54

WE HAD SEVERAL DAYS AT SEA BEFORE WE WOULD REACH THE Galatine coast near Hazelwhite, and we put them to good use. Theodor and Kristos spent long hours in discussion with Sianh, determining military strategy and, implicitly, solidifying their roles as leaders of an army.

“I’ve begun work on some… shall we say, ‘inspiring’ pamphlets to encourage participation in our cause from the people,” Kristos said. “Not to boast, but the Pen of the Midwinter Revolt never had any trouble pulling support.” I gave him an encouraging smile, but the question nagged me—what was I going to do of use? Theodor, Kristos, and Niko made a veritable trio of leadership, though I very much anticipated they would fight like cats. Sianh would train an army. I was marching to war with no direction.

Theodor drummed his fingers on the table, a marching beat of his own. “Even with manpower, we need supplies. We need cannon and shot and powder and—damn it, we even need wool and linen for uniforms. We don’t have many noble coffers at our disposal, and the Royalists can outspend us ten to one.”

“We have the majority of the country on our side, in terms of people, but the nobles have the money,” I agreed.

“You won’t get Kvyset on your side, not fully.” Alba folded her hands neatly, prim as a pin. “Some houses will offer support, either financial or sending a troop of hired horse.” A pert smile snuck through. “My house will certainly do so. It did once before. But overall—yes, the Royalists have West Serafe backing them, and you have no one.”

“What of the Allied States?” Kristos asked.

Theodor shook his head and Alba laughed, adding, “They won’t take a side. They don’t have to. They’re so secure in their neutrality, so assured that neither side would cut trade ties, that they will ride this out and befriend the winner.”

“What about Fen?” I knew before I finished speaking that it was a stupid question—Fen was practically powerless, a neutered island nation.

Theodor began to argue, but Alba stopped him. “It’s worth considering. Fen—and Pellia, for that matter—have little to lose and much to gain in an alliance with a new Galatine government. Not unlike Kvyset, but perhaps even more—a friend in a high place, perhaps, where there was no friend before.”

“If they help us now, they can be assured of favoritism later,” Kristos mused. “Are we in a position to offer anything concrete? Trade monopolies or assistance or lifting tariffs?”

Theodor nodded slowly. “Yes, we could do any of those things. But I’m loath to overcommit ourselves for—what? Bolts of wool and blankets?”

“We will need blankets, most likely. Unless you want soldiers to freeze this winter.” Alba shrugged.

“Besides,” Kristos said, “you’ve forgotten Fen’s other resource.”

“Rocks?” Theodor said.

“Coal. They’re even now more fully industrialized than Galitha, and even in the short time I was there I saw the beginnings of a boom. Each factory and foundry owner racing to outpace his competition.” He narrowed his eyes, as though squinting at a page of very small writing he couldn’t quite make out. “If it’s cannon and shot we need, muskets and bayonets, then we need Fen. We don’t have many noble coffers, but we have some. Fen’s foundries are hungry for investment, to grow. They would take our business; our money is just as good as anyone else’s. And they could outfit a fleet by winter.”

Theodor considered this. “We need cannon, and shot, and muskets—Galatine Divine, we need a damned navy. If an alliance with Fen can give us that, it’s well worth pursuing.” He glanced at me, ready to say something else, but stopped.

“And Pellia?” Alba asked, tickled by my brother’s suggestion. “What is Pellia hiding?”

“Pellia produces salted redfin and fish oil.” Kristos looked right at me. “And charm casters.”

Theodor’s eyes on me became almost too much to bear. “Iron and wool,” he said, “and charm casting.”

“Theodor,” I said, voice low.

He pressed on despite the warning in my voice. “Remember the night of the Midwinter Revolt? You gave the soldiers charms then. What if we could give our army charmed uniforms?”

“Yes, but—” I shook my head. “I just wanted to keep them from being hurt. I wanted to keep everyone from being hurt.” It hadn’t felt like a military strategy at the time, like I was throwing my abilities on one side of a conflict. I saw clearly now that it was. I had, in a sense, militarized my own gift. “But I couldn’t possibly outfit an entire army with charms.”

“We both know there are other ways to embed your charms. Perhaps it could be done on a larger scale,” he said, meaning implicit and unspoken, his own part in our experiments still secret.

“No,” I whispered. “Theodor, no. If I could—and I don’t know that I could—what would that mean?” I imagined it, iron forged with luck, wool loomed with health. My ability turned commodity on a mass scale. The industrialization of the art of my grandmothers—it was a perversion, wasn’t it?

“It could mean the turning point for an army that, at this point, will be outgunned and outmanned.”

I trembled, though whether with anger or bitter guilt, I couldn’t tell. I had always held fast to my ethics. I had broken them only once, to craft the curse in the queen’s shawl, and that still haunted me. This felt like abandonment of the core ethics of casting, even if no one had ever warned me against this particular use. Still, Theodor was right. We needed far more luck than I could dole out piecemeal.

“I won’t press you,” Theodor said, disappointment thick and gray in his voice.

“I will,” Kristos said.

“Damn it, Balstrade.” Theodor whirled.

“No, Kristos, you don’t get to argue with me about this,” I said. “Not you. Of all people.”

“I know. I—”

“If you know then you won’t say anything to me. Not now, not ever. Not about this.”

Kristos bit his lip. I knew that face, knew it better than even he did, perhaps—the burning impatience he felt when he wanted, very badly, to say something. He made it a dozen times a day when we were children, wisely restraining himself from talking back to our mother.

“I can never make up for what I did,” Kristos finally said. “I coerced you. I promise I will never do so again.”

I nodded, once. Terse acceptance of that earnest and yet impossibly inadequate apology.

“I will say this.” He held up a hand to my protest. “This is your choice. My life, Theodor’s life, the lives of thousands may hang on it. Your life may eventually hang on it. The fate of nations may hang on it. But it is your choice. Yours alone. No one will force your choice. No one.”

I fell into a morose silence. None of them would force me, but the war already had. My rules were, perhaps, good ones, guiding principles for ordinary times, but I had outpaced them. If I could do something, I was bound to try. Besides, I argued to myself, feeling the weakness of the ethics even as I considered it, someone would eventually discover what I had discovered. Someone else would find that charms could be pulled from the ether and embedded without a clay tablet or a needle and thread. Someone would put it to use for their country or their army.

The ethics were weak, but the pragmatism was inarguable. “All right. I’ll try.”