Marcus

The Army of the Republic came to rest, at last, behind the line of the river Rhyf.

In the end, they didn’t have much choice. The sick lists had burgeoned with each dawn-to-dusk march, and more horses broke down with every passing mile. Wagons were consolidated, and then consolidated again for lack of teams to pull them, inessential supplies left behind and wounded who could barely walk turned out to fend for themselves. By the time the Rhyf came into sight, a broad ribbon of silver in the midafternoon sun, there were barely enough animals to pull the guns.

If they’d tried to keep on at that pace, Marcus was certain there’d have been a mutiny. Instead, they’d crossed the river at a midsized town called Gond and made camp in the fields outside it on the south bank, much to the dismay of the local farmers. The townspeople had been even less happy when Colonel Archer began laying powder against the bridge supports, ready for a quick demolition.

Give-Em-Hell’s light cavalry remained on the north bank, keeping the enemy scouts back. The next morning, while the exhausted infantry rested in its camp, cavalry detachments and engineers rode east and west along the river, looking for crossings. By nightfall they’d identified three more bridges and one possible ford. Marcus ordered the former prepared for destruction, and artillery dug in around the latter.

If we have to make a stand, he reflected, looking at the map that night, it’s not a bad position. The Rhyf was narrow but deep, without many easy crossings. As long as we get enough warning, we can shadow any force on the north bank and be waiting if they try to get over the river. Pushing through a river crossing in the face of determined resistance was one of the bloodiest prospects in warfare, even with a big advantage in numbers. Which Janus has, of course. But at least we can make it difficult for him.

As the reports trickled in from the scouts across the river, though, he began to think the situation had changed. The batch that was waiting for him in the morning only confirmed it. Give-Em-Hell wrote that they’d clashed with a few enemy patrols, but that Janus’ force was making no serious effort to push through their screen and reach the Rhyf. Marcus sent new orders, then went in search of Cyte.

The camp was a mess, by any standard. Instead of neat rows, the battalions had set up their tents in loose clusters, grouped only vaguely by regiment and division. A faint, nasty scent on the morning breeze made Marcus wrinkle his nose; they’d clearly gotten sloppy about latrine placement, too. We’re going to have to do something about that. Staying in a camp with bad sanitation was asking to be decimated by disease.

It could wait a day or two, though. They’d had only a day and a night so far to recover from the grueling march. Everywhere he looked, Marcus saw soldiers sitting in groups, cooking or playing cards, but generally simply enjoying not being on the move. The men were still noticeably thinner than they’d been at the start of the march, but the halt was already doing wonders for morale. Two days ago, on the other side of the river, his passage through the camp had been greeted with apathetic silence or ominous grumbling. Now soldiers cheerfully saluted as he went past, though usually without actually getting to their feet first.

Soldiers in the Girls’ Own camp directed him to the cutter’s station. This was a large tent whose sides could be rolled up for easy access, with a few long, low tents alongside where the wounded could be sheltered. After a battle, it would be a nightmarish scene—​every soldier, Marcus included, shuddered at the singing of the bone saw, and he’d seen arms and legs piled up like firewood and enough blood to turn the dirt to mud.

Fortunately, at the moment there wasn’t anything so dire going on. Hannah Courvier, a middle-​aged woman with the long-​suffering expression of a schoolteacher, sat on a crate behind a makeshift desk while a line of Girls’ Own rankers waited to see her. Those who saw Marcus saluted, a wave that progressed down the line. The woman at the head, a solidly built sergeant, was bent over the desk whispering urgently to the cutter.

“—​every time I take a shit,” Marcus heard as he got closer. “I—”

He cleared his throat, and they both looked up. The sergeant saluted, her cheeks coloring, but Hannah just sighed and leaned back.

“Problems, Captain Courvier?” Marcus said.

“About what you’d expect after a march like that,” Hannah said. “But we’ve got to do something about the latrines—”

“I know,” Marcus said. “When you’re done here, find General Warus and tell him I asked you to take care of it. He’ll get you some men to dig new ones.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have you seen Colonel Cyte?”

Hannah nodded at the first of the tents housing the wounded. “In there.”

The tent flap was low enough that Marcus had to bend nearly double to enter. It felt like a tunnel, dimly lit, both sides lined with bedrolls. The women who occupied them were in various states of disassembly—​a few seemed intact, except for bandages, but most were missing pieces, hands and feet, arms and legs. Some were unconscious, the telltale angry red of infection creeping up from their stumps. Others sat up, talking, playing cards, or reading by candlelight. Once again a wave of salutes went through them at the sight of Marcus.

Marcus took a deep breath to steady himself, then regretted it. The whole place smelled of vomit and the sick-​sweet stench of rotten flesh. He nodded acknowledgment to each soldier as he passed, working his way along the line until he found Cyte. She was kneeling beside a young ranker whose right arm ended just below the shoulder. The girl was examining a sheet of paper while Cyte took notes.

“Cynthia’s dead,” the girl said. “For sure. At Satinvol.”

Cyte nodded, pen moving.

“And someone told me Elly—​Elsbeth—​dropped out with a bad ankle and stayed in a village we passed.” The girl’s face clouded. “You’re not going to punish her, are you?”

“No,” Cyte said. “Don’t worry.”

“Those are the only ones I know.” The girl handed the list back. “Sorry.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” Cyte said. She looked up at Marcus, then back to the girl. “Thank you. I’ll be back.”

“Captain—” Marcus began.

“Let’s get out of here first,” Cyte said quietly. “If you don’t mind.”

That was fine with Marcus. They walked back to the flap, both hunched over, and slipped back out into the morning sun. Cyte led him a few steps away from the line of people waiting to see Hannah. She stretched, arching her back with a distinct pop.

“What are you doing?” Marcus said. “Looking for someone?”

“Just updating army records,” Cyte said. She showed him the notebook, which was covered in a list of names with little notes about their current status—​dead, wounded, missing—and how certain it was. “On the march the bookkeeping fell by the wayside.”

“You can let it fall a little farther, if you like,” Marcus said. “I promise I’m not about to order a surprise inspection.”

“I’d... rather not, sir.” Cyte shook her head. “We had a similar problem in the retreat from Murnsk. By the time we got around to tallying things up, there were a lot of soldiers we just couldn’t account for. This way people have an easier time remembering. It... makes it easier when it’s time to tell the families, sir.”

“Ah,” Marcus said awkwardly. He wondered if Fitz had done something similar back when they’d worked together. Almost certainly. He just made sure I never noticed. “Well. Thank you.”

“Of course, sir. It’s my job. And... it helps, a little.” She held the notebook close, like she was worried it might escape.

War. It put people through unimaginable stresses, and they each had their own way of dealing with it. Better this than crawling into a bottle, that’s for sure.

“I’m sorry you had to come and find me, sir,” Cyte said, straightening up. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing urgent. But we need to figure out what we’re doing next.” He put his hand in his coat pocket, where there was a single much-​folded slip of paper. “And that means I need to show you something.”

*

Back in his own command tent, Marcus spent a few moments flipping through the map case. He finally selected a large-​scale one that covered the whole of Vordan, laying it on the table atop the smaller-​scale maps of the Pale valley. Then, while Cyte watched with interest, he fished out the piece of paper and unfolded it. The edges had gone furry with wear.

“This is...” He looked down at the page and hesitated. “I don’t know whether to believe it or not. But I think you need to see it. No one else knows.”

“Sir? Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one here who knows about... magic, and the Priests of the Black, and all that damned nonsense.” He handed her the page. “I got this, in secret, from Janus. When he came to talk to me on the bridge.”

Cyte blinked, and read the note. He couldn’t see it from where he was standing, but Marcus had read the thing so often he had it memorized. It was written in a slightly awkward hand, sometimes running letters together, sometimes stretching them out. Some of the sentences were at an angle, or above or below their neighbors, giving the impression of something that had been written in fragments by someone who couldn’t see what he was doing. But the writing was Janus’. Marcus would have known that careful script anywhere. It read,

Marcus—

I must beg your forgiveness. I have very limited freedom of action, and my mind is not my own. This note is a risk, but I must reach you.

Winter is the key. I am trying to bring him to Vordan City. Find him, help him, trust his judgment. He understands what needs to be done.

Know that I am doing what I can. The Beast is watching.

—​J

“I don’t understand,” Cyte said. She let the note fall to the table, and Marcus saw her hand was trembling. “Janus gave you this?”

“In secret.”

“Who could have been watching? You were alone!”

“I know,” Marcus said. “When we stormed Satinvol, I... saw something.” He described, as calmly as he could, what had happened in the final assault, the girl who had turned on him with her eyes glowing red. Cyte didn’t immediately tell him he was insane, which he guessed was a good sign.

“At first I wondered if I’d just remembered it wrong,” Marcus said. “Things happen, in battle. Or maybe she was a genuine traitor. But that light...” He shook his head. “Then I got this. So what if it’s true? What if there is some kind of demon, something that can control people?”

“The Beast,” Cyte said flatly. “As in the Beast of Judgment?”

“Maybe.”

Cyte looked down at the note, expressions warring on her face. “It could be lies,” she said carefully. “Maybe Janus has truly gone mad.”

“It’s possible. An aftereffect of the poison.” Marcus sighed. “If not, though, it explains why he would do all of this. ‘My mind is not my own.’ Something is using him.”

“If it’s not madness, then Winter is still alive,” Cyte said. Her hand tightened on the edge of the table. “He’s alive.”

“I know.”

There was a long silence.

“I have to go to Vordan City,” Cyte said. “I have to know. If he... If he needs help, then I should be there.”

“The question is,” Marcus said, “how do we get there?”

He gestured down at the map. From their current position on the Rhyf, it was a little more than four hundred miles to Vordan City in a straight line. Unfortunately, that line crossed the densest and most impenetrable part of the Illifen Range. The shortest route, through the passes they’d crossed by on the way west, meant going through Janus’ army. That left the south, skirting the edge of the mountains before turning east to slog across the Vor valley. Call it six hundred miles.

“At any kind of reasonable pace, it would take months,” Marcus said, as Cyte’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Even forcing the marches with plenty of food, forty or forty-​five days, and there’s no way this army could sustain that.”

Cyte said nothing. Marcus put a finger on their current position, then shifted it north slightly, toward where Janus’ army was lurking.

“There’s another problem,” he said. “I think Janus isn’t following us anymore.”

She looked up. “The scouts reported enemy cavalry looking for us.”

“They’re not pushing hard enough. If he really meant to hit us here, he’d be searching for a place to cross the river, and he wouldn’t let us brush him off. It’s possible he’s looping around our flank, or pulling some maneuver I haven’t thought of, but I wouldn’t bet on it.” He traced a line north, toward the passes. “I think he’s left a cavalry force and some blocking troops, and taken the bulk of his army toward Vordan City.”

“Which means that it’s not just a matter of getting there,” Cyte said. “We have to make it before Janus if we’re going to do any good.”

“It’s not possible,” Marcus said flatly. “He’s got the inside track, and we’re not going to be able to outmarch him.”

“Then what?”

“If we want to keep him out of Vordan City, there’s only one thing I can think of.” He tapped the map. “We attack. Whatever Janus has left in front of us, we smash it, and threaten to come down on his rear. He’ll either have to turn around and fight, or let us cut off his supply line in the pass.”

“Now you’re sounding like Kurot,” Cyte said. “I don’t think Janus is worried about supply lines. He can live off the land, the same as us.”

“It might be harder in the mountains.” Marcus pursed his lips. “If he keeps marching, we can stay behind him. If the forces in Vordan City can hold him up at all, we might be able to catch him between us.”

“Or,” Cyte said, “he’ll get irritated and annihilate us. Considering he has something like double our numbers.”

“That’s the downside,” Marcus admitted. “It would slow him a bit, but...”

“I have another idea,” Cyte said. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“I’m listening,” Marcus said.

“We head downriver until we find a boat. Take it to the Pale, and down to Enzport. Get a ship there, sail around the coast and up the Vor to Vordan City. It’d be a hell of a lot faster than marching overland.”

“Faster for a few, maybe. There probably aren’t enough boats on the Rhyf to get us to Enzport, and there definitely aren’t enough ships at Enzport to get us to Vordan. Not after the war and the Borel blockade.”

“I know.” Cyte locked eyes with him. “You and I could go. A few soldiers you trust. Leave the army with Fitz.”

“I can’t abandon my men,” Marcus said. The response was almost automatic. “Certainly not with the enemy still just over the river.”

“You said yourself that you didn’t think Janus was following us.”

“I could be wrong!”

“If they do attack, would Fitz do a worse job than you would?”

He’d probably do better. Marcus shook his head. “That’s not the point. It’s my responsibility.”

Cyte nodded, as though she’d expected that, and took a deep breath. “Then I’ll go.”

“Alone?”

“If necessary. Or with a small escort, if you’d like to assign one.”

Marcus frowned and scratched his beard. “The army needs you, too.”

“Someone has to act on this.” Cyte pushed the note across the map. “That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”

“I needed another perspective—”

“And I need to find Winter,” Cyte said. There was a quiet desperation under her controlled voice. “Please, Marcus.”

Was this what I had in mind all along? Marcus sighed. “Have Abby give you an escort. However many you think you’ll need. I’ll write you orders authorizing you to requisition any form of transport you need, for however much that’s worth, and as much gold as I’ve got on hand.”

“Thank you,” Cyte said. She straightened up, blinking away tears. “I’ll find him, I swear.”

“I have a feeling,” Marcus said, “that is going to be the easy part.”

*

Cyte had been insistent on leaving before nightfall, taking a half dozen Girls’ Own troopers on horses reluctantly donated by the cavalry. Marcus told Fitz and the others that she was on important business, but no more than that. Better to keep them focused on our own situation.

That situation was, at best, tenuous. The locals were getting increasingly angry about the army’s requisitions of food, horses, and fodder. There hadn’t been any outright violence yet, but the farmers were more likely to hide their reserves than offer them up freely. Marcus ordered the foragers to range farther afield, where they hadn’t covered the ground so thoroughly, but that would be a temporary measure. Sooner or later, the army would have to move, or starve.

When it did move, he faced a similar choice to the one he’d outlined for Cyte. They could march to Enzport, and hope that enough supplies could be brought in by ship to feed the army indefinitely. That would be the safest course, but it meant abandoning any hope of putting pressure on Janus, which would put them out of the war for all practical purposes. Or they could march south and east, taking the long way to Vordan City, meaning months on the road and no guarantee there would be a capital left by the time they got there.

Or we could attack. Marcus found himself drawn, more and more, to that option. He almost laughed aloud when he realized why. It seems like something Janus would do. But it would mean, of course, the risk—​even the probability—​of disaster. And our last chance to help Raesinia.

That night he slept poorly, dreaming of the dead. Adrecht and Jen Alhundt, Andy and Hayver, Parker Erdine and the girl he’d killed at Satinvol. Gaunt and desiccated, they all staggered toward him, their eyes alight from within with a horrible crimson glow.

That’s wrong, Marcus told them.

Why? said Jen, her rasp of a voice a parody of the one that had whispered in his ear at night.

I’ve seen the dead walk, Marcus said. Their eyes were green.

They all started to laugh.

He awoke to a scratch at his tent flap, with the light of dawn just barely brightening the canvas. Marcus groaned and sat up, his shoulders stiff and aching.

“What?” he shouted.

“It’s me, sir.” Cyte’s voice.

“Colonel?” Marcus shook his head, trying to clear it of sleep. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t get very far before we ran into someone looking to talk to you, sir.”

Marcus blinked and sighed. “Maybe this will make sense after I’ve had some coffee.”

“I’ve got some ready,” Cyte said. “I think you need to come with me right away, sir.”

True to her word, Cyte handed him a steaming tin cup as he emerged from his tent. Marcus drank, ignoring the heat, and let the bitter stuff settle into his stomach. Cyte waited patiently. The six women who’d been escorting her were nowhere to be seen.

“All right.” Marcus breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of the coffee. “You want to explain this?”

“Just follow me, sir. We left everyone out past the sentry line.”

Bemused, Marcus walked after Cyte through the slipshod camp. There were details digging new latrines already, he noticed. Hannah doesn’t waste any time.

The sentries saluted as they passed. Cyte led the way down the river front, up a small rise with a copse of trees at the top. A number of horses were tethered there, and Marcus saw women in blue uniforms, as well as a knot of men in familiar muddy red. Borelgai. No sooner had he recognized the white-​furred shakos of the Life Guards than a short, hawk-​nosed figure was striding across the damp grass, hand extended.

“General d’Ivoire! No one I’d rather see in these circumstances, believe me.”

“Duke Dorsay?” Marcus said. He looked down at his coffee cup, then took another long drink. “I’m not still asleep, am I? Don’t answer that. What are you doing here?”

“Like I told the colonel, I’ve come looking for you,” the duke said. “We’ve had a hell of a time getting any accurate information.”

“That means my cavalry are doing their job,” Marcus said, still feeling bewildered. “Why are you looking for me?”

“It’s a long and complicated story,” Dorsay said. “But the short version is that your queen asked me to. When news of the battle at Alves reached us in Viadre—”

“Raesinia’s in Viadre? Why—” Marcus stopped. “I think you’re going to have to give me the long version.”

“Later. Right now, the important thing is that I’ve come to help.”

“I’ll take any help I can get,” Marcus said. “How many troops have you brought?”

“We’re a little light on troops at the moment, I’m afraid,” Dorsay said.

“But he’s got something better,” Cyte said, her eyes shining.

“Well. Yes.” Dorsay cleared his throat. “The First Squadron of His Majesty’s Royal Navy is anchored about ten miles downriver. Six frigates, a flotilla of heavy transports, and a few support craft. We’d originally planned to ascend the Pale, which our charts say should be clear all the way to Alves, but when we heard you were on the Rhyf, we thought we’d get as close as we could. The river’s not deep enough to come farther.” He shrugged. “We have six men-of-war as well, but we had to leave them at Enzport. Not really designed for river work, I’m afraid.”

It took Marcus’ mind a few moments to catch up to this. He drained the rest of the coffee.

“How many men will fit in your transports?” he said.

“Twenty thousand, with a fair bit of baggage,” Dorsay said mildly. “More if we heave everything over the side.”

That’s the whole damned army. “And what were you planning on doing once you found us?”

“Extracting you from your current predicament,” Dorsay said. “We’ll sail north, around the Jaw, and make for Nordart. From there we can supply easily from Borel by sea. When I left, your queen was working out the terms of the alliance with Georg, but when they’ve finished dickering, I imagine we’ll bring over some of our troops to even up the numbers. From there we can liberate Alves, cut Janus off from the north, and find a way to corner him.”

“Nordart,” Marcus said. That was a thousand miles in the wrong direction. He shook his head. “No. We have to get back to Vordan City before Janus does.”

Cyte, at Marcus’ side, nodded emphatically. The duke scratched his hawk-​like nose.

“I’m not sure that would be wise,” he said, speaking carefully. “As I said, I haven’t brought any fresh manpower. Even if we make it to Vordan City before Janus, do you think you can hold it? My impression was that you were rather roughly handled at Alves.”

Marcus winced. “That might be an understatement. We’re down to two divisions, more or less.”

“And Janus has, according to our intelligence, received a fresh infusion of men from Murnsk, including a large contingent of cavalry. So the odds against us would be something like three to one.”

“Not that bad, surely,” Cyte said. “They won’t have been idle in Vordan City. I’m sure there’ll be fresh troops waiting for us. And we can call out a citizens’ militia. That’s what carried the day in the revolution.”

Marcus, who’d been at that battle, remembered it a little differently, but he didn’t want to undermine Cyte’s argument. Instead he added, “There were troops on the way to Vordan City from the south and east that didn’t arrive in time to join the army, too.”

“Still not enough to match Janus’ numbers, though,” Dorsay said.

“No,” Marcus admitted. “But we’ll have the advantage of the defensive.”

“If we arrive in time.”

Marcus exchanged a look with Cyte. I can’t exactly tell him we need to be there to help Winter stop some mystical Beast that can take over people’s minds. Marcus gritted his teeth in frustration. There has to be something. Having the help they needed materialize so miraculously only to take them the wrong way was intolerable. Dorsay, clever, cautious Duke Dorsay. Of course he wants to wait, plan, reinforce.

“I think,” Marcus said, “if we don’t get to Vordan City before Janus does, it’s not going to matter how many men we have.”

“If the city falls, it can be retaken,” Dorsay said with a dismissive wave.

“With respect, Your Grace, you’re not Vordanai. When was the last time Borel was invaded?”

“Mmm. Seven hundred years ago? Seven hundred fifty? I’ve forgotten my histories.”

“Vordan City isn’t just another city,” Cyte said, joining in eagerly. “It represents the legitimate government of Vordan to our people, and that’s exactly what Janus is claiming to be. If he takes it and starts issuing orders from Ohnlei Palace, most of the country is going to go along with him.”

“I’m not sure I could even vouch for my own men, in that case,” Marcus said. “Raesinia would be just another exile, and with only the Borelgai backing her it would be easy for Janus to turn sentiment against us. Foreign puppets are never popular.”

“You see how well it worked for Orlanko,” Cyte added.

Dorsay looked from one of them to the other, clearly distressed. At last he said, “You really believe this? That this is the only way?”

“I do,” Marcus said. Somewhat to his surprise, he meant it. “Right now our greatest enemy is the idea that Janus is invincible. If we let him take the capital, by the time we get around to fighting him, nobody is going to believe he can be beaten.”

Dorsay snorted. “Are you entirely certain he isn’t invincible? He certainly gives a good impression of it.”

“I would know better than anyone, Your Grace.”

The duke let out a long sigh. “Well. My orders are to assist you, and I suppose we can interpret the specifics as... suggestions. If you want to defend Vordan City, I don’t think I can stop you. But if you lose, you may waste all Raesinia’s hard work in securing a Borelgai army. Georg won’t commit soldiers to a lost cause.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Marcus grinned. “We’ve got no time to waste. I’ll get my men on the march today.”

“Splendid. I’ll return to the fleet and prepare the transports.” Dorsay returned the smile. “It is good to be working with you, General. Glad to have the chance to repay the favor you did for me.”

Dorsay bowed slightly and went off toward his guards. Marcus turned to Cyte.

“Well done,” she said. “I didn’t think we were going to convince him.”

“Me either. But I think he genuinely wants to help. He’s tangled with Janus before.”

“Do you think it’s true that some of ours would switch sides if Janus took Vordan City?”

“Maybe. I suspect we’d see a lot of quiet desertion, at the very least.”

“What’s this favor you did him?”

Marcus shrugged. “I saved his life from Orlanko’s assassins, back in Murnsk.”

Cyte’s eyes widened. “And you didn’t think cashing in that chip would help?”

“Not with Dorsay,” Marcus said. “Not if he thought it was the wrong thing to do.”

Cyte looked after the duke, who was being helped onto his horse by his guards, then back to Marcus. “If you say so. What now?”

“Now,” Marcus said, “we need to break it to everyone that they’re going to be getting on board a bunch of Borelgai transports.”

*

As Marcus had expected, this did not go over well.

“You can’t trust the Borels,” Colonel Blackstream said, bristling. “Once we’re on the transports, we’ll be completely dependent on them. They could ship us to Khandar for all we could do about it.”

Blackstream was old enough to have served in the War of the Princes, Marcus reflected, which made his distrust natural enough. He and the other colonels of the Second Division had gathered in the command tent, along with Cyte, Fitz, and Give-Em-Hell.

“Not completely dependent,” Fitz said mildly. “I imagine we’ll still have access to our weapons, and we’d considerably outnumber the crews. We could take the ships, if necessary.”

“And if we did,” Blackstream shot back, “what about the men-of-war? They could blow us out of the water, no trouble.”

“Why would they bother?” said de Koste. “If the Borels wanted us out of the way, they could just leave us here in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m more worried about what will be waiting for us at the other end,” said Sevran. “Forgive me, sir, but are you certain it’s wise to go straight to Vordan City? Perhaps we could send messages ahead and ask any forces there to meet us at Vayenne while we wait for Borelgai reinforcements.”

“Bah,” Give-Em-Hell said. “What’s the use in waiting? They’ll come for Vordan City, and we’ll be ready. You boys hold the line against the first charge, and then we’ll ride out and give ’em hell!”

“Against three-to-one odds?” Sevran said.

“We’ve faced worse,” Give-Em-Hell shot back.

Cyte leaned close to Marcus’ ear as the argument went on. “Aren’t you going to remind them who’s in command here?” she murmured.

“Let them have it out first,” Marcus said quietly. It was something he’d learned in Khandar, when his status had been more like first among equals as senior captain. People were far more likely to give in to authority after they’d worn themselves out in argument than when they were full of fight. “Besides, I can’t say they don’t have a point. We can’t tell them about Winter.”

“Enough.” To Marcus’ surprise, it was Abby’s voice that cut through the rising chatter. To this point, she’d been quiet, but now she stood with her hands flat on the table. “Of course we’re going back to Vordan City. Your queen heard that you were in difficulty, and she managed to pry a fleet out of the Borels, for God’s sake, and sent it to come get you. Now she needs you to get back into the fight.” She looked around the circle. “Are you going to say no?”

“You trust the Borels?” Blackstream said.

“I trust Raesinia,” Abby said. “And I trust the general. That’s enough.”

“Damned right!” Give-Em-Hell said. “As long as we get to Vordan City in time to find a few remounts, the cavalry will be ready for anything.”

Sevran looked at Blackstream, then at Marcus, and shrugged. “If those are your orders, General.”

“They are,” Marcus said. “As Colonel Giforte said, the queen has asked us for help, and I don’t intend to let her down.” Not again. “We march in the morning. Duke Dorsay said it’s ten miles to the ships, and I want our men embarking by tomorrow evening.”

There was a chorus of “Yes, sir!” and a round of salutes. The colonels stood and filed out, but Fitz lingered for a moment.

“You know that Sevran is right, of course,” he said. “The numbers are against us. And Vordan City is not defensible. Not that I’m questioning your decision.”

“I’m aware of the numbers. They were against us in Khandar, if you recall.”

“In Khandar, Janus was on our side.” Fitz smiled thinly. “I’ll start working on a plan, shall I?”

“I’m hoping we’ll have more to work with,” Marcus said. “But we won’t know until we get there. So yes, it can’t hurt to start thinking about it.”

“Understood, sir.” Fitz saluted, and slipped out through the flap, leaving only Cyte at the big table. Marcus sat down next to her with a sigh.

“Do you have any idea how to organize an army to board transports, Captain?” he said.

“No, sir. I imagine you’d have to think about provisions, fresh water—”

“And a hundred other things, I’d wager. Hopefully, Dorsay’s people have a little more experience.”

“We’ll get there, sir. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Not about that, anyway. Too many other things to worry about.”

“Understood, sir,” Cyte said with a smile. “Was there anything else? I should draw up marching orders for tomorrow.”

“Go ahead,” Marcus told her. “And thank you, Colonel. For all your help.”

“Of course, sir.” She smiled, a surprisingly cheerful expression on her serious face. “I’m glad I don’t have to leave the army behind.”

“So am I, believe me. I’d never get all the paperwork done myself.”

Cyte laughed, saluted, and left. Marcus sat for a while, staring at the maps and stray papers on the table. His thoughts went north, to Borel, and Raesinia.

She went to Borel. To meet with the king and ask for his help. If he knew Raesinia, she’d asked quite forcefully, and it apparently had worked. Typical. I’m scraping to keep the army alive, and she casually produces a fleet out of nowhere to rescue us. For a moment the need to see her, to hold her as he had after she’d come to his rescue in Murnsk, was nearly overpowering.

I should ask Dorsay when she’s coming back. It would be safer for her to stay in Viadre if Vordan City was going to become a battlefield, but for a moment Marcus allowed himself to think selfishly. Maybe she’ll lead the reinforcements herself, like one of the warrior queens of old. The image of Raesinia in medieval plate armor with a winged helmet was simultaneously so incongruous and so fitting that he laughed out loud.

*

The next morning it was raining again, a light mist that was just enough to add a layer of slime to the surface of the roads and make everyone clammy and miserable. Cavalry patrols trooped across the Gond bridge at regular intervals, pulling back across the river, and the artillerists retrieved their fuses and powder barrels from the bridge to the relief of all concerned. The infantry packed up their tents and began the long trudge to the west, following the curve of the river.

This time, Marcus rode ahead instead of keeping his normal position in the middle of the column. He and Cyte stayed with the cavalry vanguard, to meet with Dorsay and organize the loading. As the day wore on, though, Marcus found himself afflicted with superstitious worry, as though yesterday had been some kind of dream. The haze of the rain didn’t help, rendering everything farther than a few dozen yards away misty and ghostlike. Marching forever toward help that never comes would be a pretty good hell for an entire army, he thought. There were stories in the Wisdoms...

Silliness, of course. But it was still with a sense of relief that Marcus heard the call from the forward scouts that they’d sighted the first masts. A few minutes later he could see for himself, a row of them looming out of the mist like huge, naked trees. The transports, big boxy things that seemed as seaworthy as bathtubs, were anchored just off the bank. Farther out, a sleek frigate prowled, looking like a predator beside its ungainly prey. The muddy red of the Borelgai flag flew from the stern of every vessel.

Marcus sent messengers back to the column, giving more precise directions, then rode ahead with Cyte. They found Dorsay standing with a small group of men in unfamiliar, ornate uniforms, which Marcus guessed were Borelgai navy. At the sight of him, they took off their overlarge hats and inclined their heads.

“General d’Ivoire!” Dorsay said as Marcus dismounted. “Everything went smoothly, I trust?”

“So far,” Marcus said. A Life Guard came forward to take the reins of his horse. “Colonel Cyte has information on how much space we’ll need for the various units. Who should she be talking to?”

“Sub-​Captain Gale is handling the logistics.” Dorsay beckoned, and a younger man, less impressively uniformed and hatted, stepped out from behind the others. His superiors were eyeing Cyte with mixed expressions of mirth and horror, and one of them whispered something that set the others to chuckling. Cyte studiously ignored them, but Marcus felt himself going red.

“These gentlemen,” Dorsay went on, “are the captains of our frigates. Captain Neilson, of the Swiftmark, Captain—”

Another chuckle was too much for Marcus.

“Yes,” he said. “My chief of staff is a woman. If you find this difficult to accept, I suggest you get over it quickly.”

“Sir—” Cyte said.

“My apologies, madam,” one of the captains said.

“It’s just a bit... unusual for us,” said another. “Borel has never been quite so desperate that the frailer sex has needed to take up arms.”

Cyte straightened up. “I suggest you not repeat that comment when the rest of the army gets here. We have a couple thousand women with muskets, and they’re quite used to making fools of men who think of them as frail.”

“Quite right,” Dorsay said blandly. “We fought them at Gilphaite, and you’d better believe that was a bloody mess.”

The smiles on the captains’ faces were gone, but they made no further comments. Cyte went off with Sub-​Captain Gale to compare lists, and Marcus endured the rest of the introductions, though none of them stuck in his mind. More Vordanai cavalry was starting to arrive, and he set them to marking out an area where the army could stop and erect its tents. We’ll be at least a day getting on board. No sense getting wet until then.

“You’re very thorough, General d’Ivoire,” Dorsay said approvingly. “We’ll have some time on our hands once we set sail. I hope we get the chance to compare notes.” He winked. “And it’s possible a bottle or two of Hamveltai flaghaelan may have come into my possession.”

Marcus grinned. “I think I would like that very much, Your Grace.”

“We can raise a glass to your queen,” Dorsay went on. “She’s due congratulations.”

“Congratulations?”

“On her marriage to Second Prince Matthew.” Dorsay slapped Marcus cheerfully on the shoulder. “The price of the alliance, I imagine. Georg drives a hard bargain, but if she got a fleet and an army out of him in exchange for a marriage, I think he may have got the short end of the stick for once!”