Guns of the Dawn

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  He had come to her at her tent: Giles Scavian, Survivor and King’s wizard, his ripped shirt hanging loose from him. They had both been weary from the fighting and the waiting, dirt-smudged and worn, but she had taken his damaged hand in hers and kissed the cauterized ridge of his missing fingers. In turn, he had put his lips to the bruises across her face. She was a gentlewoman of Lascanne, and he was a gentleman, polite and proper in all things. Death made a third, though, in that tent, and in that presence their social niceties finally seemed as distant and unreachable as Deerlings House.

  She had lain down, and pulled him down beside her, and they had unbuttoned each other’s shirts without hurry. They had at least until the dawn before matters of either Denland or Lascanne came back to trouble them.

  He must have known that it was her first time. She guessed that it was his.

  Once only. Afterwards, the Denlanders still stayed away and stayed away, and she and Scavian touched hands and exchanged looks, but somehow each felt it would tempt fate too much to seek a second union. Their one moment of grace had been all they had, all they would have. Emily would not have exchanged it for any other.

  *

  Now they had reinforcements. Were matters looking up? Emily watched as the master sergeant from Leopard Passant drilled the shabby newcomers in the use of the rifle, and knew that it would make no difference.

  Mallen was the great killer of Denlanders these days. On odd nights he went out with his scouts, and they hunted down their opposite numbers and taught them how to fear. They used knives, to be silent and secret at night and, with Mallen to lead them, they killed far more than they lost. What they discovered was news worse and worse with each expedition. The Denlanders, too, were being reinforced. They had new men come in every other day, a few squads at a time. He estimated that they now outnumbered the besieged garrison by more than five to one, even after all their recent casualties.

  And even Mallen could not kill them all. As his supply of scouts diminished, one by one, the Denlanders’ numbers only grew. There must be many enemy agents plotting out the road to Locke now, for when they would have the liberty to walk it in force.

  And still the enemy sat and waited, and Emily knew why. Her insight into the Denlander character now became a curse. She knew that they were careful, meticulous and pragmatic men, and they did not much value qualities such as honour, courage or luck. They valued instead solid plans and favourable numbers. They were waiting until a victory on their part was certain before essaying towards the camp again.

  And so both sides wait for the same thing. One day the Denlanders would come back, and this time it would be when they would be sure to win. Without a doubt, the Lascans would exact a heavy toll from them, but there was a limit to how much damage the defenders could do before they were all shot down.

  She had in her hand her incomplete and undeliverable message to Mr Northway, her suicide note, as she thought of it. She wondered, if Penny Belchere were to appear before her, whether she would give it to the girl, or hide it. The question seemed academic.

  The Survivors’ Club was all that was left to her now. Its members kept each other sane. Whatever the Denlanders may value, we have courage, friendship and honour here, which translated into evenings of joking and drinking, gambling and arguing. She was more a soldier than she knew, now. Would Mary or Alice even recognize her? She was shocked to think how long it had been since she had thought of either of them. How long since they have thought of me?

  Grammaine was just a distant memory; like some place they had gone to when she was a very young child, half remembered and half imagined. It was like a place she had seen in a painting somewhere. She had no belief in it. It was not possible that she could ever return there.

  *

  She leant on the barricade, looking out at the shadowed swamps. There was a little movement there, but not much: not an attack, not yet. The sun overhead had them boiling in their jackets, but the Denlanders were confined in the damp and constant heat of the swamps. Did that wear them down? Did they lose their will to win? It seemed they did not. She remembered their quiet determination to endure anything for their country. They had made themselves at home in the swamps, like fish in water, whilst the Lascanne soldiers could only hold their breath and count the moments until they emerged.

  And still the enemy held off. What had happened now? Were the Denlanders waiting for even more reinforcements, or for more intelligence? Perhaps they had spies out who were expected back with vital word. Mallen had only two of his picked scouts left. He no longer went out hunting the Denlanders. Their agents moved unmolested, save where they came within musket range of the camp.

  Tubal hobbled out from the camp to join her in staring out over the barricade, over the trench, over the fence of sharp stakes they had put up after tearing down the colonel’s command hut.

  ‘Today, do you think?’

  She shrugged. ‘In their place, I’d have moved already. They’re patient people, Tubal.’

  He pushed himself up to perch on the barricade, leaning his crutches against it carefully. He had a Denlander gun slung over his shoulder by its strap: one never knew when the hammerblow would come.

  ‘You and me together out here, it’s like a family outing,’ he said. ‘Damnedest thing, but I never really knew you back at Grammaine. You were just Mary’s other sister.’

  ‘Other sister?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said, without apology. ‘Hell, if I’d known you were like this, I’d have been scared to death of you.’

  They both glanced over at the sound of footsteps and saw that Scavian was coming out to join them. His maimed hand was concealed by a black glove he had found somewhere, the empty ring and little fingers pinned back onto the palm.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Tubal corrected him. ‘Come for the view or for the healing waters?’

  ‘The company,’ replied Scavian firmly. He put his intact hand on Emily’s shoulder and squeezed, and she covered his fingers with her own. The look they shared was private, filled with secrets. He had given her one thing that she could not reveal even to Mr Northway – even to the Mr Northway who would never receive her final letter.

  ‘Heads up,’ Tubal warned softly. ‘They’re coming.’

  Emily’s heart lurched and she scrabbled for her gun, but her swift glance at the treeline registered only a small party of about a dozen, leaving the shelter of the trees. They held before them a flag of blank white, somewhat greater in size than Caxton’s purloined handkerchief.

  Parley? They wanted to talk.

  ‘Truce?’ Scavian frowned. ‘What is there to talk about? In truth we’ve both sides made our positions clear over the last three years or so.’

  ‘Unless . . .’ Tubal’s eyes met Emily’s.

  ‘Something’s changed,’ she said. ‘For them, something’s changed.’ A keen edge of excitement began cutting into her. ‘It’s been so long since we’ve had any news. Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Tubal shouted out, as some of the men at the barricade sighted down their guns. ‘Don’t you recognize a flag of parley when you see it?’ Of course, some of the newer recruits probably didn’t.

  ‘The Couchant front, of course,’ Scavian exhaled. ‘With our cavalry up there, in the passes and the high plains, how long could it be, really?’

  ‘Don’t get too confident. It could be something else,’ Tubal warned him.

  ‘Such as what? What can you think of that would drive them out here to talk to us? The state of the weather?’

  ‘It has been unusually sunny, even for summer.’ Tubal gave a strained smile. ‘They might just want . . . to take back the bodies of their dead, or something.’

  The Denlander embassy had halted now, somewhere halfway between treeline and camp, and were waiting patiently.

  ‘You need to go and talk to them,’ Emily told Tubal.

  He kicked one shoe idly against the barricade. ‘Tha
t isn’t going to happen,’ he said philosophically. ‘Em, I think the momentous duty is yours.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘You’re my second. Hell, you’re actually the second-ranking officer in the entire camp right now. Also, you can have a go at running for it if things go wrong.’

  She glanced between him and Scavian. ‘But I . . . What will I say?’

  ‘That’ll depend, I imagine, on what they say first. If, by some freak chance, they say, “We surrender!” then I suggest you accept.’

  ‘I’ll go with you, Emily,’ Scavian said.

  ‘That you won’t,’ Tubal told him evenly.

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not having our one and only Warlock putting himself in the line of fire. For all we know, this entire exercise is aimed solely at killing you,’ Tubal continued, maddeningly logical. ‘You know how they feel about men of your profession. Choose anyone else, Em, but not Scavian. He stays here.’

  ‘But if things get ugly, I’m the only hope she has of getting clear,’ Scavian protested.

  Tubal looked between them, a sad smile on his face. ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘I truly hope that nothing gets ugly, or even slightly ill-favoured. Em, you can refuse this duty. I’m not forcing it on you. I can send one of the sergeants or something. But you can’t take him. I won’t risk the both of you in one errand.’

  Emily looked at her brother-in-law again, and she knew Scavian must be having the same thought: how Tubal’s captaincy had grown on him. He was the commander of the camp. He had to make the difficult decisions.

  ‘Then I’ll take Mallen,’ she decided. Tubal winced but nodded.

  ‘Mallen and . . . ? Take at least two men or you’ll look cheap.’

  ‘Mallen and Caxton, and ten of the Rabbit,’ she decided.

  Tubal nodded and waved a hand. ‘You’d better go and collect them then.’

  So it was that, a few minutes later, she was picking her way across the barricade, the trench and the stakes, with Mallen and the pale and sweating Sergeant Caxton at her heels. The ten soldiers behind them had been hand-picked by Caxton, who knew the individuals better than she did these days. All of them carried their muskets, and she had her sabre and pistol to hand. If this was some trap of the enemy’s, then the defenders would be ready to take their share with them as they died.

  ‘You reckon they’re really going to surrender?’ Caxton whispered, her eyes locked on the little group of drab-uniformed men ahead of them.

  ‘I have no idea, but something inside me says not . . .’ Emily halted, peering ahead and frowning.

  ‘Problem?’ Mallen murmured.

  ‘I . . .’ There were a dozen, no – thirteen of them. The parties matched each other, number for number. Her attention had been caught by the Denlander in their midst. His white hair blew in the light breeze; he leant on a stick and was without a musket. She recognized him just from his self-effacing pose.

  ‘God preserve us, it’s Doctor Lam,’ she said.

  Mallen signalled a halt, fingering his musket thoughtfully. ‘Want us to take him from here? We’d be back behind the barricade before they try us. Got to be now, though, understand? Any closer and we’re dead for sure, in the return fire.’

  She paused for a long, strained moment before saying, ‘No.’ Doctor Nathanial Lammegeier, who had spoken such treason to her, who had spoken of the sorrowful necessity of the fight and how his own people hated it; Doctor Lammegeier, who would surely have had her put to the question if Mallen had not rescued her.

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Her voice trembled a little. ‘Maybe they do want to surrender. I can’t think what else would bring him out here.’

  ‘God be praised,’ Caxton said, as they started moving forward again, Emily adding a new spring to her step that passed itself on to the others.

  She narrowed the gap to twenty yards before she saw that the Denlanders had a prisoner, head bowed but red jacket all too visible. One of Mallen’s scouts? No, they went about in dark colours. Some straggler or deserter snagged by the enemy, then?

  Do they want an exchange of prisoners? We have none to offer, and Doctor Lam would not concern himself personally with such a thing.

  Perhaps it’s a goodwill gesture? Her heart sped. How better to convince an enemy you want peace than to return a captive?

  Doctor Lam was watching her as they approached, and she saw him raise his eyebrows, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.

  ‘Sergeant Marshwic,’ he called out, as they drew to a halt with five yards still between them. ‘You are a remarkable woman. I confess myself baffled as to how you escaped my camp. Mind you,’ he added sadly ‘I never could understand women.’

  ‘It’s Lieutenant Marshwic now, Doctor Lammegeier.’ She allowed him the honour of using his full name, not the abbreviation so vilified amongst her fellows. ‘You have asked for a truce. You have it. What news do you have for us?’ She glanced at Caxton, beside her, and said, ‘Have you come to offer your surrender?’

  Doctor Lam’s eyes wrinkled with remorse, and he too spared a glance for his fellows. Following his eyes she saw the man behind him, the man holding the prisoner, was the same provost as had captured her.

  ‘No,’ the Doctor said simply, ‘but I have come to ask for yours.’

  Emily sensed a tension amongst her fellows, and the guns on both sides that had been pointing not-quite-anywhere were suddenly closer to being in line, each with its opposite number. She held out her hands to calm her companions, and felt them unwillingly lower their weapons.

  ‘We do not surrender, in Lascanne,’ she said flatly. ‘You have not taken us yet. What do you have to persuade us now?’

  Doctor Lam looked over his shoulder and motioned for the prisoner to be brought forward. ‘She will tell you,’ he said, and the red-jacketed figure was pushed forward past him, the provost tilting her head up to show her bruised face.

  Ice coursed through Emily’s veins. It was Penny Belchere.

  28

  Seeing her there in that moment, in spite of all it meant, I thought of you.

  ‘Penny!’ Emily took an instinctive step forward and guns were levelled again on both sides.

  ‘Keep order!’ Doctor Lam instructed his men. ‘Remember why we are here.’ There was no triumph on his face as he turned back to Emily. She saw none of the satisfaction of the conjuror revealing his final trick, only an urgency about his eyes that surprised her.

  ‘Soldier Belchere,’ Emily said, with more control of herself. ‘Have you been mistreated?’

  Penny’s responding gaze was full of mute appeal. ‘Not yet,’ she got out. Get me out of here, was the unspoken plea. She was chalk-white with fear, and Emily belatedly remembered that she was only a messenger, and had never been in battle or fired a gun.

  ‘What is this, Doctor?’ she asked.

  Doctor Lam looked at his feet, biting his lip as he came to a decision. ‘Would you walk with me, Lieutenant? You and my captive, and the provost here. Let your men and mine retire to some distance where they are less danger both to us and to each other, and I will speak candidly to you.’

  ‘Candidly?’ she queried cautiously.

  ‘Words best spoken to you alone, as de facto leader here, rather than openly where they might trigger excesses of, shall we say, national pride.’

  ‘Don’t do it, sir,’ Caxton whispered. ‘It has to be a trap.’

  She looked at Doctor Lam, then at the provost. ‘Just you and me and the prisoner, Doctor. She’s a non-combatant, and bound.’

  She saw the provost shake his head and knew it was in fear for his commander, and that reassured her. Doctor Lam nodded reluctantly, though.

  ‘I will trust you, Lieutenant Marshwic. Someone must make the first move.’

  Under their combined direction, the two groups of soldiers backed away from each other, until each was too far to readily taunt the other, although the trio in the middle remained within easy shot of either.

  Emily folded her arms, surreptitiously
checking on the position of her pistol. ‘Doctor Lammegeier, you have my attention.’

  He smiled almost nostalgically. ‘You really must tell me how you escaped my camp, Lieutenant Marshwic. I’ve been losing sleep over it.’

  She sensed he was speaking only to put off the inevitable. ‘You didn’t come here just to play Twenty Questions. I thought the only thing you were asking was for our surrender.’

  He sighed. ‘Ah, well, so much for idle curiosity. Your surrender, yes, Lieutenant. The surrender of all Lascanne forces in the Levant. Does that sound absurd to you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she told him. ‘If I’d been beaten back three times, as you have, I’d try a new tack myself. But it isn’t going to happen. We can’t surrender to you, and you know why. We’re the last line of defence for Lascanne. You need to move past us to reinforce your armies in the Couchant. We can’t surrender.’

  She saw him take a deep breath and ready himself. ‘A valid conclusion, no doubt, if your premise was correct.’

  ‘Don’t riddle with me, Doctor.’

  ‘I have imagined this conversation a score of times before coming out here, yet now the words escape me. Lieutenant, when did you last hear from Locke?’

  The words sent an uneasy chill through her. ‘Twelve days ago, or so.’

  ‘I have heard more recently than that.’ He braced himself. ‘We hold Locke now.’

  She almost failed to understand what he was saying, and then burst out: ‘That’s impossible! You couldn’t have got so many men past us without us knowing. A few scouts, yes, but—’

  ‘Lieutenant.’ His voice was steely now. ‘I have not captured Locke. Locke is in the hands of Denland because the Couchant front has been won. Won by us, Lieutenant. The war is over.’