The Guns of Empire (6 page)

“With respect, Your Majesty, no one has seriously tried for centuries. Times have changed.”

“Even if we could get there, we'd never hold it. All Murnsk would rise against us for profaning their holy city.”

“All of Khandar rose against us for profaning
their
holy city,” Janus said, flashing his smile again. “But regardless, we don't
need
to hold it. Once we've cleaned out the rats' nest, we come home. And
then
we make peace, a
real
peace, not just a pause while the Black Priests catch their breath.”

Raesinia stared at him.

She wanted to say that he was mad. But it made an awful kind of sense. She, of all people, knew that there were darker things in the world, that the currents that drove events ran deep beneath the surface. Her very existence was part of a plot by the Priests of the Black to provide Orlanko with a pliant puppet for the Vordanai throne.
But . . .

“If you do this,” she said, “a lot of people are going to die. Even if you win. Our soldiers trust you to do what's best for them.”

“You're wrong, Your Majesty. If I was doing what was best for
them
, I'd disband the army and send everyone home.” Janus' smile was gone now, his eyes intense. “They trust me to do what's best for Vordan, and for you. When they join up, they know I might have to spend their lives, but they trust that I'll get a good price. I think keeping Orlanko and the Black Priests out of Vordan forever is worth the sacrifice. Not to mention securing your position on the throne.”

Raesinia sat back. Just being in the same room as Janus when he was in one of these moods was exhausting; he was so intense he practically sparkled at the edges. She'd come here furious with him, and now she found herself struggling not to be swept along in his vision.

“You're very confident,” she said.

“I have good reason. I am not a man inclined to exaggeration, Your Majesty. You know that. Believe me when I say the Vordanai army now at our disposal
is the finest instrument I have ever commanded. Perhaps the finest ever forged on this continent. You will see what it can accomplish.”

The army
he
had built, nurtured on victory and forged over a winter's training. She wondered what Janus would do if she tried to take that instrument away from him, as Dorsay had suggested.

It came down to this: she could strip Janus of his post, trust the Borelgai to negotiate, and hope for the best. Or she could let him have his head and lead the army north. There was no room for half measures.
Dorsay hasn't seen what I've seen. He doesn't know about my demon.
Janus was right about the Priests of the Black—mere peace between nations would not keep their Penitent Damned away. She remembered Ionkovo, slipping in and out of shadows as though they were water. The cold feeling as he slid his knife into her brain.

Raesinia let out a long breath.

“When will you march?”

T
he outer wall of Talbonn wasn't much more than a wooden palisade, protection against smugglers and bandits but little else. It was substantial enough to block traffic, though, and after a quarter of an hour's delay in the city streets Winter rode up the stalled column to find out what was going on. All around her, soldiers of the Girls' Own—now officially the Second Division First Infantry Regiment, but widely known by the old nickname—were shedding their packs and sitting down in the middle of the road, pulling out cards and dice and generally settling in for the long haul. Any veteran was familiar with the way moving columns expanded and contracted like an accordion, pausing inexplicably as momentary jams were transmitted down the line like ripples through an inchworm. And after the winter camp, they were all veterans, at least when it came to marching.

Winter's gelding Edgar made his slow, patient way through the increasingly dense crowd, soldiers saluting and struggling to clear a path when they noticed their commanding officer. Most of them knew Winter by sight, and the rest could see the star of a division-general on her shoulder. Closer to the wall, the press swelled beyond the road and into a sea of blue uniforms milling about in what was normally the market square, just inside the city's northern gate.

The problem was clear enough. A cart, nearly as wide as the gate, had been passing through when it had suffered an accident. It had been left wedged diagonally between the timber posts of the modest gatehouse, its four horses cut loose and waiting on the other side. A civilian in a long coat and bicorn hat was arguing with a Girls' Own officer, and three heavyset laborers in leather vests lounged nearby, with the satisfied expressions of men who were being paid by the hour regardless.

Winter swung down from the saddle and found a nearby corporal to take Edgar's reins. Mutters spread ahead of her, like a bow wave, and the women of the Girls' Own made a path. She nodded her thanks and stepped out behind the arguing lieutenant, a tall, severe-looking woman who'd gone red in the face.

“—I'm telling you to get your goat-fucking cart out of the gate
right now
,” she was saying. “I don't care how you do it—just get it done!”

“And I said we're working on it!” the civilian said. He was sweating in the spring heat. “My cousin is bringing another cart around from the east gate, with a few more men. We'll remove the cargo and then get one of the axles off.”

“If that cart is still there when General Ihernglass gets here, you are going to be one sorry son of a bitch,” the lieutenant said.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Winter said mildly. “Would you mind filling me in?”

“Sir!” The lieutenant spun around and saluted stiffly. “I apologize, sir. I—”

“No apology needed. What's your name?”

“Robinson, sir. Elinor Robinson. First Battalion, Fifth Company.”

“And you?” Winter addressed the civilian.

“Tobin Bern,” the man said, pulling off his hat. “At your service, General.”

Winter smiled. “So, why is your cart blocking my gate, Master Bern?”

“It was an accident,” Bern said. “Something spooked the team as they were going through, and it got wedged tight.”

“It looks heavily loaded,” Winter said. The cart was a large one, stacked high with rough-sided crates. “What are you carrying, may I ask?”

“Military supplies,” the man said, a little too quickly. “For the army.”

“I see.”

Winter didn't bother to ask for his loading and transport papers, because he wouldn't have any. Janus' logistical service kept the official supply train under tight control, but unofficial merchants proliferated like flies on a corpse, eager to sell to bored, hungry soldiers. They were a necessary evil, but Winter found their naked greed unappealing. She walked to the back of the wagon and boosted herself up onto the bed.

“Sir!” the lieutenant said. “Let me—”

“It's all right,” Winter said. “Master Bern, mind if I have a look?”

“I—”

Without waiting for a response, Winter picked up a crowbar from where it lay among the crates and set to work. A few seconds later she popped the top
off one of them to reveal that it held bottles of wine, packed carefully in loose straw.
Military supplies.
She sighed and hopped down.

Bern had the decency to look embarrassed. “We
are
going to be selling them to the soldiers,” he muttered.

“I'm sure,” Winter said. “Lieutenant Robinson?”

“Yes, sir?” Robinson came to attention again, practically vibrating with her desire to be useful.

“Do you have someone in your company who knows her way around knots? Preferably someone on the short side. And some rope, if you please.”

Robinson nodded vigorously and turned to the crowd. A few moments of shouting and she was back with a girl who looked no older than sixteen, a ranker, with the gray skin and dark hair of a Khandarai.

“Aya was a sailor before she joined up,” Robinson said proudly. “You can tie knots, can't you, Aya?”

“Yes,” the girl said, eyes wide as she stared at Winter. Her Vordanai was broken, and she had a strong accent. “I tie knot.”

Winter wondered what strange path this young woman had followed, to come from her homeland thousands of miles to the south to this northern border of the Kingdom of Vordan.
No stranger than mine, I suppose.
She shifted into Khandarai, feeling like rusty gears were grinding in her brain.

“Can you get under there?” Winter said, pointing to the cart.

Aya, startled, took a moment before she looked at the stuck vehicle and nodded.

“Good. Tie the line around the main beam, the one that runs down the middle. Three times ought to do it—once at the front, once at the center, once at the back.”

“Yes, sir!” Aya said in Khandarai. Around them, other soldiers were staring at the sight of their general speaking the strange southern language. Two women had returned bearing a coil of rope, and Aya took one end and got down on her belly to wriggle under the cart.

“What?” Bern said. “What's going on?”

“Clear a space,” Winter shouted. “Back up! Lieutenant, assemble your company.”

As the commotion began, Bern leaned closer to make himself heard. “We tried pushing it out, but it's stuck fast! You won't be able to move it.”

“One thing I've learned in the army, Master Bern, is that if you get enough
men on a line, you can move anything.” She looked around at the scurrying women in blue uniforms and smiled. “So to speak.”

“But—”

Aya popped out again, dusty but smiling. She clambered to her feet and saluted.

“The line is secure, sir!” she said in Khandarai.

“Get your company on that rope, Lieutenant,” Winter said. “As many of them as you can fit.”

This took a little time to work out, Winter helping the lieutenant arrange her soldiers and ignoring the squawking Bern. One hundred twenty pairs of hands gripped the thick line, arms strengthened and palms calloused by months of training. At Winter's command, they pulled.

The result was suitably spectacular. The frame of the cart shivered and came to pieces in a cracking, splintering cacophony. The main beam, the back axle, and much of the bed came free, while the front axle snapped in half and trailed after in two sad-looking pieces. Crates full of wine jostled and fell, hitting the ground with expensive-sounding crashes and leaking puddles into the dirt.

“General!” Bern was shrieking now. “General, you can't do this! My stock—I'll be ruined!”

“The First Consul has given me orders to get this column on the road,” Winter said, voice still mild. “Anything that interferes with that is potentially a threat to the safety of the army, and that means it's my responsibility to deal with it. If you'd like to make a complaint, I suggest you take it up with him.” She raised her voice. “Get some axes and cut the rest of this wreckage out of the way! I want this column back on the move within the hour!”

She accepted Edgar's reins from the awed-looking corporal and led the gelding through the gatehouse, picking her way around and over the remains of the front of the cart. On the other side, she mounted up again, waved to the soldiers now thronging in behind her to clear the gateway, and rode north.

—

The Second Division's camp was already half-built when Winter arrived, even though the sun was still several hours from the horizon. The advance elements, light cavalry that would spread out in a protective screen of eyes and ears, had departed before dawn, followed by the
official
supply wagons and Colonel Archer's two batteries of cannon. By the time the first of the infantry made their way up the dusty road from Talbonn, stakes and ropes already marked out
the borders of the camp, showing where each company would pitch its tents, where the horse lines would be, and where the latrine pits would be dug.

Even with Winter's intervention, the final elements of the column wouldn't filter in until after dark. It was, she supposed, inevitable. Her Second Division totaled more than nine thousand soldiers, a quarter of the size of the old Army of the East, more than twice as big as the entire force Janus had commanded in Khandar. The Sixth Division, camping farther down the road, had nine thousand more.

And that wasn't even half of what Janus had assembled. With total control of Vordan's military, he'd reversed the scattershot policy of the Directory, ruthlessly stripping the Armies of the West and South of their best units. With the fall of Desland and Antova, the League was effectively out of the war for the moment, and the Army of the East had been reduced to a skeleton force. Over the winter months, the Army of the North had been combined with all these reinforcements, and the Grand Army had taken shape, more than one hundred thousand strong. It moved north in four columns, following parallel roads, space carefully allotted lest the march dissolve into a mammoth traffic jam.

In the winter camps, Janus had spent almost as much time reorganizing the Grand Army as he had training it. As in the Army of the East, the old royal regiments with their cherished designations and storied histories had been banished and torn into their component parts. They were combined with the battalions of volunteers, men who'd joined during the revolution or after the war had begun, and were put under whatever officers were deemed most competent, regardless of connections or social station. There was no more carping or criticism from the Ministry of War; the queen and the Deputies-General had given the new First Consul the ultimate trump card, and he used it ruthlessly.

Vordanai armies had never had any organization larger than the regiment, just as they'd never had much use for ranks above colonel. Taking inspiration from the legions of the ancient Mithradacii Tyrants, Janus had combined regiments into divisions, under the newly promoted division-generals. Each division was a self-contained fighting force, with its own attached artillery and cavalry, capable of holding its own against a comparable enemy. There were ten of them, in addition to Give-Em-Hell's cavalry and the main artillery reserve.

Winter had blanched when Janus had proposed quadrupling the size of her command, but at least this time she hadn't been expected to plunge directly into battle. Truthfully, for perhaps the first time since Marcus had handed her a
sergeant's pins more than a year ago, Winter felt ready for what lay ahead. The endless drills of the training camps had seasoned the soldiers, but they'd given her time to prepare, too.

Bobby was waiting for her at the entrance to the camp, as always. She wore a captain's stripes on her shoulders, and her frame had lost much of its teenage awkwardness in the year or so since Khandar. Looking at her now, it was hard for Winter to believe she'd ever thought Bobby was a boy.

“Everything all right?” Bobby said. “We were expecting you an hour ago.”

“Just a bit of traffic in the city that needed sorting out,” Winter said. “We may be a little late getting started tomorrow.”

“Fortunately, we haven't got too far to go.” Bobby dug a much-folded slip of paper from her pocket. “From Janus. He wants us at a town called Glarusk in two days. It's just on the Murnskai side of the border, maybe twenty miles short of the Ytolin. Last word we got, Dorsay's still camped not far north of there, so this could be it.”

Winter nodded, though she wasn't so certain. So far, the famous Duke of Brookspring had shown no inclination to try conclusions with Janus and the Grand Army. Since the breakup of the peace conference, he'd retreated grudgingly but steadily, abandoning several good positions. He had plenty of room—Murnsk was a vast country, and the rivers ran from east to west across the plains of the Split Coast, giving him any number of obstacles to hide behind. Bringing him to battle against his will was not going to be easy.

But that's Janus' worry, not mine.
All she had to do was get her soldiers where he wanted, when he wanted, and make sure they did their duty.

“We'll be well rested, at least,” Winter declared, studying the little note. “Any other problems?”

“Nothing to speak of. Abby's got a half dozen of the Girls' Own on punishment detail for brawling in town.”

“With each other?”

Bobby shook her head. “The usual. Started out with somebody talking about the Girls' Own and ended up with a bar full of bloody noses and black eyes.”

Winter sighed to herself. It had become a Girls' Own tradition to smash up a bar or wineshop in every town they visited; the veterans saw it as a kind of initiation. Drunken farmers and carters being what they were, they were never short of provocation. “If that's the worst we have to deal with, we'll count ourselves lucky. Has she tallied up the harvest?”