The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “I’m on it,” Cyte said. “I’ll have our supplies waiting at the gate in the morning. That just leaves—”

  Winter sighed. “Jane. I know.”

  “We could leave them behind.” Cyte smiled, to show it was a joke, and Winter forced a faint smile in return.

  “Abby would never forgive me.” I would never forgive myself. “I’ll go and talk to her now. Maybe they haven’t had time to get drunk yet.”

  * * *

  I shouldn’t have left this so long. But there had been a million things demanding her attention—angry merchants, new recruits, supplies and schedules and duty rosters—and she’d been so sure that Jane would eventually come to her senses of her own accord. Now that she thought about it more clearly, it was obvious that wasn’t ever going to happen. She’d never just slink home with her tail between her legs. Her continuing debauch was as much a challenge to Winter as anything else. And I just left her to get on with it.

  The current haunt of the Leatherbacks was a tavern called the Linked Rings, whose sign was a pair of barrel hoops welded together and optimistically slathered with gold paint, now mostly flaked away. It wasn’t in the worst part of town—the true slums of Desland were across the river to the west—but it was about as bad as one could get while remaining on the eastern bank. Shabby row houses stretched down winding streets, and a fair number of angry or avaricious looks followed Winter as she brought Edgar to a halt in front of the tavern, dismounted, and handed his reins to the dirty young man who emerged from the neighboring alley.

  She pressed a coin into his hand. “Keep him saddled. I won’t be long.”

  The tavern was a two-story building, with a common room and a kitchen on the ground floor and private rooms upstairs for those who wanted to do their drinking in more select company. It was clear that any non-Leatherback clientele had abandoned the place, and the proprietor was also nowhere to be found. Clay mugs, wooden cups, and plates of half-eaten food still littered the big, solid tables of the common room, and the women of Jane’s Leatherbacks were strewn about like detritus from a shipwreck. It was well past noon, but many of them were still asleep, snoring on the benches or curled up on the floor with their clothing in various states of disarray.

  Some were up and moving, though, picking through the remains for tidbits. A couple of women were behind the bar, helping themselves to beer from the big kegs there. Near the door, Winter recognized Becca, one of Jane’s lieutenants, in the process of carving an elaborate design into one of the tabletops with the point of a long knife. The woman looked up at her as the door swung closed, and Winter coughed.

  “Where’s Jane?” she said.

  Becca got to her feet, knife in one hand, and glared. Winter wondered for a moment if it had been wise to decline Bobby’s offer of an escort. She hadn’t seriously thought that Jane’s people would hurt her, but having a half dozen armed soldiers at her back would have been reassuring.

  “Why?” Becca said eventually. A couple of other Leatherbacks were looking in their direction. Some of them had the same belligerent expression Becca did, but others looked more guilty than angry.

  Winter raised her hands. “I want to talk to her, that’s all.”

  There was another long, dangerous moment. Finally, Becca shrugged and gestured toward the stairs with her knife. “Up there.”

  “Thank you,” Winter said. She slipped across the room, through the slowly rousing Leatherbacks, and made her way to the second floor.

  Most of the private rooms there had their doors closed, and Winter dreaded the prospect of having to knock on each to find Jane. The rooms she could see were occupied by more Leatherbacks, in various stages of inebriation or consciousness. She found Winn, a tall, skinny woman who was another of Jane’s lieutenants, naked and sleeping on a tabletop, curled around a similarly unclothed Deslandai boy with dark hair and a peach-fuzz beard. Another young man, wearing only a shirt, snored in the corner. Winter pulled the door closed, gently, and shook her head.

  “Aha!” A door at the end of the hall opened, and there was Jane, leaning against the doorframe. An unmarked bottle of something green dangled from her fingers. The sight of her familiar, cocky smile made Winter’s heart jump. “I thought I heard someone. Finally decided to pay us a visit?”

  “I need to talk to you.” Winter looked around at the other rooms, where Jane’s voice had started a few Leatherbacks stirring. “Alone.”

  “Well, then. Come into my parlor.” Jane stepped back and swept her arm out. Her room had a circular table and two semicircular benches, with a window that overlooked the alley outside. “I’m sure I can find a bottle for you.”

  “I don’t need a bottle,” Winter muttered, pushing past Jane. “And neither do you.”

  Jane nudged the door shut with her hip. “No?” She looked down at the green stuff and frowned. “I suppose not. I’m not even sure what the fuck this is, to be honest.”

  There were several other bottles on the table, and more on the floor, most of them empty. Winter carefully stepped through them to the window and glanced outside, then turned around and took a deep breath. “Jane—”

  The kiss caught her by surprise. Jane was on top of her, arms thrown around her shoulders, lips rough against her. Winter retreated a step, and Jane leaned forward, pressing her against the wall beside the window. Her mouth tasted of alcohol, and faintly of vomit, and her lips were cracked and dry. Winter hesitated, long enough for Jane to press her body close, her breasts tight against Winter’s uniform and one knee tangling between Winter’s legs.

  “Stop.” Winter grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her away. “Jane, stop!”

  “What?” Jane cocked her head. “Don’t tell me it’s not what you want. I know it’s been hard for me, with temptation all around.” She grinned wickedly. “Did you see Winn, with her pretty boys? And one of the serving girls definitely gave me a wink. I’ve been frigging myself to sleep every night, wondering if you’re doing the same thing up there in your castle—”

  “Jane—”

  “Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t.”

  Winter’s cheeks were beet red. “Would you listen to me for a minute?”

  “Oh, I see.” Jane sat down heavily on the bench and let her head loll back. “It’s not my Winter who’s come to see me, it’s Colonel Ihernglass.”

  “It’s me,” Winter said. “Jane, what are you doing?”

  “Having a good time. Have you forgotten how?”

  “It’s been days.”

  “I know. The tavernkeepers here are a bunch of fucking puppies. I just glare at them and they hand over their keys and their virgin daughters.” She caught Winter’s expression and rolled her eyes. “Figuratively speaking. But they wouldn’t last five minutes back in the Docks.”

  “And what about the regiment?”

  “What about it? We fought the fucking battle, didn’t we? We deserve a bit of a rest.”

  Winter stared, not sure what to say. Jane looked back, green eyes slightly bloodshot, then looked away uncomfortably.

  “Besides,” she said. “I figured you’d come and get me when you wanted me.”

  “I’m sorry I was so hard on you during the battle. I was—”

  “You were angry,” Jane said. “And you were probably right. Sevran knows about”—she waved a hand vaguely—“troops and lines and ranges, things like that. What do I know?”

  “You’ve been a good captain for the Girls’ Own—”

  “No, I haven’t.” Jane crossed her arms. “Let’s not lie about it. I make a shitty officer, and we both fucking know it.”

  “Being an officer isn’t just about training. It’s about your relationship with the soldiers. The girls worship you.”

  “The ones downstairs do,” Jane said. “They’ve been with me a long time. The rest of them have found a new idol to bow to, I think.”

/>   “Abby was right,” Winter said before she could stop herself. “You’re jealous.”

  “You and Abby talk about me?” Jane smirked, but Winter could see the hurt in her eyes.

  “She came to me, Jane. She’s worried about you. We both are.”

  “She’s a sweet girl. Tell her I can take care of myself.”

  Winter gritted her teeth for a moment. “We don’t have time for this. I have orders from Janus. The regiment is leaving the city in the morning, and I need you to get your people here back to the citadel.”

  “Ah,” Jane said. “I was wondering why now was the time to rein me in.”

  “This is not the time for . . . whatever this is. You and me. Please. Come back.”

  “Or what? You’ll leave me behind?” Jane cocked her head, examining Winter’s face. “You would, wouldn’t you? If the general says march, you march, whatever I have to say about.”

  Winter stiffened. “I have a duty—”

  “To who? The queen? The Deputies?”

  “To the men and women in my regiment.”

  “Of course.” Jane exhaled slowly. “Abby was right. I am jealous. You were upset when you found out she and I were together, weren’t you? It’s awful discovering your lover has fallen in love with someone else.”

  “I haven’t fallen in love with anyone.”

  “You have.” Jane reached out a hand and flicked the silver eagle on Winter’s shoulder. “You’ve fallen in love with Janus bet fucking Vhalnich.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Probably not.” Jane let her hand fall and turned away. “Now get out of here. I’m half-drunk and my head hurts and I haven’t had a proper fuck in days, and it doesn’t look like any of those things are likely to change in the near future. Go back to your tidy fucking toy soldiers.”

  “We still need you. I still need you.”

  “Just go.” Jane sat down heavily on one of the benches, groping among the detritus for a bottle.

  * * *

  Winter slipped out of the Linked Rings, through the waking Leatherbacks, and reclaimed her horse. Her chest felt hollow, an empty space behind her breastbone surrounded by a seething mass of mingled anger and grief and guilt. The emotional storm even seemed to reach the Infernivore, which perked up at the back of her mind and thrashed about in the murky parts of her subconscious.

  I should go back to the citadel, get two companies, and drag the lot of them back to dry out overnight. Winter took a deep breath, bouncing against the gentle rhythm of Edgar’s walk. I should go back to Jane and beg her to forgive me. Her head was pounding, as though she were the one who’d been drinking all day. I should go back up there and kiss her, tear off her clothes, and kiss every inch of her, over and over—

  “Sir? Can I take your horse?”

  Winter blinked. A Girls’ Own ranker, a thin-faced woman with dark curls, stood with her musket at the citadel gate. Inside, Winter could hear shouts and laughter, and the courtyard was ablaze with light.

  Oh yes. The party. Probably the news that they’d be marching in the morning had pushed the regiment into celebrating all the harder. Good for them. It’s the last chance they’ll have for a while.

  She got down without a word and handed Edgar’s reins to the ranker. No one noticed her as she passed through the courtyard, or at least no one spoke up. One didn’t accost a colonel, Winter supposed. She was reminded of the night she’d spent outside the Vendre, drifting through the crowd, the mad carnival atmosphere contrasting with her own gloom. That had been just before she caught Jane and Abby together.

  That was unlikely today, at least. She caught a glimpse of Abby in the thick of it, surrounded by recruits and old Leatherbacks alike, leading one of the endless, bawdy soldier’s camp songs with a tankard as her conductor’s wand. Winter smiled, briefly, and turned away before anyone noticed her.

  The keep was deserted, except for a pair of Royals on guard inside the door. They saluted as Winter passed, as did the pair on watch outside her office. One of these two was a Royal, an unhappy-looking man who kept looking longingly toward the party outside, but the other was a woman. Winter waved aside her salute and stopped in front of the door.

  “I thought the Girls’ Own was off duty for the night,” she said.

  “Punishment detail, sir.” The sentry, a short, muscular woman, vibrated with the stiffness of her rigid posture. “For smuggling drink into the camp.”

  “Ah. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “Yes, sir!” The ranker cracked a smile. “Don’t get caught next time.”

  Winter smiled in return and went inside. Her office, well lit during the day, was huge and shadowy in the darkness. Only a few candles burned on the big central table, and Winter was surprised to see Cyte and Bobby there, poring over maps and scribbling notes and figures.

  “Welcome back, sir!” Bobby said, popping to her feet. “Did you talk to Jane?”

  “I talked to her.”

  “And will she be returning to camp?” Cyte said without looking up.

  “Maybe. I hope so.” Probably not. Winter sat down at her own desk, slumping into her chair. “We’ll see. If she’s not back by the time the party’s over, I’ll send some men to bring her in.”

  Bobby winced. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “What are you two working on, anyway?” Winter said to change the subject.

  Cyte seemed to understand, and gathered a stack of paper to bring to Winter’s desk. “Arrangements for tomorrow. I’ve already sent couriers to intercept the upriver barges. I’m working on arranging our wagon train.”

  “I thought we were leaving the wagons behind.”

  “They can follow as best they can, sir. I’ll detach a couple of dozen soldiers to look after them. If they take the same route we do, it should be safe enough.” She paused. “They’ll also be on the lookout for anyone we have to leave behind on the march. That could save lives.”

  Winter nodded, flipping through the pages. “It’s a good thought.” I wonder if I should just have Jane and her people assigned to the wagons? It would look like a punishment detail, and Winter wasn’t sure that was a bad thing, given the way the Leatherbacks had been behaving. But it’s not going to make her like me any better.

  Cyte came over to the desk to explain the details, and Winter let herself be immersed in the columns of figures and map notations. There was no need for her to attend to any of it, truthfully, but she was grateful for the work, and Cyte sensed her need for distraction. Bobby brought her a tankard of watered wine, which Winter drank without much enjoyment.

  Sometime later, as Winter was idly flipping through reports while her two lieutenants copied out orders, there was a knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Winter said, springing to her feet before either of the other two could move. “Get that finished up while there’s still time to go outside and relax a little.”

  “All I’m planning to do is go to bed,” Cyte muttered, but Winter saw that Bobby perked up and moved her pen with a little more vigor. Winter crossed to the door and opened it, feeling as she did another pulse of pressure in her head. Maybe I ought to go to bed myself.

  “Colonel Ihernglass?” The visitor was an older man in a Vordanai uniform, standing relaxed between the two sentries. She didn’t recognize him. Someone from the quartermasters’ people?

  “Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”

  She couldn’t have said what it was that saved her life. There was something wrong with the picture—the man’s shoulder straps made him a corporal, but he hadn’t offered a salute, and he was far too old. The way he stood was unmilitary, and his coat was tight, as though it had been tailored for someone smaller.

  Infernivore roared and thrashed at the back of her mind, half warning, half frantic hunger.

  Winter threw hers
elf backward, and the old man’s hand slashed through the air inches in front of her face. His fingernails were as long as talons, painted with a strange white lacquer.

  “Winter!” Bobby shouted, coming to her feet as Winter stumbled backward against the table.

  Cyte was only a fraction slower, waving to the two guards. “Stop that man!”

  The old man spun, faster than he had any right to, and the first guard through the doorway got raked across the face by those white talons. They passed through flesh and bone without slowing, leaving horrendous open tears in their wake. The guard dropped his musket and screamed, falling to his knees and clutching his hands to his ruined face.

  The Girls’ Own guard, a step behind, had her musket up before the old man could get to her. Winter saw her pull the trigger, and the old man threw himself sideways before the shot went off, staggeringly loud in the tight quarters. The ball zinged off the stone wall and the ceiling, raising sparks, before it embedded itself in Winter’s desk with a thok. The guard didn’t give the old man a chance to recover himself, charging through the cloud of powder smoke with her bayonet fixed, forcing her assailant to scramble backward to avoid being spitted.

  Winter was pulling herself to her feet, looking for her sword. It was where she’d left it, in its sheath on her sword belt hanging from her desk, on the other side of the big table. Cyte had her own sword belt closer to hand, however, and she tore her rapier from its scabbard. Before she could move to help the guard with the old man, the injured man just outside the door straightened up and gave a gasp, then slumped limply forward. Past him came another figure, dressed in drab gray and black. His face was obscured by a mask, a thousand tiny chips of obsidian shifting and glittering as he moved.

  The sight of such a mask was burned into Winter’s memory. She’d last seen it in the Sworn Cathedral, the night Orlanko had attempted to capture the Deputies-General. The night Danton had been assassinated by a man who’d disappeared as quickly and impossibly as he’d arrived. The Penitent Damned. Infernivore was flinging itself against her mind like a starving predator against the bars of its cage.