The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “They’re breaking up,” Abby said.

  Winter nodded. The leading companies of the Murnskai battalions were melting away under the onslaught of fire, men halting to take cover behind piles of their own dead and shoot futilely at the wall of muzzle flashes ahead. The following companies got tangled up with them, the neat lines dissolving into an amorphous blob, which provided the artillery with an even better target. The enemy on the far right broke first, the blob coming apart under the combined volleys of Blackstream’s regiment, breaking up into a mass of fleeing, frightened men. Panic spread down the line, one battalion at a time.

  “The cavalry—” Abby began, then stopped. “Oh.”

  “What?” Winter said.

  Wordlessly, Abby handed over the glass. Winter trained it on the cuirassiers and saw that they were in motion, riding forward. Sabers rose and fell, cutting down their own infantry, who’d thrown down their packs and rifles in order to run faster.

  “Balls of the Beast,” Winter swore.

  “That answers your question,” said Cyte, who’d joined them and was looking through her own glass. “Apparently devotion to Church and emperor isn’t enough.”

  “God Almighty.” Winter lowered the glass and shook her head. The attack had broken up more than a hundred yards from the line, reduced to a bloody shambles just like all the ones that had come before.

  “It might be a good sign,” Cyte said. “If that’s what it takes to get them to come at us . . .”

  “Division-General, sir!”

  Winter turned to find a Girls’ Own ranker so stiffly at attention she looked like she couldn’t breathe. Behind her, trailing a dozen soldiers with Colonial scorpion insignia, was Janus himself. Winter automatically drew herself up into a salute, and Abby and Cyte did likewise.

  “Thank you,” Janus said, waving a hand for them to relax. “I got word they were trying this end of the line again, so I thought I would check in. Anything to report?”

  “The enemy are repulsed, sir,” Winter barked, stiffly formal in front of her officers. “Their losses seem heavy.”

  “As I’ve come to expect from the Girls’ Own,” Janus said, a bit louder than was necessary. The rankers close enough to hear repeated his words, the praise spreading up and down the line like the ripples from a rock dropped into a pond.

  “The enemy . . .” Winter hesitated. “We saw their cuirassiers slaughtering their infantry after they broke, sir. I think they’re driving their men toward us under threat of execution.”

  Janus raised an eyebrow. “Desperate indeed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He paused for a moment. “Do you recall, Division-General, a conversation we once had about the nature of a perfect victory?”

  “Yes, sir. You said that the perfect victory would be bloodless, because the outcome would be so clear that the battle would never even be fought.”

  “Indeed.” Janus stared out at the field, heaped with white-coated Murnskai dead. “Unfortunately, it appears that the perfect victory requires an opponent smart enough to know when he’s beaten.” He sighed and raised his voice again. “Division-General Ihernglass. Can you hold this position?”

  “Sir.” Winter straightened up. “If they have to come at me across that ground, and you keep me well supplied with ammunition, my division could hold this position against all the armies of the world.”

  Janus smiled like a wolf.

  —

  By nightfall, the battle, such as it was, was over. Prince Vasil had steadily withdrawn more and more of his army from the lines facing south at Polkhaiz, throwing it against Janus’ impromptu fortress on the road to Bskor. On the afternoon of the second day, the four divisions of the Grand Army still waiting on the Pilgrim’s Road launched a sudden attack north that split the Murnskai line wide open. Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry reserve flooded into the gap, scattering the enemy and taking the force facing Janus in the rear. Much of the Murnskai army, battered by days of fruitless assaults, dissolved completely, with only a few cavalry formations holding together to beat a retreat over the Syzria. Even the bridge at Polkhaiz was captured intact.

  The news arrived at the Second Division sometime after dinner. Cook fires were quickly built into bonfires, and the celebrations began. Gilphaite had been a hollow victory at best, with the enemy escaping mostly intact, and in any case the Second’s heavy casualties had left no one in the mood for revelry. This time, though, there was no reason to hold back. The enemy was destroyed, and their own losses scarcely amounted to a few dozen, most of those lightly injured when their fortifications had been struck by cannon-fire.

  The Vordanai army didn’t have an official liquor ration for its troops, but the Murnskai supplies had been generously equipped with drink of all sorts. Winter ordered the cache distributed to the soldiers, after claiming a few of the nicer-looking bottles for herself. She had just cracked the wax seal on the first—as best her limited Murnskai could tell, it was made from potatoes and peppers—when there was a scratch at the tent flap.

  “Come in,” Winter said.

  Cyte lifted the flap. “Drinking alone?”

  “Nobody wants a general looking over their shoulder when they’re getting drunk,” Winter said. “But I figured I deserved something.”

  “Would you mind a bit of company, then?” Cyte held up a green glass bottle, already half-empty. There was a definite glow about her cheeks.

  “If you’re willing to put up with a bit of gloom.” Winter sighed and turned to her chest to find the tin cups. Cyte flopped down in her usual spot on the other side of the camp table.

  “Gloom? Everyone’s cheering their heads off out there. They’re calling it the greatest victory ever.”

  “The perfect victory,” Winter muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You’re right. I should be . . . I don’t know.” Winter set the cups on the table. “Is that stuff any good?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “I’ll try this, then.” She let a finger of the clear stuff from the wax-sealed bottle glug into a tin cup. “Maybe I just can’t stop thinking about those poor bastards out there. Marched into battle at the point of a saber, then cut down when they couldn’t take it anymore.” She sniffed, then drained the cup. Pepper burned on her tongue, and alcohol stung her throat. Not bad. “Nobody deserves that.”

  “Better them than us,” Cyte said, then sighed at Winter’s expression. “I know. Hanna has teams out there, looking for survivors.”

  “To Hanna, then,” Winter said, filling her cup again. “The best regimental cutter—”

  “—that I hope I never have to visit,” Cyte finished. They drank together this time, and for a moment Winter sat in silence, feeling the pleasant warmth as the drink hit her stomach.

  “What are you doing here?” she said after a while.

  Cyte went even redder. “I thought you could use—”

  “Not here in the tent,” Winter said. “Here, I mean. In Murnsk. Why are you here?”

  “Oh.” Cyte set the green bottle on the table. “You’re one of those drunks.”

  “I’m not drunk yet,” Winter said.

  “I’ve had this conversation before,” Cyte said. “Get a few drinks into any of the philosophy students and it’s all ‘Why are we here?’ this and ‘What’s the meaning of existence?’ that. Afterward they usually make a grab for me and then pass out.” She snorted. “Philosophers can’t hold their liquor.”

  “You don’t think about it?”

  “I’ve thought about it enough to know that I’m not going to come up with any useful answers. So the hell with it.”

  “Fair enough.” Winter leaned back. “It’s not really what I meant, though. I was thinking, why am I over here and not out there piled in a ditch?”

  Cyte shuddered. “Because you were lucky enough to be Vordanai, I
guess?”

  “That’s it? Vordan never did anything for me. They threw me in a prison that married teenaged girls to sadistic monsters. That’s why I ran away to Khandar. All this”—she plucked at her uniform—“just sort of happened. Maybe I could have turned the other way, run off to Murnsk, and I would be lying dead out there.”

  “Saints and martyrs, you’re morbid. Sure. And maybe you would have discovered a vein of pure gold and become the richest woman in the world. Or maybe you’d have gotten the plague and died the first week. You can’t know these things.” Cyte tipped the bottle over her cup again. “Believe me, I’ve studied history. I know. The historians like to talk about how Great Men shape the course of events, but most of the time it seems like it’s just luck. Somebody’s carriage throws a wheel, somebody doesn’t read a letter, it rains one day but not the next, and before you know it a mighty empire falls or a kingdom rises.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s reassuring or depressing.”

  “A little bit of both. Did I ever tell you about Queen Gekitorix?”

  “I think I would have remembered the name, so probably not.”

  Cyte launched into another historical anecdote, which given the somewhat advanced state of her inebriation was only semi-coherent. It was pleasant not to be drinking alone, to relax for a while, feeling her mind slowly sinking in a sea of alcoholic fuzz and meaningless chatter.

  As they talked, she couldn’t help but circle back to her earlier question. Janus. It all comes back to Janus. Winter liked Vordan well enough, even liked Raesinia herself, but she couldn’t help but think that without Janus she’d have abandoned the army long ago. There was too much chance of ending up under a commander like Prince Vasil, who’d order his own men to their deaths rather than admit defeat, or an incompetent boor like de Ferre. Or Sergeant Davis.

  She’d followed Janus because he’d proven himself capable, because he knew the secrets of her gender and her demon, and because he’d promised to reunite her with Jane. And he’d kept up his end of the bargain; after it had fallen to pieces in her hands, she’d kept following him because she didn’t know what else to do. And because I owe it to all the people I dragged along with me. Responsibility could be a bitter pill to swallow.

  But when you put it that way, it means that Jane was right. I could have left the army and stayed with her. I made the choice—

  “Winter?”

  Winter’s eyes shot open. Cyte was leaning over her, waving a hand and giggling.

  “What?” Winter said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “And you’re drunk.”

  “You should talk.”

  Cyte sat back and ran a hand through her hair. “There’s something I want to do, but it feels like it might be really stupid, so I thought I should get really pickled before I tried it.”

  “This sounds bad. If it involves cannon, I’m going to have to stop you right there.”

  “There’s something I want to ask you. It’s personal and extremely unprofessional.”

  Winter blinked and sat up straight, heart thumping a little faster. “What’s the matter?”

  “Okay.” Cyte took a deep breath. “You have . . . Um . . .”

  “I have?”

  Cyte’s face was so red it was hard to tell if she was blushing or not. “You have the Tyrant’s Disease. Right?”

  She looked so solemn and earnest that Winter fought back a giggle. Instead, she matched Cyte’s stare and said, with all the dignity she could muster, “I have no idea what that is.”

  “Oh.”

  “I hope it’s not fatal.”

  “It’s not like that.” Cyte looked down, and her lost expression made Winter feel bad about nearly laughing. “It’s a mental disease. I read about it in the University library. It’s when a woman wants other women.” Cyte raised her head again and took a deep breath. “You know. For . . . you know.”

  “For . . .” It took Winter’s tipsy mind a moment to work through the convolutions of that. “Oh. Oh.”

  “It’s not something I would just say to someone,” Cyte said quickly, “but you and Jane didn’t exactly keep it a secret, and I just thought . . . I . . .” She shook her head violently. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

  “Cyte.” Winter grabbed her shoulders. “Cyte, it’s okay. Relax.”

  “I’m sorry.” There were tears in Cyte’s eyes. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t—”

  “It’s all right, honestly. That’s what you wanted to ask me? If Jane and I were sleeping together?” Winter shook her head. “Like you said, we didn’t exactly make a secret of it.”

  “That wasn’t the question, actually.” Cyte blinked and rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “I told you, it’s fine.” Winter crossed her legs and sat facing Cyte. “Is it really called the Tyrant’s Disease?”

  “I guess,” Cyte said. “That’s what it said in Disorders of the Mind. The Mithradacii Tyrants’ courts were famous for debauchery and perversion, I suppose.”

  “Okay. Then I guess I do.” Winter shook her head. “So what is the question?”

  Cyte’s voice was very small. “How did you figure out you had it?”

  “I . . .” Winter hesitated. “It’s not something I ever really thought about. I didn’t know it was something you could have until you told me. When I was young I thought . . .”

  “What?”

  It was Winter’s turn to flush. “That it was just something about me and Jane, I guess.”

  “How old were you when you met?”

  “When we met, we were about twelve.” Winter spoke slowly, probing her emotions as she might have probed a broken tooth with her tongue. She kept waiting for pain, but all she felt was a dull numbness. “We grew up together, in the Prison.”

  “And you just knew?”

  “Not . . . really. I couldn’t have told you. I just felt . . . odd.”

  “What happened?”

  “She kissed me. We were taking care of some of the younger kids and playing a game on one of the lawns. She and I ended up tangled together somehow, and she just . . . kissed me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran away.” Winter’s lips curled into a slight smile. “She had to chase me through the hedge maze.”

  Cyte let out a breath. “Ah.”

  “We didn’t know what we were doing. But it felt right to me.” Winter shrugged awkwardly. “Like I said, it’s never something I thought about too deeply. Maybe I should have, I suppose.”

  “But it was only Jane?” Cyte said. “Never anyone else?”

  “Never,” Winter said. “I mean, after I ran away, I was terrified of being found out as a girl, so I stayed away from everybody. Then, when I got back here, Jane turned up again.”

  “You didn’t think about it? Just, you know. In your own head.”

  “Sometimes.”

  Winter leaned forward, and Cyte stiffened. Her breath was coming very fast, and Winter could see her pulse jumping beneath the pale skin of her throat.

  “Cyte,” Winter said.

  “Yes?” The word was a squeak.

  “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  “I don’t . . . I mean . . . only if . . .” Cyte’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Yes.”

  Winter kissed her.

  Cyte was so stiff with terror at first that it was like kissing a statue, their lips pressed awkwardly together. Then she relaxed, just a fraction, and her mouth opened slightly. Her lips tasted of the stuff from the green bottle, mint and strong liquor.

  After barely a second Cyte pulled away, scrambling backward. “No,” she said under her breath. “No, no, no, no.”

  “Cyte—”

  “I’m sorry,” Cyte said, shooting to her feet. “I shouldn’t have done that
. I’m drunk. Much, much, much too drunk. I need to go.”

  “Wait,” Winter said. “Please.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her eyes were full of tears again. “I won’t . . . I mean . . .” Cyte wiped her eyes and shook her head. “Good night.”

  “I—” Winter began, but Cyte was already gone, out the tent flap and into the darkness.

  Well. Winter sat back against her bedroll. Her whole body was tingling from that brief moment of contact. Fuck.

  —

  The morning brought a headache the likes of which she hadn’t had since Khandar. Winter, groaning, tipped the remainder of the wax-sealed bottle onto the ground outside her tent and guzzled the water in her kettle, then sent a nearby ranker running for more.

  When someone scratched at the tent flap, she half expected to see Cyte, but found Bobby there instead. Dark circles under the girl’s eyes attested to some revelry on her part as well, and made Winter wonder how she must look. Good thing I haven’t got a mirror in here.

  “Morning, sir,” Bobby said, brandishing a sheaf of paper.

  “Morning,” Winter said, looking at the bundle distrustfully. “I’m not sure I can handle that yet.”

  “Nothing urgent, sir. Casualty reports from yesterday, stocks and supplies from this morning.”

  “How were our losses?”

  “Almost nonexistent,” Bobby said. “Only one dead from enemy action, in Sevran’s regiment, a boy who caught a cannonball practically in his lap. One of de Koste’s men accidentally double loaded his musket, and it exploded on him. Most of the rest are minor injuries from splinters and collapses. A few broken limbs at the very worst.”

  Two people died, Winter thought. Two men under her command, who by rights she ought to have cared as much about as any others. But I’m smiling because that’s so much better than what might have been. She reflected, not for the first time, that war was a strange business.