He really does intend to win. The thought made Marcus shiver.
“Well?” Janus said. “Does that satisfy you, Captain?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” Marcus said. “I need to think on it.”
“Do so. And feel free to return with further questions.” The smile again, there and gone like distant lightning. “It’s part of a commanding officer’s duty to educate his subordinates.”
If that was true, no one had told the other colonels Marcus had served under. Not that Ben could have taught me much. He nodded anyway.
“Yes, sir. Now, you said you had business?”
“Indeed,” Janus said, without a change in his expression. “I would like you to arrest Captain Adrecht Roston, on the charge of dereliction of duty and others pending investigation.”
Marcus stared, feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Janus raised his eyes to the tent flap.
“Ah, Augustin,” he said. “Something to eat as well, I think.”
“Sir,” Marcus began, “I’m not . . .” He stopped, fighting the urge to panic, and cleared his throat. “Are you sure? I’m just not certain that—that this is wise.”
“Wise?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Would you say that Captain Roston is a good battalion commander?”
Marcus almost said, “Of course,” automatically—no senior officer could expect an honest answer to a question like that!—but something in those gray eyes made him hesitate.
“Would you say that he has acquitted himself well over the past month?” Janus went on.
Again Marcus was silent. The colonel seemed to take that for a reply.
“Then would you say that he’s well liked by his men? That his removal might cause discipline problems?”
Not goddamned likely. There were certainly a few in the Fourth Battalion who would shed a tear at Adrecht’s passing, but that would be because they enjoyed the laxity of his discipline, not his company. In Ashe-Katarion he’d practically ignored the rankers, preferring to spend his time with the other officers and a glittering array of Khandarai high society.
“And finally,” Janus continued remorselessly, “would you say there are no better men available? Your Lieutenant Fitzhugh Warus, for example, seems to have done exemplary work.”
Marcus found his voice at last. “But, sir. Dereliction of duty?”
“He disobeyed a direct order from a superior when his men began looting the Redeemer camp. Or failed to enforce one, which amounts to the same thing. The result was damaging to our cause and our material position. What else would you call it?”
“The men were—are—green, sir. They got out of control—”
“All the more reason to show them that this sort of conduct will not be tolerated.” Janus’ voice was still pleasant, but Marcus thought he could hear the ring of steel underneath. “A demonstration must be made.”
Marcus remembered, uncomfortably, being on the other side of this argument in Adrecht’s tent. He nodded slowly.
“I understand that he is your friend,” Janus said, letting a little sympathy into his tone. “But you must admit I would be justified.”
You don’t know him, Marcus wanted to say. Janus hadn’t been at the War College with Adrecht, hadn’t nursed him through vicious hangovers or watched in mystified envy as he effortlessly charmed young women with his smile and the glitter of his uniform. He hadn’t been at Green Springs, where Adrecht and a company of the Fourth had charged across open ground under fire to rescue a half dozen wounded men.
And, of course, he saved my life. Marcus wondered whether that had been in Janus’ files.
“Sir,” Marcus said, “may I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“What if I speak to Captain Roston and make it clear that, were he to offer his resignation, you would accept it? That would be . . . kinder.”
“I’m afraid not,” Janus said. “The effectiveness of the demonstration would be lost.” Janus considered. “You may break the news to him, if you like, and ask him to present himself for arrest if you think that would be easier on him. I have no wish to be unnecessarily cruel.”
“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said hollowly. He saluted. “If you’ll excuse me.”
• • •
“All in all,” Fitz said, “we got off astonishingly light.”
He had to speak up to be heard over the screams. There was a man strapped to the surgeon’s board, a mangled arm held in place by a burly orderly while the cutter worked with the bone saw. They’d given the patient a leather-padded stick to bite down on, but apparently he’d lost it. At least his voice drowned the noise of the saw itself, a high-pitched singsong whine that gave Marcus the shivers.
“Counting the scouts,” the lieutenant continued, “we have less than a hundred dead or seriously wounded. Another hundred or so that should recover. Given the numbers engaged—”
Marcus nodded as Fitz went on. No one had troubled to count how many Khandarai had died, of course, but it had been a great many. Details were still stripping the field of corpses, stiff and bloated now after a day in the desert sun, and carrying them to the pyres that burned day and night. Gleaners brought back what they could find, but there was little enough. Most of the Redeemer’s supplies had burned with their tents.
They walked through the little patch at the edge of the camp that had been designated as the hospital. Open-sided tents shielded the wounded from the sun, and the regimental surgeons bustled back and forth with brisk efficiency. Marcus suspected that much of the activity was for his benefit. As Fitz had said, they’d gotten off lightly. Many of the tents were empty, and of those that were occupied most of the men Marcus could see looked hale enough. Even a minor wound could fester, of course, and a man might lose a limb like the poor bastard back on the table if it got bad enough. But nevertheless—lightly.
He still felt a little sick. The worst engagement the Colonials had been in before the Redemption had been the ambush that killed Colonel Warus. They’d lost six men in that fight, and had two so badly injured they’d died later. One more had been invalided home. Nine altogether, and that had been considered a disaster, with the whole regiment in mourning. And now this.
That’s war, he told himself sternly. The First Colonials had never been a battlefield regiment until now. What fighting they’d done had been bushwhacks and bandit chasing. I should count myself lucky the men stood up to it. Indeed, the mood of the camp seemed to have taken a sharp upward turn. The mutters and sour looks had stopped, replaced by smiles and quick, crisp salutes.
“Sir?” Fitz said.
“Hmm?”
“Is something wrong? You seem preoccupied.”
“Why do you say that?”
Fitz cleared his throat. “For one thing, sir, we left the camp a few minutes ago. Perhaps we should turn back?”
Marcus looked around. Fitz was right, as always—they’d left the last line of tents and the latrine pits behind, and Marcus had been absently strolling out into open scrub. Twenty yards back, a few confused sentries watched curiously.
“Ah.” He looked back at Fitz. “A bit farther, actually.”
“Yes, sir,” Fitz said, in that way he had that actually meant, I see that you’ve gone mad.
Marcus headed toward a big rock, a boulder half buried in the parched earth with a clump of wiry trees growing from one side. He put his back against it, feeling the warmth, and let out a sigh. Fitz stood in front of him, prim and correct. They were a good sixty yards from camp now. No chance of being overheard.
“The colonel,” Marcus said, “is going to arrest Adrecht.”
Fitz didn’t even blink. “On what charge, sir?”
“Dereliction of duty. I talked him into letting me break the news.”
“That was very kind of you, sir.”
“But now I have to tell him.” Marcus grimaced. “I’m not sure I can.”
Fitz maintained a diplomatic silence.
“It wasn’t really hi
s fault,” Marcus said, to no one in particular. “I mean—partly, of course, but—” He shook his head.
“Perhaps if you spoke to the colonel again, he would accept some lighter form of discipline?”
“No,” Marcus said. “He wants to make an example.” He hesitated, then added, “He talked about giving you the Fourth.”
Fitz’ expression didn’t change. “I see.”
Marcus looked at him curiously. “Do you want a battalion command?”
“It would certainly further my career, sir. However, I would worry about the First in my absence. With you spending so much time with the colonel . . .”
That was true enough. Fitz practically had a battalion command already.
Marcus pushed away from the rock. “I need to talk to the others. Can you track down Val and Mor and have them meet me in my tent around sundown? Make sure you don’t let anyone know why.”
“Certainly, sir.” Fitz saluted.
The walk back to camp felt longer than the walk out had, and the rest of the day seemed to pass only grudgingly. There were account books to sign off on, stores and inventories to approve, sick lists and casualty reports—that was only the top of the stack. Marcus didn’t dare wonder what lurked in the bottom layers. By the time he looked up and saw that the horizon had gone crimson, his right hand was stiff and aching, and his fingers were blotchy with spilt ink.
Mor arrived first, red-faced from hours in the sun and in a foul mood. He shrugged out of his uniform coat before Marcus could say a word, tossed it into a corner of the tent, and tugged at his collar.
“They’re a bunch of children,” he said. “A bunch of spoiled children. Tell them they’ve done something wrong and they look at you like they’re about to cry. I don’t know where the colonel dug up this lot.”
“The recruits?” Marcus said.
“The rankers are fine. It’s the lieutenants that are the problem.” Mor paced the length of the tent twice, then aimed a kick at his own jacket. “Bunch of stuck-up goddamned paper soldiers. Not one of them had seen any action, and before the battle yesterday they were just about pissing their pants, but now they all think they’re Farus the Conqueror come again.” Mor shook his head. “Are your lot any better? Want to trade?”
Marcus shook his head, feeling guilty. He barely knew his own company commanders, aside from the Old Colonials. Janus had monopolized the time he ought to have been spending with them.
“Next time we drill I’m going out myself,” Mor said. “Make them eat a little dust instead of just wagging their chins. Maybe that will teach them something.” He let out a long sigh. “Got anything to drink?”
“Not just now. We’ve got problems.”
“Don’t I know it. That’s why I asked for a drink.” Mor flopped down beside the camp table. “So what’s going on?”
“We need— Ah, here he is.” Val pushed aside the tent flap and entered, blinking in the lamplight.
“Marcus, Mor,” he said politely. “Fitz seemed agitated, so I hurried over.”
“Agitated?” Mor said. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Agitated for Fitz, I mean,” Val said.
“Sit down,” Marcus said. “We need to talk.”
“Now I’m starting to get worried,” Mor said with a smile.
“Given the company,” Val said, “I think I can guess the subject. It’s Adrecht, isn’t it?”
“It’s Adrecht,” Marcus confirmed. “The colonel’s not happy with what happened to the Redeemer camp.”
“Bah,” Mor said. “It’s not pretty, I’ll grant you, but they got what they deserved.”
“Deserved?” Marcus said. “They were running away. There were women—”
“Women who followed an army into battle,” Mor said. He waved a hand dismissively. “If they’d stayed in Ashe-Katarion they would have been safe. And nobody had to run away. We gave them a chance to surrender.”
“That’s still no excuse for slaughter,” Val said stiffly. “The rules of civilized warfare—”
“Last I checked the goddamned Redeemers were not exactly signatories to the goddamned Convention of ’56. They eat their prisoners, remember?”
“That’s just a rumor,” Val said.
“In any case,” Marcus cut in loudly, “Adrecht is taking the fall for it. The colonel told me he wants him arrested.”
“Arrested?” Val looked incredulous. “For what?”
“Dereliction of duty.” Marcus shrugged. “Whether he can make that stick in a court-martial, I have no idea, but Adrecht would spend the rest of the campaign in a cage on just the colonel’s say-so.”
“Who gets the Fourth?” Mor said.
“Fitz,” Marcus said, a sour taste in his mouth. “Or so the colonel implied.”
“About time,” Mor said.
Val ignored him and turned to Marcus. “What are we going to do?”
“I wanted to see you two first,” Marcus said. “We need to decide, together—”
“Decide what?” Mor said. “Sounds like the decision’s already made.”
“We need to decide if we’re going to stand for it,” Val said.
“Exactly,” Marcus said.
There was a long moment of silence. Mor looked from one to the other, started to chuckle, then trailed off. He sat up abruptly.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said.
“Adrecht is one of us,” Val said. “One of the Colonials. We can’t just abandon him.”
“He never was worth a damn,” Mor said. “And he hasn’t lifted a finger since the Redeemers sent us packing. Half the time he’s too drunk to walk!”
That hit a bit close to home for Marcus. The answer might be simple for Val, but he was a man of simple loyalties. Fitz would make a better battalion commander than Adrecht. Janus was right about that. And Adrecht was—well, Adrecht. Marcus had been with the other captains so long that he’d lost sight of them. They were simply part of the landscape, as immovable as the fixed stars. The Colonials without Adrecht would be like waking up without an arm or a leg. But Janus forced him to look with an outsider’s perspective, and he had to admit that he didn’t like what he saw.
“I can’t believe you’re talking like this,” Mor said. “I know he was at the College with you, Marcus, but—”
“I can’t believe you aren’t,” Val snapped. “If it was Marcus or I taking the blame, would that be any different?”
“Of course it would! Adrecht—”
“Got what he deserved?” Marcus suggested.
“Yes,” Mor said, though he had the grace to blush slightly.
Mor had never liked Adrecht. Adrecht’s feud with Val had reached such epic proportions that it had become a sort of friendship, but between him and Mor there had never been anything but cold politeness. Adrecht’s privileged background was the cause, Marcus suspected. The nobility were at the top of Mor’s list of hatreds, but as the scion of a wealthy family Adrecht wasn’t too far behind.
“He doesn’t deserve it,” Marcus said. “Not for this. Green troops, in their first real fight—it could have happened to any one of us. His men were just the first ones over the line.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Mor said. “You made it sound like the colonel was pretty set on this—do you think you can talk him out of it?”
“If Adrecht is arrested, I’ll submit my resignation,” Marcus said.
Val nodded slowly. Mor looked from one of them to the other, aghast.
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” he said. “This isn’t some peacetime infraction. If you refuse to serve during a campaign, the colonel can get you for desertion. Forget spending the march in a cage. He could shoot you on the spot.”
Val’s face clouded. Evidently he hadn’t considered that aspect of the situation. It was one thing to resign as a matter of honor, but quite another to be branded a deserter and shot like a common criminal.
“You were the one who said the Redeemers deserved wha
t they got, Mor,” Marcus said. “Can you really let one of your fellow officers be disgraced for letting that happen?”
“If the alternative is being shot, you’re damn right I can,” Mor said.
“He wouldn’t shoot all three of us,” Marcus said. “If we stand together—”
“He won’t get the chance,” Mor said. “I’ll have no part of this. I’m sorry, Marcus.”
There was a long pause. Marcus looked at Val.
“I . . . ,” Val began, then hesitated. “I need to think.”
I’ve lost, Marcus thought. He knew Val too well. In the hot flush of anger and honor besmirched, he would have willingly marched into hell itself, but given a night to reflect, his fears would get the better of him.
He forced a smile and got to his feet. “Well. I think we can leave it there for tonight, then.”
“You’re not going through with this, are you?” Mor sounded anxious. “For God’s sake, Marcus—”
“Good night, Mor. Val.”
The two of them left, though not without a few backward glances. Only a moment after they’d gone, Fitz ghosted in carrying a mug of steaming tea. He presented it without comment.
“Thank you,” Marcus said. “That will be all for tonight.”
“Sir.” Fitz saluted and withdrew.
• • •
“Sir,” Marcus said. He’d dressed in his best, the formal blues he’d worn to welcome Janus to the regiment, and his salute was parade-ground crisp. Only the darkness around his eyes betrayed any hint of a sleepless night.
If the colonel was similarly troubled, he showed no sign of it. He sat in the blue-shaded half-light of his tent, the folding table assembled and a painted-leather map unrolled across it. Alongside this were a number of paper maps, mostly hasty pencil sketches. He studied these so intently that he didn’t even look up at Marcus’ greeting, merely waved a hand for the captain to take a seat. Only after a few seconds, when Marcus remained standing, did he raise his head.
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