.