Guns of the Dawn (31 page)

She squared off against the big man. ‘Not interested,’ she told him. ‘Find someone else to give flowers to. Now, if you’ll excuse me—’

‘You are not excused.’ He was angry now. ‘You go think, Ensign, about how much you want to be friends with me. I don’t just outrank you, I’m in with the brass.
Pordevere, he relies on me for all kinds of little jobs. You piss on me, you might never see the outside of the swamp again.’

It was a perverse relief, to hear that. Whatever friends he had, she had Tubal and Giles Scavian, and even the colonel perhaps. Now he was threatening her as an officer threatened an officer,
rather than as a man threatened a woman, and the situation was defused. He had chosen the wrong weapons.

‘Sergeant Sharkey,’ she said, ‘I have work to do.’

His face twisted, but she heard her name being called, and quite deliberately left him and walked off, not even turning to see how he took it.

It was Tubal calling her. He strode across the camp with that familiar harassed look on his face. She remembered it from when a paper mill was late with a delivery, back home.

‘There you are, Em. Just the person I want to see.’

‘Why’s that, Tubal? Or is it Lieutenant?’

‘It is, I’m afraid,’ he conceded. ‘I need an aide.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He grinned, shrugging. ‘I know – news to me, too. But Captain Goss isn’t here yet, and the colonel’s called all companies in for briefing.’

Her heart lurched. ‘You mean . . .’

‘I think this is it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, as acting chief officer of the company, it means me, and I need a second. Hell, everyone else’ll have one. It
won’t do for me to be left out.’

‘But . . . I’m only an ensign. Surely someone else would look better.’

‘Mallen out-and-out won’t do it. He says he’s got no time to watch the colonel and his cronies comb their moustaches for hours on end. And I wouldn’t trust any of the
sergeants to be able to write their own names. That leaves you, Em. Come on, it’ll be . . . educational.’

In that moment she had a very clear image of Elise with the red rosette flowering on her shirt.

‘I don’t want to know.’

‘What?’ He gave her a quizzical look that she did not meet.

‘The battle plan, Tubal. I don’t want to hear it: that this squad or that company will take the brunt. That the charge will come here, or there. Who lives and who dies. I’m an
ensign. I just lead squads into battle.’

Tubal put a hand to her arm, unconsciously mimicking Sharkey’s earlier clutching. ‘Em, how do you think I feel? And what do I say when the colonel says, “Lieutenant, I want six
of your squads to charge the Denlanders
here
, as a diversion.” But it’s all part of the job, Em. It’s not just leading from the front. Sometimes that’s the easiest
bit. I want you with me. I know I can rely on you.’

Those last words decided it. The words, again, of an officer to a junior, not a relative, nor a friend. If he knew he could rely on her then she would have to be reliable, to justify his
trust.

‘I’ll come,’ she agreed, and a soldierly nod hid his relief, and they both pretended it was just another onerous part of the job, like fighting the Denlanders.

The main table of the colonel’s building had a pitifully small map tacked out on it. She recognized it instantly and the sight brought a sound – half-laugh,
half-sob – into her throat. It was the very same map they had studied at Gravenfield: that pitifully inadequate balloonist’s-eye view of the swamp. There was no other map, she realized.
All their strategy would be based on this: an artist’s impression of one fleeting aerial glimpse from years before, of a terrain that could shift from one day to the next.

She and Tubal were the last ones into a room already crowded. As Tubal stepped into the place left for him, she looked from face to face. She recognized most, but actually knew very few.

The decisions these men make will govern the future of my world.
It was not a pleasant thought.

To one side of Tubal stood the greying solid form of Captain Mallarkey, commander of Leopard Passant company for his sins. The colonel’s favourite henchman looked worried, eyes shadowed by
sleepless circles. His hands unconsciously wrung the hem of his jacket as he stared at the map. The prospect of imminent action on such a grand scale did not sit well with him, but Emily was
unsurprised. He had a camp-wide reputation as a cautious, even pedestrian, man – an administrator, not a field officer. Regarding his second, the slight-framed Lieutenant Gallien, Emily knew
next to nothing. Mallarkey had spared Tubal a nod as they entered, but his attention was away from anything actually in the room, looking into a dismal future instead.

Bear Sejant company was the province of the grandly named Captain Sir Huillam Pordevere, a man ten years younger than Mallarkey and about whom the women recruits whispered adoringly. He was a
trim, athletic piece of work, never without his sword, never anything less than immaculate. His word or smile could inspire men and melt women; his duelling scar did not detract from his looks but
lent him a rakish devilry. He had a reputation to match his appearance, too, and Emily knew he was a man for leading from the front and surviving the experience. Most of the long-time soldiers had
a lot of time for Captain Pordevere, but wiser men like Mallen shook their heads. Mallen had no time for recklessness. As an example, Pordevere’s second was the newly arrived Lieutenant
Cauldry, a youth of good family and three years younger than Emily. Lieutenant Potter, Pordevere’s old second, was dead out in the swamps, having followed his master on one dashing charge too
many.

At the far end of the table stood Colonel Resnic, pipe in hand, waiting for them to settle so that he could begin. Either side of him were the Warlocks and, with both in their robes for this
formal occasion, they appeared ravens indeed: great dark birds of ill omen. Scavian managed a smile for her and Tubal, but Lascari just stared.

‘All here, are we? About time,’ the colonel rumbled. ‘See you’ve brought Marshwic along, Salander. Good choice, good choice. Good family.’

Tubal made some noncommittal comment, but Emily suddenly found all eyes turned on her, a host of unnerving attention ranging from the easy smile of Huillam Pordevere to Justin Lascari’s
disconcerting frown.

‘Didn’t want to wait for Captain Goss, you see. Good intelligence in from our scouts,’ the colonel explained. ‘Fellow’s on his way from Locke, anyway. Give him a
chance to get his hand back in, soon as he arrives, eh? Don’t want a chap to go rusty. Just have everything ready for the Push once he arrives, Salander.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good fellow. Now, Stapes, would you do the honours? Eve of battle and all that. Deserves something a little special.’

The colonel’s batman, Stapewood, moved around the crowded table with difficulty. To each officer he gave a glass of rich brown brandy. Tubal and Emily exchanged furtive glances. Brocky had
been ambitious in his pilfering, it seemed, because he had plainly been filling the Club’s decanters from the colonel’s own stock.

‘Now, lads,’ continued the colonel, ‘Let’s see how the land lies.’ He upended a wooden box, spilling out what looked to Emily like nothing so much as a
child’s building bricks. Some were red, she saw, some grey. Stapewood began setting the grey pieces precisely out on the map in little stacks and clusters.

‘According to the scouts, this is how it is,’ Resnic declared. ‘Denlanders clustered like this. Main advance camp here. We think they’re building up for an attack. Got to
get there first, you see? Can’t be left to react. Rules of good war. The plan is to mobilize our full strength. Move in – pincer movement with all three companies.’ Stapewood put
out the red pieces as he directed. ‘Or whatever a pincer movement is called when you’ve got three pincers.’

‘Trident,’ suggested Tubal, but nobody paid him any mind.

‘So, Mallarkey?’

‘Sir?’

‘Take the east pincer. Have the chain lakes as a border, here.’ The colonel’s finger traced the outline of the string of saltwater lagoons that cut off the bulk of the swamps
from the sea. ‘Make as good time as you can and catch the enemy unawares, yes?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Mallarkey didn’t seem to be looking forward to it.

‘Boats,’ Pordevere said.

‘What’s that, Huill?’

‘Get some rafts made up, row or pole along the chain. It’s got to be better than slogging cross-country. You’ll be there faster than anyone.’ Huillam Pordevere thrust the
stack of red that was Mallarkey and his troops across the map.

‘Now, hold on . . .’ Mallarkey began.

‘They’d be sitting ducks for Denlander fire,’ Tubal pointed out. ‘There’s no cover on a raft.’

‘That assumes the Denlanders know they’re coming,’ Pordevere argued.

‘I’m really not one for boats. Besides, I don’t want to arrive
that
far in front of anyone else.’ Mallarkey began drawing back the red pieces, one at a time.

‘Quite right,’ the colonel agreed. ‘Don’t want to complicate things. Simple plans work best. Don’t worry, Huill, you’ll get your chance.’

Pordevere looked dissatisfied but held his peace.

‘Salander, I’m giving Stag Rampant the west. Remember this, because you’ll need to tell it all to Captain Goss when he gets in. Come up along the cliff-line. Mop up the enemy
as you find them. Get this far and join in with the others.’

‘Along the slip-fields, sir?’

‘That’s right, Salander. Should make very good time.’

Tubal’s face showed that the prospect did not delight him either. She tapped him on the shoulder and he leant back to whisper, ‘Same problem as old Mallarkey. Nobody wants to be
first at the party.’

‘Huill, you know what I’m going to say.’

Pordevere nodded, grinning fiercely as Stapewood put out the remainder of the red blocks. The map was now so crowded that it was nearly impossible to tell where anything was properly supposed to
be. An unsettled feeling grew in the pit of Emily’s stomach and she knew it to be a peculiar type of fear. Fear not of the
now
, not of a harm within arm’s reach, but of a
terrible thing that was looming in her future, and was absolutely inescapable.

This is not going to go well
, she thought: three companies of soldiers pushing through the treacherous swamps; Denlanders that could be hiding anywhere except where they were supposed
to be . . . and of course the camp left unguarded. She wondered what explosive invective John Brocky would muster if his plans to live forever were thwarted in such a way.

‘Right down the middle,’ the colonel was saying to Pordevere. ‘You get the hammer, Huill. Make good use of it. The other two companies are supporting you. Everyone’s got
that?’

There was a general murmur of nodding around the table.

‘Now, Warlocks,’ said the colonel. ‘I want you both with Bear Sejant, to push the main attack. One at each end of the line. Pincer within a pincer, I suppose.’

Before Scavian could reply, Lascari put a finger down to the left of the map. ‘I will post myself here, I think, towards the Stag. Scavian, you can support the Leopard’s end of
things.’

He’s keeping Giles away from me
, Emily realized, blankly puzzled. Even if Lascari knew of Scavian’s attraction to her, what possible reason could he have? Or was it simply
that he and Scavian did not get on? She had seen plenty of evidence of that already.

‘We move day after tomorrow,’ the colonel said. ‘Short notice, I know. Have to catch old Jan Denland on the hop. Make sure your companies know what’s
happening.’

The day after tomorrow.
Her stomach wrenched suddenly. Tomorrow was too soon. She needed more time. She could not march out for such a venture without at least three days, four days,
more, to compose herself.

But she knew that was not true. The more time, the more twisting of the knife. The day after tomorrow was as good, or as bad, as any day. There was never an ideal time for a venture of this
sort.

Captain Goss returned the next day.

Emily wasn’t sure what she had been expecting of the man. She had heard so little during her time there. Only that he had fallen, taken down by a Denlander musketeer, then was dragged back
in agony to the camp and carted away to Locke for treatment. It was not the history of a man so much as the anatomy of an injury.

‘Was he a good commander?’ she asked Tubal.

‘He was the only one I’ve had. He could have been the worst or the best ever. I’ve got nothing to compare him to.’ The lieutenant was mustering all of Stag Rampant to
welcome the captain back. Almost half the company would be completely unknown to him.

‘Did Mallen like him?’ she asked, because Mallen, to her mind, was a good yardstick for the character of military men.

Tubal shrugged. ‘Mallen never expressed an opinion. He was master sergeant before Goss came, and you know he only really takes orders from the colonel when he’s doing his
scouting.’

They had the company lined up parade-ground-style. There were so many of them, all put together; Emily had never imagined Stag Rampant could field such a host. She stood at the front and left
with the other junior officers, the soldiers-at-arms arrayed in red-coated rows behind them, with polished muskets at the shoulder. She glanced across the line of her peers: ensigns and sergeants,
with Mallen at the end of the line. Tubal was a few paces ahead, his sabre drawn, glinting in the wash of warm sunlight that had come with the captain’s return.

There were a good two score men coming into camp now. Some of them limped and others were gaunt and drawn like fever victims. One had his left sleeve pinned up to his shoulder. They had a common
look about them, of men returning to a nightmare. They were the walking wounded, she realized: the men who had survived long enough to get to Locke and the physicians, and healed well enough to be
sent back. By the look of them, the doctors had not been too stringent in their criteria. Some would never hold muskets again; some could not march or run. One man had a patch across his eye.
What madness has refused to release these men, but has sent them back to war?