The Price of Valor (7 page)

Raesinia blew out a long breath. “I'll consider your . . . suggestion.”

The president's face hardened. “Please do. Every moment that you remain is another opportunity for the enemy to strike.”

Raesinia turned on her heel and headed for the door, glass cracking and snapping under her shoes. The Patriot Guards had formed a cordon, with only Sothe and the other Directory members allowed within. On the outside were two blue-uniformed Grenadier Guards, who were engaged in a shouting match with the Patriot Guard sergeant. The men quieted as their queen emerged.

“Back to the carriage,” Raesinia said, with a glance at Sothe.

The smoke was clearing, revealing a shallow crater in the once-smooth surface of Farus' Triumph. A broken pipe somewhere gushed water, forming a bloody mud puddle. The guards had taken the injured to a clear space, to await the arrival of the University contingent, and now were dragging the dead into neat rows. Claudia lay among them, stomach torn open to reveal glistening viscera. Raesinia looked away, her gorge rising.

She didn't say anything until she and Sothe were alone in the back of the carriage, with the guards taking their customary position on the top. Once Sothe shut the door, cutting off the cries and shouted orders from the outside, Raesinia said, “Maurisk was behind this.”

Sothe's expression would never show anything as human as surprise, but she raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You're certain?”

Raesinia shook her head and swore. “I would swear he didn't expect me to walk out of here today. If he didn't plant the bomb, he at least knew about it.”

“Someone in the government must have, at any rate,” Sothe said. “An explosion that size would require quite a bit of powder stuffed under the floor of the box. That would be hard to sneak past the guards—”

“So the guards are in on it.”

“At least some of them must be either complicit or suborned, yes. But that by itself doesn't implicate Maurisk.”

Raesinia scowled. She had to admit her own bias; the dislike between her
and her former companion had come to run both ways.
Still. The way he looked when I came in was as good as a confession.

“The problem,” Sothe went on, “is that we have something of a surplus of enemies.”

“There's an understatement,” Raesinia muttered. “Orlanko, for certain. Borelgai spies, the Hamveltai Komerzint, Murnskai fanatics. The older noble families hate me for surrendering royal powers to the Deputies-General, and the Radicals hate me for not abdicating in favor of a republic.”

“Not to mention,” Sothe said, “the Priests of the Black.”

“You think they wouldn't bother with
bombs
,” Raesinia said.

“Revealing your secret to the public would be just as effective as killing you, as far as Elysium is concerned.” Sothe glared. “As I tried to explain earlier.”

“So either Maurisk is trying to kill me, because he doesn't know he can't, or the Priests of the Black are trying to blow me to bits in front of witnesses so everyone can see what happens.” Raesinia cocked her head. “If they did blow me to pieces, do you think the missing bits would grow back, or would you have to gather them up for me?”

“Your Majesty—”

“Sorry.” Raesinia took a deep breath. “Maurisk told me he wants me to leave the city. Hide out on a country estate until the danger's passed.”

Sothe pursed her lips. “It
would
make it easier to keep you safe. There are too many unknowns in the city.”

“No. I will not be run to ground like a frightened rabbit. Besides, if Maurisk
is
involved and I leave him alone in the city, I might as well hand him the crown and be done with it.”

“Your Majesty . . .”

Raesinia looked at her, surprised. “You don't really think I should leave, do you?”

A frown creased Sothe's normally placid expression. She spoke slowly and deliberately. “If you do not, whoever was responsible for this attack will try again, and I am not confident in my ability to protect you.”

That
made Raesinia blink. For Sothe to be less than confident in her ability to do
anything
was as rare as a summer ice storm. “You've done a fine job so far.”

“Only luck saved you this time, Your Majesty. You are too public a figure here. Your schedule is known, your routes of travel are known. Against assassins with swords or pistols, I can stand between you and harm, but this . . .” She shook her head. “Sooner or later, they will succeed.”

“Then we have to track them down before they do.”

“That's a race I'm not sure we can win,” Sothe said. “And if Maurisk is involved, what then? He has the Patriot Guard in his pocket.”

“If we could find proof, we could take it to the deputies.” Raesinia knew that sounded weak, even as she said it. The Deputies-General had come more and more under the thumb of the Directory as the war had grown closer.

“Finding solid evidence could take weeks, maybe months. You'd be vulnerable the whole time.”

Raesinia scowled. It
did
make sense, from a certain point of view. But it felt too much like abandoning her post.
Not to mention letting whoever planted the bomb get away scot-free.
Everyone who'd died for wanting to stand near their queen deserved better than that.

But Sothe is right. As long as I stay in the city . .
 .

An idea tickled the corner of her mind.
As long as the
queen
stays in the city . . .

“You're right,” she said slowly. “The queen should go to her country estates, to ensure her safety.”

Sothe had spent enough time around Raesinia to know that it couldn't be
that
simple. “And?”

“The queen will go to the country,” Raesinia said, “and
I
will stay here.”

There was another long silence. Sothe stared thoughtfully at Raesinia, who shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“It's nothing we haven't done before,” Raesinia said. “And if no one knows I'm here, they won't be looking for me.”

“And if they try anything in the country, they won't get anywhere,” Sothe said, considering the problem.

“It would also let me ‘return' without taking the time for a round-trip. I imagine that would be quite a surprise to Maurisk.”

“Not a bad card to have up our sleeves,” Sothe said. “
Provided
we can fool them.”

“You fooled Orlanko for more than a year. I'm sure you can manage it.”

Sothe's eyes narrowed, and Raesinia felt her heart jump. “You mean for me to go?”

“I'm sorry,” Raesinia said in a rush. “I can't think of any other way. We might be able to fake a ride to the country, but even if we tell people I'm closeted in mourning, someone will have to keep up the facade.”

“Not to mention taking care of any spies that come poking around.” It was
logical, and Sothe knew it, but Raesinia could see the hesitation on her face. “But the last time I left you alone, you walked right into an ambush, and Orlanko nearly had you.”

That had been the night Ben died, another stupid sacrifice for her sake. Raesinia's chest went tight for a moment, but she fought back the wave of guilt. “I'll be careful. And I still have contacts from the old days—”

“No one I trust.” Sothe shook her head. “It's too dangerous. You'd have no backup if something went wrong.”

Raesinia paused. “Do you trust Janus?”

“For the moment,” Sothe said. “But he's with the Army of the East, off in the League.”

“Marcus d'Ivoire is here, and Janus trusts
him
.”

“It's an idea,” Sothe admitted. “You think he'd agree to help?”

“I don't think he'll like it,” Raesinia said. “But I
am
the queen, and I don't plan to give him a choice.”

*   *   *

“No,” said Marcus. “Absolutely not. The whole idea is ridiculous.”

They sat in the drawing room at Twin Turrets, the manor house that had served as Janus' command post during his defense of Vordan City. Most of it had at one point been converted into a barracks for Janus' personal guard, a company of Mierantai Volunteers, expensive furniture dragged aside and stacked in the halls and polished floorboards scuffed by the passage of many boots. This room still had its original high-backed leather armchairs, set in a half circle in front of the fire, but it was crowded with tables, dressers, and other detritus.

Most of the Mierantai had gone with Janus on his campaign, but a few remained with Marcus. Since Raesinia was proposing to place herself under their protection, she was glad to see that they seemed reassuringly professional, even if they often spoke with a gravelly mountain accent so thick she could hardly understand them. Every man carried a rifle as long as he was tall, and wore a dark red uniform cut to the standard army pattern.

Marcus had received her courteously, but his expression was grim. Raesinia hadn't spent much time with him since the day he'd fought by her side, escaping from the traitorous Noreldrai Grays. His face was more lined with care than she remembered, and there were hints of gray in his close-cropped beard. He wore crisp army blue, instead of the Armsmen green uniform she remembered, and the silver of a colonel's eagles sparkled on his shoulders.

Raesinia sat in one of the big chairs, which made her feel tiny. Sothe stood
at her right hand, playing the dutiful servant. Marcus knew that Sothe was more than she seemed—he'd seen her cut down a half dozen Grays—but not the full extent of her service. Most important, Janus had told her that Marcus didn't know about Raesinia's own secret. That made sense—the fewer people who knew, the better—but it complicated the situation.

“You've heard what happened this afternoon?” Raesinia said.

“I had a report,” Marcus said. “I was glad to hear you were safe.”

“It was closer than I would have liked. Directory President Maurisk has asked me to retire to the country for my own safety.”

“Which sounds like a fine idea,” Marcus said. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but—”

“I cannot leave the city,” Raesinia said. “Not now, in the midst of the crisis. And there's the matter of discovering the identity of the bomber.”

“Surely you can leave that to the Patriot Guard?” There was a hint in Marcus' voice that said he shared Raesinia's low opinion of that force.

“At least some of the Patriot Guard must have been compromised, or the bomb could not have been planted. I need to discover how deep the corruption goes.” Raesinia looked him in the eye. “I'm asking for your help, Colonel.”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably when she mentioned his rank, clearly still unaccustomed to it. “You're placing me in a very awkward position, Your Majesty. I have very clear instructions as to my mission here, and getting involved in politics is definitely not a part of it.”

“You won't need to get involved, unless things go badly wrong,” Raesinia said.

“That's not very reassuring,” Marcus said. “In my experience, things
always
go badly wrong eventually. It would be impossible to ensure your safety.”

Raesinia gritted her teeth. She was so,
so
sick of being treated like a fresh egg, to be wrapped in unspun wool and carried with bated breath.
If I'd known being queen was going to be like this, I wouldn't have worked so damned hard to get here.

“No one expects you to withstand a siege here,” she said. “But Sothe will maintain the illusion that I'm staying in the country, so my presence here should stay secret. That should be safe enough.”

“We'd never be able to keep the truth from my own guards,” Marcus said.

“I think we can count on their discretion.” Janus' personal troops were from his home county, deep in the mountains. They were clannish, insular and suspicious of outsiders, and devoted to their beloved count. Janus had brought them to the capital specifically because it would be difficult for Concordat agents to infiltrate their ranks. “And all the servants are Mierantai as well?”

“Yes.” Marcus sighed. “I'm going to have to ask for instructions.”

“From Janus? That'll take weeks.”

“We have . . . alternative channels,” Marcus said. “I should have an answer by the day after tomorrow.”

Raesinia glanced at Sothe, who gave a small nod. “It will take that long to make the preparations, Your Majesty.”

“All right.” Raesinia stood. “Until then, Colonel.”

Marcus shot to his feet as soon as she did, and answered her nod with a bow. His expression was that of a man who'd been handed a bomb with a hissing fuse. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

WINTER

W
inter awoke to the soft sound of shuffling paper, and opened her eyes to find soft morning light filtering through the canvas of her tent.

“Sorry,” Jane said. “I was looking for a drink.”

“S'alright.” Winter yawned and rolled sideways on her narrow sleeping pallet, which seemed much larger without another person crammed in beside her. Her body still felt warm and shivery from Jane's meticulous attentions, and the slight breeze from the tent flap was chilly. She pulled the thin sheet a bit tighter around herself. “It must be past dawn. Go ahead and light the lamp.”

The flare of a match brightened the dimness of the tent for a moment, followed by the warmer glow of an oil lamp. Winter's eyes fixed on Jane, gloriously nude against the light, head tipped back as she drained a canteen. When it was empty, she tossed it aside and came back to the pallet, stepping carefully over the pile of papers she'd toppled. Winter lifted the blanket so she could wriggle underneath it, reveling in the warmth of Jane's skin pressing against her own. Jane kissed her, lips still wet.

“What is all that?” Jane said, prodding the fallen stack with one finger. “I thought Cyte was supposed to take care of the paperwork for you.”

Winter sighed. “Official complaints. Have to be signed by the commander to show that she's seen them, then sent back to the archives.”

“Complaints? From who?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“The Royals.”

“The Royals” was how everyone in the Girls' Own referred to the former
Second Battalion of the Eighteenth Regiment of the Royal Army of Vordan, now the Second Battalion of the Third Regiment of the Line of the Army of the East and Winter's personal headache. Captain Sevran, their commander, had been relatively cooperative, but some of his subordinates were less willing.

“Specifically, Lieutenant Novus, the senior staff officer.”

“Let me guess,” Jane said. “He's the scion of a great and noble family.”

“More or less.”

Lieutenants in the Royal Army came in two flavors. Some were commoners who'd been recommended for aptitude to the War College and spent several years training there; captains like Marcus d'Ivoire did a tour as a junior officer before returning for further training. Others were granted their commissions on the spot by the Crown, either in recognition of their illustrious family names or in return for significant financial contributions to the royal coffers.

The revolution and the war had upset all that, of course, and Janus was upsetting it further, promoting commoners to the unheard-of rank of
colonel
based on nothing more than his personal judgment.
But some people are always willing to pretend nothing has changed.

“What is he complaining about?” Jane said.

“Today? That the Second Battalion, in spite of its storied history, is placed behind the First in the marching order.”

“Do the Royals really have a storied history?”

“Three hundred years' worth, apparently. Lieutenant Novus wrote about it in some detail. It seems that one of his ancestors was killed leading it to a glorious defeat during the reign of Farus the Fifth.”

“So because some idiots got themselves slaughtered a hundred years ago, we should eat their dust on the road all day?” Jane snorted. “That sounds like Royal Army thinking, all right. Janus should have sent the lot of them to the rear and let the volunteers do all the fighting.”

“Janus needs every bayonet he can get his hands on,” Winter said.

“Assuming they'll fight, which I doubt.” Jane shook her head, rubbing her cheek against Winter's shoulder. “Did I tell you we caught another couple of Royals trying to sneak into our camp last night?”

“Oh God. Again?”

“They don't seem to learn.”

“You didn't hurt them too badly, I hope.”

“We may have pushed them around a bit. But we just sent them back where
they'd come from.” Jane grinned slyly. “Kept their pants and breeches, though. Only seemed fair.”

“You really ought to file a report with their company commanders,” Winter said, though she couldn't keep a broad grin off her own face.

“I think my way works better.”

“Well. A good regimental commander leaves minor matters up to her subordinates.” Winter put on her best pompous officer voice. “I'll leave things to your best judgment, Captain Verity.”

“Is that out of that manual you borrowed from Janus?”

“Indeed.
A Comprehensive Guide to Regimental Command.
I hear it's a standard text at the War College.”

“What does it have to say about kissing your captains?”

“Surprisingly little.”

Their lips came together. Winter felt Jane's fingers running delicately up the inside of her thigh.

“Perhaps,” Winter said when Jane pulled away for a moment, “I should submit a monograph to the College. To make sure their text is
truly
comprehensive.”

“Sounds like an excellent plan to me.”

Winter grinned wider. “Then, Captain Verity, I officially request that you assist me with my research.”

“I don't know,” Jane said, with mock seriousness. “I may have to run that up the chain of command.”

She smothered Winter's mad giggles with another kiss, and for a while, rank was forgotten.

*   *   *

The Army of the East snaked along the road, a column of blue that stretched for miles through a country of brown, red, and gold. Autumn had come to the valley of the Velt, and the neat checkerboard of farms and orchards on either side of the road had gone from endless green to a ruddier palette. Here and there, a field of late grain still gleamed yellow in the sun, but most of the harvest was in, and the furrowed land left fallow or planted with winter crops. Breaking up the dark brown of bare earth were the fruit trees, apples, pears, and cherries, whose leaves had turned a riot of red and gold. Neat fenced-in orchards sported row after tidy row, their perfect order mocking the loose discipline of the soldiers marching past.

More surprising to Winter were the people, farmers and their families, who
stood behind those fences to watch the army troop past as though on parade. Young boys yelled their approval and waved wildly, attracting waves in return from the bemused Vordanai troops. When they passed through villages—always laid out on perfect grids, with neat streets lined by half-timbered houses and the inevitable Sworn Church with its spire at the center—it seemed as though the entire population had turned out to line the route.

It was a far cry from the march through Khandar, where the civilian population had fled or hidden as the armies approached. Given what the Redeemers had done to anyone they suspected of disloyalty, Winter couldn't blame the Khandarai, nor could she wonder that they'd expected retribution from the Vordanai when they returned. But this was the Free Cities League, where war had for generations been a gentleman's pursuit, carried out with due attention to the sensibilities of the local inhabitants.

“They don't even seem angry with us,” Winter said to Cyte as they rode down the length of the trudging infantry column.

“This is Deslandai territory,” Cyte said. Winter had learned to consult the ex-University student when it came to matters of history or politics, which were usually perfectly opaque to her. “Desland has always been a shaky member of the League. There's a lot more Vordanai language and influence here than farther north, even if they are Elysian.”

“It didn't stop their troops from fighting against us.”

“I doubt the Grand Council in Hamvelt gave them a choice,” Cyte said. “Hamvelt has been more or less running the League since the War of the Princes.”

Winter went quiet a moment, guiding her horse over a tricky rut in the road. She'd been able to avoid riding much as a captain, but a colonel needed to be able to get from place to place quickly, and so she'd reluctantly taken to the saddle. The skill had come back to her surprisingly quickly. Riding had been on the syllabus at Mrs. Wilmore's, as an essential skill for a sturdy farmer's wife. Even in her earliest memories, just after her arrival at the institution as a little girl, she felt that she'd been familiar with horses. But rankers didn't ride, and so for three years in the army the closest she'd gotten to a horse was a pat on the nose.

All the best mounts had gone to the cavalry, which was desperately short of good horseflesh, so the quartermaster had issued her an aging plodder, a gelding named Edgar who exuded a sense of placid resignation. Winter wouldn't have wanted to push him to a gallop, but he served well enough for walking down a country road. When it came to actual fighting, she would be on her own two feet, colonel or not.

Cyte rode her mare with considerably less comfort, looking like someone with better grounding in the theory of horsemanship than the practice. Winter needed staff lieutenants, to deliver orders and handle the endless tide of paperwork, and she'd taken Cyte for the latter and Bobby for the former. She'd also requested Lieutenant John Marsh, Bobby's lover, from the Colonials, and given him a company in the Girls' Own.

Ahead, the column had come to a halt. Winter rode past the front ranks of the Royals and nodded to Captain Sevran, ahorse beside the battalion flag and drummers. The Girls' Own stretched ahead in a loose march formation, small groups of young women standing around chatting in the road, and they waved genially at Winter as she passed rather than offering salutes. Quite a few, Winter saw, were carrying the tall plumed Hamveltai shakos.

Lieutenant Marsh, riding with the comfortable grace of an expert horseman, met them coming the other way. He was tall, blond, and handsome, with sparkling blue eyes and a ready smile. Winter could see why Bobby had fallen for him, and he'd proven himself unfailingly polite and competent, but she couldn't help maintaining a certain reserve around the man. He knew at least part of her secret—it was hard to hide the strange, marblelike discolorations that were gradually spreading across her skin—but Winter wasn't ready to bring him into her own confidence.

“Sir,” he said, saluting smartly with his free hand.

“What's going on?” Winter said, nodding at the stalled column.

“Wagon train merging,” Marsh said. “One of the forage parties. It'll be another half an hour before they clear the road.”

Winter glanced at the sun, which was already well past the overhead and sinking fast toward the horizon. The days were getting rapidly shorter as the year slipped away, something that still surprised her after three years in more equatorial Khandar.

“We're not going to get more than another mile today, then,” Cyte said, making the same calculation.

Marsh nodded. “Bobby and Captain Verity have gone ahead to secure a campsite.”

“Six miles, maybe?” Winter said, looking back the way they had come. “That's pretty mediocre marching.”

“Janus isn't pushing us,” Cyte said. “Any faster and we'd outrun the wagon train.”

Unlike on the Khandarai campaign, where the ships of the Vordanai transport
fleet had been able to keep the small Colonial army supplied, Janus' Army of the East had to rely on a slow-grinding supply convoys taking the coast road from depots at Essyle. Fortunately, the battle—known as the Battle of Diarach after the tiny village where Janus had made his headquarters—seemed to have taken all the wind out of the sails of the League army.

Given a thrashing when they'd expected to deliver one, the divided components of di Pfalen's force had retreated in two different directions. Di Pfalen's own army, with mostly Hamveltai troops, had fallen back to the north toward the great bastion of Antova, while a smaller force of mostly Deslandai troops had moved off to the east toward their home city. Janus had left a small force to watch di Pfalen, and marched the majority of his troops, nearly forty thousand strong, down the road to Desland. So far, however, he'd been content to match the pace of the slow-moving Deslandai army, rather than outrunning his supplies in an effort to cut the enemy off.

“Desland hasn't got a modern fortification,” Marsh said. “If we get our guns up, we'll pound their walls to splinters in a few hours.”

Winter nodded. “They'll have to turn and fight before we get there. How many miles left?”

“Forty-five, after today,” Cyte said. Unsurprisingly, she'd turned out to be an expert with maps. “Maybe a week's march at this pace.”

“So we'll have a fight sometime before then.” Winter shook her head. “Marsh, go and tell Captain Verity to make sure there's a space for drilling in the camp. We'll have time this evening while we wait for the wagons, and I think we'd better polish up.”

“Yes, sir!” Marsh saluted again, turned his horse with a light touch on the reins, and trotted up the length of the column.

By the time the wagons had moved on, the men and women of Winter's regiment had fallen out all over the road and the surrounding fields, and had to be rounded up by their sergeants. Winter was obscurely pleased to see that the Royals were no better in this respect than the Girls' Own, although she had to admit they got themselves together a bit faster. The column got moving again as the sun reached the horizon, and it was well into twilight by the time they arrived at the campsite, marked out by pegs in a broad expanse of empty fields. Winter's tent stood all alone in the center, with a flag planted beside it. Before long, the designated space was a mass of confusion as the long column straggled in and more tents started going up.

Bobby was waiting with a pair of younger girls. Winter dismounted, wincing at the soreness in her muscles, and handed over Edgar's reins. The girls saluted—they were noticeably better at it than many of their older compatriots—and led the gelding away.