The Guns of Empire (13 page)

The thought that all of this would be taken down in the morning, only to be reassembled the next night, still made Marcus shake his head in wonder. It was as though Janus had proposed carrying Vordan's Sworn Cathedral to the sea, stone by stone, while putting it together every day in time for services. Just keeping a hundred thousand men under canvas, let alone fed, clothed, and supplied with ammunition, required effort on a scale that boggled the mind. Somewhere far to the south, hardtack was being baked and crated for shipment to the Ministry of War, to make its way via a complex chain of boats and wagons to the depots in Talbonn, and thence via supply convoy to the Grand Army. Marcus' position made him uncomfortably aware that everything from the food he ate to the boots on his feet were available only thanks to the nonstop efforts of hundreds of clerks and porters, often months in advance.

Fortunately, his position didn't require him to actually
do
anything about it, other than occasionally sign off on reports regarding the level of stores available. While the men had been drilling, Janus had spent much of the winter reorganizing the Ministry of War, cleaning out the deadwood with his new powers as First Consul and bringing in young, intelligent men and women without regard to their former background. Marcus, accustomed to fighting the Ministry to replace every worn-out greatcoat, had been astounded by the ease with which the new system functioned, a rusted-out hinge replaced with a sleek, oiled one.

It helped, of course, that the Crown was flush with gold. After Hamvelt's intention to bow out of the war had become clear, the smaller cities of the Velt Valley and in the south around Desland had wasted no time in coming to their own accommodation with Vordan. Janus had been openhanded with them, but had insisted on generous “contributions” from town councils and wealthy individuals, while paying for the army's purchases with the new paper scrip, redeemable at the end of the war. Somewhere in the palace at Ohnlei, Raesinia's young friend Cora was working away trying to keep it all straight. Marcus was grateful, inasmuch as he would rather have his eyes put out with hot pokers than deal with the complexities of army finance.

His tent was a large one, by the standards of the army, big enough for four or five men to stand comfortably around a folding table. Currently, there was only one. Colonel Alek Giforte looked up, saluted briefly, and went back to whatever he was scribbling.

He was older than Marcus, with graying hair and a short beard shot through with silver. Marcus had first known him as Vice Captain of Armsmen, when he'd been made Captain of that organization during Janus' term as the Minister of Justice. Giforte had turned out to be both an excellent administrator and a spy for the Last Duke; that Janus had chosen to overlook the latter and retain Giforte for the former was typical of the man. Being a column-general involved sending out quite a lot of orders, and Giforte's job was to translate Janus and Marcus' general instructions into specific directions and timetables, a task he attacked with vigor.

“How'd it go?” Giforte said.

“We march in the morning,” Marcus said, then gave a brief summary of what Janus had told him. Giforte frowned when he got to the part about flying columns to gather horses and carts. In spite of his change of career, the colonel was at heart an enforcer of the law.

“Two divisions left behind,” he said, when Marcus was done. “The Sixth, obviously. Did Janus specify the other?”

Marcus shook his head. “Suggestions?”

“The Tenth, I think. Division-General Beaumartin is a bit plodding, but he's determined. A good man to have in command if Dorsay does something unexpected.”

“Fair enough.”

Giforte stood up. “I'll get the boys started drafting everything. Will you be here in an hour to sign off?”

“The boys” were a tent full of young soldiers with maps, dividers, and endless stacks of paper. They were technically the column-general's staff, although Marcus often felt like they were really Giforte's staff, which was being temporarily loaned to him. In some cases that was almost literally true—he knew Giforte had recruited among the old Armsmen to find his scribblers.

“I should be,” Marcus said, then frowned. “Possibly not. I'd forgotten. Andy, will you go over to the queen's tent and tell her that Column-General d'Ivoire would like to see her as soon as possible?”

“Got it.” Andy ducked out of the tent with no salute. Giforte rolled his eyes.

“You let her get away with too much,” he said.

“
You
try making her do things properly,” Marcus said, settling down by the table with a sigh. “Let me know how it works out for you.”

“If she's going to represent you, she ought to be more respectful. She might offend someone important one day.”

“She's friends with Raesinia, and Janus doesn't seem to mind,” Marcus said. “I don't think people get more important than that.”

Giforte shook his head, made his own salute, and slipped out. He'd never warmed to Andy, Marcus reflected. He wondered if it had anything to do with Giforte's own daughter, who was now a colonel in the Girls' Own. These days the two Gifortes seemed to be on speaking terms, but rumors said they hadn't always gotten along.

A small pile of papers was waiting for his attention. Giforte couldn't handle
everything
, although what Marcus had to deal with now was considerably less than he'd forced himself through as commander of the Colonials. He threw himself into it and had made solid progress by the time Giforte returned with a new stack of orders, ready to go out over Marcus' signature. Marcus checked them, for the look of the thing, and signed.

One stroke of a pen,
he thought,
and the whole vast machine starts up.

Andy returned soon after. The queen, she told him, would be pleased to dine with him that evening. Marcus sighed, put down his papers, and got up to look for a cleaner jacket.

—

“They tried, and losses were heavy, I'm told,” Marcus said. “But Dorsay had reinforced the ridge with men pulled out of the town. They had to fall back, and the Borels demolished the bridge before we could get to them.”

“It sounds like Dorsay knew what Janus was up to,” Raesinia said.

Marcus shrugged. “It's possible he guessed the plan. In the end, he still had to retreat. Janus doesn't think he'll bother us before the Murnskai army arrives.”

Raesinia pursed her lips. Before she could answer, a servant bustled in with plates full of thick green soup trailing tendrils of steam. Another servant poured wine, offering a glass to the queen and getting a nod of approval before coming around the table to Marcus.

The royal tent was surprisingly understated, though not quite spartan. There was a thick bedroll, a table and chairs, and the same army-issue portable writing desk that officers used. The tent itself looked like silk, but there were
none of the rugs and tapestries Marcus might have expected, no fine china or gold-encrusted flatware. They ate off polished brass plates and drank from clay mugs that wouldn't have been out of place in a common winesink.

It was reflective, in a way, of what it was about Raesinia that made Marcus so uncomfortable. In the time they'd spent together in Vordan, she'd insisted on informality, and he'd come to enjoy her company in that context. Afterward, seeing her ensconced as queen in all her majesty and splendor, it had seemed clear that those days were over. He'd thrown himself into Janus' project of rebuilding the army and tried to put her out of his mind.

Now, though, he felt halfway between the two worlds. They weren't running through the streets together, breaking into Exchange Central or sneaking around Oldtown. But neither was she off at Ohnlei, surrounded by courtiers and all the rituals of the palace. Marcus felt like he was seeing double, flickering between his vision of the queen and the young woman he'd gotten to know; the monarch, and Raesinia, who'd come into his room one night and slashed open her palm to show him her secret. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to behave.

“Is Ihernglass all right?” Raesinia said. “He wasn't hurt?”

“He's not hurt,” Marcus said carefully. “But . . .”

He looked down at his soup. Raesinia, eating hers, gestured for him to continue.

“It's a hard thing, to know that you gave orders and men died and that maybe they weren't the right orders. I think every commander goes through it, but that doesn't make it any easier.” Marcus remembered Weltae and his last stand there with Adrecht Roston. He'd chosen to hold out and trust in Janus instead of retreating, and Adrecht and many others had paid the price. “I think he'll get through it, but it's never simple.”

Raesinia nodded, eyes full of understanding. Marcus had to remind himself that, in spite of the fact that she could pass for a teenager, the queen had been through a great deal in the past year and was, in fact, nearly twenty-one.

“And now Janus wants to march straight to Elysium,” she said, cleaning the bottom of her bowl and setting the spoon down. “What's your opinion on that?” She grinned, the impish smile he remembered from their time on the streets. “Speaking as a professional military man.”

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe in Janus,” Marcus said.

“What if you didn't know Janus?” Raesinia said. “Would you think it was
possible? Farus VI invaded Murnsk, and the historians say it was his greatest mistake. And King Vetaraia lost his entire army in the snows and ended up in a cage.”

Marcus took a bite of his own soup. It was really rather good, light and tasting of apples and herbs.

“At the War College,” he said after a moment, “they used to say that Murnsk is defended by two invincible commanders, General January and General February. No southern army has ever conquered Murnsk because the emperor only has to await the arrival of these reinforcements. He can trade land for time, and Murnsk is a very large country.”

He became aware of a servant hovering at his shoulder, waiting to serve the next course. Marcus leaned back, a little regretfully. Wolfing down his food in front of the queen wouldn't do, of course, but as a soldier he had a hard time letting any meal go unfinished.

“Fortunately,” he went on, as they set a dish of sliced roast beef in front of Raesinia, “it is now April, and we're not here to conquer Murnsk, only Elysium. If the emperor chooses to bide his time, we'll be back in Vordan before General January takes the field. If he wants to fight, I have every confidence in the Grand Army.”

Raesinia made a noncommittal sound as she chewed her beef. Marcus looked down at the plate in front of him, then back at the queen, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Your Highness . . .” he began.

She held up a finger, swallowed, and took a sip of water. He paused.

“Let me guess,” she said. “He hasn't had any success getting me to stay behind himself, so he's sent you to try asking.”

Marcus deflated. “Something like that.”

“For a tactical genius, he can be extremely predictable.”

“The battlefield is no place for a queen,” Marcus said. “You should be back in Vordan.”

“My father spent quite a lot of time on battlefields,” Raesinia shot back. “My brother died on one.”

“And that was a catastrophe for the country,” Marcus said. “If Prince Dominic had lived . . .”

He realized, too late, that this was an extremely awkward line of argument, and trailed off uncertainly. Raesinia frowned and made a gesture to the servant closest to her. As one, they bowed deeply and filed out of the tent.

“We both know,” she said, keeping her voice low, “that getting killed is unlikely to be a problem in my case.”

“The Black Priests have tried to kidnap you before,” Marcus said. “How much easier will it be here, on their home ground?”

“I think the Black Priests have more to worry about, with Janus bearing down on them,” Raesinia said. “Besides, where could I be safer than in the center of the Grand Army, with you, Janus, and Ihernglass close by?”

Marcus sighed. He wasn't going to make any progress here, that was certain.
Not that I really expected to.
“What is it that you want to accomplish? I hope you won't second-guess Janus on military matters.”

“Not on military matters, no,” Raesinia said. “But if he does defeat the emperor and Dorsay, then the shape of the continent might be decided by what happens afterward.
That
will be a political matter, and I will not be months away in Vordan when it happens.”

It wasn't actually that unreasonable, Marcus thought as he tucked into his beef, especially if you knew the queen had nothing to fear from illness or stray bullets. That didn't go far toward settling his unease, though.
Janus is right. Raesinia doesn't trust him.
He glanced up at her, but she was looking down at her food in furious concentration.

They ate in silence for a time. After a decent interval, Marcus pushed back his plate and got to his feet.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I hope you'll excuse me. I have a great deal to do.”

“Of course,” Raesinia said, rising as well. “I was hoping . . .”

“Yes?”

“Would you have dinner with me again?” she said, a little too quickly. “Only when it wouldn't interfere with your duties, of course.” She hesitated, then went on. “I admit there is a great deal about the business of armies and war that I don't understand. I was hoping you could explain it to me as we went along.”

Marcus bowed to cover his confusion. “Of course, Your Majesty. Whatever you require.”

“Thank you.” She smiled again, that same wicked smile he remembered. “I'll see you soon, then.”

—

The Grand Army marched.

Marcus' image of Murnsk had always been of a land of eternal winter, snowy fields and icebound forests. Logically, of course, he knew that people
lived there, and they couldn't survive if it was
never
warm. But he couldn't help feeling a little disappointed when reality failed to live up to the penny-opera version.