The Guns of Empire (15 page)

When she awoke, there was always a tiny moment before she remembered. That was worse than any nightmare.

—

Six days out from Vantzolk. Winter had her battalions practice deploying from column to line, then ploying back again, always demanding more speed. When she'd first started the exercises, the soldiers had accepted them easily enough, having seen the fate of Ibsly's division. Now, though, they were muttering openly, and there were sour faces wherever Winter looked. Abby punctiliously obeyed every order but said nothing beyond “Yes, sir!” and “No, sir!” Bobby hovered at Winter's side like a nervous child trying to calm feuding parents.

Cyte spent much of the day with the supply train and was missing from the command tent when Winter went in search of the latest batch of reports. Frustrated, Winter retired to her tent and went over her maps instead, plotting and replotting the march to Vantzolk and then the endless miles to Elysium. No matter how hard she stared, the Pilgrim's Road didn't get any shorter, nor the mountains and forests of the Murnskai backcountry less forbidding.

There was a scratch at the tent flap. Winter looked up from the map, irritated. “What?”

“It's Cyte,” Cyte said. “Can I come in?”

More reports.
Winter gave an exaggerated sigh she knew was a lie.
Another excuse to work until I fall over. Maybe tonight . . .

“Come in.” Winter rolled up the map and pushed it aside. “What have you got for me?”

Cyte slipped through the flap. Uncharacteristically, she was without a bundle of paper under her arm. Instead, she held a smoky yellow bottle, sealed at the top with wax. Winter frowned.

“Is something wrong?”

Cyte coughed. “Not . . . as such. I found this.” She held up the bottle. “In the train. It's some local Murnskai thing, apparently. You can buy a bottle in the villages for a few pennies. I thought we might share it.”

“Share it? Now?” Winter peered at Cyte, who flushed slightly. “You're not serious, are you?”

“I am,” Cyte said.

“You know I'm busy,” Winter said. “Have you got the latest reports—”

“I took care of them,” Cyte said. “This afternoon. I took care of everything.”

“Why?” A touch of anger crept into Winter's voice. “What the hell is going on? Did someone put you up to this?”

“Winter . . .” Cyte sighed. “Can I sit down?”

“If you tell me who sent you here. Is this someone's idea of a prank?”

“Nobody
sent
me. Not exactly,” Cyte said. When Winter went to respond, Cyte held out a hand. “Just listen, all right? We're
worried
about you.”

“Who's worried about me?”

“Your friends. Bobby, Abby, Sevran. Folsom and Graff. Me.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Winter drawled. “But I'm fine.”

“You're not,” Cyte said. “Saints and martyrs, Winter, I'm hardly the most perceptive person in the world, and I can see that you're not. You were unhappy even before the battle, and since then you barely talk to anyone. We drill all day, and you work until you fall over. Have you looked at yourself in a mirror? You look like a corpse.”

“I just want to be sure—”

“—we're prepared for next time. I know. You've told everyone a hundred times. How prepared are
you
going to be if you're falling asleep in the saddle?”

Winter frowned. Days of not enough rest made her thoughts feel as slow and sticky as molasses, and she couldn't quite come up with a good answer to that.

“So this learned council,” Winter said, “decided there's something wrong with me, and as a result they dispatched you to my tent with a bottle of . . . something that looks pretty vile, actually. And you're going to, what, tie me up and pour it down my throat?”

“I was more hoping we could talk.”

“I don't have time—”

“You do,” Cyte said. “
I
know that better than anyone.”

There was a long pause.

“They really sent you over with a bottle?” Winter said.

“Bobby said it had worked wonders at least once before. With you and someone named Feor, back in Ashe-Katarion.”

Winter snorted. “Did she tell you that the Redeemers burned down half the city the next day?”

“No. But I'd like to hear about it.”

Winter eyed the other woman. Cyte was still blushing a little, but her
expression was determined. With a sigh, Winter gestured for her to sit on a cushion beside the bedroll.

“Out of curiosity,” Winter said, flipping open the top of her small trunk, “how did you come to draw the short straw?”

“I volunteered,” Cyte said. “Bobby spends a lot of time with Marsh, and Abby thought things might be . . . difficult between you. Besides, I wanted to help. I owe you a great deal.”

“
You
owe
me
?” Winter laughed as she pulled out a pair of tin cups. “You run this division practically single-handed. What do you owe me for?”

“Aside from the times you saved my life, in the Vendre and in Desland?”

“All right, yes. Aside from that.”

“I . . .” Cyte looked at the bottle. “I think I need a drink before I get into it.”

“You're serious about drinking this stuff,” Winter said.

“I told you I was.”

Winter took the bottle, drew her knife, and started cutting through the seal. “It's just that”—the wax came away with a
pop
—“I can't remember you doing any serious drinking. I thought you were a teetotaler or something.”

“Winter.” Cyte drew herself up. “Please. I
was
at the University.”

Winter laughed and poured a finger of the liquor into each cup. She pushed one across to Cyte, who picked it up, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose.

“Best to get it down all at once.” Winter raised her own cup. “Ready. Level. Fire!”

They both tipped back their drinks. Whatever the stuff was, it had a vicious bite, and Winter had to fight to keep from coughing. Cyte slammed her cup down on the table and tilted her head back, tears at the corners of her eyes.

“Balls of the Beast,” she said. “Murnskai must have steel throats.”

“Are you sure you didn't get paint thinner by mistake?”

“Not according to the sergeant I bought it from.”

Winter rolled her eyes. “There's your problem. Never trust a sergeant. Not when it comes to liquor, anyway.”

“Good advice.” Cyte blinked and wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. “Another round?”

“You really are a glutton for punishment.”

“I believe in seeing things through.”

Winter filled the cups again, slightly more generously. They held them aloft together and chanted in unison.

“Ready. Level.
Fire!
”

The second time wasn't nearly as bad as the first, possibly because her throat had gone numb in self-defense. Winter leaned back from the table, feeling warmer as the liquor hit her stomach.

“You were going to tell me why you're here,” she said.

Cyte let out a long breath. “Do you remember when we met?”

“I'm not likely to forget it. That was the night we took the Vendre.”

“I was with the rebels. The Radicals, we called ourselves.” Cyte shook her head. “It seems so stupid now. A bunch of rich kids from the University who thought they knew how to run the world.”

Winter said nothing, recalling that her own thoughts, on that occasion, had run along the same lines.

“I had no idea what I was doing,” Cyte said. “I'd gone to the University because I loved history, and now here was history unfolding right outside my window. And I thought,
I need to see this.
I had this idea that I was going to write about it, be the great historian of the revolution. That it would be my book they'd be reading in a hundred years. ‘Well, it says in Cytomandiclea that this is how it went,' the students would say, and then they'd write papers arguing how I was biased one way or the other.

“And then we met you and Jane, and you said you were going into the Vendre. It felt like someone had pulled blinders off me. All of a sudden I realized I didn't have to just
watch
history. I could be a part of it, for real. All I had to do was step forward.”

“And risk getting killed,” Winter said. “Some people would say I didn't do you any favors.”

“My father would agree with that,” Cyte said. “He sent me a letter when he heard what was happening. He'd practically disowned me, you understand; this was the first I'd heard from him in years. But when he heard about the revolution, he sent me a letter begging me to come home.” Cyte shook her head. “It didn't even arrive until after everything was over.”

“Did you write back?”

Cyte grinned wickedly. “I sent him a copy of my enlistment papers in the Girls' Own. Does that count?”

Winter laughed and reached for the bottle again. She pushed Cyte the tin cup and said, “So you think you
owe
me for getting you involved in all of this?”

“Yes.”

“Long marches, bad food, and the constant threat of violent death.”

Cyte's grin widened. “That sounds about right.”

“Well, you're mad, but I'll take thanks wherever I can get them.” Winter raised the glass. “You're welcome. Ready, level—”

“
—
FIRE!”

—

That night Winter's sleep was deep and blessedly dreamless. Her head hurt the next morning, but not as badly as she might have expected. It had been a while since she'd gotten properly drunk—even at the worst times, right after Jane's escape, she'd avoided the bottle, perhaps because she'd watched Jane crawl into it so often.

The next day she announced that the division had earned a rest for its excellent performance, to general cheers and sighs of relief. She caught Abby and Bobby exchanging relieved glances and resolved to thank them later. In place of drills, a spontaneous game of handball erupted, with the Girls' Own and Sevran's Second Regiment introducing the rest of the division to their tradition. Winter thought the soldiers worked harder brawling on the playing field than they ever did in drills, but they seemed happier afterward.

Somewhat to her surprise, Cyte turned up again after dinner, offering to finish off the bottle of crushed worms or whatever the hell the Murnskai liquor was made of. The next night she brought something green she claimed she'd discovered tucked at the bottom of a box of hardtack. They talked about Voulenne and
The Rights of Man
, whether it was better to approach an enemy position in line or in column, and whether it was true that Column-General d'Ivoire was sleeping with the queen. Winter, who'd spent a fair bit of time with Marcus, pronounced this last unlikely.

“Janus once told me Marcus missed his calling as a knight errant four hundred years ago,” she said. “A true knight doesn't get to put his hands on the monarch.”

The morning brought darker news. Murnskai irregulars had raided the supply train, slaughtering a few sentries, setting fires, and generally causing as much damage as they could. The relatively carefree atmosphere of the camp evaporated overnight, and cavalry patrols were increased. The next morning a half dozen junior officers who'd gone whoring were found near the perimeter with their throats slit. Janus ordered the “tail” of camp followers—the prostitutes, merchants, and laborers who seemed to grow up like weeds in the army's wake—dispersed, on pain of summary punishment. Some men grumbled now that it was harder to supplement their rations or find a woman, but most agreed
it was a fair trade for not turning up butchered like a hog. Winter made certain the Girls' Own set extra sentries, just in case.

Two days out from Vantzolk, she got a summons to the command tent. Janus and Marcus were both there, sitting across the table from each other. The map between them was covered with pencil markings.

“Division-General,” Janus said. “You're feeling well, I trust?”

“Yes, sir.” Between her new nightly tradition and simply getting enough sleep, Winter was, in fact, feeling considerably more like herself. “How can the Second serve?”

“You're aware, of course, of the recent partisan activity.”

“Of course, sir. We've taken precautions.”

“Good.” Janus steepled his hands. “Unfortunately, while such strikes are merely an irritant now, once the Grand Army turns north they may prove considerably more damaging. Our supply lines will be long and vulnerable, and we cannot allow the enemy to attack them at will.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Division-General Stokes' cavalry has been working to track our problems to their source, and we believe we located the base of the primary band of irregulars. It's to the north”—he indicated the map—“well into the woods. Not good terrain for horsemen.”

That made it clear where this was going. “I'll take the Girls' Own in and clean them out, sir.”

Janus flashed a smile. “Just what I was hoping to hear. Your First Regiment is the army's best at rough-terrain fighting. You're certain they're sufficiently recovered from the battle at Gilphaite?”

“Perfectly, sir. Frankly, I'd say they're eager to get back into it.”

“Good.” He raised a finger. “A warning, however. Excessive brutality will only turn the local population against us. Any men found under arms are to be considered the enemy, but women and children in particular are to be treated with respect. The Sworn Church places a strong emphasis on that. And I will not tolerate any wanton destruction. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, sir.” Another good reason to send the Girls' Own instead of some regiment of overenthusiastic male volunteers.
As usual, Janus never has only one reason for doing anything.