The Guns of Empire (27 page)

The Vordanai army didn't have an official liquor ration for its troops, but the Murnskai supplies had been generously equipped with drink of all sorts. Winter ordered the cache distributed to the soldiers, after claiming a few of the nicer-looking bottles for herself. She had just cracked the wax seal on the first—as best her limited Murnskai could tell, it was made from potatoes and peppers—when there was a scratch at the tent flap.

“Come in,” Winter said.

Cyte lifted the flap. “Drinking alone?”

“Nobody wants a general looking over their shoulder when they're getting drunk,” Winter said. “But I figured I deserved something.”

“Would you mind a bit of company, then?” Cyte held up a green glass bottle, already half-empty. There was a definite glow about her cheeks.

“If you're willing to put up with a bit of gloom.” Winter sighed and turned to her chest to find the tin cups. Cyte flopped down in her usual spot on the other side of the camp table.

“Gloom? Everyone's cheering their heads off out there. They're calling it the greatest victory ever.”

“The perfect victory,” Winter muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. You're right. I should be . . . I don't know.” Winter set the cups on the table. “Is that stuff any good?”

“Not really, no.”

“I'll try this, then.” She let a finger of the clear stuff from the wax-sealed bottle glug into a tin cup. “Maybe I just can't stop thinking about those poor bastards out there. Marched into battle at the point of a saber, then cut down when they couldn't take it anymore.” She sniffed, then drained the cup. Pepper burned on her tongue, and alcohol stung her throat.
Not bad.
“Nobody deserves that.”

“Better them than us,” Cyte said, then sighed at Winter's expression. “I know. Hanna has teams out there, looking for survivors.”

“To Hanna, then,” Winter said, filling her cup again. “The best regimental cutter—”

“—that I hope I never have to visit,” Cyte finished. They drank together this time, and for a moment Winter sat in silence, feeling the pleasant warmth as the drink hit her stomach.

“What are you doing here?” she said after a while.

Cyte went even redder. “I thought you could use—”

“Not here in the tent,” Winter said. “Here, I mean. In Murnsk. Why are you here?”

“Oh.” Cyte set the green bottle on the table. “You're one of
those
drunks.”

“I'm not drunk yet,” Winter said.

“I've had this conversation before,” Cyte said. “Get a few drinks into any of the philosophy students and it's all ‘Why are we here?' this and ‘What's the meaning of existence?' that. Afterward they usually make a grab for me and then pass out.” She snorted. “Philosophers can't hold their liquor.”

“You don't think about it?”

“I've thought about it enough to know that I'm not going to come up with any useful answers. So the hell with it.”

“Fair enough.” Winter leaned back. “It's not really what I meant, though. I was thinking, why am I over
here
and not out there piled in a ditch?”

Cyte shuddered. “Because you were lucky enough to be Vordanai, I guess?”

“That's it? Vordan never did anything for me. They threw me in a prison that married teenaged girls to sadistic monsters. That's why I ran away to Khandar. All this”—she plucked at her uniform—“just sort of happened. Maybe I could have turned the other way, run off to Murnsk, and I
would
be lying dead out there.”

“Saints and martyrs, you're morbid. Sure. And maybe you would have discovered a vein of pure gold and become the richest woman in the world. Or maybe you'd have gotten the plague and died the first week. You can't know these things.” Cyte tipped the bottle over her cup again. “Believe me, I've studied history. I
know
. The historians like to talk about how Great Men shape the course of events, but most of the time it seems like it's just luck. Somebody's carriage throws a wheel, somebody doesn't read a letter, it rains one day but not the next, and before you know it a mighty empire falls or a kingdom rises.”

“I'm not sure if that's reassuring or depressing.”

“A little bit of both. Did I ever tell you about Queen Gekitorix?”

“I think I would have remembered the name, so probably not.”

Cyte launched into another historical anecdote, which given the somewhat advanced state of her inebriation was only semi-coherent. It
was
pleasant not to be drinking alone, to relax for a while, feeling her mind slowly sinking in a sea of alcoholic fuzz and meaningless chatter.

As they talked, she couldn't help but circle back to her earlier question.
Janus. It all comes back to Janus.
Winter liked Vordan well enough, even liked Raesinia herself, but she couldn't help but think that without Janus she'd have abandoned the army long ago. There was too much chance of ending up under a commander like Prince Vasil, who'd order his own men to their deaths rather than admit defeat, or an incompetent boor like de Ferre.
Or Sergeant Davis.

She'd followed Janus because he'd proven himself capable, because he knew the secrets of her gender and her demon, and because he'd promised to reunite her with Jane. And he'd kept up his end of the bargain; after it had fallen to pieces in her hands, she'd kept following him because she didn't know what else to do.
And because I owe it to all the people I dragged along with me.
Responsibility could be a bitter pill to swallow.

But when you put it that way, it means that Jane was right.
I could have left the army and stayed with her. I made the choice—

“Winter?”

Winter's eyes shot open. Cyte was leaning over her, waving a hand and giggling.

“What?” Winter said. “It's been a long day.”

“And you're drunk.”

“You should talk.”

Cyte sat back and ran a hand through her hair. “There's something I want to do, but it feels like it might be
really
stupid, so I thought I should get
really
pickled before I tried it.”

“This sounds bad. If it involves cannon, I'm going to have to stop you right there.”

“There's something I want to ask you. It's personal and extremely unprofessional.”

Winter blinked and sat up straight, heart thumping a little faster. “What's the matter?”

“Okay.” Cyte took a deep breath. “You have . . . Um . . .”

“I have?”

Cyte's face was so red it was hard to tell if she was blushing or not. “You have the Tyrant's Disease. Right?”

She looked so solemn and earnest that Winter fought back a giggle. Instead, she matched Cyte's stare and said, with all the dignity she could muster, “I have no idea what that is.”

“Oh.”

“I hope it's not fatal.”

“It's not like that.” Cyte looked down, and her lost expression made Winter feel bad about nearly laughing. “It's a mental disease. I read about it in the University library. It's when a woman wants other women.” Cyte raised her head again and took a deep breath. “You know. For . . . you know.”

“For . . .” It took Winter's tipsy mind a moment to work through the convolutions of that. “Oh.
Oh.
”

“It's not something I would just say to someone,” Cyte said quickly, “but you and Jane didn't exactly keep it a secret, and I just thought . . . I . . .” She shook her head violently. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

“Cyte.” Winter grabbed her shoulders. “Cyte, it's okay. Relax.”

“I'm sorry.” There were tears in Cyte's eyes. “I'm really sorry. I shouldn't—”

“It's all
right
, honestly. That's what you wanted to ask me? If Jane and I were sleeping together?” Winter shook her head. “Like you said, we didn't exactly make a secret of it.”

“That wasn't the question, actually.” Cyte blinked and rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. “You're sure you don't mind?”

“I told you, it's fine.” Winter crossed her legs and sat facing Cyte. “Is it really called the Tyrant's Disease?”

“I guess,” Cyte said. “That's what it said in
Disorders of the Mind
. The Mithradacii Tyrants' courts were famous for debauchery and perversion, I suppose.”

“Okay. Then I guess I do.” Winter shook her head. “So what
is
the question?”

Cyte's voice was very small. “How did you figure out you had it?”

“I . . .” Winter hesitated. “It's not something I ever really thought about. I didn't know it was something you could
have
until you told me. When I was young I thought . . .”

“What?”

It was Winter's turn to flush. “That it was just something about me and Jane, I guess.”

“How old were you when you met?”

“When we
met
, we were about twelve.” Winter spoke slowly, probing her emotions as she might have probed a broken tooth with her tongue. She kept waiting for pain, but all she felt was a dull numbness. “We grew up together, in the Prison.”

“And you just knew?”

“Not . . . really. I couldn't have told you. I just felt . . . odd.”

“What happened?”

“She kissed me. We were taking care of some of the younger kids and
playing a game on one of the lawns. She and I ended up tangled together somehow, and she just . . . kissed me.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran away.” Winter's lips curled into a slight smile. “She had to chase me through the hedge maze.”

Cyte let out a breath. “Ah.”

“We didn't know what we were doing. But it felt right to me.” Winter shrugged awkwardly. “Like I said, it's never something I thought about too deeply. Maybe I should have, I suppose.”

“But it was only Jane?” Cyte said. “Never anyone else?”

“Never,” Winter said. “I mean, after I ran away, I was terrified of being found out as a girl, so I stayed away from everybody. Then, when I got back here, Jane turned up again.”

“You didn't think about it? Just, you know. In your own head.”

“Sometimes.”

Winter leaned forward, and Cyte stiffened. Her breath was coming very fast, and Winter could see her pulse jumping beneath the pale skin of her throat.

“Cyte,” Winter said.

“Yes?” The word was a squeak.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I don't . . . I mean . . . only if . . .” Cyte's voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Yes.”

Winter kissed her.

Cyte was so stiff with terror at first that it was like kissing a statue, their lips pressed awkwardly together. Then she relaxed, just a fraction, and her mouth opened slightly. Her lips tasted of the stuff from the green bottle, mint and strong liquor.

After barely a second Cyte pulled away, scrambling backward. “No,” she said under her breath. “No, no, no, no.”

“Cyte—”

“I'm sorry,” Cyte said, shooting to her feet. “I shouldn't have done that. I'm drunk. Much, much, much too drunk. I need to go.”

“Wait,” Winter said. “Please.”

“I'm
sorry
.” Her eyes were full of tears again. “I won't . . . I mean . . .” Cyte wiped her eyes and shook her head. “Good night.”

“I—” Winter began, but Cyte was already gone, out the tent flap and into the darkness.

Well.
Winter sat back against her bedroll. Her whole body was tingling from that brief moment of contact.
Fuck.

—

The morning brought a headache the likes of which she hadn't had since Khandar. Winter, groaning, tipped the remainder of the wax-sealed bottle onto the ground outside her tent and guzzled the water in her kettle, then sent a nearby ranker running for more.

When someone scratched at the tent flap, she half expected to see Cyte, but found Bobby there instead. Dark circles under the girl's eyes attested to some revelry on her part as well, and made Winter wonder how she must look.
Good thing I haven't got a mirror in here.

“Morning, sir,” Bobby said, brandishing a sheaf of paper.

“Morning,” Winter said, looking at the bundle distrustfully. “I'm not sure I can handle that yet.”

“Nothing urgent, sir. Casualty reports from yesterday, stocks and supplies from this morning.”

“How were our losses?”

“Almost nonexistent,” Bobby said. “Only one dead from enemy action, in Sevran's regiment, a boy who caught a cannonball practically in his lap. One of de Koste's men accidentally double loaded his musket, and it exploded on him. Most of the rest are minor injuries from splinters and collapses. A few broken limbs at the very worst.”

Two people died,
Winter thought. Two men under her command, who by rights she ought to have cared as much about as any others.
But I'm smiling because that's so much better than what
might
have been.
She reflected, not for the first time, that war was a strange business.

“I'll go over the reports later, then. Anything more pressing?”

“Janus sent orders that every regiment has to provide teams for burial detail.”

Winter winced. After two days of fighting, some of the bodies out on the plain were no doubt in pretty bad shape.
But there's no way around it. There's a hell of a lot of dead Murnskai, and
someone
has to bury them.
“I'll ask for volunteers.”

“Cyte said to tell you she'll take care of it, sir. She started organizing the teams earlier this morning.”

Cyte.
Last night was a confused mess in her mind, not so much because she'd been drunk but because she didn't quite understand what had happened.
I kissed Cyte. And then she ran away.
And now she'd apparently rather spend the day
burying rotting corpses than speak to me?
The whole thing had a dreamlike feeling that made Winter reluctant to think about it too hard.
Or maybe it's just that I have no idea what to do next.