The Price of Valor (28 page)

Anne-Marie frowned in concentration. She spoke with the air of someone working through a puzzle; the Vordanai language was clearly something she'd only encountered in a schoolroom. “I want . . . to fight. Fight with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you fight for everyone.” She dug in a hidden pocket of her dress and produced a small, battered book. It was Voulenne's
Rights of Man
, the founding tract of the University rebels back in Vordan. “I read . . . papers. Things that come from Vordan. People rule themselves. No more kings. I want to fight for that.”

Winter looked her over. Anne-Marie's fingers hands were soft and uncallused, her arms skinny and unfamiliar with work.

“You want to fight for that?” Winter indicated
The Rights of Man.
“You're ready to die for it?”

“Yes,” Anne-Marie said, standing up a little straighter.

“You're ready to kill for it?”

“Yes.” Though this time, she hesitated a little.

“Walk for miles in the mud? Carry a heavy pack? Eat squirrel or whatever else you can catch?”

Anne-Marie's cheeks were reddening, but she remained standing. “Yes.”

Winter let out a long breath and turned to Abby, speaking quietly. “What do you think?”

“I think she's very determined,” Abby said. “I also think she won't last five minutes.”

“We can't turn her away and let the others in,” Winter said.

“Leave it to me,” Abby said. “Tell her she can stay, and I'll make sure she gets a taste of what things are really like. She'll run home soon enough.”

Winter nodded. Turning back to meet Anne-Marie's eyes again, though, she was uncertain. There was a determination there that struck a chord; it reminded her of another girl who'd run away from everything she'd ever known with the mad idea of joining the army.

Of course, nobody at Mrs. Wilmore's ever had soft hands like hers. Still, Winter thought she deserved a chance.
It's the best I can offer, anyway.

“Captain Giforte will find you a place,” she said. “You'll need new clothes, though. And you'll probably have to cut your hair.”

Anne-Marie's hand went involuntarily to clutch her golden curls. With an effort, she straightened up again. “Yes. Sir. I . . . understand.”

Barley, who had been staring skeptically at Anne-Marie, looked up at Winter. “We're not the only ones, sir. There's lots of girls from the Docks who'd join if they knew you were taking recruits.”

“I also have friends.” Anne-Marie patted her book. “They believe this.”

Great.
There would be no way to keep
this
news from spreading across the city like wildfire.
Just great. What the hell have I gotten myself into now?

MARCUS

I
t had been a long time since Marcus spent much time in Farus' Triumph. Superficially, things hadn't changed much. The cafés around the edges of the vast square were still open, spilling cast-iron tables out onto the flagstones to take advantage of the weak autumn sun. The great equestrian statue of Farus V looked out as majestically as ever, surrounded by his worshipful coterie of water-spouting nymphs and swans. To the south, the Grand Span leapt from piling to piling, and a steady stream of pedestrian traffic came and went from the South Bank.

After some time sitting in a café by the side of that stream, though, Marcus could see the differences. The Island had once been the most cosmopolitan part of the city, where Vordanai rubbed shoulders with fur-clad Borelgai merchants, Murnskai traders, or businessmen from the League cities. Even Khandarai, thousands of miles from home, had not been unheard of. Now the foreigners were gone, and in their wake some of the Triumph's businesses had shuttered. Gareth's, the Vordanai branch of the great Hamveltai jewelry empire, had boards nailed across its windows, and the Hotel Vichk, for decades the most expensive and exclusive address in the city, had closed its doors.

At the north end of the square, the Hotel Ancerre was lit up like a candelabrum, but its patrons weren't the wealthy merchants and nobility who'd once rented its apartments. As the headquarters of the Directory and the Patriot Guard, it was ringed by halberdiers, and carriages hastily painted with blue and black stripes came and went constantly from its stables.

The crowds were different, too. Marcus remembered children running through the square, laughing at the fountains and buying sweets from the vendors.
Not only were there no families now, but he scarcely saw any young men—and no wonder, when anyone who looked as though he might be capable of carrying a musket risked being harried by accusations of cowardice whenever he went out in public.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to work some of the stiffness out of his back, and looked forlornly at the mug in front of him. He'd discovered the hard way that what was being sold as coffee smelled and tasted as though it had been brewed from tree bark, and after a cautious sip he'd left it well enough alone. Marcus would happily have done terrible things for one small cup of coffee the way they served it in Khandar, black as the Beast and strong enough to melt copper.

Andy returned, pulling out the chair opposite him with a nasty screech of iron on stone and sitting down. She slapped a broadsheet in front of him, and he put his hand over it before it was caught by the afternoon breeze.

“This was the best they had,” she said, frowning. “Doesn't sound like what
I
saw happen, though.”

Marcus looked down at the paper. It was headlined
FOREIGN ELEMENTS CAUSE CHAOS AT
THE UNIVERSITY
. The text recounted how a band of right-thinking citizens had assisted the Patriot Guard in suppressing a disturbance at the University and contributed to the arrest of several foreign spies. It said the grounds had been slightly damaged and “some injuries were suffered,” although it neglected to mention by whom.

“Nothing about the Preacher.”

“It doesn't say that any army officers were arrested,” Andy said encouragingly. “You'd think they'd mention that.”

“Unless they're keeping it quiet,” he said. “Did you see the Patriot Guard arresting anybody?”

“No,” she admitted. “But we left in a hurry.”

Marcus sighed. The more he thought about what had happened at the University, the less he liked it. It was
possible
that the Patriot Guard had retreated in the face of the mob from cowardice, or bureaucratic error, or even because their commander thought he was in danger of being overwhelmed. But the timing—just after Marcus himself had arrived—was a fairly startling coincidence. He hadn't made much of a secret of his visit, and he had a nasty feeling that he'd been the cause of what had happened.
Maurisk must know by now that we were poking around in Exchange Central. If he's not confident enough to have me arrested outright, getting me involved in a riot would be just the thing.

That felt like paranoia. For that matter, what he was doing now felt like paranoia, treating a meeting between two old school friends like a cloak-and-dagger rendezvous from a penny opera. But he was starting to think a bit of paranoia was justified.

Enough.
His thoughts had been chasing around and around in circles, faster and faster. He felt like a dog that had worn itself out in pursuit of its own tail.

He looked up at Andy, who was drinking the not-coffee with every sign of enjoyment. One side of her face was a single massive bruise, fading now to a slightly alarming shade of yellow and green.

“How do you feel?” he said.

“I'll live,” she said. “The coffee's not
that
bad.”

Marcus grinned and tapped the side of his face.

“Oh.” Andy shrugged. “It hurts a bit. But like I said, I've had worse.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. When I was nine I was in a fight and ended up with a broken arm and three cracked ribs.”

“I'd hate to see what happened to the other fellow.”

“There were three of them, and yes, it wasn't pretty.” She drained the cup and set it down. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. You certainly know your way around a broken broom handle. I was just thinking I'd never had a soldier under my command . . . quite like you.”

Andy barked a laugh. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“How did you get involved in all this?”

She cocked her head. “You mean, why am I not at home sewing and making babies like a proper young lady?”

“I . . .” Marcus felt himself reddening under his beard. “I wouldn't put it quite like that.”

“It's all right. I guess it goes back to Mad Jane. You know her?”

“We've met briefly,” Marcus said. There had been a few hurried introductions before Midvale, and the occasional briefing afterward, before the Army of the East had departed for the front. He recalled flashing green eyes and a fierce expression. “She helped Captain Ihernglass put together his . . . female contingent.”

“Ihernglass, right. He . . . I mean . . .”

Andy hesitated. Marcus wasn't certain why, until he recalled that Ihernglass had been in disguise as a woman while he was with the Leatherbacks. He felt a pang of sympathy.
It can't be easy finding out someone has been fooling you all along.

Andy cleared her throat. “Anyway. I grew up in the Docks, more or less on
my own. When I was ten the Armsmen got me for stealing. Nobody to pay fees or speak on my behalf, but the magistrate said he liked the look of me, so he sent me to Mrs. Wilmore's. You know anything about Mrs. Wilmore's?”

Marcus shook his head, feeling out of his depth. He'd had a few youthful misadventures that had ended with a run-in with the Armsmen, but they'd never resulted in anything more serious than a clip round the ear followed by a stern talking-to from his father.

“The Royal Benevolent Home for Wayward Youth.” Andy pronounced the words with distaste. “We always called it Mrs. Wilmore's Prison for Young Ladies. Girls got sent there if they got caught stealing or whoring, or sometimes if their parents went to prison. We were supposed to be raised into proper and productive members of society, until someone came along to marry us.”

Marcus wanted to say that this didn't sound so bad, but a look at Andy's expression told him this would be unwise. He nodded instead.

“Mrs. Wilmore,” Andy said, “would
arrange
a marriage for the girls who were old enough and properly educated. Farmers from the deep country, mostly, or the mining villages. A man needs a wife to run a farm, she was always telling us, and bear his children and raise them to be good little workers. A farmer could come to the Prison and buy himself a sweet young wife, like a new plow. The girls didn't get a choice in the matter.”

“That can't be right.” Marcus' forehead creased. “The government would never allow such a thing.”

Andy smiled grimly. “Of course it would. Can't have too many little vagabonds and prostitutes running around, and can't ship the girls to Khandar.” She sighed. “Truth be told, most of the girls went to their marriages willingly enough. Sharing a man's bed isn't so bad if you get food and a roof out of the bargain. Only another kind of whoring, if you look at it that way.

“Not Jane, though. She was too much for even Mrs. Wilmore to deal with. Fought the mistresses, fought the proctors, refused to sit still and be educated. They striped her black and blue with the switch, locked her up, tried whatever they could think of, but they couldn't break her.

“So Mrs. Wilmore found this farmer named Ganhide. He was a big brute of a man, ugly as a pig, and he agreed to take Jane as his fourth wife. Nobody asked too hard what happened to the first three. They were just glad to be rid of her. She tried to tear his eyes out when they brought her to him, but he just laughed.

“And then . . .” Andy paused and leaned forward slightly, eyes sparkling. “I
was at the Prison when Jane came
back
. Nobody had ever come back before. She walked right in, bold as brass, and told the girls they weren't going to be married off to anybody anymore.”

“Nobody tried to stop her?” Marcus said.

Andy paused, then gave an awkward shrug. “They tried, but most of the girls were with her by then, and they weren't going to stand for it. We followed her out of the Prison and all the way to the city.”

“And that's how the Leatherbacks got started?” Marcus said.

“More or less.” Andy's face clouded. “Things were . . . bad, for a while. Jane was always trying her best to keep everyone going, and some of the older girls started helping her. We moved into the Docks, and we fought the thieves and the pimps and the tax farmers and anyone else who got in the way. And
that
,” she said, taking a deep breath, “is why I know my way around a brawl.”

Saints and martyrs.
Marcus wondered if Ihernglass knew all this. It was widely agreed that he and Jane were lovers.
If nothing else, it explains where he found so many women ready to pick up muskets. With an upbringing like that, it's no wonder they're abnormal.

“Well,” Marcus said, “that's quite a story. I always wondered why they called her Mad Jane.”

“You'd be a little mad, too, if you went through what she did,” Andy said. “Sometimes you have to be crazy to fight back.”

“Mmm,” Marcus said noncommittally. He wasn't certain it was a good idea to encourage hero worship of a murderer, but Andy was clearly not open to discussion in that direction. Glancing around for a distraction, he was relieved to see a bearded man in a blue uniform hurrying across the square in their direction. “Ah. I think we may finally be in luck.”

“I'll make myself scarce, then,” Andy said. “But give a yell if you need me.”

“Hello, Robbie,” Marcus said, rising, as his old friend approached the table. He laughed as the other man made to salute, waved it away, and they shook hands instead. Robert was still careful not to sit down first, Marcus noticed, in deference to a superior officer.

Robert Englise had always been one for doing things properly. He had been Marcus' best friend at the War College when they enrolled together at the tender age of sixteen, and they'd spent much of the first two-year term in each other's company. Even then, Robert's fierce devotion to the army had been evident, though back then Marcus had aspired to live up to his example.

The fire at the d'Ivoire estate, which had killed Marcus' parents and his four-year-old sister, Ellie, had driven them apart for a time. Marcus now knew
this had been deliberate murder, perpetrated by the minions of the Last Duke, but at the time he'd believed it to be a tragic, stupid accident, and it had sent him spiraling into depression. He'd turned his back on Robert and his other friends, and it had only been the insistent intervention of Adrecht Roston that had kept him from leaving the College.

Afterward, while they'd all remained friends, Marcus had drifted out of Robert's straight-and-narrow orbit and toward Adrecht's more indulgent lifestyle. The War of the Princes had interrupted their term in the field; while Marcus had been closest to the action, serving in the supply train and joining the general chaos after the disaster at Vansfeldt, Robert had been placed on the staff of a prestigious regiment, on track for an important command. In their second stint at the College, they'd been more distant, but they hadn't lost touch entirely until Marcus volunteered to accompany Adrecht to exile in Khandar.

“Robbie,” Robert said reflectively, settling into his chair. “I don't think anybody's called me that since graduation.”

“Sorry,” Marcus said.

“It's fine.” Robert smiled, a hint of the old twinkle in his blue eyes. He'd grown from a slim youth into a solid man, with a thick beard shot through with white and with just a hint of paunch. “‘Captain Englise' would feel wrong, coming from you.”

“Just so long as you don't call me sir,” Marcus said. “It was bad enough getting that from Adrecht all those years.”

“I'll try to restrain myself.” Robert grinned. “We always said you'd go a long way. After you left for Khandar, the boys and I used to say we didn't think you'd take us literally.” Robert eyed the colonel's eagles on Marcus' shoulders. “Now it looks like we were right after all.”

Marcus searched his old friend's face for a hint of jealousy. In the old Royal Army, captain was the highest rank a War College graduate could hope to achieve, lacking a noble pedigree. Colonelcies were reserved for the scions of ancient bloodlines. The colonel of a regiment, they'd used to joke, was there to look good at the head of the parade, while the captains ran things for him. No doubt it had been true in many outfits—the system had always been an awkward compromise between the noble tradition of martial leadership and the need of a modern army for officers with specialized training.