Demansk felt a little sorry for the inhabitants of the island city. The Confed occupation had been enough to drive anyone to distraction . . . although not, in his opinion, to suicide. Which was what came of massacring Confederation citizens; the ones spared for the mines would be the lucky ones. Jeschonyk was talking about a special Games for the captured adults; a Games Without Issue, pairs forced to fight to the death and then the winners matched with each other, with one survivor left to be poled.
He took an orange out of the helmet he had balanced on one knee and began to peel it with methodical care. We’ve really got to do something about provincial government, he thought. Every time there was a political crisis at home there was a revolt somewhere, and it was all because of the tax-farming system. They’re our subjects, we’ve got to stop treating the provinces like a hunting ground. As it was, a provincial governor had to extort to the limit, to stand off the lawsuits that would be launched when he retired; for that matter, anyone who crossed swords with the tax-farming syndicates would be sued into bankruptcy or exile.
The Preblean flotilla was approaching the causeway from the northwest, with the sun behind them and to their right, and the wind directly astern. Hmmm, he thought. Four galleys, and they’re each pulling a merchantman. Could they be trying an assault?
No, they weren’t insane, or that desperate yet. He had a full brigade of troops ready to hand, with more to draw on—the working details had their equipment stacked and he’d drilled them in moving rapidly to kit out and fall in.
“Then what are they doing?” he asked.
Helga’s got me spooked, with her tales of that damned Emerald she took up with, he thought sourly. This is the modern age, not the plain before the walls of Windhaven during the Thousand Ships War. The gods do not don mortal disguise to fight in mortal quarrels, if they ever did.
Still . . . “First Spear,” he said. “Get your outfit standing to.”
“Yessir!”
That would be done competently, he knew. He squinted again, then stiffened as the rebel flotilla came into closer sight, just outside catapult range from the siege towers. The galleys were casting off their tows, turning, their oars going to double-stroke; heading away, then halting and backing water, their sterns to the causeway. The tubby deep-hulled merchantmen were sheeting home their big square sails, though. Heading straight for the causeway . . .
No. Their crews were diving overside, climbing into small boats and rowing like Shadesholm back towards the galleys. One paused, just close enough to see, and pumped a hand with an outstreched finger towards the Confed forces. The four ships came on with the tillers of their dual steering oars lashed and the wind steady on their quarters, faster now, little curves of white foam at their bluff bows. And smoke, smoke curling up from under their deck hatches.
“Messenger!” Demansk barked. “The towers are to open fire on the ships—rocks. Knock down their masts, or sink them—immediately. I’ll have the rank off the commander who lets them get through. Move!”
Demansk was a man who rarely raised his voice. The man ran as if the three-headed hound of the Shadow Lord were at his heels, and the Justiciar ground his teeth in fury.
Emeralds, he thought. No discipline; he’d fought them from Rope to Solinga, talking less and hitting harder. But they were . . .
“Sneaky. And these Gellerts, they’re sneaky even for Emeralds.”
The tendrils of fire licking up from the hatchways of the ships were growing even as he watched, pale in the bright sunlight, but full of promise and black smoke.
* * *
“Burn, you Confed bastards!” Esmond whooped.
Beside him on the raised stern of the galley, with his head on the curling seabeast stemhead, Adrian winced slightly. A rock from one of the tower catapults splashed into the water a hundred yards astern; either someone there was getting vindictive or they were really bad shots. More fifty-pound rocks were striking the fireships sailing in at six knots towards the Confed siege tower, knocking bits off their railing, making holes in the sails, some of them crashing through decks or striking masts. The holes in the deck simply gave the fires spreading belowdecks among the barrels of pitch and tar and sulfur and oil and tallow more air, miniature volcanoes shooting up after each hit. One ship’s mast did fall over; the high stern of the merchantman was still enough to keep it drifting steadily before the wind towards the tower, although it turned broadside on.