"We're not prisoners yet," Marcus said.

"We might as well be. Or has the colonel explained his secret plan to you? I'm curious to hear it."

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. "The colonel doesn't explain his plans to me. But he's not just marching off to be a brave sacrifice for king and country, if that's what you mean."

Adrecht snorted. "We ought to have gotten right back aboard those ships. This is a death march, and most of the men know it. Can you blame them if they're not responding well?"

"The other battalions still obeyed orders." Eventually.

"I always did have more than my share of smart ones." Adrecht caught Marcus' expression and sighed. "Marcus-"

"I'm trying to help you," Marcus said. "If you're not up to the job anymore, best say so now."

"Oh, very clever, Doctor-Professor d'Ivoire. Play on Captain Roston's pride, maybe that'll get him back into the firing line."

"d.a.m.n it-"

"All right, all right!" Adrecht held up a hand. "I'll be at the drills. That's what you want to hear, isn't it?" He shook his head again. "Though it's a h.e.l.l of a thing to force a man to spend his last few days on earth sweating and shouting orders."

It's really bad this time. He's already given up. There was something bright and brittle in Adrecht's eyes, as if a dark, cynical humor was the only thing keeping him on his feet. The only time Marcus had ever seen him like this was five years ago, when he'd first got word he was shipping out to Khandar. Saints. Maybe Mor was right. If this Lieutenant Orta is any good, maybe we should keep him in charge.

That would mean getting rid of Adrecht, though. Unless Ja.n.u.s could be persuaded to accept his resignation, the only way for a captain to leave his company was in disgrace. He'd never do it. And Marcus owed him whatever help he could manage.

"Well?" Adrecht said. "Was there anything else, Senior Captain?"

"No." Marcus turned to leave, but paused at the tent flap. "I really am trying to help, you know."

"Oh?" Adrecht snapped. "Why?"

Sometimes I have no idea. Marcus shook his head and slipped out.

Chapter Five.

WINTER.

The day was typical for spring in Khandar-that was to say, merely unbearably hot, rather than actually lethal as the summer heat might have been. The sun was a physical presence, a weight pressing down on the shoulders. It blasted any exposed skin and left uniforms soaked and heavy with sweat. Even after three years, it could catch Winter by surprise. The men in the ranks had it worse-for one thing, they didn't have the luxury of officer's caps-and some them were already swaying on their feet. Winter hoped d'Vries would call a halt before anyone actually collapsed.

She'd nearly collapsed on that first day's march. The hundred miles or so from Ashe-Katarion to Fort Valor was the longest trek the Colonials had ever undertaken, and before that, Winter's experience with marching had been limited to a few parades in honor of Prince Exopter.

On the retreat, they'd covered the distance in a fortnight, and they'd been accompanied by so many wagons the soldiers hadn't even carried their own weapons. The return journey was apparently going to be much faster. None of the recruits had seemed surprised when they received orders for a fifteen-mile march, carrying not only muskets but full packs, but Winter had nearly groaned aloud. She'd made it, barely, but the pains in her legs and shoulders afterward had been an uncomfortable throwback to her days at Mrs. Wilmore's. The old woman had firmly believed that backbreaking labor was a cure for immorality.

The second day's march had been cut short by the fiasco of an alarm, and the poor performance of the troops had apparently made an impression on someone. The officers had announced that the third day's march would be only five miles, and that they'd be in their new camp by noon. By this time Winter had rediscovered the muscles in her legs and found them not too badly decayed from the old days, and she was beginning to think she could handle this after all.

She should have known better. G.o.d only ever answered her prayers when He was plotting something worse. The word had come down that the remainder of the day would be reserved for drill. The recruits accepted this as a matter of course, but the Old Colonials swore and grumbled.

The announcement had brought the lieutenant back from his usual position at the head of the column. Apparently eating dust alongside his men didn't fit his mental picture of an officer's duties, but putting them through snappy evolutions on the drill field did. Winter had seen him only a couple of times over the past few days, and it was only now that she had the chance to make a detailed inspection.

Lieutenant Anton d'Vries wore a tailored blue uniform as regulation-perfect as any of those sported by his soldiers. He was a small, wiry man, with dark eyes and a pouting mouth under a luxuriant mustache. His hair was carefully combed and stiffened with powder in what was presumably the latest fashion from Vordan, though the effect was rather ruined by the regulation officer's cap. He wore a sword, the leather of the scabbard still polished and shining, and carried a thin walking stick that whistled through the air when he pointed with it. Winter flinched every time he stood beside her, in fear of an accidental blow to the side of the head.

Drill, she had discovered, was worse than marching. When the column had been in motion, at least they'd had the feeling of accomplishing something, even if it was only sweeping another few miles underfoot. They'd been allowed to fill their canteens when they pa.s.sed a stream, and to talk or even sing as they walked. Most of all, no one had been judging them. The only measure of success was whether you staggered into camp before nightfall.

Now the hundred and twenty men of the Seventh Company stood in a solid block, three men deep and forty across. Each was accoutered just so-cartridge box on the left hip, doubled straps across the chest with sheathed bayonet, musket held against the right side with fingers curled around the b.u.t.t in a nerve-deadening position. They were required to wait, under d'Vries' narrowed, sunken eyes, until he ordered them to move.

Winter stood in front of them, facing the center of the company, beside the lieutenant. Her task was to relay his orders to the troops, and make certain they were obeyed. Not an enviable position. Not only did she have d'Vries' special attention, but she could feel the dull resentment of every man in the company. Sweat trickled down her face and soaked her hair, and every inch of skin seemed to be itching at once. They had been at it for two hours so far.

D'Vries tapped his stick against his leg and watched his men with a haughty distaste. He cleared his throat and looked back and forth along the triple line with an undisguised scowl.

"Right," he said. "We will try that again. On the signal, right oblique, double pace!"

He spoke in a conversational tone. Winter had to repeat those orders loud enough to carry to the ends of the line. Her throat was already ragged, but she summoned up the energy. It came out as more of a croak, but d'Vries didn't appear to notice.

The company drummers struck up the double pace, heartbeat-fast. The line shuffled into motion, and almost immediately it became obvious that little progress had been made.

Long ago, in what felt like a different lifetime, Winter had been a girl younger than any one of the rankers. All she'd known of the military life was the stories she'd read of great battles, in which unflinching men marched precisely through their evolutions while their ranks were torn by ball and shot. Since her unorthodox method of self-recruitment had prevented her from spending the weeks in depot where the men presumably learned such stoicism, she'd done her best to make up for it, acquiring a copy of the Manual of Arms and the Regulations and Drill of the Royal Army of Vordan and working hard to memorize both. The knowledge had turned out to be almost useless, of course, but some of it remained with her years later.

Consequently, she knew what was supposed to happen. At the first beat of the drum, each man would take a step with his right foot, placing it exactly one standard pace-thirty-six inches, according to some hallowed measuring stick in the bowels of the Ministry of War-in front of the other. The next step would be on the next drumbeat, and so on, so that the company moved forward in perfect order, each man remaining stationary with respect to his fellows.

This would be hard enough, but d'Vries had called for an oblique advance, which meant that with each pace forward every man was supposed to move a half pace sideways, producing a sort of diagonal sidle. From the faces of the soldiers, Winter was sure that many of them hadn't understood this, or at any rate didn't remember until it was too late.

The result was about what Winter expected. Some men started with their left foot instead of their right, which meant they b.u.mped into the man beside them. Others forgot to move obliquely, with similar results. Still others stepped too far, or not far enough, and then trying to maintain their place lost the beat of the drum and fell out of step. Two men in the rear rank somehow entangled the straps of their packs and collapsed in the dust when they tried to move in opposite directions, thrashing like a couple of inverted turtles.

Within twenty yards the neat three-rank block had dissolved into a blob of red-faced, shoving men. When Winter called for a halt and the drummer stopped playing, they stumbled a few more steps from sheer inertia, then scrambled to push their way back into the correct files. It was a full five minutes before some semblance of order had returned.

Thus it had gone every previous time as well, and d'Vries' lips had tightened with each successive failure. Now his patience was apparently exhausted. He turned to Winter, cold with anger.

"Sergeant!" he snapped.

Winter saluted. "Yessir!"

"I've seen enough. I want you to keep these fellows at it"-he raised his voice-"until they get it right or they d.a.m.n well drop dead on the field! Do you understand me?"

"Ah, yessir."

The lieutenant's lip quivered. "Right," he managed, and stalked off, walking stick snapping out to flick impudent bits of gravel from his path. Winter watched him go, feeling the pounding of the sun on her shoulders, and tried to figure out what she was supposed to do next.

Her eyes found Bobby in the first rank. The boy was red-faced, from either embarra.s.sment or the sun, and he was visibly trembling with fatigue. Winter had been in Khandar for two years, as d'Vries had not, and she knew that dropping dead in the field was far from simply a rhetorical possibility. Too much more of this and the heatstroke cases would overflow the infirmary.

She looked across the dusty sc.r.a.p of land that was serving as the regimental drill field. It was scrub plain, like all the land they'd marched over. Occasional rocks or knots of tough, wiry gra.s.s broke the monotony of endless parched earth. The only color came from a tiny stream meandering through on its way to the sea, which winked and sparkled in the middle distance. A dozen companies were currently occupied in various exercises, being put through their separate paces according to the whims of their officers. Winter watched one lieutenant berating his men as though they were disobedient mules, and inspiration struck.

"Right," she said, turning on her heel. Raising her already ragged voice, she managed, "Company, quarter-right!"

The men, who'd been watching her with some apprehension, gave a kind of collective sigh and straightened up again as best they could. They turned in place through ninety degrees, which converted a block of men forty long and three deep into a column three wide and forty long. Winter stalked over to what was now the front, drummers hurrying behind her.

"On my signal," she said, "march pace, forward. Align on me. March!"

The drums started again, slower this time, and the column shuffled into motion. Without the distraction of trying to move sideways, and with only three men per rank to contend with, the march wasn't terrible. Winter walked in front of the first rank, who adjusted slightly to stay behind her, letting her steer the long column like a snake.

She found what she wanted, a hundred yards away. Another company, in the usual three-rank line, was practicing the Manual of Arms while a sergeant barked orders. A lieutenant stood beside them, looking bored. Their backs were to her and her men.

Winter led the column in that direction, glancing over her shoulder occasionally to make sure her company was still in good order. There was a moment's hesitation as they closed with the other company. She took the opportunity to step sideways, out of their path, and shout, "Forward! Charge pace!"

The drums thrilled faster. The men in the front ranks, when it became clear what they'd been ordered to do, went to it with surprising gusto. No one in the other company noticed until it was far too late. There were a couple of startled squawks, and then the long column collided with the rear of the line at a dead run. Winter's men bowled through, knocking the others sprawling, until someone in the opposing company started fighting back. A punch was thrown, somewhere in the press, and a moment later the whole of the two companies was a ma.s.s of fistfights and roughhousing, going at it with all the sudden energy of discipline released.

Winter, standing at the edge of the melee with the horrified drummers behind her, looked over her handiwork with a satisfied expression. The lieutenant of the other company, a fat man with a scraggly beard, bore down on her while his sergeants tried in vain to restore order. Winter saluted and forced her face to a.s.sume a blank expression.

"What in all the h.e.l.ls do you think you're doing?" the lieutenant said, vibrating with anger.

"Sorry, sir. Following orders, sir!"

"Whose orders?"

"Lieutenant d'Vries, sir! Said to keep the men at it. Didn't mean to run into you, sir!"

The lieutenant eyed her, uncertain of what att.i.tude to take. He settled on contempt. Winter struggled to maintain her facade of amiable idiocy.

"Well, you'd better sort this out," he said. "If your d.a.m.ned men aren't out of my company and off this drill field in five minutes, the captain will hear of it, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" Winter spun back toward the mess she'd created. "Corporal Forester!"

The boy had extracted himself after the initial rush, wriggling eel-like to the edge of the press, and was looking on nervously. At the sound of Winter's voice, he whirled and snapped to attention.

"Let's get these men off the drill field!" She gestured at the lieutenant behind her. "Right away, he says!"

She could tell he was having trouble suppressing a smile, too, as understanding dawned. "Yes, sir!"

a a a The brief punch-up seemed to have dissipated all the exhaustion of the previous few hours, and the men streamed off the field in a raucous crowd, laughing and shouting to one another. The carnival atmosphere continued once they were back at the camp. Someone produced a handball from somewhere, and soon two impromptu teams were scrimmaging up and down the line of tents, while spectators laughed and cheered from the sidelines.

Winter couldn't see where they found the energy. The release of tension had left her feeling shaky and drained, and she wanted nothing so much as a few hours of oblivion. Under the exhaustion was a dull sense of dread. Her little ruse, which had seemed so clever in the moment she'd thought of it, now felt ridiculously transparent. D'Vries wouldn't care if she'd had contradictory orders or not-he would only see that his demand had not been obeyed, and she'd bear the brunt of his anger. He'd bust her back down to ranker, send her back to Davis.

She pushed her way into the cooler semidarkness of her tent. On the little desk sat the papers-long marches had left her little time to work on settling the accounts, so an intimidating stack still remained. She knew she should address them, but at the moment the thought of picking up the pen made her feel ill.

Instead she slumped onto the bedroll, and stretched out, not even bothering to take off her boots. Surely I'm tired enough now. If I just close my eyes for a moment . . .

a a a Warm, soft lips on hers, fingers running along the small of her back, the heat of a body pressed against her. Jane's hair, dark red and soft as sin, spilling down over Winter's bare shoulder like a velvet curtain. A brief flash of her eyes, as green as emeralds.

Jane pulled away from the embrace, stepping back. She was naked, the most beautiful thing Winter had ever seen.

"You have to get away," Jane said. "Not just away from the Prison. Away from all of it. Away from everyone who wants to tie you up and take you back . . ."

Winter could say nothing. Her throat felt thick.

Jane raised one hand. A dagger glittered, flashing silver. "Take the knife," she said, as though instructing a friend on how to carve a roast. "Put the point of it about here"-she raised her head and put the tip of the dagger on her throat, just under her chin-"and press in, upward, as hard as you can."

"Jane!" Winter's scream sounded distant in her own ears.

The knife slid in, smooth as silk. Jane's emerald eyes were very wide. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged, only a tide of thick, sticky blood.

Winter jerked awake, pulse pounding in her temples, ears full of screams in the dark. They took a long time to fade. She lay perfectly still, feeling the ache in her limbs and staring at the blue fabric of the tent.

Can you be haunted by someone who isn't dead?

There was a rap at the tent post. Winter sat up, pathetically eager for a distraction.

"Who's there?"

"It's me," said Bobby from outside. Winter glanced guiltily at the stack of reports, but it was too late to do anything about them now.

"Come in."

The boy ducked inside. He was rubbing one hand with the other, and Winter could see a bruise blossoming along his knuckles. She felt a brief pang of sympathy.

"Sorry about that," Winter said.

"About what?" When she indicated his hand, he smiled broadly. "Oh, this? It's nothing, sir. One of the men of Third Company was inconsiderate enough to obstruct my fist with his jaw. I'm fairly sure he got the worst of it." Bobby looked suddenly uncomfortable. "That was all right, wasn't it, sir? A corporal is not permitted to involve himself in brawling with the rankers, but under the circ.u.mstances-"

"It's fine," Winter said. "I take full responsibility. Was anyone badly hurt?"

"Two of the men had to carry Ranker Ibliss back from the field, sir."

"Oh, dear. Will he be all right?"

"I think so." Bobby coughed. "Apparently he suffered a blow to an unfortunate area."

Winter looked quizzical.

"Kicked in the nadgers, sir. Probably not on purpose. You know how it is."

"I see. I hope Third Company isn't going to hold a grudge."

"Better if they do, sir!" Bobby was smiling again. "The captain of my depot battalion used to encourage fighting between the companies. A good rivalry helps knit the unit together, he always said."

"How long were you in depot?" Winter asked.

"A month. Should have been six weeks, but I was transferred out ahead of time for this expedition. Still, I count myself lucky."

"Why?"

"I had a month," Bobby said. "Some of the rankers got much less. A few had none at all, straight from the recruiting station to the ships."

"No wonder they can barely march," Winter muttered. "Does the lieutenant know this?"