The Fourth didn’t know, Winter decided. Not for certain, anyway. The encampment seemed on edge, and the number of men awake in spite of the hour and the exhaustion of the day showed that everyone knew something was about to happen. But she and Graff were able to walk about in their First Battalion uniforms without being challenged. They found a good vantage point, on the other side of a fire from Adrecht’s double-sized tent, and settled down to watch.
Her conversation with Buck had been disappointingly brief. He’d been left to stew while Winter and the others talked, and his bravado had been reduced to a hollow eggshell that cracked under the slightest pressure. Winter told herself that she hadn’t actually been looking forward to cutting pieces off him, but it certainly would have been satisfying to make him think she was going to. His eyes had been full of the terror of a bully who finds his position suddenly reversed.
Unfortunately, his knowledge had been limited. The prisoners were not in the Fourth Battalion camp, which made sense—keeping them secret among so many men would be impossible—but where they were, Buck couldn’t say. Most of the Second Company was still in its encampment, though, with Davis and a few other men staying close to Captain Roston. That led Fitz to propose a new plan. Winter hadn’t liked it, and still didn’t, but she’d been unable to come up with anything better.
Graff had chosen two dozen men from the Seventh that he thought they could rely on. Armed with muskets, knives, and bayonets, they were approaching Captain Roston’s tent from the other side, with Fitz at their head. A ripple of interest in the Fourth Battalion camp, like a ship’s wake, marked their path. By the time they reached the tents, Captain Roston had already emerged. From her vantage point, Winter could see him only in outline, lit from behind by lanterns.
Fitz, by contrast, was easily visible. In spite of the bruise on his face that had nearly closed his right eye, he wore his customary smile, and his salute was parade-ground crisp.
“Captain Roston!”
“Lieutenant,” Roston said. If he was surprised to see Fitz alive, it wasn’t evident from his voice. Winter wondered if killing the lieutenant had been his idea or something Davis had decided on his own initiative. “You seem to have injured yourself.”
“Just a bad fall, sir. Nothing to worry about,” Fitz said blithely. “I’ve just come from the colonel. He and Captain d’Ivoire request your presence for a council of war.”
Captain Roston paused fractionally too long. Winter smiled in the darkness. A hit.
“At this hour?” he said eventually.
“New information has come in, sir,” Fitz said. “Or so I understand. The colonel indicated it was urgent.”
It didn’t take Captain Roston long to regain his composure. “As the colonel wishes. May I have a moment?”
“Of course, sir.”
Roston disappeared back into his tent. Winter could only imagine the whispered conversation going on within. So far as Roston and Davis knew, they had the colonel and Captain d’Ivoire tied up somewhere, and they certainly weren’t attending any councils of war. On the other hand, Fitz was also supposed to be a prisoner, and possibly dead. Her smile widened as she pictured Davis’ fat face going red with anger.
They couldn’t just grab Fitz again, not here, with twenty of his own men and half the Fourth watching. It would either have to be open mutiny, here and now, or else Captain Roston would have to keep the charade going a little longer.
Winter let her breath hiss between her teeth when Roston reappeared. She’d been reasonably certain he would play along, but with Davis involved there was always a chance . . .
“Lead the way, Lieutenant,” Captain Roston said, with all the appearance of affability.
Fitz saluted again. “Follow me, sir.”
Winter tensed as they made their way from the tents back through the encampment toward where the colonel’s empty tent stood. It wouldn’t be long—Davis had never been a patient man.
“There,” Graff whispered.
A bulky shadow had slipped from the unlit rear of Captain Roston’s tent and taken off at a run. Winter and Graff gave him a dozen heartbeats to get well ahead, then followed.
• • •
A couple of tents, larger than the usual army issue, stood among the detritus of the wrecked, smoking wagons. During the day they’d been used as a clearinghouse for the scavenging teams and a refuge from the sun for the corporals who had to tally and record it all to produce the new supply estimates the colonel had demanded. Now that dark had curtailed these activities, the tents were abandoned, and ideal for quietly keeping prisoners. They were far enough from the rest of the camp that any noise would go unnoticed, and no one was likely to wander casually through the gruesome wreckage of the Desoltai attack.
Davis had headed straight for them, breaking into a jog once he’d left the Fourth’s encampment. Winter and Graff had to hurry to keep up. When he reached his goal and ducked inside, they took shelter behind a wrecked cart and waited. After a few minutes, Winter gave a satisfied nod and turned to Graff.
“This has to be it,” she said.
The corporal nodded. “It’s a clever spot. I have to hand it to Captain Roston.”
“Get going, then.” Her eyes were still glued to the tents. There were no lights inside.
Graff hesitated. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to sit here and watch, in case they get any ideas about moving the prisoners.”
“Right.” Graff straightened up and brushed dirt from his knees. “Just stay put. I’ll be back as soon as I can round up the men.”
“Hurry,” Winter said. “Fitz will stall Roston as long as he can, but he has to know something’s wrong. We need to have things in hand here before he does anything drastic.”
Graff nodded and started back the way they’d come, breaking into a run when he was a safe distance away. Winter turned her attention back to the tents, watching for any sign that Davis was bringing the prisoners out.
At least there were prisoners, she reflected. Buck had said there weren’t to be any killings, aside from Fitz, but Winter hadn’t been certain until she’d seen Davis scuttling away from Captain Roston’s tents. The fact that he’d immediately gone to confirm that the colonel and Captain d’Ivoire were still in custody implied that both were still alive, which probably boded well for Folsom and the other men from the Seventh. Still, she felt a thrill of tension. What if Davis decides now is the time to play for keeps? She imagined an unsheathed knife and blood spilling from slit throats, and tensed herself to move at the sound of a scream. She’d promised Graff and Bobby not to do anything rash, but if Davis was going to murder the prisoners . . .
No sound came. The tents remained dark, without even the faint glow of candlelight leaking through at the flaps.
How long would it take for Graff to make it back with a squad of trustworthy Seventh Company men? How long could Fitz keep Adrecht occupied? Winter shifted uneasily and shuffled a little closer. What the hell is Davis doing in there in the dark?
A faint sound behind her gave her an instant of warning. She spun, reaching for the knife at her belt, but not fast enough. One big hand grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her forward, off balance. She felt something strike hard in the small of her back, and the stumble turned into a fall. A splinter of wood from the broken cart scraped painfully against her cheek and drew blood before it snapped. Winter struggled to push herself to her feet, but her attacker already had his boot planted between her shoulder blades, and even a fraction of his weight pressed so hard it made her fight for breath.
“Well, well, well,” Davis said. “The Saint, as I live and breathe. Oh, that’s Lieutenant Saint now, isn’t it? Forgive me if I don’t salute.” He pressed down a little harder, and Winter whimpered. “You don’t think very highly of ol’ Sarge, do you? You think ol’ Sarge isn’t smart enough to know when he’s being followed? Think he isn’t smart enough to nip out the back way?”
; Davis snorted. The pressure increased again and then, mercifully, relaxed. She felt him take hold of her wrists again.
“Get up,” he said. “Sir.”
Winter was all too aware Davis had muscles like steel bars under his layers of fat. She felt herself shriveling up under the mockery of his voice. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball, hide from him, hope he’d go away.
I can’t. She struggled to her feet, then started walking as he shoved her forward. He’ll kill me now. He has to. Her legs trembled, and not only from pain. She’d faced the Khandarai, walked to the sound of the regimental drum into a storm of fire and lead shot, but this was worse somehow. This is personal. She flexed her wrists, searching for an opening, but he was unbending.
Inside the tent, he transferred both her arms to one enormous hand while he struck a match with the other and lit an oil lamp. Piles of scrap wood and discarded, ruined supplies lined the edges of the tent, with only a narrow clear path in the center. Beside the one tent pole, leaning against one of the heaps, was Colonel Vhalnich himself. He was bound hand and foot, and gagged with what looked like a spare shirt. Davis glanced at him and snorted.
“You and him ought to get along famously, Saint. He’s a talker, just like you. You know, the first time I left him here with Peg to look after him, and by the time I got back he’d nearly talked Peg into letting him out? Mind, Peg always was a bit of a horse’s ass. But I like him better quiet.”
Winter met the colonel’s eyes. They were gray, deep, inscrutable. It shook her. She’d expected rage, or maybe fear, but the only thing she saw there was cold calculation.
“Right.” Davis’ free hand groped around Winter’s midsection. She froze while he patted her down, coming up with the pistol she’d taken from Buck and her belt knife. He tossed both into a corner, then let go of her wrists and pushed her away. “Now, you’ve got some questions to answer.”
Winter turned on him, doing her best to imitate the colonel’s nonchalance. “Where’s Folsom? And Captain d’Ivoire and the others?”
“I said you were going to answer questions, not ask ’em,” Davis said. “Are your friends on their way here?”
“No,” Winter said. “It’s just me.”
He swung for her gut, hard. Winter had expected that, and she lurched to the side enough to take only a glancing blow. It still made her double over in pain.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Davis said. “You were in my company for years, Saint. You know I can smell a lie. Did you kill Buck and Will?”
She managed a breath and straightened up. “Will’s dead. Buck we’re just sitting on.”
“Shit.” Davis pursed his lips. “Why in God’s name would you do that? I mean, kill Buck and leave Will alone, that I could understand. Buck’s an asshole. What did Will ever do to you?”
“It was an accident.”
Davis laughed. “Right. It was a good trick, sending Warus back around. The captain scares easy. ‘Go and check on everyone,’ he says. I told him we had nothin’ to worry about, but he wouldn’t hear it. Officers.” He looked like he wanted to spit. “Hey, you’re an officer now, aren’t you? Is it true they replace your brains with beef jerky?”
“Give it up, Davis. You and Roston are finished. Lieutenant Warus told us everything. It’ll be all over the camp by now.”
“Yeah? Did he tell you that this asshole”—he indicated the colonel—“was planning to march us into the desert with no water and no plan? When the boys hear that, which way do you think they’ll jump?”
Winter chewed her lip. The hell of it is, he might be right.
“The captain figured that if we gave the colonel a chance to talk at ’em, it might confuse things some,” Davis said. “So we thought it’d be best to let things take their own course. Natural, like.”
“When Graff and the others get here—”
“They won’t be coming,” Davis said. His fat lips twisted in a smirk. “Reason being, I sent Peg and some of the boys to make sure nobody stirs up any trouble.”
Winter shook her head in mock amazement. “Mutiny certainly seems to be your forte.”
“Sergeant,” Davis growled.
“What?”
He gave her a feral snarl, baring his teeth. “Call me sergeant. Just because they pinned some stripes on your shoulder doesn’t make you better than me, you little shit. Get down on your knees and beg, and maybe I won’t shove your face through the back of your skull. It’s Sergeant Davis.”
“That’s a lie and you know it,” Winter said, trying to sound unconcerned. “The way you’ve been talking, you can’t let me out of here alive.”
“No.” His lips spread wider, into a rictus of a smile. “No, I’m afraid you’ve got me there. But you can feel free to beg, if you like.”
Fuck. Winter looked up at the bulk of him and wanted to shrink into a ball. Fuck fuck fuck. He wore a knife, too, but he hardly needed one. The huge scarred fists were weapon enough. The piled debris blocked any way out except through the narrow gap by the tent flap, and Davis stood squarely in the way. If I can get him out of position, maybe . . . Outside, she would have a chance. The sergeant was strong as a bull, but he was slow. I can get away.
She blew out a breath between her teeth and dropped into a half crouch. Slowly, ridiculously, she raised her fists.
Davis barked a laugh. “Is that how it is, Saint? You and me? Man to man?”
“One of us is a man, anyway.” Winter bit back a peal of hysterical laughter.
“You shouldn’t try to make me angry. It’ll only go harder on you.”
“Harder than dead?”
“Well,” he said, scratching the side of his nose. “There’s dead, and then there’s—”
He lashed out in midsentence, a savage jab that snapped Winter’s head back before she could even think about ducking. White light flashed behind her eyes, and the taste of blood exploded in her mouth. She didn’t even feel herself falling, only more pain from splinters and nails prodding her from behind as she staggered back into one of the piles of debris.
“Dead,” Davis finished, rubbing his knuckles against his uniform coat. “Who are you fucking kidding, Saint?”
He approached, but cautiously. Winter, sucking air through a split lip, tried blearily to gauge the distance. When she thought he was close enough, she brought her knee up in a jerky try for his stomach, but he slammed his palm down on it so hard that she felt something crunch. Tears leaked from her eyes, and she stifled a scream.
“You still don’t think much of ol’ Sarge, do you?” Davis’ smile was brutal. “I may be old and fat, but you don’t get to be old and fat without learning your way around a fight or two.”
He reached down, batting aside her feebly resisting arm, and took hold of her collar, twisting the fabric of her shirt in sausage-thick fingers. Winter dangled bonelessly from his grip as he raised her to eye level.
“Well, Lieutenant?” he said. “Anything else to say?”
She spit a stream of blood, right in his eye. He reared back, roaring in protest, but retained his grip. Her feet scrabbled, half an inch above the ground, gaining no traction. Over his shoulder she saw one of the tent poles, barely within her reach, and she grabbed it and pulled. The unexpected pressure wrenched Davis around, and Winter’s feet touched the ground. She pushed off hard, trying desperately to escape from his grasp, her collar twisted tight around her neck.
Something gave way with a rip, and suddenly she was free. She dropped on all fours and scrabbled forward, heading for the tent flap, but before she could get there she felt a hand grip her by the ankle, dragging her knees out from under her and leaving her flat in the dirt. A second later a kick exploded into her ribs, rolling her over and onto her back.
Every breath was an agony. Something in her chest felt broken, shifting uneasily with each heartbeat, and there was a line of fire around her throat. She coughed weakly and tried to raise her head.
“I don’t believe it,” Davis s
aid. “I don’t fucking believe it. You have got to be joking.”
Winter managed to push herself up on her elbows. Davis was staring at her, incredulous. In one hand, he held a bloody scrap of fabric that had once been part of her undershirt. The buttons of her coat had given way, and it had fallen open, leaving her exposed from neck to navel.
“Saints and fucking martyrs,” Davis swore. “What the fuck, Saint? Are you some kind of freak?”
She tried to reply, but her mouth was full of blood. It trickled down her chin and dripped onto her bared breasts. She spit again, weakly, spraying blood all over the sleeve of her coat.
“You mean all those times we were out on patrol, just us boys in those cold tents, there was a nice warm cunt within five feet and I didn’t know it? Fuck, Saint, you could have told me. I might have been a little nicer to you.”
He looked at her, surprise slowly changing to disgust. Winter forced herself to stare back, unblinking.
“No wonder you were always looking down your nose at us. Buttoned-up little bitch. Laughing at dumb ol’ Sarge behind his back.” His lip twisted. “I ought to fuck you good an’ proper, to make up for all those missed chances.”
Behind Davis, something moved. Winter looked past the sergeant, and in the lamp’s flickering shadows she caught sight of the colonel. His hands were still bound, but he’d somehow freed his legs, and one of his feet rested on the knife Davis had taken from her.
Their gazes met. There was no surprise in his gray eyes, no disgust or fear, just quiet concentration and, she realized belatedly, a question.
Winter nodded, saw his acknowledgment.
Davis’ hands were on his belt, apparently in an agony of indecision. He shook his head.
“Sorry, Saint. I don’t think we’ve got time—”
The colonel moved. He sent the knife skittering over the dirt toward Winter, between Davis’ legs. At the same time he twisted, lashing out with a kick that caught the big sergeant precisely in the back of the knee.
Davis bellowed again, one leg folding up involuntarily, and his arms windmilled as he toppled forward. He caught himself before he hit the ground, held up on hands and knees, half over Winter.
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