“Last year, we could have arrested him. Arrested all the traitors in uniform. What did our so-called government do? Pensioned half of them off! Gave them pensions wrung out of the workers’ sweat, so that they could plot at their leisure.”
“‘Never do an enemy a small injury,'” Jeffrey quoted. “Old Imperial saying.” Very old, from what Center said.
Vincen’s small eyes were hot with agreement. “We should have executed the lot of them,” he said. “Now it’s too late. The government is holding off on General”—he virtually spat the word—”Libert in the hopes that if they don’t provoke him, he’ll do nothing.”
“Stupid,” Jeffrey said in agreement. “They’re also probably afraid that if they send troops to arrest him, they’ll go over to him instead.”
Vincen nodded jerkily. “There are loyal troops—the Assault Guards, for instance—but yes, the ministry is concerned with that.”
“Which brings us down to practicalities,” Jeffrey said. “If there is a military uprising with Land support, what exactly do you plan to do about it?”
“We will fight!”
“Yes, but what will you fight with?”
The little Unionaise linked his fingers on the table. “We have confidence that part of the army at least will remain loyal. Beyond that, there are the regional militias.”
Jeffrey nodded. He had no confidence in them; for one thing, they had even less in the way of real training than the provincial militias back home. Some of the states of the Union were run by the conservative opposition parties, and thereby pro-Chosen. Even in the ones that weren’t, too many of the militias were under the influence of local magnates, almost all of whom supported the conservative opposition parties, as did the Church here. The Church here was a great landed magnate, come to that.
“And we’ll hand out arms to the party militias of the coalition, and to the workers in the streets—let’s see how the Regulars like being drowned in a sea of armed workers.”
“It’s good to see you’re in earnest,” Jeffrey said. It all sounded like a prescription for a bloodbath, but that was preferable to another swift Chosen triumph, he supposed. “For my part, I can assure you that my government will declare any outright intervention in internal Union affairs an unfriendly act.”
That meant less than it should; semi-clandestine intervention wouldn’t provoke Santander retaliation. The Republic simply wasn’t ready for war, either physically or psychologically.
“And I think we can guarantee that you’ll be allowed to purchase weapons. Speaking in my private capacity, you’ll also find some of our banks sympathetic in the matter of loans. Provided your government is equally reasonable.”
“I suppose you’ll want concessions. . . .”
They settled down to dicker; when Vincen left, the expression on his face was marginally less sour. Fortunately, the Chosen officers left a little later. The men went with their local companions; one of them stopped to say a final word with Gerta Hosten. She laughed and shook her head. The man shrugged, and the girl with him pouted. When they had left, Gerta picked up her wineglass and came over to Jeffreys table.
“You’re welcome,” he said as she seated herself without asking permission.
The hard dark face showed a slight smile. “We meet again. A pleasure. It would have been an even bigger one if Heinrich had had the sense to shoot you four years ago. I told him you were a spook.”
“I’m here on vacation,” Jeffrey said, smiling back despite himself. “Besides, Heinrich doesn’t have your suspicious mind.”
“Which is why he’s a straight-leg. Too damned good-natured for his own good.” Gerta raised her wineglass. “These Unionaise make some pretty things,” she said as the cut crystal sparkled in the evening sun. “And they make good wine. But they couldn’t organize sailors into a whorehouse.”
“Well, that’s your problem,” Jeffrey said. “You’re the ones with the training mission here.”
“Purely as private contractors, on leave from our regular duties,” Gerta said piously.
“And I’m a tourist,” Jeffrey said.
Unwillingly, he joined in Gerta’s chuckle.
“You know the best thing about competing with you Santies?” Gerta asked. When he shook his head, she continued: “It’s not that you’re short of guts, because you aren’t, or because you’re stupid, because you aren’t that, either. It’s that you’re never, ever ready.” She finished her wine and rose.