“With your permission, sir, I’d like to begin daily drill again tomorrow. I’d like to use an old racecourse down in the city. I think it would do everyone good to get most of the regiment practicing at once, and it can’t hurt to be seen exercising a little discipline. A lot of people are still frightened.”
And if the locals are thinking of turning on us, a little show of force might be a good idea. “Do it,” Winter said. “Use everyone you can spare from other duties. I’ll tell Abby.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sevran cocked his head, listening. “I believe I hear Lieutenant Giforte now.”
A moment later, Abby swept in from the corridor, with several other Girls’ Own officers trailing behind her. She looked unhappy until she saw Winter, and then her expression became one of relief.
“Sir! Are you feeling better?”
“Enough to walk short distances, anyway,” Winter said. “I think we need to talk.”
Abby nodded emphatically. “Virginia, Nel, go over my plan with the captain and get his notes. Colonel, I think we can use the room next door.”
With some reluctance, Winter levered herself up from her chair and followed Abby out into the corridor. The freckled young woman was showing some serious signs of sunburn on the back of her neck, and she’d tied her frizzy brown hair up into a bun that bobbed as she walked. She opened the door to the next room over, which was a dusty pantry that looked as though it hadn’t been used in months. A handful of empty crates lay on the floor, and Abby grabbed one and brushed it off before presenting it to Winter.
“Who was using this place before we moved in?” Winter said as Abby cleaned off another crate for her own use.
“An outfit called the Falcon Guard. Strictly ceremonial, sons of privilege riding around in fancy costumes, that sort of thing. After the real army surrendered, they’ve been too embarrassed to show themselves, and the merchant’s council said we could help ourselves. They’re eager to be seen being helpful.”
“Let’s hope nothing changes their attitude.” Winter had no illusions that the Deslandai had suddenly seen the virtues of the revolutionary cause. Their loyalty would last up until the moment Janus’ army was no longer a threat. “Sevran said things have been going well.”
“More or less.” Abby sighed. “I’ve had to keep the Girls’ Own from going out nights. There’s a lot of strange rumors going around about us.”
“I can imagine. Do what you need to keep them safe.”
“I will, sir. But they’re not happy about it. The Royals get passes to go out on the town.”
Winter nodded. “Let me think about it.”
There was a moment of silence, which stretched out into an awkward pause. Winter finally said, “I wanted to thank you for what you did in the battle. Your squad carried the farm.”
Abby shrugged. “I was only following your orders, sir.”
“It still took a lot of courage. I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Thank you, sir.” Abby sighed. “But it’s not the battle you want to talk about, and you know it. It’s Jane.”
Winter winced. “I’m that transparent?”
“More or less.”
“So, where is she?”
“Last I heard,” Abby said, “she was in a tavern called the Loose Cannon, about a mile from here. But they may have tossed her out by now.”
“Is she alone?”
Abby shook her head. “Most of the older Leatherbacks are with her. Becca, Winn, and the rest. Forty or fifty in all. They take over a tavern and drink it dry, then move on to the next.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since the battle, I think. Things got a little confused when we entered the city.”
“Saints and martyrs. What the hell is she up to?”
“Celebrating, she calls it. I think she’s still hiding.”
“From who?” Winter said.
“You? Me? Sevran? The rest of the Girls’ Own?” Abby looked uncomfortable. “The Leatherbacks are still mostly behind her, but the newer recruits weren’t happy when she told us we couldn’t go and help the Royals. They’d just as soon be rid of her.”
Winter looked at Abby thoughtfully. She still lacked a formal uniform, but her rumpled blue jacket seemed to fit her like a second skin, and the battered leather bandolier that went over her shoulder looked like a natural fit. She’d become a soldier, somewhere over the past few months, in much the same way that Khandar had molded Winter herself into one.
“You’ve been running the Girls’ Own in the meantime?” Winter said.
“More or less. I don’t have any actual authority, but the others listen to me.”
“I’m changing that, as of now. You’re acting captain.”
“What about Jane?”
“Jane is obviously not terribly interested in the job,” Winter said, unable to keep a certain bitterness out of her voice. “I’ll deal with her, but it may take some time. It’s my fault for letting this thing between us get so bad. In the meantime, the battalion needs a commander.”
“Understood, sir. Just . . .” She hesitated.
“What?” Winter said.
“Don’t be too hard on her. Please.”
“I’ll do my best,” Winter said.
The soldier’s life had never agreed with Jane, not in the way it obviously suited Abby. She wasn’t used to drills, discipline, taking orders. She was never good at taking orders. Even the mistresses at the Prison had given up trying to get Jane to do anything she didn’t want to do, until they’d finally thrown her in a closet and married her off to a brute. The army is never going to be her home, not the way it is for me or Bobby.
Winter shook her head and got to her feet. “All right. Have I got a room in this place?”
“Of course, sir. You’ve got the commander’s suite on the top floor. I’ll show you the way.”
* * *
The commander’s suite turned out to be almost ridiculously luxurious, like the bedroom of a particularly avaricious king. It was so crowded with gold and silver bowls, candelabra, plate, and other precious odds and ends that there was scarcely room to do more than make her way to and from the big bed, and the sitting room was a mass of elegant paintings, vases, and polished hardwood. Winter decided that first thing tomorrow she was going to have the clutter packed away into a cellar. As it was, she felt that if she turned around too quickly she’d bump a spindly little table and shatter some priceless heirloom.
Rankers brought her food, which was served on polished silver plates with a crystal goblet of wine and was indeed considerably better than what they’d been eating on the march. Abby had told her the storerooms were filling up with “gifts” for the colonel from local notables eager to court her favor. The wine must have been one of them, because it was worlds different from the awful stuff available from the merchants who followed the army. This was cool, clear nectar from the Old Coast, golden as the sun, with such a smooth flavor that Winter didn’t realize how much she’d drunk until her head was swimming.
Cyte returned, with a batch of reports—the next of kin for the dead and details of the injuries of the wounded, who was expected to recover and who to die, the state of the regiment’s weapons and ammunition, guard rotas and infractions to be dealt with. Winter looked it all over, a little unsteadily, and told Cyte to take care of whatever she could on her own. She relayed her order putting Abby in charge of the Girls’ Own, too, which the ex-student seemed to thoroughly approve of. Then, perhaps sensing her commander’s weariness and slight inebriation, Cyte withdrew, leaving Winter to shrug out of as much of her uniform as she could easily remove and crawl into bed.
The sun wasn’t yet touching the horizon, but the long walk through the city earlier and the pounding pain in her head made her want to curl up and hide under the thick wool blankets and silk sheets of the big four-
poster. But actual sleep eluded her. When she closed her eyes, she found herself back in the battle, not watching the Girls’ Own rankers shot down around her or in her desperate final struggle with the Deslandai officer, but delivering her warning to Jane through clenched teeth. Again and again, she saw Jane’s eyes widen in shock, as though Winter had just run her through the belly with a rapier, then narrow in—what? Rage? Frustration? Chagrin? She could picture the expression exactly, but not read it.
I should never have brought her here. Jane had done the impossible—escaped from the Prison and her husband, built a life for herself in Vordan City, and helped hundreds of others along the way. Winter had come into that life like a hurricane and knocked it to pieces. I should have made her stay behind. Made them all stay behind. Janus would have listened to me. He could have made them do it.
But if Jane wasn’t fitting into the army, others—Abby, Cyte—had taken to it like a duck to water. Should I have sent them home, too? She’d told Jane that the women of the Girls’ Own knew what they’d signed up for, and that was true, too. Why do I get to make the choice for any of them?
And no matter what, the thought of sending Jane away—of being separated from her again—made Winter feel as if someone were tearing her ribs out of her chest. But why does my pain trump hers? If being with me means ruining her life, how is that worth it? If I really loved her, I should have been willing to stay by her side in Vordan, and to hell with Janus and the army.
Of course, that had never been a realistic option. The passenger in the pit of Winter’s mind rarely made itself felt, but she could feel it if she turned her attention inward. Infernivore. A devouring beast, slumbering until it felt the approach of prey. Army or not, since the moment she took on the demon—or the naath, or whatever it is—she’d marked herself. According to Janus, it would stay with her for the rest of her life.
“Fuck.” Winter pressed her face into the thick down pillow, muffling her voice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Balls of the fucking Beast. What the hell do I do now?”
Then, a bit unsteadily, she rolled out of bed and went in search of the rest of the bottle of wine.
* * *
The next day dawned clear and—to Winter’s eyes—uncomfortably bright. She shaded her forehead with one hand and gulped water from her canteen. Her head still throbbed, although this morning it was perhaps for different reasons.
The racetrack—it was called the Campus—was at least a square mile of open land in the midst of one of the wealthier parts of Desland. The houses that looked on to it were some of the biggest and most expensive in the city, equaled only by the mansions lining the river cliffs. Horses, their breeding, racing, and trading, had always been the center of the Deslandai economy, and all of the city’s oldest and most noble families had equine interests. The Campus was the site of the Golden Laurel, arguably the most prestigious set of horse races in the world, and afterward played host to the most exclusive and expensive of the city’s many horse markets.
Racing and trading horses was a summer affair, however, and this late in the year the Campus was just a square of browning grass and dirt, scattered with scraps of wood and bits of canvas left over from the great fairs. It was easily large enough to accommodate the entire Third Regiment, along with the crowds of curious Deslandai who had come to see the show.
The spectators kept a respectful distance from the troops, and here and there a blue Vordanai flag waved in a show of goodwill. In the center of the rough ring of onlookers, the Girls’ Own and the Royals went through a set of evolutions that Abby and Sevran had worked out between them the night before. The two battalions deployed from columns into line and ployed back again, companies marching and countermarching to the beat of the assembled regimental drums. They formed two squares, bayonets gleaming dangerously, and at a drumbeat of command melted back into column and marched proudly around the square.
Some of the maneuvers, to Winter’s eye, were a bit ragged, especially on the part of the Girls’ Own. Tight formation drill had never been a priority in a battalion where most of the soldiers had barely handled a musket before. But they’d made a lot of progress, and it was evidently enough to impress the Deslandai, who shouted and applauded with each barked command. There were a fair number of whistles and catcalls mixed in, of course. The women in the front of the formation responded to lewd suggestions from the crowd with equally foul hand gestures, provoking roars of laughter.
Winter sat astride Edgar, with Cyte mounted beside her, and tried to enjoy the show. Every time she saw Abby, walking at the head of the Girls’ Own and shouting orders to the drummers, it made her think about Jane. She and the older Leatherbacks hadn’t returned last night, and according to reports had moved from the Loose Cannon to the Golden Goose for another round of revels.
“The Girls’ Own ought to have proper uniforms,” Cyte said, drawing Winter up from her thoughts.
“I put in a request to the Ministry,” Winter said, “but there are a lot of volunteer battalions. Somehow I think providing a bunch of women’s uniforms is not at the top of their list.”
“Plenty of tailors here in Desland,” Cyte said. “We ought to be able to get them made locally.”
“I don’t think I can afford it.” Winter sighed. They’d spent nearly all her back wages—all the money she had in the world, she thought ruefully—on providing better food and drink for the troops on the march.
Cyte shot her a crafty look. “You wouldn’t have to pay. The quartermasters have authorization to draw on the credit of the Crown.”
“Since when does the Vordanai Crown have any credit in Desland?”
“Since Janus marched in and pointed twelve-pounders at their fancy banks,” Cyte said bluntly. “They’ve been very good about extending loans.”
“That sounds more like robbery.”
Cyte shrugged. “It’s war. Read a little history, and you’ll find this is polite by any standard. We’re already taking all kinds of supplies, especially horses. A few hundred yards of cloth will hardly make a dent.”
“All right,” Winter said, watching the Girls’ Own maneuver. Their jackets, each a different shade of blue, flapped against whatever homespun or linen each recruit had brought with her. “Do it. If they’re going to risk their lives for Crown and Deputies, they deserve to look like soldiers.”
“Yes, sir.” Cyte grinned.
“And see what you can do about boots.” Too many of the women had come with footwear adequate only for city streets, which was falling to pieces after weeks of marching hard country roads. “As long as we’re looting, we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”
“Now, there’s the right spirit for a conquering commander,” Cyte said. “We’ll make a proper tyrant of you yet. I’ll see what I can do in terms of slave girls for your bedroom.”
It was a joke, and Winter did her best to smile, but she must not have done a very good job of it. Cyte blanched.
“Sorry,” she said. “I . . . sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Winter said, ignoring the ache in her chest that matched the throb in her head. “Come on. We should get back to the citadel before the crowd breaks up.”
A couple of companies of soldiers had been left on guard duty, and the sentries Winter saw on her return looked very unhappy at being unable to join the demonstration. She passed the word that they’d be the next to receive passes to head into the city, which cheered the Royals up considerably. Abby hadn’t wanted the Girls’ Own to go out, which rankled a bit, but was probably sensible; Cyte’s notion of using the Crown’s credit to secure supplies had given her an idea, though. She spent the next couple of hours in the big room Sevran used as an office, writing orders and consulting with a few local representatives.
“Sir?”
Winter looked up to find a ranker from the Girls’ Own at the door. The young woman—she couldn’t have been more than seventeen—was
obviously intimidated at the prospect of talking to her colonel, and she drew herself up into what she probably thought was a properly stiff military bearing. Winter suppressed a smile.
“Yes, Ranker?” she said.
“Captain Giforte requests permission to bring a matter to your attention.”
Winter frowned. “Of course. Tell her to come in.”
“She requests you join her in the yard, sir.”
“All right.” Winter set down her pen and stretched, kinks popping in her back. Her headache, at least, had subsided a bit. “What’s going on?”
“Best she tells you, sir.”
Abby was waiting in the yard, in front of the entrance to the keep. Behind her, the troops had returned to their tents and were cooking lunch, though quite a few seemed to have drifted over to see what was going on.
Behind Abby stood three young women. The one on the left was enormous, a head taller than Winter and broad-shouldered, with short hair and a guarded expression. To her right was a younger woman, slim and sallow-looking, dressed in battered leather and fraying homespun.
The third woman made a point of not looking at her two companions, or indeed anyone else in the yard. She had the pale skin of someone who’d spent her life sheltering from the sun, and long golden curls that cascaded down to the small of her back. Her dress, elegant pink and gold with matching jewelry at her throat and wrists, was already stained at the hem from the mud of the yard. Her eyes snapped to Winter as soon as she emerged, bright blue and disconcertingly piercing.
“Abby,” Winter said as the acting captain saluted briskly, “what’s going on?”
“These three came up to me after the demonstration, sir,” Abby said. “They want to join up.”
“Join up?” Winter looked at the three women incredulously. “Why?”
“You’d have to ask them, sir.”
Winter turned to the large woman. “What’s your name?”
The Price of Valor Page 25
