‘You have to put some trust in your officers, or they’ll never be worthy of it.’
‘Is it possible for that advice to be as lame as it sounds?’
They frowned at each other for a moment, then her father waved it away. ‘Jalenhorm is an old friend of the king, and the king is most particular about his old friends. Only the Closed Council can replace him.’
She was by no means out of suggestions. ‘Replace Meed, then. The man’s a danger to everyone in the army and a good few who aren’t. Leave him in charge for long and today’s disaster will soon be forgotten. Buried under one much worse.’
Her father sighed. ‘And who would I put in his place?’
‘I have the perfect man in mind. A very fine young officer.’
‘Good teeth?’
‘As it happens, and high born to a fault, and vigorous, brave, loyal and diligent.’
‘Such men often come with fearsomely ambitious wives.’
‘Especially this one.’
He rubbed his eyes. ‘Finree, Finree, I’ve already done everything possible in getting him the position he has. In case you’ve forgotten, his father—’
‘Hal is not his father. Some of us surpass our parents.’
He let that go, though it looked as if it took some effort. ‘Be realistic, Fin. The Closed Council don’t trust the nobility, and his family was the first among them, a heartbeat from the crown. Be patient.’
‘Huh,’ she snorted, at realism and patience both.
‘If you want a higher place for your husband—’ She opened her mouth but he raised his voice and talked over her. ‘—you’ll need a more powerful patron than me. But if you want my advice – I know you don’t, but still – you’ll do without. I’ve sat on the Closed Council, at the very heart of government, and I can tell you power is a bloody mirage. The closer you seem to get the further away it is. So many demands to balance. So many pressures to endure. All the consequences of every decision weighing on you … small wonder the king never makes any. I never thought I would look forward to retirement, but perhaps without any power I can actually get something done.’
She was not ready to retire. ‘Do we really have to wait for Meed to cause some catastrophe?’
He frowned up at her. ‘Yes. Really. And then for the Closed Council to write to me demanding his replacement and telling me who it will be. Providing they don’t replace me first, of course.’
‘Who would they find to replace you?’
‘I imagine General Mitterick would not turn down the appointment.’
‘Mitterick is a vainglorious backbiter with the loyalty of a cuckoo.’
‘He should suit the Closed Council perfectly, then.’
‘I don’t know how you can stand him.’
‘I used to think I had all the answers myself, in my younger days. I maintain a guilty sympathy with those who still labour under the illusion.’ He gave her a significant look. ‘They are not few in number.’
‘And I suppose it’s a woman’s place to simper on the sidelines and cheer as idiots rack up the casualties?’
‘We all find ourselves cheering for idiots from time to time, that’s a fact of life. There really is no point heaping scorn on my subordinates. If a person is worthy of contempt, they’ll bury themselves soon enough without help.’
‘Very well.’ She did not plan to wait that long, but it was plain she would do no more good here. Her father had enough to worry about, and she was supposed to be lifting his spirits rather than weighing them down. Her eye fell on the squares board, still set out in the midst of their last game.
‘You still have the board set?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then …’ She had been planning her move ever since she last saw him, but made it as if it had only just occurred to her, brushing the piece forward with a shrug.
Her father looked up in that indulgent way he used to when she was a girl. ‘Are you entirely sure about that?’
She sighed. ‘It’s as good as another.’
He reached for a piece, and paused. His eyes darted around the board, hand hovering. His smile faded. He slowly withdrew the hand, touched one finger to his bottom lip. Then he started to smile. ‘Why, you—’
‘Something to take your mind off the casualties.’
‘I have Black Dow for that. Not to mention the First of the Magi and his colleagues.’ He sourly shook his head. ‘Are you staying here tonight? I could find you a—’
‘I should be with Hal.’
‘Of course. Of course you should.’ She bent and kissed him on the forehead, and he closed his eyes, held her shoulder for a moment. ‘Be careful tomorrow. I’d sooner lose ten thousand than lose you.’
‘You won’t shake me off that easily.’ She headed for the door. ‘I mean to live to see you get out of that move!’
The rain had stopped for the time being and the officers had drifted back to their units. All except one.
It looked as if Bremer dan Gorst had been caught between leaning nonchalantly against the rail their horses were tied to or standing proudly straight, and had ended up posed awkwardly in no-man’s-land between the two.
Even so, Finree could not think of him as quite the harmless figure she once had, when they used to share brief and laughably formal conversations in the sunny gardens of the Agriont. Only a graze down the side of his face gave any indication that he had been in action at all that day, and yet she had it from Captain Hardrick that he had charged alone into a legion of Northmen and killed six. When she heard the story from Colonel Brint it had become ten. Who knew what story the enlisted men were telling by now? The pommel of his steel glinted faintly as he straightened, and she realised with an odd cold thrill that he had killed men with that sword, only a few hours before. Several men, whichever story you believed. It should not have raised him in her estimation in the least, and yet it did, very considerably. He had acquired the glamour of violence.
‘Bremer. Are you waiting for my father?’
‘I thought …’ in that strangely incongruous, piping voice of his, and then, slightly lower, ‘you might need an escort.’
She smiled. ‘So there are still some heroes left in the world? Lead the way.’
Calder sat in the damp darkness, a long spit from the shit-pits, listening to other men celebrate Black Dow’s victory. He didn’t like admitting it, but he missed Seff. He missed the warmth and safety of her bed. He certainly missed the scent of her as the breeze picked up and wafted the smell of dung under his nose. But in all this chaos of campfires, drunken singing, drunken boasting, drunken wrestling, there was only one place he could think of where you could be sure of catching a man alone. And treachery needs privacy.
He heard heavy footsteps thumping towards the pit. Their maker was no more than a black outline with orange firelight down the edges, the very faintest grey planes of a face, but even so Calder recognised him. There were few men, even in this company, who were quite so wide. Calder stood, stretching out his stiff legs, and walked up to the edge of the pit beside the newcomer, wrinkling his nose. Pits full of shit, and pits full of corpses. That’s all war left behind, as far as he could see.
‘Cairm Ironhead,’ he said quietly. ‘What are the chances?’
‘My, my.’ The sound of spittle sucked from the back of a mouth, then sent spinning into the hole. ‘Prince Calder, this is an honour. Thought you were camped over to the west with your brother.’
‘I am.’
‘My pits smell sweeter than his, do they?’