“How do you advise we assault the town and citadel, General Gellert?” he asked.
“If it please my lord the King,” Esmond said, “we’ll send in the gunboats now.”
Those were waiting beside the royal galley, keeping station with occasional strokes of their oars. Ten of those to a side, with two men on each; the single cannon fired forward, over the bows; a long inclined wooden slide reached backward to nearly amidships, letting the weapon run in when it was fired or be lashed over the center of gravity when the gunboat was at sea. The crews waved respectfully as they saw the royal eyes fall on them.
“And we’ll send the troop transports close behind. The cannon will fire solid shot until they’ve battered down a gate, or a suitable breach in a wall.”
Casull nodded; it was often better to break down a wall, if you could—the rubble provided a natural ramp for assault troops, and gates usually had nasty dogleg irregularities and unpleasant surprises waiting for a storming party.
“That will give us the town,” Esmond said. “But the guns are large—getting them up to the inner edge of the Directors’ citadel, that will be difficult. Most of it’s within bowshot of the walls, and all of it’s within range of the boltcasters.”
He nodded towards Vase. Two tall semicircular towers rose from the edges of the citadel facing the town. That was a curve itself; the whole inner complex where the ruler resided was shaped like an irregular wedge of pie, with the palace and keep occupying the outer, narrow tip.
“Well, my lord King,” Esmond said. “My brother and I have thought up something that may distract the men on the battlements quite considerably.”
* * *
“Here you are, sir,” the transport captain said.
Adrian nodded, modeling his expression on the one Esmond used. Firm, confident, in charge, but not hostile or remote, he told himself.
Men were going ashore in relays; the little semicircle of beach was too small to take the ship, or more than a few score at a time. Three hundred men didn’t seem like too many, until he saw them all together like this. A hundred of the Sea Strikers had gone ashore first: Esmond’s security detachment—light infantry with sword, buckler and javelin. The two hundred arquebusiers and grenade slingers were following more slowly, burdened with their heavy weapons and ammunition. Adrian heard a thump and a volley of curses from the netting on the side of the ship where men climbed down into the boats. Long, clumsy and heavy, he amended to himself.
Beyond the little cove rose stony hills covered in thorny scrub . . . and beyond those, the ruined tower where he was supposed to “amuse” the enemy and keep them from hindering the main assault. Adrian shook the captain’s hand, adjusted his satchel of grenades, and swung over the bulwark himself.
“Feet here, sir,” one of the Emerald slingers said cheerfully.
* * *
“What’s that sound?”
“Ninety-nine, one hundred,” Helga Demansk said, completing the series of sit-ups.
“Oh, stop that, Helga and come look,” Keffrine said.
The woman who’d once been the pampered daughter of a Confederation Justiciar unhooked her feet from the back of the chair and padded over to the high barred window. If she stood on tiptoe, she could see some of the rooftops of Vase, down from the citadel. If she sprang up and gripped the bars, she could see a good deal more. She did, jumping nearly her own height and holding herself up easily, shaking tawny hair out of her eyes and peering against the bright light of morning reflecting off sea and roof tile.
“Oh, you’re so strong,” Keffrine said, batting her eyes upward. “Don’t you think you should have a back rub, after all that exercise, though?”
“Can it, Keffie,” Helga replied with a half-amused, half-exasperated twist of her lips. “I’m not that desperate yet.”
“I can wait,” the younger girl grinned. “Nobody’s going anywhere.”
Helga suppressed a shudder at that; even when the Director died, nobody in the hareem would go anywhere but into retirement . . . which meant they’d be shut up together until the last of them died of old age, and they’d never see another entire male until the day they did die—not even a loathsome toad like the Director. She pushed her mind back into the present, recoiling from the waste of years that stretched ahead. It could be worse; not so many generations ago, the hareem of an Islander magnate accompanied him to the tomb, with a cup of hemlock if they were lucky.