by David Drake
“We have suffered grievously with the sufferings of our subjects,” he began.
A snarl rose from the crowd, and he swallowed nervously as he continued.
“That is why we have summoned you, my lords, to share your council with us. Our diplomacy at least delayed this attack, and now the rains are upon us, and winter comes on. We will have ample time to prepare—”
Another lord stalked into the speaker’s position, on the floor below the Seat and just outside the line of Life Guards.
“We’ve had time; Stern Isle fell five months ago!” he bit out. “All we did was to throw High Colonel Strezman and his men into Lion City—just enough to hurt us if they were lost, and not enough to halt the enemy. Now Strezman and his men are dead!
“Lord of Men,” he went on, his tone cold, “you may not wish to campaign in winter but the enemy don’t seem to share your delicate sensibilities. Whitehall is over the Waladavir, and his men have been sighted not three days’ ride from Empirhado.”
A roar swelled across the hall; the banners hanging from the rafters quivered.
“Rumors!”
“Truth!” the noble shouted back. “This is no raid, no border war for a province or an indemnity. The Civvies mean to grind us into dust the way they did the Squadron, kill us and take our lands, throw down our holy Church and enslave our women and children. They’re coming, and the natives have already risen in half a dozen provinces.”
A ripple of horror went through the hall. It was six hundred years since the Brigade came down out of the Base Area and conquered the Spanjol-speaking natives of the Civil Government’s western territories, but the peoples were still distinct in blood and language and faith, and the natives were overwhelmingly in the majority. Like the Civil Government, they followed the cult of the Spirit of Man of The Stars, rather than of This Earth as the Brigade and its cousins did.
The nobleman turned his back on the Seat, a breach of protocol that stunned the watchers into silence.
“We need a fighting man to lead us. Not this book-reader who’s plotting with the enemy behind our backs. I move for impeachment.”
Forker’s face was working with rage and a trapped-beast fear. He forced his voice, turning it high and shrill.
“You are out of order. Arrest that man!”
The guards started forward, but a score of nobles grouped around the speaker drew their swords. The edges threw the light back as the heavy blades rose warningly.
“I am not out of order,” the noble replied. “As Hereditary High Major, I have the right to call for impeachment before this assembly.”
“I, Hereditary Brigade-Colonel Ingreid Manfrond, second the impeachment.” Another man stepped into the speaker’s circle, thick-set and muscular and grizzled. “And place my name in nomination for the position of General of the Brigade.”
“You!” Forker hissed. “You’re not even of the House of Amalson.”
“Collateral branch,” Ingreid said. “But tomorrow I wed Marie Welf, daughter of General Welf—which makes my claim strong as iron.” He turned to the assembly. “And as General, my first act will be to mobilize the host. My second will be to lead it to crush the invaders of our land!”
Forker signed to his guard. There was a pause, one that made the light parade breastplate feel as if it were squeezing his heart up into his mouth. Then they thumped their rifle-butts on the floor. It took a moment for the rumbling to quiet enough for him to speak.
“You lie, Ingreid Manfrond. The hand of Marie Forker, my step-daughter, is mine to give or withhold—and she rests content under the guard of my household troops.”
Another man shouldered forward to stand beside Ingreid. “My name,” he shouted in a commander’s trained bellow, “is Colonel of Dragoons Howyrd Carstens. Forker lies. My own men guard Marie Welf, and she has agreed to marry our next General, Ingreid Manfrond—worthy heir to the great General Welf. And as bridal gift, she asks for the head of Filip Forker, murderer of her mother. Woman-killer and coward!”
He raised his sword. “Hail General Ingreid!”
“Hail! Hail! Hail!”
“I’d rather rut with a boar and farrow piglets!” Marie Welf shouted through the locked door.
She gripped the pistol more firmly. On either side of the door one of her gentlewomen waited, one with a tall brass candlestick in her grip, the other with a jewel-hilted but perfectly functional stiletto.
“Please, Mistress Fo—ah, Mistress Welf.” The house steward’s voice quavered, his Spanjol accent stronger than usual. “The soldiers say that you must open the door.”
“I’ll kill the first five men to step through it,” Marie said. Nobody listening to her could doubt she would try.
Silence fell. Riding boots clumped on the parquet floors outside, and the strip of light under the door brightened as more lamps were brought.
“Marie, this is Teodore,” a man called.
“What are you doing here, cousin?” Marie said.
She was a tall full-figured young woman, with strawberry blond hair in long braids on either side of a face that was beautiful rather than pretty, high cheek-boned and with a straight nose. Spots of anger burned on either cheek now, and she held the pistol with a practiced two-handed grip.
“Talking to you. And I’m not going to do it through a closed door. Watch out.”
Shots blasted, and the brass plate of the lock bulged. A man yelled in pain in the corridor outside, and a chilly smile lit Marie’s face. The door swung out, and a man stood there; in his mid-twenties, five years older than the woman. His bluntly handsome features were a near-match for hers under the downy blond beard, and he wore a cuirassier officer’s armor. The plumed helmet was tucked under one arm, half-hidden by the deinonosauroid cloak that glittered in the lamplight. At the sight of her leveled pistol he spread the other arm away from his body.
“Shoot, cousin, if you want to see one less Welf in the world.”
Marie sighed and let the pistol drop to the glowing Kurdish carpet. “Come in, Teodore,” she said, and sank down to sit on one corner of the four-poster bed.
The ladies-in-waiting looked at her uncertainly. “Thank you, Dolors, Katrini—but you’d better go to your rooms now.”
Teodore set his helmet down on a table and began working off his armored gauntlets. “You wouldn’t have any wine, would you?” he asked. “Cursed cold night and wet besides; a coup is hard outdoor work.”
She pointed wordlessly to a sideboard, and he smiled as he poured for both.
“You’re making a very great deal of fuss about something you’ll have to do anyway,” he pointed out, handing her the glass and going to sit by the fire.
The velvet of the chair dimpled and stretched under the weight of his rain-streaked armor. The wall beside him held the fireplace, burning with a low coal blaze, and a bookshelf. That carried a respectable two dozen volumes; the Canonical Handbooks in Wulf Philson’s Namerique translation, lives of the Avatars, and histories and travelogues in Spanjol and Sponglish.
“You’d fuss too if you’d been kept a prisoner since that beast murdered my mother,” Marie said. The wine was Sala, strong and sweet. It seemed to coil around the fire in her chest.
“I was fond of Aunt Charlotte myself. ‘That beast’ is now off the Seat, and running for his life,” Teodore pointed out. “Something which I had my hand in.”
“Ingreid is a pig. And he supported Forker. I’m certain he was one of the ones who murdered Mother for that coward.”
“That was never proven. And Ingreid is a strong pig,” Teodore said, casting a quick look at the door. They were talking quietly, though, and he had told his men to move everyone down the corridor. “The fact that he supported Forker tells in his favor; the alternative was civil war. The alternative now is civil war, unless Ingreid Manfrond has an unassailable claim to the Seat. If you don’t think that civil war is possible with invaders at the frontiers, then you’ve read less of our history than I thought.” He waved at the bookc
ase.
“Can Ingreid read at all?” she said bitterly.
“No, probably,” Teodore said frankly. “That’ll make him all the more popular with the backwoods nobles, and the petty-squires and freeholders. Civvies will keep the accounts as usual, and he’s got advisers like Carstens and—” he rapped his breastplate “—for the more complicated things. He can certainly lead a charge, which is more than you can say for that pseudo-scholar Forker.”
He leaned forward, a serious expression on his face. “I’m ready to fight and die for him, as General. All you have to do is marry him.”
“You aren’t expected to go to bed with him, Teodore.”
“There is that,” the young man admitted. “But you’d have to marry somebody sometime; it’s the way things are done at our rank.”
“I’m a free woman of the Brigade; the law says I can’t be married against my will,” Marie said.
Teodore spread his hands. She nodded. “I know . . . but he smells. And he’s fifty.”
“You’ll outlive him, then,” Teodore said. “Possibly as Regent for an underage heir. And you will marry him tomorrow. If necessary, with a trooper standing behind you twisting your arm. That won’t be dignified, but it’ll work.”
“You would make a better General, cousin!”
“So I would, if I had the following,” Teodore said. “So would you, if you were a man. But I haven’t and you aren’t. The enemy won’t wait for me to acquire a majority, either.”
“And how much will my life be worth, once I’ve produced a healthy heir?” Marie said. “Not to mention the question of his own sons, who’ll have Regent ambitions of their own.”
Teodore went to the door and checked that his cuirassier troopers were holding the servants at the end of the corridor.
“As to the heir,” he said, leaning close to Marie’s ear, “time will tell. In a year, the war will be over. Once the grisuh are back across the sea . . .”
Marie’s eyes were cold as she set down the wineglass. “All right, Teodore,” she said. “But listen to me and believe what I say: whatever I promise in the cathedron Ingreid Manfrond will get no love or loyalty from me. And he’ll regret forcing me to this on the day he dies, and that will be soon. Spirit of Man of This Earth be my witness.”
Teodore Welf had broken lances with Guard champions on the northwestern frontier, and fought the Stalwarts further east. He had killed two men in duels back home, as well.
At that moment, he was conscious mainly of a vast thankfulness that it was Ingreid Manfrond and not Teodore Welf who would stand beside Marie in the cathedron tomorrow.
Thunder rippled through the night, and rain streaked the diamond-pane windows of thick bubbled glass. Teodore looked away from his cousin.
“At least,” he said, “the enemy won’t be making much progress through this. We’ll have time to get our house in order.”
Thunder cracked over the ford. The light stabbed down into a midday darkness, off wet tossing trees and men’s faces. Oxen bellowed as they leaned into the traces, trying to budge the gun mired hub-deep in the middle of the rising river; they even ignored the dogs of the regular hitch straining beside them. Dozens of infantrymen heaved at the barrel and wheels, gasping and choking as water broke over them. Others labored at the banks, throwing down loads of brush and gravel to keep the sloping surfaces passable. Wagon-teams bawled protestingly as they were led into the water; men waded through the waist-high brown flood with their rifles and cartridge-boxes held over their heads.
One of the work crews was relieved, and stumbled upslope to the courtyard of the riverside inn.
“Wat’s a name a’ dis river?” one asked a noncom.
“Wolturno,” the man mumbled, scraping mud off his face. It was a winding stream, meandering back and forth across the flood-plain where the road ran. The Expeditionary Force had already crossed it several times.
“Ever’ fukkin’ river here is named Wolturno,” the soldier said. They slouched into lines before the kettles.
“Thank’ee, miss,” the infantryman said, taking his bowl and cup.
He stumbled off a few paces to crouch in the lee of a wagon, spooning up the stew of beans and cubed bacon and taking mouthfuls of the cornbread bannock. More of his squadmates crowded through beneath the awnings to the bubbling cauldrons; like him they were dripping with more than the slashing rain, and so filthy it was hard to see the patches and tears in their uniforms; one was wrapped completely in a shrouding of earth-stained peasant blankets.
Fatima cor Staenbridge—cor meant freedwoman, and the name was her former master’s—filled the ladle again and swung it out to the outstretched bowl.
“Not much, but it’s hot,” she said cheerfully. Rain leaked down through the makeshift awning, but most of it ran off the thick wool of the hooded cloak she wore. “Take all you can eat, soldier, eat all you take.”
“Bettah dan whut we eaat a’ hume,” the footsoldier said, in a thick peasant dialect of Sponglish she couldn’t place. There were so many. From the looks of his thin young face, the young peon conscript probably hadn’t eaten this well before the Army press-gangs swept him up. “Yu an angel, missa.”
Mitchi plunked a hunk of cornbread on his bowl, and took his cup to dip it in a vat of hot cider.
“Thank Messa Whitehall, she organized it,” she said.
Dozens of the cauldrons were cooking in the courtyard, hauled from the inn kitchens and from houses nearby. Army servants, women—even wives, in a few cases—and miscellaneous clergy carried out fresh loads of ingredients and dumped them in to cook. Rations were issued when there were no markets, but each eight-man squad of soldiers was generally supposed to cook for themselves—that was one of the duties military servants did for the cavalry troopers. Today that would have meant hardtack and cold water for the infantry laboring to keep the ford passable, without Lady Suzette Whitehall rounding up camp-followers and supplies for this. And there would be the usual camp to build at the end of the day’s march, with wet firewood and sopping bedding. Exhausted men forgot to take care for themselves and let sickness in.
“Messer Raj an’ his lady, dey sent by de Spirit,” the soldier blurted. His face was pinched and stubbled. “Dey treet de commun sojur right, not jus’ dog-boys.”
The men were too tired for enthusiasm, but they nodded and muttered agreement as they shuffled forward. Fatima swung the ladle until it was scraping the bottom of the cauldron.
“Take all you can eat, eat all you can—Messer Raj!”
“Thank you, Fatima,” he said.
The mud was mainly below the swordbelt, his uniform and boots were sound, and he wore one of the warm rainproof cloaks. Apart from that he looked nearly as exhausted as the infantrymen who’d been shoveling stone and hauling brushwood to the ford. The other officers with him looked no better. A low murmur went through the courtyard as he was recognized, but the men kept to their scraps of shelter at a half-gesture from one hand.
Cabot Clerett looked dubiously at the bowl. The others started shovelling theirs down unconcerned. “I hope there’s something better at the end of the day,” he said.
Fatima stood aside as more helpers staggered up with pails of well-water, sacks of beans and half a keg of the chopped bacon. The Renunciate leading them tossed in a double handful of salt and some dried chilis. The cauldron hissed slightly as the ingredients went in, and one of the servants dumped more coal on the embers beneath.
“Messa Whitehall said,” Fatima put in, “that the headquarters cook had found a lamb, and some fresh bread.”
“Something to look forward to.” That was Major Peydro Belagez of the Rogor Slashers. “By the Spirit, mi heneral, before I met you I spent fifteen uneventful years patrolling the Drangosh border and fighting the Colonials once every two months. The sun shone, and between patrols I lay beneath orange trees while girls dropped nougat into my mouth. Now look at me! Mi mahtre warned me of the consequences of falling into bad company—Malash, she was right.�
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The major from the southern borders was a slight man in his late thirties, naturally dark and leathery with years of savage desert suns and windstorms, wearing a pointed goatee and a gold ring in one ear. His grin was easy and friendly; Fatima swallowed as she remembered the same pleasant expression last year after Mekkle Thiddo, the Companion who commanded the Slashers, was killed under flag of truce, and Belagez rounded up the men responsible, even in the chaos of the pursuit after the Squadron host was broken. Raj had ordered them crucified, but Belagez had seen to the details, even to having the victims’ feet twisted up under their buttocks before they were spiked to the wood. A man lived much longer that way, before asphyxiation and shock killed him.
She had never felt easy around Borderers; the feuds along the frontier between Colony and Civil Government were too old and bitter. Fatima had hated her father, the Caid of El Djem . . . but she remembered too well how he had died, in a huge pool of blood with a Borderer dancing in glee around him, the jiggling sack of the old man’s scrotum impaled on the curved knife which slashed it free.
Belagez’s smile was innocent as he glanced at her. She was the woman of a friend, and so he would cheerfully face death to defend her.
“Messa Whitehall says she found some good wine, too,” Fatima went on.
For that matter, the 5th Descott would fight for her now—and they were the men who’d burned her home and would have gang-raped her, if she hadn’t managed to get Gerrin and Bartin Foley to protect her. Life is strange. From despised minor concubine’s daughter to slave to a freedwoman and mother of the acknowledged son of a wealthy Civil Government nobleman-officer in a year . . . of course, the child could have been Bartin’s, just as likely. But Gerrin had adopted it, and he had no other heir. Messer Raj and his lady had stood Starparents.
“If it does not pucker the mouth to drink it,” Belagez said. “Spirit, the wine here is even more sour than that dog-piss you northerners like—which I had not believed possible.”
Kaltin Gruder grinned. “You mean it’s not syrup like that stuff they make south of the Oxheads,” he said. “Too sweet to drink and too thick to piss, no wonder you cut it with water.”