The Guns of Empire

by Django Wexler

  “I know.” He took a deep breath. “After the fall of the Concordat, we captured some of their files. Janus broke the codes on their archives and sent me a few. It was Orlanko who set the fire at my old house. His agents killed my parents.”

  “Oh. Marcus, I’m so sorry . . .”

  “The irony was,” Marcus said, “by the time I knew who I should want revenge on, I’d already gotten it. Orlanko’s gone, the Concordat is destroyed. All that’s left is . . .” He hesitated. “Ellie.”

  “Ellie?”

  “My sister.” Marcus set his jaw. “She’s alive. I know it. The Concordat files prove that she survived the fire. She was sent to some institution in the south, but sometime between then and now the place burned to the ground. There’re no records left, and nobody I’ve been able to find who went there remembers Ellie d’Ivoire. But she’s alive, somewhere.” He sat back and blew out a breath. “If we ever really get peace, I’m going to find her. She’s the only family I have left.”

  Raesinia nodded, her mind whirling. This could be it. If the girl was alive, somewhere, she’d lay good odds that Sothe could find her. Especially if I offer all the resources of the Crown. But what good is that? Ellie d’Ivoire was probably in Vordan, a thousand miles away, and they certainly couldn’t find her before the conclusion of the current campaign.

  “Janus might be able to help.” Marcus went on obliviously. “I’m sure he could come up with something clever. He always does.”

  “Yes,” Raesinia murmured. “He’s good at that.”

  “What about you?” Marcus said, a little too abruptly. “What would you do, if we had peace? Go back to arguing with the Deputies-General about the constitution, I suppose.”

  Raesinia shook her head. “I need to think about the succession.”

  He frowned. “That’s not urgent, surely. You’re still . . . young.” He trailed off, brow furrowed, and Raesinia nearly laughed.

  “Exactly. Sooner or later someone is going to notice I don’t look any different than I did when I was eighteen. We can’t blame it on illness forever.”

  “Unless Janus can do something about it.” Marcus looked like he wanted to say more but thought better of it at the last moment.

  “That’s possible. But I have to plan for the alternative. Vordan needs a new ruler when I step aside. So I’ll have to work on getting married and having children before I take myself out of the picture.”

  “Oh.” Marcus looked uncomfortable. “Sorry. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “I’ve had a long time to get used to the idea,” Raesinia said. “After that, who knows? I’ll be free to wander the world, I guess. Maybe I’ll see Khandar.”

  “If you do,” Marcus said, venturing a smile, “there’s this little noodle shop in Ashe-Katarion you have to visit. I’ll draw you a map.”

  Raesinia grinned back, until a scratch on the tent flap made them both look up.

  “Your Majesty?” a servant’s voice said. “There’s a messenger here for the column-general.”

  “Send him in,” Raesinia said.

  “Marcus!” Andy poked her head through the flap. “Raes! You have to come and see this!”

  They both got to their feet, Marcus bumping the table with his sword in his haste. Raesinia half expected to find flames leaping into the sky when they scrambled out through the tent flap, but the camp was still perfectly orderly, and there was none of the panic that would have accompanied an enemy attack. Instead, everyone she could see was standing in apparent amazement, staring upward at a gray sky.

  “What’s going on?” Marcus barked. Andy, limping a little, gestured him closer and pointed up.

  Raesinia craned her neck, not sure what she was supposed to be looking at. Marcus glanced at the sky, then around at the staring people, and frowned.

  “Andy,” he said. “What is—”

  A spot of cold touched the end of Raesinia’s nose.

  —

  WINTER

  Winter, rain streaming from the brim of her hat, had to call off the handball game after the second hour.

  The intercompany contests had restarted after the victory at Bskor, the Girls’ Own and Sevran’s royals introducing the rest of the division to this tradition from the Velt campaign. They didn’t have as much free time as they’d had on the lazy march to Gaafen, but everyone seemed to be having so much fun that Winter didn’t have the heart to stop them, in spite of the bleary eyes she often saw the following morning. When they halted at Polkhaiz, Abby organized a daylong tournament that drew spectators from the entire army. Unsurprisingly, one of Abby’s First Battalion companies took home the laurels, after a hard-fought match against a squad from de Koste’s Third Regiment. Winter saw Alex on the sidelines, exchanging excited cheers with the Girls’ Own soldiers.

  Winter had asked her colonels to warn the soldiers that the entertainment might not be able to continue once they marched north. She’d been right, but not for the reason she anticipated. The marches were short, held up by the floundering artillery and supply wagons, but the rain was so heavy that the games devolved into hours-long wrestling matches. Both teams shoved through waist-deep mud, coated head to foot in grime, fishing for a ball that had long since sunk to the bottom of the churned-up mire.

  Hanna Courvier finally insisted that Winter call things off when a young man from the Fourth Regiment was found to have been held under the mud so long he’d passed out. Though he was successfully revived, Winter couldn’t deny that the cutter had a point, and she pronounced the game a tie to a chorus of groans from the onlookers.

  “It’s just as well,” Hanna said, as the crowd of half-naked, mud-slick soldiers broke up. “All this cold and wet breeds sickness. If it keeps up, we’re going to have half the division hacking their lungs out or puking up their guts, mark my words.”

  “The weather has to break sometime,” Winter said, casting a baleful glance at the sky.

  That was what everyone said, as rations got leaner and wet skin chafed and blistered. The weather has to break sometime. Winter slogged back to her tent, her waterlogged boots heavy as lead weights. She’d grown so used to the rain drumming on her shoulders that when she finally got under canvas, it took a moment’s adjustment before she straightened up. The first thing she did was check that the tent’s poles hadn’t shifted; muddy ground and the weight of water had led to a number of collapses over the past few days, with results ranging from embarrassing to dangerous.

  She shucked her jacket and overshirt, feeling dangerously exposed in only a tailored undershirt that, sopping wet, clung to her skin and showed what it was meant to conceal. She hurriedly changed it for a clean one—or at least a dry one; nothing was clean these days—and put the overshirt back on with a grimace. None of the others were any better, unfortunately. She hadn’t been able to get really clean in days, making do with brief rubdowns with a damp rag. The soldiers had abandoned the usual practice of bathing in the nearest stream in favor of simply spending a few minutes standing naked in the shockingly cold downpour, but for obvious reasons this was not an option for Winter, so she was marinated in her own sweat.

  There was a scratch at the tent flap, barely audible over the drumming of the rain. Winter made sure her shirt was buttoned, then said, “Come in.”

  Bobby poked her head inside. “The colonels are here, sir. Are you ready for them?”

  “Send them in.” Winter hesitated, then added, “Is Cyte here?”

  “No, sir. Said she had something to check in on with the supply train.” Bobby frowned. “Is there something going on with her? She’s been awfully busy lately.”

  Winter winced. If Bobby had noticed, it was long past time for her to do whatever was needed to straighten things out. She’d been hoping—not without a touch of cowardice, she had to admit—that Cyte would come around of her own accord. Balls of the Beast. I hope I haven’t fucked thi
s up beyond repair. I don’t think I can run the division without her.

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Do you want me to tell her to report to you?”

  “No! I’ll . . . track her down later.” Winter let out a long breath. “Just send the others in.”

  Abby and de Koste came in together, laughing about something. Sevran looked a little gloomier, and Blackstream positively dour. After they stripped out of their boots and coats—informal in the presence of a superior, but better than getting the whole tent wet—they gathered around the low table, sitting gingerly on damp cushions.

  “Okay,” Winter said. “I think I speak for everyone when I say that we have had enough fucking rain.” She glanced up at the roof of the tent, where the drumming continued unabated. “Unfortunately, Karis doesn’t seem to be taking requests, even from division-generals. So how are we doing?”

  “Morale seems to be holding up,” Abby said. “A bit of grumbling about rations, but after slogging through the mud even the rankers understand what’s gone wrong.”

  “That may not last, though,” Sevran said. “Men get less understanding as they get hungrier.”

  “It has to break sometime,” de Koste said, unconsciously echoing Winter’s words. “And we’ve got reserves. It’ll get boring, but we won’t actually starve.”

  “I’m more worried about illness,” Blackstream said. “This is an unhealthy way to live at the best of times, and the rain makes it worse. I’ve seen the flux and fevers wipe out more armies than cannonballs.”

  “I hardly think we need to worry about the sniffles,” de Koste said.

  “Colonel Blackstream’s right,” Winter said, over the old colonel’s glower. “Hanna Courvier was telling me the same thing. Colonel, is there anything we can do while we wait for the rain to stop?”

  Blackstream harrumphed. “Make sure the men know not to drink water from puddles, for one thing. Only running water or rainwater from a proper container. Dirty water’s the quickest way to get yourself laid up. And everyone should sleep in bare feet, with their socks laid out to dry.”

  “You sound like my mother,” de Koste said. Abby chuckled.

  “Skin rot’s no joke,” Blackstream said. “I knew a ranker once who didn’t take his boots off for a week in the rain. When he finally got undressed and pulled down his sock, all his flesh came with it, leaving nothing but a shiny white bone.”

  “That’s a charming image,” Winter said. “Clean socks, everyone. Now, where’s Archer?”

  “Still back with the guns,” Abby said. “They keep getting stuck in the mud.”

  “No surprise there,” Sevran said. “If Janus wants us to fight, he’s going to have to give us a few days so the artillery can catch up.”

  “That’s not acceptable,” Winter said. “We need to be ready.”

  “For what?” de Koste said. “The Murnskai are destroyed.”

  “Murnsk is a big country,” Winter said. “The emperor has more armies. And there are always the partisans.”

  De Koste snorted. “We won’t need the guns to deal with a bunch of farmers.”

  “Colonel,” Winter snapped, her patience disappearing. “I do not want to have to explain to the First Consul that my division can’t carry out its assignments, for any reason. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” de Koste said, looking genuinely chagrined.

  “I had a thought, sir,” Sevran said. “Since the infantry are going to be waiting on the wagons anyway, what if we sent detachments back to help with the hauling? It sounds like a few hundred men could keep things moving a little more smoothly.”

  “That they’re not going to like,” Abby said.

  “Do it,” Winter said. “If we have to fight, they’ll like not having guns a lot less. We’ll draw up a rotation.” She grinned. “Maybe make it into a contest. Something to do instead of handball.”

  There was more, mundane problems exacerbated by the rain and the mud. Winter kept them moving through the agenda, then sent them off with instructions to keep a careful eye on the regimental sick lists. The three men got up to leave, but Winter gestured for Abby to stay behind a moment longer.

  “I’m glad that you and de Koste are friends,” Winter said when they were alone. “But please don’t encourage him to be an ass.”

  Abby colored. “Sorry. Blackstream just makes an easy target.”

  “I know. But he’s got more experience than the rest of us put together, so let’s not alienate him.”

  “Yes, sir. De Koste’s not a bad sort, really. He’s just . . . boisterous.”

  Winter looked at Abby speculatively. Could there be more to this? Abby and Jane had been lovers, which meant Abby must have what Cyte called “the Tyrant’s Disease,” too, but . . . Maybe she only has a mild case. Winter gave a mental shrug.

  “Anything else?” Abby said.

  “Not for the moment. Just make sure Blackstream’s advice gets passed along. Most of the Girls’ Own are from Vordan City, so I doubt they’ve spent a lot of time in the rain and mud.”

  “Understood, sir.” Abby paused. “I meant to ask about Cyte—”

  Winter suppressed a groan. “I know. I’m dealing with it.”

  “All right, sir. As long as you know.”

  When Abby had donned her sodden outerwear and disappeared, Winter sat at the table for a while, drumming her fingers on the thin wood. Finally, she called for Bobby, who stuck her head through the tent flap again.

  “Can you have someone keep an eye on Cyte’s tent for me?” she said. “Just to let me know when she gets back.”

  “Of course, sir. Do you want me to have them fetch her?”

  “No. I’ll drop in on her, I think.” Better not give her another chance to run away.

  —

  Winter realized she had never been inside Cyte’s tent. As a captain, Cyte rated one to herself, although it was no bigger than those the rankers shared. Winter scratched at the flap, hunched over against the pouring rain.

  “Just a moment.” Cyte sounded weary. “Who is it?”

  “Winter,” Winter said.

  Silence from inside the tent. Winter gritted her teeth.

  “I know you don’t want to talk to me,” Winter said, “but please consider that it’s coming down in buckets out here.”

  “Sorry,” Cyte said. Winter heard cloth shuffling. “Come in.”

  Winter had to duck her head to get inside. A single lamp hung in the center of the tent, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. Cyte was sitting on her bedroll, arms crossed over her chest, dark hair wild and disheveled. Her uniform jacket lay on the ground, soaked through and coated with mud.

  “I didn’t want to surprise you,” Winter said, pulling off her own jacket. “But it was starting to seem like my only option.”

  “Sorry,” Cyte said again. She wouldn’t meet Winter’s eyes. “I’ve been . . . busy.”

  “I’m not completely stupid,” Winter said. “You’re my staff officer—you’re always busy, but I usually don’t go days without seeing you.” She pulled off her boots and sat down across from Cyte. “We need to talk.”

  “I . . .” Cyte took a deep breath. “I have to apologize for . . . what happened.”

  “Why would you need to apologize?” Winter said. “Unless we’re remembering events very differently, ‘what happened’ is that I asked if you wanted me to kiss you, and you said yes, so I did. Have I got that wrong?”

  Cyte had gone very red. She shook her head jerkily.

  “Then how is that possibly your fault?”

  “I brought the whole subject up,” Cyte said.

  “You asked a question, and I answered it. I—”

  “Look,” Cyte said, her face pleading. “I would love if we could just . . . forget about it. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
r />   Winter forced herself to smile, hiding the extent to which the words pained her. “All right.”

  Cyte blinked, off-balance. “Really?”

  “I like to think we’re friends,” Winter said. “It’d be a poor sort of friend who ignored a request like that. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to keep hiding from me.”

  “Right.” Cyte took a deep breath and ran her hands through her unruly hair. “Right. You’re right, of course. That was . . . unprofessional of me.”

  “The division needs you, Captain. Especially now.”

  “Understood, sir.” Cyte straightened. “You have my apologies.”

  “Good.” Winter swallowed. “That’s all. I’ll expect you back on the job in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Winter nodded slowly and got to her feet, head bent to avoid the tent ceiling. She got back into her still-wet boots and put on her jacket, aware of Cyte’s too-intense stare on her back. Part of her was still hoping for something, just a word, but there was only silence. Winter looked over her shoulder, and Cyte turned away, hugging herself tighter.

  “Good evening, Captain.”

  “Have a good night, sir.”

  And then Winter was standing outside the tent, back in the rain. Her stomach felt tight and hot, and her throat was clenched.

  Well. She shook her head. I suppose that means I need to find someone else to drink with.

  —

  The scratch on the tent flap tore her from sleep. Winter sat up, groggy, and groped for the low-burning lamp beside her bedroll.

  “What is it?” she croaked, voice dry. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Cyte?” Winter blinked rapidly. “Come in.”

  The tent flap opened, and Cyte took a step inside. Water poured off her, adding to the muddy puddle near the entrance.

  “Has something happened?” Winter said. She adjusted the lamp for more light and hung it from the tent pole. Cyte, she could see now, was a mess, eyes red, hair hanging in wet ropes. She wasn’t wearing a coat, and the rain had soaked her shirt through.