The Khandarai drank coffee—a rare delicacy in Vordan, but so cheap here that you could buy the raw beans for pennies to the bushel. They liked it dark and sludgy, and heavily spiced. It was a taste Marcus had managed to acquire over the years, and it certainly packed a kick that would keep you up for half the night, but still . . .
He breathed out, feeling at least fractionally more at peace. “Thank you, Fitz.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Marcus opened his eyes. “Speaking of the colonel . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“It appears he’ll be requiring my services, at least part of the time. I’ll be relying on you to take care of the First.”
Properly speaking, Marcus should have had at least two more field lieutenants to whom he could delegate command authority in his absence so that his staff lieutenant could concentrate on staff work. As it was, though, Fitz wore all the hats, sometimes simultaneously.
“Of course, sir. No need to worry on that score.” He hesitated. “If I may, sir . . .”
Marcus sipped at the tea and waved a hand. “Hmm?”
“What’s your impression of the colonel?”
“He’s . . .” Marcus paused, thinking. “He’s very clever.”
Fitz frowned. “Clever” was not a good thing in the lexicon of the common soldier. Clever officers came up with elaborate plans that backfired at just the wrong moment and got you killed.
“He’s a count,” Marcus went on, “but he doesn’t stand on privilege. Likable, I suppose, but there’s something”—he thought of those eyes, gray and judging—“something a little odd. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve just met the man myself.”
“Has he given you any indication what he plans to do?”
Before Marcus could reply, there was a knock at the outer door. Fitz hurried off to answer it, and Marcus turned back to the papers in front of him, trying to bully his eyes into focus. He took a long drink and let it sit on his tongue, warm and bitter.
A cough made him look up again and swallow hurriedly. Fitz stood at the inner doorway. His expression was as officially blank as usual, but the barest hint of an arched eyebrow indicated that something strange was afoot.
“There’s someone to see you,” the lieutenant said. “A Miss Jennifer Alhundt.”
Marcus was taken aback. “Really?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show her in, I suppose.” Marcus straightened up and tugged at his collar, peripherally aware of the sweaty patches that were beginning to show through his dress blues.
The woman was pale, even for a Vordanai. She had the look of someone who’d spent too much time indoors, an impression enhanced by watery eyes behind silver-rimmed spectacles. Her hair was long and dark, tied back in a severe braid. She wore a thin brown coat over a shapeless cotton blouse and brown trousers. When Marcus had left Vordan, a well-bred woman wearing trousers would have been, if not a scandal, at least the occasion for much comment. He wondered idly if all the noble ladies had traded their frilly dresses for boyish leggings since then. Stranger things had happened in the world of high fashion.
He got to his feet as she entered, and sketched a bow, which she returned awkwardly. Her spectacles threatened to fall off, and she caught them automatically and pushed them back up her nose with a well-practiced motion.
“Welcome, Miss Alhundt. I’m Captain Marcus d’Ivoire. Will you sit down?” He paused, suddenly painfully aware that he had just asked a lady to squat on the bare floor. He coughed to cover his embarrassment. “Fitz, fetch a cushion for Miss Alhundt, would you?”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
They settled themselves on opposite sides of Marcus’ crude desk, and she peered at him through thick lenses in the manner of a naturalist studying some surprising insect. Marcus was still trying to work out a polite way to ask what the hell she was doing here when she said, “I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”
He shrugged, and waved desperately at Fitz, who bustled off. “Would you like some tea?”
“Please,” she said. “I came in with the fleet, of course. I’m on assignment.”
“What sort of assignment?”
“His Grace was instructed by His Majesty to gather an independent perspective on events in Khandar.”
Marcus froze. “His Grace?”
“His Grace, Duke Orlanko,” she clarified. “I’m with the Ministry of Information.”
Fitz appeared with the tea, which saved Marcus from having to think of an immediate response to that. Miss Alhundt accepted the mug from the lieutenant, sipped, and resumed staring at Marcus.
“The Ministry of Information,” Marcus said eventually. “May I ask in what . . . capacity?”
“Only a poor scholar, I’m afraid.” She gave a tight little smile. “I know our reputation, Captain, but I assure you that His Grace employs many more scribes than he does spies and assassins.”
Miss Alhundt certainly didn’t look like a spy or assassin. She had the air of someone more comfortable with books than people. But everyone in Vordan knew about the all-seeing eye and long reach of Duke Orlanko’s Concordat.
“And you mentioned a royal order?” he said, buying time.
She nodded. “His Majesty was concerned that the reports we’d been receiving from Khandar might be . . . inadequate. In view of our expanded commitment and the situation here, he thought it expedient to try to get a disinterested view of how things stand. That isn’t easy to do through military channels.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.” Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “So what is it that you need from me?”
“I just thought I would introduce myself.” She favored him with a smile, showing pretty white teeth. “I’m afraid my experience in the field is rather limited, and I’m sure I’ll be relying a great deal on you and the other officers for your opinions.”
“I thought you were supposed to get an unbiased view of things.”
“I will present your views along with my own opinions,” Miss Alhundt said. “That way, His Majesty and His Grace will have all the available information. Things have certainly been confused lately.”
Marcus could imagine that. He’d written only one hasty report during the retreat, and it was unlikely that even that had reached the capital by now. His Grace must be groping in the dark. No wonder he sent some of his own people along. But her?
“I’ll do whatever I can,” he said. “You understand, though, that this is now Colonel Vhalnich’s command. My opinions may not count for very much anymore.”
“I’ll be speaking to the colonel, too, of course,” she said briskly. “I take it you’ve met him?”
“I received him this afternoon.”
“Would you care to offer your impression?”
“I wouldn’t,” Marcus said. Gossiping with Fitz was one thing, but talking about a senior officer to a civilian was deeply taboo, even if that civilian didn’t work for the secret police.
“Fair enough,” Miss Alhundt said, still smiling. “I understand.” Abruptly, she held her hand out across the table. “I do hope we can be friends, Captain d’Ivoire.”
Marcus shook awkwardly, again at a loss. Miss Alhundt sipped, handed her teacup to Fitz, and got to her feet.
“And now, I imagine you have work to do,” she said. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”
Once the young woman had swept back out the door, Marcus looked up at his aide. “Do I have work to do?”
“Yes,” Fitz said. “But first you’re having dinner with the colonel, remember?”
• • •
The door to Janus’ quarters opened at Marcus’ approach, revealing a liveried servant with a haughty expression. Marcus, caught off guard, sketched a slight bow, and received a nod in return.
“I’m Captain d’Ivoire,” he said. “The colonel’s expecting me.”
“Of course, sir.” The manservant, a pinch-faced man with a shock of white hair who couldn’t have been yo
unger than fifty, gave Marcus a somewhat deeper nod and a disapproving stare. “Come in.”
“Ah, Captain!” called Janus from inside. “Augustin, you can get dinner started.”
“Yes, sir.” The manservant bowed again, deeply, and withdrew.
“Augustin has been with my family since he was a boy,” Janus confided as the man bustled away. “He thinks of it as his mission in life to maintain the dignity of my station. Don’t let him bother you.”
Somewhat to Marcus’ surprise, the largest and outermost chamber of the little suite had been converted into a passable imitation of a dining room. The walls were still bare rock and there were no carpets on the floor, of course, but a table big enough for six had appeared, complete with chairs, napkins, and cutlery. Even plates—Marcus hadn’t seen real china since he’d arrived in Khandar. He wondered whether the colonel planned to carry it all into the field.
“Take a seat, Captain! Take off your jacket, if you like.” Janus was in his shirtsleeves, his blue coat tossed carelessly on top of a trunk in one corner. “You may have gathered that I don’t stand on ceremony.” When he saw Marcus still hesitating in the doorway, he commanded, “Sit! I’ll be back in a moment. I need to sort something out.”
He bustled off through the flimsy curtain that divided the dining room from the rest of the suite. Marcus, somewhat uncertainly, took one of the chairs and settled into it. It was a more complex affair then it appeared at first glance, with a canvas seat and back, and was surprisingly comfortable. After a bit of investigation Marcus decided the thing could be folded up for transport.
His curiosity piqued, he picked up his plate. The lack of heft told him it wasn’t porcelain after all; it felt more like tin. He rapped it with his fingernail.
“A special alloy,” the colonel said, from the doorway. “And the glaze is an interesting design. It has nearly the look of proper china, doesn’t it? But it’s practically impossible to scratch.” He shook his head. “The food won’t be much, I’m afraid. Augustin is a wizard, but there’s only so much that can be done with salt beef and hard bread.”
Marcus, whose last meal had been a thin mutton soup from a wooden bowl, shrugged.
“Once we’ve had some time to settle in, I hope that you’ll introduce me to the local delicacies,” the colonel went on.
“When we left Ashe-Katarion,” Marcus said, “the thing to eat was roasted imhalyt beetles in the shell. Under the right conditions they can grow to be eight inches long, and the meat is supposedly delightful.”
Janus didn’t bat an eye. “It sounds . . . fascinating. Did you spend a great deal of time with the locals?”
“Before the Redeemers, we had reasonably good relations,” Marcus said, considering. “On the whole I wouldn’t say they loved us, of course, but I had friends in the city. There was a little place by the harbor that sold arphalta—that’s a sort of clam—and I used to spend my free evenings there. The damn things are hard to get open unless you know the trick, but the meat is sweet as candy.”
Marcus paused, wondering suddenly if the little arphalta shop was still there or if it had been consigned to the flames by the Redeemers. Wondering, for that matter, how many of his friends might have shared a similar fate.
“I wish I’d been here,” the colonel said. “It’s a fascinating culture, and I’d have loved to have explored it in peace. I imagine any further interactions will be somewhat—strained.”
“Quite probably,” Marcus deadpanned.
Augustin came back in with a silver tureen of thick red soup and a pair of bowls. He placed and poured with all the noiseless elegance of the ancient retainer, then went back to the kitchen for glasses and a bottle of wine. He presented the latter to Janus for approval.
“Yes, that will do,” Janus told him. Glancing at Marcus, he said, “You have no objection to Hamveltai flaghaelan, I hope?”
Marcus, whose appreciation of wine began and ended with what color it was, nodded uncertainly.
“Augustin was quite upset with me when I didn’t allow him to bring half the cellar,” Janus said. “I kept telling him that we were unlikely to require a Bere Nefeit ’79 while on campaign, but he was most insistent.”
“One never knows what may expected of one,” Augustin said. He poured deftly. “A gentleman must always be prepared to entertain guests in the manner of a gentleman.”
“Yes, yes.” Janus took up his glass and raised it. “To the king’s health!”
“The king’s health,” Marcus echoed, and sipped. It was good, truthfully, though after years of Khandarai rotgut it felt like drinking fruit juice. He was more interested in the soup—if the ingredients were salt beef and hard bread, they had certainly been well concealed. Before he realized it he had cleaned the bowl and found himself looking around for more.
“Another helping for the captain,” Janus said.
“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said. He cleared his throat. “You’d best know, I had a visitor this afternoon—”
“Our Miss Alhundt? Yes, I thought you might.”
“She . . .” Marcus paused, looking at Augustin. Janus caught his expression.
“You may trust in Augustin’s discretion. I certainly do. However, if it makes you more comfortable—Augustin, would you leave us for a few minutes?”
“Certainly, sir.” The manservant bowed. “I will be outside if my lord requires anything.”
He ghosted out. He should get together with Fitz, Marcus thought. Both men had obviously mastered the art of noiseless movement in order to sneak up on their superiors.
“You were saying something about Miss Alhundt?”
“Ah, yes, sir.” Marcus shook his head. “She works for the Ministry of Information. I suppose you know that.”
“I do indeed,” Janus said. “What did you think of her?”
“Personally?” Marcus shrugged. “We didn’t talk long enough to form much of an opinion. A bit stuffy, perhaps. Harmless.”
The corner of Janus’ lip twitched. “Harmless in her person, perhaps. How much do you know about the political situation back home?”
Politics. Marcus fought back a surge of panic. “Almost nothing, sir. We don’t even get the gossip until it’s six months stale.”
“I won’t bore you with the details of plots and counterplots. Suffice it to say that for some time now His Majesty’s government has been divided into two factions. One—call them the ‘peace’ party—favors a greater accommodation with the Borelgai and Emperor of Murnsk, and particularly with the Sworn Church of Elysium. The other side would prefer an aggressive policy toward both. Precisely who belongs to which faction is never entirely clear, but the leader of the peace party has for some time been His Grace Duke Orlanko.” Janus cocked his head. “You’ve heard of him at least, I trust?”
“The Last Duke,” Marcus said. “Minister of Information.”
“Indeed. It was the ascendancy of the war party that brought us the War of the Princes, which ended so disastrously at Vansfeldt.”
“You don’t need to remind me of that,” Marcus said. “I was there.”
He’d been on his tour as a lieutenant, supervising a supply company well short of any action. He’d been close enough to catch the distant flash and grumble of the guns, though, and to be caught up in the panicked rout that followed.
Janus nodded. “After the treaty was signed, the peace party found its rule nearly uncontested. The death of Prince Dominic had robbed the war party of its leader, and the king was too debilitated by grief and illness to interfere. Orlanko forged closer ties than ever to the Borelgai and the Church. As the king’s sicknesses have become more frequent, Orlanko’s power has increased. If His Majesty were to die—Lord forbid, of course—Princess Raesinia might take the throne, but Orlanko would rule, to the extent that he does not already.”
“All right,” Marcus said uncertainly. “What does that have to do with Khandar? I would have thought we’d be the last thing on his mind.”
“Indeed. When
the Minister of War suggested a Khandarai expedition, everyone expected Orlanko to oppose it. Instead, he not only threw his own weight behind it, but demanded that one of his people be sent along as an official observer.”
“Why?”
Janus smiled. “I have spent most of the past few months trying to figure that out. One possibility is that he guessed that I would be chosen for the command. The Duke and I are . . . not on good terms. He may think that we are doomed to either bloody failure or ignominious retreat, and in either case he could use the fallout to destroy me.”
Marcus, somewhat alarmed by the casual reference to “bloody failure,” kept his expression carefully neutral. “But you don’t think that’s it.”
“I don’t. It’s too roundabout, even for a compulsive schemer like Orlanko. No doubt my downfall would be gratifying, but there’s something here that he wants.” Janus pursed his lips. “Or something that someone wants. It may be that Orlanko is merely an errand boy for his friends in the Sworn Church. There have been a great many clerical comings and goings from the Ministry of Information lately.”
“What would the Sworn Church want from Khandar?”
“Who knows?” Janus shrugged, but his eyes were hooded. “It could be anything. They still believe in demons up in Elysium.”
“It doesn’t seem very clever of Orlanko to put his agent out where everyone can see her,” Marcus said. “I can have a couple of men tail her, if you like.”
“Thank you, Captain, but don’t bother. As I said, I suspect she’s harmless in her person. The real agents are no doubt salted amongst our new recruits.”
Marcus hadn’t thought about that. All those new men, and how was he supposed to know which to trust? He felt a sudden, irrational stab of rage at Janus. What the hell have you brought down on my regiment?
After a moment he said, “Why tell me all this, sir?”
“I take it you’re not accustomed to senior officers speaking plainly?” Janus chuckled. “No, don’t answer that. I’m trying to be honest with you, Captain, because I need your help. You know the country, you know the Khandarai, and most important, you know the Colonials. I’m not foolish enough to think I can do this without you and your fellow officers.”
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