Marcus

Getting an army on the road after a long time in camp was always difficult. It seemed to take even veterans only a few weeks to forget everything they’d ever known about how to march, which meant that order had to be carefully established all over again—​road space allocated to prevent traffic jams, carts and other transport accounted for, patrols and sentries assigned, and distances plotted. Having lots of fresh recruits made things worse. The cavalry patrols would be kept busy rounding up those who’d gotten lost or dropped out of line. Fortunately, they had at least ten days’ march before they reached the Illifen passes, which meant there’d be time to get the fresh troops into some kind of shape before they had to worry about the enemy.

All of this, Marcus had been expecting, and much of the staff work had already been done. What he hadn’t planned for was the attitude of the other senior officers, who were suddenly ill at ease whenever he was around. It was as though he’d been diagnosed with some horrible disease and nobody quite knew how to talk to a dead man walking. Or they’re worried it might be contagious. Even Val showed the signs, though he made a dutiful effort to pretend nothing was wrong.

Only Fitz was immune, which was not surprising. He shook his head when Marcus asked him about it.

“It’s not that they don’t trust you,” Fitz said. “Most of the officers don’t care much what the Deputies think. It’s more that they expect you to be upset about it, and so they’re walking on tiptoe.”

That made sense, Marcus thought. They do look a little bit like children who know Daddy’s ready to explode about something. It didn’t make it any less irritating, though. General Kurot was on his way from the south, but Raesinia had insisted the march begin immediately, so it had been Marcus’ responsibility to set things in motion. Once that was done, though, he happily passed over command to Fitz and reported to the division that was from now his only responsibility.

Every unit, Marcus knew, had its own character, its own customs and rituals, a culture that grew as men died or retired and fresh ones were brought in. That spirit could be a powerful motivator—​troops would fight harder for a group they felt like a part of than for a gang of strangers—​so it was, in most cases, to be encouraged. But it put a new commander in a ticklish position, expected to exercise authority but ignorant of the social ramifications.

How much worse is it going to be when half the division is women? Marcus didn’t feel like he understood women at the best of times. The usual solution was for the new commander to lean heavily on his immediate subordinates. Let’s hope they’re willing.

Each divisional camp was separated from the others, so the army spread out over a considerable stretch of country. They were marching alongside the river Marak, which ran calm and black to the east, flowing in lazy curls to ultimately join the Vor. Around it stretched the heart of Vordan, land that had been farmed and cultivated for centuries. Fieldstone walls surrounded orchards and pastures, plots of vegetables and chicken coops. As the sun went down, lights twinkled behind the windows of cheerful little farmhouses like fireflies coming to life in the gloom. An occasional copse of gnarled old trees still stood, black against the purpling sky. After the harsh wilderness of Murnsk, this flat green land felt like paradise.

Marcus rode alone to the Second’s camp, pleased to see the lights of a well-​spaced sentry ring surrounding it. He waggled his lantern at the nearest as he approached, and the sentry’s lantern bobbed in return. As he got closer, he made out the shape of a young woman leaning on her musket in the weary pose of sentries everywhere. She straightened a little as he rode up, then came fully alert at the sight of the general’s stars on his shoulders.

“Sir!” She snapped a sharp salute. “Welcome to the Second Division, sir.”

“Thank you, ranker.” Marcus swung out of his saddle, trying not to show his aches. He’d improved a bit, but he’d still never quite gotten the hang of horses.

“Is your escort coming up?” the sentry said.

“It’s just me, for the moment,” Marcus said. “My baggage is still on the carts. I imagine it’ll be along eventually. If you could take me to your commander?”

“Of course, sir. Follow me.”

Marcus led his horse after the ranker, up a slight rise. Rows of tents followed the familiar pattern, nicely regular and without a lot of extraneous clutter, which was a sign of good discipline among the junior officers. As Marcus expected, he was taken to the center of the camp, where the command tent was pitched alongside the company baggage and the artillery park. More sentries saluted as they approached.

“Colonel Cytomandiclea should be inside, General d’Ivoire,” the ranker said, a little louder than was necessary. Marcus grinned, remembering Fitz pulling a similar trick to give him a few moments’ warning when Janus dropped in unexpectedly. He handed her the reins and scratched at the tent flap.

“Come in.”

Marcus ducked inside. It wasn’t as large as his army command tent, but it was laid out in a similar fashion, with a map table and a bedroll stowed in one corner. Leaning over the table was a slender young woman, her long dark hair falling forward from her shoulders as she frowned in concentration.

The ranker’s warning had apparently been lost on her. Marcus cleared his throat, and she looked up.

“What—​oh!” She came to attention, crisp and professional, and saluted. “Column-​General d’Ivoire. Welcome to Second Division. I’m Colonel Cytomandiclea. Please call me Cyte, if you like.”

Marcus acknowledged her salute and smiled. “We’ve met. Before that mess at Gilphaite.”

“Of course, sir.” She smiled back cautiously. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered me.”

Marcus was tempted to say that he hadn’t met that many female officers, but on second thought reckoned it might be impolitic. He coughed to cover the pause, and scratched his beard. “I’ve, ah, received good reports of your work here.”

“Thank you, sir. Colonel Giforte has seniority, but I was the head of General Ihernglass’ staff, so I’ve been doing the planning and paperwork.” She shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here. Before we go into action, I mean. I’m... not a line officer.”

“I take it you have no objection to continuing as head of staff?”

“No, sir.”

There was an awkward pause. Marcus felt trapped. One set of instincts saw a young woman and prompted him to make polite conversation; another, military set told him there was work to do. Pretend you’re talking to Fitz, damn it. He gritted his teeth. How did Ihernglass manage this?

“I’ll read the strength reports when I get the chance,” Marcus said. “Anything I should be aware of, in general terms?”

“Nothing major, sir.” Cyte seemed as eager as he was to move on. “We took on a lot of new recruits in the last few weeks, including a big draft of men for the Third Regiment. Colonel Giforte’s ordered extra camp guards to make sure everyone stays in good order.”

“Good idea.”

“She also said she wanted to see you, sir,” Cyte said. “When you arrived.” She paused. “At your convenience, of course.”

“I’ll pay her a visit. Can you arrange for the colonels to join me for dinner? And yourself, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My things should be arriving at some point. You can just move them in here.” A thought struck him. “You do... ah... have your own tent, don’t you?” It wouldn’t be at all unusual for a staff lieutenant to sleep in a tent with his commander, but in this case the thought had Marcus’ face going red.

“I have my own, sir.” If Cyte noticed his discomfiture, she didn’t say anything. Of course she does. This used to be Ihernglass’ command. He’d have had the same problem. Unless... He stamped firmly on that line of thought.

“Good. That’s good.” Marcus patted his uniform vaguely. “I’ll go and see Colonel Giforte, then.”

“Of course, sir. With your permission, I’ll stay here and sort some of this paperwork.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” Marcus turned away, shaking his head.

*

The First Regiment—​otherwise known as the Girls’ Own—​had a sort of camp within a camp, complete with its own inner ring of sentries. They waved Marcus through, and he headed for the command tent. Women, in uniform and out, straightened up and saluted as he passed. He did his best not to stare. One contingent must have freshly returned from bathing in the nearby stream—​some of them were wrapped in blankets and others... less so. Marcus could have sworn they saluted with particular vigor and barely hidden grins. But apart from the bathers—​and the shapes of the underthings drying on the laundry lines—​there wasn’t much to distinguish the camp from any other regiment’s, with muskets stacked neatly, cook fires burning, and dice and card games in progress.

Outside the command tent, Colonel Abby Giforte was easy to spot, striding up and down spitting fire in the face of a pair of cowed-​looking lieutenants.

“—​I don’t care what Captain fucking Jathwhite told you,” she was saying. “I’ve got the maps from the general and they’re quite fucking clear. Tell him his idiots will have to move their goddamned horses.”

One of the lieutenants, a tall, willowy girl who couldn’t have been older than twenty, said pleadingly, “I know, sir, but he might be more willing to listen if you would just come and talk to him—”

“I have better things to do with my time,” Abby said. “And so do you. Balls of the Beast, you need to learn not to let some second-​rate moron push you around because he’s got stripes on his shoulder and a cock between his legs. Get back there and tell him to move, and don’t let him alone until he fucking gives the orders. Got it?”

The other lieutenant, a shorter, slightly older woman, was grinning broadly. They saluted together and hurried off. Marcus waited while Abby let out a long breath and looked around.

“What’s everyone staring at?” she said. Then, catching sight of Marcus, she raised an eyebrow and offered a sloppy salute. “Made it at last, General?”

“My apologies for the delay,” Marcus said. “I’m told you wanted to see me.” He nodded after the retreating lieutenants. “Are you having trouble?”

“Trouble?” Abby looked confused for a moment, then barked a laugh. “That’s just training. Lieutenant Koryar has spent most of her life getting what she wants by smiling at people. She needs to learn there are other ways.”

“I see,” Marcus said. “Then you had something else you wanted to talk about?”

Abby’s eyes narrowed, and she sighed. “You’d better come inside.”

Her tent was a mess, which was an impressive achievement considering it could have been up for only a few hours. There were no tables, and a few leather maps were spread on the floor. A small pile of clothing sat in the middle of the bedroll, including a large uniform shirt with a distinctly masculine look. Marcus tried not to show any reaction, but Abby clearly caught him looking and raised an eyebrow, as though daring him to comment. When he said nothing, she nodded slowly, as though he’d passed a test.

“Column-​General d’Ivoire.” She heaved another sigh. “I apologize if I was rude.”

“Don’t worry yourself, Colonel.” He tried a tentative smile. “I’ve had worse.”

Abby smiled herself, very slightly. She was at least a decade younger than Marcus, in her early twenties, with a short shag of brown hair and a heavy dusting of freckles.

“It’s all for the girls’ sake,” she said. “They expect a bit of a hard-ass at the top. Since Jane’s dead and General Ihernglass is... away, that has to be me. Cyte isn’t really the type.”

Marcus had to agree that it was hard to imagine the slight, soft-​spoken captain as a martinet. “I understand. And I’m sorry about General Ihernglass.”

“Don’t be,” Abby snapped. She started to speak, paused, and then said deliberately, “He is alive. And he’ll catch up to us eventually. For the moment I imagine he has something more important to do.”

Marcus nodded, not wanting to argue. “So, what did you need to see me about?”

“I just wanted to be clear where we stand.” Abby frowned, looking up at Marcus. “You know that most of the women in this regiment joined up to follow Jane and Winter.”

“I know.” Jane Verity, the street tough turned officer who’d been widely rumored to be Winter’s lover, had ultimately betrayed Janus and been imprisoned for it. She’d later died, under somewhat mysterious circumstances. “I’ll do my best to follow their example.”

“Good. Winter was always very clear about the Girls’ Own being an equal part of the division.”

“You’re afraid of the other regiments taking advantage?” Marcus looked sympathetic. “I’ll speak to the colonels and make it clear it won’t be tolerated—”

Abby snorted. “We can take care of ourselves on that front, General. Not that we need to—​we’ve got them pretty well trained by now. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Woman or not, being an officer demanded a certain code of behavior. Marcus fixed Abby with a frosty stare. “You’re concerned about my ability?”

“I have no doubts as to your ability,” Abby said. “We all know what you did in Murnsk after the river flooded. I’m more worried about your character.”

Marcus, who’d unfrozen slightly, resolidified. “My character?”

“That you might have some crazy ideas, like maybe keeping my regiment off the front line, or sending us where you think it’s going to be safe.” Abby grinned. “Winter always said you had an excess of chivalry. I’m telling you that if you try to apply that to us, you’re going to have a lot of angry soldiers on your hands.”

Ah. Marcus paused uncomfortably. Winter wasn’t wrong, he supposed. Marcus had opposed the creation of a female unit, back in the beginning, out of a visceral feeling that letting women put themselves in harm’s way went against everything he was supposed to stand for. Janus hadn’t shown any such scruples, however, and it had been hard to maintain his opposition in the face of the enthusiasm of the Girls’ Own and other volunteers. Then there’d been Andy, who’d served as his aide all through the coup and the Murnskai campaign, until she’d been killed during the retreat. Her name still brought him a pang of guilt, though she’d chosen her own path every step of the way.

“General Ihernglass... has known me a long time,” Marcus said. “But I like to think I’m capable of learning, at least a little bit. I can’t pretend I’m completely comfortable, but I promise I won’t hold this regiment back.” He shrugged. “I’d be a fool if I tried to. You’re widely agreed to be the best skirmishers in the Grand Army, and any commander who was handed a weapon like that and didn’t use it would deserve to lose his battles.”

“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” Abby’s grin widened. “I’ll hold you to it, General.”

“Please do,” Marcus said. “Now, may I ask you a question?”

Abby raised her eyebrows again. “Of course, sir.”

“My guess is a lot of your... soldiers joined up because of Janus, too. Are we going to have any difficulty now that he’s on the other side?”

Abby gave that some thought, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. We might have, once, but the old hands have been through two campaigns together now. We owe one another more than any commander, even Janus. And the latest batch of new recruits is from after Janus resigned as First Consul.”

“What if Winter Ihernglass turns up at Janus’ side?”

Abby’s smile faded. “That... might be difficult. But I don’t believe Winter would ever fight against Vordan.”

I might have said the same about Janus. Marcus decided not to press the point. Despite Abby’s optimism, the odds were that Winter was dead, his frozen body lying somewhere in the Murnskai mountains along with so many others.

“All right.” Marcus looked around. “I suppose I’d better see if my baggage has arrived. Was there anything else?”

“No, sir. Not for the moment.”

“Good.” He hesitated. “Your father sends his regards, by the way.” He hadn’t, in so many words, but Marcus felt certain he would have, if asked.

Abby laughed. “My father and I have agreed to a truce. I pretend we’re not related, and he pretends I don’t exist.”

“He’s a good man. We wouldn’t have gotten through the coup without him.”

“I’m sure he is. Maybe one day he’ll be okay with the fact that his daughter is a good soldier.” She shrugged. “You can tell him I said hello, if it’ll make you happy.”

“I doubt I’ll see him soon, but I’ll keep that in mind—”

There was a scratch at the tent flap, and Marcus paused. A woman’s voice from outside said, “Messenger for the general, sir!”

“Come in,” Abby snapped.

A moment later a boy ducked through the tent flap. He was a corporal, but no older than sixteen. His wide eyes suggested he’d absorbed the same scene Marcus had outside, but been a bit less polite about staring.

“Sir. Sirs.” He came to attention. “Message for Column-​General d’Ivoire.”

“That’s me,” Marcus said. “What is it?”

“Compliments of Column-​General Kurot,” the boy said. “He’s arrived, and he wants to talk to you as soon as possible. I’m to take you to him, if you’re ready.”

Marcus had hoped for another day or so to get settled in to his new command. No such luck, apparently. Though it was probably a good thing from the point of view of the army as a whole. At least Kurot keeps a quick pace.

“Then let’s not keep the general waiting,” Marcus said. “Lead on.”

*

The new commander of the Army of the Republic had clearly only just arrived, but his staff were unpacking with impressive efficiency. A large command tent was already up, and others were rising around it. Several carts full of neatly labeled and organized supplies stood nearby. Marcus’ guide brought him to the central tent and scratched for entrance, and was greeted by a barked “Come!”

Marcus nodded to the boy and stepped inside. Column-​General Thomas Kurot sat at a folding table behind a portable writing desk. Very little else had been unpacked yet, but the table was already prepared with maps and a set of tiny wooden soldiers, complete with long rakes for moving them about. Beside the map stood a chessboard, pieces carved from black and white marble, apparently abandoned midgame.

Kurot himself was in early middle age, his brown hair fading to gray and receding toward a bald spot atop the dome of his skull. He wore thin, square-​lensed spectacles, which combined with a peaked nose to give him an owlish look. Deep blue eyes gave a strong impression of intelligence. Marcus saluted, finding the reflex a little rusty.

“Sir,” he said. “Column-​General Marcus d’Ivoire, reporting as ordered.”

“General d’Ivoire.” Kurot looked up, and his smile held genuine warmth. “Please. Come and sit.”

Marcus crossed the room, a little uncertainly, and pulled out a folding chair near Kurot. The general looked him over a bit longer and gave an approving nod, as though he liked what he saw.

“Let me first say,” Kurot began, “that it’s an honor to serve with you. I have read your accounts of the Khandarai campaign with great interest, and I’ve heard many stories from the more recent Murnskai expedition.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said.

“And let me also say that I appreciate the difficult position you’ve been placed in.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I am, of course, technically junior in rank to you, having received my promotion to Column-​General only recently. By rights it ought to be you in command of the Army of the Republic.”

“The Deputies-​General believe you are the best choice,” Marcus said noncommittally.

“We both know that has more to do with your perceived affinity for the former First Consul than with anything else.” Kurot spread his hands. “An army can have only one commander, General d’Ivoire, and I don’t pretend that I’m unhappy to have been granted charge of this one. But I want you to know that I appreciate the depth of your experience, and I plan to rely on you a great deal. The Deputies may not trust you, but I know better.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How long did you spend with Vhalnich?”

“Practically from the beginning,” Marcus said. “Although I was here in Vordan during the Velt campaign.”

“Ah, yes. When he conquered mighty Antova in only a few days.” Kurot frowned. “A pity. I would have liked to hear more of that. But no matter. You must have formed an impression of him.”

“I...” Marcus hesitated. Whether Kurot trusted him or not, it wouldn’t do to seem too friendly with the man who was now an enemy of Vordan. “I had his trust, I think. And I understood him, at least a little. I’m not sure anyone has the full picture. Janus is a very secretive man.”

“So I understand. Secretive, prone to drama, with a tendency to conspiratorial thinking.” Kurot flashed a smile. “I’ve been studying him, of course. One should always know as much as possible about one’s opponents. Would you call him a genius?”

“It doesn’t quite fit, sir, but it’s as close as I can get. It seemed like things that would elude an ordinary person were just obvious to him.”

“So it often is, with geniuses and great commanders. Janus is as interesting a case as I’ve ever studied. Nearly great, we might say. Like a cracked gemstone. Flawed, but still intensely brilliant.”

Marcus frowned, but said nothing.

“The Velt campaign was a masterpiece,” Kurot went on. “And the Khandarai campaign will be taught in military schools for centuries. But under extreme pressure, he clearly starts to fray a bit. Murnsk was not such a great success, after all.”

It was very tempting to speak up—​Janus had, after all, destroyed every enemy army that had come against him except for Dorsay’s slippery Borels, and only the magically turned weather had halted the march. But that seemed impolitic, so Marcus merely concurred with a “Yes, sir.”

“Did he talk to you about his art of war?” Kurot said.

“A little, sir. But only in broad terms.”

This apparently excited the general so much that he had to stand up and pace. “We’ll have to go over what he said. Every word.” He waved a hand at the maps. “It will be a pleasure to finally face an opponent who understands the rules of the game. Hunting rebels in the south is necessary, but I take little pleasure in it. They’re simple creatures, by and large. You set the trap and wait until they step into it. No, I imagine Vhalnich will be a different sort of player altogether.”

“I’d expect so, sir,” Marcus said, swiveling in his seat.

Kurot’s gaze went to the game board. “Do you play chess, General d’Ivoire?”

“Not since the War College, sir.”

“Pity. I think every important truth about war can be found in chess. All this”—​he gestured again at the map and the little soldiers—“is contained in this simple board, if you have the eyes to see it. Move and countermove is the very essence of war.” He looked up. “I’m sure Vhalnich told you the same.”

“I can’t say he did, sir. But Janus never attended the College.”

“Of course. An amateur. All the more astonishing, really.” Kurot went quiet, lost in thought.

“Did you want to discuss plans, sir?” Marcus prompted.

“Time for that later,” Kurot said dismissively. “We won’t even reach the passes for days. No, I just wanted to meet you face-to-face. Clear the air, as it were.”

That’s what everyone seems to want today. Marcus suppressed a sigh. “Thank you, sir. But if there’s nothing else, I had better get back to my division. I’m still introducing myself to the colonels.”

“Of course, of course. For the moment, the marching schedule remains as you’ve so kindly laid out. I’ll send you any changes of plans.” Kurot smiled again. “And let me know if you want to brush up on your chess. I’d be happy to show you a few tricks.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

*

By the time Marcus returned to the Second Division camp, dinner was well under way. Light streamed from the command tent, and loud voices were audible from inside. Marcus swept in and found a half dozen people sitting around the big table, with a steaming platter of meat and a plate of bread sitting between them.

“Finally,” said a handsome young man. “I thought my stomach was going to tear itself in half.”

“Oh, come off it,” Abby said. She sat at one corner of the table, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve been eating like a king all week.”

That was certainly true, Marcus reflected. Being in rich, friendly territory was an unaccustomed luxury for an army on the march, and the locals were happy to sell the quartermasters all the food they wanted. For the moment, hardtack and army soup had been replaced by beef, pork, and fresh bread.

“Let me make it my first official order,” Marcus said, “that no one should ever wait for me to eat dinner. Please, get started.”

A laugh went around the table, and the assembled officers relaxed and began loading their plates. Marcus tossed his jacket on the bedroll and sat at the head of the table, with Cyte at one side and Abby on the other.

“Would you mind doing the introductions?” he asked Cyte. “I still need to put names to faces.”

“Of course.” She set down her knife and fork and pointed at the young man next to Abby. “Colonel Parker Erdine, of the cavalry.”

Erdine doffed an imaginary cap and bowed, silky brown hair falling around his face. “An honor, sir.” He had the air of a dandy, but from what Marcus had read he’d proved himself a hard fighter.

“You know Abby,” Cyte went on. “Colonel David Sevran commands the Second Regiment.”

Sevran was a solid, serious man with pockmarked cheeks and an unflappable look. Marcus nodded to him and said, “You commanded a battalion under Ihernglass in the Velt campaign, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he said. “Most of those men are still with the regiment. They’re solid soldiers.”

“Good to hear.” Marcus turned to the oldest man in the room. “I presume you’re Colonel Blackstream, then?”

“You presume correctly,” Blackstream drawled. He wore his age well, with long white mustaches and gray hair pulled back into a complicated braid. Marcus knew he was a War College man, who’d been a captain at Vansfeldt when Marcus had been a nineteen-​year-​old lieutenant. “Fourth Infantry Regiment, sir. We won’t disappoint.”

Winter had written that Blackstream seemed to get along well with the other officers, even if he was a bit dour. Marcus watched his expression for any hint of jealousy—​Marcus was, after all, a considerably younger man who’d advanced much farther in the same career, and that kind of professional rivalry was stock-in-trade for prerevolutionary officers—​but the man’s face was hard to read. Marcus made a mental note to keep an eye on him, and turned to the other side of the table.

“This is Colonel Martin de Koste,” Cyte said. “Commander of the Third Regiment.”

“Honored,” de Koste said, inclining his head. He was tall and neatly dressed, with the attention to detail and etiquette that came from a noble upbringing. Of all the colonels of the Second Division, he was the one Marcus was most inclined to mistrust. Winter had written that de Koste practically worshipped Janus. I’ll have to see if there’s a way to have a quiet word with him.

Aloud, Marcus said, “And of course Colonel Archer and I go all the way back to Khandar. The good old days, eh?”

“The old days, at any rate,” Archer said, grinning. He was a boyish-​looking fellow, with smooth cheeks and golden hair. Despite the impression of youth, he was an experienced artillerist, and a student of the Preacher’s methods. Marcus wasn’t certain if Archer shared the old cannoneer’s religious tendencies as well.

“All right,” Marcus said to the table at large. “I’ll keep this brief. It’s never easy joining a new command, and I know it’s never easy getting a new commander. Winter Ihernglass was one of the best soldiers I ever had the privilege to lead, and this will always be his division. I consider myself to be just looking after it for the time being.”

There were smiles around the table, and Abby leaned back in her chair, looking satisfied.

“I know the thought of fighting Vordanai doesn’t sit right with a lot of you, and I can’t say that I like it, either,” Marcus went on. “Janus bet Vhalnich was... a friend. But anyone who takes up arms against the queen and the people of Vordan needs to be stopped, no matter how great their previous services. I still hope this will somehow be resolved peacefully, though I admit that seems unlikely. If it does come to fighting, I want every courtesy extended, every surrender honored, in accordance with the civilized laws of war. Most of the men we’ll face are just obeying their officers’ orders, the same as ours.”

Colonel Erdine was nodding vigorously, but de Koste was scowling. Interesting.

“In that vein,” Marcus said. “I want to make one point very clear. This is Vordan, and we are Vordanai. That means no looting or pillaging will be tolerated, under any circumstances. Is that understood?” There was a round of nods. “Please communicate that to your men. We’re here to protect the people, not abuse them.” Marcus looked around the table again. “That’s all I’ve got, for the moment. Any questions?”

“You went to meet with Kurot,” Abby said. “Did he tell you anything about the plan?”

“General Kurot assured me he’d fill me in when the time came,” Marcus said.

Blackstream looked sour. “Do you really think he’ll be a match for Janus?”

“I’m sure he’ll do fine,” Marcus said. “He’s... very clever.”

Abby and Cyte exchanged looks. “Clever” was usually not a good trait in an officer. Clever officers got people killed. But that’s what I said about Janus, back in the beginning. Kurot deserves a chance. He ignored the traitorous voice in the back of his mind that said against Janus bet Vhalnich, one chance was all you usually got.