Marcus nodded. "I'll wait until morning. Hopefully he'll have dried out a bit by then."

"Either that or he'll still be sleeping it off." Mor sighed. "I hope he appreciates this."

"I'm sure you're not likely to let him forget."

The big man laughed. "Bet your a.s.s."

a a a By rights, it ought to have been easy to get to sleep. The day had left Marcus near exhaustion, though more from anxious fretting than physical exertion. On the way back to his tent the only thing he'd been able to think about was collapsing into bed, but now that he was actually there sleep refused to come. He felt alert, even twitchy. If someone had tapped his shoulder he might have jumped a foot. Lying on his side, he could feel the thump-thump of his pulse, fast enough to march to.

After an hour, he dragged himself up with a silent curse, slipped his boots on without tying the laces, and staggered outside. The sky was a blaze of stars, dimmed only slightly by the torches and fires that still burned amidst the rows of tents. The moon hung huge and horned just above the western horizon, washing the labyrinth of blue canvas in a ghostly light.

When he started out, Marcus had the notion of taking a walk to convince his body to let him rest, but by the time he pa.s.sed the last row of tents his steps had acquired more purpose. Beyond where the camp ended, across a few hundred yards of scrub, a line of torches marked the ring of sentries.

Sentries carried loaded weapons, and on a night like this they were bound to be jumpy. Marcus stopped a good fifty yards from the line, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, "Sentry, ho! Friends approaching!"

The torch waggled in response. Marcus crossed the remaining distance at a brisk walk and found a young man with a musket resting on his shoulder and a torch in one hand. The shadows made everyone seem pale and hollow-eyed, but from the deep blue of his uniform Marcus could tell he was a recruit. He straightened up when he saw the captain's bars on Marcus' shoulder and tried to figure out how to salute with a torch in one hand and a musket b.u.t.t in the other.

"No need, Ranker," Marcus said. "I'm just taking a quick look at the lines. What's your name?"

"Ranker Ipsar Sutton, sir!" He tried to salute again and nearly singed his forehead. "First Battalion, Fifth Company, sir!"

"One of mine," Marcus said. "I'm Captain d'Ivoire."

"I know, sir!" the young man said proudly. "I saw you at the drill this afternoon."

Drill, Marcus thought, is one way to put it. "How long is your shift, Ranker Sutton?"

"Another three hours, sir!" He gestured with the torch. "Nothing to see so far, sir!"

"It does us good knowing you're out here," Marcus said. "I for one couldn't sleep otherwise."

"Yes, sir!" Sutton stood up even straighter. "Thank you, sir!"

"Keep up the good work." Marcus patted him genially on the shoulder and walked on, into the darkness.

He went along the line of sentries, meeting each man in turn and exchanging a few words of greeting. They were all recruits-apparently this section of the perimeter was held by the Fifth and Sixth companies-and to man they seemed distressingly keen. Getting a word from him seemed to cheer them up immeasurably, and by the time he turned back to his tent Marcus felt like he'd actually done some good.

It would have been different with the Old Colonials. Familiarity bred contempt, of course, and after the long years in the camp near Ashe-Katarion even the rankers had come to treat officers with a genial disregard. It might have been different if Ben Warus had been the sort of colonel to take offense at insubordinate conduct, but he'd always been an easygoing type, and the others took their cues from him. Seeing the straight postures and bright young faces of the recruits reminded Marcus of his last year at the War College, drilling squads of sweating undercla.s.smen out on the Long Field.

That was what the army was supposed to be like. Not . . . this. He'd long ago resigned himself to the fact that Khandar wasn't much of a post. It certainly wasn't what he'd envisioned when he'd started at the College. But that had been before, when he'd still cared about his career and his standing in the world, before he'd volunteered for service at the edge of the world with the hope that it would let him outrun his ghosts. He'd done his best to enjoy the soft life of a sinecure and not to dwell on the past. Then, during the retreat, he'd been too busy to think. But now, with his comfortable routine broken- "Good evening, Captain," said a woman's voice from the darkness. Such women as were with the regiment-laundresses, cooks, and wh.o.r.es, those who'd been brave enough to accompany the column when it had marched-would be on the other side of camp, with the supply train. That left a field of one, so Marcus hazarded a guess.

"You must have eyes like a cat, Miss Alhundt."

"Good night vision is essential in my line of work." She materialized out of the darkness.

"For peeking in people's windows?"

"For poking through dusty old shelves," she said, toying with her gla.s.ses. She pushed them up her nose and looked down at him through the lenses. "You wouldn't believe the mess back at the Ministry vaults. There are some rooms where we don't dare risk open flames."

"Couldn't have that. You might set fire to everyone's secrets."

"Secrets are not really my business, Captain. There's so much to know that isn't hidden at all."

"Fair enough," Marcus said.

"What about you?" she said. "Are you out spying on your subordinates? Or is this a surprise inspection?"

"Just checking over the arrangements," Marcus said.

"Very diligent of you," Miss Alhundt said. "I understand we also have you to thank for that . . . exercise this afternoon."

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. "What about it?"

"Did you intend to embarra.s.s Colonel Vhalnich? Or merely to delay his progress?"

"Neither. It was a-a demonstration. I wanted to make a point."

"The point that the Colonials are woefully unprepared."

That was it precisely, of course, but he didn't want to say so. Marcus shook his head in silence.

"Do you mind if I ask why?" Miss Alhundt said.

"I'm not sure why you're so interested."

She c.o.c.ked her head, one finger touching the bridge of her gla.s.ses. Beneath the spectacles, the severe hairstyle, and the mannish clothes, he guessed she was actually quite pretty.

"Because I'm curious about you, Captain," she said finally. "You are something of an enigma."

"I don't see why that should be. I'm just a soldier."

"A soldier who honestly volunteered to serve in Khandar. An officer. That makes you one of exactly two."

Marcus snorted. "Really? Who's the other fool?"

"Colonel Vhalnich, of course."

"But-" Marcus bit back his response. Jen smiled.

"He's talked to you about me, then," she said. "It's all right. I won't insult you by asking to tell me what he said. I'm going to guess it was something like, *She's here because that villain Orlanko is up to something.'"

"Is that why you're here?"

"After a fashion." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "The colonel has a reputation for eccentricity. He also has powerful friends at court. They worked hard to get him this a.s.signment."

Ja.n.u.s hadn't mentioned that. Marcus considered for a moment. "Why?"

"His Grace would very much like to know." She tapped her nose. "Therefore, here I am."

"I see."

She c.o.c.ked her head. "I don't suppose you have any light to shed on the subject?"

Marcus stiffened. "I don't."

"I thought not." She straightened up. "Just remember, Captain, that when all is said and done, we're all on the same side here. I want to serve the king and Vordan just as much as you or the colonel."

"I'm sure you do," Marcus said. "And right now, the best way I can serve is to get some sleep. I understand that the colonel wants us to start drilling after the march tomorrow."

"Of course, Captain. Don't let me keep you from your bed."

a a a "Adrecht!" Marcus called, knocking at the tent post. "Get up!"

If the soldiers of the Fourth Battalion found anything unusual in the sight of the senior captain storming down to their commander's tent before dawn, they didn't say anything about it. The sky was lightening in the east, and in the First Battalion camp the men would already be up and about, breaking down their gear and getting it stowed on wagons in preparation for the day's march. As rearguard, the Fourth Battalion had a bit more time to wait, though in Marcus' opinion the extra sleep didn't make up for having to eat the dust of the whole column all day.

Adrecht's tent was not the usual faded blue army issue, peaked in the center and barely tall enough for Marcus to stand erect. It was silk, to start with, and much larger, with four foundation posts, while the army tents had only two. Once, it had been elaborately decorated with frilled hangings, ropes of colorful cloth, and colored-gla.s.s lanterns that threw fanciful patterns against the fabric-years in Ashe-Katarion had given Adrecht time to exercise his talent for acquiring the trappings of luxury. Now all of that was gone, the fine fabrics either packed in trunks or abandoned in haste on the retreat to Fort Valor.

And a good thing, too. If they'd had to set up Adrecht's whole palace every night, they would never have outrun the Redeemers, however halfhearted the pursuit had been. Marcus knocked again, hard enough to sting his knuckles. "Adrecht!"

"Marcus?" The voice sounded m.u.f.fled, and not just from the thin silk walls. "'S that you?"

"I'm coming in," Marcus announced, and slipped past the tent flap. The broad interior was unlit, and the weak morning light did little to relieve the gloom. Marcus blinked until his eyes adjusted, then spotted a lantern hanging from one of the tent poles. He rummaged in his pockets until he produced a match, then lit the lamp and hung it up again. Its swinging sent the shadows to arcing wildly.

Adrecht groaned and held up one hand to block out the light. "Good G.o.d," he said, raising his head from the silk cushion where it rested. "What do you think you're doing? It's much too late for this kind of nonsense."

"It's early, not late," Marcus said. There was another lamp on the other side of the tent, and he lit it as well.

"When did you turn so pedantic?" Adrecht groped with one hand until he came up with a heavy gold pocket watch, which he clicked open. "See? It's two in the morning. What kind of time is that to be waking me up?"

"It's dawn," Marcus said.

"Is it?" Adrecht blinked at him. "You're sure?"

"Most of us can tell by looking."

"Well, that's a relief." He shook the gold watch, then snapped the cover shut. "My watch has stopped. I thought I was just drunk."

"You were drunk."

That was a guess, Marcus had to admit, but an educated one. By the light of the lamps he could see that there were several empty bottles strewn across the rug-covered floor of the tent. A trunk in one corner held three rows of cotton-padded compartments, suitable for transporting fine liquors. More than half the slots were empty. Another pair of trunks, tumbled haphazardly between the tent poles, spilled a mess of clothes, books, and papers that looked as though it had been thoroughly rummaged.

There was little else, not even a bedroll. Adrecht had gotten rid of the uncomfortable army-issue camp furniture at the first opportunity, replacing it with fine hand-carved pieces purchased in Ashe-Katarion. Marcus had forced him to leave it all behind when they'd fled, lest some gilt-encrusted armoire take up wagon s.p.a.ce needed for food. That argument had led to a week of strained relations.

"It's really dawn?" Adrecht said again, looking up with eyes filmed by a gathering hangover.

"Yes," Marcus snapped. "Get up."

With some effort, Adrecht managed to lever himself into a sitting position, legs crossed in front of him. His fine white linen trousers were stained purple where he'd spilled something across them. He looked down mournfully at the splotch, then up at Marcus.

"I need a drink," he proclaimed. "You want a drink?"

"Water," Marcus said. "Do you have any water around here?"

"Water!" Adrecht made a double circle over his heart with one hand, the ancient Church ward against evil. "Don't say that so loud. G.o.d may hear you and strike you down. Water!" He snorted. "I made good progress last night, but if I recall there was a little something left in the purple bottle . . ." He fumbled with a bottle, which glugged the last few swallows of its contents into the carpet. Adrecht shrugged and tossed it aside. "Oh, well. There's still a few more."

Marcus located a carafe of lukewarm water and handed it over. Despite his protests, Adrecht drank greedily, without bothering to locate a cup. He swirled the final mouthful around, then swallowed it thoughtfully.

"I don't remember drinking any gun oil," he said. "But now my mouth seems to be coated with the stuff. Are the lads playing pranks, do you think?"

"Adrecht . . ." Marcus looked for somewhere to sit, but after a survey of the rancid carpet he decided against it. He squatted instead. "Adrecht, where were you yesterday?"

"Yesterday?" He blinked slowly. "Yesterday . . . yesterday . . ."

"Drinking somewhere?"

"Oh, yes. One of the quartermasters invited me to spend the march in his wagon, since I offered to share my spirits with him. Great fellow, absolutely wonderful. He-I can't recall his name, actually, but he was kindness itself."

"You were at it all day?"

"Not all day. I wouldn't call it all day. Just . . . you know . . ." He shrugged. "So what?"

"You should have been with your men."

"Why? For moral support? They know what they're supposed to do. It's just marching, after all."

"When I called for emergency square-"

Adrecht snorted. "Why would you do a damfool thing like that?"

"If there'd been an attack, we might all have been killed."

"If there'd been an attack . . . ," Adrecht said mockingly. "Come off it, Marcus. Sit down and have a drink with me."

"d.a.m.n it, Adrecht," Marcus said. "What in h.e.l.l is wrong with you?"

There was a long pause while Marcus tried to regain control of his temper. Adrecht was a good officer and a good friend. He was smart enough, G.o.d knew-at the War College his help had gotten Marcus through a half dozen examinations. And in the field he was personally brave almost to a fault. He was p.r.o.ne to black moods, however, and a bad one could last for weeks, especially when it was exacerbated by drink.

"I should think that would be obvious," Adrecht said. He staggered to his feet, using one of the tent poles to aid him, and started toward the liquor chest. Marcus moved to intercept him, and Adrecht leaned back and glared at him with exaggerated irritation.

"I'm trying," he said, "to become a monk. Obviously. The Preacher has finally convinced me that the time of the Beast is upon us. Only I have to get rid of all my worldly possessions first, d'you see? You gave me a good head start"-he narrowed his eyes-"but there was still the liquor to think of. Not really fair to tip it out, I thought. So I'm working my way through the lot. Once I'm done, then"-he clapped his hands-"it's off to the monastery with me."

"It's going to be off to the Vendre with you," Marcus shot back. "And in irons. We have a new colonel, if you haven't noticed. If you keep this up, sooner or later-"

"Please, Marcus," Adrecht said with a chuckle. "The Vendre? Really? You don't believe that, do you?"

"You'd be lucky to get the Vendre. More likely it'd be a firing squad. Dereliction of duty-"

"I'd be happy to die by an honest Vordanai bullet," Adrecht said. "At least if I'm allowed to get drunk off my a.s.s beforehand. It'll make me better off than the rest of you." He shook his head. "Come on, Marcus. Do you honestly think any of us are going home, in irons or otherwise? The Redeemers don't exchange prisoners; they eat them."