The Price of Valor

by Django Wexler

  “Raes!” Cora was waiting by the mound of spuds, waving frantically. “There you are. The colonel’s been looking for you!”

  “Duty calls,” Raesinia said to Viera. “Try to make sure the potatoes end up chopped instead of blown to smithereens.”

  Viera snorted. “Powder residue would ruin the flavor anyway. I need to think of a better design.”

  “Do you know what happened?” Raesinia asked Cora.

  The girl shook her head. “It can’t be good, though. He looks like he’s in a temper.”

  Raesinia sighed. He shouldn’t have bothered. It couldn’t be helped, though. Sometimes you needed to hit the wall headfirst before you know it was there.

  Marcus, Andy, Hayver, and Lieutenant Uhlan were gathered in the quiet corner where Cora piled her books, Marcus and Uhlan in quiet conversation while the two rankers looked on uncomfortably. Marcus looked up as Raesinia approached, and she paused for a moment.

  A kind man with a fine figure. I suppose he is.

  “Raes?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” She shook her head and stepped into the little circle. “So, what’s the plan?”

  Chapter Twelve

  WINTER

  “We’re eager to work with the Vordanai, of course,” the tradesman lied. “And the terms your general offered us were more than fair.”

  “More than fair,” his fat companion agreed. “I won’t hear a word said against General Janus.” He pronounced the name wrong, jah-noos instead of ya-nuhs.

  “It’s the quartermasters,” the tradesman continued. “They’ve been promising us payment for days, and now they say they’ve delivered it. But what am I supposed to do with this?”

  Winter looked at the paper the man held out to her. It said, on embossed parchment with many elaborate curlicues, that it was a bill to be drawn against the treasury of the Vordanai Crown and Deputies-General, to the amount of six thousand five hundred crowns, payable no more than six months after the conclusion of “the present hostilities.”

  “I got one, too,” said the fat merchant. “I delivered six wagonloads of hardtack and four hundred head of horses, and they gave me a paper with a stamp on it.”

  “I’m sure the Vordanai treasury will honor those bills in full, once the war is over,” Winter said, though she was actually certain of no such thing. Finance, beyond the kind that clinked in your pocket, had always been vague and mysterious to her.

  “What am I supposed to do until then?” the tradesman said. “Cut this into pieces and feed it to my family?”

  Winter sat back in her chair and looked desperately at Cyte for help. The ex-student stepped in smoothly.

  “I suggest,” Cyte said, “you take it to a bank. I’m sure they would be happy to convert it into coin for a reasonable percentage.”

  “I tried that,” said the fat one, “and they told me to shove it where the sun don’t shine.” He eyed Cyte and added, “Begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  “Lieutenant,” Winter said, “would you make a point of visiting Gold Row tomorrow morning and impressing on the local financiers the absolute sincerity of Her Majesty’s government? I’m sure once you explain the position, they’ll be happy to assist these gentlemen.” Winter looked from one man to another. “Will that do?”

  The tradesman scratched his cheek and nodded. The merchant looked unhappy, but he turned to follow his companion out, which was all Winter really wanted. Once the office door closed behind them, Cyte gave her a mischievous grin.

  “You’re getting the hang of this. I take it I’m to tell these bankers what will happen to them if they don’t play along?”

  “Be as polite as you can,” Winter said.

  Cyte nodded. “You should know, though, that this can’t go on indefinitely. It’s just pillage by degrees.”

  “Without the rape and murder,” Winter said.

  “That is an improvement,” Cyte admitted. “But we’re already not getting enough food in the city. The merchants won’t bring it in once they figure out that we’re only paying in paper promises. The nobles are already moving everything they can carry to the country, and the bankers will follow suit before long.”

  “Our squads at the gate are going to have to start searching any cart or wagon that leaves,” Winter said. “I don’t want an ounce of gold or a pound of food to leave the city if we can stop it. Anybody who tries forfeits their property.”

  “That may not go over well.”

  “As long as the quartermasters keep ‘requisitioning’ everything in sight, we don’t have a choice.” The Ministry of War seemed to view Desland as a storeroom to be sacked, regardless of the fact that its inhabitants had surrendered peacefully and largely sympathized with the invaders.

  “I know.” Cyte sighed. “Hopefully Janus will send for us before too much longer.”

  “Funny how marching off to a battlefield to get shot at can seem like an improvement—”

  They were interrupted by shouting from outside the door. Winter could hear Bobby, telling someone to calm down, but she was mostly drowned under a rising voice with a heavy Hamveltai accent.

  “—I will not, sir! I have been waiting an hour and a quarter and I will not wait a moment longer. Now you open that door at once or—”

  “Bobby!” Winter shouted. “Who is it?”

  Silence fell. A moment later, Bobby said, “It’s the Baron di Wallach, sir. And his wife. He says it’s important.”

  “Important!” someone, presumably the baron, sputtered. “I should say—”

  “Let him in,” Winter says. “I’ve been . . . expecting him.”

  The door opened, and a tall, thin man in late middle age stormed in. He was impeccably dressed in what must have been Hamveltai fashion—high, flop-brimmed boots, gray tights, a long belted doublet, and a light wool coat, with a big wide-brimmed hat tied up on both sides and topped by a long white plume. Behind him came a plump woman swathed in so many layers of velvet and lace that the outline of her body was difficult to discern. She wore heavy makeup around her eyes, but it had run down her cheeks in streaks, as though she’d been crying.

  “My lord.” Winter got to her feet and bowed. Di Wallach looked at her as a man might regard a roach that had crawled out onto the table during a fancy dinner party.

  “You are Colonel Ihernglass?” he said. His Vordanai was good, in spite of his accent.

  “I am.”

  “Then your ruffians have kidnapped my daughter, and I demand her release at once. And I swear to you, if they’ve laid a finger on her—”

  The Baroness di Wallach burst into tears at the mere suggestion of this, pressing her hands to her face and heaving huge, racking sobs. Winter resisted an urge to pat her on the shoulder and offer her a handkerchief, which she suspected would have gone over poorly. Instead she sat down behind her desk, which seemed to incite new heights of rage in the already apoplectic baron.

  “This would be Anne-Marie Gertrude di Wallach, I take it?” she said.

  “Of course it would,” the baron said. “Have you got many other daughters of nobility locked in your dungeons?”

  “I don’t have anybody locked in my dungeons, but there are at least three daughters of nobility in the regiment at the moment. They all came here of their own free will and asked to enlist.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” di Wallach said. “It’s bad enough that your army lets its prostitutes dress like soldiers, but recruiting from the ranks of the quality is beyond the pale. You can get your rent girls from the brothels across the river like everyone else. I don’t believe for a moment that my Anne-Marie—”

  “Shall we ask her?” Winter said. She turned to Cyte. “Send someone for Ranker di Wallach, would you?”

  Cyte nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving Winter alone with Anne-Marie’s parents.
The baron looked uncomfortable.

  “My daughter is only nineteen,” he said, “and is subject to irrational feminine fancies from time to time. Whatever she may think she wants, I have every right to stop her. I am her father and she cannot leave my house without my permission.”

  “I would suggest that she has done exactly that.”

  “Which is why you are obligated to return her.”

  Winter permitted herself a slight smile. It was nice, for once, to be holding all the cards. “I’m afraid that I don’t see it that way.”

  “The law is on my side, and you know it.”

  “Actually, my lord, since your city has surrendered to the Vordanai army, and I happen to be the ranking member of that army here, I think you’ll find the law is whatever I say it is.” She saw the door open again, over the baron’s shoulder. Anne-Marie and Cyte were standing in the doorway, and Winter raised her voice. “Let me make myself absolutely clear. I will not keep any Hamveltai citizen here against his or her will. However, if I have accepted someone into the ranks of this regiment, they will not be dismissed from it unless I deem it necessary. Is that understood?”

  “What do you want?” the baron said. “Is it money? How much is my little girl worth to you? A thousand eagles?”

  “It’s not about money, my lord. The Vordanai army needs good soldiers more than it needs coin.” Not quite true, Winter had to admit, but it was a nice sentiment.

  “She’s just a little girl,” said the Baroness di Wallach, breaking out of her sobs. Makeup ran in rivers down her face, and her nose was sticky with snot. “She’s scarcely been off our estate in her life! You can’t expect her to march around in the dirt and sleep in a camp with a bunch of men. God only knows what’s happened to her already!”

  “Have you considered that getting off your estate may have been one of her goals?”

  “But she could get hurt! People die in battles.”

  There was a pause.

  “A great many people get hurt in battles,” Winter said. “Some of my friends have died. If things had gone differently, I might have been killed myself. Every one of them had family who would have preferred someone else pay the price.”

  “But she’s my little girl,” the baroness said. “You can’t . . .”

  Looking at the woman’s watery eyes, Winter almost softened. Fortunately, her husband cut in.

  “It’s one thing when a bunch of peasants get themselves killed,” he said. “It’s quite another thing for a daughter of a noble family to put herself in danger.”

  Winter set her jaw. “My lord, I have served both alongside and against the sons of noble families, and let me assure you that they die just like anybody else. The same goes for their daughters.” She raised her eyes. “Lieutenant, did you find the ranker?”

  Cyte was now alone in the doorway. “Yes, sir. She indicated she didn’t wish to speak to the visitors.”

  “She’ll speak to me, by God, or else—”

  Winter cut the baron off. “Then we have nothing further to discuss. Please escort our guests out.”

  Di Wallach whirled to face Cyte. “You have some cheek, telling me I can’t speak to my own daughter. I will not leave this room until . . .”

  He trailed off. In the antechamber, six big rankers from the Royals were standing at attention, muskets on their shoulders. Cyte stood in front of them, her expression neutral.

  “Baron? Baroness? If you’ll come with me?”

  Baron di Wallach hesitated, caught between his pride and his desire not to suffer the insult of being physically dragged from the room. Finally, he straightened up, smoothed his coat, and marched out as haughtily as he could manage. His wife followed him, sniffling, only after throwing Winter a last pleading glance. Their “escort” fell in around them and filed out the door.

  Cyte was grinning again. “Also nicely done, sir.”

  “Would you tell Ranker di Wallach I would like to speak to her, please?”

  Cyte nodded and returned a moment later with Anne-Marie, who must have been waiting just out of sight. A few days had wrought quite a lot of change in the girl. Her hair had been inexpertly cut short, all those waves of blond curls traded for a flyaway mess, and her dress and court shoes had been swapped for good leather boots and the blue trousers and jacket of the Vordanai army. The uniforms Winter had requisitioned for the Girls’ Own had arrived only the day before, and as she’d predicted they’d done wonders for morale.

  Anne-Marie’s pale skin was red from the sun, and her hands were cracked and blistered. Abby and her sergeants had been working her hard, along with all the other new recruits, but somewhat to Winter’s surprise the girl had borne everything they’d thrown at her. Her friends, more daughters of the elite of Deslandai society, had done likewise, as had the several dozen recruits of more humble origins. As Winter had predicted, word had gotten around.

  “Sir!” Anne-Marie said, with an excellent salute.

  “You didn’t want to speak to your parents?”

  “No, sir,” she said. Her Vordanai was still a bit broken. “You already say . . . everything I want to say.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Hard to see Mother,” the girl said. “I thought she never like me. See her crying . . .” She shook her head.

  Winter fought the urge to tell Anne-Marie to run after her mother, hug her, and go home. Not my choice to make. Even if all that was waiting for the girl was a musket ball on some muddy battlefield, it was her choice whether or not to go there.

  “You’re doing all right, then?” Winter said, a bit lamely.

  “The works hurts,” Anne-Marie said. “But I stick to it. Learning better Vordanai, and how to make jokes.”

  “That’s good.” Winter had no doubt the Girls’ Own would have Anne-Marie swearing and telling filthy stories like a native in no time. “That’s all, then.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Anne-Marie saluted and went out, and Cyte returned.

  “Would you have credited it?” Winter said, nodding at the retreating girl.

  “Not a bit,” Cyte said. “But I’d bet you she makes corporal before the end of the year.”

  “No bet,” Winter said. “I’m inclined to think it’ll be sooner.” She noticed Cyte was holding a crisp white paper, folded and sealed. “What’ve you got there?”

  “Ask, and you shall receive,” Cyte said. “Orders from the general. There was a courier waiting when I went to retrieve Anne-Marie.”

  Winter reached out eagerly, and Cyte handed the packet over. The seal was army blue and stamped with the official Ministry device, and Winter broke it open with her thumb. Inside was square onionskin paper, folded many times over and bearing the sweeping lines of a map in what Winter thought was Janus’ own delicate hand. The letter itself read:

  Colonel Ihernglass,

  The time has come for your to rejoin us, somewhat sooner than expected. I need you to do everything in your power to bring your regiment to the location marked on the enclosed map, on the morning of the day there noted. You will be met there by friendly units with further instructions.

  I know this will be difficult, but you have yet to disappoint me. If you succeed, the entire Army of the East—all of Vordan—will owe you and yours a great debt.

  Lose no time that can be avoided. I rely on you.

  -J

  Winter blinked, and showed the note to Cyte, who had already unfolded the map. The lieutenant gave a low whistle.

  “That’s . . . Difficult isn’t going to be the half of it.” She stiffened her fingers into a pair of dividers and walked them across the map. “That’s close to a hundred miles. If he wants us there in the morning, and assuming we leave tomorrow, we’ll be four days on the march. And it looks like there’s a good road only half the way. After that we’re in the backcountry.”

  Twenty-five miles a
day. That was faster than the Colonials had marched at their hardest in Khandar. A killing pace, even for veteran soldiers. Winter drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

  “I could catch the courier,” Cyte said, as though reading her commander’s thoughts. “Tell him we’re not going to make it.”

  “Do you think we can do it?”

  Cyte tilted her head, considering. “Some of us can. The wagons would never keep up, so we’ll have to leave them behind. That means carrying provisions on our backs, which makes it harder.” She shook her head. “We’ll get there, but I don’t know how many soldiers we’ll have left when we do. Anybody who gets hurt or drops out is going to get left behind. And we’ll probably be awfully hungry when we arrive.”

  “We leave the road here.” Winter stabbed a finger at the map. “That’s not far from the river. We’ve been floating supplies upriver all this time, so some of them must still be in transit.”

  “That’s a thought,” Cyte said. “Send riders ahead to flag down some of the barges and off-load enough to make a supply dump for us. It’ll help.”

  “Do it,” Winter said. “Right away. Then start working out a marching schedule.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cyte paused. “What about the celebration tonight?”

  “Oh, damn.”

  She’d almost forgotten. The Girls’ Own had become nearly mutinous over the fact that they weren’t allowed out into the city for recreation like the Royals, and so Winter had arranged to bring the city to them, so to speak. Wagons full of food and drink were waiting to be brought into the citadel at the start of the festivities, and all sorts of hopeful vendors were lining up to hawk their wares. The Royals, grumbling, had been ordered to abstain and help keep order.

  “It’ll have to go ahead,” she said after a moment’s thought. “There’d be a riot if we tried to stop it now. But pass the news that we’re marching in the morning, and tell the Royals to pull out anyone who looks like they’ll be too drunk to walk tomorrow. We’ll wrap up early, too.”