The Price of Valor (27 page)

Rankers brought her food, which was served on polished silver plates with a crystal goblet of wine and was indeed considerably better than what they'd
been eating on the march. Abby had told her the storerooms were filling up with “gifts” for the colonel from local notables eager to court her favor. The wine must have been one of them, because it was worlds different from the awful stuff available from the merchants who followed the army. This was cool, clear nectar from the Old Coast, golden as the sun, with such a smooth flavor that Winter didn't realize how much she'd drunk until her head was swimming.

Cyte returned, with a batch of reports—the next of kin for the dead and details of the injuries of the wounded, who was expected to recover and who to die, the state of the regiment's weapons and ammunition, guard rotas and infractions to be dealt with. Winter looked it all over, a little unsteadily, and told Cyte to take care of whatever she could on her own. She relayed her order putting Abby in charge of the Girls' Own, too, which the ex-student seemed to thoroughly approve of. Then, perhaps sensing her commander's weariness and slight inebriation, Cyte withdrew, leaving Winter to shrug out of as much of her uniform as she could easily remove and crawl into bed.

The sun wasn't yet touching the horizon, but the long walk through the city earlier and the pounding pain in her head made her want to curl up and hide under the thick wool blankets and silk sheets of the big four-poster. But actual sleep eluded her. When she closed her eyes, she found herself back in the battle, not watching the Girls' Own rankers shot down around her or in her desperate final struggle with the Deslandai officer, but delivering her warning to Jane through clenched teeth. Again and again, she saw Jane's eyes widen in shock, as though Winter had just run her through the belly with a rapier, then narrow in—what? Rage? Frustration? Chagrin? She could picture the expression exactly, but not read it.

I should never have brought her here.
Jane had done the impossible—escaped from the Prison and her husband, built a life for herself in Vordan City, and helped hundreds of others along the way. Winter had come into that life like a hurricane and knocked it to pieces.
I should have made her stay behind. Made them all stay behind. Janus would have listened to me. He could have made them do it.

But if Jane wasn't fitting into the army, others—Abby, Cyte—had taken to it like a duck to water.
Should I have sent them home, too?
She'd told Jane that the women of the Girls' Own knew what they'd signed up for, and that was true, too.
Why do I get to make the choice for any of them?

And no matter what, the thought of sending Jane away—of being separated from her again—made Winter feel as if someone were tearing her ribs out of her
chest.
But why does my pain trump hers? If being with me means ruining her life, how is that worth it? If I really loved her, I should have been willing to stay by her side in Vordan, and to hell with Janus and the army.

Of course, that had never been a realistic option. The passenger in the pit of Winter's mind rarely made itself felt, but she could feel it if she turned her attention inward.
Infernivore.
A devouring beast, slumbering until it felt the approach of prey. Army or not, since the moment she took on the demon—
or the
naath
, or whatever it is
—she'd marked herself. According to Janus, it would stay with her for the rest of her life.

“Fuck.” Winter pressed her face into the thick down pillow, muffling her voice. “Fuck, fuck,
fuck.
Balls of the fucking Beast. What the hell do I do now?”

Then, a bit unsteadily, she rolled out of bed and went in search of the rest of the bottle of wine.

*   *   *

The next day dawned clear and—to Winter's eyes—uncomfortably bright. She shaded her forehead with one hand and gulped water from her canteen. Her head still throbbed, although this morning it was perhaps for different reasons.

The racetrack—it was called the Campus—was at least a square mile of open land in the midst of one of the wealthier parts of Desland. The houses that looked on to it were some of the biggest and most expensive in the city, equaled only by the mansions lining the river cliffs. Horses, their breeding, racing, and trading, had always been the center of the Deslandai economy, and all of the city's oldest and most noble families had equine interests. The Campus was the site of the Golden Laurel, arguably the most prestigious set of horse races in the world, and afterward played host to the most exclusive and expensive of the city's many horse markets.

Racing and trading horses was a summer affair, however, and this late in the year the Campus was just a square of browning grass and dirt, scattered with scraps of wood and bits of canvas left over from the great fairs. It was easily large enough to accommodate the entire Third Regiment, along with the crowds of curious Deslandai who had come to see the show.

The spectators kept a respectful distance from the troops, and here and there a blue Vordanai flag waved in a show of goodwill. In the center of the rough ring of onlookers, the Girls' Own and the Royals went through a set of evolutions that Abby and Sevran had worked out between them the night before. The two battalions deployed from columns into line and ployed back again, companies marching and countermarching to the beat of the assembled regimental drums.
They formed two squares, bayonets gleaming dangerously, and at a drumbeat of command melted back into column and marched proudly around the square.

Some of the maneuvers, to Winter's eye, were a bit ragged, especially on the part of the Girls' Own. Tight formation drill had never been a priority in a battalion where most of the soldiers had barely handled a musket before. But they'd made a lot of progress, and it was evidently enough to impress the Deslandai, who shouted and applauded with each barked command. There were a fair number of whistles and catcalls mixed in, of course. The women in the front of the formation responded to lewd suggestions from the crowd with equally foul hand gestures, provoking roars of laughter.

Winter sat astride Edgar, with Cyte mounted beside her, and tried to enjoy the show. Every time she saw Abby, walking at the head of the Girls' Own and shouting orders to the drummers, it made her think about Jane. She and the older Leatherbacks hadn't returned last night, and according to reports had moved from the Loose Cannon to the Golden Goose for another round of revels.

“The Girls' Own ought to have proper uniforms,” Cyte said, drawing Winter up from her thoughts.

“I put in a request to the Ministry,” Winter said, “but there are a lot of volunteer battalions. Somehow I think providing a bunch of women's uniforms is not at the top of their list.”

“Plenty of tailors here in Desland,” Cyte said. “We ought to be able to get them made locally.”

“I don't think I can afford it.” Winter sighed. They'd spent nearly all her back wages—all the money she had in the world, she thought ruefully—on providing better food and drink for the troops on the march.

Cyte shot her a crafty look. “You wouldn't have to pay. The quartermasters have authorization to draw on the credit of the Crown.”

“Since when does the Vordanai Crown have any credit in Desland?”

“Since Janus marched in and pointed twelve-pounders at their fancy banks,” Cyte said bluntly. “They've been very good about extending loans.”

“That sounds more like robbery.”

Cyte shrugged. “It's war. Read a little history, and you'll find this is polite by any standard. We're already taking all kinds of supplies, especially horses. A few hundred yards of cloth will hardly make a dent.”

“All right,” Winter said, watching the Girls' Own maneuver. Their jackets, each a different shade of blue, flapped against whatever homespun or linen each
recruit had brought with her. “Do it. If they're going to risk their lives for Crown and Deputies, they deserve to look like soldiers.”

“Yes, sir.” Cyte grinned.

“And see what you can do about boots.” Too many of the women had come with footwear adequate only for city streets, which was falling to pieces after weeks of marching hard country roads. “As long as we're looting, we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”

“Now, there's the right spirit for a conquering commander,” Cyte said. “We'll make a proper tyrant of you yet. I'll see what I can do in terms of slave girls for your bedroom.”

It was a joke, and Winter did her best to smile, but she must not have done a very good job of it. Cyte blanched.

“Sorry,” she said. “I . . . sorry.”

“It's all right,” Winter said, ignoring the ache in her chest that matched the throb in her head. “Come on. We should get back to the citadel before the crowd breaks up.”

A couple of companies of soldiers had been left on guard duty, and the sentries Winter saw on her return looked very unhappy at being unable to join the demonstration. She passed the word that they'd be the next to receive passes to head into the city, which cheered the Royals up considerably. Abby hadn't wanted the Girls' Own to go out, which rankled a bit, but was probably sensible; Cyte's notion of using the Crown's credit to secure supplies had given her an idea, though. She spent the next couple of hours in the big room Sevran used as an office, writing orders and consulting with a few local representatives.

“Sir?”

Winter looked up to find a ranker from the Girls' Own at the door. The young woman—she couldn't have been more than seventeen—was obviously intimidated at the prospect of talking to her colonel, and she drew herself up into what she probably thought was a properly stiff military bearing. Winter suppressed a smile.

“Yes, Ranker?” she said.

“Captain Giforte requests permission to bring a matter to your attention.”

Winter frowned. “Of course. Tell her to come in.”

“She requests you join her in the yard, sir.”

“All right.” Winter set down her pen and stretched, kinks popping in her back. Her headache, at least, had subsided a bit. “What's going on?”

“Best she tells you, sir.”

Abby was waiting in the yard, in front of the entrance to the keep. Behind her, the troops had returned to their tents and were cooking lunch, though quite a few seemed to have drifted over to see what was going on.

Behind Abby stood three young women. The one on the left was enormous, a head taller than Winter and broad-shouldered, with short hair and a guarded expression. To her right was a younger woman, slim and sallow-looking, dressed in battered leather and fraying homespun.

The third woman made a point of not looking at her two companions, or indeed anyone else in the yard. She had the pale skin of someone who'd spent her life sheltering from the sun, and long golden curls that cascaded down to the small of her back. Her dress, elegant pink and gold with matching jewelry at her throat and wrists, was already stained at the hem from the mud of the yard. Her eyes snapped to Winter as soon as she emerged, bright blue and disconcertingly piercing.

“Abby,” Winter said as the acting captain saluted briskly, “what's going on?”

“These three came up to me after the demonstration, sir,” Abby said. “They want to join up.”

“Join up?”
Winter looked at the three women incredulously. “Why?”

“You'd have to ask them, sir.”

Winter turned to the large woman. “What's your name?”

The woman's eyes flicked to the smaller girl beside her, who stepped forward. “She's Joanna, sir. Or Jo. I'm Barley.” Her Vordanai was good, with only the faintest trace of an accent.

“Jo and Barley.”

“Yes, sir. Jo doesn't talk.”

Jo gave a passable imitation of a military salute, fist thumping against her chest.

“And what are you doing here?” Winter said.

“What the captain said, sir. We want to join the Girls' Own.”

“You're Deslandai. We're still at war.”

“Pardon, sir, but we're Vordanai. At least, I am, more than half, and Jo's grandma didn't speak a word of Hamveltai. Down where we live, people cheered when they heard the army got whipped.”

Winter paused. Desland did have a substantial minority of Vordanai, mostly in its poorer sections. “We're not going to be staying in Desland. Sooner or later, we'll join up with the rest of the army, and I have no idea if we'll ever be back.”

“Fine with me, sir,” Barley said. “There's nothing here for us but working
the docks and getting spit on by Hamveltai nobs. If you can keep us fed, we'll follow you wherever you want to go.”

Winter wanted to say no, to tell them that however bad things were on the docks, it was better than facing musket balls and cold steel and the prospect of a shallow grave on some battlefield. But there were soldiers all around, from the Royals and the Girls' Own both, and in the face of their scrutiny she couldn't make herself say it.

Who am I,
she remembered from the night before,
to decide for any of them?

“Jo,” Winter said. “You agree with everything Barley is saying?”

The big woman nodded emphatically and put a hand on her smaller companion's shoulder.

“Captain Giforte,” Winter said. “Have you got a company that could use these two?”

“I think I can find one, sir,” Abby said, with the hint of a smile in her voice.

“All right, then.” Winter turned to the third woman, who again met her gaze without flinching. “And who are you?”

“Anne-Marie Gertrude di Wallach,” she said. Unlike Barley, she had a heavy Hamveltai accent, rolling her
R'
s and turning her
W
's into
V
's.

“You're not Vordanai.”

“No.”

“So what are you doing here?”