Marcus

“They’re persistent,” Cyte said, watching the white-​uniformed soldiers gathering themselves for a third try. “I’ll give them that.”

“That’s one word for it,” Fitz said.

Marcus grunted. “Some might say stupid.”

“That’s another,” Fitz said.

They stood on a hillside, the high point of a ridge that rose out of the rolling farm country south of Alves like a pillow stuffed under a bedsheet. Behind them, to the south, was the river Reter, a slim waterway too easily crossed to provide much of a barrier. In front of them, low plains stretched north to the Pale.

The three Murnskai regiments had arrived just after noon and had been battering themselves against the hillside position ever since. Marcus had light cavalry patrolling to either side, watching for outflanking maneuvers, but so far there’d been nothing, just this headlong assault. It was almost painful to watch.

The approach to the hill, fifteen hundred yards or so of low grass, bare earth, and the occasional stone wall, was already strewn with Murnskai dead. They were scattered everywhere, but piled up in drifts where the enemy battalions had made their farthest advances. In the lull between attacks, Marcus ordered his own casualties picked up and taken south, where the advance guard and the baggage train were still pushing forward.

“Here they come,” Cyte said. She offered the spyglass to Marcus, but he waved it away. He didn’t need to watch this close up.

Six enemy battalions, depleted from their earlier attacks but restored to some semblance of formation, marched forward. Their commander had apparently decided to deploy in depth, in three lines of two units abreast. To either side of them came a couple of small guns, four-​pounders, which Marcus’ men had dubbed yappers for how they sounded a bit like excited terriers. The Vordanai army had dismissed such small cannon as nearly useless decades ago, but the Murnskai still clung to them.

Archer’s twelve-​pounders opened up at a thousand yards, solid shot plunging down from their elevated position at the crest of the hill to wreak its usual havoc on the packed ranks of men. The Murnskai had already deployed into line, coming on like they were on a parade ground, but a good shot would bounce through two or even three of the battalions, carrying away victims as it went. More white-​uniformed bodies dribbled from the rear of the formation, adding to those already carpeting the grass, the battalions shrinking toward their centers as they came on.

As the enemy closed, the six-​pounders joined the chorus, doubling the volume of fire. The yappers fired back, but the range and the slope defeated them, and Marcus couldn’t see that they were having any effect. He wondered if the Murnskai commander just wanted to hearten his men with the noise and the smoke. If so, it wasn’t working—​the rear battalions were already looking shaky, formation loosening as they were hit again and again. As he watched, one of them dissolved, soldiers breaking and running for the rear while officers on horseback rode in to try to rally them.

And still they came on. The guns switched to canister, throwing clouds of musket balls, cutting chunks out of the Murnskai ranks. Another battalion broke, and another. One of the yapper batteries had come close enough that its shots began whistling overhead, but the two regiments of Vordanai—​Sevran’s and one from Fitz’ division—​waited stolidly behind their guns, unperturbed.

“About now, I think,” Marcus said.

Cyte yelled to the drummers, and they beat out a new rhythm, transmitting the command. Archer’s guns fell silent, and the line of Vordanai infantry moved forward, positioning themselves in front of the cannon. The remaining Murnskai were less a distinct formation at this point than a tightly packed mob, three remaining battalions dissolving into a dense mass of men with their standards at the center. As they came within musket range, two battalions of Vordanai stood in neat lines to oppose them. On either side of the line, another battalion moved forward, angling inward like a swinging door, forming a C shape with the Murnskai at the center.

“Fire!” The command went up from a hundred throats, on both sides at once. Six thousand muskets went off with a roaring, tearing rattle, and the whole front line was instantly blanketed with a dense bank of off-​white smoke. It didn’t take an expert’s eye to see that the Murnskai were getting the worst of it, pressed together in an awkward blob instead of a well-​dressed line, raked by fire from both sides. Men fell in the Vordanai ranks, but enough white-​uniformed soldiers dropped that their corpses began to form a rampart. By the third volley, the Murnskai were wavering, and the fourth put them to flight; they streamed down the hill like a flock of frightened sheep, leaving only the ghastly piles behind.

“They won’t be trying that again,” Fitz said. “Not today, at any rate.”

Marcus nodded. The Murnskai officers didn’t seem to be having much success rallying their men, who were spreading out into the fields or streaming up the road the way they’d come. Cyte snapped her spyglass closed and stowed it.

“Sir,” she said, pointing over his shoulder. Marcus turned and saw a horseman in the uniform of a light cavalry sergeant approaching. The man saluted without dismounting.

“Something to report?” Marcus said.

“Yessir. Got a column pushing south from Mezk. At least a division, possibly two.”

Marcus closed his eyes, visualizing the map that was at this point burned into his brain. Traveling due south from Mezk would take them around the end of the Reter, neatly outflanking his current position. Just as expected.

“That’s long enough, then,” Marcus said. He turned back to Cyte. “We’re pulling out. I want everyone over the river by sundown. Get the baggage train on the road for the Vlind first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Her salute was still crisp, though her drawn face and the bags under her eyes spoke volumes.

Marcus had to imagine he showed the same signs of weariness, as did almost everyone in what was left of the Army of the Republic. They’d been marching hard since the disaster at Alves, from first light until well after the early-​autumn twilight, sometimes stumbling into camp by torchlight. Even for troops accustomed to the harsh pace Janus had demanded of his men, it was difficult, and for the new recruits it was pure torture. They were losing men every day, soldiers abandoning their units or simply dropping by the side of the road, and Marcus didn’t know whether to call it desertion or illness born of exhaustion.

What they’d bought, with all this pain, was a little distance from their pursuers. Janus was whipping his pursuing columns hard, but bringing an enemy to battle when he was determined to evade was one of the trickiest coups in grand tactics. So far Marcus had been able to avoid it, moving steadily south and west to keep Janus’ pincers from closing around him. When he found a good position for defense, as he had today, he turned part of the army about and faced down Janus’ vanguard, giving the slower elements time to increase their lead. Sometimes their pursuers paused, waiting for support to come up; more often, as they had today, they threw themselves into the teeth of the defense and came away bloodied.

But it couldn’t last. The moment the Army of the Republic stopped moving, it would be surrounded and overwhelmed by Janus’ more numerous forces. Marcus could turn and swipe at his pursuers, but not make a real stand, not without committing to an all-​out battle he was sure to lose. So every day they went back, and every day a few more men were left by the side of the road or melted into the darkness.

“We’re hurting them,” he said to Cyte, as they rode through the twilight toward the Reter. “We have to be hurting them. But they keep coming.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like Janus.”

“He never struck me as particularly sentimental about losses,” Cyte said. “Given his advantage in numbers, maybe he’s just willing to accept the casualties to wear us down?”

“It’s not that I think he’d balk at the casualties,” Marcus said, frowning as he struggled to articulate his feelings. “It’s not that this way of fighting is too ugly for him. It’s worse than that. It’s inefficient.”

“A capital sin,” Cyte deadpanned.

“It is, for Janus. This is the man who spent the last hours before his execution writing out letters to be delivered in the event of his rescue. He never stops. It’s not like him to waste time and lives bashing us head-on when he could get us some other way.”

“Maybe there is no other way,” Cyte said. “Maybe you’ve thought of everything and this is all he’s got left.”

“Somehow,” Marcus said grimly, “I doubt it.”

*

It occurred to Marcus, as they rode into the camp, what it was that bothered him about Janus’ strategy. He doesn’t need to attack to wear us down. We’re doing that to ourselves.

The campfires were burning, and the air was thick with the scent of grilling meat. Most of it, Marcus knew, was horsemeat. The killing pace was consuming horses faster than it did men, and Marcus had given orders that none of those that fell were to be wasted. Supplies were desperately low as it was. The towns along the Pale had depots of powder, fodder, food, and other military necessities, but their commanders—​cowardly, fence-​sitting traitors—​had been reluctant to hand over their stocks to the fleeing Army of the Republic. Marcus had seriously considered taking them by force, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to storm a friendly outpost. They’re afraid of Janus. If he wins, he might come looking for the names of the officers who helped us.

Instead, his men had been forced to forage, as though they were in enemy territory. There was no shortage of food in this rich country, but the farmers and merchants of the villages were understandably reluctant to surrender their surpluses to the army’s bottomless need. They were even less happy about giving up their horses, but Marcus’ foraging parties gave them no choice in the matter. The artillery and baggage needed to move, and the cavalry needed remounts. He’d told the men to keep records of where they’d gone, so Queen Raesinia could make the losses good after the war, but he couldn’t blame the farmers for not trusting his promises.

The command tent was set up in its usual place, though the camp layout had become increasingly sloppy as the march went on. Marcus and Cyte rode in as a slow drizzle began to fall, handing the reins of their mounts to a waiting corporal and slipping inside before the real rain began. Fitz was already there, along with Give-Em-Hell for the cavalry. Since Marcus was now in overall command, he’d nominated Abby to represent the Second Division. She arrived a few minutes later, shaking rain off her coat. Cyte unrolled the big paper map on the camp table and sat in front of it, marking their new position and the last reported location of Janus’ forces in grease pencil.

“All right,” Marcus said. “Give me the bad news.”

“Had a skirmish with a local militia today,” Give-Em-Hell said. “A gang of farmers and their sons with shotguns and hunting rifles. We told them we were foraging in the name of the queen, and they said we were just a bunch of thieves.” He snorted. “Not a patriotic bone in the whole yellow bunch. They scattered quick enough when I called up the cuirassiers.”

“It’s still not a promising sign,” Marcus said. “If the whole country starts to rise against us, we’ll starve.”

“They won’t,” Give-Em-Hell assured him. “I’ll come down like a thunderbolt on any hint of trouble, and word will get around.”

Marcus hesitated. The harsher they were, the worse it would be in the long term. But we won’t get to the long term if we starve in the short term. The only saving grace was that their breakneck pace might keep them ahead of the wave of indignation.

“Do your best to keep things peaceful,” Marcus said. “Try not to use force if you don’t have to.”

He turned to Fitz, who raised one eyebrow. “Nothing to report that I didn’t say yesterday,” he said. “Sick lists are way up, and desertions are getting worse. If this keeps going, it will get a lot easier to feed my division.”

“It’s the same in the Second,” Abby said, settling down at the table with a weary sigh. “The Girls’ Own is holding up, but Sevran says there’s ugly talk among his men.”

“Mutiny?” Give-Em-Hell said. “You can’t stand for that, sir. Pick an example and give—”

“They don’t want to fight for Janus,” Abby said. “They just want to stop marching, and I have a hard time blaming them. They say we should have surrendered after Alves.” She looked up at Marcus. Her eyes were dull and flat. “It would help if we could tell them where we’re going.”

“You can read the map as well as I can,” Marcus said. “We haven’t got the strength to hold the line of the Vlind. If we can make it as far as the Rhyf, then maybe—”

“That’s another hundred and fifty miles,” Abby said. “We’re not going to last that long.”

“She’s right,” Fitz said quietly.

Cyte finished marking up the map and sat back. They all stared at it, lost in thought.

What can I tell them? That, in the end, they were just buying time? If we surrender, Janus will be free to march on Vordan City. This way they were luring his forces farther and farther south, far from where they would need to be. Every step they took following the Army of the Republic was a step they’d have to retrace. Raesinia can assemble new armies. Get help from the Borels. Something. But he doubted that sentiment would go far to fill empty bellies or soothe aching legs.

“We’ll go as far as we can,” he said. “That’s the long and the short of it. I don’t intend to waste the lives of our men—​if Janus surrounds us, we’ll surrender. But while we can march, we’ll march.”

“Well said, goddammit,” Give-Em-Hell roared. “Never give in while you’ve got an ounce of strength left!”

“I’ll tell Sevran,” Abby said, then muttered, “though I’m not sure if he’ll pass that along.”

“Once we cross the Vlind,” Fitz said, “I suggest we shift to a more westerly course. We’ll have to screen the Pale crossings, but I think that will be substantially easier than pressing south into hill country. We may even be able to ease the pace somewhat if General Stokes can delay the enemy flanking columns.”

“It’s an idea,” Marcus said. “But...”

An hour of discussion followed, the gritty details of marches and foraging assignments, spoiling attacks by the cavalry and what could be risked. A sergeant came in with steaming bowls of army soup, prepared by the old reliable method of boiling whatever you had in a pot until it was soft. Marcus wolfed his down mechanically, not paying enough attention to notice the flavor.

There was no resolving many of the questions, not unless the situation changed radically, and eventually they simply ran out of energy for further argument. Even Give-Em-Hell’s indefatigable impetus was flagging. And while Fitz seemed, on the surface, as impervious as ever, he withdrew into himself, answering only in clipped, precise monosyllables.

“Enough,” Marcus said. “Get some sleep. We’ll pick this up later.”

No one argued. In a few moments, only he and Cyte remained in the tent.

Two days to the Vlind. Marcus looked down at the map. There were a few rivers between the Vlind and the Rhyf, but none of them large enough to present a strategic barrier. If we make it to the Rhyf, it’s only another hundred miles to Enzport. He didn’t dare say that out loud to the other commanders. Even Marcus had to admit that making the trek, at their current pace, seemed impossible. But it’s our only choice, apart from surrender or a glorious last stand somewhere. Enzport had a deep​water harbor and modern fortifications. Once inside, the army could be supplied by sea, and keep Janus tied down in front of its walls indefinitely.

“I’m worried about Abby,” Cyte said, after an interval.

“Oh?” Marcus said.

“Erdine’s death hit her harder than she’s letting on. She’s... not coping well.”

Marcus had almost forgotten about the loss of the colorful cavalryman. It was the all-​pervading effect of exhaustion—​anything that wasn’t crucial to immediate survival fell out of his mind almost at once. The cavalry detachments of the divisions had been merged into Give-Em-Hell’s depleted command, so he hadn’t had to worry about finding a replacement.

“She seems to be attending to her duties,” Marcus said.

“She’s working herself to death,” Cyte said. “She doesn’t sleep more than four hours a night, and she’s barely eating. At this rate, she won’t last.”

Marcus shook his head. “What do you want me to do? I can’t afford to tell her to take a few days off.”

“I know. She wouldn’t do it anyway. It’s just... Jane’s gone, Winter’s gone, and now Erdine. The Girls’ Own is all she has left.”

“Can you talk to her?”

“Me?” Cyte hesitated. “I can try. It would be better if it were Winter.”

“Winter’s not here,” Marcus said gently. “And I doubt it would help, coming from me. Try.”

Cyte nodded jerkily. “I’ll do my best.”

“What about you?”

“Sir?”

“How are you holding up?”

She gave him a level gaze. “I’m tired, sir. We’re all tired.”

“Take care of yourself as best you can.” Marcus sighed and rubbed his temples. “God knows I couldn’t keep all this running without you.”

*

They crossed the Vlind at a town called Zeckvol, a dot on the map no one had ever heard of. It turned out to be a few streets’ worth of plaster-​and-​timber buildings, a brick church, and a bridge. Only the last mattered to Marcus. No inhabitants were in evidence, the townspeople all having either fled or taken shelter.

The bridge was a short wooden span, beams anchored to a rock in the middle of the river. Fitz looked at it thoughtfully as he and Marcus reined up on the east bank, while the infantry filed across in a long, bedraggled procession of weather-​beaten blue.

“Shouldn’t take much, sir,” Fitz said. “A little powder and it’ll burn nicely.”

“Good.” It wouldn’t make the locals happy, but there was little choice. Give-Em-Hell’s light cavalry were ranging up and down the river, burning or blowing up every bridge they could find. If Janus’ army wanted to cross, they’d need to use a ford or take a long detour.

Cannon rumbled across, hitched to the back of their caissons, their metal-​shod wheels making the planks rattle.

“If this slows Janus down,” Fitz ventured, “maybe we can afford a short march tomorrow. Give the men some rest and the foragers more time to work.”

“Maybe,” Marcus said. He wasn’t optimistic the river would hold their pursuers for long. “The cavalry will keep watch to see where they cross.”

They sat in silence for a while, as another infantry regiment began crossing.

“I hope Val had the sense to surrender,” Marcus said.

“I’m sure he did,” Fitz said.

What that would mean for him, Marcus didn’t know. He hadn’t ever known Janus to mistreat a prisoner, apart from one near catastrophe in Ashe-​Katarion. But there was the strange red-​eyed thing to consider. Hell. He was always the one who dealt with all this mystical nonsense.

“Sir!” A light-cavalry trooper rode up, his mount spattered with mud. Behind him was a lieutenant Marcus didn’t recognize. “There’s a messenger,” the trooper said, indicating the other man. “From the... ah, enemy, sir.”

“Lieutenant Virson, Ninth Division.” Virson saluted.

Marcus straightened up in his saddle and glanced at Fitz. “Where’d he come from?”

“Rode into the cavalry screen about ten miles back carrying a white flag, sir,” the trooper said. “General Stokes said I should bring him here.”

“Well done.” Marcus turned to Virson. “You’ve got a message?”

“Yes, sir. The emperor presents his compliments and requests a meeting with General d’Ivoire at a time and place of the general’s choosing. I can return with the general’s answer, or any messenger with a white flag will be conducted safely through our lines.”

“Did he say what he wanted to meet about?”

“No, sir,” Virson said. “That’s all the information I have.”

“Thank you.” Marcus jerked his head, and he and Fitz turned their mounts away from the lieutenant and put their heads together. “What do you think?”

“It could be a trap, of course,” Fitz said. “But I think it’s unlikely.”

“I agree,” Marcus said. “Not that I would put it past Janus, but what good would it do him to take me out? You’d just take over.”

“I think it’s more likely that he hopes to offer us terms of surrender,” Fitz said. “The chase must wear on his army as much as on ours, even if his supply situation is better. Perhaps he thinks he can persuade you to give in.”

“Which I have no intention of doing,” Marcus said. “In which case, why bother meeting?”

“If I might make a suggestion, sir,” Fitz said. “He’s given you the chance to specify the circumstances of the meeting. We may be able to get a slight advantage from that. If you say that the meeting will take place here at sunset, on the Zeckvol bridge, and stipulate that our scouts will watch for the approach of any substantial force...”

“Then he won’t be able to move into town today,” Marcus said. “And we can still demolish the bridge afterward. So it will slow him down.”

“Not very much, I’m afraid,” Fitz said. “His army is large enough that he can search for another crossing at the same time. But it keeps him off the direct route.”

“Good idea, regardless.” Marcus looked back at Virson. “Let’s see if they go for it.”

Virson readily agreed to the terms, adding only that Janus wanted the right to have a squadron of his own troopers inspect the meeting place beforehand. That seemed reasonable, and likely to produce even more delay, so Marcus assented and sent Virson hurrying back toward his own lines. By the time the sun was approaching the horizon, the bulk of the Army of the Republic was well to the west, pushing hard to put distance between themselves and the river. Marcus remained behind, with Cyte and a squadron of cuirassiers as escort, along with a pair of Archer’s artillerists to handle the demolition of the bridge.

The sound of hooves on packed earth alerted them to the approach of the enemy. A dozen mounted men came into view, not proper cavalry troopers but infantrymen, their muskets long and awkward on horseback. They dismounted, stared at their opposite numbers on the other side of the bridge for a while, then cautiously came forward to check for traps.

Marcus sent one of his escorting cuirassiers to meet them, to confirm that everything was ready. The man came trotting back, waving the okay, and Marcus slid off his horse and stretched his aching legs.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come along, sir?” Cyte said.

“At this point it would take more renegotiation than I’m comfortable with,” Marcus said. “Besides, if it comes down to it, you’re probably more important to the army than I am, and I don’t want to risk you.”

“Sir—”

He held up a placating hand. “I don’t think there’s actually much risk. Janus may be a traitor, but he wouldn’t do all this just to get to me.” Marcus snorted. “It’s not efficient, after all.”

Cyte lowered her voice. “What about what we discussed after Mieran County? If he’s not really in command?”

“Then things might get interesting,” Marcus said. “If there’s any fighting, you know what to do.”

“Come and rescue you?” She gave a half smile.

“If you can. But you have to make sure to burn the bridge. We can’t give them an easy crossing.”

“Understood, sir.” Cyte looked up. “Here he comes.”

A lone figure in a long blue coat had ridden up to the line of escorts on the other side of the river. He dismounted, handing the reins to one of the soldiers, and started across the bridge. Marcus did the same, trying to project confidence and adjust his pace so they met in the center.

The last time he’d seen Janus, the general had still been recovering from the effect of a supernatural poison inflicted on him by one of the Penitent Damned. At the moment, Marcus thought, he looked even worse than he had in the depths of his feverish delirium. His enormous gray eyes seemed bigger than ever, standing out in an already-​lean face that had thinned until it was nearly a skull. There was stubble on his cheeks, something Marcus had never known Janus to tolerate, not even when they were in prison. His hair had grown, hanging to the nape of his neck in an unkempt bundle.

“Hello, Marcus,” he said.

“Janus.” The reflexive sir was hard to avoid, but Marcus was determined not to let his automatic deference get the better of him.

“You’re looking well.”

“That’s a lie,” Marcus said, smiling a little. “And you look as bad as I feel.”

“We may both be getting too old for war.” The smile that crossed Janus’ face, there for an instant and then gone, was like a punch in the gut, utterly familiar on this strange, shrunken version of his old friend. This may have been a bad idea. Marcus straightened a little and tried to keep his tone businesslike.

“This meeting was your suggestion. Did you have something to propose?”

Janus sighed. “Very well. Shall we go through the script?” He cleared his throat, like a stage actor preparing a monologue. “General d’Ivoire, it should be clear to you that further resistance will only result in the useless destruction of life without any change to the eventual outcome. As your countryman and, I hope, your friend, I call on you to surrender to prevent a further effusion of blood, and I assure you that you and the men under your command will be treated with the greatest respect.” He cocked his head. “And now you say—”

“Go to hell,” Marcus ground out. He was remembering that Janus could, at times, be incredibly irritating.

“Or words to that effect.”

“Queen Raesinia trusted me with this command. I don’t intend to disappoint her.”

“From what I hear, she didn’t trust you, but rather that fool Kurot.”

“She had her reasons,” Marcus said.

“I’m sure.”

This time Janus’ smile was venomous, and Marcus felt anger rising. He clenched his fists. “Don’t. How can you do this to her?”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry she’s involved. But it had to be done.”

“Why?” Marcus said. “You told me that your goal was the destruction of the Priests of the Black.”

“They were a threat,” Janus said. “And they had to be eliminated.”

“That’s it? In the end all that matters is gathering power for yourself?”

“Of course,” Janus said, with that summer-​lightning smile. “Read your history, Marcus. Nothing else has ever—”

“Liar,” Marcus snapped. “You’re not in it for power, and you never were.”

“Oh?” Janus cocked his head. “You know me so well?”

“I went to Mieranhal,” Marcus said. “Gravya told me your story.”

There was a long pause. Beneath them, the river splashed and gurgled. A cavalry horse snorted and stamped a foot. Behind Janus’ eyes, Marcus could almost see the gears turning, the clockwork mechanism swinging into a new configuration.

Then Janus blinked, and there was something else. Deep in the center of his huge gray eyes, inside the pupils, Marcus swore he could see a faint red spark. Another blink and it was gone.

“She told you...” Janus said, after a while.

“About Mya.”

“Ah.”

“You mentioned her,” Marcus said, flushing a little in ridiculous embarrassment, “when you were feverish. You told me... bits and pieces.”

“I’m surprised you got her to talk. The Mierantai are a notoriously closemouthed lot.”

“Lieutenant Uhlan vouched for me.”

“Of course.” Janus’ lip quirked. “And now you think you understand me?”

“I’ll never understand everything. But it’s all for her, isn’t it? The Thousand Names, and then the march on Elysium. All of it.”

“If it had worked,” Janus said, with a hint of his old fire, “it would have been worth it. You can’t understand, Marcus.”

“Why not?”

“Because you think I’m a genius,” Janus snapped. “It’s like a cat trying to understand the works of Voulenne.”

“I appreciate the comparison,” Marcus drawled.

“I... apologize.” Janus let out a breath. Something passed over his features, some emotion Marcus couldn’t guess. It was gone in an instant, and he was himself again.

“What I can’t figure out is the point of all this,” Marcus said. “If it’s all for Mya, what does this get you?”

“The next best thing, perhaps.” Janus looked away, down at the river.

“You are...” Marcus shook his head. “Enough. We’ve established that I’m not going to surrender. Is there anything else?”

“I suppose it won’t help to remind you what you owe me,” Janus said.

“What about what you owe us? All of Vordan?”

They glared at each other, a few yards apart, and there was another awkward silence. Then Janus stepped forward, one hand extended.

“As you wish, Marcus. If this is how it has to be.”

For a moment Marcus considered ignoring him, just turning away. It would be a nice, dramatic gesture. But he still couldn’t bring himself to hate this man, who’d brought him so far. It doesn’t make sense. He stepped forward and clasped his old commander’s hand.

“I wish things were different.”

“So do I,” Janus said. Oddly, he refused to meet Marcus’ eye, fixing his gaze instead on the buttons of his coat. “So do I.”

Then he was walking away, hands tucked into his pockets. Marcus stared after him, then down at the palm of his hand, where a single much-​folded sheet of paper had been pressed.