The Shadow Throne

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MARCUS

“Fitz!” Marcus said, grabbing his ex-lieutenant’s hand. “Damn, I’m glad you’re here. The extra stripe suits you!”

“Thank you, sir,” Fitz said. His blue uniform was immaculate as always, and the two silver stripes that marked him as a captain gleamed bright. “It’s only provisional, of course, until it’s confirmed by the Ministry.”

Marcus laughed. “If we win, I don’t think that will be a problem. And if we lose. .”

“My thoughts exactly, sir.”

“You can dispense with the ‘sir’ now, you know.”

Fitz looked almost offended. “Oh no, sir. You still retain seniority.”

Oh well. At least some things never change. “You’re here to see the colonel?”

“To pick him up, actually.” They were standing outside the front door of the Twin Turrets, and Fitz indicated the two-horse carriage parked in the drive. “He wanted to see the Triumph, where we’re doing the public training. I imagine he’ll want you to come along.”

“Glad to hear it.” Marcus fingered the hem of his coat, self-consciously. “It’s a little odd, living in a house where the queen wanders in to breakfast in her bathrobe.”

“I can imagine, sir.”

There was a long pause, and Marcus felt strangely awkward. He’d spent two years with Fitz, and during that time the lieutenant’s presence had become an organic part of his life. He’d hardly had to issue orders-Fitz had anticipated him and done what needed to be done, as easily as breathing.

Now, though, he didn’t know where he stood. Fitz was captain of the First Battalion, Marcus’ old unit. Marcus had no doubt he was up to the task; it was his own position that was unclear. He didn’t have a real position, except that of captain of the now-defunct Armsmen and general assistant to the colonel. In the old days, Marcus would have been quizzing Fitz on the state of the troops and what preparations had been made, but now it felt as though that would be infringing on the new captain’s prerogative.

Fitz frowned. At first Marcus thought he was feeling the same awkwardness, but he said, “Sir. I hate to be the bearer of the bad news, but there’s something you need to know.”

“Bad news?”

Fitz nodded soberly. “It’s concerning Miss Alhundt. I know the two of you were. . close.”

“Ah.” Marcus swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “And?”

“She didn’t survive the crossing, sir,” Fitz said. “I’m sorry. The doctors tried their best, but in the end they couldn’t even get her to take water. We had to bury her at sea.”

Marcus nodded distantly. He wasn’t sure if he should be grieving or relieved. He could remember Jen in the ancient temple, wielding a cracking, spitting sorcery that tore stone to shreds, mocking the time they’d spent together. But he could also see her in his tent, huddled tight against him to fit on the narrow camp bed, her chin resting on his shoulder and her slow breathing tickling his ear. There had been a gentleness there, a vulnerability that he couldn’t reconcile with the vicious creature who’d attacked him.

Which one was the real woman, and which one was the mask? Now, he supposed, he’d never know.

“Thank you for telling me,” Marcus said, eventually.

“I’m sorry,” Fitz said again. “I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later.”

“Yes.” Marcus took a deep breath, past the knot in his throat. “What about the others?”

“Everyone’s doing well, sir. We had a few rankers come down with a fever, and we left them in Vayenne, but otherwise it was a quiet voyage.” He made a face. “The men didn’t appreciate having to wait an extra week in the transports, though.”

“An extra week? What do you mean?”

“We docked downriver at Ohms a week ago, sir. The colonel’s instructions were to wait there for a message from him, then to make our best time up the Green Road to the city.”

“And you did an excellent job, Captain Warus,” Janus said, opening the front door. Two of his Mierantai followed, long rifles resting on their shoulders. “I didn’t want the Colonials to march into the city without being sure of their reception,” he explained to Marcus. “So I left instructions for them to wait. And a good thing, too. No telling how the deputies would have reacted to an army regiment turning up unexpectedly.”

“No telling,” Marcus murmured, remember the couriers riding in all directions as soon as Janus had been released. I wonder what else he had waiting.

“Shall we?” Janus said. “It’s going to be a busy day. Messengers from the duke arrived this morning.”

“Messengers?” Marcus said, as they started toward the carriage. “With what sort of message?”

“His Grace demands our surrender, of course. Having defeated Deputy Peddoc’s force, he assumes we are at his mercy. His representatives were very surprised to get the news that the Colonials had arrived.”

“That should give him pause, I should hope.”

“The longer the better,” Janus said. “We need time more than anything. Unfortunately, I suspect the duke realizes that as well.”

“What did you do with them, sir?” Fitz said. “The messengers. I assume they wanted to open negotiations.”

“Oh, I imagine they’re negotiating as we speak.” Janus flashed a smile. “I told them I was only empowered to defend the city, not to engage in any discussions, and that they would have to talk to the deputies. I last saw them heading toward the cathedral.”

Marcus barked a laugh. “That ought to keep them busy for a few days.”

“What if the deputies agree to the surrender?” Fitz said.

“The deputies,” Marcus explained, “can’t agree on anything.”

“It may buy us a brief respite,” Janus said, opening the carriage door. “Let’s see what we can do with it.”

“This isn’t the lot, surely,” Marcus said, looking out at the drilling recruits.

“No, sir,” Fitz said. “We’ve made our main camp at Ohnlei. Plenty of space in the gardens there for drills, and it’s good to get the volunteers out of the city. Keeps them from wandering off at night. But the colonel requested that we have a company or two take their instruction here in the Triumph so that everyone could see what it was like. It might encourage a few more to sign up.”

“They’ve certainly got an audience,” Marcus said. “But I’m not sure it’s going to convince anyone.”

A stream of blistering curses drifted up from one of the Colonial sergeants, in a mixture of Vordanai and Khandarai. The foreign obscenities seemed to make quite an impression, and there was even scattered applause from the onlookers. The recruits were in two long lines, about a hundred men in all, ununiformed but sporting army-pattern muskets. They were being attended to by two blue-coated sergeants, one of whom called out the stages of the Manual of Arms while the other prowled the ranks, looking for shirkers.

It took Marcus back in time, not even to Khandar, but to his childhood. None of the boys who went to the War College were going to be rankers, but the instructors considered it important that the future officers understand what it was they were ordering their men to do. So the first three months of every cadet’s instruction had been identical to what a newly arrived ranker would get in one of the army training camps, albeit with a bit more attention to the niceties and less summary corporal punishment. Marcus remembered long afternoons in the sun, miming the steps to load, ready, level, and fire until his arm went numb.

He’d been sixteen, younger than most of the boys here in the square, but he thought that he and his classmates had caught on faster. Though I suppose they’ve only been at it a few hours. And having half of Vordan City staring at them can’t help their concentration.

Janus was watching the drilling men from beside the coach. Fitz had wandered over to exchange a few words with one of the sergeants, and Marcus had followed him. Now they stood together, but once again Marcus had the feeling of being apart, separated from the unit that had been the only family he had for all of his adult life. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, sir?” Fitz said. He hadn’t lost his knack of picking up on Marcus’ tiniest hints.

“How many new men have you got in total?”

“I don’t have the latest counts. They’re still trickling in, and the sergeants are culling out those who won’t be able to fight. But I’d guess we’ll end up with at least six thousand.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. In one sense, that felt like an enormous number-more men than the Colonials had ever had at any one time. On the other hand, only six thousand came forward, out of how many hundreds of thousands in the city? He shook his head. We work with what we have.

“Have you got six thousand muskets?”

“No, sir,” said Fitz. “We brought about two thousand spare up the river with us, mostly captured from the Auxiliary’s armory in Ashe-Katarion. Mor has been working to scrounge up whatever he can find here. There’s the stocks of the Armsmen and the palace guards at Ohnlei, but unfortunately it looks like this Peddoc already stripped those pretty clean. The colonel pointed us to a few private sources, but Mor doesn’t think they’ll amount to more than another thousand. Plenty of powder, though, and we’ve got men working on making cartridges.”

“What about the other half of the recruits?”

“We’re giving them pikes. I don’t know if it’ll be worth anything, but. .” He flicked his eyes at Janus. “I think the colonel has a plan.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“You see how we’ve got them doing the Manual of Arms before anything else?”

“Yes.” Marcus frowned. “That is odd. When I was at the College, we started with formations and marching.”

Fitz nodded. “Colonel’s explicit orders. When I asked why, he said that we might be able to teach them to shoot a musket in a few days, but we haven’t got a chance of getting them to march straight, so we shouldn’t bother to try. I can’t say that I disagree, but I still don’t follow his reasoning.”

“The joys of serving under Janus bet Vhalnich,” Marcus said, carefully under his breath.

Saints and martyrs. Pikes and men who can’t march. He tried to imagine being on the battlefield with a pike-little more than a long pole with a spiked blade at one end. The boom of guns, the rattle of musketry, smoke and flashes everywhere, men falling in screams and blood. And you out there with a pointy stick, like it was two hundred years ago.

And as for marching, any infantry that couldn’t reliably form square would be decimated if it was caught in the open by enemy cavalry. At least one cavalry regiment had been quartered at Midvale, he knew, and Orlanko might have been able to scrape together more.

“Hell,” he said aloud. “I hope he’s got a good plan.”

“We’ll get through it, sir. The Colonials have faced worse odds than this.”

Marcus winced. The sentiment was well meant, but the last time they’d faced well-equipped troops, it had been General Khtoba’s Auxiliaries. That engagement had cost the lives of hundreds of men, and it had cost Adrecht-Marcus’ best friend-his arm, and possibly his sanity as well. Let’s hope we do better this time.

“Very good, Captain,” Janus said, coming over to the two of them. “I want you to take them to live rounds as soon as you feel they’re ready. Every man should feel the kick of his weapon before he takes it into battle, and I don’t know how much time the duke will give us.”

“Understood, sir.” Fitz saluted.

“I’m going to look in on things at Ohnlei,” Janus went on. “Fitz, I’ll need you with me. Marcus, I’d like you to check in with our artillery contingent and see how things are progressing.”

“Understood, sir,” Marcus said, with a salute of his own. He was relieved to be assigned a definite task. “Where can I find them?”

“Captain Vahkerson is at the University, working with the crews. Captain Solwen is looking for tubes, so he’ll be out in the city, but I imagine Captain Vahkerson will know where to find him.”

“Yes, sir. Anywhere in particular at the University? It’s a big campus, if I recall.”

Janus’ smile flashed across his face. “You can just follow the noise, I expect.”

Boom. It was odd how the sound of a gun going off changed as you got closer to it. At a distance, only the bass thump of it was clear, like thunder growling far away. As you got nearer, the higher tones became audible, until it was a full-throated bang that resonated at the back of your teeth and in the pit of your stomach. And when you thought it was so loud you must be nearly on top of it, you found that you were still a couple of hundred yards off. Get closer and it grew louder still, until your ears rang like cymbals in the silence that followed each detonation.

Marcus was able to find the Preacher, not only by walking toward the booms but by following the crowds of curious, nervous University students. They looked very somber in their black scholar’s robes. Most of them were young men, but there were a few older students and even a couple of women among them.

The University itself consisted of low, ancient stone buildings, veiled with climbing ivy, tile-roofed and rambling. Additions, extensions, and new construction had gone up over the centuries without any plan, dividing the grounds into a set of irregular courtyards whose grass was maintained to exacting perfection by the famously dictatorial University gardeners. Most of the windows were the old lead-lattice sort, filled with warped, bubbly glass, so as Marcus walked by he got distorted, fish-eyed views of rooms and students within.

At the back of the campus, the University grounds blended imperceptibly into the Old Woods, a tag end of ancient trees that was the last remnant of the primeval forests that had covered the valley of the Vor before the city had been founded. Between the tree line and the manicured lawns was a large field of tall grass, a kind of no-man’s-land between natural antiquity and modern perfection. It was here that the Preacher had set up his cannon, aiming it south so that any stray balls would splash into the Vor or hit the uninhabited slopes of Thieves’ Island.

Marcus paused at the edge of the grass as the company of young men by the gun, perhaps thirty in all, simultaneously ducked and put their hands over their ears. Only Captain Sevran Vahkerson remained stolidly upright, shading his eyes with one hand to observe the flight of the ball. The cannon bucked and roared, spitting a momentary gout of flame and a huge cloud of powder smoke, and a moment later a puff of dirt downrange marked where the shot had struck. There was a square of red cloth there, Marcus noticed, a dozen yards past the point where the ball impacted.

“Short,” the Preacher said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “Far too short. You sprayed a bit of dirt in their faces, but that’s all, and now they’re going to come over here and gut you with bayonets.” He turned to the young men, who were slowly straightening up. “Can anyone tell me what Ranker Quilten did wrong?”

“He must have fucked up the angle-” said one student, in the front of the crowd, only to be pinned to the spot by a furious glare from the Preacher. “Sorry. He must have gotten the angle wrong.”

“I had the angle dead-on!” said a powder-blackened young man, presumably Quilten. “And Tart checked it.”

“It did look right,” another man admitted.

“I think,” Quilten said, turning on the Preacher, “that your godda-that your darn cannon is broken.” He held up a sheet of paper. “My calculations were quite precise! At that arc the ball should have landed precisely on target.”

“And,” the Preacher said, “in the course of your calculations, did you examine the cannonball?”

“What?” Quilten looked down at where a small pyramid of cannonballs stood beside the gun. “Why?”

“Because that ball was at least a quarter inch smaller than the last one.”

“That’s not fair!” Quilten said. “You can’t hand me a dud and expect me to make the shot.”

“You think cannonballs are all the same?” the Preacher roared. “You think they get finished by master artisans in some china shop? You think, in the field, you’ve got the luxury to pick and choose?” He shook his head. “Be grateful to God if you have enough balls, let alone good ones. You’ll get shot that’s too small, too large, misshapen, scored, or worse. You’ll capture the enemy’s ammunition, and only Karis knows where he gets it. You need to be able to feel a ball, and know what to do with it. If it’s too small, you’ll get more windage, which means you need a bigger charge to get the same force! But give thanks to God if your balls are too small”-he ignored a chorus of sniggering-“because if they’re too big, and you cram them in, this gun will explode in your face!”

At the end of this monologue, he caught sight of Marcus and acknowledged him with a nod. Glaring at the young men, he said, “I want you to go through this stack of shot and tell me which ones are heavy and which are light.”

“Can we have a balance?” one of the students said, doubtfully.

“You think you’ll have a balance with you in the field?”

“We might be able to rig one up,” said another man, “with a rock and some sticks. We could use a known-good ball to calculate the mean error-”

The Preacher sighed and stalked through the long grass toward Marcus, shaking his head. Marcus suppressed a smile.

“Karis preserve me from boys who think they know what they’re doing,” the Preacher said. “I liked it better working with rankers straight from the farm. At least it was easy to put the proper fear of the Lord into them.”

“I assume this was the colonel’s idea?” Marcus said.

“Yes. And it’s not a bad one, in truth. You can teach anyone to load and fire a gun, but being able to lay a shot properly takes a bit more skill. This lot”-he waved at the young men clustered around the cannonballs, now arguing about how to make their decision in the fewest number of trials-“gives everything strange names and talks a lot of rubbish about parabolas and acceleration, but at least they know what goes up must come down. We might make a couple of decent gun sergeants out of them.”

“Will you have enough time?”

“That’s the big question, isn’t it?” The Preacher shook his head. “If I had even a week, I’d be thankful, but the colonel tells me we might not get that long. We’ll manage, I expect, with the Lord’s help.” He paused. “It’s good to see you again, Senior Captain.”

“Likewise. I hope you had a pleasant voyage.”

“I don’t know about pleasant, but we’re here, by the grace of God. And none too soon, it seems.” The Preacher scratched his nose. “Are you going to be taking over the First, then?”

“No,” Marcus said. “Fitz is doing a fine job, I think. I’ll be assisting the colonel.”

“Too bad. Fitz is a good boy, but a bit too clever for his own good. I’ll miss having your hand on the tiller.” He shook his head. “God’s will be done, of course. And the colonel’s.”

“I’m supposed to give him a report on the artillery.”

“We’ll manage something here, if we can find enough metal. I’ve got men pulling guns out of the water batteries, but those are siege pieces. If we go into the field, it’ll be a hard job getting them in place. Val is out rounding up everything he can find.”

“I’ll check up on him. Do you know where he is now?”

“On the Island, somewhere near the cathedral. Someone said there were old guns out in front of some of the big buildings there. Shouldn’t be too hard to track him down.”

“Right.” Marcus looked at the squabbling students and shook his head. “Anything else I should tell the colonel?”

“Not from here.” The Preacher hesitated. “You’d best know, about-”

“Jen? Fitz told me.”

“Ah.” The Preacher coughed. “Well. I’d better get back to it before someone drops a ball on his toes. God’s grace go with you, Senior Captain.”

“And you,” Marcus said. He turned about and went in search of Val.

The eastern end of the Island felt strangely empty. Marcus crossed over the Saint Uriah Bridge and walked through the Exchange, where the great multistory trading houses with their rooftop cranes and pulleys were all shuttered and silent, the crowd of frantic traders in hiding. Crossing one of the little shop-lined bridges that separated the Exchange from the Island proper, he could see the spires of the cathedral looming up like stone masts amid the surrounding buildings.

The square in front of the cathedral-where the deputies were entertaining Orlanko’s messengers-was nearly empty, with the crowds having moved a few blocks west to watch the recruits drilling in Farus’ Triumph. There were carriages and cabs about, though, and a few pedestrians. Marcus, conspicuous in his blue uniform, collared the nearest and asked where there was a Royal Army party looking for cannons.

A few minutes later he’d tracked down Val, who was accompanied by Lieutenant Archer of the artillery, a dozen rankers, and another dozen burly civilians waiting by an empty wagon. They were clustered around a tiny cannon, only a few feet of gleaming bronze with iron-bound wheels, standing on a small plinth outside an impressive-looking building. One of the rankers had one hand on it, looking as proud as a boy with a new puppy, but Val was shaking his head. Marcus caught the tail end of his remarks.

“I know we’re looking for cannon, Ranker Servus,” he said, “but you have to realize that not everything that looks like a cannon is, in fact, a cannon. This, for instance, is a statue.”

“But it’s got wheels, look! And it looks old!”

“Look at the barrel, Ranker. A cannon needs a hole in the barrel. Otherwise where are we going to put the balls?”

Servus looked crestfallen. He rapped the solid muzzle of the little gun with his knuckle, and sighed.

“Right,” Val said. “Where next?”

“Fellow I talked to said he thought there were two or three down on the riverfront,” one of the rankers said. “He said he used to eat his lunch there, and they were so covered in pigeon shit he didn’t realize they were cannon for years.”

“I hope you’re up for scraping off some pigeon shit, then.” Val turned around, and his eyes widened at the sight of his long-absent senior captain. “Balls of the Beast! Is that really you, Marcus?”

“Last I checked.” Marcus grinned, and Val grabbed his hand and shook it with unnecessary force, slapping him on the shoulder with his other hand for good measure. He had quite a grip. Captain Valiant Solwen had been one of Marcus’ longest-serving companions in Khandar, and probably his best friend after the dead Adrecht Roston. He had the florid face of a serious drinker and a pencil-thin mustache of which he was inordinately proud. “Good to see you, Val.”

“And damned good to see you,” Val said. “Damned good to see the old city, too. Though truth be told, I was just happy to see solid ground after all those months with nothing to look at but blue. I’m never getting on another ship as long as I live, I swear it by Karis the Savior.”

“That bad?”

Val rolled his eyes. One of the rankers sniggered and said, “The captain gets seasick.”

“That’s enough of that,” Val said. “Archer, take them down to the waterfront and see if those are guns or stones under all the guano. I’ll catch up after I have a word with the senior captain.”

Archer nodded and started barking orders. The wagoneers got on the bed of their vehicle and rumbled off, followed by the soldiers.

“Have you seen the others?” Val said.

“Briefly,” Marcus said. “Fitz and the Preacher, anyway.”

“Mor’s tearing the city apart looking for muskets,” Val said. “And Give-Em-Hell has been culling out anyone who says he can ride from the recruits, and trying to turn them into cavalry.”

“Small hope there,” Marcus said. “It takes more than a few days to make a trooper.”

“What about you?” Val said. “The way I hear it, you’re the colonel’s right-hand man now. Has he got you on some secret errand?”

“Just checking up on the guns. Are you getting anywhere?”

“There’s some siege pieces in the water batteries,” Val said. “And so far we’ve pulled maybe a dozen smaller guns from places like this.” He gave the little gun sculpture a kick. “A lot of banks have them out front, for some reason. Popular decorations, or at least they were a hundred years ago. Some of the pieces we’ve got have to date back to the Civil War.”

“Are they still serviceable?”

“That’s the big question.” Val pulled absently at his mustache, first one end and then the other. “Preacher says he’s going to scour them, load them up, then set them off with a torch on the end of a long pole. Anything that doesn’t explode, we’ll keep.”

Marcus chuckled and shook his head. The ingenuity of the Preacher and his men when it came to cannons and explosives was notorious; he trusted they’d come up with something.

“Is it true the colonel made you captain of Armsmen?” Val said abruptly. “Before all this started up, I mean.”

Marcus nodded. “He landed me right in the thick of it. I don’t know if you’ve heard what happened at the Vendre.”

“Only rumors. You were there?”

“I’ll tell you the story, when we’ve got more time.”

“Right.” Val sighed. “Hell of a thing, to spend three months at sea and then pitch back into it as soon as we get here.”

“You think the men are up for it?”

“Oh, they’re up for it, just a little ticked off. I feel sorry for whoever gets in their way. Some of them aren’t crazy about fighting Vordanai, but after Khandar. .” He shrugged. “I think every man of them would follow the colonel if he told ’em to march into the river.”

“Does that include you?” Marcus said. Of all the Colonial officers, Val was the one who had retained the most connection to home. He was a nobleman of sorts, the younger son of a lesser branch, but those kinds of ties went deep. He probably has cousins on the other side.

“I don’t know about the colonel,” Val said, “but I’d follow you if you said we were going to storm the moon. If you say this is the right side to be on, then it is.” He coughed to cover this moment of unexpected candor. “Besides, I hear we have the queen with us, so that makes it all right.”

“We’ve got her,” Marcus confirmed. “I saw her at breakfast this morning, in fact.”

Val blinked. “You’re staying with the queen?”

“Actually, she’s staying with me. Or we’re both staying with the colonel, I suppose.” He didn’t mention that he’d helped the queen escape her own chambers and led her personal guard into an ambush. Val might have fainted.

“Now, there’s something I never thought I’d hear. What’s she like?”

“A bit odd. She looks younger than she is. Smart, pretty in an awkward sort of way. I’ll introduce you when we get the chance.”

“After the battle, please,” Val said. “If we’re getting ready to fight, the last thing I need to worry about is a royal interview.”

He spent a bit longer with Val, catching up on the regimental gossip and relating a few choice tidbits from his time in the city. At first they were able to banter as though nothing had changed, but something uncomfortable gradually crept into the conversation. It took a moment for Marcus to realize what it was. Val had work to do, and Marcus was keeping him from it. When Marcus had been in command, whatever he’d had to say to his subordinates was by definition the most important thing in their lives at that moment, at least as far as their duties were concerned. Now he could sense Val’s nagging feeling that he ought to be off with Lieutenant Archer looking for cannon. Marcus eventually let him off the hook with a promise that they’d finish their catching up sometime later, and rustle up Mor and Fitz for cards as they had done in the Ashe-Katarion days.

What the hell has Janus done to me? Marcus walked, hands in his pockets, back toward Cathedral Square. If the Colonials were a single living thing-and Marcus often thought of them as one-then Marcus was a tiny piece of that creature excised by a surgeon and carried across the sea. The regiment had survived, and even thrived, but the place where he’d been had scabbed over and turned to scar tissue, and he didn’t fit back into it anymore.

It’ll be different, once we win. If they lost, of course, none of it would matter. At best they’d be fugitives, on the run from Orlanko’s secret police. And at worst. . well, that was always a risk on a battlefield. But if we win. . then what? He couldn’t picture it. But the queen would find something for him to do, wouldn’t she?

It was well into the afternoon by now, and he decided his aching legs weren’t up to the long walk back to the Twin Turrets. Instead he hailed a cab, which turned out to be occupied by two other men also headed north across the bridges.

“We’re all doubling up these days,” the cabbie told him. “Half the boys have hidden their rig and taken their horses to the countryside until all this is over. It’s only a few minutes out of your way.”

The man was eyeing his uniform, and Marcus probably could have evicted the other passengers with a word of command and a pointed look. But he was in no hurry, so he climbed in and took his seat beside two young men wearing the restrained but expensive clothing of professionals or successful merchants. The door closed, and the horses started clip-clopping up the cobbled street.

“It’s true,” one of the men said to the other, taking no notice of Marcus. “One of my kitchen boys has a cousin who’s a carter, and he’s been making the run up to Ohnlei. He said he saw them in the field, muskets and trousers, bold as brass.”

The other man snorted. “Whores drumming up business. Girls acting like men does it for some people, I suppose. I can see the appeal. It’s cute, like putting a little coat and hat on your dog and pretending he’s a gentleman.”

“This carter talked to some of the new soldiers,” the first said. “They said one of the men asked for a price, and got a kick in the fork for his troubles.”

The other laughed. “Probably tried to lay a hand on the merchandise without paying cash up front. I met this girl in a Southside tavern once, and she would slit you as soon as look at you until you crossed her palm with gold. After that, well, it was a different story. .”

Marcus pressed his head against the window and tried not to listen. He was certainly no stranger to prostitutes-no soldier was-and he’d had his share in Ashe-Katarion, before the Redemption. There were always girls willing to fawn over the Vordanai soldiers in those days, for the status and protection from the prince’s law, but Marcus had preferred the honesty of a straightforward commercial transaction. Then there had been Jen, and after she’d betrayed him. .

And now she’s dead. He still wasn’t sure how to feel about that. There had always been the wild hope, in the back of his mind, that she’d wake up and beg forgiveness. Janus said whatever Ihernglass had done had stripped her of the demon she’d borne for the Church, so she’d be no further use to them. She could have stayed with me, and-what? Marriage? His mind balked at the idea.

It doesn’t matter now. He swallowed a lump in his throat and shook his head. Fantasies never helped anybody.

After letting the two young men off at a fashionable town house south of Bridge Street, the cab rumbled around to the Twin Turrets. The sun was still up, but already the house was ablaze with light, torches burning beside the doors and candles showing in the windows. Marcus paid the fare, exchanged salutes with the Mierantai guards, and went inside.

Janus was in his study, still going over the maps of the ground between Vordan City and Midvale with a pencil and dividers. The usual stack of folded papers, weighed down with books, inkwells, and whatever else was handy, stood at his elbow. The colonel always insisted on thorough reports from his subordinates.

Marcus saluted again, then relaxed at Janus’ vague wave. He closed the door behind him.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” the colonel said. “What news from our officers of artillery?”

“They’re making progress, sir.” Marcus related what he’d seen at the University, and what Val had told him.

“It’s something, anyway.” Janus sighed. “If I were truly the all-seeing genius they call me in the streets, I would have had a cache of cannon secreted somewhere in the city in preparation for this moment. Take note, Captain. Preparation has its place, but there is no substitute for improvisation. And a great deal of hard work.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus hesitated. “You were up at Ohnlei today?”

“Briefly,” Janus said. “Captain Warus and I decided to keep the headquarters here. If the duke moves quickly enough, it’s possible Ohnlei might come within his reach, and it’s poorly suited for defense. We’d have to abandon it.”

“I see.”

Janus looked up, big gray eyes skewering Marcus. “Why do you ask?”

“I. .” Marcus paused, his face reddening a little, but there was no turning back now. It was hard to hide anything from Janus. “I heard something on my way back. Just a rumor, I’m sure. They said a gang of women had taken up residence there, and were. . practicing their trade. I wondered if you knew about it.”

Marcus wouldn’t have put it past Janus to hire a bunch of prostitutes for the use of his newly recruited soldiers, now that he came to think about it. For all that he was a nobleman, he lacked delicacy in such matters, though as far as Marcus knew he himself never indulged. He wondered if Janus had a woman, back in Mieran County. Hell, or a wife. I’ve never asked, and he never talks about himself.

“Ah.” Janus laid his pencil down and straightened up. “I suppose word was bound to get out.”

Now I’ve put my foot in it. Marcus’ cheeks were flushed under his beard. “If this is something you’ve arranged, I don’t mean to imply-”

“It is indeed something I arranged, Captain, but it’s not what you think. This morning I had a visit from a group of young women who wished to volunteer as soldiers.”

Marcus barked a laugh, automatically. Then, as he put this together with what he’d heard in the carriage, his forehead furrowed.

“You sent them on their way, sir, I should think,” he said.

“On the contrary, I told them their services would be welcome. Their spokesman was the notorious ‘Mad Jane,’ with whom I think you may be familiar.”

“You told them. .” Marcus shook his head. “I don’t understand. What are you hoping to accomplish?”

“I am hoping to defend this city and my queen against the Last Duke,” Janus said, a touch of harshness entering his voice. “I will accept the assistance of anyone who wishes to offer it.”

“So you sent them to be-what? Nurses? Washerwomen?” Marcus’ frown deepened. “I don’t like it, sir. A few girls, out among so many young men. People are going to make assumptions.”

“You don’t seem to understand, Captain. I sent them to be soldiers. As for their safety among so many men, I think Miss Verity and her companions have adequately demonstrated their ability to care for themselves, don’t you?”

“You sent them to be soldiers,” Marcus deadpanned. “A bunch of girls.”

“Yes.”

“To carry muskets.”

“Yes.”

“And to march-”

“Yes. Captain, what is it about this concept that you find so difficult to understand?”

“But that’s ridiculous, sir! You can’t-I mean, they would-”

Janus said nothing, eyes hooded. Marcus took a deep breath.

“If they’re dead set on it, maybe we could use them for recruiting,” he said. “But you can’t seriously think of sending them into the fighting.”

“Why not?”

“Because they might get killed!”

“And I suppose you think all the boys we’ve recruited have steel skins?”

“But-”

“Forgive me if I sound callous, Captain, but from my experience I am reasonably certain that a woman can stop a musket ball as well as any man. If she can load and fire her own weapon as well, I see no reason to stop her.”

“The other recruits will never stand for it. Nobody will stand for it.”

“You’d be surprised,” the colonel said. “‘Mad Jane’ is quite popular, and many of our new soldiers come from the Docks. And if anyone does object, they’ll have their officers to answer to.”

“But. .” Marcus turned even redder. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through, sir. What if they’re captured by the enemy?”

“Then I suspect they will be raped,” Janus said, pronouncing the ugly word with a deliberate bluntness. “A fact of which they are certainly well aware. These are not noble girls from the Fairy Castles, Captain. It’s a threat they’ve lived with all their lives.”

“But how can we send them out if we know that might happen to them?”

“We fought the Redeemers, who liked to burn their prisoners alive and, some said, to eat them. There was also the option of impalement, which I understand involves a wooden spear inserted via the anus and positioned in such a way as to leave the victim alive for days while he’s mounted on the city wall. The Desoltai tortured, gelded, and murdered our scouts and left them for us to find. Against any of these enemies, did you hesitate to order your men forward because you were worried about what might happen to them?”

“But these aren’t men. They’re-”

“Captain d’Ivoire,” Janus growled. Marcus had only heard the colonel raise his voice in anger once, in a temple on Ashe-Katarion’s sacred hill. This was only a shadow of that violent outburst, but it carried an echo that made Marcus’ skin crawl. “You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension, and perhaps I am to blame. Our victories in Khandar have made many in the Colonials overconfident, and their estimation of my own abilities has risen to frankly unjustified heights.

“I know my worth, Captain, but I have no magic trick to pull out of my bag here. Orlanko has more trained men than we do, and they are well equipped. He has more guns, and he has a regiment of cuirassiers to our few hundred light horses. All I have to set in our side of the balance pan is the assistance of the people of Vordan City, to whatever extent they are willing to offer it. If we lose, you and I, not to mention the other officers of the Colonials, will almost certainly lose our heads, and our queen will become a slave in all but name. Under the circumstances, please believe I mean what I say when I tell you I will take any help I can get. I am not going to turn away two hundred highly motivated volunteers because you have scruples about their gender. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus drew himself up and saluted. “I understand, sir.”

“Good.” Janus’ expression calmed, as though the brief burst of anger had never been. A moment later, he flashed a smile. “If you have any further objections, I suggest you take them up with Her Majesty. I have no doubt she would be happy to listen.”

WINTER

Putting on her uniform, straight from Janus’ laundry, felt more comfortable than Winter could have imagined. Her specially tailored undershirt, tight across the chest in the right places, tucked into blue trousers with razor-sharp creases. A proper lieutenant’s jacket, with a double row of gleaming buttons and the white stripes sewn on the shoulders. And the brimmed cap, which sat differently than she was used to. Winter puzzled at this until she realized she hadn’t had her hair trimmed in weeks, and her usual close-to-the-skull cut was getting distinctly shaggy.

It was all as familiar and comfortable as an old glove, but during the walk across the palace grounds she found herself tugging nervously at the seams and sleeves. The problem was Jane’s unaccustomed gaze. In Khandar she’d managed to forget that her disguise was a disguise, but with Jane watching she couldn’t put it out of her mind.

Finally, out of earshot of the outer ring of sentries, she muttered, “You don’t have to stare at me like I was a dancing bear.”

“Sorry,” Jane said, with a smile that was anything but. “I’m still getting used to this. Do you know you even walk differently?”

“This is going to be awkward enough,” Winter said, “without you making me nervous.”

“All right, all right. But promise me something?”

“What?”

Jane’s grin turned wicked. “Wear that outfit to bed sometime? I can’t look at it without thinking about how I’d peel it off you.”

Winter rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a little blush. So now I have that image to keep me company. She started off again, and Jane fell in behind her. Winter could almost feel her leering gaze. Jane could out-ogle any tavern full of sailors Winter had ever encountered, when she put her mind to it.

The First Colonial camp was laid out directly in front of the palace itself, split by the broad main drive and occupying the grass lawns that spread out from the cul-de-sac with its fountain and statue of Farus IV. Farther down the drive was the space they were using as a drill field, and the new recruits, lacking tents, were bedding down in the offices and hallways of the various ministries. The notorious Cobweb had been mostly gutted by fire, started by Orlanko’s minions as they’d fled. The drill sergeants had been using targets chalked on its facade for target practice, so the once-smooth columns and frontage were now scored and pitted as well as black with smoke.

All the drills thus far had been with weapons, without even a token effort to teach march discipline or camp skills. Jane’s girls, given a hallway of hastily abandoned offices in the Ministry of War, had organized a cooking schedule and set watches on the doors with the thoroughness of long practice, but the rest of the recruits were not nearly so organized. Fires burned at random among the once-perfect grounds, and carefully trimmed trees and shrubs were hacked to bits for wood. Rough-looking men filled their buckets from the ornamental fountains, and the specially bred black-and-white carp in the Ministry of State’s reflecting pool were quickly captured and eaten.

The First Colonial camp was far more organized, with the familiar torchlit avenues between rows of faded blue canvas tents. One ring of sentries surrounded the camp, and patrols with lanterns walked around the palace, protecting it from looters. There weren’t enough men to guard the entire vast estate, but Janus had asked that the royal residence, at least, be spared wanton destruction.

Once they were among the tents, Winter was at least spared Jane’s continued attention. The familiar scene of an army camp was entirely new to her, and she looked around eagerly at the tents, the stacked arms, and the big kettles where the men were cooking dinner. Her stares were returned from every quarter, and as they passed, men poked one another and whispered. Rumors had obviously started to spread about the girl soldiers. For a moment, Winter felt the familiar urge to shrink in on herself, but a glance back at Jane steadied her. She straightened up and walked a little faster.

When they found First Battalion, Seventh Company, the first few men they passed looked up and froze, unable to believe their eyes. Before she’d taken a dozen steps, though, Winter found herself at the center of an instant crowd, drawing soldiers out of their tents with almost magnetic force into a narrow circle around her and Jane. They were all shouting at once, greetings, questions, gossip, and Winter had to hold up her hands for silence. She could hear Jane laughing.

“It’s good to see you all,” she said, when they’d calmed down a little. “No, I’m not back for good. Not yet. The colonel said he would see what he could do. For now, can you tell me where I can find the corporals?”

A young man with a peach-fuzz beard and a pip on his shoulder was pushed forward. Winter recognized him vaguely but couldn’t recall his name. He saluted, nervously, and said, “I’m Corporal Morraz, sir. But I think you mean Sergeants Forester and Folsom. They’re with the lieutenant. Follow me, sir.”

The corporal pushed his way through the crowd, and the men made way as Winter and Jane followed. He led them to a tent, marked out from the others only by the light of a candle burning inside.

“Shall I introduce you, sir?” the corporal said. Then, glancing at Jane, he added, “Miss?”

“I can manage, Corporal,” Winter said. “Thanks.”

Morraz saluted and scurried off. Jane looked at the tent, whose highest point was barely above her nose, and gave a low whistle.

“You lived in one of these?” she said, quietly.

“For two years,” Winter said. “You get used to it. Eventually all you care about is having a dry spot to sleep.”

“And I thought we had it hard in the swamp.”

Winter knocked at the tent pole. An unfamiliar man’s voice said, “Yes?”

“Um,” Winter said, disconcerted. “It’s Lieutenant Ihernglass.”

“Ah yes. I thought it might be, from the commotion. Come in!”

Winter pulled up the flap and went inside. Jane followed, walking stooped. A folding table was strewn with papers and ledgers, the sight of which gave Winter an instant, instinctive feeling of guilt. Two people sat on opposite sides of it, pens in hand.

The man facing Winter was in his shirtsleeves, but Winter guessed he was the lieutenant. He was blond and blue-eyed, giving his face a vaguely Murnskai cast, and he had a jawline you could have cracked rocks on. Winter guessed he was a few years older than she was, in his mid-twenties.

His companion was Rebecca Forester, also called Robert Forester, known in both guises as Bobby. Senior Sergeant Bobby Forester, Winter saw, from the three pips on the shoulders of her jacket. Fitz had evidently done more than move a few lieutenants around in terms of getting the units sorted out. She looked somehow older than when Winter had last seen her, more adult. Winter still couldn’t see her soft, round face as a boy’s no matter how hard she tried, though it had fooled her well enough when they first met. As soon as Winter entered, Bobby popped to her feet. Before she could rush to embrace Winter, however, Jane came in, and Bobby stopped uncertainly in her tracks. The lieutenant raised an eyebrow.

Winter stepped forward into the uncomfortable silence, head slightly bent, and offered her hand across the table. “Lieutenant Winter Ihernglass.”

“Lieutenant John Marsh,” the man said, returning a firm handshake. “I think you know Sergeant Forester?”

“You might say that.” Winter shot Bobby a conspiratorial grin. “This is Jane Verity. I don’t know if you’ve heard that I’ve been placed in charge of one of the new companies-”

“I think everyone in the camp has heard by now,” Marsh said.

I was afraid of that. “Jane is my second in command.”

“I see.” Marsh glanced, for some reason, at Bobby, who gave a tiny shrug. “Well. Welcome, Lieutenant, Miss Verity. How can I help you?”

“I just wanted to have a few words with my corporals. My former corporals,” Winter corrected. “If it’s all right with you.”

Marsh, again, looked at Bobby. Winter thought she saw the girl nod very slightly.

“Of course,” he said. “I expect you have a lot of catching up to do!” He got to his feet, slapping dust and drying sand off his thighs. “Shall I fetch Junior Sergeant Folsom?”

“I’ll get him later,” Bobby said, and smiled at Winter. “Graff isn’t here, though. Fitz made him a lieutenant for the Third Company.”

“I’ll have to congratulate him,” Winter said.

She and Jane stepped aside, letting Marsh slip past them with a polite nod. He ducked through the tent flap and let it fall behind him. Bobby gestured for the two of them to sit, and gathered up the paperwork to pile it out of the way. Winter settled herself onto the cushion in front of the old, familiar low table, with Jane at her side.

There was a long pause. Bobby looked from Winter to Jane and back again, not sure what to think, and Winter couldn’t figure out how to begin the conversation. It was Jane who finally broke the silence with a laugh.

“Look at the two of you.” She shook her head, trying to fight her grin and failing. “I’m sorry, but it’s funny. You’re so tangled up in your secrets you can barely move!”

“I. .” Bobby hesitated. “I don’t know what you-”

“This is Jane,” Winter said. “From Mrs. Wilmore’s. I found her.”

Bobby’s mouth opened, silently, and her eyes went wide.

“I didn’t go anywhere. You were the one who disappeared,” Jane said. “What kinds of stories have you been telling about me?”

“Winter told me the truth about herself,” Bobby said, “and about how the two of you were friends before she ran away.”

“Friends.” Jane shot Winter a tiny smirk.

“And Bobby’s story is. . complicated,” Winter said. “I found out-”

“That she’s a girl?” Jane said. She shrugged at Bobby’s shocked look. “She didn’t tell me anything, but it’s not exactly a stretch to figure it out once you start thinking in those terms. Just look at you!”

“Nobody else has guessed,” Bobby said, defensively.

“I doubt anyone else is looking,” Jane said. “Now. We’ve established that everybody knows everybody else’s secrets. Can we all relax?”

Not all our secrets, Winter thought. There was no way for Jane to know about the naath Feor had gifted to Bobby, or the patches of her skin it had replaced with living marble. No need to break that to her yet-

“Actually,” Bobby said, “I have one more.”

“Bobby,” Winter cut in. “Are you sure you want to-”

“I can’t keep secrets from you,” Bobby said. “It feels wrong, after everything. And you may need to know.”

Winter paused. “From me?”

Bobby nodded. “It’s Lieutenant Marsh. He knows. . about me.”

“What? How did he find out? Has he told anyone?”

“It’s not like that,” Bobby said. “He’s a good person, honestly. He and I. . I mean, we’re. .”

“You’re what?”

Jane rolled her eyes and put one arm around Winter’s shoulders, pulling her close enough to speak into her ear.

“They’re fucking,” she stage-whispered, turning Bobby’s face instantly beet-red. “You know. Like men and women do, at times?”

Winter blinked. Oh. Several conflicting emotions assailed her at once. Fear, for Bobby and for herself, the old terror of being discovered. Irritation that Bobby had exposed them like this. And, she realized, just a hint of jealousy.

She bit her lip and shook her head. Don’t be ridiculous. She had Jane now, and that was all she’d ever wanted. Besides, if she and Marsh are. . I mean, she’s not. . like me.

“He’s not blackmailing you, or anything like that?” Jane said while Winter fought through her confusion.

“No, no.” Bobby’s blush deepened. “I told him myself. It was a stupid thing to do, but we were in a storm at sea, and there was something. .”

“It’s all right,” Winter said. “I don’t need the details.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jane said.

“The point is, you think you can trust him?” Winter badly wanted to ask about the naath and the traces it had left on Bobby’s skin-which Marsh must have seen, obviously-but didn’t want to bring it up in Jane’s presence unless Bobby mentioned it first. She felt a burst of frustration. Jane’s right. We do have too many damned secrets.

“I’m sure I can. And I haven’t told him anything about you.”

“All right.” Winter shook her head. “See if you can clue him in to the fact that I know. That might make things a bit less awkward.”

“Right.” Bobby gave a little sigh of relief. “God, I’ve been so worried what you would say.”

“It’s hardly my place to disapprove,” Winter said.

Jane laughed again. “I can’t tell if you’re the father or the mother in this little allegory. Maybe both.”

Winter managed a chuckle, and a little bit of the tension seeped out of the tent. She settled herself more comfortably on the cushion. “Bobby was at Mrs. Wilmore’s, too, you know. I think she ran away just before you came back.”

“You went back?” Bobby said. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone would go back there on purpose.”

“It took me a while to nerve myself up to it,” Jane admitted.

“She marched the girls out of there!” Winter said. “Right under the old hag’s nose, too.”

Jane looked embarrassed. “Something like that.”

“Wow.” Bobby gave Jane an admiring stare. “How did you manage that?”

“It’s not actually all that much of a story,” Jane said. “The really interesting parts happened afterward.”

Winter sat back while Jane told the story of what had happened to her exodus after leaving the Prison-their time in the swamps, and then with the Leatherbacks. By the time she got to a considerably exaggerated version of Winter’s storming of the Vendre, Bobby was clapping her hands in delight. Winter retaliated with stories of the fighting in Khandar, which Bobby embellished with lurid details. Before Winter knew it, the sky had darkened entirely and the torches outside were faint glows through the tent walls.

The only awkward moment came when Bobby was filling in what had happened after they left Ashe-Katarion. She and Folsom had been promoted to sergeant as Fitz worked to fill out the ranks of the junior officers, while Graff, because of his long experience and against his fervent objections, had been made a lieutenant. Of their little circle, that left only Feor, and here Bobby hesitated.

“She was on the ship with us,” she said. “I even saw her, once or twice. But I think Fitz kept her under guard. There were a couple of cabins none of us were ever allowed to visit, with sentries on every watch, and she slept in one of those. I didn’t see her again after we transferred to the riverboats.” Catching Winter’s expression, she tried to be reassuring. “I’m sure she’s here, though. You can ask Fitz when you see him.”

Winter nodded. She had a pretty good idea of where Feor was, and what had been in that guarded cabin. Janus would not have left the steel plates bearing his precious Thousand Names in Khandar without the Colonials to guard them. Feor was certainly here, but whether the colonel would ever let her out again was uncertain. He has to let me in, at least. He owes me that much.

Eventually Folsom arrived, huge and taciturn as always, and Winter made another round of introductions. The big sergeant was happy to see Winter, but curiously shy in the presence of Jane, and the fact that he wasn’t privy to the secret made the conversation a bit more circumspect. Shortly thereafter, Winter and Jane excused themselves, and Bobby promised to send Graff over to visit when she tracked him down.

More shouted greetings followed them away from the row of tents, and Winter turned to wave over her shoulder to the rankers. She and Jane walked together in silence for a while, through the rest of the Colonial encampment and out past the line of sentries, on to the darkened lawn that separated the palace from the Ministry of War.

“They all love you,” Jane said, after a while.

Winter winced. “It took me a while to get used to it. It’s not even about anything I’ve done. Just that we went into battle together, and they survived. I’m like a. . a lucky charm.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“Not everyone survived.” Winter bit her lip. “They tend to forget about that. I can’t blame them, but. .”

Jane snaked her arm through Winter’s and crooked it at the elbow. Winter went stiff.

“Don’t,” she said. “Someone might see.”

“It’s dark,” Jane said. “Besides, you think you’re the only lieutenant who keeps a girl?” She laughed. “We know Marsh does.”

“Marsh.” Winter sighed but left their arms linked. “I don’t know what Bobby was thinking.”

“She was thinking that he was handsome, and she was lonely. How old is she-sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Seventeen, probably.”

“You must remember what it was like to be seventeen and have your head turned by a pretty face.” Jane’s fingers found her hand and squeezed it. “I know I do.”

“Is he handsome, then?” Winter said, glad the darkness hid her flushed face. “I’ve never been able to tell.”

“Sure. At least, I thought so, and Bobby seems to agree. But there’s no accounting for taste.”

“I suppose he does look a bit like those old paintings of Mithradacii gods, with that hair. Do you remember those old storybooks we found in the Prison library? They were always turning into boars or swans to get women to fall in love with them.”

“I never quite understood how that worked,” Jane said. “But I recall you being very interested in the woodcuts of nymphs and dryads without any clothes on.”

Winter rolled her eyes and gave Jane’s arm a tug. “Come on. We had better make sure your girls haven’t killed anybody.”