Janus had planned for this, of course. Fitz Warus’ Colonials were advancing up the Old Road, to the east, straight toward the Cut that divided Newtown from Oldtown. It didn’t offer the advantages of a direct approach to the Island, and risked getting bogged down in the maze of Newtown tenements, but if Winter’s Third Regiment got stuck, Fitz would be able to come to her assistance and outflank the defenders. Farther west, Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry were taking the long way around, circling the marshes to come up the River Road.

They can’t be strong everywhere. Sooner or later, given the numbers, Janus’ army would take the city. As he’d emphasized to his commanders, though, sooner was a good deal better than later. The longer the battle went on, the more damage they’d cause to the city. And if the Patriots were able to drag things out into a serious siege, it was possible that other army units might arrive, more loyal to the Directory than Zarout and Braes had been.

With Cyte and Bobby at her side, Winter rode forward near the tail of the Girls’ Own’s extended formation, close enough to see what was going on without getting into musket shot of any enemies. Behind her, the Royals advanced in step to the sound of their drummers.

For a half hour, they advanced like this, women occasionally running up to report that the causeway remained clear to their front. Winter kept a cautious pace, but the complete absence of resistance meant that they made good time nonetheless.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Cyte said, riding beside Winter. “The causeway is a strong position. They ought to be making the most of it.”

“Maybe they’re worried about getting cut off.” Winter shrugged. “Or maybe they’re just stupid.”

Cyte grinned. “Farus the Fourth said his favorite prayer was ‘God grant me stupid enemies.’”

“I can see the city,” Bobby said, pointing.

It was true. The rising sun had burned away the mist, and the buildings of the South Bank were slowly coming into view. The brutally regular tenement towers of Newtown loomed over the smaller buildings around them off to the right, a monument to Gerhardt Alcor’s failed vision of a perfectly rational city. Directly ahead, the smaller, older shops and warehouses of the Docks were a confused jumble of slate roofs and protruding chimneys, with smaller, meaner dwellings clustering at the edge of the marshes like barnacles clinging to the hull of a ship.

Far beyond, picked out by the gleam of sunlight on gold, Winter could see the twin spires of the Sworn Cathedral topped by their double circles. Off to one side, the black spike of the Vendre was like a wedge cut out of the sky.

“Coming up on the Lower Market,” Winter said.