“I trust Raesinia,” Abby said. “And I trust the general. That’s enough.”
“Damned right!” Give-Em-Hell said. “As long as we get to Vordan City in time to find a few remounts, the cavalry will be ready for anything.”
Sevran looked at Blackstream, then at Marcus, and shrugged. “If those are your orders, General.”
“They are,” Marcus said. “As Colonel Giforte said, the queen has asked us for help, and I don’t intend to let her down.” Not again. “We march in the morning. Duke Dorsay said it’s ten miles to the ships, and I want our men embarking by tomorrow evening.”
There was a chorus of “Yes, sir!” and a round of salutes. The colonels stood and filed out, but Fitz lingered for a moment.
“You know that Sevran is right, of course,” he said. “The numbers are against us. And Vordan City is not defensible. Not that I’m questioning your decision.”
“I’m aware of the numbers. They were against us in Khandar, if you recall.”
“In Khandar, Janus was on our side.” Fitz smiled thinly. “I’ll start working on a plan, shall I?”
“I’m hoping we’ll have more to work with,” Marcus said. “But we won’t know until we get there. So yes, it can’t hurt to start thinking about it.”
“Understood, sir.” Fitz saluted, and slipped out through the flap, leaving only Cyte at the big table. Marcus sat down next to her with a sigh.
“Do you have any idea how to organize an army to board transports, Captain?” he said.
“No, sir. I imagine you’d have to think about provisions, fresh water—”
“And a hundred other things, I’d wager. Hopefully, Dorsay’s people have a little more experience.”
“We’ll get there, sir. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried. Not about that, anyway. Too many other things to worry about.”
“Understood, sir,” Cyte said with a smile. “Was there anything else? I should draw up marching orders for tomorrow.”
“Go ahead,” Marcus told her. “And thank you, Colonel. For all your help.”
“Of course, sir.” She smiled, a surprisingly cheerful expression on her serious face. “I’m glad I don’t have to leave the army behind.”
“So am I, believe me. I’d never get all the paperwork done myself.”
Cyte laughed, saluted, and left. Marcus sat for a while, staring at the maps and stray papers on the table. His thoughts went north, to Borel, and Raesinia.
She went to Borel. To meet with the king and ask for his help. If he knew Raesinia, she’d asked quite forcefully, and it apparently had worked. Typical. I’m scraping to keep the army alive, and she casually produces a fleet out of nowhere to rescue us. For a moment the need to see her, to hold her as he had after she’d come to his rescue in Murnsk, was nearly overpowering.
I should ask Dorsay when she’s coming back. It would be safer for her to stay in Viadre if Vordan City was going to become a battlefield, but for a moment Marcus allowed himself to think selfishly. Maybe she’ll lead the reinforcements herself, like one of the warrior queens of old. The image of Raesinia in medieval plate armor with a winged helmet was simultaneously so incongruous and so fitting that he laughed out loud.
*
The next morning it was raining again, a light mist that was just enough to add a layer of slime to the surface of the roads and make everyone clammy and miserable. Cavalry patrols trooped across the Gond bridge at regular intervals, pulling back across the river, and the artillerists retrieved their fuses and powder barrels from the bridge to the relief of all concerned. The infantry packed up their tents and began the long trudge to the west, following the curve of the river.
This time, Marcus rode ahead instead of keeping his normal position in the middle of the column. He and Cyte stayed with the cavalry vanguard, to meet with Dorsay and organize the loading. As the day wore on, though, Marcus found himself afflicted with superstitious worry, as though yesterday had been some kind of dream. The haze of the rain didn’t help, rendering everything farther than a few dozen yards away misty and ghostlike. Marching forever toward help that never comes would be a pretty good hell for an entire army, he thought. There were stories in the Wisdoms...
Silliness, of course. But it was still with a sense of relief that Marcus heard the call from the forward scouts that they’d sighted the first masts. A few minutes later he could see for himself, a row of them looming out of the mist like huge, naked trees. The transports, big boxy things that seemed as seaworthy as bathtubs, were anchored just off the bank. Farther out, a sleek frigate prowled, looking like a predator beside its ungainly prey. The muddy red of the Borelgai flag flew from the stern of every vessel.
Marcus sent messengers back to the column, giving more precise directions, then rode ahead with Cyte. They found Dorsay standing with a small group of men in unfamiliar, ornate uniforms, which Marcus guessed were Borelgai navy. At the sight of him, they took off their overlarge hats and inclined their heads.
“General d’Ivoire!” Dorsay said as Marcus dismounted. “Everything went smoothly, I trust?”
“So far,” Marcus said. A Life Guard came forward to take the reins of his horse. “Colonel Cyte has information on how much space we’ll need for the various units. Who should she be talking to?”
“Sub-?Captain Gale is handling the logistics.” Dorsay beckoned, and a younger man, less impressively uniformed and hatted, stepped out from behind the others. His superiors were eyeing Cyte with mixed expressions of mirth and horror, and one of them whispered something that set the others to chuckling. Cyte studiously ignored them, but Marcus felt himself going red.
“These gentlemen,” Dorsay went on, “are the captains of our frigates. Captain Neilson, of the Swiftmark, Captain—”
Another chuckle was too much for Marcus.
“Yes,” he said. “My chief of staff is a woman. If you find this difficult to accept, I suggest you get over it quickly.”
“Sir—” Cyte said.
“My apologies, madam,” one of the captains said.
“It’s just a bit... unusual for us,” said another. “Borel has never been quite so desperate that the frailer sex has needed to take up arms.”
Cyte straightened up. “I suggest you not repeat that comment when the rest of the army gets here. We have a couple thousand women with muskets, and they’re quite used to making fools of men who think of them as frail.”
“Quite right,” Dorsay said blandly. “We fought them at Gilphaite, and you’d better believe that was a bloody mess.”