"And the richest prize in all the world," he murmured.

"With the fate of the kingdom riding on our shoulders," his nephew added proudly.

"Don't flatter yourself, son of my brother," Zeurkenol said dryly. "Did you notice which regiments the king sent?"

"Wiseant, Boar, Wolf, Otter, and Bear," his nephew-aide said automatically. "They're… oh."

A substantial proportion of the new standing army-he used the Eng-il-its word when he thought, there being no close Tartessian equivalent; the closest you could come was household guards. First-rate troops armed with the new breechloaders, and with many other cunning new weapons. But all recruited from the new subject peoples in the lands south of the Pillars, tribal mercenaries from the mountains of the Riff. Fierce fighters and loyal to their salt, but there would be no politically destabilizing grief in the capital if they were lost.

"But the officers are of the best families in the City!"

"Yes," Zeurkenol said. "Not many unmarried men among them, either."

His nephew was young, no more than eighteen winters, but no fool. His eyes widened. All of them with hostages within the city walls. None of the New Men among them, either, none of the king's strongest supporters.

"You don't mean… the king wants us to fail? To die here?"

"Oh, no, never think it. The king strikes boldly here, and if we conquer, our rewards will be great… back in Tartessos, under his eye."

Isketerol was no fool, either, nor did he love blood for its own sake. There was not much to say against how the king used his new power, except that he had it.

I would be easier in my mind if I were sure his son would use it likewise, the nobleman thought.

The king in Tartessos might as well be a living god now, like Pharaoh. That was well for the city when the king was a very able man, although even the ablest made mistakes. The next king, though…

He pushed the thought out of his mind. There was a war to fight, and if he won it Tartessos would bestride the world.

"A general message," he said. It would be a repetition, but all the better for that-the troops were good fighting men but inclined to be a bit wild. "To all warriors ashore. Remember that the king has commanded that all nonfighters or those who surrender be treated well, as his subjects. There is to be no burning, no plunder, no forcing of women-any man found breaking these orders will be castrated and burned alive before the altar of Arucuttag!"

So the king had said, and like most of his orders there was wisdom in it. The loot of Nantucket would be beyond the dreams of avarice, even a king's dreams, but the skills and knowledge it held were a treasure far greater. Best to destroy as little as possible in taking them.

There was a crowd around the table in the map room; that was in the Middle Brick, the nearly identical building just south of Guard House. Marian looked down at the big relief map again, as more counters went into the clump hovering off the eastern end of the island. A cup of coffee was thrust into her hand, and she sipped automatically.

"How could they get this close undetected?" someone complained.

The Republic's military commander looked up, and the councilor flinched. "Because it's a very big ocean and we have only about forty deep-ocean ships and they're all over the world," she said. "And because the Meeting rejected my request that we keep a standing air patrol."

Fuel was scarce and hideously expensive, granted-so were spare parts. But not as expensive as a surprise attack.

"We don't have time for bickering," Jared Cofflin said.

Marian nodded. Though from now on maybe we'll get less whining about how militia drill is a waste of time, she thought coldly.

"From the reports, they may have something on the order of five or six thousand men," she said. "I'm ordering aircraft up, but I don't expect to find another fleet. At a guess, they slipped the ships out a few at a time to avoid attention from our people in Tartessos, and then picked up the troops in Morocco." What would have become Morocco; it was barbarian country in this milieu, and the Tartessians had overrun it. "Then they cut along the northern edge of the Trades, sacrificing speed for secrecy. Bold."

Swindapa came in; Marian returned her salute. "Commodore, the militia's assembling-we caught most people before they'd left for work."

Marian nodded; she could hear the noise in the streets, voices, wheels, hooves, teenagers on bicycles shouting Turn out! Turn out! as they pedaled. The Church bells had stopped their rhythmic pulsing call some time ago. By law all adult citizens and resident aliens were in the militia, with arms and equipment kept ready at hand in their homes; and they'd just had a monthly muster-and-drill day last week.

"First Battalion is about ready to move out," Swindapa went on. "Less than an hour." Marian nodded with chill satisfaction; that was good time.

"What do we do?" Cofflin asked. "Meet them on the beach?"

Marian shook her head. "Not enough time," she said. "And they'll have the cover of their ship's guns on the landing zone. We can't get enough troops or cannon there in time, and they're going to outnumber us badly as it is."

There were about twelve thousand people on the Island these days, but a large proportion of those were children or old people. They would all do what they could, from oldsters manning the aid stations and minding infants to Junior Militia carrying messages by bicycle. But of actual troops, the Island had barely three thousand.

"We have to keep Fort Brandt manned," she said, tapping the map.

That was the fortress on the site of the old Coast Guard station, near the lighthouse and the mouth of the harbor. Ron Leaton's best rifled cannon were there; nobody was going to take a ship in past those, and it was safe against any ground assault as well. That meant nobody was going to sail into the harbor and assault the docks; the noncombatants would gather there.

"That's a hundred and fifty people down," she said. "We have to crew the warships in harbor and get them to sea for our counterattack." Three frigates, the new steam ram Farragut, and some smaller craft. "Say two thousand troops available all up to meet their landing force, and they'll be ashore before we're completely mobilized… how's the evacuation going?"

"Everyone's out of Sconset and halfway back to town," Jared said. "I checked myself. We used the mothballed school buses, most of them worked. The farmers and such are all coming in too; say another two hours for the last ones." A wintry smile. "Had some complaints 'bout leaving livestock and such. Dealt with it."

That was a massive relief; she needed the roads clear, and herds of cows and sheep blocking movement would be a nightmare.

"Captain Trudeau? The Farragut?"

The slender young man gulped air. "Ma'am, we're still fitting out. The guns aren't on board, we haven't shipped the masts…"

Alston's eyes speared him. "Your engines are installed?" A nod. "You have the protective plating for the paddle wheels in place?" Another. "Then my single question is, Captain Trudeau, can you make steam?"

He straightened. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Then go do it. Fast." He went out at a brisk walk.

Okay. We have three of the frigates, the Farragut, and a bunch of smaller stuff. First we have to get them fully committed onshore. Packed with soldiers, even the Tartessian transports would be dangerous.

Get them to empty those ships; then we hit 'em from the sea.

"Thank God for the Eagle's Eye and good weather," she said. Her finger traced a line out from Nantucket Town, heading east along Milestone Road. "Out here south of Gibbs Pond, where there's room for the Cherokee Brigade to make themselves useful. We'll stop them there."

"Ma'am!"

She looked up; the communications tech was scribbling. "It's the Eagle's Eye. Large numbers of small boats landing, and several Tartessian ships have beached themselves and are disembarking troops over the side… troops and artillery, ma'am."