Every unit, Marcus knew, had its own character, its own customs and rituals, a culture that grew as men died or retired and fresh ones were brought in. That spirit could be a powerful motivator—troops would fight harder for a group they felt like a part of than for a gang of strangers—so it was, in most cases, to be encouraged. But it put a new commander in a ticklish position, expected to exercise authority but ignorant of the social ramifications.
How much worse is it going to be when half the division is women? Marcus didn’t feel like he understood women at the best of times. The usual solution was for the new commander to lean heavily on his immediate subordinates. Let’s hope they’re willing.
Each divisional camp was separated from the others, so the army spread out over a considerable stretch of country. They were marching alongside the river Marak, which ran calm and black to the east, flowing in lazy curls to ultimately join the Vor. Around it stretched the heart of Vordan, land that had been farmed and cultivated for centuries. Fieldstone walls surrounded orchards and pastures, plots of vegetables and chicken coops. As the sun went down, lights twinkled behind the windows of cheerful little farmhouses like fireflies coming to life in the gloom. An occasional copse of gnarled old trees still stood, black against the purpling sky. After the harsh wilderness of Murnsk, this flat green land felt like paradise.
Marcus rode alone to the Second’s camp, pleased to see the lights of a well-spaced sentry ring surrounding it. He waggled his lantern at the nearest as he approached, and the sentry’s lantern bobbed in return. As he got closer, he made out the shape of a young woman leaning on her musket in the weary pose of sentries everywhere. She straightened a little as he rode up, then came fully alert at the sight of the general’s stars on his shoulders.
“Sir!” She snapped a sharp salute. “Welcome to the Second Division, sir.”
“Thank you, ranker.” Marcus swung out of his saddle, trying not to show his aches. He’d improved a bit, but he’d still never quite gotten the hang of horses.
“Is your escort coming up?” the sentry said.
“It’s just me, for the moment,” Marcus said. “My baggage is still on the carts. I imagine it’ll be along eventually. If you could take me to your commander?”
“Of course, sir. Follow me.”
Marcus led his horse after the ranker, up a slight rise. Rows of tents followed the familiar pattern, nicely regular and without a lot of extraneous clutter, which was a sign of good discipline among the junior officers. As Marcus expected, he was taken to the center of the camp, where the command tent was pitched alongside the company baggage and the artillery park. More sentries saluted as they approached.
“Colonel Cytomandiclea should be inside, General d’Ivoire,” the ranker said, a little louder than was necessary. Marcus grinned, remembering Fitz pulling a similar trick to give him a few moments’ warning when Janus dropped in unexpectedly. He handed her the reins and scratched at the tent flap.
“Come in.”
Marcus ducked inside. It wasn’t as large as his army command tent, but it was laid out in a similar fashion, with a map table and a bedroll stowed in one corner. Leaning over the table was a slender young woman, her long dark hair falling forward from her shoulders as she frowned in concentration.
The ranker’s warning had apparently been lost on her. Marcus cleared his throat, and she looked up.
“What—oh!” She came to attention, crisp and professional, and saluted. “Column-General d’Ivoire. Welcome to Second Division. I’m Colonel Cytomandiclea. Please call me Cyte, if you like.”
Marcus acknowledged her salute and smiled. “We’ve met. Before that mess at Gilphaite.”
“Of course, sir.” She smiled back cautiously. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered me.”
Marcus was tempted to say that he hadn’t met that many female officers, but on second thought reckoned it might be impolitic. He coughed to cover the pause, and scratched his beard. “I’ve, ah, received good reports of your work here.”
“Thank you, sir. Colonel Giforte has seniority, but I was the head of General Ihernglass’ staff, so I’ve been doing the planning and paperwork.” She shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here. Before we go into action, I mean. I’m... not a line officer.”
“I take it you have no objection to continuing as head of staff?”
“No, sir.”
There was an awkward pause. Marcus felt trapped. One set of instincts saw a young woman and prompted him to make polite conversation; another, military set told him there was work to do. Pretend you’re talking to Fitz, damn it. He gritted his teeth. How did Ihernglass manage this?
“I’ll read the strength reports when I get the chance,” Marcus said. “Anything I should be aware of, in general terms?”
“Nothing major, sir.” Cyte seemed as eager as he was to move on. “We took on a lot of new recruits in the last few weeks, including a big draft of men for the Third Regiment. Colonel Giforte’s ordered extra camp guards to make sure everyone stays in good order.”
“Good idea.”
“She also said she wanted to see you, sir,” Cyte said. “When you arrived.” She paused. “At your convenience, of course.”
“I’ll pay her a visit. Can you arrange for the colonels to join me for dinner? And yourself, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My things should be arriving at some point. You can just move them in here.” A thought struck him. “You do... ah... have your own tent, don’t you?” It wouldn’t be at all unusual for a staff lieutenant to sleep in a tent with his commander, but in this case the thought had Marcus’ face going red.
“I have my own, sir.” If Cyte noticed his discomfiture, she didn’t say anything. Of course she does. This used to be Ihernglass’ command. He’d have had the same problem. Unless... He stamped firmly on that line of thought.
“Good. That’s good.” Marcus patted his uniform vaguely. “I’ll go and see Colonel Giforte, then.”
“Of course, sir. With your permission, I’ll stay here and sort some of this paperwork.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” Marcus turned away, shaking his head.
*
The First Regiment—otherwise known as the Girls’ Own—had a sort of camp within a camp, complete with its own inner ring of sentries. They waved Marcus through, and he headed for the command tent. Women, in uniform and out, straightened up and saluted as he passed. He did his best not to stare. One contingent must have freshly returned from bathing in the nearby stream—some of them were wrapped in blankets and others... less so. Marcus could have sworn they saluted with particular vigor and barely hidden grins. But apart from the bathers—and the shapes of the underthings drying on the laundry lines—there wasn’t much to distinguish the camp from any other regiment’s, with muskets stacked neatly, cook fires burning, and dice and card games in progress.
Outside the command tent, Colonel Abby Giforte was easy to spot, striding up and down spitting fire in the face of a pair of cowed-looking lieutenants.
“—I don’t care what Captain fucking Jathwhite told you,” she was saying. “I’ve got the maps from the general and they’re quite fucking clear. Tell him his idiots will have to move their goddamned horses.”
One of the lieutenants, a tall, willowy girl who couldn’t have been older than twenty, said pleadingly, “I know, sir, but he might be more willing to listen if you would just come and talk to him—”
“I have better things to do with my time,” Abby said. “And so do you. Balls of the Beast, you need to learn not to let some second-rate moron push you around because he’s got stripes on his shoulder and a cock between his legs. Get back there and tell him to move, and don’t let him alone until he fucking gives the orders. Got it?”
The other lieutenant, a shorter, slightly older woman, was grinning broadly. They saluted together and hurried off. Marcus waited while Abby let out a long breath and looked around.
“What’s everyone staring at?” she said. Then, catching sight of Marcus, she raised an eyebrow and offered a sloppy salute. “Made it at last, General?”
“My apologies for the delay,” Marcus said. “I’m told you wanted to see me.” He nodded after the retreating lieutenants. “Are you having trouble?”
“Trouble?” Abby looked confused for a moment, then barked a laugh. “That’s just training. Lieutenant Koryar has spent most of her life getting what she wants by smiling at people. She needs to learn there are other ways.”
“I see,” Marcus said. “Then you had something else you wanted to talk about?”
Abby’s eyes narrowed, and she sighed. “You’d better come inside.”
Her tent was a mess, which was an impressive achievement considering it could have been up for only a few hours. There were no tables, and a few leather maps were spread on the floor. A small pile of clothing sat in the middle of the bedroll, including a large uniform shirt with a distinctly masculine look. Marcus tried not to show any reaction, but Abby clearly caught him looking and raised an eyebrow, as though daring him to comment. When he said nothing, she nodded slowly, as though he’d passed a test.
“Column-General d’Ivoire.” She heaved another sigh. “I apologize if I was rude.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Colonel.” He tried a tentative smile. “I’ve had worse.”
Abby smiled herself, very slightly. She was at least a decade younger than Marcus, in her early twenties, with a short shag of brown hair and a heavy dusting of freckles.
“It’s all for the girls’ sake,” she said. “They expect a bit of a hard-ass at the top. Since Jane’s dead and General Ihernglass is... away, that has to be me. Cyte isn’t really the type.”
Marcus had to agree that it was hard to imagine the slight, soft-spoken captain as a martinet. “I understand. And I’m sorry about General Ihernglass.”
“Don’t be,” Abby snapped. She started to speak, paused, and then said deliberately, “He is alive. And he’ll catch up to us eventually. For the moment I imagine he has something more important to do.”
Marcus nodded, not wanting to argue. “So, what did you need to see me about?”
“I just wanted to be clear where we stand.” Abby frowned, looking up at Marcus. “You know that most of the women in this regiment joined up to follow Jane and Winter.”
“I know.” Jane Verity, the street tough turned officer who’d been widely rumored to be Winter’s lover, had ultimately betrayed Janus and been imprisoned for it. She’d later died, under somewhat mysterious circumstances. “I’ll do my best to follow their example.”
“Good. Winter was always very clear about the Girls’ Own being an equal part of the division.”
“You’re afraid of the other regiments taking advantage?” Marcus looked sympathetic. “I’ll speak to the colonels and make it clear it won’t be tolerated—”
Abby snorted. “We can take care of ourselves on that front, General. Not that we need to—we’ve got them pretty well trained by now. It’s you I’m worried about.”
Woman or not, being an officer demanded a certain code of behavior. Marcus fixed Abby with a frosty stare. “You’re concerned about my ability?”
“I have no doubts as to your ability,” Abby said. “We all know what you did in Murnsk after the river flooded. I’m more worried about your character.”
Marcus, who’d unfrozen slightly, resolidified. “My character?”
“That you might have some crazy ideas, like maybe keeping my regiment off the front line, or sending us where you think it’s going to be safe.” Abby grinned. “Winter always said you had an excess of chivalry. I’m telling you that if you try to apply that to us, you’re going to have a lot of angry soldiers on your hands.”
Ah. Marcus paused uncomfortably. Winter wasn’t wrong, he supposed. Marcus had opposed the creation of a female unit, back in the beginning, out of a visceral feeling that letting women put themselves in harm’s way went against everything he was supposed to stand for. Janus hadn’t shown any such scruples, however, and it had been hard to maintain his opposition in the face of the enthusiasm of the Girls’ Own and other volunteers. Then there’d been Andy, who’d served as his aide all through the coup and the Murnskai campaign, until she’d been killed during the retreat. Her name still brought him a pang of guilt, though she’d chosen her own path every step of the way.
“General Ihernglass... has known me a long time,” Marcus said. “But I like to think I’m capable of learning, at least a little bit. I can’t pretend I’m completely comfortable, but I promise I won’t hold this regiment back.” He shrugged. “I’d be a fool if I tried to. You’re widely agreed to be the best skirmishers in the Grand Army, and any commander who was handed a weapon like that and didn’t use it would deserve to lose his battles.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” Abby’s grin widened. “I’ll hold you to it, General.”
“Please do,” Marcus said. “Now, may I ask you a question?”
Abby raised her eyebrows again. “Of course, sir.”
“My guess is a lot of your... soldiers joined up because of Janus, too. Are we going to have any difficulty now that he’s on the other side?”
Abby gave that some thought, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. We might have, once, but the old hands have been through two campaigns together now. We owe one another more than any commander, even Janus. And the latest batch of new recruits is from after Janus resigned as First Consul.”
“What if Winter Ihernglass turns up at Janus’ side?”
Abby’s smile faded. “That... might be difficult. But I don’t believe Winter would ever fight against Vordan.”
I might have said the same about Janus. Marcus decided not to press the point. Despite Abby’s optimism, the odds were that Winter was dead, his frozen body lying somewhere in the Murnskai mountains along with so many others.
“All right.” Marcus looked around. “I suppose I’d better see if my baggage has arrived. Was there anything else?”
“No, sir. Not for the moment.”
“Good.” He hesitated. “Your father sends his regards, by the way.” He hadn’t, in so many words, but Marcus felt certain he would have, if asked.
Abby laughed. “My father and I have agreed to a truce. I pretend we’re not related, and he pretends I don’t exist.”
“He’s a good man. We wouldn’t have gotten through the coup without him.”
“I’m sure he is. Maybe one day he’ll be okay with the fact that his daughter is a good soldier.” She shrugged. “You can tell him I said hello, if it’ll make you happy.”
“I doubt I’ll see him soon, but I’ll keep that in mind—”
There was a scratch at the tent flap, and Marcus paused. A woman’s voice from outside said, “Messenger for the general, sir!”
“Come in,” Abby snapped.
A moment later a boy ducked through the tent flap. He was a corporal, but no older than sixteen. His wide eyes suggested he’d absorbed the same scene Marcus had outside, but been a bit less polite about staring.
“Sir. Sirs.” He came to attention. “Message for Column-General d’Ivoire.”
“That’s me,” Marcus said. “What is it?”
“Compliments of Column-General Kurot,” the boy said. “He’s arrived, and he wants to talk to you as soon as possible. I’m to take you to him, if you’re ready.”
Marcus had hoped for another day or so to get settled in to his new command. No such luck, apparently. Though it was probably a good thing from the point of view of the army as a whole. At least Kurot keeps a quick pace.
“Then let’s not keep the general waiting,” Marcus said. “Lead on.”
*
The new commander of the Army of the Republic had clearly only just arrived, but his staff were unpacking with impressive efficiency. A large command tent was already up, and others were rising around it. Several carts full of neatly labe
led and organized supplies stood nearby. Marcus’ guide brought him to the central tent and scratched for entrance, and was greeted by a barked “Come!”
Marcus nodded to the boy and stepped inside. Column-General Thomas Kurot sat at a folding table behind a portable writing desk. Very little else had been unpacked yet, but the table was already prepared with maps and a set of tiny wooden soldiers, complete with long rakes for moving them about. Beside the map stood a chessboard, pieces carved from black and white marble, apparently abandoned midgame.
Kurot himself was in early middle age, his brown hair fading to gray and receding toward a bald spot atop the dome of his skull. He wore thin, square-lensed spectacles, which combined with a peaked nose to give him an owlish look. Deep blue eyes gave a strong impression of intelligence. Marcus saluted, finding the reflex a little rusty.
“Sir,” he said. “Column-General Marcus d’Ivoire, reporting as ordered.”
“General d’Ivoire.” Kurot looked up, and his smile held genuine warmth. “Please. Come and sit.”
Marcus crossed the room, a little uncertainly, and pulled out a folding chair near Kurot. The general looked him over a bit longer and gave an approving nod, as though he liked what he saw.
“Let me first say,” Kurot began, “that it’s an honor to serve with you. I have read your accounts of the Khandarai campaign with great interest, and I’ve heard many stories from the more recent Murnskai expedition.”
“Thank you,” Marcus said.
“And let me also say that I appreciate the difficult position you’ve been placed in.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I am, of course, technically junior in rank to you, having received my promotion to Column-General only recently. By rights it ought to be you in command of the Army of the Republic.”
“The Deputies-General believe you are the best choice,” Marcus said noncommittally.
“We both know that has more to do with your perceived affinity for the former First Consul than with anything else.” Kurot spread his hands. “An army can have only one commander, General d’Ivoire, and I don’t pretend that I’m unhappy to have been granted charge of this one. But I want you to know that I appreciate the depth of your experience, and I plan to rely on you a great deal. The Deputies may not trust you, but I know better.”
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