So I wasn't looking for Michel, and my business in Boulogne was purely that -- business. I was looking instead for Jean-Baptiste Corbineau. If anyone already knew everything that was happening in camp, it would be Corbineau. And I at least trusted that Corbineau would not turn spy for love or money. I could not tell him my charge, of course, but I could count on a certain amount of help and information from him for the sake of friendship, even if he did not know who I served.
He wasn't hard to find. Even in Boulogne, a quiet town swollen to four times its normal size by the Army of the Coasts of Ocean, people knew Corbineau when I asked for him by name. I was directed to the fencing salle of M. Clanet.
Even on an afternoon when a chill rain fell all up and down the Channel Coast, the salle was warm inside. It took up almost the entire ground floor of what appeared to be a former warehouse, with vast windows down one wall and mirrors down the other. The mirrors must have been a costly investment, I thought, but they doubled the size of the crowd. There were thirty or forty men there, and I eased the door open carefully. A couple of men looked back as I elbowed in. If they wondered why a woman was there, they didn't wonder long. Even dressed in female clothing I wasn't as interesting as the bout.
They stood around the room, a space cleared in the middle for what was clearly an exhibition of some interest. I heard the ring of steel almost immediately, but the spectators were dead quiet. A couple of hussars made room for me so I could see between them, even though my bonnet plume must have blocked the view of those behind.
I drew a breath. Michel was one of the fencers. He had taken coat and waistcoat off, fencing in just shirt and light buff trousers, and his cravat had come loose and fell over one shoulder. His shirt already showed patches of sweat, and his face was deadly intent. I had never seen him at practice with that expression of concentration, his eyes moving even though his foil was stationary.
The other fencer wore dark pants and a tightly buttoned waistcoat, his movements as controlled as his dress. He was Michel's height or a little taller, more lightly built, with short dark hair and olive skin, a nose a little too sharp for beauty. He was motionless as well. Even their points didn't move, waiting like dancers in a mirror, both in guard.
The other fencer moved first. The advance and the riposte were almost too fast for me to see, a disengage around another disengage as both of them tried it at the same time, following each other around like a minuet. Steel rang. Michel attacked with a triple beat, then a disengage and a thrust that I expected to connect. It didn't. The other man was just as fast, and the thrust met a parry to the outside, an abrupt disengage and thrust. Michel stepped back out of the way, and the full extension was just short.
And then they both recovered to guard, watching, the points of their foils both circling clockwise, round and round each other. Michel was grinning. The other man's face was solemn, all keen concentration.
Michel exploded forward, a combination ending in a deadly fleché I should have been reluctant to try, even with practice foils, when no one wore padding. It didn't connect. A backhanded beat and disengage opened a window, and I saw his foil come up, aimed at Michel's breastbone as he ran straight onto it. At the last second Michel swept the point away. It passed almost against his side, and they were shoulder to shoulder inside one another's guard, like lovers in a dance.
But both points were to the outside, and before the blindingly fast second when either could have scored, they both moved. They stopped seven feet apart, both in guard. I could see Michel's chest moving with his breath. His opponent must be half a decade younger, but he didn't seem in better state, and his off hand was dropping.
Corbineau put his hand on my shoulder. "Madame?" he whispered.
I glanced at him. "Hello, Jean-Baptiste. I was looking for you."
"And you've found me," he whispered. "My dear sister, all the way from Paris to bring me some comforts from home. Any chocolate?"
"You are incorrigible," I whispered.
Steel rang. I had missed the pass, but it was inconclusive again. Sweat dripped in Michel's eyes. His opponent's feet were slower. They circled in the round, abandoning the idea of a strip entirely. I wasn't sure whose idea that was, but their steps mirrored each other completely.
"Are you here for the Marshal?" Corbineau whispered.
I leaned in to whisper back. "We're not together anymore. You know that."
Corbineau raised an eyebrow. "Of course not," he said, in a tone that said he didn't believe me for a moment.
"We're through," I whispered. "We agreed to be friends. That's all."
Blades clashed again. This time a high thrust just missed Michel's throat. I wished he wouldn't play without a mask or padding, especially with someone who wasn't his inferior in either reach or speed.
Michel riposted, then went straight into a stop thrust that was short. There was a counter, and the blades kissed, beat and beat and beat. I almost missed the disengage and thrust, a quick tap to his opponent's sword hand.
It was the point.
The young man shook his hand out, grinning ruefully. Michel said something, coming over and slapping him on the shoulder as the entire room started talking.
"He's good," I said. I had never seen Michel's equal as a swordsman, but he wasn't far behind.
Corbineau nodded. He picked up a towel from a nearby bench and waved it. The young man elbowed his way through the crowd toward us, sweat dripping off his black hair onto his face. Corbineau tossed him the towel. His sword hand looked worse than mine, this latest welt on top of white scars that crisscrossed the back of his hand and wrist, over a bulge that spoke of a broken bone long healed. He ducked his head into the towel, scrubbing his dripping hair.
"I'd like to present my dear friend Madame St. Elme," Corbineau said. "Madame, this is Brigadier General Honoré-Charles Reille, a lethal man with a blade of any kind." He winked at me.
Reille had the dignity to look embarrassed. "Madame, the pleasure is mine," he said, a faint blush lending color to his dark skin. "I should bend over your hand, but I believe my state precludes it." He was a little rank, and seemed too aware of it. "With your permission, I will retire and make myself decent."
"It will take more than water and soap to make you decent," Corbineau said, as Reille bowed very properly.
He gave Corbineau a dirty look and went off with the towel, presumably in the direction of the dressing rooms.
I raised an eyebrow myself. "Is he your lover?"
"Honoré?" Corbineau laughed. "Good heavens no! He only likes girls. More the pity; I did try."
"And he didn't run you through with that lethal blade of his?" I asked with mock innocence. "Must be a patient man."
"Alas, no," Corbineau said, putting his hand to his heart. "Honoré saves both blades for other quarry."
I laughed. And looked up unerringly.
Michel's eyes met mine across the room. He had his coat over his arm, the sword belt in his other hand as though he had started putting the saber back on and stopped halfway through.
I looked away. When I looked back, he was looking down, fastening the buckles.
"Friends?" Corbineau said skeptically.
"Yes," I said.
We had dinner together in a crowded, noisy tavern at a table by the window as far from the bar as possible. Unfortunately, that wasn't very far. Our men gave good custom, but there certainly were a lot of them!
"You can tell me what you're doing," Corbineau said, "And not worry about being overheard. I can barely hear you myself!"
"What I'm doing?" I glanced around the tavern, hoping the barmaid would hurry. I was hungry.
He gave me a skeptical look. "Come on now, Elza. If you're not here for the Marshal, am I to believe you've come for the sea air?"
I took a deep breath. It was time for the cover story. "I'm here at the invitation of Marshal Lannes."
"Oh please!" Corbineau laughed. "Lannes is not your type at all! And the way you looked at the Marshal…." H
e waved exuberantly to attract the barmaid's attention. "I don't believe for a second you're here for Lannes."
At that moment Colonel Subervie pushed his way through the crowd, his scabbard banging into random diners. "Madame St. Elme, I wanted to tell you that your things are being put in Topaze House." He gave Jean-Baptiste a nod. "Good evening, Corbineau."
"Hello, Subervie," Corbineau said. "Care to join us for dinner?"
"Do you two know each other?" I asked. It was all beginning to seem a small and incestuous club.
"Of course we do," Subervie said.
"We're close as brothers," Corbineau expanded. He caught the look on Subervie's face and grinned. "All right, close as distant cousins. Exceptionally distant cousins who only see one another on holidays."
"We're both part of the School of War," Subervie supplied. "What was it we were teamed up for last?"
"Pharsalus," Corbineau said. "And a misery that was. I had Pompey's heavy cavalry. Might as well shoot myself right off. Gervais got to be with Caesar."
"I played the Eighth Augusta Legion," Subervie said. "It was a good game. Jomini ran Caesar himself and Ney took Pompey. But Pompey's in so deep he can't really win that one."
"The Marshal says it's important to learn how to lose," Corbineau said. "And admittedly it wasn't a total rout, like the real Pharsalus was."
Subervie winced. "I try to avoid losing, myself."
"Yes, well," Corbineau said. "Tomorrow it's Carrhae. There's no joy in that for anyone. Not either of us, anyway. Maybe for the Parthians. Who's playing Parthian anyhow?"
"Reille's the Parthian horse archers," Subervie replied. "Don't know who else has what. I suppose we'll see at nine. So don't stay out too late drinking with the lady!" He looked at me sideways, as if trying to decide if he was onto something or not.
"What do you learn by fighting these ancient battles?" I asked. "Surely this was a long time ago. They didn't have rifles or cannon, so how can this help?"
"The strategies of war stay the same," Corbineau said. "It's like a chess game. The capabilities of each piece may change over the centuries, but the game itself doesn't. The tactics don't. There's not a centimeter of distance between our flying wedge and Alexander the Great's."
"But the Persians didn't have riflemen in square," I pointed out.
"They had horse archers," Subervie rumbled, still standing in the aisle beside my chair. "Persian horse archers could fire at six times the rate of modern infantry, and at nearly twice the range. Also, because they were mounted they were more mobile. Modern infantry is more like hoplites in terms of their mobility and their ability to change facing." He shrugged, as though he had suddenly remembered who I was. "But that's a rather technical explanation for a lady. I apologize."
Corbineau snorted. "Don't apologize to her! My dear sister is a veritable Amazon! You should have seen her at Apfing. I turned about in the middle of it, and there she was with her saber sticking out of a man's breastbone, trying to get the point loose without breaking her wrist. I think Madame can comprehend our poor simulations."
Subervie blinked. "Is that so? Or is Jean-Baptiste having me on?"
"It's true," I said quietly. "A few engagements, and I do not claim to have played any part in the Battle of Hohenlinden, though I was there." I wasn't sure if I would have chosen to explain any of this, but there was little point in denying it now. I could see that there would be too many people here who had been with the Army of the Rhine on that campaign, and who would recognize me all too easily. I might as well own up to it.
Subervie blinked again. "I did not know there were any real Amazons, but trust Corbineau to find one."
"She's not bad," Corbineau said. "I'd have her for a troop leader. She'd be fine with light cavalry."
Subervie's brows rose toward his receding hairline. "Really? Knowing she's a woman?"
"I'd know, but you'd not guess seeing her kitted out as a trooper," Corbineau said. His eyes met Subervie's with a hint of a challenge. "Tactics isn't all about having a big prick, you know."
Subervie raised his hands. "Never said it was, Jean-Baptiste. Manhood's not the measure of a man. I know that."
I wondered what he knew of Corbineau's proclivities, and if words had passed between them. If they had, it had not gone too badly if Subervie was so quick to back down. He seemed genuinely determined not to insult a friend.
Corbineau shrugged, the tension in his shoulders fading a little. "Anyway, I'd have Madame for a troop leader. She's quick and she's got good common sense. She'd pick up the tactics in no time."
I had not seen the flying wedge, not in the snows of Hohenlinden, but I could imagine very clearly what it must look like, what horse and rider were supposed to do. I could do that, I thought. I truly could.
"It sounds fascinating, gentlemen," I said. "And is that what you are practicing?"
"To some extent," Subervie said. "At the lowest level we drill, practicing with the actual men and horses. But much of what we do in the School of War is learning how and when to use a tactic. We learn what it can do and what it can't, from the micro application to the macro, from the troop to the grand army."
"By refighting the battles of the past," I said. There was something fascinating in that, as though one could do it all again, do it right or better, or simply differently.
"With the best of us on both sides," Corbineau said. "We learn from our equals. And we learn each others' styles and weaknesses and strengths. That way when it's real we'll know who does what and how."
Subervie nodded. "In the heat of battle often you can't tell what someone else is doing. But at this point I know that Corbineau here is taking a middle course. He's not one of the aggressive ones who's charging everything that moves, but he's not hanging back in the rear either."
"Thank you for that," Corbineau said dryly. "I don't think you're milling around aimlessly either."
"You know what I mean."
"I do," Corbineau said. "And that's part of the point. We gain the measure of one another."
At this point the barmaid finally turned up.
"Staying for dinner, Subervie?" Corbineau asked, as he was still standing between tables.
The colonel shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I'm on duty still." I wondered what other tasks he had postponed, securing lodging for me, and how long it would take him tonight to finish.
"I do appreciate your looking to the matter of my lodging," I said with my most brilliant smile. "I will get Corbineau to show me where it is later. I am sure it is all very nice."
"It's where my wife stayed when she was here," Subervie said. "So it's respectable." He cleared his throat. "I mean, I think you'll like it."
"We know what you mean," Corbineau said with a wink at me.
"I do appreciate it," I said, and gave him my hand. He bent over it and swiftly disappeared among the diners, elbowing his way toward the door where another party of junior officers were coming in ten strong.
It was starting to get overly warm in the tavern. "Is it always this crowded?" I asked.
Corbineau shrugged. "Pretty much. This is what we do, Elza. We spend our days haring about on horseback and refighting the battles of the greatest commanders who ever lived, and our nights drinking large quantities of Calvados and wenching." He looked at me sideways. "It's an ideal life, actually."
"And how's the wenching?" I asked as the barmaid brought my wine. "Any particular wench?"
He looked off vaguely into the distance, and I thought he was avoiding looking at my face. We had not talked about this so baldly. "Not in particular. But you know, where there are enough men there are always wenches."
I picked my words carefully. "I hope you exercise good judgment."
"I always do." He toyed with his glass on the way to his lips. "I am too aware of the consequences not to. Some people take that sort of thing very seriously. It's not Paris, but there are…social events."
"Ah," I said. "That sounds interesting."
Corbineau ra
ised an eyebrow at me. "A Chinese box, dear sister? A girl dressed as a boy dressed as a girl? No one would be quite certain what you were, without an intimate look."
"Which I don't intend to provide," I said. But it occurred to me, aside from the excitement of it, that one could find out all sorts of things on the shady side of the street, including which men had a lot to lose. Blackmail was a rationale for treason.
Corbineau leaned close. "Elza, what are you up to? Lannes doesn't have Subervie running errands for you because he thinks you're chic. Other people might believe that, but I know you."
I met his eyes levelly. "Jean-Baptiste, I can't tell you. You have to trust me on this."
I had expected that he would curse and push, but instead he leaned back, an inscrutable expression on his face. "It's about that, then."
"About what?" Surely Lannes wasn't on close enough terms with Corbineau to have told him. Surely half the camp wasn't in on this plan! What kind of way to catch a spy was this?
"That." Corbineau lifted his glass. "The Other Measures. I expect I'll be seeing you, then."
"What other measures?"
"I can't tell you."
I sighed. "Jean-Baptiste, now you are just being deliberately mysterious."
"You can't tell me, and I can't tell you. I know how this goes. But I'll see you there, and then it will all be clear." He touched his wine glass to mine. "I should have known when they said they needed a woman that it would be our Amazon."
"A woman for what?"
"Don't be coy," Corbineau said lightly. "You respect my oaths, and I'll respect yours."
"Shit, Corbineau," I said, leaning toward him. "Come on, now."
But he would not say another word about it.
It was nearly eleven when he walked me to Topaze House, a fairly large establishment on a noisy street. There was an attentive footman at the door, whose job was to make clear to all and sundry that this was a lodging house for ladies, not a bawdy house. Corbineau had to explain three times who he was before he could come in to the parlor, but even then he was not allowed upstairs. Gentlemen weren't, during the evening, unless they were the husbands of a boarder.
Jo Graham - [Numinous World 05] Page 8
