by Robyn Bennis
Bernat was about to add to his reply, when Jutes pulled him back by the collar and whispered, “This ain’t like you, sir.”
Bernat was perplexed. “But it must be like me, Jutes. I’m the one doing it.”
“And what would ‘it’ be, exactly, sir? Just what the hell are you doing?”
He considered for a second. “I may be a smidge too drunk to be certain, but I believe I’m picking a fight with the nastiest sons of bitches in the room, because I don’t like the way they looked at me. I’m perfectly content to continue alone, if the affair doesn’t suit you.”
Jutes sighed. “Ain’t got nothing else to do, I suppose.”
And so the brawling began.
* * *
“DID YOU ENJOY dinner?”
As she settled into the carriage seat, Josette said, “It was superb, but…”
He raised a concerned eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Oh, I’m just wondering, what do you suppose first inspired someone to eat stuffed duckling?”
“Impatience?” he suggested.
She laughed. “And you, Lord Hinkal? Are you a very impatient man?”
He looked forward and feigned resentment. “That is a personal matter, between myself and the ducklings.” Ahead of them, the carriage driver cleared his throat in a phlegmy rasp. Roland looked back to Josette and asked, “Where to now?”
“Where to?” It had to be at least ten o’clock. What did people do in this town at ten o’clock at night? She wanted to ask, but she was afraid of the answer. “I thought we’d head back to the palace.”
With only the glow from the restaurant windows to light Roland’s face, she couldn’t be sure she’d seen disappointment in it, but it was clear when he spoke. “Forgive me my selfishness. It’s just that you’re only here for a few more weeks, if that. I’m trying to fit too much into what little of your time I have left.”
She allowed herself a smirk only because she knew he wouldn’t see it in the dark. In a quiet voice, she said, “In that case, Duckling, what would you say to returning to your room in the palace?”
The nerve-wracking silence lasted mere seconds, but she had ample time to imagine that she’d gone too far, and would be forever shamed by that one moment’s impertinence. So it threw her when he answered, “Is yours not comfortably furnished?”
“It’s very comfortable,” she said, perhaps a little too hastily. She forced herself to slow down and think, and finally concluded the thought with, “but the night is very cold, isn’t it?”
“And you suppose I have some secret artifice for warming myself?” he asked.
She could only chuckle and say, “I couldn’t speak to that. But I’m sure we could collaborate on some scheme or another.”
He leaned in and dropped his voice even lower. “Is it to be a scheme, then?”
“Lord Hinkal,” she said, “you torment me with your refusal to catch my meaning.”
He leaned back, just a bit. “Oh, I catch it, sure as anything,” he said, “but I also worry that, should you change your mind on the way back, the rest of the ride will become rather awkward.”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“Indeed?” he asked.
“Indeed.”
7
JOSETTE WOKE TO a kiss on the cheek. She blinked away sleep, as the fuzzy blur in front of her resolved into Roland. “Good morning, Lord Hinkal,” she said with a grin.
“And good morning to you, Lady Dupre,” he said, returning a wider grin.
She laughed, and scooted over until her forehead and the tip of her nose were pressed to his. Looking into his eyes, she said, “It’s still just ‘Dupre.’”
He shook his head, rolling her head along with the motion, until his nose slipped and he took the opportunity to steal a kiss. “You see, that’s why you don’t do well with courtly life. If you’re mistaken for a higher station, you should use that to your advantage. Who can ever be sure of their lineage, in any case?”
Entwining one leg with his, she said, “I can, and it isn’t the sort of lineage that gets away with that sort of gambit. Anyway, what possible advantage would I need with you?”
He smirked. “Hardly any, it would seem.”
She slid across the silk sheets, closing what little distance remained between them, and was just about to speak when a knock on the apartment door froze her solid.
“It’s only the servant bringing breakfast,” Roland said.
This did not assuage her worry. “You don’t suppose any of them saw us coming in together?” she asked.
“Even if they did, they’re known for their discretion.”
But she couldn’t take her eyes off the door, watching it as if it might burst open at any moment, and all her most judgmental acquaintances pile through.
He sighed and rolled away. “Go check, if you’re worried. All you’ll find is a cheese and olive plate, the newspaper, and—if we’re lucky—some mutton dumplings. They make wonderful mutton dumplings.”
“You should go and check,” she protested. “People expect this sort of thing from your sort.”
He stuck his nose in the air and pushed out his lips in imitation of a pout. “I refuse. I’d rather my dumplings get cold, than indulge your paranoia and class-envy.”
“With that attitude, I can assure you that your dumplings will be cold either way.”
He tried to look hurt, by all appearances, but couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. “Then I have even less incentive to check the door, don’t I?”
She groaned with frustration, rolled over, and sat at the edge of the bed, looking for her clothes. Roland propped himself up on one elbow and laid there, admiring her as she dressed.
When she noticed him staring, she rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing worth leering at.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He went on watching, and she pretended to ignore him. “You know,” he said, “you do have a Vin tinge to your accent. It’s quite subtle, but it comes out when you’re…”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
He grinned and said, “Lively.”
Shaking her head, she tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, and peeked out. There was, indeed, a breakfast tray sitting on the floor outside, and the servant who’d delivered it was just returning to bring a similar tray to the next apartment down the hall. His eyes flashed up, but before he could spot her, she ducked back into the room.
Still, she thought, if he saw the door open but didn’t notice the tray disappear, he might come by to inquire about the problem. The safest possible course, therefore, was to retrieve the breakfast tray, including its plate of delicious-smelling dumplings. She stuck her bare foot out, hooked her big toe around the handle, and dragged the entire thing into the apartment. The carpet was thicker than she realized, however, and caused the silver plate to advance in little jerks, with the plates clattering all the way. The metallic racket was so loud it echoed up and down the hall.
“Masterful obfuscation,” Roland said, even as she shushed him and closed the door. “You should have been a spy.”
“It would have worked on a wicker deck,” she said. She locked the door, picked up the tray and set it down on the bed, then sat on the corner. In addition to the newspaper—one of the broadsheets most sympathetic to the government, naturally, and bearing some melodramatic headline cut in half by the fold—there was a slip of paper with a handwritten reminder about a social affair in the afternoon. She read the latter reflexively, not quite meaning to snoop, but she lost all interest in it when she took her first bite of a dumpling. It was easily the best mutton dumpling she had ever tasted. She swallowed and asked, “Do you get these most days? They only leave me the cheese and olives.”
Roland sat up, resting his shoulders against the headboard. “Once every few days, but you have to ask for them. You know, there’s a table in the other room, if you prefer to eat breakfast like a civilized person.”
“Who to
ld you I’m civilized?” she asked, taking another bite and chewing. “Bring me the slanderous bastard, and I’ll set him to rights.”
She put the last of the dumpling in her mouth and reached for another before she’d even swallowed it. As she chewed, something about the newspaper caught her eye. Even with the headline folded over and unreadable, the top half of the line seemed strangely familiar. With her free hand, she unfolded the paper, and froze with a dumpling held in the air and a quarter of another between her teeth.
“You’re not going to eat all my dumplings, are you?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge the question, but it snapped her out of her paralysis. She swallowed what was in her mouth and dropped the other dumpling onto the bedsheets in her haste to unfold the paper.
“Oh, come now,” Roland said. “I was only teasing. Don’t be cross. You know, it’s the washer ladies who have to clean the sheets, so it’s really only the small folk who’ll be harmed by this little dumpling rebellion of yours.”
“Shut up” was all she said, running her eyes across the front page.
It was only then that Roland realized something was wrong. He sat up straight, reached for his clothes, and asked, “What is it?”
She threw the paper at him and growled. “Your uncle has been defeated in Triese, in the very first battle of his vaunted winter offensive.” She took a deep breath. “The army is falling back in shambles. Four thousand men are dead, wounded, or missing, and we’re on the retreat again.” She picked up the handwritten note that had accompanied the tray, made a show of reading it, and then added bitterly, “Oh, and Countess Miguelena would like to know if you’ll be attending her luncheon party this afternoon.”
Roland looked over the news. “Four thousand casualties,” he said, “but nearly as many casualties inflicted on the Vins. See? In the greater picture, nothing has changed. We’re still wearing them down.”
“That is, I suppose, General Hinkal’s one redeeming virtue: he doesn’t lose an entire army all in one go. He portions it out to the Vins a few regiments at a time.”
“But we’re still wearing them down,” Roland said again. “We haven’t—”
“If you remind me that we haven’t lost a war in three generations,” Josette interrupted, shooting him a glare, “I cannot be held responsible for what I do to you.” Her eyes unfocused. “My God, what have I been doing with myself? I have to see to my ship.” She went to the floor and began looking for her missing boot.
Roland, not half dressed, stood and looked down at her. “What are you on about? You’re not going north any sooner that you would have. The battle’s already lost. Celerity, however admirable in appearance, can’t change that now.”
“Have we lost the battle?” she asked bitterly. “I’m told it’s all part of a grand strategy to wear them down.” She found the boot under the bed, just out of reach. She jammed her shoulder under it, as far as it would go, and stretched her arm to reach. Her fingers just barely touched leather, which she attempted to pull toward her without success.
Roland joined her on the floor and, with his longer arms, easily retrieved the boot. “Please don’t be angry at me over something I can’t control,” he said, handing it to her. “You’re not like that.”
As she sat on the bed and pulled her boot on, she said, “Lord Hinkal, I am under no obligation to satisfy your notions of what I’m like.”
He shook his head and looked at the ceiling. “This must be the side of you my uncle sees.”
She began lacing up her boots. “And this must be the side of you that concerns itself with trivial matters in the face of calamity—the side of you that’s exactly like every other overgrown child in this palace, the side that spends so much time doing the thinking for other people that you have hardly any left to think for yourself.”
“Well, it also happens to be the side that’s fallen in love with you.” Her startled reaction checked him, and he stammered on, “I mean…” But his words trailed off.
Josette was no great judge of motive, but it seemed even to her that this slip was not nearly as spontaneous as it first seemed, that perhaps he had been working up to it before she’d noticed the newspaper, or even that he thought it would serve to calm their bickering—that she might fall promptly into his arms. It was the latest and quite possibly the last in a string of shortcuts he’d attempted to take, on the way to her heart.
“I have to see to my ship,” was all she said as she left the apartment, one boot still unlaced.
* * *
DAWN CREPT UPON Kuchin, spreading its rosy fingers over quiet streets. Rich, orange sunlight sparkled through icicles hanging above pristine snow. At the edge of the river, a single marsh warbler lifted its voice into the chill air, proclaiming to the earth and sky with its merry trills and chirping notes that the desolation of winter was near its end, and that life would soon return with the coming of spring. And on an avenue near the airfield, suffused with the delectable, yeasty scent of baking bread, the sun crested the adjacent rooftops to pour its warmth onto the face of Lord Bernat Hinkal, who woke to the realization that he’d gone to bed on garbage again.
Sergeant Jutes was already up and, seeing that Bernat was stirring, offered him a hand up. Bernat took it and got to his feet, saying, “Slept well, Jutes?”
“Well enough, sir.” Jutes’s uniform was covered with stains of revolting origin, but he looked strangely chipper.
“Not too cold, I hope?” With a hand on Jutes to steady himself, Bernat felt his face. It was sore in several places, and his left eye was swollen half shut.
“Not at all. You warmed up the heap quite nicely. Next best thing to having a fire going.”
Bernat smiled. “And they say I’m of no use. I, uh, didn’t scream out in the night, did I?”
Jutes looked at him with an odd mix of surprise, concern, and helplessness. He shook his head. “Not that I heard.”
Bernat nodded back as he looked Jutes over. In contrast to Bernat, Jutes didn’t have a single bruise on his face, where even the slightest blemish would be obvious against his ivory skin. “You came off well.”
“Tell that to my ribs,” Jutes said. And though he grimaced, he seemed relieved to be on another subject. “A little trick of getting into bar fights while you’re in the service, sir, is to get yourself hit where it don’t show.”
“I’ll have to remember that for next time. Say, you haven’t seen my cane about, have you?”
Jutes leaned over and came up with the mahogany cane. It was broken in several places, held together only by threads of wood fiber. “You came off pretty well yourself, sir,” he said. “Compared to the fellows on the other end of this, at least.”
“Damn.” Bernat tried to take a step without it, and pain shot up his leg. Between the fight and the way he’d slept, his leg had regressed back through several weeks of healing.
“Let me help you to the signal base,” Jutes said. “You can get a carriage to the palace from there.”
The city woke as they made their way, and it seemed to wake with as big a hangover as theirs. Two carriages nearly ran them over in the street, racing past on their way to the signal base. Then a troop of dragoons, riding at a canter, nearly ran them over going the other way.
Half an hour after the dragoons passed, Bernat thought he heard a musket going off somewhere far down the river, near the heart of the city. He heard another when they were halfway to the base, and he was certain this time, even though they were farther away. More faraway muskets popped off as they walked, until it seemed that someone must have started a riot. At a bend in the river, on the outskirts of town, they had a clear view of the city skyline, and could see smoke rising from the Tellurian Quarter.
Bernat wondered, as they approached the signal base, if it was also experiencing a riot. There was certainly a lot of smoke and dust going up, and panicked yardsmen running in every direction. The place seemed to be on the verge of mayhem, but Jutes pointed
out that the smoke was from fires set to clear out brush on the expansive grounds, and the dust from teams of mules dragging logs to level the earth.
Jutes offered to help him to the shed, but Bernat insisted that Jutes use the opportunity presented by this chaos to sneak off and change into a clean uniform. So Bernat was left hobbling along the shed door, until he spotted Josette yelling at some crewmen. He waved her over.
As she came near, she began by berating him about not having his cane, but switched tacks when she approached within reach of his scent. “You smell worse than you look,” she said, shaking her head, “and that’s saying something.”
“What happened was—”
But before he could explain, she waved the matter away. “You’re not the first airman to start a brawl.” She leaned in and sniffed. “Though you may be the first to do so on a compost heap.”
He wondered how she knew that he’d started it, but he didn’t want her thinking she had some special insight into the workings of his mind, so he asked instead, “What the hell is going on? We heard muskets in the city.”
“Your uncle is what’s going on.”
Bernat frowned in confusion. “What, have they shot him?”
She snorted. “They ought to.” She was about to put an arm under his to help him walk, but thought better of it and called for a yardsman to bring a plank and a few feet of sailcloth. “He lost four thousand men in Quah, and now they’re scrambling to replace them. A quarter of all militia regiments have been activated for regular army service, and the exemption from conscription has been lifted for university students, among others. Soldiers from the city garrison have been trying to round them up before they can flee town—and making a goddamn mess of it, of course. But you’ll be pleased to know that palace servants are still on the exempt list.”
“That does not please me.” Bernat looked out at the parties clearing the grounds. “Are the new conscripts from Kuchin to be trained here, at the signal base?”
“I have no idea, but the levee notice had a bit in it that said, ‘national buildings are to be used as barracks, and open spaces as encampments.’ I think it was more of a rhetorical flourish than a specific instruction, but Colonel Shihi, the base commander, is taking it seriously.” The yardsman had arrived with plank and sailcloth, which Josette assembled into a makeshift crutch.
