“I’m sure he did,” Fitz said.
What that would mean for him, Marcus didn’t know. He hadn’t ever known Janus to mistreat a prisoner, apart from one near catastrophe in Ashe-?Katarion. But there was the strange red-?eyed thing to consider. Hell. He was always the one who dealt with all this mystical nonsense.
“Sir!” A light-cavalry trooper rode up, his mount spattered with mud. Behind him was a lieutenant Marcus didn’t recognize. “There’s a messenger,” the trooper said, indicating the other man. “From the... ah, enemy, sir.”
“Lieutenant Virson, Ninth Division.” Virson saluted.
Marcus straightened up in his saddle and glanced at Fitz. “Where’d he come from?”
“Rode into the cavalry screen about ten miles back carrying a white flag, sir,” the trooper said. “General Stokes said I should bring him here.”
“Well done.” Marcus turned to Virson. “You’ve got a message?”
“Yes, sir. The emperor presents his compliments and requests a meeting with General d’Ivoire at a time and place of the general’s choosing. I can return with the general’s answer, or any messenger with a white flag will be conducted safely through our lines.”
“Did he say what he wanted to meet about?”
“No, sir,” Virson said. “That’s all the information I have.”
“Thank you.” Marcus jerked his head, and he and Fitz turned their mounts away from the lieutenant and put their heads together. “What do you think?”
“It could be a trap, of course,” Fitz said. “But I think it’s unlikely.”
“I agree,” Marcus said. “Not that I would put it past Janus, but what good would it do him to take me out? You’d just take over.”
“I think it’s more likely that he hopes to offer us terms of surrender,” Fitz said. “The chase must wear on his army as much as on ours, even if his supply situation is better. Perhaps he thinks he can persuade you to give in.”
“Which I have no intention of doing,” Marcus said. “In which case, why bother meeting?”
“If I might make a suggestion, sir,” Fitz said. “He’s given you the chance to specify the circumstances of the meeting. We may be able to get a slight advantage from that. If you say that the meeting will take place here at sunset, on the Zeckvol bridge, and stipulate that our scouts will watch for the approach of any substantial force...”
“Then he won’t be able to move into town today,” Marcus said. “And we can still demolish the bridge afterward. So it will slow him down.”
“Not very much, I’m afraid,” Fitz said. “His army is large enough that he can search for another crossing at the same time. But it keeps him off the direct route.”
“Good idea, regardless.” Marcus looked back at Virson. “Let’s see if they go for it.”
Virson readily agreed to the terms, adding only that Janus wanted the right to have a squadron of his own troopers inspect the meeting place beforehand. That seemed reasonable, and likely to produce even more delay, so Marcus assented and sent Virson hurrying back toward his own lines. By the time the sun was approaching the horizon, the bulk of the Army of the Republic was well to the west, pushing hard to put distance between themselves and the river. Marcus remained behind, with Cyte and a squadron of cuirassiers as escort, along with a pair of Archer’s artillerists to handle the demolition of the bridge.
The sound of hooves on packed earth alerted them to the approach of the enemy. A dozen mounted men came into view, not proper cavalry troopers but infantrymen, their muskets long and awkward on horseback. They dismounted, stared at their opposite numbers on the other side of the bridge for a while, then cautiously came forward to check for traps.
Marcus sent one of his escorting cuirassiers to meet them, to confirm that everything was ready. The man came trotting back, waving the okay, and Marcus slid off his horse and stretched his aching legs.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to come along, sir?” Cyte said.
“At this point it would take more renegotiation than I’m comfortable with,” Marcus said. “Besides, if it comes down to it, you’re probably more important to the army than I am, and I don’t want to risk you.”
“Sir—”
He held up a placating hand. “I don’t think there’s actually much risk. Janus may be a traitor, but he wouldn’t do all this just to get to me.” Marcus snorted. “It’s not efficient, after all.”
Cyte lowered her voice. “What about what we discussed after Mieran County? If he’s not really in command?”
“Then things might get interesting,” Marcus said. “If there’s any fighting, you know what to do.”
“Come and rescue you?” She gave a half smile.
“If you can. But you have to make sure to burn the bridge. We can’t give them an easy crossing.”
“Understood, sir.” Cyte looked up. “Here he comes.”
A lone figure in a long blue coat had ridden up to the line of escorts on the other side of the river. He dismounted, handing the reins to one of the soldiers, and started across the bridge. Marcus did the same, trying to project confidence and adjust his pace so they met in the center.
The last time he’d seen Janus, the general had still been recovering from the effect of a supernatural poison inflicted on him by one of the Penitent Damned. At the moment, Marcus thought, he looked even worse than he had in the depths of his feverish delirium. His enormous gray eyes seemed bigger than ever, standing out in an already-?lean face that had thinned until it was nearly a skull. There was stubble on his cheeks, something Marcus had never known Janus to tolerate, not even when they were in prison. His hair had grown, hanging to the nape of his neck in an unkempt bundle.
“Hello, Marcus,” he said.
“Janus.” The reflexive sir was hard to avoid, but Marcus was determined not to let his automatic deference get the better of him.
“You’re looking well.”
“That’s a lie,” Marcus said, smiling a little. “And you look as bad as I feel.”
“We may both be getting too old for war.” The smile that crossed Janus’ face, there for an instant and then gone, was like a punch in the gut, utterly familiar on this strange, shrunken version of his old friend. This may have been a bad idea. Marcus straightened a little and tried to keep his tone businesslike.
“This meeting was your suggestion. Did you have something to propose?”
Janus sighed. “Very well. Shall we go through the script?” He cleared his throat, like a stage actor preparing a monologue. “General d’Ivoire, it should be clear to you that further resistance will only result in the useless destruction of life without any change to the eventual outcome. As your countryman and, I hope, your friend, I call on you to surrender to prevent a further effusion of blood, and I assure you that you and the men under your command will be treated with the greatest respect.” He cocked his head. “And now you say—”
“Go to hell,” Marcus ground out. He was remembering that Janus could, at times, be incredibly irritating.