Raesinia felt her heart sink, expecting some excuse for indefinite delay. But Ihannes only waved a hand theatrically.
“His Majesty is, of course, extremely busy, and arranging the appropriate celebrations will take time. But I’m certain that the relevant members of the government would be at your disposal immediately.”
“Perfect,” Raesinia said. She’d expected more of an argument from the ambassador, truth be told. Perhaps even he realizes this is a crisis. “I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“In part that depends on how much of an escort Your Highness plans to bring,” Ihannes said. “The packet sails tomorrow evening, but space is limited.”
“It won’t be much,” she said. “Fewer than a dozen, including myself. Is that acceptable?”
“Ideal,” Ihannes said, so quickly Raesinia wondered if she’d made a mistake. But bringing a regiment of soldiers along wouldn’t put her any less at the Borels’ mercy if they decided to turn on her. “In that case, I must begin preparations at once. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course. Thank you, Ambassador.”
Ihannes bowed again, and Raesinia retreated. Dorsay hurried in beside her.
“That man,” he whispered, “is not your friend, however much he smiles. Don’t forget that.”
And you are? Raesinia looked down at the flustered duke. He’d always been honest with her—?always seemed honest—?but he had to have his own agenda, the same as anyone else. I’ll have to watch him, too.
“Believe me,” she said, as her bodyguards resumed their places at her shoulder. “I’m used to it.”
5
Marcus
Getting an army on the road after a long time in camp was always difficult. It seemed to take even veterans only a few weeks to forget everything they’d ever known about how to march, which meant that order had to be carefully established all over again—?road space allocated to prevent traffic jams, carts and other transport accounted for, patrols and sentries assigned, and distances plotted. Having lots of fresh recruits made things worse. The cavalry patrols would be kept busy rounding up those who’d gotten lost or dropped out of line. Fortunately, they had at least ten days’ march before they reached the Illifen passes, which meant there’d be time to get the fresh troops into some kind of shape before they had to worry about the enemy.
All of this, Marcus had been expecting, and much of the staff work had already been done. What he hadn’t planned for was the attitude of the other senior officers, who were suddenly ill at ease whenever he was around. It was as though he’d been diagnosed with some horrible disease and nobody quite knew how to talk to a dead man walking. Or they’re worried it might be contagious. Even Val showed the signs, though he made a dutiful effort to pretend nothing was wrong.
Only Fitz was immune, which was not surprising. He shook his head when Marcus asked him about it.
“It’s not that they don’t trust you,” Fitz said. “Most of the officers don’t care much what the Deputies think. It’s more that they expect you to be upset about it, and so they’re walking on tiptoe.”
That made sense, Marcus thought. They do look a little bit like children who know Daddy’s ready to explode about something. It didn’t make it any less irritating, though. General Kurot was on his way from the south, but Raesinia had insisted the march begin immediately, so it had been Marcus’ responsibility to set things in motion. Once that was done, though, he happily passed over command to Fitz and reported to the division that was from now his only responsibility.
Every unit, Marcus knew, had its own character, its own customs and rituals, a culture that grew as men died or retired and fresh ones were brought in. That spirit could be a powerful motivator—?troops would fight harder for a group they felt like a part of than for a gang of strangers—?so it was, in most cases, to be encouraged. But it put a new commander in a ticklish position, expected to exercise authority but ignorant of the social ramifications.
How much worse is it going to be when half the division is women? Marcus didn’t feel like he understood women at the best of times. The usual solution was for the new commander to lean heavily on his immediate subordinates. Let’s hope they’re willing.
Each divisional camp was separated from the others, so the army spread out over a considerable stretch of country. They were marching alongside the river Marak, which ran calm and black to the east, flowing in lazy curls to ultimately join the Vor. Around it stretched the heart of Vordan, land that had been farmed and cultivated for centuries. Fieldstone walls surrounded orchards and pastures, plots of vegetables and chicken coops. As the sun went down, lights twinkled behind the windows of cheerful little farmhouses like fireflies coming to life in the gloom. An occasional copse of gnarled old trees still stood, black against the purpling sky. After the harsh wilderness of Murnsk, this flat green land felt like paradise.
Marcus rode alone to the Second’s camp, pleased to see the lights of a well-?spaced sentry ring surrounding it. He waggled his lantern at the nearest as he approached, and the sentry’s lantern bobbed in return. As he got closer, he made out the shape of a young woman leaning on her musket in the weary pose of sentries everywhere. She straightened a little as he rode up, then came fully alert at the sight of the general’s stars on his shoulders.
“Sir!” She snapped a sharp salute. “Welcome to the Second Division, sir.”
“Thank you, ranker.” Marcus swung out of his saddle, trying not to show his aches. He’d improved a bit, but he’d still never quite gotten the hang of horses.
“Is your escort coming up?” the sentry said.
“It’s just me, for the moment,” Marcus said. “My baggage is still on the carts. I imagine it’ll be along eventually. If you could take me to your commander?”
“Of course, sir. Follow me.”
Marcus led his horse after the ranker, up a slight rise. Rows of tents followed the familiar pattern, nicely regular and without a lot of extraneous clutter, which was a sign of good discipline among the junior officers. As Marcus expected, he was taken to the center of the camp, where the command tent was pitched alongside the company baggage and the artillery park. More sentries saluted as they approached.
“Colonel Cytomandiclea should be inside, General d’Ivoire,” the ranker said, a little louder than was necessary. Marcus grinned, remembering Fitz pulling a similar trick to give him a few moments’ warning when Janus dropped in unexpectedly. He handed her the reins and scratched at the tent flap.
“Come in.”
Marcus ducked inside. It wasn’t as large as his army command tent, but it was laid out in a similar fashion, with a map table and a bedroll stowed in one corner. Leaning over the table was a slender young woman, her long dark hair falling forward from her shoulders as she frowned in concentration.