Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [116]
Baron Lukoil-Gazprom followed his wedge of soldiers closely on horseback. Zoësophia rode to his side and one step behind. “You should unsheathe your saber,” she said quietly. “Brandish it and shout encouragement at your men.”
“That is not necessary. These are disciplined soldiers. They know what to do.”
“Do it anyway. We must think of your political future.” Zoësophia’s tone and manner were so carefully modulated that even as the baron unsheathed his sword, he did not notice that she was giving him orders and he was obeying them.
“Keep going, men! Straight and steady!”
It had to be admitted that Baron Lukoil-Gazprom looked every inch the military hero. Unfortunately for Zoësophia’s plans, when his soldiers hit the procession, splitting it and sending the fragments fleeing into the side streets, they were so effective they did not have to kill anybody at all.
Which was disastrous. For at the exact same time, the redheaded general was right in the thick of the fray, dispatching Pale Folk (who stayed where the citizens fled) with her sword, and laughing as she did so. Her floozies, inexperienced though they were, fought an unarmed and unprepared foe and thus met with no resistance. Further, with their inhuman strength and total lack of restraint, they were crushing ribcages and exploding skulls in a manner which, though morally lamentable, was undeniably dramatic.
Worst of all, such extreme exertion could not fail to dishevel the clothing worn by the tarts, and since most of them wore low-cut dresses, several breasts had leaped into public view. There would be oil paintings of this clash, Zoësophia knew, based on the accounts of eyewitnesses, and they would not focus on the comparatively drab figure of the baron.
Then, from the shadowy heart of the mob, there flashed a metal beast.
It leaped over the panicking citizens, running on all fours and using their heads and shoulders for purchase. Straight at the baron it flew, firelight reflecting bright from its gleaming surfaces. For a brief, bright instant, Zoësophia felt hope. “Stand firm,” she told her companion, “and when it is almost upon you, thrust hard.” She leaned close, so that should the baron’s aim go awry she could seize his arm and correct it. One more second, she thought, and my little man will be a mighty figure in every account of this night.
But then two whores reached up simultaneously from the scrim and seized the underlord, hauling it forcibly down to the street. They lifted it up overhead, each one holding it by two legs. Then they pulled in opposite directions.
In a shower of sparks, the beast was torn in two.
The explosion shed light on the upturned faces of the gleeful sluts. One of the two was exceedingly comely. The other was naked from the waist up.
Zoësophia sighed inwardly. Nothing was going right tonight.
In minutes, the street was empty save for soldiers, prostitutes, and corpses. Baron Lukoil-Gazprom dismounted and General Zvyozdny-Gorodoka sheathed her sword. They slapped each other on the back, roaring congratulations.
Modestly, Zoësophia stood off to the side, hands clasped and head down, making it clear that she claimed no part, however small, in this victory.
Leaving a small number of soldiers to ensure that the marchers did not re-form, the general and the baron and their collective forces returned to their makeshift headquarters at the whorehouse, where the madam shooed her happily chattering employees upstairs and the soldiers were set to work securing the block. The parlor, with its chintz curtains and stained-glass oil-lamp shades, seemed deceptively homey. It smelled of hard soap, talcum powder, and hair oil.