Marcus

There was a scratch at the tent flap. Marcus set down his pen with some relief and looked up. “Yes?”

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Cyte said.

“Please. Come in.”

After nearly a week on the march, Marcus was settling in to his new routine. In truth, it was a relief to have a smaller force to worry about than the entire Grand Army, and General Kurot and his staff had been doing a competent job thus far. The Army of the Republic had proceeded by easy stages away from the river and up toward the Illifen passes without more than the usual number of entanglements, traffic jams, and stuck wagons.

Marcus had been trying hard to get to know his colonels and learn some of the peculiarities of their units. Every command had its eccentricities—​the intercompany handball games that were a regular feature of the Second’s camp life were a new wrinkle, for example—​and, for the most part, they were harmless. But not always. He frowned as Cyte slipped inside.

“Something wrong, sir?”

“Maybe.” He cleared his throat and steeled himself. “I have become aware of an... improper relationship between Colonel Giforte and Colonel Erdine.”

“Improper, sir?”

“A sexual relationship.”

“Ah.”

“I realize it’s a serious charge, but I’m quite certain.” Marcus felt himself flushing a little. Hell of a thing to have to talk to a girl about. “When I was at Colonel Erdine’s tent, I encountered Colonel Giforte in a state of undress.” He’d damn near walked in on the two of them in the act, by the look of things.

“I see, sir.” A faint smile played at the corner of Cyte’s lips.

“Were you aware of this?” Marcus said.

“More or less, sir. I think it’s... common knowledge.”

“I thought that might be the case,” Marcus said. “I have the highest respect for both of them as officers. Ordinarily a stern reprimand would be appropriate, but I wondered if General Ihernglass had a special procedure for this kind of... affair. Given the First Regiment’s unique situation, I mean.”

“Of a sort, sir. He was generally willing to turn a blind eye. Provided, of course, the liaison did not involve soldiers in the same chain of command.” She was definitely smiling now. “I think it’s safe to say that Abby and Erdine are... not unique, sir.”

“I should have expected as much.” Marcus sighed. “It’s not going to be good for discipline in the long run.”

“From what General Ihernglass told me about the Colonials, it wasn’t uncommon for the officers to keep women,” Cyte pointed out.

Marcus had to admit there were several establishments in Ashe-​Katarion that he’d frequented. He grimaced. “That wasn’t... regulation. And, of course, with only men in the regiment, we didn’t have to deal with any relationships between soldiers.”

“That’s...” Cyte paused, and apparently decided not to comment. “In any event, sir, so far it hasn’t caused problems in the Second. Do you plan to change General Ihernglass’ policy?”

“I suppose not.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I assume Colonel Giforte and her soldiers have... that is, they won’t...”

“They have appropriate protection, sir,” Cyte said. “And Colonel Giforte is very firm if there’s even a hint of coercion or commerce involved.”

“That’s good. We can’t have the regiment turning into a brothel.”

“The Girls’ Own takes care of its soldiers, sir.”

“Good, good.” Marcus let out a long breath, feeling like he’d surmounted a difficult obstacle.

“Was that all?” Cyte said with a broad grin.

“I’ve had this note from General Kurot,” Marcus said, tapping his pile of papers. “There have been several attempts at defection intercepted by the sentries, and it’s possible others were more successful. Marching against Janus...” He shrugged. “What’s your sense of the Second? Are we likely to have problems in that respect?”

“I doubt it, sir. Speaking frankly, it was always more Winter’s division than Janus’.” She looked a little uncomfortable. “I have to admit, sir, that there’s been a little talk about you. Not that the soldiers doubt your loyalty, but...”

“I understand.” Marcus was getting used to those suspicions, unfortunately. “Is this talk anything I should worry about?”

“No, sir.” Cyte straightened up. “Of course not.”

“You haven’t offended me, Colonel. Don’t worry.”

Marcus got out of his chair and walked around the table, brushing papers out of the way until he could see the map. The present position of the Army of the Republic was marked in grease pencil, along with most plausible guesses about where Janus’ army might be, moving slowly down the Pale toward Alves. He found his finger drawn, once again, to a spot not far from their line of march, just this side of the mountains.

“I understand you were fairly close to Ihernglass,” Marcus said.

“Y-yes.”

“He trusted you.”

“I like to think so.” Cyte leaned over the table to follow Marcus’ gaze. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Ihernglass told me that there were a few soldiers in his command that understood the... full extent of what happened to him in Khandar. He implied that you were one of them.”

“You mean his, ah, more unusual service?”

The hell with it. “I mean magic, Colonel. General Ihernglass told you about magic. The Thousand Names and the Penitent Damned and the whole rest of that Karis-​damned lot.”

Cyte didn’t even flinch. “Yes, sir. We were attacked by Penitents several times during the Velt campaign.”

“Good. I need someone who isn’t going to think I’m crazy. Is there anything important on the schedule for tomorrow?”

“Not particularly, sir. We’re third in line of march, so it should be an easy day.”

“Anything Colonel Giforte can’t handle without you?”

“No, sir.” Cyte looked curious. “Why?”

“I want you to come with me on a little side trip.”

His finger tapped the map again. The tiny castle was labeled in the smallest type the mapmaker had been able to find. Marcus had to squint to read it. Mieranhal.

*

It felt like an invitation to disaster, riding away from the column, even though Marcus had gone through proper channels and informed everyone who needed informing of his brief absence. It’ll be days yet before we’re in any real danger. Even Janus, with his reputation for doing the unexpected, wouldn’t force a march over an inhospitable mountain pass in hostile territory just for the sake of a little bit of surprise. Probably.

He’d fought off all efforts to provide an escort, ostensibly for the sake of morale. This was, after all, still Vordan, and senior officers shouldn’t need guards to ride around the countryside. He was just as happy not to have to explain himself to anyone but Cyte, though. They started early and rode southwest at an easy pace. Marcus was glumly unsurprised to note that Cyte was a far better rider than he was, but an amiable trot down a sleepy lane was a trip even he could handle.

“Have you spent much time in the country, Captain?” he said, as they turned to follow the road around the curve of a hill. The mountains were startlingly close, looming blue and vaguely unreal in middle distance. Between here and there, the land rose into increasingly steep hills, the farms of the flat bottomland giving way to orchards and pasture.

“No, sir,” Cyte said. “City girl for the most part.”

“I’m the same. Closest I got was my time at the War College.” He looked up at the mountains. It feels like I could reach out and touch them. “Pretty, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir.” Cyte hesitated. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Mieranhal.” Marcus waved a hand. “This is all Mieran County. Mieranhal is the county seat.”

“Oh!” Cyte looked around with new interest.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Never, sir. But Mieran has a fascinating history. Linguistically, it’s an isolated dialect, unrelated to the Mithradacii that—” She stopped. “Sorry, sir. I studied ancient history at the University, before the revolution.”

“No need to apologize,” Marcus said. “In fact, I’d be obliged if you’d give me the short version.”

“The short short version is they’re a bunch of mountain people who fought like hell and managed to hang on to their land when everyone down in the valleys was overrun. The Mierantai rulers swore fealty to the Tyrants, and later to the kings of Vordan, but they kept their own customs and language. They’ve been basically keeping to themselves for thousands of years.”

“Interesting.” From a military perspective, Marcus could see it. This kind of hilly country would be a nightmare to fight in, especially against a canny enemy who knew the ground well.

“Yes, sir. They’re supposed to have the oldest surviving examples of preconquest script and architecture.” She cocked her head. “I assume you’re not here for the historical significance?”

“In a way. But I’m interested in more recent history.” Marcus shifted in his saddle, already feeling the aches. “This is where Janus bet Vhalnich grew up.”

“Of course,” Cyte said, sounding irritated she hadn’t made the connection. Her eyes went wide. “You think he might be in communication with someone here?”

“I doubt it, actually. But I’m hoping we can find someone who knew him when he lived here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to prejudice your opinion,” Marcus said. “But keep your ears open, and I’ll explain later.”

They didn’t reach Mieranhal until well after midday. The roads had an irritating tendency to curve, following the shoulders of the hills to maintain a shallow grade but making it very easy to get lost. Fortunately, Cyte was excellent with maps, and they only had to backtrack twice. Both sides of the road were planted with trees, mostly craggy little apple trees standing in neat rows, their leaves just starting to change from green to yellow. A cheerful young man sitting on a fence post offered them each an apple as they passed, and another for each of the horses. Marcus bit into his as he rode and found it just the right balance of sour and sweet.

Orchards gave way to rocky pastures as they climbed higher, dotted here and there with sheep. Marcus was starting to think they’d taken another wrong turn when they came around a switchback and found their destination looming directly in their path, as though it had snuck up on them. Mieranhal was an ancient stone building, more manor house than true fortress. It had been added to extensively over the years, modern wings sprouting off the original structure, including wooden outbuildings and several plaster-​walled cottages. More orchards and vegetable gardens stretched out behind it, and Marcus saw two girls leading a flock of sheep around the back. As they got closer, several dogs began barking.

The front doors were mammoth things that looked like they’d require a team of dozens to open. Marcus reined up in front of them, not sure exactly what to do, but a smaller door around the side creaked open. A young man stepped out, holding the leash of a large, jowly dog that was sniffing the air entirely. To Marcus’ surprise, the man smiled and transferred the leash to his left hand to make a proper salute.

“Saints and martyrs!” The voice, with its harsh accent, brought a spark of recognition, but it wasn’t until the man came closer that Marcus placed the face. “Marcus d’Ivoire. And risen so high I don’t even recognize the stars on your shoulder.”

“You’re Lieutenant... Uhlan, wasn’t it?” It had been only a year since they’d worked together in Vordan City, thwarting Maurisk’s attempted coup, but it felt more like a century. Uhlan had been one of the Mierantai volunteers who’d served as Janus’ bodyguards and trusted aides.

“Yes, sir. Though not a lieutenant anymore, glad to say. Resigned my commission. Just Medio bet Uhlan, at your service.”

“It’s good to see you,” Marcus said. “This is Colonel Cytomandiclea, of the Second Division. She’s serving as my aide at present.”

“He’s got a knack for finding pretty girls to be his aides,” Uhlan said to Cyte. To Marcus, he said, “What happened to Andy? She finally get tired of you?”

“She died,” Marcus said, feeling a twist in his guts. “In Murnsk. She saved all our lives.”

“Ah, shit.” Uhlan shook his head. “Sorry. And here I am keeping you in the yard. Hyllia!” When a girl’s head popped out of a window, he shouted, “Get someone out here to take care of the officers’ horses, and fetch drinks.” He looked back at Marcus. “You’ll stay for dinner, I hope?”

“I’d love to,” Marcus said.

*

It turned out that Mieran County was one of those places that took their hospitality seriously. No sooner had Marcus and Cyte knocked the dust from their boots and come inside than they were whisked to a comfortable sitting room and provided with mugs of hot apple cider, plates of cheese and bread, and some kind of dried meat so doused in hot pepper it made Marcus’ eyes water.

Uhlan sat with them, chatting amiably as servant girls brought the food and drink. Marcus remembered the Mierantai volunteers as being a taciturn lot, but Uhlan was much friendlier here, on his home ground.

“My family has been in service to the counts for generations,” he said, when Cyte quizzed him about his history. “Since the lance-​and-​shield days, if you believe the stories my grandfather told me. His father formed the first Mierantai Volunteers to fight with Farus IV. Since then it’s been sort of a tradition.”

“You went home after the coup,” Marcus said. “When Janus became First Consul.”

“He said he didn’t need us anymore.” Uhlan sipped at his cider. “He always felt guilty about calling us out, I think. He takes his responsibility toward the county seriously, and he knows we’ve all got families waiting for us. We’re not professional soldiers.”

The Mierantai had seemed professional enough when Marcus had fought beside them, deadly accurate with their long rifles and admirably disciplined. Marcus reached for more bread and surreptitiously checked to see if the servants had left the room. When he was satisfied they were alone, he said, “I assume the news has reached you here.”

Uhlan smiled dryly. “We’re not that isolated, General d’Ivoire.”

Marcus glanced at Cyte. “You haven’t had any contact with him, have you?”

“No.” Uhlan shook his head. “Some of the boys wanted to go and find him, but we talked them out of it.”

“Would you go, if he called?” Cyte said.

“Don’t imagine I haven’t thought hard about it,” Uhlan said. “He’s been a good master to everyone in Mieran, but we swear an oath to keep the county safe. This emperor business...” He shrugged. “He ought to know better.” After a pause, he cocked his head. “Did you come out here just to ask me that? You’re not the first officer to come around, you know.”

“Someone else was here?”

“A pair of them,” Uhlan said. “One came in uniform and asked around. The other tried to do a bit of spying, but that gets hard in a place like Mieran, where everyone knows everyone. We told ’em both the same I’m telling you.”

Probably Alek Giforte’s men. The former Armsman was trying to put Vordan’s intelligence service back together, and it made sense he’d send someone here.

“That’s not really why I came,” Marcus said. “I was hoping to find out a little more about Janus.”

“Why?” Uhlan’s face was still friendly, but there was a sharp edge to his tone. “He’s your enemy now, isn’t he?”

“I’m... not sure.” Marcus looked at Cyte again. “You’re right. He ought to know better. And some of the things he’s said to me make me wonder...” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it well. But I’m trying to understand why he would turn on all of us the way he has. I wouldn’t have said it was possible.”

“What’re you hoping to find?” Uhlan said.

Marcus shook his head helplessly. “A reason, maybe. Just... something.”

The Mierantai looked at him for a long time, hard eyes unreadable. Then his face split in a grin again, and he shrugged.

“Can’t see the harm,” he said. “And I know you, General d’Ivoire. You would never betray a friend.”

I already have. Marcus felt a stab of guilt, remembering Janus imprisoned in the barn outside Polkhaiz. It had been the right decision, backing Raesinia and peace instead of helping Janus continue the war, but Janus’ face at that moment would always be etched in his memory. Is that why he’s doing this? Is it my fault?

But his instinct said no. It doesn’t make sense.

“Thank you,” Marcus said.

“Hyllia?” Uhlan raised his voice. After a few moments, a servant girl opened the door and poked her head in. “Take General d’Ivoire and his friend up to see Gravya, would you? Tell her I said she can trust them.”

Hyllia bobbed politely. Marcus finished his cider and set it aside, then followed her back into the hall and on a winding path through the house. They passed under a stone arch and into one of the older sections, where warped, cloudy glass in the windows cast strange patterns of light on the walls and the floorboards were polished smooth and almost black. A faint dusty smell hung in the air.

The girl rapped at a wooden door with flaking blue paint, knocking a few chips to the floor. “Mistress Gravya?”

“Yes?” The response was an old woman’s. “Hyllia, dear, is that you?”

“There’s visitors, Mistress Gravya,” Hyllia said. “Master Uhlan asked if you’d speak with them. He says you can trust them.”

“Visitors?” The door opened, revealing a tall, iron-​haired woman in her sixties. She wore a practical brown dress and thick spectacles, and a white cap was pinned to her neat bun. She took in Marcus’ and Cyte’s uniforms, and her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Soldiers? What would soldiers want with me?”

“My name is Marcus d’Ivoire,” Marcus said. “This is Colonel Cytomandiclea.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Gravya said, looking critically at Cyte. “You’re a woman.”

“Yes, mistress,” Cyte said. “And you can call me Cyte, if you like.”

“We’d like to ask you some questions about Janus,” Marcus said. “What he was like when he was younger.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gravya said. “He was a boy like any other boy. There were no comets at his birth or anything like that.”

“I realize that. He... is a friend of mine.” Marcus lowered his voice and fought off another pang of guilt. “I was hoping you could tell me about Mya.”

The old woman went very still for a moment, staring intently at Marcus. Her hand came up and patted her bun, as though reassuring herself her cap was still in place.

“Hyllia, you can go,” she said. “I’ll bring the officers back when we’ve finished.”

“Yes, mistress.” Hyllia bobbed again and hurried off, apparently glad to be away from these strange visitors.

“He never talks about Mya,” Gravya said. “Not to anyone he doesn’t trust completely.”

Another stab of conscience. Janus hadn’t known he’d been talking about Mya; he’d been delirious, dying of a supernatural poison. Marcus forced himself to nod solemnly.

“All right,” Gravya said, suddenly decisive. “Come along.”

She swept out of her room and led them off down the corridor again. It went deeper into the oldest part of the house. Eventually they climbed a narrow stairway, accompanied by a chorus of creaks and groans.

“I keep telling Medio someone ought to clean up here,” Gravya said. “But there’s always something else to do, and not enough hands to do it. That’s the thing about an old pile like this; some part of it’s always falling down. I’m not so different, I suppose.” She gave a bark of a laugh.

“You knew Janus well, then?”

“Of course. I practically raised him. His parents both died when he was a baby, you know. We all raised him, the servants here at Mieranhal, but I was his tutor.” She snorted. “To the extent he needed such a thing.”

“And who’s Mya?”

“Nearly there.”

They reached a door, which Gravya opened. It led to a dimly lit room at the top of the house, attic rafters fading into darkness overhead. A long, moth-​eaten carpet spread out underfoot. Gravya took an oil lamp from a hook on the wall, lit it expertly with a match, and turned up the flame to reveal a gallery hung with paintings in heavy, ornate frames.

“The other thing about an old pile like Mieranhal,” she said, “is that nobody ever throws anything away. You stash it somewhere, just in case you need it. Or someone else needs it, three generations down the line. It’s not as though we’re short of space!” She raised the lantern and started to walk, then stopped in front of a painting. “Here. Look at this.”

Marcus looked. The painting was a big portrait, well captured and thick with detail. The background was a large kitchen, with dozens of figures preparing food. In the foreground were two children, standing side by side, looking up as though they’d been captured in the act of doing something naughty.

The boy on the right seemed about six years old, with a round face and a lick of dark hair. In the crook of one arm, a small gray kitten was nestled, looking up at him inquisitively. On the left, an older girl, perhaps twelve, held a saucer of milk. The resemblance between them was uncanny—​her hair was long and brown, and her face sharper ​angled, but the eyes were the same. Huge gray eyes, with a strange depth the painter had expertly captured.

“That’s Janus,” Gravya said. “And Mya. The night of the winter feast, they snuck into the kitchen to find treats for the cat. Janus had been hiding it in his room, because old Woodsmark had said he couldn’t have one. I forget why. Cook caught them, but the poor cat looked so sad she kept it secret anyway.” Gravya smiled. “Mya asked for the picture to be painted, later. She had a mischievous streak a mile wide, that girl.”

“She’s his sister?”

“His older sister.” Gravya touched the painting with one gnarled hand. “This was painted not six months before she died.”