CHAPTER 32

My love is dead.

It was the last entry into Field Marshal Tamas’s journal for almost thirteen months, and Vlora found herself staring at that page for hours on end. She examined the paper, stained with thirty-year-old teardrops. She studied the letters, written in a trembling hand. She sat in contemplation, staring at nothing with the journal open to that page on her lap.

Two days had passed since what the men had taken to calling the Midnight Massacre. It wasn’t a name that would reflect well on Vlora in the history books, but she did not contest it. How could she? In those two days she had searched Tamas’s journal for his mistakes—for any campaigns that had gone poorly, atrocities attached to his name, Pyrrhic victories. She’d found records of every one of those things, but he’d never written in terms of absolute regrets. The closest he’d ever come to self-recrimination was ending three of his entries with the words “I will learn from this.”

She knew that he had regrets. She’d spent her teens in his household, listening to stories about the Gurlish campaigns over the dinner table. It made her wonder if perhaps he knew that others might study this journal for posterity and he was presenting a confident face for history.

Which made this one, raw entry all the more emphatic. My love is dead. Nothing more. Just a date—the date that he would have been informed that his wife had been executed by the Kez. Everything about that page spoke of grief, as one might expect. Had Tamas been a normal person, this page would be nothing more than a record of the death of a loved one. But Tamas wasn’t normal, and the following entry—those thirteen months later—would no doubt give goose bumps to anyone with even the faintest knowledge of recent history.

Vengeance. Retribution. Justice. There is no word strong enough for what I am about to put in motion. Whether I succeed or fail, history will remember me as a man with ambitions. I spit on the very word. This is not about ambition. There is nothing I could gain that will fill my heart. I only seek to expunge those who took her from me. I will erase their legacies from history or die in the attempt.

They have no idea what they’ve done.

It would be well over a decade from the time this entry was written to the day that Tamas overthrew the last king of Adro and provoked a war that would see the king of Kez murdered by his own kin. Vlora shuddered upon the reading.

In the context of history, this was a declaration of war against the noble institutions of two countries. A war that the son of a poor apothecary would one day win. Weighty words. Significant. But after the Midnight Massacre, Vlora couldn’t help but see the cost of them. Hundreds of thousands had died. Millions had suffered. All for the grief of one man. She couldn’t condone that, just as she couldn’t condone her own poor decisions in the wake of her loss.

I will learn from this. She took a deep breath and closed the journal, setting it on her pillow and falling into a long, thoughtful contemplation. Outside her tent, she could hear the sounds of an army breaking camp, the joking of two porters while they waited for her to vacate her own quarters so they could pack her tent and baggage into a cart.

She put on her jacket and bicorn, using her sword as a cane as she limped out of the tent and squinted into the morning light. There was a light mist on the broken terrain of eastern Fatrasta, burning away quickly beneath the intensity of the rising sun. The army was spread across several rolling, abandoned cotton farms and she felt as if she was looking at that sea of tents with new eyes. She had to change. To learn. To become better.

Davd was on watch outside her tent. He stiffened when she emerged, snapping a salute. The two young porters dashed a last joke between them and then came to attention. She waved one hand at them. “Five minutes,” she said. “Make yourselves scarce, then come back and break everything down.”

“Yes, ma’am!” they replied, chasing each other off into the camp.

Their absence left a loud silence between Vlora and Davd. He stared straight ahead, rifle shouldered, his posture painfully stiff.

“At ease,” she told him.

He didn’t move.

She clenched her teeth. Learn. Letting out a long breath, she said, “Davd, I want to apologize for the other day. You were only telling me what I asked to hear, and my outburst was entirely inappropriate.”

It didn’t seem possible for Davd to stiffen further. His shoulders tightened and his hands clenched his rifle until his knuckles were white. “It was my fault, ma’am.”

“Look at me,” Vlora said.

Davd flinched.

“Look at me,” Vlora commanded.

Davd’s head gradually turned until they looked each other in the eye. “Ma’am,” he said, swallowing hard.

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. For the last two years, you powder mages have been among my most valued companions. You aren’t just subordinate officers; you are friends. I shouldn’t have done anything to compromise that. Please forgive me.”

A few moments passed before, like a deflating watchman’s balloon, Davd sagged. “Of course, ma’am.”

Vlora reached out and touched Davd on the elbow. “Thank you. I’m going to try to be a better officer. I’m going to try to learn from my mistakes.”

“You aren’t—”

Vlora cut him off gently. “No platitudes. I get enough of those from my general staff. The rest of this war will be painful. I need all the friends I can get, and I hope you’re one that I can count on the most.”

“Without question.” The formality had left his voice, but his posture was still overly rigid. It would take time for their relationship to mend. Vlora hoped that it might one day return to what it once was. She gave him a grateful nod.

“I’m going to find Bo. Accompany me?”

They found Borbador wearing a gaudy silk dressing gown, puffing on his pipe while a dozen porters broke down the small canvas palace that he and Nila called a traveling tent. Nila was nowhere to be seen, but a half-dozen officers were gathered around Bo, wearing nothing more than what Vlora could only assume were Bo’s extra dressing gowns. They stared bleary-eyed at the porters as if they’d badly overslept and had been kicked out of the tent. Only Bo was fully awake, as if this were a normal ritual for him.

One of the officers spotted Vlora, whispered something to his companions, and the whole group scattered. Vlora tried not to memorize their faces—she didn’t want to know—and came up to stand beside Bo. Davd gave them a respectful distance.

“You weren’t kidding about working your way through my officer corps, were you?”

“Not at all,” Bo replied happily.

“I would insist on being invited to one of your parties, but that would probably be gross, wouldn’t it?”

Bo cocked an eyebrow at her. “Gross has nothing to do with it. You’d bring the mood down like nothing else.”

“I can be fun.”

Bo barked a laugh so hard that it threw him into a coughing fit. He doubled over, slapping his knees, until Vlora thumped him on the back. He wiped a tear out of the corner of his eye and recovered, one last chuckle escaping his lips. “Right. You’re just a barrel of laughs. Especially these days.”

“That hurts,” Vlora replied. It did a little, but the arm that Bo draped companionably over her shoulders helped take the sting out.

“My dear sister, you wouldn’t know what to do at an orgy. And I mean that as a compliment. You’re a very organized, ordered person. A dozen limbs going every which way would just put you into a fury.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“No problem. How soon are we marching?”

“The head of the column has already hit the road.”

“Ah. I should probably put pants on. Oi! You there, don’t pack that trunk. It’s got my pants in it!”

Vlora examined the side of Bo’s face. It was easy to write off his excessive debauchery as the habits of a Privileged, but he also used it to bury his own deep trauma. She decided, in light of her recent realizations, that she should judge him less for it.

“I need a favor,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I need a real, honest answer. Do you have any idea where Olem went?”

Bo froze. “No?” he said.

“Are you lying to me?”

“No,” he said somewhat more confidently.

She stared at him, looking him in the eye until he began to squirm. “I have an idea,” he finally said. “But I can’t be certain. He didn’t say anything when he left, but everyone I’ve asked seems to think he didn’t want to be followed or found.”

“Can you spare a couple of plainclothes scouts?” she asked.

“You mean spies?”

“Yes, I mean spies.”

Bo’s nose wrinkled. “You want me to chase him down?”

“I just want you to find him. I’ll write four copies of a letter for your spies to carry. Once they find him, I just want them to hand over the letter. No need for anything else.”

“What’s in the letter?”

“An apology.”

“Probably a good idea.”

Vlora narrowed her eyes. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Will you help me?”

Bo clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Of course I’ll help you. You think I would dare stand in the way of true love?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Sorry,” he said immediately. “I don’t mean to make light. I know you’re hurting. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise results.”

“I just need a letter delivered. No other expectations.”

He considered for a moment. “Yes, all right. I can do that.”

“Thank you,” Vlora said quietly. “As you said, I’m an organized person. I’m trying to put my personal life in order so that I can finish this campaign.”

“Good idea.”

She let the remark pass. “How do things look between here and the Upper Hadshaw?”

“I talked to one of your scouts about twenty minutes ago. Looks like General Etepali’s army is still at the site of the Midnight Massacre, cleaning things up and helping the wounded. Seems she’s going to be a bit more cautious about getting between you and your goals.”

“You know,” Vlora said wryly, “I should have that scout shot for reporting to you before reporting to me.”

“Oh, come off it. They reported to your general staff before me. Besides, you and I are on the same side.” Bo grinned at her, but the smile faltered. “Are you sure about leaving Etepali behind us?”

“Not at all. But speed is of the essence right now. If I take the time to deal with her, we might lose whatever the Dynize recovered from Yellow Creek.”

Bo pursed his lips, nodding. “Fair enough. As far as we know, the road between here and the Upper Hadshaw is clear. We still have one Dynize army about twenty miles due south and holding their position. A second Dynize army is about forty miles to our southwest and marching to join the first. They probably found out about the Midnight Massacre yesterday, and I imagine that, like Etepali, it will make them more cautious.”

“Good. Then we’ll march double-time to the Upper Hadshaw. If we put our backs against the river, we won’t have anyone behind us anymore.”

“And as many as three field armies in front of us.”

“We’ll deal with that when it happens.”

“Oh goodie,” Bo said flatly. “I do have some bad news.”

Vlora ran a hand over her face. “Is this news that I want to hear?”

“No. But you need to.”

“Shit. Go ahead.”

Instead of answering, Bo walked away. He didn’t go far, stopping at the trunk he’d yelled for the porters to set aside. He opened the top and threw off his robe without ceremony or an ounce of propriety. He rummaged around, producing a pair of pants with an “Ah-ha!” and began to dress. Once he’d found a shirt, he finally looked up with a grave expression.

“The politicians have arrived,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I had to do a lot of wrangling to take an entire field army out of Adro. Even if most of these soldiers weren’t on active duty, they’re still Adran citizens, and this isn’t just one crack brigade off playing mercenary. Their departure threw the entire Adran legislature into a tizzy. I had hoped it would take them months to get their act together and send someone after us.”

Vlora felt a creeping despair. “They’ve sent someone to stop me?”

“You’re getting forty thousand Adrans involved in a foreign war,” Bo said. “Of course they’ve sent someone to stop you. That doesn’t mean they’re going to succeed, but they can probably be a huge pain in the ass.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“Word arrived late last night. A squadron from Adro has arrived carrying their special envoy with orders to find out what the pit we’re up to.”

Vlora’s heart fell further. “And who is it?” she asked again, her tone firmer.

“Delia Snowbound.”

“Oh.” Lady Snowbound was not just a political enemy. She was one of the few old nobles who’d survived Tamas’s purge. The rest of her family had died before the end of the Adran-Kez War, and she was able to return to the country under a general amnesty. She’d dedicated her career to dismantling Tamas’s legacy—overseeing general disarmament, the forced retirement of hundreds of officers, and even gaining leverage over the head of the government, Ricard Tumblar.

It was no stretch to assume that she’d asked to be assigned as a special envoy. She’d do anything to stick a needle in Vlora’s eye.

This wasn’t just a complication. It was a disaster.

“She’s on her way here?” Vlora asked, feeling suddenly faint.

“She’ll be here in a couple of days.”

“Do we know her specific orders?”

“No. Just that she has the full authority of the Adran government behind her.”

“Pit.”

Bo closed his trunk and sat on it to put his boots on, swearing quietly at his prosthetic. “I’d have chosen a stronger word. You want something to happen to her?”

“Are you suggesting I order the assassination of an agent of my government?” Vlora’s head snapped around to make sure there was no one within earshot. Even for Bo, that went over the line.

Bo shrugged. “Just asking.”

“No. We’re not going to have her killed, as much as I’d like to.” Learn. Become better. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Unfortunately I don’t think there’s enough money in the world to buy her off. She hates you more than you hate her.”

“Any helpful suggestions?”

She and Bo fell into a long silence, staring anxiously at each other. This could derail her entire campaign. She’d expected to face an inquisition from the Adran government at some point. She had, after all, gotten deeply involved in a foreign war that her mercenary company had never been hired to fight. She just didn’t expect a reckoning until she got back to the country. She’d already accepted the possibility of being forced into an early retirement or even exile over all this. But if those things happened right now?

She briefly entertained Bo’s suggestion before rejecting it again. She was not about to resort to the assassination of her own countrymen.

“You look like you have an idea,” Bo said.

Vlora churned through her options once more, grasping for anything that might prepare her for the arrival of the special envoy. “Not a very good one. But something.”

“What is it?”

“Did you bring any military attorneys with you?”

“A few.” Bo shrugged. “Most armies have them. Don’t you?”

“I do, but I want to consult with as many as possible before Lady Snowbound’s arrival. Send them to meet with me after lunch.”