The Price of Valor (4 page)

Someone grabbed her arm, shouted in her ear. It took her a moment to parse the words over the blasts of musketry, and a moment longer to recognize Bobby.

“—coming up the road!” she was saying.

Winter blinked. She looked over her shoulder and saw a mass of men and horses behind them, working energetically around the low, deadly shapes of cannon. An officer was frantically clearing the teams and caissons out of the way, and artillerymen were already ramming home the first loads.

Bobby was still talking, but her words were distant and indistinct to Winter's abused ears. The sense behind them, though, was obvious.

“Fall back!” Winter shouted. “Back! Form behind the guns!”

Other voices took up the cry. She heard Jane's—
thank God, thank God
—and Folsom's bass roar.
He must have come back with Bobby.
The line had been leaking troops to the rear for some time, walking wounded making their escape, probably including some who weren't actually wounded at all. The shouts of their officers
snapped the bonds of pride and duty that held the women of the Girls' Own in place, and they turned away from the firefight as one body, as though a mechanism had been suddenly tripped. Winter had to backpedal frantically to keep from being trampled by the mass of rankers; not screaming or throwing away their weapons, but shoving forward with a silent, earnest determination not to be the last in line.

One more volley stabbed out from the Hamveltai line, cutting down the rearmost stragglers and those whose wounds had made them slow to retreat. Winter heard the yellowjackets cheering, and their officers shouting orders. The drums thrilled faster, to the charge pace.

She turned away, running along with the rest. In a few moments she was among the guns, passing between the big, many-spoked wheels, and then into the clear space beyond. It took an effort of will to
stop
running, with the image of all those bayonets following close on her heels fresh in her mind, but Winter was pleased to see that most of her soldiers had managed it. They pulled up short, doubled over and breathing hard, fell to their knees or flopped to the ground. One girl caught Winter's eye, hands clasped in front of her face as she repeated a frantic prayer of thanks, over and over.

Behind them, the cannoneers were getting ready. Most of the Girls' Own were past, and only a few limping wounded were still on the road in front of the guns. As these last stragglers lurched past the muzzles of the artillery, the pall of smoke rippled, and the massed ranks of the yellowjackets emerged, still marching in step. A ripple ran through their line at the sight of the guns, but it was too late to stop. They gave a hoarse cheer and broke into a charge.

A young lieutenant of artillery brought his hand down, a dismissive, peremptory gesture. Gunners brought their burning brands to the touchholes of their weapons. Winter had time to slam her hands over her ears, and a moment later a blaze of light and a crashing roar seemed to fill the world.

*   *   *

Winter could see that Colonel Broanne de Ferre was already sweating into his too-tight collar.

“My lord—” he began.

“As we are engaged in military service,” General Janus bet Vhalnich said, his tone precise, “my social rank is not relevant.” Seated behind his portable map table, one long-fingered hand resting on a stack of scouting reports, Janus eyed de Ferre coldly. The rigors of campaigning had thinned the general, Winter thought, and he hadn't had much flesh to lose. His young face was still dominated
by those extraordinary eyes, huge and gray, but now they stared out from deep sockets in what was practically a death's head.

“Ah,” de Ferre said. He looked unhappy—clearly he would have preferred to speak to Janus as a fellow peer, rather than as his military superior. “Yes. Of course, General.”

“Go on.”

De Ferre swallowed, trying to regain his lost momentum. He was a stocky man in his middle years, the bulge of his stomach not completely concealed by his exquisitely tailored uniform. The silver eagles on his shoulders that denoted his rank had tiny chips of ruby to give them glittering red eyes.

“Lieutenant Archer disobeyed my explicit orders,” he said. “His actions might have endangered the survival of my entire force.”

Janus looked down at the papers on his table for a moment. “This would be when he brought his battery forward to the support of the Fifth Volunteer Battalion?” That was the official designation for the Girls' Own. “Which by all accounts was thereby rescued from capture or annihilation.”

“Yes, General.” De Ferre drew himself up with all the stiffness of an old military man. “The fact that his action happened to be successful is no excuse for insubordination. If I had needed his battery in another position, the battle might have been lost by his rash action.”

“Bullshit,” said Jane, beside Winter. “If Archer hadn't brought those guns up—”

“Jane,” Winter said, putting a restraining hand on her shoulder. Jane shrugged it off.

“
Fuck
that.” She pointed at de Ferre. “My friends are
dead
because this bastard didn't have the balls for a fight, and now I have to stand here and listen while he blames the people who
did
help?”

De Ferre's round face was growing purple. “I object,” he sputtered, “in the strongest terms. Why is this . . . this
female
even present?” He eyed Jane as though she were some strange specimen of an unknown species. “You are fortunate your gender protects you,
madam
, because if you were a man an accusation of cowardice would have to be settled with steel.”

“If
you
were a man, I might bother to bring a sword,” Jane shot back. “As it is, I'd be happy to settle you with my bare hands, if you'd care to join me outside,
sir
.”

“Enough,”
Janus spit. “Lieutenant Verity is an officer in the Fifth Volunteers, and will be treated as such.” He turned to lock eyes with Jane. “She will endeavor to restrain herself.”

Winter had to give Jane credit. Most people, fixed with the full force of
Janus' stare, would have flinched, but she matched him for a long moment before he grunted and looked away.

“General,” de Ferre began again, “perhaps we could meet in private—”

“Colonel de Ferre,” Janus snapped. “Please explain why, when you received Captain Ihernglass' message as delivered by Lieutenant Forester, you chose to ignore it?”

“As overall commander, it was my responsibility to assess overall threats to my force—”

Janus cut him off. “A regiment of Hamveltai regulars turning your right flank did not seem like a threat?”

De Ferre's eyes flicked from Janus to Winter, passing quickly over the fuming Jane. He cleared his throat. “I did not consider the information reliable, General.”

“What were we supposed to do?” Jane burst out. “Send you a fucking engraved invitation?”

This time, Jane allowed Winter to quiet her. Janus remained focused on de Ferre.

“You doubted that Lieutenant Forester's message was the one entrusted to him by Captain Ihernglass?” he asked.

“No,” de Ferre said. He was sweating. “But you know these volunteer officers. If—if you'll pardon the loose phrase, they're always convinced that the sky is falling. It is the responsibility of the senior officer to commit his reserve judiciously, and not fritter it away whenever some captain thinks the entire enemy army is descending on him.”

“Some might say that a senior officer ought to place himself so that he can make such observations for himself,” Janus said with the deadly calm of someone delivering a killing stroke.

“I . . . that is . . .” De Ferre wiped his forehead. “We
won
the battle, General. My force did everything you asked of it.”

“Thanks largely to the efforts of Captain Ihernglass.” Janus leaned back in his camp chair. “Colonel de Ferre, you are dismissed from command. Gather your baggage and report to the Directory in Vordan, and see if they have any further use for you. I do not.”

“You can't do that,”
de Ferre snarled. “I hold a colonel's commission signed by the King of Vordan.”

“I think you'll find that I can,” Janus said. “My appointment as commander of the Army of the East was approved by both the deputies and the queen, and
within its sphere my authority is unlimited. But if you think my actions are illegal, by all means make your case to the deputies. Sergeant!”

The tent flap opened, letting a gust of warm, smoke-scented air into the close confines of the command tent. A big man in a blue uniform poked his head through and said, “Sir?”

“Please escort Colonel de Ferre to his tent and assist him with gathering his baggage. He'll be leaving us in the morning.”

The sergeant couldn't have failed to hear what was going on in the tent behind him, but he kept his expression wooden and his manner courteous as he turned to de Ferre. “Sir. If you'll come with me?”

“This is a mistake, Vhalnich,” de Ferre said. “I have many friends—”

“Some of whom will be joining you on the road at daybreak,” Janus said. “I hope you make for a merry company. Now go with the sergeant, please. I have work to do.”

De Ferre stood stock-still a moment longer, his face increasingly resembling an overripe tomato. Just when Winter thought he might actually pop and shower them all in gore, he turned on his heel and stalked out with as much dignity as he could muster, with the sergeant escorting him at a respectful distance.

Winter knew that the concept of a general was not a popular one in the Royal Army, which had gotten along for centuries without any rank higher than colonel. Which regimental commander gave the orders to a larger force was determined by a complicated formula that took into account both the seniority of the man in question and the age and prestige of his unit. The effect was generally to give command to the oldest and most powerful noble families who led the oldest and most respected regiments.

In the frantic weeks after the declaration of war, the Deputies-General had improvised a number of new posts to coordinate the nationwide military effort, and it had been a given that one of them would go to the savior of the city. But while Janus was a count, his family was not among the most powerful, and he had commanded no storied regiment. Winter had heard that the Royal Army colonels were not taking his elevation well.
But I never thought I'd get to see one of them given the sack.
In the old Royal Army, a colonel served until he died, retired, or became embarrassingly senile; he was certainly never
dismissed
from his command, which was his by hereditary and financial right.

Janus gave a long sigh, and ran one hand through his hair. “Captain Ihernglass, may I speak with you privately?”

“Of course, sir. Give me a moment.” Winter turned away, her heart hammering, and bent toward Jane. “Go back to the camp. I'll be there shortly.”

“Are you going to be all right?” Jane said.

“I'll be fine. I'm sure it's . . . nothing serious. Go and check on the wounded.”

Jane nodded, saluted raggedly toward Janus, and slipped out. Augustin, Janus' manservant, ghosted in through the open tent flap, acknowledging Winter with a respectful nod. He was an old man, silver-haired and dignified, but he'd served Janus steadfastly for years, even during the Khandarai campaign.

“Tea,” Janus said. “And fetch something for the captain to sit on.”

“Certainly, sir,” Augustin said.

He bustled about, setting up a second camp chair for Winter and then busying himself at a kettle in the back of the tent. Winter sat, cautiously, and waited for Janus to speak, but the colonel seemed content to wait. After a few minutes, Augustin set two steaming bone-white cups and saucers on the table.

“Strong, with a bit of sugar, if I recall correctly,” he said to Winter. “The blend is an indifferent one, I'm afraid.”

Winter smiled. In spite of his complaints about the quality of food, tea, and furnishings, the old man was a wizard when it came to creating comfort for his master and his guests in the meanest surroundings, a valuable skill indeed in an army on the march.

Janus pursed his lips and blew across the surface of the tea, then took a cautious sip.

“Perfect,” he said. “Thank you, Augustin.”

“Of course, my lord.” The manservant bowed low and withdrew.

Winter reached for her own cup and took a deep breath, savoring the aroma, before tasting it. It was, as she'd expected, rather good.

Janus remained quiet, staring into his cup, and finally Winter felt it was incumbent on her to start the conversation. She cleared her throat, and the general looked up.

“I have to ask, sir,” she said. “Was that wise?”

“What?” For a moment Janus looked as though he'd genuinely forgotten what he'd just done. “Oh, the business with de Ferre. Of course it was. The man is an oaf.”

“And a count. The rest of the Royals aren't going to be happy.”

“They're going to be even less happy in the morning.” Janus set his cup down. “The performance of the army was, frankly, unacceptable.”

“We did win the battle, sir. Didn't we?”

Janus waved a hand. “Only because Baron di Pfalen is an utter fool. A triple convergence, with no lateral communication, in a polyglot confederation army without a real chain of command?” He snorted. “We could have done nothing at all and watched the whole thing collapse under its own weight. I daresay
you
could have outgeneraled di Pfalen when you were still clinging to your mother's knees.”

Winter, who had no memory of her mother, forbore to comment on that.

“Someday this army will go up against a real commander,” Janus went on. “I know there are a few out there. The Duke of Brookspring, for one, and there must be others. Even a stiff-necked geriatric cabal like Hamveltai High Council can't rid themselves of
every
man of talent. When that day comes, we need to be ready.”