The Price of Valor (30 page)

“Yes,” Viera said. “Colonel Marcus kindly came to fetch us when the crowd wanted us on the Spike.”

“Had you been there long?”

“Not long. I came after your revolution.”

“What were you studying?”

Viera gave a brief grin. “Guns. Under Captain Vahkerson.”

“That's . . . unusual, isn't it? For a woman.”

“Before this I was studying with an alchemist in Hamvelt. He felt it was beneath him to have a girl as an apprentice, but my father paid him a great deal. Unfortunately, I succeeded in burning down the greater part of his laboratory, so my status was in some dispute at the time of the revolution. When I heard what had happened, I decided to come here.”

Raesinia nodded sympathetically. “I suppose you found out it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Freedom and equality for all and so on.”

“Philosophy and nonsense,” Viera said, her tone implying the two were
synonymous. “I came because I heard your women were permitted to fight. At Midvale, and now in the Army of the East.”

“Fight?” Raesinia blinked. “But why come and fight if you didn't care about the revolution?”

“Because I love to see things explode,” Viera said matter-of-factly. She gave the blade a final pass and held it up to admire her handiwork. “My father says it is a sickness with me, this love, but after the fourth tutor quit he began sending me to alchemists in the hope that I could at least learn to do it
safely
. I was glad to be able to study with Captain Vahkerson.”

“Oh,” Raesinia said. “What will you do when you get to go home?”

“Begin again, I suppose.” Viera shrugged. “But home is in Vheed, which is a very long way from here, especially in wartime. So meanwhile I make do. Is there news of Captain Vahkerson, do you know?”

Raesinia shook her head. “Nothing that I've heard.”

“A pity.” Viera regarded her curiously. “And you? You work with Colonel Marcus?”

“Y . . . yes.” It took Raesinia a moment to remember her cover story.
I'm getting sloppy.
“I'm a courier, mostly. There's not enough soldiers left to do everything, so he hired a few civilians.”

“Do you know him well?”

“A little bit, I suppose.”

“He has a wife?”

Raesinia shook her head. “He spent most of his career in Khandar.”

“Hmm. You think he would be averse to finding one?”

“I'm sure I have no idea,” Raesinia said, cheeks reddening a little. “Why, are you planning to marry him?”

“I'd thought about it. He saved my life, after all, and that is supposed to make me go all starry-eyed.” She shrugged. “He is a kind man with a fine figure, and I think Father would accept a colonel for a son-in-law. It would keep the proposals away, at least. What do you think?”

“I think,” Raesinia said, “that we have more potatoes to chop.”

“There must be a more efficient way,” Viera said as they wandered back to the table. “If the potatoes were strapped to the outside of some sort of explosive chamber, and the powder input carefully regulated—”

“Raes!” Cora was waiting by the mound of spuds, waving frantically. “There you are. The colonel's been looking for you!”

“Duty calls,” Raesinia said to Viera. “Try to make sure the potatoes end up
chopped
instead of blown to smithereens.”

Viera snorted. “Powder residue would ruin the flavor anyway. I need to think of a better design.”

“Do you know what happened?” Raesinia asked Cora.

The girl shook her head. “It can't be good, though. He looks like he's in a temper.”

Raesinia sighed. He shouldn't have bothered. It couldn't be helped, though. Sometimes you needed to hit the wall headfirst before you know it was there.

Marcus, Andy, Hayver, and Lieutenant Uhlan were gathered in the quiet corner where Cora piled her books, Marcus and Uhlan in quiet conversation while the two rankers looked on uncomfortably. Marcus looked up as Raesinia approached, and she paused for a moment.

A kind man with a fine figure. I suppose he is.

“Raes?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She shook her head and stepped into the little circle. “So, what's the plan?”

WINTER

“W
e're eager to work with the Vordanai, of course,” the tradesman lied. “And the terms your general offered us were more than fair.”

“More than fair,” his fat companion agreed. “I won't hear a word said against General Janus.” He pronounced the name wrong, jah-noos instead of ya-nuhs.

“It's the quartermasters,” the tradesman continued. “They've been promising us payment for days, and now they say they've delivered it. But what am I supposed to do with this?”

Winter looked at the paper the man held out to her. It said, on embossed parchment with many elaborate curlicues, that it was a bill to be drawn against the treasury of the Vordanai Crown and Deputies-General, to the amount of six thousand five hundred crowns, payable no more than six months after the conclusion of “the present hostilities.”

“I got one, too,” said the fat merchant. “I delivered six wagonloads of hardtack and four hundred head of horses, and they gave me a paper with a stamp on it.”

“I'm sure the Vordanai treasury will honor those bills in full, once the war is over,” Winter said, though she was actually certain of no such thing. Finance, beyond the kind that clinked in your pocket, had always been vague and mysterious to her.

“What am I supposed to do until then?” the tradesman said. “Cut this into pieces and feed it to my family?”

Winter sat back in her chair and looked desperately at Cyte for help. The ex-student stepped in smoothly.

“I suggest,” Cyte said, “you take it to a bank. I'm sure they would be happy to convert it into coin for a reasonable percentage.”

“I tried that,” said the fat one, “and they told me to shove it where the sun don't shine.” He eyed Cyte and added, “Begging your pardon, ma'am.”

“Lieutenant,” Winter said, “would you make a point of visiting Gold Row tomorrow morning and impressing on the local financiers the absolute sincerity of Her Majesty's government? I'm sure once you explain the position, they'll be happy to assist these gentlemen.” Winter looked from one man to another. “Will that do?”

The tradesman scratched his cheek and nodded. The merchant looked unhappy, but he turned to follow his companion out, which was all Winter really wanted. Once the office door closed behind them, Cyte gave her a mischievous grin.

“You're getting the hang of this. I take it I'm to tell these bankers what will happen to them if they
don't
play along?”

“Be as polite as you can,” Winter said.

Cyte nodded. “You should know, though, that this can't go on indefinitely. It's just pillage by degrees.”

“Without the rape and murder,” Winter said.

“That is an improvement,” Cyte admitted. “But we're already not getting enough food in the city. The merchants won't bring it in once they figure out that we're only paying in paper promises. The nobles are already moving everything they can carry to the country, and the bankers will follow suit before long.”

“Our squads at the gate are going to have to start searching any cart or wagon that leaves,” Winter said. “I don't want an ounce of gold or a pound of food to leave the city if we can stop it. Anybody who tries forfeits their property.”

“That may not go over well.”

“As long as the quartermasters keep ‘requisitioning' everything in sight, we don't have a choice.” The Ministry of War seemed to view Desland as a storeroom to be sacked, regardless of the fact that its inhabitants had surrendered peacefully and largely sympathized with the invaders.

“I know.” Cyte sighed. “Hopefully Janus will send for us before too much longer.”

“Funny how marching off to a battlefield to get shot at can seem like an improvement—”

They were interrupted by shouting from outside the door. Winter could
hear Bobby, telling someone to calm down, but she was mostly drowned under a rising voice with a heavy Hamveltai accent.

“—I will not, sir! I have been waiting an hour and a quarter and I will not wait a moment longer. Now you open that door at once or—”

“Bobby!” Winter shouted. “Who is it?”

Silence fell. A moment later, Bobby said, “It's the Baron di Wallach, sir. And his wife. He says it's important.”

“Important!” someone, presumably the baron, sputtered. “I should say—”

“Let him in,” Winter says. “I've been . . . expecting him.”

The door opened, and a tall, thin man in late middle age stormed in. He was impeccably dressed in what must have been Hamveltai fashion—high, flop-brimmed boots, gray tights, a long belted doublet, and a light wool coat, with a big wide-brimmed hat tied up on both sides and topped by a long white plume. Behind him came a plump woman swathed in so many layers of velvet and lace that the outline of her body was difficult to discern. She wore heavy makeup around her eyes, but it had run down her cheeks in streaks, as though she'd been crying.

“My lord.” Winter got to her feet and bowed. Di Wallach looked at her as a man might regard a roach that had crawled out onto the table during a fancy dinner party.

“You are Colonel Ihernglass?” he said. His Vordanai was good, in spite of his accent.

“I am.”

“Then your ruffians have
kidnapped
my daughter, and I demand her release
at once
. And I swear to you, if they've laid a finger on her—”

The Baroness di Wallach burst into tears at the mere suggestion of this, pressing her hands to her face and heaving huge, racking sobs. Winter resisted an urge to pat her on the shoulder and offer her a handkerchief, which she suspected would have gone over poorly. Instead she sat down behind her desk, which seemed to incite new heights of rage in the already apoplectic baron.

“This would be Anne-Marie Gertrude di Wallach, I take it?” she said.

“Of course it would,” the baron said. “Have you got many other daughters of nobility locked in your dungeons?”

“I don't have anybody locked in my dungeons, but there are at least three daughters of nobility in the regiment at the moment. They all came here of their own free will and asked to enlist.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard,” di Wallach said. “It's bad
enough that your army lets its prostitutes dress like soldiers, but
recruiting
from the ranks of the quality is beyond the pale. You can get your rent girls from the brothels across the river like everyone else. I don't believe for a moment that my Anne-Marie—”

“Shall we ask her?” Winter said. She turned to Cyte. “Send someone for Ranker di Wallach, would you?”

Cyte nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving Winter alone with Anne-Marie's parents. The baron looked uncomfortable.

“My daughter is only nineteen,” he said, “and is subject to irrational feminine fancies from time to time. Whatever she may think she wants, I have every right to stop her. I am her father and she cannot leave my house without my permission.”

“I would suggest that she has done exactly that.”

“Which is why you are obligated to return her.”

Winter permitted herself a slight smile. It was nice, for once, to be holding all the cards. “I'm afraid that I don't see it that way.”

“The law is on my side, and you know it.”

“Actually, my lord, since your city has surrendered to the Vordanai army, and I happen to be the ranking member of that army here, I think you'll find the law is whatever I say it is.” She saw the door open again, over the baron's shoulder. Anne-Marie and Cyte were standing in the doorway, and Winter raised her voice. “Let me make myself absolutely clear. I will not keep any Hamveltai citizen here against his or her will. However, if I have accepted someone into the ranks of this regiment, they will not be dismissed from it unless
I
deem it necessary. Is that understood?”

“What do you want?” the baron said. “Is it money? How much is my little girl worth to you? A thousand eagles?”

“It's not about money, my lord. The Vordanai army needs good soldiers more than it needs coin.” Not
quite
true, Winter had to admit, but it was a nice sentiment.

“She's just a little girl,” said the Baroness di Wallach, breaking out of her sobs. Makeup ran in rivers down her face, and her nose was sticky with snot. “She's scarcely been off our estate in her life! You can't expect her to march around in the
dirt
and sleep in a camp with a bunch of
men
. God only knows what's happened to her already!”

“Have you considered that getting off your estate may have been one of her goals?”

“But she could get hurt! People
die
in battles.”

There was a pause.

“A great many people get hurt in battles,” Winter said. “Some of my friends have died. If things had gone differently, I might have been killed myself. Every one of them had family who would have preferred someone else pay the price.”

“But she's my little girl,” the baroness said. “You can't . . .”

Looking at the woman's watery eyes, Winter almost softened. Fortunately, her husband cut in.

“It's one thing when a bunch of peasants get themselves killed,” he said. “It's quite another thing for a daughter of a noble family to put herself in danger.”

Winter set her jaw. “My lord, I have served both alongside and against the sons of noble families, and let me assure you that they die just like anybody else. The same goes for their daughters.” She raised her eyes. “Lieutenant, did you find the ranker?”

Cyte was now alone in the doorway. “Yes, sir. She indicated she didn't wish to speak to the visitors.”

“She'll speak to me, by God, or else—”

Winter cut the baron off. “Then we have nothing further to discuss. Please escort our guests out.”

Di Wallach whirled to face Cyte. “You have some cheek, telling me I can't speak to my own daughter. I will not leave this room until . . .”

He trailed off. In the antechamber, six big rankers from the Royals were standing at attention, muskets on their shoulders. Cyte stood in front of them, her expression neutral.

“Baron? Baroness? If you'll come with me?”

Baron di Wallach hesitated, caught between his pride and his desire not to suffer the insult of being physically dragged from the room. Finally, he straightened up, smoothed his coat, and marched out as haughtily as he could manage. His wife followed him, sniffling, only after throwing Winter a last pleading glance. Their “escort” fell in around them and filed out the door.

Cyte was grinning again. “Also nicely done, sir.”

“Would you tell Ranker di Wallach I would like to speak to her, please?”

Cyte nodded and returned a moment later with Anne-Marie, who must have been waiting just out of sight. A few days had wrought quite a lot of change in the girl. Her hair had been inexpertly cut short, all those waves of blond curls traded for a flyaway mess, and her dress and court shoes had been swapped for good leather boots and the blue trousers and jacket of the Vordanai army. The
uniforms Winter had requisitioned for the Girls' Own had arrived only the day before, and as she'd predicted they'd done wonders for morale.

Anne-Marie's pale skin was red from the sun, and her hands were cracked and blistered. Abby and her sergeants had been working her hard, along with all the other new recruits, but somewhat to Winter's surprise the girl had borne everything they'd thrown at her. Her friends, more daughters of the elite of Deslandai society, had done likewise, as had the several dozen recruits of more humble origins. As Winter had predicted, word had gotten around.

“Sir!” Anne-Marie said, with an excellent salute.

“You didn't want to speak to your parents?”

“No, sir,” she said. Her Vordanai was still a bit broken. “You already say . . . everything I want to say.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Hard to see Mother,” the girl said. “I thought she never like me. See her crying . . .” She shook her head.

Winter fought the urge to tell Anne-Marie to run after her mother, hug her, and go home.
Not my choice to make.
Even if all that was waiting for the girl was a musket ball on some muddy battlefield, it was her choice whether or not to go there.

“You're doing all right, then?” Winter said, a bit lamely.

“The works hurts,” Anne-Marie said. “But I stick to it. Learning better Vordanai, and how to make jokes.”

“That's good.” Winter had no doubt the Girls' Own would have Anne-Marie swearing and telling filthy stories like a native in no time. “That's all, then.”

“Thank you, sir.” Anne-Marie saluted and went out, and Cyte returned.

“Would you have credited it?” Winter said, nodding at the retreating girl.

“Not a bit,” Cyte said. “But I'd bet you she makes corporal before the end of the year.”

“No bet,” Winter said. “I'm inclined to think it'll be sooner.” She noticed Cyte was holding a crisp white paper, folded and sealed. “What've you got there?”

“Ask, and you shall receive,” Cyte said. “Orders from the general. There was a courier waiting when I went to retrieve Anne-Marie.”

Winter reached out eagerly, and Cyte handed the packet over. The seal was army blue and stamped with the official Ministry device, and Winter broke it open with her thumb. Inside was square onionskin paper, folded many times over and bearing the sweeping lines of a map in what Winter thought was Janus' own delicate hand. The letter itself read:

Colonel Ihernglass,

The time has come for your to rejoin us, somewhat sooner than expected. I need you to do everything in your power to bring your regiment to the location marked on the enclosed map, on the morning of the day there noted. You will be met there by friendly units with further instructions.