She wanted it to be real. Could it be real?
The noise abated. Linné watched as the others turned toward one another, toward the warehouses, toward their assignments—and away from her. Everything seemed suddenly wrong. Everyone else knew what to do, and she was in the dark.
Commander Zima stood with a paper in one hand, worrying the end of a pencil between her teeth with the other. She looked up as Linné approached. “What do you need?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t know where I should go now.” Linné frowned even as she said it. She would never have begged a senior officer’s pardon when she was a boy.
“Are you a pilot, a navigator, or an engineer?” Zima asked around the pencil.
“I don’t know,” Linné said.
“Ah. What’s your name?”
“Zolonov, sir.” The name still had to be pulled out of her. She missed being Alexei Nabiev, with no notable family, with nothing to her but boldness and rawness.
Zima must have recognized the name, but she didn’t react. Maybe she thought there were plenty of Zolonovs in the Union. “Yes, I remember. You were the only one I didn’t have a chance to meet.” She stuck out her hand.
Linné stared at it. After a moment she understood and shook it uncertainly.
“It’s a pleasure to see you at last, Miss Zolonov. Colonel Koslen wrote that you excelled with a rifle and had uncanny precision with your spark.”
“Yes, sir,” Linné said.
“I’ve marked you down as a navigator. I understand you have a little more army experience than the rest of the recruits?”
“I’ve been in the army since I was fourteen.” It felt like admitting to a crime.
“Maybe we should make you a commander,” Zima joked.
“No, sir,” Linné said. Not with recruits like Katya and Magdalena.
The commander’s mouth twitched. “You don’t have to keep calling me that.”
“Should I call you ma’am, sir?”
Koslen would have glowered. Hesovec would have told her off. Tamara Zima laughed. “Can I tell you something?” She looped one arm through Linné’s as if they were two friends going for a walk around town. “I’ve never been in the army. I’ve never been called ‘sir.’ Hardly anyone calls me ma’am, for that matter. I’m here because I flew the Winter Witch from coast to coast, and I flew relief for Goreva Reaching. Isaak needs someone with my abilities to train you, not an army commander.”
This was getting worse and worse. No wonder Hesovec wanted them all off his base.
“I’m not interested in the traditional army way,” Zima said. “But sometimes I have to put on a good show. If you’re willing, you can help me with that. And perhaps with guiding some of our new recruits.”
No. Definitely not. Her first glimmering of command was not going to be sabotaged by unruly subordinates who didn’t know how to obey.
Then again, Zima could send her back to Mistelgard if she said no. She hadn’t recruited Linné. She’d been stuck with her. “Your methods sound interesting,” Linné managed.
“They are.” Commander Zima smiled.
Was Linné supposed to smile back? Was this the untraditional army way? She nodded as though she understood the situation completely and waited for an order.
Zima stood there, looking at her. After a few moments she raised her eyebrows. “Would you be willing to help?”
“Of course, sir,” Linné lied. Because no matter what she said, Zima was still the commanding officer. And a superior commanded, even if she did it in nice language. Even if there was nothing Linné wanted less. And there was something she wanted less. She’d rather be here at Intelgard than up north. Faith and loyalty. If the Supreme Commander believes in her, so can I.
“Good. Go change into the nicest uniform you’ve got. We’ll have to see if we can find smaller ones to fit some of the girls, but for now make yourself as presentable as possible. Then report to me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Linné before she could stop herself.
Zima nodded in satisfaction, patted her shoulder, then strode off.
She wasn’t even marching.
Linné found her clean long-coat and walked down to where she thought the commander’s office ought to be. She found it when she spotted men and machines hauling stacks of paper, tangles of wire, and an enormous silver samovar. Even the nonofficers seemed to be able to squirrel something away.
The door was open. She knocked anyway.
Zima looked up from where she supervised two men putting a table together. “Good timing. Nikolai’s palanquin has been spotted approaching the base, and we don’t have much time. Move the supplies behind my desk. Nikolai won’t want to see the clutter.”
“Nikolai Tcerlin?” Linné guessed.
“You’re not intimidated, are you?” her commander said with a sharp look.
Something in her bristled. So Zima had connected her to her father. “I’m not intimidated, sir.”
“Good. You’ll be my aide tonight. Our itinerary is an inspection of the planes, followed by dinner and a tour of the base. I’m afraid it won’t do to have you sit with us for dinner, but I can promise you a plate when the evening’s over.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir.”
Zima shook her head. “I think you’ll do wonderfully, Linné.” Linné couldn’t tell whether the commander thought this was a good or a bad thing.
A nervous recruit poked his head around the door. “He’s here, ma’am.”
Zima straightened and left the room at such a pace that Linné broke into a jog to catch up with her. Suddenly Zima was not the friendly head of the regiment, smiling and asking permission to give orders. She walked with a purpose—not quite marching, but with the same energy, the same concept of a place to go and a time to be there.
What if Nikolai told her father about the sloppiness of her new regiment? What if he said it didn’t reflect well on the Zolonov family? If she played her part well enough, Tcerlin might think the regiment operated perfectly. Or adequately, so that he wouldn’t go back to Mistelgard and mock her father or give a nasty report to Vannin. Tcerlin didn’t need to know that the regiment couldn’t stand on its own two feet. Or that Tamara Zima wanted to be Linné’s friend more than her commander. Or that Colonel Hesovec would be looking over their shoulders and wiring all their errors to Mistelgard.
A stone seemed to settle in her stomach. Tonight, her mission was to make regiment 146 look good enough. Tomorrow, she’d have to make them be good enough. Good enough to get her transferred to a ground unit.
Nikolai Tcerlin’s palanquin sat on the airfield, steaming in the cold afternoon. It was sleeker than the usual Tammin-made army models, with a long green neck that extended elegantly into curved metal jaws. Its body undulated, serpentine. A dozen men could fit inside. The design imitated the Elda Dragon, though it was made for the ground, not the air. Five men stood next to the palanquin, loose, wary. Hungry. Even though they didn’t wear the infamous coats, Linné recognized the amber eyes of the Skarov who acted as Nikolai Tcerlin’s bodyguards. They turned those eyes on Zima and Linné, assessing the threat. Linné’s father had warned her about the Skarov when Vannin approved their development for the war. They look like men, but they’ll prove their true nature soon enough.
A man emerged from around the side of the palanquin. Nikolai Tcerlin, barrel-chested, grayer than Linné remembered, with a coat covered in service decorations. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been in the parlor of her father’s mansion, arguing. He always argued, especially with her father. Now he gripped Zima’s hand and leaned down to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She looked like a doll next to him.
Linné stood behind, waiting for him to notice her. He didn’t.
He released Zima and thumped her on the back, nearly knocking her over. “My last stop on my way back from the front,” he said. “All to deliver some very special items to you.”
“Oh?” the commander replied. She peer
ed around him at the empty field.
“They’ll be along, they’ll be along.” He laughed. “They’re being brought in from the Eponar air base, full of new parts. But they’ll be a couple of hours or so.”
“We can adjust the itinerary,” Zima said. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished. Unless it’s you who’s cooking.” He chuckled at his own joke and turned to Linné. Here it came. She steeled herself for the wide eyes, the recognition. “You ever tried anything your commander made?”
He still didn’t know her. She supposed it wasn’t so strange—she’d last seen him years ago, and she didn’t exactly look the same in her soldier’s uniform. “No, sir.” She kept her eyes trained on the empty field.
“It’s probably why you’re still here,” Tcerlin said, and elbowed Zima. “She cooked for Isaak once. We nearly put her on trial for attempted poisoning. Then we gave her a medal instead.” Still laughing, he made his way off the field, hooking his arm through Zima’s so that she was dragged in tow.
Linné followed not far behind. She couldn’t help thinking that the last time she’d seen Tcerlin, he hadn’t seemed like such an ass.
“I doubt you’ll find Intelgard to your liking,” Tcerlin said as they toured the base. “I requisitioned as much of the field for you as I dared before the other squadron commanders started muttering about murder.” He guffawed again. Linné knew full well if anyone had breathed so much as a syllable of discontent, they’d be off to the mines before their subordinates could finish saying thank you for the promotion. But to Tcerlin it was all a joke. Linné remembered his laugh from when she’d attended party functions as a child. Back then his laughter had a way of making everyone feel more comfortable, of putting her father and Isaak Vannin and the other volatile heads of state at ease. Here, it was the opposite. When he laughed, others had better laugh with him.
“Intelgard is a lovely place,” said Zima. “And the gentlemen aviators have been nothing but kind.”
Tcerlin surely recognized the bald-faced lie. Linné expected his face to darken, his laughter to fade. Lies are the greatest enemy of the Union, he’d once said in an address at Eternal Square in the center of Mistelgard. But Tcerlin said nothing. He merely nodded.
Zima must have sweet-talked the regimental cook, because when they went back to her office, a cart waited with thick reindeer steaks so rare they still leaked red. Bowls crowded her desk—cabbage, string beans, and a thick gravy. A pale-haired girl named Asya laid the plates between them, then retreated to the corner. She shot Linné a sharp, almost resentful look as Linné found a bottle of wine with two silver cups. Linné poured for Zima and Tcerlin, who toasted the health of the Union.
“How’s the front?” Zima said.
“Which one?” Tcerlin paused to take a long drink. “They’re about how you’d expect. Everyone’s miserable; the fight goes on. The southern front is mostly stationary, the western front is covered in Dragons, and the sea front lacks for men. We have them surrounded in the Berechovy, but it looks like they might blow it up before they give it back.”
“So much for their love of God Spaces,” Zima said. The Berechovy Forest had been one of the most sacred places in the Union, back when they’d had sacred places.
Tcerlin nodded. “They’ve used blackout gas over the entire area. My guards wouldn’t even let me enter the base. They couldn’t see more than five meters in front of themselves.”
Linné hadn’t encountered blackout gas, but seasoned soldiers said it stuck to you for days, like a lingering shadow, and even hot spark couldn’t get rid of it. Men in a blackout zone often panicked, shooting indiscriminately.
“They’re training the spark there for more precision,” Tcerlin said. He held a hand up until a thin, bright sliver of spark stabbed out a few centimeters from his fingertips. It sputtered, fighting to turn into a full blaze. “The fighting’s all close quarters, since no one can tell who to shoot. This works almost as well as a bayonet.”
Linné had practiced with the spark in her old regiment, hurling projectiles and imbuing bullets until they glowed. She’d seen some men wind the spark around a weapon. But she’d never seen this, the making of a blade. How long could a weapon like that get? Her fingers itched to try.
“Interesting technique,” Zima said. “I’m sure my girls would be keen to learn.”
“Oh, I don’t think they’d be able to learn that,” Tcerlin said with a wave of his hand. “It requires enormous concentration.”
On the other side of the room, Asya frowned. Linné thought of the ice roses the others conjured and destroyed with a few quick touches, and waited for Zima to tell him where to stick his fancy tactics. But she only said, “And Mistelgard? Is all well there?” Linné hoped to the Union that Zima was choosing her battles instead of rolling over.
“Much the same,” Tcerlin replied. “Once a week, someone tries to kill me, or Isaak or Alexei. Once a month, someone tries to surrender to the Elda. The war makes us all desperate in different ways, and the southern reachings have been hit hard.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Zima said. “To get them back.”
Tcerlin smacked at his cabbage and cleared his palate with a gulp of wine. “Not every minister is convinced your squadron is necessary in the operation.”
“And why is that? Is the war going so well?” Zima smiled over her wineglass, but her voice held a tone that Linné hadn’t heard from her before. She hid a core of iron beneath her smiles.
Tcerlin didn’t answer. He didn’t smile, either. He set down his knife and fork and regarded Zima silently. Linné recognized his look. Her father called it the last-chance look. The speaker had one last chance to smooth the waters.
Zima continued. “We are a strong country. We are a proud country. But we do not have an unlimited supply of young men, and our allies are tied up in conflicting interests or wars of their own. Women have an equal love for the land and deserve the chance to defend it. You can’t deny that you need us, not when you’ve lowered the draft age to thirteen.”
Tcerlin’s eyes hardened. He breathed deep, a demon readying to spew fire, and Linné saw how angry a man who laughed so much could be. He could pack Zima off to the mines or even shoot her here in the office. But something held him back. Maybe it was the truth of her words; maybe it was the rumors of her involvement with Supreme Commander Vannin.
He picked up his wineglass, and by the time he swallowed, his composure had returned. “A number of ministers are concerned by the influence that a women’s squadron might have on the men. Some say it will distract them. Others feel it is unthinkable to watch their sisters or wives die at the front. War has never been women’s work. Why is it now?”
Zima smiled again. “Is this your way of telling me you haven’t brought my planes?”
Again, Tcerlin paused before he spoke. “The planes are on their way,” he said at last. “But I would forbid any daughter of mine from flying them.”
“What about your sons?” Zima said. “None of these girls came to the front thinking it would be easy. They are determined to make a difference, and they have skills. I’m told that Linné here was the best shot in her previous regiment.”
Tcerlin looked over at Linné. “Previous regiment?”
Asya’s eyes widened. No doubt she’d run back to the rest of the Night Raiders with this news. Linné waited for her commander to come to her rescue, but Zima raised an eyebrow, as though surprised by her impertinent silence. Why was she bringing her into this? “Yes, sir,” she said, hoping she sounded confident and not arrogant or nervous.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing your skills,” Tcerlin said.
“It would be an honor, sir,” she said, though she suspected he’d rather like her to prove her incompetence.
“What do you say, miss?” said Tcerlin. “Is war women’s work?”
She fought to keep her face free of the disgust that her father had so often shown when speaking of Tcerlin in private. “War is everyone’s w
ork, sir, as long as the Elda are still here.”
His mouth split open and a laugh rumbled out. “Spirited,” he said. “Very spirited. Are all your recruits like this one?”
“All the girls are enthusiastic, but Linné was so keen to go to war that she dressed as a boy and enlisted in the Thirty-First Night Guards before she joined us.”
Anger twisted in her gut. So this was Zima rolling out her grand battle plan. Linné had thought she wanted help, but she had Asya for that. Linné was no more than a prop for her political statements. Tossed to Tcerlin like a scrap, no matter what Linné thought about it. No matter what situation her father would be in because of this.
Tcerlin pushed back from the desk and approached her. She forced herself not to retreat. She’d only run into the wall, anyway. But he loomed a lot taller than she remembered, for all that she was the one who’d grown. As he came closer, she caught derangement in his eyes, a look that came from fear and power and the constant pressure of no right decision to be made. And in that moment, she had a flash of sympathy for her father, as much as she didn’t want it.
“What is your name?” Tcerlin said.
“Linné Alexei Zolonov.”
His eyes unfocused as he sought to remember her. “Alexei’s girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
In a split second, the derangement was gone. Tcerlin threw back his head and laughed as though it were a joke better than any he’d heard before. He clapped her on the shoulder with a force that nearly sent her to her knees. “Did you know your father says you’re at a fancy school? He told me last week what an accomplished young lady you’ve become.”
Linné spoke before she considered the wisdom of her words. “The greatest accomplishment of any lady is to give her life for her homeland.”
Tcerlin laughed even harder. Linné couldn’t find it in herself to laugh with him. She’d defied her father, but that didn’t mean she wanted to give Tcerlin any power over him.
When Tcerlin’s laughter subsided enough for him to speak, he grabbed her hand and pumped it up and down. “Your spirit is noble,” he said. “I shall tell your father that you are doing well, and that he must be proud of you.”
We Rule the Night Page 6
