Skarmi clicked his tongue between his teeth. Sergeant Raunu had indeed used his own words to reply to him, which meant he could hardly take exception to what the veteran said. But he'd seen that a good many of the common soldiers had little stomach for the fight against Algarve in general, and even less for the assault on the forts. He said, "We should have pushed harder, so we would have been through this line before,the Forthwegians collapsed."
"Aye, I see what you're saying, sir, but I don't know how much difference that would have made." Raunu pointed ahead. "Doesn't look like the cursed redheads have put any new men in their lines, even if they don't have to worry about their western front any more."
"They don't have to worry about Forthweg any more," Skarmi corrected. "Now they're face to face with Unkerlant. If they're not worried about that, they're fools."
"Of course they're fools. They're Algarvians." Raunu spoke with an automatic scorn Skarmi's sister Krasta might have envied. But then, as Krasta would never have done, he changed course slightly: "They're fools most ways, I mean. They make good soldiers, whatever else you say about'em."
"I wish I could tell you were wrong," Skarmi said. "Our lives would be easier." The Algarvians had resisted the Valmieran advance to the fortified line with only light forces, but they'd fought stubbornly.
They'd also fought skillfully, perhaps more skillfully than the men he commanded. Had there been more of them, he wondered if his men would have been able to advance at all. Along with most of his other worries, he kept that one to himself.
A runner came up to him. "My lord marquis?" the fellow asked.
"Aye?" Skarmi said in some small surprise. Far more often these days, he was addressed by his military rank, not title. After a moment, a possible reason for this exception came to mind.
And, sure enough, the runner said, "My lord, his Grace the Duke of Klaipeda bids you sup with him and with some of the other leading officers of our triumphant army at his headquarters this evening. The sup per shall begin an hour past sunset."
"Please tell his Grace I am honored, and of course I shall attend him," Skarmi answered. The runner bowed and hurried away.
Raunu eyed Skarmi. He'd understood Skarmi was a noble, of course.
That was one thing. An invitation extended to a captain to sup with the commander of an army of tens of thousands was something else again.
Almost defensively, Skarmi said, "I went to school with his Grace's son.
"Did you, sir?" the sergeant said. "Well, you'll get a good meal out of [..the or ed say men..] other days, [..pos e of ading e sup him, ourse ith the again...] races out of it, and that's the truth. I will say, though, sir, the men think well of you for eating out of the same pot they use."
"It's the best way I could think of to make sure they got decent food," Skarmi said. "Nobody cares when a common soldier fusses and com plains. When a captain grumbles, though, people start to notice."
"Aye, sir," Raunu said, "especially when he's a captain who went to school with the Duke of Klaipeda's son." More than half to himself, he added, "It's a wonder you're just a captain and not a colonel."
Skarmi wished he hadn't had to mention his connection with the duke, whose son, while not the depraved little monster so beloved of romancers without much imagination, had been one of the most boring youths he'd ever met. He also wished the duke were paying more atten tion to the commanders who would lead great parts of the Valmieran army into battle and less to his son's social connections.
But, regardless of the duke's shortcorruings, Skarmi spruced himself up and made his way back toward the village of Bonorva. The village was a good deal more battered than it had been when he'd first seen it from the woods that now lay on the far side from the front. The duke had taken up residence in one of the larger houses there. It still looked scarred and abused: no point cleaning it up and offering the Algarvians a target. Skarmi chuckled as he drew near. After he wrote to Krasta, she'd be sick with jealousy at the exalted company he was keeping.
When he went inside the unprepossessing building, Skarmi might have been transported to another world, the world in which the
Valmieran nobility had idled away its time in Priekule and on estates out in the provinces. Lights blazed; dark cloth over the windows and behind the door kept it from leaking out and drawing the notice of Algarvian dragons overhead or the cunning snoops who kept trying to spy targets for the enemy's egg-tossers.
Marstalu, the Duke of Klaipeda, stood just inside the door-way greet ing new arrivals. He was a portly man in his late fifties, his complexion very pink, his hair gone white as snow: he looked like everyone's favorite grandfather. His uniform put Skarmi in mind of those the Kaunian
Emperors had won. So did the brilliant constellation of medals - some gold, some silver, some bejeweled, some with ribbons like comets' tails - spangling his chest.
Skarmi bowed low, murmuring, "Your Grace."
"Good to see you, lad. Good to see you," the duke said, beaming in a grandfatherly way. "Make yourself at home. Plenty of good things to eat and drink here - better than you'll find at the front, that's certain."
"No doubt, sir." Skarmi felt out of place here despite Marstalu's friendly words. Most of the other noble officers present glittered hardly less than their commanders. Skarmi's unadorned uniform made him look and feel like a servant. It also made him feel like a real soldier in amongst a flock of popinjays. Perhaps that was what made him ask, "Sir, when will the attack against the Algarvian works go in?"
"When all is in readiness," Marstalu answered easily. That might mean anything. It might mean nothing. Skarmi suspected it meant nothing here. The duke went on, "Perhaps we could be more zealous now had we reached this position before the Algarvians finished their dismantling of Forthweg."
Skarmi didn't know what to say to that. Marstalu was saying the same thing he had to Raunu. Raunu hadn't thought it would make a difference. Skarmi had to hope the sergeant was right and he and the commander of the army wrong. But, had the Duke of Klaipeda wanted to reach the fortified belt before Forthweg collapsed, he should have pushed harder. He could have. Of course, he couldn't have known
Algarve's attack would shatter Forthweg, but everything Skarmi had ever soaked up about the military art suggested that wasting time was never a good idea.
Pushing Marstalu further would accomplish nothing but getting him on the commander's black list. He could see as much at a glance. That being so, what better choice than enjoying the choice viands and potables set out on the tables before him? He sat down between a pair of bemedaled colonels. One of them jabbed a serving fork into the large, savory bird lying on a tray in front of him. Juices spurted. "Have some, Captain," he said. "As you can see, we've finally gone and cooked Algarve's goose."
The colonel on the other side of Skarmi laughed so uproariously at that sally, Skarmi was convinced he'd already emptied the crystal goblet before him several times. Lifting his own wine goblet, Skarmi said, "May we serve the king as we have served the goose."
"Oh, well said, young fellow, well said," both colonels exclaimed in the same breath. They drank. So did Skarmi. He carved off a thick slice of [..in a t mean othing w had ntling e same ake a nd the anted d have known ad ever never a ng him e. That otables pair of e large, e some, cooked at that..].
I goblet [..d, "May ed..] in the slice of goose, then spooned a good helping of parsmips seethed in cream and dotted with butter on to his plate. The salad was of fine lettuces and chopped scallions dressed with wine vinegar and walnut oil.