The Price of Valor (25 page)

It was the third visitor who made Maurisk's lip curl. Giles Durenne, a pair of tiny spectacles perched on his famous beak of a nose, dressed in shabby blacks that made him look like an unkempt crow. Even his eyes were dark and colorless, and his black hair was pulled back in a short queue.

His appointment to the Ministry of War had seemed like a safe sinecure for a leading Radical in the first days after the revolution, since the new government had intended to dismantle most of the army until it could be rebuilt on more Republican grounds. The declaration of war had changed everything, of course. While Durenne had never disputed the Directory's ultimate authority, as a matter of course the Ministry of War—still mostly staffed by officers appointed in the old king's time—did much of the business of military and thus held considerable power there, especially among the old regiments. Maurisk was thus obliged to take him seriously.
At least for the moment.

“Gentlemen,” Maurisk said. “Come in. Your guards may remain outside, Commander. I don't believe we'll need them.”

Zacaros nodded—he never saluted, considering it beneath his dignity—and waved the two halberdiers away. Hallvez stepped in front of the desk and stood with military stiffness, his face schooled into impassivity. Zacaros slumped into a chair beside him, sighing. Kellerman closed the door.

“General,” Maurisk said.

“Sir.” Hallvez gave a definite ironic twist to the word.

“I've read your report.” Maurisk tapped a stack of paper on his desk. “It seems to contain some . . . irregularities.”

“Such as?”

“You claim you were ordered over the Murnskai border in a preemptive attack, over your own protests. But my colleagues at the Ministry of War seem certain no such order was issued.” He nodded at Durenne, who remained stone-faced.

“That's because the order didn't come from the Ministry,” Hallvez said. “It came from this office, by Patriot Guard courier, as a
suggestion
. When I objected, I was told to obey or face removal from my post for treason.”

“And so you marched your army, unprepared, into Murnskai territory, taking no precautions—”

“My
precautions
were not the issue,” Hallvez said, showing a hint of emotion for the first time. “Two-thirds of my troops were volunteers, with no training or drill. The
fallorii
, the Murnskai border guards, are light cavalry famous for their deviousness. They started cutting us to pieces within days.”

“Because you were unable to bring them to battle, and let your men fight piecemeal.”

“How would you suggest bringing them to battle,
sir
? A swarm of riders with three horses each, who know every inch of their damned country?”

“Enough,”
Maurisk said. “It's clear that
this
”—he waved dismissively at the report—“is a tissue of lies intended to cast blame on this Directory for your failings and undermine the war effort. Which, I may remind you, is treason. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Hallvez' lip twitched. “Only that I ought to have resigned on the spot rather than obey your
suggestions
. Thousands of Vordanai boys that you asked to protect their country are dead or prisoners in Murnsk because of my cowardice. I will live with that until the end of my days.”

“Fortunately,” Maurisk drawled, “that will not be very long. Commander, please take this traitor away. Make sure the broadsheets print the time of his appointment with Dr. Sarton so the public can observe the fate of those who betray our homeland.”

Zacaros dipped his head, heaved himself to his feet, and took hold of Hallvez' arm. The general shook himself free and walked out of the office, with the Patriot commander following. Maurisk waited until they were gone, then tossed back his brandy and poured himself another.

“I heard in the papers Hallvez had gone mad,” Durenne said from where he was leaning against the bookshelves.

“Mad, traitorous, or both,” Maurisk said. “What does it matter?”

“Are you sending
suggestions
to all our generals?”

“Too many of our officers have dubious loyalties,” Maurisk said. “They need to be reminded of their duty.”

“I wonder what you sent to de Brogle. Instructions to feed his men on rats and patriotic rhetoric, perhaps?”

Maurisk slammed one hand on the desk. “De Brogle will pay for his crimes. As will
anyone
who works against Vordan.” He eyed Durenne. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to hear what Hallvez had to say for myself,” Durenne said. “Being Minister of War, you know.”

“I remind you that Directory business is confidential,” Maurisk said. “I don't want this treasonous nonsense to spread.”

“As would happen if, for example, Hallvez had a trial in the Deputies?”

Maurisk's hand clenched into a fist. In theory, the Ministry of War, like all the ministries, was now subject to the authority of the Deputies-General, which had in turn delegated power to the Directory. So far, though, the ability of the Directory to enforce its will on the Minister of War had not been seriously tested, as Durenne, in spite of his Radical politics, had been willing to play along. If Durenne brought things to a head, he would almost certainly lose in the end, but he probably
could
force a public vote on the matter. If that happened, no oath of secrecy would keep Hallvez' story out of the papers.

Durenne laughed. “You shouldn't scowl so much, Johann. It makes you look constipated. I'm only tweaking your tail, of course. How could I object to the punishment of such an obvious traitor?”

“I don't appreciate being toyed with,” Maurisk said. “Is there a point to this?”

“Only that if the Directory is going to be in the business of issuing orders directly to the military, I think we might as well pack up the Ministry of War and be done.” Durenne leaned forward. “I have worked with you because the good of the state requires it. But if you continue to go behind my back, I will have no choice but to bring matters to a public vote. Don't push me, Johann.”

“I'm sure it was just an oversight,” Maurisk said stiffly. “We'll consult you in the future, of course.”

“Of course.”

Durenne opened the door to leave, and Maurisk spotted Kellerman hovering outside. He beckoned the young man in and poured a little more brandy into the glass.

“We have someone watching him, don't we?” Maurisk said when he heard the outer door close behind Durenne.

“Yes, sir,” Kellerman said. He was a treasure Maurisk had picked out from the initial flood of volunteers: prim, efficient, and a rabid idealist, someone who wouldn't shrink from any task that furthered the cause.
We could have used him in the old days.

“Good. I want to know who he talks to, who he spends time with. What messages he sends. Use more men if you need to, and don't worry about being spotted. A little reminder will do him good.”

“Of course, sir.” Kellerman bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

“What an obedient little viper.” A pleasant voice, with the hint of a Murnskai accent.

Maurisk shoved his chair back from his desk, scrabbling for the knife strapped to its underside. His fingers found the hilt, but he couldn't get the damned thing out of its sheath, and before he figured out what he was doing wrong his slightly brandy-fogged mind had finally caught up with events. There was a man standing in front of the desk, a man who hadn't been there moments earlier. He was young and handsome, with brown hair and a well-trimmed goatee, dressed in close-fitting black. The corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and in one hand he carried a bottle labeled with the image of a charging bull.

“I brought you a gift.”

“You,” Maurisk said, heart hammering in his chest.

“Hamveltai
flaghaelan
,” said Adam Ionkovo, placing the bottle on the desk. He sat in the chair Zacaros had vacated, as casually as if he had not just walked into the most heavily guarded room in Vordan without even opening the door. “It's your favorite, if I remember correctly. I imagine it's hard to come by these days.”

“I . . . yes.” There was dust on the bottle. A ninety-one, Maurisk noted absently. A good year, and rare even in the best cellars. A full bottle was worth several thousand eagles. He blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I would check up on things,” Ionkovo said, folding his hands in his lap. “Given how circumstances have . . . evolved. Your attempt to eliminate the queen did not go as planned, I take it.”

Maurisk's hand twitched. His office was as secure as it was possible for a room to be, but speaking those words aloud still made him cringe. He fought down the urge ruthlessly, sat up a little straighter, and pulled himself back to the desk.

“She left the box too early,” he said. “Regrettably. But I have her under control.”

“So I hear.”

“I can deliver her whenever you like. If our agreement still holds.”

“It does,” Ionkovo said. “Bring me Raesinia, Vhalnich, and the Thousand Names, and Vordan will have peace.”

“It would be easier to secure Vhalnich and the queen if we were to bring the war to an end,” Maurisk said. “As it is, the people—”

“The Pontifex of the Black is not in the habit of delivering payment without results. The agreement stands.”

Maurisk regarded his guest coldly, his fear finally coming under control. Ionkovo was the very embodiment of everything he hated about the Sworn Church: the ancient, hidden hand of Elysium, reaching out like a puppeteer to make the world dance to its tune. Once, he would never have consented to speak with such a creature.

But Raesinia's betrayal had opened his eyes. After the fall of the Vendre, he'd genuinely hoped that the world might change; the will of the people was sweeping away the old chains, and—properly guided—it could lead to a new era of enlightenment. Then he'd seen Raesinia, the young woman he'd trusted as one of his closest companions, now dressed in the garb of a queen.

He'd realized then that nothing had changed. The old chains still held. They'd all meant nothing to her, less than nothing; the will of the people had been a useful tool to bend to her own ends. It had opened his eyes to what was needed. A true revolution required a
purge
, as Farus IV had understood over a hundred years before. It needed a man willing to do what was necessary, without restraint.

Ionkovo had come to him soon after the war had begun, and laid out his price. Maurisk hadn't hesitated. He needed peace to continue his work. Raesinia, Vhalnich, and some dusty Khandarai artifact were a small price to pay.

“As you say,” Maurisk finally said, “the queen is in hand.”

“What about Vhalnich? He keeps winning battles.”

“Vhalnich will need to be . . . reined in, but I don't anticipate any difficulty. Once our position is secure, he will either deliver himself to us or reveal himself as an outright traitor, and any support he has will melt away. Once we have him, it shouldn't be difficult to force him to reveal where he's hidden your Thousand Names.”

“That's good,” Ionkovo said. “That's very good. I wanted to be certain you were still committed.” He leaned forward. “Because if Vhalnich's little successes make you think you can stand against us, you had better think again. The Borelgai fleet dominates your coasts, and the Emperor of Murnsk is coming with all his power. Hamvelt is a sideshow. If you don't give us what we want, we will crush this city under our heel.” He grinned, showing teeth. “Not that you, personally, would be around to see it.”

“I told you, everything is in hand.” Maurisk was appalled to find himself sweating. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“I'll tell that to the pontifex,” Ionkovo said. “He'll be pleased to hear it. When will your position be ‘secure'?”

“Another few weeks, at most. Preparations are well under way—”

“Very well.” Ionkovo stood up and bowed. “A pleasure speaking with you, as always.”

The Penitent Damned circled around the desk, coming to Maurisk's side. Maurisk started to turn in his chair, but Ionkovo laid a hand on his shoulder, and he froze in place. Ionkovo passed out of sight, behind him, and there was a whisper like silk brushing silk.

It was several long seconds before Maurisk risked turning around. There was no rear door in his office, not even a window. No way out, but Ionkovo was gone nevertheless.

Maurisk pulled his chair back up to his desk and took a moment to compose his features and let his hammering heartbeat slow. Then, once he was certain he was in control, he said, “Kellerman?”

The door opened. “Yes, sir?”

“That colonel, the one who was in here breathing fire. Do you recall his name?”

“De Ferre, sir.”

“Is he still in the city?”

“I don't know, sir. But I will find out directly.”

“Do so. And tell him I would like to speak with him.” Maurisk had dismissed the old nobleman as a hopeless reactionary, and only listened to his complaints with half an ear. But he remembered the venom the man had aimed at Vhalnich. “Tell him I may have an assignment for him after all.”

WINTER

W
inter opened her eyes with some difficulty. It felt as though someone had glued them closed with spirit gum. She sat up, or started to; the slight movement set off a pain in her head like a cannon going off.

“Rest easy.” Her mind felt fuzzy, and it took a moment to recognize the voice.
Janus
. “What did I tell you about leading from the front? Here.”

Winter blinked, and her surroundings became a bit less blurry. There was a canteen in front of her, and she took hold of it greedily, sucking down cold, clear water until it was empty. Then, cautiously, she tried sitting up again. Her heartbeat thudded in her head, each pulse producing a stab of pain, but this time she managed to get upright.

It took her a moment to realize what was so disorienting about her surroundings—she was not in a tent. Instead she found herself in a bed in a well-appointed bedroom, with heavy curtains drawn across the windows. A table and chair were pulled up by the bedside, and Janus sat with his hands folded, regarding her with broad gray eyes. She handed back the canteen, and he gave her a full one, which she swallowed from a bit more slowly.

“The cutters have been all over you,” Janus said. “From the Girls' Own, naturally. Your Lieutenant Forester was quite the watchdog. They tell me that if you were going to develop a fatal swelling of the brain, you would have done it by now, so you'll probably recover.”

Winter reached up to touch the side of her head. There was a lump there, although
lump
was probably not an adequate description of a swelling bruise
bigger than her palm. Touching it brought on another shooting pain, and she closed her eyes and took deep breaths until it steadied.

“You're lucky it didn't break your skull,” Janus said. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I got into a sword fight,” Winter said. Her tongue felt thick. “With someone who actually knew what to do in a sword fight.”

“In that case, it's fair to say you got off lightly.”

“Bobby. Lieutenant Forester. She's all right?”

“He is.”

“What about . . .”—
Jane—
“the rest of the regiment?”

“Losses were light, I'm told. Your charge carried the farm, and Captain Altoff brought his battery forward to break up the Deslandai attack.”

“Did we win the battle?”

“Oh yes.” Janus seemed vaguely amused that she'd asked. “We're in Desland. The city has capitulated.”

“Oh.” Winter blinked and took another swallow of water. “Congratulations.”

Janus smiled, just a moment. “Thank you. It's a step in the right direction, but only a step.”

“How long has it been?”

“A couple of days,” Janus said. “I hoped you'd wake up today. I wanted to speak to you before I left.”

“Left?” Winter felt as though her mind was still not working properly. “Where are you going?”

“North. Most of the army is already on the road. I'm leaving the Third”—Winter's regiment—“here in Desland for the moment. You'll keep order in the city and organize our supplies. I intend to make Desland our base for the rest of the campaign.”

“I don't . . .” Winter blinked and rubbed at her eyes. “I don't know how to organize a supply base.”

“The clerks from the Ministry will handle the details. You'll be in overall command.” He leaned forward. “Now, it's possible that I'll have need of the Third before long. You must be ready to march at an hour's notice, and march hard. We're entering a critical period.”

“Command.” Winter tried hard to concentrate. “Command of
what
?”

“The garrison. The city, in effect. Don't let the locals get the better of you. If you have to, remind them who has the upper hand here.”

“You're leaving me in charge of the
city
?”

“Don't worry too much. I imagine it mostly takes care of itself.” Janus got to his feet. “Now I must be going. Get some rest. I'll have them send your officers in later.”

“Sir—”

“One other thing.” A look of unaccustomed uncertainty crossed Janus' features. “Augustin's gone missing. I would appreciate it if you kept an eye out.” He sighed. “He's not the sort to wander off, and I'm worried.”

“I'll . . . see what I can do, sir.”

“Thank you. Now, I'll be in touch by courier. I have every confidence in you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Incidentally, your part of the battle was excellently fought. Well done.” He gave another brief grin. “Try to do it without getting bashed over the head next time.”

He bustled out, calling orders before he'd closed the door behind him. Winter took another long drink of water.

In command . . . of the city?

It was too much for her to wrap her battered mind around at the moment. She laid her bruised head gingerly back on the pillow and let her eyes close.

*   *   *

When she next awoke, the pain had receded a little, and Bobby and Cyte were waiting by her bedside. Winter pushed herself back in the bed until she was propped up against the headboard and groaned.

“I had a really terrible dream,” she said. “Janus had marched off and left me in charge of Desland.”

Bobby and Cyte looked at each other, worried.

Winter groaned again. “All right. I didn't get hit
that
hard. He's really gone?”

Bobby nodded. “This morning.”

“And how does he expect me to run a city? I don't even speak Hamveltai.”

“Most of the Deslandai upper class is bilingual,” Cyte said. “Historically, the region has been heavily influenced by both Hamvelt and Vordan. It was actually a Vordanai protectorate until—”

Winter winced and held up a hand. “Later. Okay. So how bad was it for us?”

“Captain Verity reports twenty-two dead, thirty-six wounded,” Bobby said, consulting a folded page from her pocket. “Captain Sevran reports fifty-four dead, sixty-two wounded. I'll have a more detailed report on the injuries soon.”

Losses were light, he said. Winter remembered the redheaded sergeant—
I
didn't even know her name
—whimpering and clawing at the wound in her chest.
Twenty-two dead. Twenty-two who followed me from Vordan because I told them it was the right thing to do. Twenty-two daughters who won't be back.
She didn't even want to think about the wounded, the cutters' tents with the piles of arms and legs outside.
“Light.”

“What about . . .” The question made her feel absurdly guilty, but she had to say it. “Jane?”

“She's fine,” Bobby said, an unhappy look on her face.

Winter's heart twisted. “What's wrong?”

“I think she's still angry at you.”

“Oh.” Winter let out a deep breath. “I'll talk with her. Later.” Guilt prickled. “Is Marsh all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who's been in command while I've been . . . out?”

“Sevran and Abby having been working together, sir. There's a lot to be done, but they seem to be on top of things.”

“Still. I need to be up and about.” Winter began to move, but pain lanced through her head again, and she moaned involuntarily. Bobby rushed to press her back into the bed, and Cyte held up her hands.

“It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, sir,” Cyte said. “We can handle it. Just supply requisitions, transport arrangements, that sort of thing. The Deslandai have been very cooperative.”

“You've got quarters for everybody? Somewhere to care for the injured?”

“Yes, sir,” Bobby said. “We're taking care of it, don't worry. Just rest for now.”

Winter nodded carefully. Her eyes went to Cyte, and she cleared her throat. “Do you think you could give me a moment alone with Bobby?”

“Of course, sir.” Cyte got to her feet and saluted. “I'll be outside.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

“What about you?” Winter said in a low voice. “Are you all right?”

Bobby held up her right hand, and Winter noticed for the first time she was wearing a dark glove on it. She tugged at it with her other hand until her palm was exposed. A streak of sparkling gray ran across the living flesh.

“God,” Winter said. “I'm sorry.”

“It's nothing,” Bobby said, pulling her glove back into place. “Better than losing the hand.”

“You saved my life.”

Bobby's face colored. “I just . . . I saw you fighting, and I wanted to help. I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner.”

“Did Abby see anything?” She'd been in the corner, grappling with a Deslandai soldier. “She's not hurt, is she?”

“Just a little bruised, sir. And I talked to her, but she didn't mention anything unusual.”

Winter smiled weakly. “You'll have to be careful about snapping swords in half if you want to keep your secret.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Her evident sincerity made Winter laugh out loud, however much it hurt. “Thank you, by the way. For saving my life. It seems to have become a habit.”

Bobby grinned. “I do my best, sir.”

*   *   *

By the next morning, Winter felt well enough to walk, albeit with exaggerated caution. She discovered she had been sleeping in the upper room of an abandoned house near the gate, which Janus had appropriated as his headquarters. It was nearly empty now, with the army departed, and Bobby and Cyte arrived to escort her to the new regimental quarters up in the citadel.

Desland was closer to being two cities than one. Like Vordan City, it was divided by a mighty river, but here there was no convenient island to serve as a footing for bridges, so the Velt flowed on placid and unimpeded. Innumerable barges, skiffs, and other watercraft crossed and recrossed the flat expanse many times a day, from the cargo warehouses and docks of the low-lying west bank to the residences of the upper class on the cliffs of the east.

Only the east bank had a wall, and it was of medieval construction, a crumbling stone barrier long ago leapfrogged by the expanding city and useless in any case against modern artillery. It also had a citadel, originally intended as a final holdout for the cities defenders in case of a siege. Equipped with barracks and training fields, it made a convenient base, except that it was naturally located at the highest point inside the walls, looking off a cliff over the river. Winter, legs shaky and head throbbing, tried not to think about how much farther they still had to go.

This part of Desland was not too dissimilar from a well-off district of Vordan City, though the Hamveltai influence was apparent in the steeply sloped roofs with carved wooden buttresses at the corners. Carriages rattled back and forth, and pedestrian traffic was light but steady. There had been an exodus in the first
few days as those who were convinced the Vordanai would exact vengeance fled the city, but now the locals who remained had apparently decided their conquerors were not going to put the place to the torch after all. The three blue uniforms—one of them worn by what was clearly a woman, and one with a colonel's eagles—drew quite a bit of attention, and they walked in the center of a bubble of stares. Passersby detoured to give them a respectful distance.

Winter forced herself not to stare back, and instead tried to focus on what Bobby was saying, which was a slightly overexcited explanation of how Janus had won the Battle of Gaafen. Cyte, on her other side, listened with the indulgent air of someone who had heard it all before.

“—Give-Em-Hell and the Colonials crossed the river upstream, fifty miles short of Gaafen. They had to detour to find a good road, which is why we moved so slowly on the approach. Every day
we
marched six miles and
they
made fifteen. Give-Em-Hell started raiding the Deslandai supply lines so they'd think that was all that was going on, and the cavalry kept the scouts from figuring out the infantry was there. They were all in position the day before we reached the Gaafen line.”

“Wait,” Winter said. “That means the Colonials went over the river
before
we knew the Deslandai were going to fight at Gaafen?”

Bobby nodded vigorously. “Janus knew. It's like he could read their minds. The morning we attacked, Fitz Warus led a company from the Colonials down to the Gaafen Bridge and captured it before the Deslandai engineers could set off the charges they'd rigged to destroy it, and then the rest of the Colonials came over and attacked the town from behind. After we threw back their first attack on the right, Janus brought the center forward, and they just started to panic. The whole Deslandai army fell to pieces in an hour.”

Winter smiled ruefully.
And I thought we might be reduced to battering a fortified position head-on. I ought to have more faith in Janus.
Such faith had been justified many times over by now, even if the general was not in the habit of explaining his plans to his subordinates.

“And the city just surrendered?” Winter said. “We were still on the wrong side of the Velt. They could have tried to keep us from crossing.”

“Apparently there was a bit of a coup,” Cyte said. “Or at least a shift in government. Desland's ruled by a merchant's council, but Hamveltai interests had always held a lot of sway. Nobody seems willing to say exactly what happened, but those members of the council seem to have left town rather suddenly, and what was left didn't have a lot of interest in continuing the fight.”

“Better to make money off us than try to fight,” Winter said. “Ashe-Katarion was the same way, until the Redeemers turned on us.”

“I don't think that's very likely here, sir,” Cyte said. “Most of the Deslandai are Sworn Church, but there's always been a substantial Free Church minority, and they're on relatively good terms. I don't think there's many who are eager to die for Elysium.”