"To do something for the pain," Marcus finished.

"Could be. It makes me wonder what happens to fellows who've had their heads cut off. Does their whole body ache like this?"

Marcus eyed the wine bottle. Adrecht, following his gaze, chuckled weakly.

"I'm not drunk, if that's what you're wondering. Just . . . thoughtful. I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"In the morning," Adrecht said, "we're to march farther into the Desol."

"Those are the colonel's orders," Marcus said.

"Farther from any source of food or water."

"There are oases in the Desol," Marcus offered. He knew it was a weak response.

"Hidden springs," Adrecht agreed. "Which are, of course, hidden. Only the Desoltai know how to find them. I suppose we could always ask."

"What do you want me to say?" Marcus said. "The colonel doesn't consult me when he makes his plans."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Today?" Marcus shook his head. "He wouldn't see me."

"Did he say why not?"

"His man said he was busy." Marcus couldn't disguise a hint of bitterness.

"Busy. Well, I should hope he's busy." Adrecht picked up the bottle of wine, considered it for a moment, then took a swig. "The situation certainly calls for it."

"You've been talking to Mor and Val."

"I have," Adrecht admitted. "And to Give-Em-h.e.l.l, and the Preacher. And the lieutenants and sergeants. To the Old Colonials."

"Performing an a.s.sessment of morale?"

"You might say that." Adrecht smiled thinly and set the bottle down. "The opinion of the camp is that the colonel is crazy."

"Mor said the same thing. We'll have to see, won't we?"

"Some of us aren't eager to find out."

Marcus chose his words carefully. "I don't think any of us are eager. But I don't see that we have any choice."

"A man with a weapon always has a choice," Adrecht said. "I said from the beginning that we ought never to have come out so far. Are you willing to admit now that I was right?"

"I don't know," Marcus said. "And I don't see that it matters."

Adrecht's lip curled. "What would it take, Marcus? How far does he have to go before you understand?"

"He's the colonel of this regiment," Marcus said. "He has his commission from the king and the Minister of War."

"The infallible Ministry of War," Adrecht said bitterly. "The ones who dumped us here in the first place."

"Get to the point, Adrecht."

Another spasm of pain crossed Adrecht's features. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, until it pa.s.sed. Then he said, "The regiment will not march tomorrow. Not to the east."

"It's mutiny, then."

"It's common sense. You have to see that."

"Don't do this." Marcus fought to keep the desperation out of his voice. "Please."

"Tell that to the colonel." Adrecht reached for the wine again. "I was hoping you would listen to reason. Mor told me I was wasting my time."

"I'm going back to my tent," Marcus said. "In the morning, I expect the Fourth to be mustered and ready to march. You can still back away from this."

"Go, then." Adrecht swigged from the bottle and gave a crooked smile. "And keep your head down."

Marcus turned and left without another word. The men of the Fourth were still sprawled in their disheveled camp, but he couldn't help but feel an air of menace in their looks as he hurried past them. He wondered how many would follow Adrecht. How many would follow Adrecht and Mor and Val together, against this new colonel who had led them, finally, to the brink of disaster?

Ja.n.u.s has to be told. He'd given Adrecht until morning, but they couldn't afford to wait that long. A real mutiny would tear the regiment apart, and given their precarious position it would as good as sign the death warrant for every one of them. We have to stop them now, Marcus realized, and felt a sick weight settle in his gut. Adrecht would have to be arrested, and maybe Mor and Val as well. And Give-Em-h.e.l.l? The Preacher? That had to be a bluff. He couldn't imagine either of them going along with anything so underhanded.

Lost in thought, Marcus found his way back to the First Battalion's encampment and headed for his own tent. Three men were waiting for him outside it, Old Colonials. They saluted.

"Lieutenant Warus is inside, sir," said one wearing a corporal's stripes. "He had a message for you. Said it was urgent."

Maybe he finally got in to see Ja.n.u.s. Marcus gave another nod and slipped through the tent flap. Only a couple of candles and the light of the failing sun illuminated the interior of the tent, leaving it almost as dark as Adrecht's. A couple of men stood at the other end, both too large to be Fitz. The bigger of the pair stepped forward, and Marcus recognized the rotund form of Sergeant Davis.

"Sir," Davis said, with a lazy salute.

"Sergeant," Marcus acknowledged. "Where's Lieutenant Warus?"

"He's been unavoidably detained, sir," Davis said.

"They told me-"

The sound of canvas and a p.r.i.c.kle at the back of his neck made Marcus turn. Two of the men from outside-men from Davis' company, he now recalled-had entered. Both carried muskets with bayonets fixed, shouldered and trained on Marcus.

From behind him he heard the click of a hammer drawing back. He turned back to Davis. The second figure had stepped up beside the fat sergeant, c.o.c.ked pistol in his hand.

"Sergeant?" Marcus said, with more calm than he felt. "Care to explain yourself?"

Davis smiled hugely. "I'm afraid you're under arrest, sir. Orders of Senior Captain Roston."

"Senior Captain Roston?" Marcus matched the man's stare. "I suggest you take that up with the colonel."

"Regrettably, the colonel has been relieved of his command, on grounds of mental unbalance."

"Don't be stupid, Davis."

"Sorry, sir." The sergeant shrugged. "It's nothing personal. I'm only following orders. Men?"

The men behind Marcus took him by the arms, and the man with the pistol lowered his weapon. Davis sauntered forward. Then, brutally fast, he buried one hamhock fist in Marcus' gut.

"That-" He bent to speak in Marcus' ear as he doubled over in agony. "That, sir, was personal."

Chapter Twenty-two.

WINTER.

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

The knife was in Winter's hand. Jane was naked, silken red hair cascading down over her shoulders, green eyes gleaming with mischief.

"I can't," Winter said miserably. "I can't do it."

"You did it then," Jane said. "You can do it now. Come on."

Haltingly, Winter raised her hand. The knife was a long, narrow spike of silvered steel, shining in the pale light. The hilt was cold as ice in her hand.

"Do this one thing for me," Jane said. "Just this once."

The point of the blade seemed to move of its own accord. It pressed against the hollow of Jane's throat, dimpling the skin, then raising a single drop of blood where it p.r.i.c.ked through.

"I didn't want to," Winter said, her throat thick. "I never-"

"Shhh."

Jane's hands came up, warm around the icy chill of Winter's fingers. Gently, almost tenderly, she pressed the knife home, until their entwined hands were flush with the skin of her throat. Then she let go, and when Winter opened her fingers the knife was gone.

Blood pulsed from the wound, trickling down Jane's body in a steady stream. It pooled along her collarbone and washed down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. A crimson rivulet twisted down the smooth skin of her belly and lost itself in the thatch of hair between her legs.

"I'm sorry," Winter, swallowing a rising sob. "I'm sorry."

"Shhh," Jane said. "It's all right."

Wherever the blood had trailed, Jane's skin changed. It went pale and gray, shot through with sparkling dark veins, and shone like polished marble. The transformation spread, accelerating as patches joined together, until it was racing over Jane's body like a tide. Her hair turned to silver in a sparkling wave, and the green in her eyes widened until they were a brilliant emerald from edge to edge.

"Obv-scar-iot," Jane said, her voice resonating with a strange harmonic. "You see?"

Winter gave a weak smile. "You're beautiful."

Jane stepped forward and kissed her. Winter bent eagerly, pressing her body against the shining creature. Jane tasted of dust and centuries, like licking a statue, but her skin was warm and pliant, and her hair fell soft across Winter's bare shoulders. Jane's hand stroked Winter's flank, wandered down across the curve of her thigh, then up again to caress her s.e.x. Winter shivered, pressing herself more tightly into the embrace, even as the cold began.

Her fingers froze first, screaming in protest and then going numb. From there it moved inward, down her arms and up from her toes. Jane nibbled playfully at Winter's neck, and behind her head Winter held up one hand and found her own flesh turning to brilliantly polished stone. Where Jane's was warm and vital, hers was as cold and dead as any statue.

It's all right. She watched the marble spread across her skin, past her elbows, onto her shoulders. Her hair frizzled as it turned to silver. Jane's warm, wet mouth kissed a trail down Winter's neck, past her collarbone, toward her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and in its wake her flesh hardened to lifeless stone. Her vision dimmed as her eyes became sparkling, sightless gemstones.

It's all right. She wanted to say it aloud, but her lips were frozen. The cold pressed inward, until it finally reached her heart.

a a a Winter opened her eyes.

The cold was still in her, colder than the worst winters at the Prison, when the fires went out and the girls shivered and slept three or four to a bed for warmth. It felt as though she were thawing from the outside in as reality gradually rea.s.serted itself, leaving her with pins and needles racing across her skin. She could still feel the ghost of Jane's lips against her breast, and the shivery tingle of deft fingers between her legs.

Saints and f.u.c.king martyrs. Her heart was beating like a drummer calling the charge. I think I preferred my old set of nightmares.

Bobby lay beside her, huddled into the crook of her arm. They'd started out on separate bedrolls, Winter recalled, but the girl must have rolled over in her sleep. Overhead, the fabric of the tent was as dark as pitch. It was still well before dawn.

The recent past was a blur, coming as it did at the end of thirty or forty hours without sleep. From the hillside where they'd fought the three Khandarai, she'd enjoyed a panoramic view of the Vordanai encampment, and she'd watched the first blossom of musketry spread into a general engagement until smoke had shrouded the scene.

It wasn't until late in the day that Winter had dared to venture down, after Bobby had regained a groggy semiconsciousness and the sound of firing had died away. She was relieved to find that there was a camp to return to, although the destruction had obviously been extensive. In the confusion no one seemed to be concerned about her absence.

The returning First Battalion had finally gotten around to erecting those tents that had escaped the conflagration, which included hers. She'd taken Bobby and Feor inside with instructions to Graff that she not be disturbed until at least the Day of Judgment. After that, she recalled nothing but the fading echo of her dream.

She sat up cautiously, worming one arm out from under Bobby. The corporal shifted uneasily, mouth moving as though carrying on a silent argument, but did not wake. Groping past her, Winter located her trunk by feel and after some rummaging managed to find a box of matches and a candle.

Bobby was still in her uniform from the previous day, stained and dampened by sweat and grime. In the opposite corner of the tent, Feor was curled into a miserable ball, huddled around her still-splinted arm.

And what am I going to do with her? Winter sat back against the trunk, chewing her lip. She couldn't help but feel responsible for the girl, as she felt responsible for Bobby, for all that both of them had come of their own free will. In Bobby's case, she had at least the excuse of military duty. Feor she'd adopted w.i.l.l.y-nilly, like a little girl taking in a stray cat with no thought of who was going to care for it. But what else am I supposed to do? Let her get herself killed?

Beside the trunk was the pack the Khandarai raider had been carrying. Winter had brought it along in the hope there would be food and water inside, but the whole of the bulky thing was taken up with an odd sort of lantern. She'd resolved to turn it over to the captain, in case he saw something important in it that she did not. Although I imagine he has other concerns right now.

Bobby shifted again, muttering something inaudible. Her shirt had come loose, and Winter could see a line of pale skin that glittered like polished stone in the candlelight. Winter crawled over to the bedroll to tuck the shirt back in, then hesitated. Carefully, she pulled it up a few inches, exposing the wound that had threatened the girl's life to begin with.

The marble patch was still there, still warm and soft to her hesitant touch but slick and stony to the eye. And, Winter thought, it was bigger. At least it looked bigger to her, in the uncertain light, though she had to admit that her memory of that first night was shaky.

We have to get some answers out of Feor. Was this change going to spread over Bobby's body? What would happen when it reached her face? Winter glared at the sleeping form of the Khandarai girl. She must know.

There was a knock at the tent pole, and then a harsh, urgent whisper. "Lieutenant? It's Graff."

Hurriedly, Winter fixed Bobby's uniform. Graff knew the truth of Bobby's gender, but not of Winter's, and she imagined that if he found her exploring under the girl's shirt he'd reach an unfortunate conclusion. "Come in."

He slipped through the flap, glanced down at Bobby, and looked instantly embarra.s.sed. Winter rolled her eyes.

"Graff, if you act like that, everyone is going to know."

"Yes, sir," he said unhappily. "It's just . . . looking at her like that . . ." He cleared his throat. "It's hard to imagine I was ever fooled."