"Gentlemen," Arnos was saying, "we have been on the defensive for too long. We've stood upon walls and bridges for too long. It is high time that we went forth to meet this threat, and show them what it means to cross the Legions."
That won a lot of murmurs of approval from the room-again, from everyone except the officers of the First Aleran.
"And so as of right now," Arnos continued, "our offensive has begun." He turned and drew a bold stroke on the slateboard, from the Elinarch straight down to Mastings. "We bring their main body to battle and wipe them out before they can get these ships built. We march at dawn, two days hence. Prepare your men. Dismissed."
The room broke out into noise as the men stood, already talking, and began shuffling toward the exit. Within a moment or two, Tavi and Cyril sat alone.
Cyril stared at the map on the slateboard for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. "Of course. March directly toward the objective in a straight line." He sighed. "How many strong points does Nasaug have to work with along that route?"
"Three, maybe four," Tavi said. "Plus a lot of opportunity to hit our supply lines as we march. And then the city itself."
"Can we force through them?"
"Depends," Tavi said. "If Nasaug is willing to take heavy losses, he could stop us cold."
Cyril shook his head. "He won't. He'll hit us as hard as he can while keeping his own losses to a minimum."
Tavi nodded. "Bleed us all the way to Mastings. Then bring the hammer down."
"How long will that take?"
Tavi shook his head, calculating. Thanks to Ehren's hard work, he'd had detailed maps to work with in his own planning, and he was familiar with the territory they'd be fighting their way through. "Call it ten weeks, unless we get lucky." Tavi squinted at the map. "And I'm not feeling all that lucky."
"A lot can happen in ten weeks," Cyril replied.
"I should talk to him again," Tavi said. "Privately. He might be more receptive to the notion of negotiating if he isn't surrounded by people."
"He's always surrounded by people," Cyril said. "And it won't do any good, Captain."
"But it's so stupid. Nasaug is willing to talk."
"You don't know that," Cyril said. "He's never sent any kind of word suggesting it."
"It isn't their way," Tavi replied. "To a Cane, talk is cheap. Actions are what speak loudest. And Nasaug's actions are clearly stating his intentions. He's willing to work with Alerans, rather than simply slaughter them-and he wants to leave."
"Perhaps," Cyril said. "Perhaps you're right. If I was in charge, I'd give what you're saying some serious thought. You've earned that." He shook his head. "But I'm not, and neither are you. If you bring it up again, he'll have an excuse to replace you. Don't give it to him."
Tavi exhaled through his clenched teeth. "There's got to be a way."
"Then find it," Cyril said, pushing himself up out of his chair. "But do it in your spare time. Keep your focus on the here and now. They might not know it, but a lot of people are depending on you for their lives."
"Yes, sir," Tavi said.
They exchanged a mutual salute, and Cyril limped out, leaning on his cane. A moment later, Maximus leaned his head in the door. "Hey there, Captain. What's the word?"
"We're marching," Tavi replied, rising to walk to the door. "Send Tribune Cymnea to my office, please, so we can start on logistics. Put the men on notice." He looked up and down the hallway, frowning. "Hngh. I would have expected Marcus to be here. Have you seen him?"
"Not today."
"When you do," Tavi said, "send him to my office, too."
"Yes, sir," Max said.
Tavi went to the slateboard and swiped a damp cloth over it until the markings had been erased. It was sloppy of Amos to leave his marching orders- such as they were-displayed for any idiot to wander by and see. "All right, Tribune." He sighed. "Let's get to work."
Chapter 7
Marcus looked around the shabby tent-tavern, one of many that had sprung up in the refugee camp. He hadn't been to this particular establishment before, but he'd seen many like it in his day. Admittedly, few of them had been quite this squalid. The canvas of the tent was sloppily patched with tar rather than being properly repaired. The floors, which could at least have been swept smooth and laid with rushes, were simply mud. The legs of the trestle tables had sunk six inches into it, and their surfaces would have been too low if the benches in front of them hadn't sunk down as well.
Marcus stared at the mug in front of him. The beer had chunks of something floating in it-probably grain from the fermenting pots, but one could never be sure. It didn't smell like beer should. It smelled something like dirty water, only not as pleasant. He'd paid for it with a silver bull, and the copper rams he'd gotten back had been shaved so badly that the horns on the inscribed side were almost entirely gone.
It was intriguing, in a way. The refugee camp had done what hardship always did to people. In some of them, it brought out a greatness of spirit that was almost unbelievable. Fidelias had seen men with next to nothing literally give cold children the cloaks off their backs. He'd seen families with barely enough food to survive take in one more homeless child, find a way to stretch a blanket over one more freezing body. He'd seen legionares of the First Aleran, sickened by the suffering they'd seen while on drill, take their pay directly to market, spend it all on food, and take it to the camp to be given to those who needed it.
In others, though, it brought out the worst. He'd led squads that buried the corpses of people who'd been killed for their threadbare cloaks and the rags they'd had wrapped around their feet. He'd seen men demanding things of women in lieu of money, seen those who had what others needed demand degradation and humiliation from them before they would share it. He'd seen the bruises and broken bones that had come as the result of fear and frayed tempers. The sickness brought on by exposure and too little food-even here, in the gentlest lands of the Realm. And all of it, all of that sad, pitiable, loathsome humanity began to clot together somehow, to become a near-visible vapor, a stench in the air that smelled like…
Well. It smelled like this beer.
Marcus pushed his mildewed wooden mug away a little and did his best to ignore the smell. Then he took the little furylamp from his pouch, murmured it to life, set it out on the rough table, and waited.
The washerwoman entered the nameless tavern and paused in the doorway before looking around. It was dark enough inside that his little lamp served as a beacon for her gaze, and she crossed the rough floor to sit down at the table with him.
"Good day," the disguised Lady Aquitaine said. She glanced around the tavern with a sniff. "I always knew you were a secret romantic."
Marcus nudged the mug toward her. "Thirsty?"
She glanced at the mug, turned a shade paler, and gave him a level look.
"Suit yourself," he said.
"Why here?" she asked him.
"No one will recognize me here."
"I almost didn't recognize you."
Marcus shrugged. "No armor. Different cloak. My hood is up. I look like everyone else."
"We could have met anywhere," she countered. "Why here?"
Marcus glanced up and met her eyes. "Maybe I wanted you to see it."
The washerwoman tilted her head slightly to one side. "See what?"
He moved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. "The consequences."
She lifted both eyebrows sharply.
"A lot of times, people who make big choices never have to see what can happen. All of this… and worse than you see here, or what you saw on the way here-it's all the result of choices like that."
She stared at him without expression for a long moment. "This is supposed to horrify me?"
"This? This is nothing," Marcus replied. "This is what happens when there's a polite disagreement, which is more or less what we've had with the Canim so far. This is what happens when everyone has to tighten their belts a little, but there's still enough to go around. It's worse, in the south. Rampant disease. Starvation. Brigands, looting, mercenaries. Men taking more liberties. Men seeking vengeance for the same." He nodded at the tavern. Outside the damp, stinking canvas, someone with a wet cough was wheezing for breath between fits of hacking spasms. "This is sunshine and sweetbread compared to what could happen."