"Yes," Fitz said. "But first you're having dinner with the colonel, remember?"

a a a The door to Ja.n.u.s' quarters opened at Marcus' approach, revealing a liveried servant with a haughty expression. Marcus, caught off guard, sketched a slight bow, and received a nod in return.

"I'm Captain d'Ivoire," he said. "The colonel's expecting me."

"Of course, sir." The manservant, a pinch-faced man with a shock of white hair who couldn't have been younger than fifty, gave Marcus a somewhat deeper nod and a disapproving stare. "Come in."

"Ah, Captain!" called Ja.n.u.s from inside. "Augustin, you can get dinner started."

"Yes, sir." The manservant bowed again, deeply, and withdrew.

"Augustin has been with my family since he was a boy," Ja.n.u.s confided as the man bustled away. "He thinks of it as his mission in life to maintain the dignity of my station. Don't let him bother you."

Somewhat to Marcus' surprise, the largest and outermost chamber of the little suite had been converted into a pa.s.sable imitation of a dining room. The walls were still bare rock and there were no carpets on the floor, of course, but a table big enough for six had appeared, complete with chairs, napkins, and cutlery. Even plates-Marcus hadn't seen real china since he'd arrived in Khandar. He wondered whether the colonel planned to carry it all into the field.

"Take a seat, Captain! Take off your jacket, if you like." Ja.n.u.s was in his shirtsleeves, his blue coat tossed carelessly on top of a trunk in one corner. "You may have gathered that I don't stand on ceremony." When he saw Marcus still hesitating in the doorway, he commanded, "Sit! I'll be back in a moment. I need to sort something out."

He bustled off through the flimsy curtain that divided the dining room from the rest of the suite. Marcus, somewhat uncertainly, took one of the chairs and settled into it. It was a more complex affair then it appeared at first glance, with a canvas seat and back, and was surprisingly comfortable. After a bit of investigation Marcus decided the thing could be folded up for transport.

His curiosity piqued, he picked up his plate. The lack of heft told him it wasn't porcelain after all; it felt more like tin. He rapped it with his fingernail.

"A special alloy," the colonel said, from the doorway. "And the glaze is an interesting design. It has nearly the look of proper china, doesn't it? But it's practically impossible to scratch." He shook his head. "The food won't be much, I'm afraid. Augustin is a wizard, but there's only so much that can be done with salt beef and hard bread."

Marcus, whose last meal had been a thin mutton soup from a wooden bowl, shrugged.

"Once we've had some time to settle in, I hope that you'll introduce me to the local delicacies," the colonel went on.

"When we left Ashe-Katarion," Marcus said, "the thing to eat was roasted imhalyt beetles in the sh.e.l.l. Under the right conditions they can grow to be eight inches long, and the meat is supposedly delightful."

Ja.n.u.s didn't bat an eye. "It sounds . . . fascinating. Did you spend a great deal of time with the locals?"

"Before the Redeemers, we had reasonably good relations," Marcus said, considering. "On the whole I wouldn't say they loved us, of course, but I had friends in the city. There was a little place by the harbor that sold arphalta-that's a sort of clam-and I used to spend my free evenings there. The d.a.m.n things are hard to get open unless you know the trick, but the meat is sweet as candy."

Marcus paused, wondering suddenly if the little arphalta shop was still there or if it had been consigned to the flames by the Redeemers. Wondering, for that matter, how many of his friends might have shared a similar fate.

"I wish I'd been here," the colonel said. "It's a fascinating culture, and I'd have loved to have explored it in peace. I imagine any further interactions will be somewhat-strained."

"Quite probably," Marcus deadpanned.

Augustin came back in with a silver tureen of thick red soup and a pair of bowls. He placed and poured with all the noiseless elegance of the ancient retainer, then went back to the kitchen for gla.s.ses and a bottle of wine. He presented the latter to Ja.n.u.s for approval.

"Yes, that will do," Ja.n.u.s told him. Glancing at Marcus, he said, "You have no objection to Hamveltai flaghaelan, I hope?"

Marcus, whose appreciation of wine began and ended with what color it was, nodded uncertainly.

"Augustin was quite upset with me when I didn't allow him to bring half the cellar," Ja.n.u.s said. "I kept telling him that we were unlikely to require a Bere Nefeit '79 while on campaign, but he was most insistent."

"One never knows what may expected of one," Augustin said. He poured deftly. "A gentleman must always be prepared to entertain guests in the manner of a gentleman."

"Yes, yes." Ja.n.u.s took up his gla.s.s and raised it. "To the king's health!"

"The king's health," Marcus echoed, and sipped. It was good, truthfully, though after years of Khandarai rotgut it felt like drinking fruit juice. He was more interested in the soup-if the ingredients were salt beef and hard bread, they had certainly been well concealed. Before he realized it he had cleaned the bowl and found himself looking around for more.

"Another helping for the captain," Ja.n.u.s said.

"Thank you, sir," Marcus said. He cleared his throat. "You'd best know, I had a visitor this afternoon-"

"Our Miss Alhundt? Yes, I thought you might."

"She . . ." Marcus paused, looking at Augustin. Ja.n.u.s caught his expression.

"You may trust in Augustin's discretion. I certainly do. However, if it makes you more comfortable-Augustin, would you leave us for a few minutes?"

"Certainly, sir." The manservant bowed. "I will be outside if my lord requires anything."

He ghosted out. He should get together with Fitz, Marcus thought. Both men had obviously mastered the art of noiseless movement in order to sneak up on their superiors.

"You were saying something about Miss Alhundt?"

"Ah, yes, sir." Marcus shook his head. "She works for the Ministry of Information. I suppose you know that."

"I do indeed," Ja.n.u.s said. "What did you think of her?"

"Personally?" Marcus shrugged. "We didn't talk long enough to form much of an opinion. A bit stuffy, perhaps. Harmless."

The corner of Ja.n.u.s' lip twitched. "Harmless in her person, perhaps. How much do you know about the political situation back home?"

Politics. Marcus fought back a surge of panic. "Almost nothing, sir. We don't even get the gossip until it's six months stale."

"I won't bore you with the details of plots and counterplots. Suffice it to say that for some time now His Majesty's government has been divided into two factions. One-call them the *peace' party-favors a greater accommodation with the Borelgai and Emperor of Murnsk, and particularly with the Sworn Church of Elysium. The other side would prefer an aggressive policy toward both. Precisely who belongs to which faction is never entirely clear, but the leader of the peace party has for some time been His Grace Duke Orlanko." Ja.n.u.s c.o.c.ked his head. "You've heard of him at least, I trust?"

"The Last Duke," Marcus said. "Minister of Information."

"Indeed. It was the ascendancy of the war party that brought us the War of the Princes, which ended so disastrously at Vansfeldt."

"You don't need to remind me of that," Marcus said. "I was there."

He'd been on his tour as a lieutenant, supervising a supply company well short of any action. He'd been close enough to catch the distant flash and grumble of the guns, though, and to be caught up in the panicked rout that followed.

Ja.n.u.s nodded. "After the treaty was signed, the peace party found its rule nearly uncontested. The death of Prince Dominic had robbed the war party of its leader, and the king was too debilitated by grief and illness to interfere. Orlanko forged closer ties than ever to the Borelgai and the Church. As the king's sicknesses have become more frequent, Orlanko's power has increased. If His Majesty were to die-Lord forbid, of course-Princess Raesinia might take the throne, but Orlanko would rule, to the extent that he does not already."

"All right," Marcus said uncertainly. "What does that have to do with Khandar? I would have thought we'd be the last thing on his mind."

"Indeed. When the Minister of War suggested a Khandarai expedition, everyone expected Orlanko to oppose it. Instead, he not only threw his own weight behind it, but demanded that one of his people be sent along as an official observer."

"Why?"

Ja.n.u.s smiled. "I have spent most of the past few months trying to figure that out. One possibility is that he guessed that I would be chosen for the command. The Duke and I are . . . not on good terms. He may think that we are doomed to either b.l.o.o.d.y failure or ignominious retreat, and in either case he could use the fallout to destroy me."

Marcus, somewhat alarmed by the casual reference to "b.l.o.o.d.y failure," kept his expression carefully neutral. "But you don't think that's it."

"I don't. It's too roundabout, even for a compulsive schemer like Orlanko. No doubt my downfall would be gratifying, but there's something here that he wants." Ja.n.u.s pursed his lips. "Or something that someone wants. It may be that Orlanko is merely an errand boy for his friends in the Sworn Church. There have been a great many clerical comings and goings from the Ministry of Information lately."

"What would the Sworn Church want from Khandar?"

"Who knows?" Ja.n.u.s shrugged, but his eyes were hooded. "It could be anything. They still believe in demons up in Elysium."

"It doesn't seem very clever of Orlanko to put his agent out where everyone can see her," Marcus said. "I can have a couple of men tail her, if you like."

"Thank you, Captain, but don't bother. As I said, I suspect she's harmless in her person. The real agents are no doubt salted amongst our new recruits."

Marcus hadn't thought about that. All those new men, and how was he supposed to know which to trust? He felt a sudden, irrational stab of rage at Ja.n.u.s. What the h.e.l.l have you brought down on my regiment?

After a moment he said, "Why tell me all this, sir?"

"I take it you're not accustomed to senior officers speaking plainly?" Ja.n.u.s chuckled. "No, don't answer that. I'm trying to be honest with you, Captain, because I need your help. You know the country, you know the Khandarai, and most important, you know the Colonials. I'm not foolish enough to think I can do this without you and your fellow officers."

Marcus' back straightened involuntarily. "I will perform my duty to the best of my ability, sir. As will the others."

"I need more than obedience. I need a partner, of sorts. With the Redeemers in front of us and Orlanko behind, I need someone I can trust."

"What makes you think you can trust me?"

"I've read your file, Captain," Ja.n.u.s said. "I know you better than you might think."

There was a long pause.

"What is it that you intend to do?" Marcus asked eventually.

"Whether he intended it or not, Orlanko has backed me into a corner. My orders require me to suppress the rebellion, but no one at the Ministry of War understood how badly out of hand things had gotten here. The only way out is to fight the campaign and win, while keeping one eye on Miss Alhundt and whatever friends she may have brought with her."

Marcus considered for a moment. "May I ask something, sir?"

"Of course."

"I don't fancy the idea of my men being used as p.a.w.ns in this game between you and the Duke. I want . . ." Marcus hesitated. "I would like your word, as an officer, that you really think this can be done. I'm not interested in helping you die gloriously." Or doing so on your behalf.

He'd been worried that Ja.n.u.s would take offense, but the colonel gave another quick smile. "Of course, Captain. You can have my word as an officer, a count, or in whatever other capacity you'd like."

"As an officer will be sufficient," Marcus said, fighting a grin. "I never did place much trust in n.o.bility."

Chapter Three.

WINTER.

Winter returned from breakfast to find all of her worldly possessions smashed into the dirt.

Someone had taken down her tent, folding it neatly around the poles in accordance with regulations. Before they could do this, they'd had to dump everything out of it, and from the look of things there had been a fair bit of stomping back and forth to make sure her belongings were ground to bits against the parched earth of the courtyard.

Davis was nowhere in evidence, of course, but she could see Peg sitting in front of his own tent, a little way down the row, looking on with a sly smile. No doubt he was hoping to see her scrabbling in the wreckage to rescue what she could, and Winter decided abruptly that she wasn't going to oblige him. Her worldly possessions didn't amount to much, anyway. She'd had to leave almost everything behind in the retreat-her pillows, sheets, and other comforts, her private tent, the little h.o.a.rd of Khandarai books she'd gathered while studying the language. The only things left were a few mementos and curios she'd picked up in Ashe-Katarion, and she wasn't going to grub on her knees in front of Peg for those.

Instead she turned on her heel without a word and went in search of her new company. This was not an easy task, as the encampment had nearly tripled in size overnight. The new soldiers were marked out by the solid blue of their still-creased tents, but since they outnumbered the old Colonials three to one, that alone wasn't a great deal of help. Winter ended up collaring a staff lieutenant and asking directions to the First Battalion, Seventh Company, which the hara.s.sed young man provided with bad grace.

Walking through the neat rows of tents, fresh from some Vordanai factory and laid out in perfect accord with the instructions in the Regulations, Winter couldn't help feeling out of place. Despite the addition of a new jacket, her uniform was a long way from perfect, and she felt like the pips on her shoulder drew every eye. She returned the curious stares.

Children, she thought. This is an army of children.

The men she saw eating breakfast or chatting in little groups in front of their tents looked more like kids playing dress-up than like proper soldiers. Their uniforms were too neat, with every bit of seam and trim still in place. Most of the faces she saw were as little in need of a razor as her own.

The tents of the Seventh Company were marked by a stenciled sign tied to a post. Otherwise, there was nothing to distinguish them from the surrounding sea of humanity. Winter had never felt like she was part of an army until now-the Colonials had been more like a tribe, small enough that you had at least a nodding acquaintance with anyone you were likely to meet. Now she understood a little of what some of the older men talked about, having served with real armies on the continent. The sheer busyness of the camp felt oppressive.

She shook her head, wandering down the row of tents. A wave of whispers and stares preceded her. When it reached a small knot about midway down, a trio of soldiers broke away and hurried over, planting themselves stiffly at attention in her path. When she stopped, they gave a simultaneous salute, and she had to clench her fist to keep herself from automatically saluting back.

Instead, she nodded, noting the single copper pip on each shoulder. That made these three corporals, half of the six that were standard complement for an army company. For a long moment, they stood in silence, before it dawned on Winter that it was up to her to make the next move. She cleared her throat.

"Ah . . . thank you, Corporal. Corporals."

"Sir!" said the young man in the middle. He was short, no taller than Winter, and with lank brown hair and the pasty skin of someone who'd spent too much time indoors. Despite his rigid bearing, he looked as though he was about sixteen.

"I'm Winter Iherngla.s.s." There was a formula for this, somewhere, but she'd be d.a.m.ned if she could remember what it was, so she went on as best she could. "Senior Sergeant Winter Iherngla.s.s. I've been a.s.signed to this company. I think." She looked around, suddenly nervous. "This is First Battalion Seventh Company, isn't it?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" the corporal barked. "Welcome, sir!"

"And you are . . . ?"

The young man was practically vibrating with pride. "Senior Corporal Robert Forester, sir! And this is Corporal James Folsom, and Corporal Drake Graff. Welcome to the Seventh Company, sir!"

"You said that already," Winter said. "But thank you."

The corporal seemed to deflate a little. "Yes, sir." Then he brightened. "Would you like to proceed to your tent, sir, or do you want to review the men immediately?"

"Reviewing is the lieutenant's job, I think," Winter said. "We have got a lieutenant, haven't we?"

"Yes, sir! Lieutenant Anton d'Vries, sir! I understand he's still with the other officers, sir!"

"Well, he can handle the reviewing." She eyed the other two corporals, who seemed a little embarra.s.sed by their comrade's enthusiasm. "Just show me to the tent, if you would."

"Sir, yes, sir!"

The corporal about-faced, so stiff it made Winter's joints ache just to watch, and started down the row of tents. Winter and the other two followed.