“They’re afraid of you,” Cyte said.
“I can’t imagine why. I haven’t been harsh with them.”
“It’s been months, and they barely know you. Have you ever spoken to any of them about anything except military business?”
“You may not have noticed,” Winter said, “but we’ve had rather a lot of business to take care of.”
That was thin, though, and she knew it. Cyte herself handled more of the administrative work than Winter did. The truth was that Winter didn’t want them to know her. All I want is for them to do their jobs. It didn’t help that, while her gender was an open secret among the Girls’ Own, she had kept up her male disguise toward the other colonels and the army at large.
“They’re good officers,” Winter said, looking away from Cyte’s pointed stare. “I don’t think they’re in need of closer supervision.”
“Winter . . .” Cyte said, and stopped. She took a deep breath. “Will that be all, then?”
Winter nodded. Cyte saluted, a little stiffly, and left her alone in the tent.
Alone. She’d gotten used to it, almost. She no longer woke up expecting to find someone else in her bedroll every morning, or automatically made twice as much tea as she needed. She’d stopped feeling surprised when things stayed tidy for days at a time.
Bobby had Marsh, of course. A captain now, in Sevran’s Second Infantry Regiment. And Cyte—Winter wondered if she’d found someone, somewhere among the soldiers of the Second Division. It made for a strange mental image; Cyte’s air of calm competence was so ingrained it was hard to picture her doing anything as messy as falling in love.
That was veering dangerously close to the abyss again. Winter shook her head to put her thoughts in order and picked up her pen. Two days until they rendezvoused with Janus, with battle possibly to follow. By then everything has to be perfect.
CHAPTER THREE
MARCUS
Grand Army headquarters was officially in the village of Vaus, but only because that was the nearest label on the map. Vaus itself was a miserable little place, a cluster of a dozen mud-and-thatch houses whose inhabitants had long since fled to the woods. The Grand Army’s camp spread through the fields surrounding it, the size of a small city. Boots, hooves, and wagon wheels churned the just-planted soil to mud.
The sheer size of what Janus had brought to bear was still a shock to Marcus every time he walked up the little rise. Neat rows of blue canvas stretched on and on, broken at regular intervals by avenues for traffic. In the artillery park, the guns of the army reserve were parked hub to hub, line after line of gleaming iron and brass, muzzles covered with leather bags to keep out the mud and damp. Endless strings of horses, off on the edge of camp, filled the early evening with faint animal sounds.
And this was only a part of the total force—four divisions, plus the artillery and cavalry reserve. Already a larger force than the Army of the East, and four more divisions waited off to the south and west, under Fitz Warus’ overall command. To the east, at another flyspeck town called Glarusk, two more divisions under Winter Ihernglass had made their own camp.
To the north, of course, across a long stretch of empty fields and small forests, Dorsay’s Borelgai army had made its own camp by the banks of the river Ytolin. Perhaps one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers between the two armies, driven by the will of two men. For a moment Marcus saw it all as some vast clockwork machine, each cog helplessly driven by the next, pressing onward no matter what was ground to dust in the gears . . .
He shook his head, smiling ruefully. You asked for this, d’Ivoire. Janus would have let you stay behind in Vordan minding the stores. Don’t get melodramatic now.
Marcus turned away from the camp, where fires were starting to wink on like stars, and back to the command tent. It was a monstrous six-poled affair, big enough for a dozen men to stand comfortably around a map table. Lanterns glowed inside, and a pair of sentries with shouldered muskets waited beside the tent flap.
Janus himself came into view, hiking up the short cow path that led up the side of the little rocky hill. He’d shed the dress uniform he’d worn at the peace talks for a standard blue one, distinguished only by gold laurel wreathes on the shoulders. The two guards who followed him wore the new silver scorpions of the Colonials, matching the one on Marcus’ chest. Janus’ personal troops, the Mierantai rifles, had been volunteers who’d left their lives behind to answer his call, and over the winter he’d released them to return to their mountain farms and villages. A special detail from the Colonials was now responsible for the safety of the First Consul.
“Marcus!” Janus said. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“No, sir,” Marcus said, snapping a salute, which Janus waved away. “I only just arrived.”
“Good.” Janus flashed a grin. “The march seems to be going well, for the moment.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcus glanced back at the long lines of tents. “Frankly, I’m astonished we haven’t had more problems.”
“A little practice goes a long way.” Janus followed Marcus’ gaze and grimaced. “Though I’ll be happier once we leave our royal accompaniment behind.”
Raesinia’s tent was silvery white and larger than the others, with its own separate camp of cooks, grooms, and carters, cordoned off by Grenadier Guards. The queen had kept her entourage to a minimum, and Marcus couldn’t complain that they were encumbering the march, but it worried him having her so close to the battlefield.
“I do wish she wouldn’t take the risk,” Marcus agreed.
“The risk to her isn’t the issue,” Janus said. “I’m more concerned about the risk to us. The last century provides many examples of the folly of trusting battlefield command to hereditary royalty.”
“Her Majesty doesn’t seem inclined to assume command,” Marcus said.
“For the moment. But she may not be so permissive if things look like they’re going badly.” He pursed his lips in thought. “I may have to speak to the colonel of the Grenadier Guards. When the time comes, Her Majesty may need to be taken south for her own safety.”
Marcus couldn’t imagine Raesinia accepting that without a fight, but he only nodded. “Do you anticipate things going badly, sir?”
“Of course not. But if everything on this campaign goes as anticipated, that will make a first in the entire history of war.” Janus smiled again. “I’ve told you before that my reputation for omniscience is vastly overstated.” He turned away at the sound of boots on the path. “Ah, and here’s Ihernglass.”
Nearly a year in the field had not been entirely kind to Winter Ihernglass, Marcus had to say. His silver-blond hair was cut to little more than fuzz, and even after months in winter quarters his cheeks had a gaunt look. His frame, never stout, had thinned to a knife’s edge, though he seemed as strong as ever.
There was probably more to it than the constant campaigning. Marcus hesitated to put credence in camp gossip, but fairly solid rumor had it that Ihernglass’ lover, an officer in the Girls’ Own named Mad Jane, had betrayed the army during the fight with the Directory and tried to kill him before escaping. Ihernglass, it was said, was taking it badly. While Marcus wasn’t without sympathy—he thought of Jen Alhundt—he wondered if the man’s personal life would affect his performance. He still has Janus’ confidence, though, and that’s all that matters.
He’d brought two staff captains with him, both women. Marcus had almost, but not quite, lost his visceral surprise at seeing women in soldier’s uniforms, but the whole concept still made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t dispute that they could fight—they’d cut through the Patriot Guard in Vordan City, and even rescued the queen himself—but now that the immediate crisis was past, he couldn’t help but wish they’d been left behind somewhere safe. Guarding the queen, maybe, back in Vordan. But Janus seemed to have no qualms about these strange soldiers, and Marcus was forced once again
to hold his tongue.
“Sir.” Ihernglass saluted smartly, his staff following suit.
“Welcome, Division-General Ihernglass,” Janus said.
He led the way inside the big tent. A large folding table held several maps of different sizes and scales, marked and annotated in grease pencil. Janus took up position at the head of the table, and the others arranged themselves around it.
“I’m not sure if everyone has met,” Ihernglass said. He gestured to his left, at a young, pretty brunette standing at stiff attention. On his other side, the slim, dark-haired woman seemed more composed. “This is Captain Bobby Forester and Captain Cytomandiclea.”
“It’s an honor, sir!” Bobby said, a little too loudly.
“Likewise,” the other woman said.
“Cytomandiclea,” Janus said. “After the Mithradacii queen?”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Cyte said, startled. “And please call me Cyte if you like.”
“An understudied figure, I’ve always thought. There’s far too much attention devoted to the likes of Andromachus and Vestarian, in spite of the fact that all their famous campaigns amounted to little more than burning down a bunch of peasant villages. The whole Fall of the Tyrants era is sadly underdocumented, of course.”
Marcus, who had long ceased to be surprised at the esoteric knowledge Janus could pull out of his hat at a moment’s notice, cleared his throat and said, “I’m Column-General Marcus d’Ivoire.”
“I’ve read about the Khandarai campaign,” Cyte said. “It’s an honor to meet you as well.”
She smiled, which relaxed the somewhat severe lines of her face, and Marcus felt himself blushing a little under his beard. He gritted his teeth. Another reason why women shouldn’t be soldiers. It’s hardly fair to the rest of us.
“Very good,” Janus said. He swept some of the maps aside with a theatrical wave of his arm and laid a large sheet of virgin paper on the table. “Now. If we may begin?”
Marcus and Ihernglass said “Sir!” in unison and bent over the table. Janus picked up a grease pencil and drew a long straight line down the center of the page.
“I’ve asked you here,” he said, “because the two of you have the most important parts to play in tomorrow’s engagement. This is the river Ytolin, and this”—he drew a circle on the river—“is the town of Gilphaite, on the south bank. The Duke of Brookspring has his headquarters there, and his army is camped around the town. It’s good ground. The town is on a rise that commands the surrounding country, the river provides a secure anchor for his flanks, and Gilphaite has an excellent bridge. Dorsay knows we have the numbers, and he’s no fool. No doubt he hopes we’ll obligingly throw ourselves against his front as we come up, so he can bloody us and pull back over the bridge before his line gives way.”
“We could get around him,” Marcus said. “He doesn’t have the strength to defend the whole river line.”
Janus nodded. “It would take time, but yes. If we outflank his position, Dorsay will have no choice but to retreat. The trouble is, that would not particularly inconvenience him. We would gain a single town, and he has all of Murnsk to trade for time if he needs to. The emperor’s armies are on the move, and when they’re fully assembled they will outnumber us. Before they can reach the field, Dorsay must be destroyed.” He tapped the page. “Remember that. Territory is irrelevant. The objective is the enemy army. Eliminate it, and everything else will fall on its own.”
Cyte looked on, apparently rapt. Ihernglass said, “I assume you have an idea?”
“Indeed.” Janus made an X on the map, directly south of where he’d put Dorsay’s camp. “This is Vaus, on the most direct route to Gilphaite. The four divisions here are nearly as strong as Dorsay on their own. In the morning, Marcus, you will take them north and attack the enemy camp.”
Marcus had listened to enough of these briefings not to ask the obvious question, but Bobby did it for him. “I thought we weren’t going to attack them directly?”
“The duke must be convinced that we’ve fallen for his bait.” Janus made another X, to the east. “Your Second Division and the Sixth Division are here, Ihernglass.”
“Yessir.”
“Dorsay has two weaknesses we can exploit. One is a lack of really effective cavalry. Borel has always relied on mercenary light cavalry, and their quality is poor. No doubt he hopes the emperor will make up for that, but the emperor is not here yet. Our own cavalry should be able to make an effective screen for our movements.
“The second weakness is that his line of retreat is dependent on the bridge at Gilphaite. If it is captured or destroyed, his strong position becomes a trap.” Janus sketched a line running northeast from Winter’s Second Division to the river, then turning west on the north bank toward Dorsay. “Ihernglass, you will begin the march before dawn. Division-General Stokes’ patrols assure me that the Ytolin is fordable here, at least for men and horses. You’ll leave behind your guns and wagons and anything else that might slow you down. Your cavalry will go first, driving back the enemy patrols. By midafternoon, I want you in position to attack the Gilphaite bridge from the north. The main attack will have drawn Dorsay’s reserves south, and I expect it will be lightly defended.”
He drew a final X, somewhat west and south of Vaus. “Division-General Warus is here, with the balance of our forces. He will time his march to arrive after Ihernglass’ attack goes forward. The doubling of our strength should convince Dorsay that the game is up and the time for retreat has come, but when he tries it, he’ll find his path blocked. If I know the man, he’ll surrender then and there. If not . . .” Janus shrugged. “We’ll cut him to pieces if we have to, and have plenty of time to re-form before the emperor arrives with his legions.”
Marcus glanced at Ihernglass. It didn’t take Janus’ genius to see that this plan put his two divisions in an extremely precarious position. Across a deep river, without artillery or supplies, they would be stranded if anything went badly wrong. Marcus half expected the man to raise an objection. Not that it would matter, with Janus, but in Ihernglass’ position Marcus might have wanted to register a token protest.
Instead, Ihernglass said, “That’s a long march, with a fight at the end of it.”
“It is,” Janus said. “Are your troops up to it?”
“Of course, sir,” Winter said. “With your permission, I’d like to start at midnight, by torchlight. It will give us more margin for error.”
“As you see fit,” Janus said. He sounded pleased. “Marcus, your role is the most delicate. You must convince Dorsay that yours is the main attack, but not press him so hard he retreats prematurely, and of course preserve our own forces as much as possible. You’ll have the reserve artillery, and I recommend making as much use of long-range fire as you can. If Dorsay counterattacks, let him advance. The farther he is from the bridge, the better.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “What about Fitz?”
“I’ll be riding to the First Division tonight to give him his instructions in person. The timing of his arrival is critical, so I’ll direct it personally.”
“Ah.” Marcus swallowed as he understood, for the first time, that Janus was trusting him with unsupervised command of a third of the army. “Understood, sir.”
“We won’t disappoint you, sir,” Ihernglass said.
“You all have my fullest confidence.” Janus’ grin flashed again, like a bolt of lightning. “Now let’s be about it.”
—
WINTER
They were halfway back to Glarusk, riding by torchlight as the sky went from purple to black, before Cyte finally spoke.
“You said you wanted to start the march at midnight, sir?” she said.
Winter nodded.
“It’ll be near to eleven when we get back to camp,” Cyte said.
“It’s not the first time I’ve gone without sleep on a campaign,�
� Winter said, “and I’m willing to bet it won’t be the last.”
“I’ve got some of the Khandarai coffee left in the stores,” Bobby said. “I’ll brew it up.”
Just the thought of that perked Winter up a bit, and she sat up straighter in the saddle. Edgar plodded along, placid as ever, sure-footed even in torchlight. Winter glanced curiously at Cyte, whose brow was creased in concentration.
“Was Janus everything you expected him to be?” Winter said.
“He’s very impressive,” Cyte said. “He’s taking a big risk with this plan, but you wouldn’t know it to hear him talk. It’s like he—”
“—knows what’s going to happen in advance,” Winter said, smiling. “Or at least he pretends to. He once told me that half of being a genius is knowing how to take credit after the fact for things that happened to break your way.”
Cyte chuckled. “I suppose. I’d never thought about it like that.”
“Do you think he’s serious about going all the way to Elysium?” Bobby said, out of nowhere.
There was a pause.
“I don’t know as much about the supernatural side of things as the two of you,” Cyte said. “But as best I can tell it’s strategically sound, in the larger context. If he thinks of this as a war between us and the Black Priests, then the only way to win is to hit them hard enough that they either surrender or can’t continue.”
“I agree,” Winter said. “He told me back in Khandar that this was going to be the real fight.”
It was odd to think of everything that had come so far as a . . . a sideshow. A clearing of the minor pieces off the board, to make room for the real showdown.
“Everyone says that Murnsk can’t be conquered,” Bobby said.
“Fortunately,” Cyte said, “we don’t need to conquer it. Murnsk goes all the way to the Old Coast in the east. We only need to get to Elysium.”
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