Waterfront
Harbor District, New Sarresant
The New Sarresant harbor resembled nothing so much as a densely wooded forest. Everywhere she looked across the waters of the bay, ships’ masts reached into the sky, with more arriving by the hour. Mooring lines snaked in a tangle she could not begin to decipher, and a fleet of smaller boats swarmed in the channels between the hulls of the warships, carrying men, orders, and supplies to and from the shore. Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon had brought chaos in his wake, and as yet, his purpose had not been revealed outside whatever meetings he’d held with the Lords’ Council and the army high command. A strange turn, to redeploy so much of the royal navy into the waters of the New World. Perhaps a blockade in force, or a ferrying operation for an amphibious strike far to the south? All would become clear in time; no sense attempting to divine the whims of lords. Until then, the denizens of the Harbor district made what accommodations they could for this influx of sailors and soldiers from across the sea.
The Harbor-folk scurried in every direction this afternoon, most with jobs to do for the harbormasters, and the rest looking to hawk whatever wares they could scrounge for sale. Whether it was a hot meat pie or the attentions of a whore, men who’d spent weeks aboard a ship denied any semblance of comfort were not known for their discerning tastes. Almost she pitied the city’s rat population, being cooked up and passed as pork or beef. As for the whores, well. In the coming days, even the least among them would be wooed with fervor ordinarily reserved for blushing highborn virgins.
She made her way through the streets toward the 2nd Corps headquarters, and thank the Gods she was not pressed for time. Marquis-General Voren had shown either uncanny foresight or exceptionally ill luck, opting to establish his command here by the seaside during their tenure in the city. The day the army arrived in the city he’d made arrangements to host the officers of the 2nd Corps in apartments along the docks. Good for an old man’s constitution to be near the sea, he’d said. And that very night, Louis-Sallet’s flagship had arrived, with the rest of the fleet close on his heels. So now she and the other banner generals under Voren’s command occupied the most coveted space this side of Rasailles. It made delivering orders a damned frustrating exercise, to say nothing of trying to keep appointments anywhere close to their allotted hours. Left up to her, she’d have the officers sleeping in tents with the rest of the soldiers outside the city walls. But she supposed it also had the effect of making Voren’s command the envy of every admiral and ship’s captain who came ashore for lodging. A political game, and if she herself would not have chosen to play, that did not keep her from admiring her commander’s moves.
After an interminable walk through the press, she arrived at the Tank & Twine, the three-storied inn Voren had commandeered for 2nd Corps business. As soon as she stepped across the threshold into the common room she was assaulted by the smell of spiced meats and fresh-baked bread, rich enough to remind her stomach she hadn’t yet eaten today. She kicked the mud from her boots and called an order to a passing kitchen maid, asking it be served directly to Voren’s private chamber. If her commander issued summons at midday to a common room, he couldn’t object to her taking a meal while they spoke. Like as not he made a point of arranging his conferences at such hours precisely to show his peers how well stocked they kept the Tank & Twine’s larder.
She scanned the common room, finding no sign of Marquand. He was late, or perhaps already gone upstairs to begin their meeting with the marquis-general. Knowing the foot-captain, she knew where she would place her coin. No sense waiting for him. With a sigh she climbed the wooden stairs, letting the general’s aide know she had arrived.
“Chevalier-General d’Arrent,” Voren said as she entered. He waved her forward without looking up from the report over which he stood, leaning against his desk. “Apologies for the delay in scheduling your debrief. Things have been hectic since the Crown-Prince’s arrival.”
“Of course, sir,” she said, taking a seat in one of his cushioned chairs, the quality of which suggested he’d had them brought in rather than found them here at the inn. She made herself comfortable as she waited for the general to finish reading his report.
The click of his spectacles being folded and placed on the desk signaled he’d reached the end. “All right, d’Arrent,” he said. “Let’s have an account of these details you omitted from the official report.”
“Yes, sir. I’d hoped to show you in person, but it begins with the scout’s reports I mentioned in the official account.”
“I thought as much. The cavalry deployments mentioned in your report would never have caught the enemy movements through the Great Barrier. I assume it was an agent sent to infiltrate their ranks? Hence the need for secrecy?”
“No, sir. Not exactly.”
He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
She took a deep breath. “Sir, I believe I have discovered a new leyline binding. One that allows for communication, and observation over great distances. My personal redeployment north to the barrier, and the involvement of the priests of Arentaigne, were both a result of this observation. I was near the Gand border when I saw the vision from Marie d’Oreste’s eyes. Or, sir, that is how it is done: through a vessel, with sufficient need in both myself and the subject.”
Her commander sat back in the leather-upholstered chair behind his desk. “Start at the beginning, d’Arrent. Explain the details of how this works, and remember I have not had your education where the leylines are concerned.”
She gave him a full accounting, explaining the golden light, Need, the shift in control of the vessel whose eyes she stepped behind. In spite of his professed ignorance, he grasped the concepts of Need bindings quick enough. By the time she’d finished, the unasked question hung in the air like a dark cloud, always the first concern when a new form of warfare was discovered.
“Does the enemy have it?” Voren asked. “Can enemy generals issue orders over great distances, take command personally?”
“Yes, sir. I recognized it for what it was only after the events at the barrier. We’d seen the telltale golden light before, at Villecours, behind the eyes of a man called Alrich of Haddingston. The enemy has at least one Need binder.”
The marquis-general frowned, rapping his spectacles against the wood of his desk in one hand with the other pressed to the side of his head.
“And sir, I believe the Need binder is the High Commander of their armies.”
Silence stretched between them as Voren contemplated, filled only by the tapping of the general’s spectacles on his desk.
Finally he let them drop in a clatter. “They’ve had this for what, perhaps six months? And at what scale? Can it be used to command divisions? Brigades? Gods be good, d’Arrent, no wonder their Need binder is in command. Can you imagine what you could do with a network of communication like that?”
“I’d considered it, sir,” she said wryly. “However, I haven’t been able to use it with more than a single vessel concurrently, so command would be limited to large-scale operations. But with the right placement of Need vessels in tactically significant positions within a battle plan …”
Voren cursed. “Well, this explains the presence of our Crown-Prince.”
“Sir?”
“He’s brought the bulk of the royal navy here to redeploy us, Chevalier-General. He’s taking the army back across the sea to defend Sarresant proper. They’ve been losing the war on the ground there”—he gave a soft, bitter laugh—“for the past six months.”
“Sir,” she began, heat creeping into her voice, “if they redeploy us back to the Old World, how can the colonies stand against the Gandsmen? They are doubtless mustering fresh levies even as we speak.”
“Perhaps the Duc-Governor can broker a peace. If not …” His voice lingered. “Then the colonies will fall.”
She slumped into the cushions of her chair, stunned. Could it be true? It was clear the navy was here for a grand purpose, but to evacuate the army from the colonies? This was her home. This was her men’s home. Nominally they owed allegiance to the crown, but she’d never seen a scion of the de l’Arraignon line before Louis-Sallet made his trip across the sea. If their armies boarded his ships and sailed away, thousands would die. Tens of thousands. New Sarresant would be sacked. Villecours would burn. She’d seen the barbarity of the enemy commander firsthand, at Fantain’s Cross, and Oreste. Could they abandon their people, their homes to the mercy of such a man?
The door to the general’s private room banged open before she could reply. Foot-Captain Marquand stumbled in unannounced, wielding a freshly cooked chicken leg in one hand and a tray she could only assume had been meant for her in the other. Thankfully, Voren looked amused. The general’s aide rushed to the doorway a moment later, stuttering an apology. Marquand affected not to hear, offering a gesture that might have been a salute before he crashed down into one of the long couches at the far side of the room.
Voren leaned back in his chair, eyebrow raised. “One of yours, d’Arrent?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, with a glare for Marquand. “One of our fullbinders, in need of a reminder that his talents do not confer the sort of privilege he seems to think they do.”
“Very well. Why have you invited him here? Can he be trusted with strategic confidence?” The look he gave Marquand suggested what he thought of that.
“Yes, sir, he can be trusted. He’s a drunken fool, but he’s loyal to … to the army.” She’d been about to say he was loyal to Sarresant, but the words soured in her mouth in light of the revelation of Louis-Sallet’s intent.
Marquand coughed. “He’s sitting right here, sir.”
She ignored him, returning her attention to her commander. “Sir, I’ve called him here to demonstrate firsthand the power of Need.”
“Now hold on a minute,” Marquand said, setting down the grease-soaked remains of her lunch on the upholstery beside him. “You never said anything about—”
She slid her eyes shut, and found the golden thread of Need within Marquand, ignoring his sputtering protests. It proved far easier to repeat with a subject with whom she was familiar, snapping into place as easily as she might have tethered any other binding. The reserve of Need was small but, driven by her own requirement to show her commander, proved sufficient.
Once again the feeling of seeing herself, her eyes rolled back as if stunned or in a trance, sitting in the cushioned chair opposite Marquand’s place on the couch, made her stomach turn. Voren’s eyes went wide, and he rose to his feet.
“This is it?” her commander asked, craning his head to regard Marquand in a wholly different light. “This is the Need binding?”
“Yes, sir,” she said with Marquand’s voice, straining to control the slurring effects of whatever wine he’d drowned himself in this morning. “I see through his eyes, and control his movements.”
“Fascinating,” Voren said, rubbing his chin.
The reserve of Need ran dry, and her vision slid back behind familiar eyes.
“Fuck you, d’Arrent!” Marquand roared, springing to his feet. Or at least, he might have done, if his knees hadn’t buckled beneath him halfway up. Sputtering a few more choice curses, he scrambled to pick himself up off the ground.
She turned to look down at him, shaking her head. “Find a trough to soak your head, Marquand. That’s a direct order.”
He knew better than to try her. For other men, the presence of two senior generals might have been enough to corral their behavior toward some semblance of normalcy, no matter how much they’d had to drink. For Marquand, she knew it was only the memory of a few sound thrashings in the dueling grounds that kept him restrained. He stormed out of the meeting room, still hurling curses. She pitied whoever came between the foot-captain and the nearest flagon of wine.
“Well,” Voren said after he’d gone, wearing another amused look. “I suppose I can infer the binding has unpleasant aftereffects?”
“Perhaps, sir. I have not as yet had time to give it a proper study.”
“Find the time. Requisition whatever resources you require; I will see it approved. We cannot fight another campaign without the full use of this ability.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, feeling a renewed pang of concern. “Will it be in the Old World then? The next campaign?”
Voren sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “See to your new leyline binding, d’Arrent.”
“Sir, I cannot believe the crown would give this order.” She knew she overstepped in pressing her commander after he’d given her a cue to leave. She didn’t care. “Are you certain the Crown-Prince means for us to leave the colonies undefended?”
“He’d have given the order already if he had given proper forethought to the consequences.”
“Sir?” she asked.
“What would you choose, d’Arrent, between right and duty? Could you board that ship, knowing you consigned the people of New Sarresant to death and torment at the hands of our enemies?”
She made no reply.
“Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon is a boy,” Voren said finally. “Untested, young. He’s hatched a brilliant plan and sailed across the sea to see it done. Now he faces the reality of his dreams, and he blinks.”
She sat in silence, regarding her commander. Voren was an old man, but no ancient graybeard for all that. Yet he seemed taxed, brought low beneath the weight of the orders he would soon be asked to give.
“We are soldiers,” he said abruptly. “We are soldiers, and we do not blink.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, hearing the hollowness of her own words. It was almost beyond thinking, questioning an order. Years of training ingrained obedience in her bones. The pointless regulations she could set aside easily enough, but a direct order from the crown? It was not her place to question. It was not Marquis-General Voren’s place to question. Yet here they stood, contemplating the bedlam Louis-Sallet would unleash on this city when he gave the order for its protectors, for natives of the colonies to board ships and sail off across the sea. Her men would be asked to turn their weapons on their own people before the end. There would be riots, and worse.
“See to your new binding, Chevalier-General,” Voren repeated in a weary voice. “I expect a full report within a few days’ time.”
“Yes, sir,” she said again, rising to salute. Her commander gave the counter-salute and she made her exit, down through the common room and once more onto the bustling streets of the Harbor. Whatever else was coming, she had work to do.