This was the part that Marcus had been dreading. While he could understand most of the natives, the denizens of the royal court spoke a formal dialect that bordered on a separate language. He couldn't catch more than one word in four, not even enough to be certain that Razzan was providing an accurate translation.

He leaned close to Ja.n.u.s and whispered, "The prince may be under the impression that the only reason you were sent is because he asked them to-"

Ja.n.u.s held up a hand for silence, thought for a moment, and said, "Give His Grace my greetings. I have the honor to be Count Colonel Ja.n.u.s bet Vhalnich Mieran, commanding the First Colonial Infantry. I believe His Grace already knows Senior Captain d'Ivoire."

Razzan rendered that, and listened to the response. "His Grace is most gratified that his valued friend Farus the Eighth would send him so worthy an individual."

Ja.n.u.s bowed again. "I will do my utmost to live up to His Grace's expectations."

The prince's lip twisted, and he rattled off something that sounded unhappy. Razzan hesitated a moment, then said, "His Grace is curious regarding the whereabouts of the rest of his fleet."

The colonel's expression never flickered. "The ships are all arrived, and anch.o.r.ed in the bay."

Exopter spoke again, at some length.

"His Grace wonders if perhaps there has been some error in translation." Razzan licked his lips. "Only thirteen vessels are currently in the bay, he understands."

"That is correct."

"But that is insufficient. His Grace's summons to his most beneficent ally King Farus the Eighth specifically instructed him to send one hundred thousand men. Thirteen ships could never carry so many."

Marcus almost choked on a laugh. A hundred thousand men would be most of the Royal Army, and it would take every ship on the coast to carry them. Razzan was feigning incomprehension, but the royal eyes were watchful.

"The ships have brought sufficient replacements to bring the First Colonials to full strength," Ja.n.u.s said. "Along with ammunition, supplies, and other necessaries."

Exopter snapped something. Razzan said, "Are these men of the First Colonials demons, then? Does each fight with the strength of ten men? Are they impervious to bullets?"

No hint of a smile crossed Ja.n.u.s' expression, but Marcus could hear the amus.e.m.e.nt in his voice. "They are brave and skilled, but I must admit that they are only men."

"Then His Grace would like to know how you plan to go about regaining his kingdom with a single regiment." Razzan said it politely, and looked apologetic, but there was a gleam in the prince's eyes, as though he'd just delivered a killing stroke. "Or, perhaps, you plan no such thing? Perhaps our friend the king has abandoned his sworn duties?"

"His Majesty would never dream of it," Ja.n.u.s said. "As for regaining your kingdom, you may rest a.s.sured that the matter has my full attention."

The prince drawled a response, and Razzan turned pale. Before he could muster a suitably watered-down translation, Ja.n.u.s rattled off a string of court Khandarai so perfect that the obsequious minister gaped. Even the prince was taken aback, eyes widening under the painted mask. Marcus blinked.

"If that's all," Ja.n.u.s continued in Vordanai, "then I will take my leave. Please thank His Grace for his time."

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, the pair of Heavenly Guards parting before him. Marcus hurried to keep pace, feeling like a boy running at the heels of an older brother. He waited until they were well clear of the tower to speak.

"I didn't know you spoke the language, sir." He tried to keep his tone neutral, but it still felt uncomfortably accusatory.

"I speak seven languages," Ja.n.u.s said absently. "In addition to the usual Vordanai, Noreldrai, and Hamveltai, I have made a particular study of Borelgai, Murnskai, Vheedai, and Khandarai." He shrugged. "Though I will admit I needed to brush up on the more formal usages. I found the time aboard ship most conducive to study, as there was so little else to occupy the mind."

"That's . . . very impressive."

Ja.n.u.s shook his head and seemed to come back to himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to boast."

"Not at all, sir."

"If we're to work together, Captain, it is important that we be honest to ourselves and one another about our capacities. I'm sorry if I caught you off guard."

"It just surprised me, sir." Marcus hesitated. "What did the prince say to you? I can follow most Khandarai, but not that formal stuff."

Ja.n.u.s' lip quirked. "He said that my full attention didn't amount to much, considering that the king had sent the dregs of his officer corps."

"Dregs" was a fair description of the Colonials, but that hit a little close to home. Marcus winced. "And what did you say to him?"

"I told him that since he was coming to us as a beggar, dregs were the best that he should expect." The quick smile again. "I suppose that was not . . . diplomatic of me."

"After he insulted His Majesty, it's only understandable," Marcus said loyally. "But . . ."

Ja.n.u.s noticed the hesitation and c.o.c.ked his head, birdlike. "What is it? You may always speak freely with me, Captain, provided we are alone."

He took a deep breath. "Do you really intend to try to recapture Khandar, sir? Most of the men are expecting to get right back aboard the transports and sail home."

There was a long silence. Ja.n.u.s regarded Marcus thoughtfully, his gray eyes glittering. There was something extraordinary about those eyes, Marcus thought. They seemed to look through you, past all the trappings and courtesies and even through flesh and blood until they got at your very essence. If there really was a Beast of Judgment, it would have that sort of stare.

"And what are you expecting, Captain?" Ja.n.u.s said softly.

"I-" Marcus stopped, sensing a trap. "I wouldn't venture to antic.i.p.ate your plans, sir."

"But what would your opinion be?" Ja.n.u.s leaned closer. "What would you do, if the command was yours?"

Turn tail and never look back. Marcus shook his head slowly. "According to the last reports before we retreated, the Redeemer army at Ashe-Katarion was nearly twenty thousand strong. It will be larger by now. Then there's General Khtoba"-he wanted to spit at the sound of the name-"and his Auxiliaries, six battalions worth of Vordanai-trained and Vordanai-armed soldiers. And ever since this Steel Ghost whipped up the Desoltai and threw in their lot with the priests . . ." He spread his hands. "If we're up to full strength, we'll have nearly four thousand men."

"A bit more," Ja.n.u.s interrupted, "with the attached cavalry and artillery."

"A bit more than four thousand," Marcus agreed. "Against-call it thirty thousand. Six to one against us, and that's only counting soldiers in the field. Practically the whole population of Ashe-Katarion wanted to see the back of the prince by the time the Redeemers had gotten them fired up."

"Six to one," Ja.n.u.s said. "Those are long odds."

"Long odds," Marcus said. "I'm not saying my men aren't up to a fight, sir. If we had another brigade, a few more guns, maybe a regiment of cuira.s.siers, I wouldn't hesitate. But long odds are long odds."

Ja.n.u.s gave a slow nod. Then, as though reaching a decision, he grinned.

"Would you care to take your dinner with me, Captain? I suppose I owe you an explanation."

a a a Before dinner there were a few hours of daylight remaining. That meant more paperwork. There was no way around it; the ledgers and files of the Colonials had gotten woefully out of date during Ben Warus' tenure, in spite of Fitz' clandestine efforts to clean up his brother's messes, and Marcus had hardly had time to make a start on the backlog. Now, with upward of two thousand new recruits needing to be added to the rolls and dozens of rank amateurs for sergeants and lieutenants, the ocean of bureaucratic requirements threatened to close over his head.

Marcus was not a man to admit defeat easily, though, and he spent the rest of the day puzzling through arcane forms and adding his signature where required. He barely noticed when Fitz ghosted in and left a steaming cup by his elbow. When he reached out for it and took a sip, though, the taste made him look up.

"Tea?" he said. "Real tea? Have you been holding out on us, Lieutenant?"

The young man smiled. "From the fleet, sir. Compliments of the colonel, as a matter of fact."

Marcus pursed his lips and blew across the top of the mug, then took a longer swallow. The delicate flavor worked like some sorcerer's incantation, flinging him across the miles and years to a safer time. For a moment he was back at the War College at Grent, letting a steaming mug cool by his elbow as he worked his way through another dense text on tactical theory and half listened to Adrecht prattle about the latest campus gossip. He closed his eyes.

The Khandarai drank coffee-a rare delicacy in Vordan, but so cheap here that you could buy the raw beans for pennies to the bushel. They liked it dark and sludgy, and heavily spiced. It was a taste Marcus had managed to acquire over the years, and it certainly packed a kick that would keep you up for half the night, but still . . .

He breathed out, feeling at least fractionally more at peace. "Thank you, Fitz."

"My pleasure, sir."

Marcus opened his eyes. "Speaking of the colonel . . ."

"Yes, sir?"

"It appears he'll be requiring my services, at least part of the time. I'll be relying on you to take care of the First."

Properly speaking, Marcus should have had at least two more field lieutenants to whom he could delegate command authority in his absence so that his staff lieutenant could concentrate on staff work. As it was, though, Fitz wore all the hats, sometimes simultaneously.

"Of course, sir. No need to worry on that score." He hesitated. "If I may, sir . . ."

Marcus sipped at the tea and waved a hand. "Hmm?"

"What's your impression of the colonel?"

"He's . . ." Marcus paused, thinking. "He's very clever."

Fitz frowned. "Clever" was not a good thing in the lexicon of the common soldier. Clever officers came up with elaborate plans that backfired at just the wrong moment and got you killed.

"He's a count," Marcus went on, "but he doesn't stand on privilege. Likable, I suppose, but there's something"-he thought of those eyes, gray and judging-"something a little odd. I don't know." He shrugged. "I've just met the man myself."

"Has he given you any indication what he plans to do?"

Before Marcus could reply, there was a knock at the outer door. Fitz hurried off to answer it, and Marcus turned back to the papers in front of him, trying to bully his eyes into focus. He took a long drink and let it sit on his tongue, warm and bitter.

A cough made him look up again and swallow hurriedly. Fitz stood at the inner doorway. His expression was as officially blank as usual, but the barest hint of an arched eyebrow indicated that something strange was afoot.

"There's someone to see you," the lieutenant said. "A Miss Jennifer Alhundt."

Marcus was taken aback. "Really?"

"Yes, sir."

"Show her in, I suppose." Marcus straightened up and tugged at his collar, peripherally aware of the sweaty patches that were beginning to show through his dress blues.

The woman was pale, even for a Vordanai. She had the look of someone who'd spent too much time indoors, an impression enhanced by watery eyes behind silver-rimmed spectacles. Her hair was long and dark, tied back in a severe braid. She wore a thin brown coat over a shapeless cotton blouse and brown trousers. When Marcus had left Vordan, a well-bred woman wearing trousers would have been, if not a scandal, at least the occasion for much comment. He wondered idly if all the n.o.ble ladies had traded their frilly dresses for boyish leggings since then. Stranger things had happened in the world of high fashion.

He got to his feet as she entered, and sketched a bow, which she returned awkwardly. Her spectacles threatened to fall off, and she caught them automatically and pushed them back up her nose with a well-practiced motion.

"Welcome, Miss Alhundt. I'm Captain Marcus d'Ivoire. Will you sit down?" He paused, suddenly painfully aware that he had just asked a lady to squat on the bare floor. He coughed to cover his embarra.s.sment. "Fitz, fetch a cushion for Miss Alhundt, would you?"

"Thank you," she said. "I'll be fine."

They settled themselves on opposite sides of Marcus' crude desk, and she peered at him through thick lenses in the manner of a naturalist studying some surprising insect. Marcus was still trying to work out a polite way to ask what the h.e.l.l she was doing here when she said, "I expect you're wondering what I'm doing here."

He shrugged, and waved desperately at Fitz, who bustled off. "Would you like some tea?"

"Please," she said. "I came in with the fleet, of course. I'm on a.s.signment."

"What sort of a.s.signment?"

"His Grace was instructed by His Majesty to gather an independent perspective on events in Khandar."

Marcus froze. "His Grace?"

"His Grace, Duke Orlanko," she clarified. "I'm with the Ministry of Information."

Fitz appeared with the tea, which saved Marcus from having to think of an immediate response to that. Miss Alhundt accepted the mug from the lieutenant, sipped, and resumed staring at Marcus.

"The Ministry of Information," Marcus said eventually. "May I ask in what . . . capacity?"

"Only a poor scholar, I'm afraid." She gave a tight little smile. "I know our reputation, Captain, but I a.s.sure you that His Grace employs many more scribes than he does spies and a.s.sa.s.sins."

Miss Alhundt certainly didn't look like a spy or a.s.sa.s.sin. She had the air of someone more comfortable with books than people. But everyone in Vordan knew about the all-seeing eye and long reach of Duke Orlanko's Concordat.

"And you mentioned a royal order?" he said, buying time.

She nodded. "His Majesty was concerned that the reports we'd been receiving from Khandar might be . . . inadequate. In view of our expanded commitment and the situation here, he thought it expedient to try to get a disinterested view of how things stand. That isn't easy to do through military channels."

"Fair enough, I suppose." Marcus shifted uncomfortably. "So what is it that you need from me?"

"I just thought I would introduce myself." She favored him with a smile, showing pretty white teeth. "I'm afraid my experience in the field is rather limited, and I'm sure I'll be relying a great deal on you and the other officers for your opinions."

"I thought you were supposed to get an unbiased view of things."

"I will present your views along with my own opinions," Miss Alhundt said. "That way, His Majesty and His Grace will have all the available information. Things have certainly been confused lately."

Marcus could imagine that. He'd written only one hasty report during the retreat, and it was unlikely that even that had reached the capital by now. His Grace must be groping in the dark. No wonder he sent some of his own people along. But her?

"I'll do whatever I can," he said. "You understand, though, that this is now Colonel Vhalnich's command. My opinions may not count for very much anymore."

"I'll be speaking to the colonel, too, of course," she said briskly. "I take it you've met him?"

"I received him this afternoon."

"Would you care to offer your impression?"

"I wouldn't," Marcus said. Gossiping with Fitz was one thing, but talking about a senior officer to a civilian was deeply taboo, even if that civilian didn't work for the secret police.

"Fair enough," Miss Alhundt said, still smiling. "I understand." Abruptly, she held her hand out across the table. "I do hope we can be friends, Captain d'Ivoire."

Marcus shook awkwardly, again at a loss. Miss Alhundt sipped, handed her teacup to Fitz, and got to her feet.

"And now, I imagine you have work to do," she said. "I'll see you soon, I'm sure."

Once the young woman had swept back out the door, Marcus looked up at his aide. "Do I have work to do?"