Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [305]
Not the cavalry, though.
More than a score of sentries were posted to defend the breach, vulnerable and exposed, their crossbows cocked and aimed. Valpetra's cavalry lingered out of range, their horses mired to the fetlocks, watching and assessing.
I pointed them out to Eamonn. "Think they'll charge?"
He rubbed his chin, his grey-green eyes troubled. "They might. They don't know what we've got here, and we can't afford to get caught wrong-footed." I watched him wrestle with a decision and come to it. "I don't think we'd better wait for Arturo."
Downstairs, the basilica was teeming with soldiers. It held all of us, but barely. The men of the Red Scourge spoke in hushed whispers of what had happened, and muttered in anxious tones about what would happen next. The sense of awe that had pervaded us atop the roof gave way to the exigencies of mundane reality. We squeezed rainwater from sodden cloaks and broke into the cache of stores in the upper tiers, passing around dry blankets and rags, rubbing down ourselves and our weapons. The entire place reeked of floodwater, wet wool and rank humanity.
As the last to descend, Barbarus squadron was stuck with a post on the damp lower tiers and last pick of the dry goods. I got a scrap of muslin. It didn't do me much good, but I wiped down my sword assiduously and watched Eamonn shove his way through the throng. It was always easy to spot him, half a head taller than anyone else. I wished he'd found a helmet.
He spoke to several of the other squadron leaders, and there were nods all around. Eamonn hopped up onto the rostrum.
"Right!" he called cheerfully. "Here's the thing, lads."
I laughed; everyone did. He sounded for all the world like Gallus Tadius. Eamonn grinned and waited for us to stop laughing.
"Here's the thing," he continued. "There are a hundred and fifty Valpetran horse-soldiers trying to decide whether or not to charge twenty sentries. We're going to give them a reason not to. Until Captain Arturo or Gallus himself tell us otherwise, we'll hold the gap and squadrons will rotate out every two hours. We'll go in order. Understood?"
There were cheers and shouts of agreement. The commanders of the 1st and 2nd squadrons—Cutpurse and Horsethief squadrons—hustled their men out the door. As motley a group as they were, they moved with brisk efficiency, settling their bucklers, striding with their spears held upright.
Canis was among them.
They were first in order, and if Gallus Tadius' plan held, they would be first in line when the full-forced attack came, bearing the brunt of it. Among the eighty men in Cutpurse and Horsethief, most were former prisoners who had chosen the red armband over the noose. A few were just unlucky.
My erstwhile philosopher-beggar gave me a long look as he left, filled with meaning I couldn't decipher. All I could do was shrug. After what we'd witnessed, I didn't much care. If there was somewhat Canis wanted me to know, he should leave off pretending to be a deaf-mute.
But all he did was shrug in reply and leave.
Eamonn ordered us to get what rest we might, since no one knew what the next hours would bring. Someone found a stash of charcoal untouched by the flood in a storeroom, and lit the braziers. The basilica grew marginally warmer and a good deal smokier. We lounged on the tiered benches, checking our gear. There were oatcakes and salt cod in the caches, so we shared those around, along with skins of water to wash it all down. Through the windows, I could see the cloudy sky lowering. However much time had passed, it must be nearing sunset. I wrapped myself in my damp cloak and tried to doze.
In time, Captain Arturo arrived, accompanied by a lieutenant.
He looked exhausted, and I daresay he was. The city guard had carried a heavy burden these last weeks,