Downright homelike for me, Raj said. Except that there weren’t many places on Bellevue as fertile as this. Fattest peasants I’ve ever seen.
The road climbed slightly, through fields planted to alfalfa, and then into hilly vineyards around a white-painted village. He scrubbed at his driving goggles with the tail-end of his silk scarf and squinted. The guidebooks said the village had a “notable square bell tower” and a minor palazzo.
“Castello Formaso,” John called ahead to the driver. “This ought to be it.”
It was; most of an Imperial cavalry brigade were camped in and around the town. Cavalry wore tight scarlet pants and bottle-green jackets, with a high-combed brass helmet topped with plumes, and they were armed with sabers, revolvers, and short single-shot carbines. You could follow those polished brass helmets a long way; there were patrols out all across the plain to the west of town, riding down laneways and across fields and pastures, disappearing into the shade of orchards and coming out again on the other side. The troopers closer to hand were watering their horses or working on tack or doing the other thousand and one chores a mounted unit needed.
The road was thick with mounted men, parting reluctantly to the insistent squeeee-beep! of the car’s horn. Animals shied or kicked at the unfamiliar sound; one connected with the bodywork in an expensive and tooth-grating crunch of varnished ashwood.
Then the car swerved under a brutal wrench at the wheel. John looked up from his map in the back seat as it flung him against the sidewall; his broad-brimmed hat went over into the roadside dust. A dirigible was passing overhead, nosing out of a patch of cloud at about six thousand feet. A six-hundred-footer, Eagle-class, reconnaissance model. Some of the Imperial cavalry were popping away at the airship with their carbines, and in the village square ahead they had an improvised antiaircraft mounting for a gatling gun—a U-shaped iron framework on a set of gears and cams. The carbines were merely a nuisance, but letting off six hundred rounds a minute straight up was a menace.
“You there!” John barked, tapping the shoulder of his driver. The car came to a halt with a tail-wagging emphasis as the man stood on the brakes. John vaulted out over the rear door and strode towards the gatling.
“You there!” John continued, rapping at the frame with his cane for emphasis. The Imperial NCO in charge looked up. “That thing is out of range, and you’d be dropping spent rounds all over town. Do not open fire.”
The soldier braced to attention at a gentleman’s voice. John nodded curtly and turned to where the cavalry brigade’s command group were sitting under a vine-grown pergola in the courtyard of the village taverna.
Nothing wrong with their nerves, John thought. The portly brigadier had his uniform jacket unbuttoned, his half-cloak across the back of his chair, and a huge plate of pasta and breaded veal in front of him. Several straw-wrapped bottles of the local vintage kept the food company. He looked up as John rapped out his orders at the gatling crew, his face purpling with rage as the stranger strode over to his table.
“And who the hell are you? Teniente, get this civilian out of here!”
John bowed with a quick jerk of his head, suppressing an impulse to click heels. Showing Chosen habits was not the way to make yourself popular around here right now.
“I am John Hosten, accredited chargé d’affaires with the Embassy of the Republic of Santander,” he said crisply. He pulled out a sheaf of documents. “Here are my credentials.”
“I don’t care shit for—” The Imperial officer stopped, paling slightly under his five o’clock shadow. “The signore John Hosten who married Pia del’Cuomo?”
Who is the favorite daughter of the Minister of War, yes, John thought. “The same, sir,” he continued aloud. “Here to observe the course of the war.”
“Excellent!” the brigadier said, a little too heartily, mopping his mouth on a checkered linen napkin. “We drove these pig-grunting beasts into the sea once before centuries ago, and you can watch it done again!”
A murmur of agreement came from the other officers around the table, in a wave of wineglasses and elegant cigarette holders. Polished boots struck the flagstones in emphasis. John inclined his head.