"He . . ." Winter paused. Criticizing one senior officer in front of another was simply Not Done. For one thing, officers tended to club together, so the most likely result would be some kind of subtle retribution. But he had asked. She sought for a positive interpretation of the facts. "The lieutenant started to ride at once for the main column. I imagine he was eager to alert you to the presence of the enemy."

Another slight smile from the colonel, and something like a smothered laugh from Fitz Warus. Captain d'Ivoire's face remained composed.

"At which point you took command of the company and ordered them to form square at the bottom of the valley."

"Yes, sir."

"Which they proceeded to do, in spite of the fact that company squares are not a formation in our drillbook."

"We had . . . a little practice, sir."

"And then you held off the attack of, what, three thousand enemy hors.e.m.e.n?" The captain looked at Fitz.

"At least three thousand," the lieutenant said.

"Most of them just rode by," Winter said. "Only a few hundred actually stopped to attack us, sir."

"I see." D'Ivoire turned to the colonel. "There you have it, sir."

"Indeed I do," the colonel said. "The only pity is that the lieutenant's unfortunate demise has robbed me of the chance to castigate him for his incompetence. All that remains is to acknowledge your accomplishment, Sergeant."

Winter blinked. "Sir?"

"You rescued your company from an impossible situation, and brought them safely back to the column when your officer broke and ran. That is an accomplishment, I would say."

"Sir," Winter said stiffly, "thirty-eight men of the Seventh Company are dead."

Colonel and captain looked at one another, then back to her. The colonel gave a slow nod.

"Nevertheless," he said, "things could have been much worse, and that deserves recognition. You are hereby brevetted to lieutenant, for the duration of the campaign, with the Ministry of War to review and approve a full promotion following the conclusion of hostilities. You'll remain in command of the Seventh Company, as you have demonstrated such apt.i.tude for it."

"Yes, sir." That didn't seem quite sufficient. Winter licked her lips and looked from one officer to the other. "Thank you, sir."

The colonel waved a hand airily. "Well done, Lieutenant."

"Congratulations." Fitz Warus stood and took her hand amiably. He led her away from the table and out of the tent, talking, but Winter still felt too stunned to reply. Apparently he didn't mind. He left her at the edge of the little group of tents that belonged to the senior officers, with another handshake.

How am I going to tell Bobby? The boy would overreact, and she wasn't sure she could stand it. She shook her head, then remembered Feor.

I wonder if I should have told the colonel. An hour ago, she wouldn't have even considered it, but that was before she'd met the man. He seemed-not friendly, of course, not even kind. But fair, possibly, and even-tempered. That was a pleasant change from Colonel Warus, whose rages had been rare but legendary. She had the feeling that he wouldn't fault her for rescuing the girl, and he'd see to it that she wasn't treated badly.

She shook her head. No matter how she pa.r.s.ed it, it felt like a betrayal. Winter smiled crookedly and turned her steps back toward the Seventh Company's tents. We'll have to deal with this ourselves.

Chapter Nine.

MARCUS.

"Adrecht!" Marcus rapped twice at the tent pole. There was no reply, and he frowned. "Adrecht, I'm coming in."

He twitched the flap aside, letting a shaft of sunlight in and momentarily brightening the semidarkness under the translucent canvas. There was a soft sigh and a murmur from the far end.

"Marcus?" Adrecht said. "Is that you?"

"It's me," Marcus said, picking his way carefully among bits of discarded clothing. He blinked the darkness and made out a figure lying on a mat at the other side of the tent. "We need to talk. I-"

He paused. Some of the clothing on the floor couldn't be Adrecht's, unless the Fourth Battalion captain's tastes were stranger than Marcus had given him credit for. He took a step closer and saw that there were two people on the bedroll. The smaller one sat up, letting the sheet fall away from her. She was a Khandarai girl, not more than eighteen or nineteen, with dark eyes and long dark hair. Her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s were uncovered, but it didn't appear to concern her.

"Saints and martyrs," Marcus swore. "She had better not be from the Redeemer camp."

"What?" Adrecht sat up suddenly. "No! Honestly, Marcus, what do you take me for?" He brushed the girl's cheek lightly. "Dali's a camp follower. She's been with us since Ashe-Katarion."

Marcus relaxed a little. Quite a few Khandarai had followed along with the regiment when it had fled the Khandarai capital: those whose livelihood depended on the Vordanai soldiers or who didn't fancy their chances under the new regime. More had come to them while they waited at Fort Valor and on the return march, drawn by the chance to sell their wares, their services, or their bodies to the foreigners.

"Well, tell her she needs to go," he said.

Adrecht gave an exaggerated sigh and said something in Khandarai. He spoke the native language better than Marcus did-better than any of the officers, in fact, except possibly Fitz. The girl laughed and rolled to her feet, stretching ostentatiously in front of Marcus before hunting around on the floor for her clothes. The sight of her body, lithe and trim, forcefully reminded Marcus of how long it had been since he'd enjoyed that particular comfort. He ground his teeth while he waited for her to gather her things and go.

In the meantime, Adrecht had slipped into a pair of trousers and gotten out of bed. When the girl had gone, he turned to Marcus and crossed his arms on his bare chest.

"Well?" he said. "What is it this time? It can't be missing drill; I heard the announcement last night." Ja.n.u.s had given the regiment the day off for recovery, except for those needed on work details.

"It's not that."

"Well?" Adrecht smiled. "Why do you look so gloomy? We won, didn't we?"

The victory seemed to have reinvigorated the Fourth Battalion captain. He almost looked his old self again, albeit still missing his fancy trappings.

"It's not the battle, either," Marcus snapped. "It's what happened afterward. Have you been out to the camp?"

"Oh." Adrecht looked away. "That was . . . unfortunate."

"*Unfortunate' is not the word I would choose," Marcus said. "I gave an order that the men halt outside the camp and return to their formations. Your men ignored it."

"It wasn't only my men," Adrecht protested.

"The Fourth led the way," Marcus said.

There was a long pause. Adrecht shook his head irritably.

"Come on, Marcus. What do you want from them?" He waved his hand. "These aren't saints. They're not even proper soldiers. They're the sc.u.m of the earth, and you know it-the sweepings of the army. You can't expect them to behave like a bunch of country gentlemen."

"All I expect is that they obey orders."

"After a battle like that you can't blame them for wanting a little . . . release. You know?" Adrecht laughed weakly. His smile faded when Marcus' fist crashed against the tent pole.

"d.a.m.n it," Marcus said. "Listen to me. I'm not here to preach the Wisdoms at you, Adrecht. The colonel is not going to be happy about this. If I were you, I'd get a head start and start handing down some discipline as soon as possible."

"But-," Adrecht sputtered. "What am I supposed to do? Start thrashing rankers at random?"

"Do something, or else if we do get back to Ashe-Katarion they'll burn the place down around our ears." Marcus turned on his heel.

Behind him, Adrecht said, "There were some of yours right at the front, you know."

I know, Marcus thought. He could guess which, too-Sergeant Davis and his pack of wolves, for starters. Fitz was already asking questions.

He let the tent flap fall behind him and struck out across the camp, setting a slow pace to give himself time to cool off.

Maybe it doesn't make any difference. He hadn't had a moment alone with Ja.n.u.s since the battle, so he wasn't sure if the colonel was angry or not. Plenty of highborn colonels wouldn't have given a copper bit about the rape and murder of enemy camp followers, especially grayskin infidel camp followers. Marcus thought Ja.n.u.s might be different, but- It doesn't matter. I'm angry enough for the both of us. He'd spent most of the previous evening leading the work details that had finally cleaned up the Khandarai camp. Every overturned tent seemed to hide some fresh horror, and each one added another coal to the pile smoldering in his gut.

And all for what? So that fool of a prince can get back on his crumbling throne? If it was up to Marcus, he'd have handed the man over to the Redeemers and wished them good fortune.

I shouldn't have taken it out on Adrecht, though. As his temper cooled, he could admit that. The Fourth Battalion had been the worst offenders, but the speed of the Redeemer collapse had caught them all by surprise. It was no wonder the officers had lost control.

On the other hand, he's not the one who has to explain it to the colonel.

a a a Marcus' vague feeling of apprehension came into sharp focus when he approached the drill field and saw the artillery arrayed for review, and the colonel in conversation with some of the men. When he hurried over, though, he found the Preacher all smiles.

". . . bless you, sir. We're honored by your interest," he was saying.

"I notice," Ja.n.u.s said, "that these guns have some fascinating modifications."

He gestured to the six cannon that had been with the Colonials when he'd arrived, which had been given pride of place in the center of the line. Chief among these "modifications" was the addition of pa.s.sages from scripture, engraved all over the surface from muzzle to base. The Preacher insisted this improved the weapon's accuracy. He had a steady hand, and he'd been able to cram quite a large chunk of the Wisdoms onto each gun.

The Preacher doffed his peaked artilleryman's cap. "Weapons of the Lord, sir," he said. "Weapons of the Lord, every one of them. Gives them an extra bit of sting against the heathens. This one, I started with Martyrs, and got all the way to-"

"This is a Kravworks '98, isn't it?" Ja.n.u.s interrupted.

The Preacher blinked, fingering the bra.s.s Church double circle that hung around his neck. "Yes, sir. All our original twelve-pounders are."

"But you've done something to the touchhole." He leaned closer. "I can't quite see from the outside, but-"

The Preacher gave a broad smile. "You've got a good eye, sir! We had to drill out the originals-"

Noticing Marcus, Ja.n.u.s waved him closer and launched into an explanation. "The Kravworks '98 was a botched job," he said. "Problems with the touchhole, something about the boring. The tests showed that the misfire rate would be nearly twenty percent, so most of the guns got sent abroad, or else-"

"To bottom-of-the-barrel outfits like this one," Marcus finished. That was a familiar story-the Colonials got the worst of everything. Muskets that wouldn't fire, uniforms that fell to pieces, cannons that exploded . . .

"Indeed." Ja.n.u.s caught Marcus' expression. "No offense intended, of course."

"None taken," Marcus said. "I understand that Captain Vahkerson's made the best of it."

"What have you got in there?" Ja.n.u.s said to the Preacher.

"Friction primers," he said. "New Hamveltai design. Works a bit like a match. Had to tweak them a little myself, of course, but we've got the misfires down to one in a hundred shots, and that last shot is usually a failed ignition rather than something dangerous."

"Interesting." The colonel appeared to follow all that, which was more than Marcus himself could say. "But aren't Hamveltai primers a bit hard to come by out here?"

"Ah, as to that, my Lieutenant Archer is a dab hand with chemicals. We managed to puzzle out the recipe with only a few scorched gloves to show for it. By the grace of G.o.d, all the raw stuff is easy to get locally, so we've got a ready supply."

"Ingenious." Ja.n.u.s put on a broad smile. "He'll have to give me a demonstration of the process at some point."

"Whenever you like, sir! We'd be honored."

"And I was impressed by your performance," Ja.n.u.s replied. "I hope the new pieces are to your satisfaction?"

"Absolutely, sir. Smooth as b.u.t.ter, the whole lot. The six-pounders are particularly fine."

"I picked them out myself before we set sail," Ja.n.u.s said. "If there's anything you need-"

"Actually, sir," the Preacher said, "I understand we captured a number of mounts and packhorses from the heretics. Some of our teams are already under-strength, and we could do with extras for rotation. If you could see your way . . ."

"Of course." The colonel smiled again. "Not worried about having heretic horses pulling your holy guns?"

"Bless you, sir. I'll soon have 'em on the straight and narrow. I read 'em scripture every night, you see."

Marcus didn't know if that was a joke or not. The Preacher had an odd sense of humor.

Ja.n.u.s chuckled. "Very well, then. Carry on, Captain."

"Sir!" The Preacher saluted. "Thank you, sir!"

Turning away from the guns, Ja.n.u.s motioned for Marcus to follow him. Marcus fell into step, almost unconsciously, slowing his pace to match Ja.n.u.s' shorter strides.

"A good man, Captain Vahkerson," he mused.

"A bit eccentric," Marcus said, "but certainly a good officer."

"He's effective," Ja.n.u.s said. "Give me effective and eccentric over stolid and conventional every time." He eyed Marcus sidelong. "There are those who have called me eccentric as well, you know."

"I can't imagine why, sir."

Ja.n.u.s laughed. When Marcus remained silent, the colonel glanced at his companion. One look, but from that one brief glimpse of those gray eyes Marcus suddenly felt as though his every thought had been revealed.

"Ah, Captain," Ja.n.u.s said. "I think you are not entirely pleased with me."

"Sir?"

"If there's something you wish to say, I encourage you to say it."

Marcus stiffened. "It's not my place, sir."