40

ERRIS

First Prelate’s Study

The Exarch’s Basilica, Gardens District

I would hope, High Commander, that you know you can always count on the priesthood.”

First Prelate Casanne said it with a crisp, almost bored tone, the sort used by academy lecturers, no few of whom were priests themselves. Never mind the long hours spent arranging this meeting, and never mind the pitfalls still ahead of her if it went poorly.

“It’s settled, then?” Erris said. “You can deliver a majority in the Assembly?”

Casanne smiled. Enough powder had been caked over the First Prelate’s weathered skin to give the expression a foreign look on her face, as though two sets of wrinkles fought for control. The rest of her was immaculate, dressed in pure white, with the same motif carried through the décor of her study. White-painted wood for the furniture, white tapestries on the walls, with only a single stained-glass relief of the Exarch in blue-painted steel for color.

“I prefer you, I think, to Voren,” Casanne said. “Your directness is refreshing. You know neither I nor any of my priests have been elected to the Assembly, yet still you assume I can deliver you support.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been discussing?” she said. “I’ve already promised you control of the Thellan monasteries, when the conquest is done.”

“So you have,” Casanne said. “As is our rightful purview, as the true expression of the faith here in the New World.”

She waited for Casanne to continue, yet the woman said nothing. The silence served to heat her blood—which was almost certainly the point. Tactics for a battlefield for which she was not prepared. This sort of meeting had been Voren’s purview, before his exposure, and she could curse him twice over for leaving her to face it alone. Yet this was the battle in front of her, and she wasn’t about to surrender for lack of knowledge of the ground.

“Look,” Erris said. “I know you have some leverage with Assemblywoman Caille’s former block. No fewer than three of them suggested I arrange this meeting. But if I’ve wasted my time, so be it.”

“Stay seated, High Commander,” Casanne said before Erris could rise.

Another moment passed, a silence too long for comfort, before Casanne spoke again.

“You have Voren imprisoned, in the Citadel,” Casanne said. “Or rather, the creature that was our former colleague.”

“Yes.” She’d seen to it at once, and stopped short of executing him only for the shock of his betrayal. Though, so far, none of her interrogators had managed to pry loose his secrets.

“I wonder, perhaps, whether a kind word from the priesthood would—”

“Out of the question.”

Casanne showed no reaction, only maintained the knowing smile the Prelate had worn from the start of the meeting, as though she intended to have her way, no matter the means it took to reach the end. But Voren knew too much about her—her plans, her tendencies, and, loath as she was to admit it, her weaknesses. She might lack knowledge of political strategy, but she knew enough to keep him to herself, at least until the mystery of who—and what—he was had been settled.

This time she stood.

“Thank you for your time, First Prelate,” she said.

“Very well, then,” Casanne said, rising along with her.

Erris gave a stiff bow. A failure, then, with no time for anything shy of success. She’d have to go back to Tuyard and plan to chase a different thread. Perhaps a meeting with—

“You’ll have your votes, High Commander,” Casanne said.

She almost missed a step.

“You’ll have your votes,” Casanne repeated, “but I will require your support for my gaining purview and control over the Thellan priesthood, and expanded influence in the Gand colonies. If it’s directness you require, then I’ll be direct: I intend to see the New Sarresant church in control of the spiritual life of every soul on this side of the ocean. So long as our goals are compatible, then we will be allies.”

“Agreed,” she said. It was as though she’d ordered a cavalry charge into a line that folded and broke before her soldiers fired their first shot. No, she understood this battlefield not at all. Damn Voren. Damn him into the Nameless’s arms.

Casanne came around her desk, offering kisses on either cheek.

“A word, then, from one ally to another,” Casanne said. “I respect your desire to keep Voren’s secrets close, for now. But we have reports from the incident in the Assembly, reports of what he could do. A binding to change one’s face would be a powerful tool indeed. See to it I don’t find any agents using this binding to infiltrate my orders. And remember me, when the time comes to share knowledge of the gift. It would be unfortunate, if some accident were to befall him before we had time to extract his secrets.”

It took all her discipline to keep from nodding, or revealing more than she intended. Enough that Casanne had promised support for her preemptive war against Thellan. The threat against Voren, and against her, if she understood Casanne’s meaning correctly, would go unanswered, for now.

Jiri followed the turns toward the council hall almost without prompting, and Erris let her horse guide the way, relaxing in the saddle and keeping the reins slack as they rode.

De Tourvalle’s 2nd Corps would be crossing the Ansfield river junctions today, and thank the Gods Casanne had agreed to lend her support with the Assembly. It meant an official declaration of war, with the supplies and taxes to fund it, and not a day too soon if they passed it within the hour. Another week and de Tourvalle would cross over into Thellan territory, and then the dance would begin in truth. She’d have ridden south already if not for Voren, and the political mess his exposure had left behind.

Essily waited for her at the entrance to the stableyard, taking Jiri and leading her away without asking for more details than Erris ventured to give.

Casanne’s warning about Voren was no idle threat. A skin-shifter, or whatever the fuck Voren was, carried real danger to her, to Casanne, to anyone with pretentions of power anywhere in the colonies. What was to stop such a creature from posing as her, delivering an order that would lead her army to its doom? She’d scarcely formed an outline of the problem in her mind when she opened the doors to her receiving room, and found Foot-Captain Marquand already seated at one of the chairs across from her desk.

He snapped to his feet when she entered, offering as clumsy a salute as she’d ever seen.

“Foot-Captain?” she said. “A bit early for you, isn’t it?”

“Sir, I made an appointment with Aide-Captain Essily.”

“You made an appointment?” She almost swallowed the words. “You?”

“Yes, sir.”

She’d made it only halfway across the room, but came to a slow halt, staring at him. “What’s going on, Marquand?”

“Sir,” he said with an air of starting over. “High Commander, sir. I’m here to formally request a promotion. I’ve been foot-captain for two wars now, and we’re about to start a third. I’ve led troops in battle. I’ve helped you plan this campaign. I’ve earned it.”

She almost laughed out loud. “Gods damn it, Marquand, I was sure you were about to tell me the city had broken out in riots, or there were signs of plague, or food rot in our stocks. Instead … you want a promotion.”

“Sir.” He saluted again. “Yes, sir.”

“At ease, Foot-Captain.” It seemed wrong to have to tell him of all people to relax, though he still hadn’t moved by the time she took her seat behind her desk. “I said at ease. Sit down.”

He did, though not without averting his eyes enough to make her think there was some prize hidden in the corners of her office. She might have confused it for him wanting to be anywhere but here, save that he’d been the one to arrange this audience to begin with.

“Tell me where this is coming from,” she said. “Are you wanting to be in the field, with the army on the march?”

“No, sir,” Marquand said. “I’m no coward, if you want to put me on the front, but I’ll serve wherever I’m needed.”

“You want to try your hand leading a company? A regiment?”

“No,” he said. “Or, I mean, I would, if you thought it best.”

This time she did laugh. Marquand’s cheeks went red, as flushed as they’d ever been when he was drunk.

“Tell me what you want, Foot-Captain,” she said.

“I want … rank,” Marquand said. “You don’t see how these assholes at high command are. When you’re there they bow and salute and say your name like it’s a bloody fucking prayer. They see my collar and think I’m a fucking aide, there to fetch your tea and groom your horse while you’re sleeping. I planned half the action if there’s a battle in the Vulmannes. I know the use of binders’ companies better than any damned officer in this army, including you, sir, if you don’t mind my saying it. I want the half pricks here to salute and bloody listen when I talk, instead of needing to route every idea in my head through you.”

“You’ve been a captain for four years,” she said, and he nodded. “Has a double bar on your coatsleeve made a lick of difference, when it came to men listening to you in a fight?”

“We’re not in a fight here,” he said. “We’re in a bloody debate chamber.”

“I know,” she said. “And I’ve tried hard, with this army, to ensure that the best ideas rise.” Marquand leaned forward as though he wanted to speak, but she cut him short. “I haven’t always been successful. People are people, and for the most part, people are shit.”

He snorted.

“But Marquand, I have to ask: When was the last time you had a drink?”

“Fifty-eight days ago,” he said. “And not a drop since.”

He said it with a glow, beaming as though he’d just led a charge that shattered an enemy line. The quick admission stunned her. She’d been too wrapped up in planning and politics to notice, but now, racking her memory of the past few months, he was right. He hadn’t been drunk in weeks, or at least not where she could see. It was clear from his expression he thought that alone was enough. And perhaps it was.

“Typically rank comes with responsibility,” she said, and saw him shifting in his seat, as though he’d prepared a sermon on the topic. She forestalled him with a glance. Her meeting with Casanne had provided an opening. An opening Marquand could fill, so long as he was sober. “We might one day see what you can do with a brigade, but for now, I think a colonel’s pin will suffice. No attendant unit assignment—a strategic officer, posted here, to high command.”

“So, an aide-colonel?” he asked.

“Call it just a colonel, no appellation for line of duty. Similar to the lords-general under the monarchy, and my field-marshals now. Can you be satisfied there?”

“Thank you,” he mumbled, then again, louder. “Thank you, sir. Yes.”

“It does come with a few added layers of duty,” she said. “First, the higher you are in this army, the more you reflect its character, both outside our ranks and within. You say you haven’t had a drink in two months—good. Make it two years, and we’ll talk about a generalship. I make full allowance for social drinking among my officer corps, for those who can handle it. For you, a glass of wine is like to see you pissing yourself and sleeping in a horse trough, before you’re through. So make it abstinence, or you can resign your commission and find work in a taproom somewhere. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and, by some miracle, looked as though he actually meant it.

She continued. “Next, while I expect and even encourage you to call me a fucking idiot in private—so long as I end up being wrong—I insist you keep a certain decorum in others’ company. This army will be a place where ideas trump their source. I’ll not have anyone holding back truth for fear of a browbeating, nor do I want my officers to be the loudest, most persuasive voices without concern for the underlying strength of their positions. You are a forceful man, Marquand; see to it you invest effort in learning to be humble when you’re wrong, and learning to keep anger from inhibiting your ability to recognize it.”

By now he’d sat up straighter in his seat, almost at attention by the time she finished. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I won’t disappoint you. And I’ll hold you to your word, about that generalship.”

“Good,” she said. “Congratulations, Colonel. Your first order—and your first test of the decorum I just mentioned—will be one I should have seen to weeks ago.”

“The Vulmannes campaign?” he said. “I’ve got a bloody good idea for the fords there, around—”

“No, Colonel. Voren.”

“Voren,” he repeated.

“That’s right,” she said. “He’s been held at the Citadel since the Assembly. I’m ordering him moved here to high command, and placed in your personal custody.”

“What? Are you bloody fucking mad? Why would you …?”

She raised an eyebrow, and he paused, seeming to draw a steadying breath.

“That is,” he said, “if the High Commander would please explain the rationale behind her decision.”

“You know, Marquand, most of the time I expect you to follow orders without needing to hear my reasoning. This time I’ll make an exception. I met with First Prelate Casanne this morning; she made a threat I should have known was coming. Voren has some sort of magic, something we’ve never encountered before. So far the gendarmes haven’t gotten anything out of him, but you saw the truth of it as plain as I did. We need to know how he can do it, whether there are more like him, and we’re not alone in wanting answers as to his nature. So your assignment is twofold. First, learn what you can of his magic and his purpose. And second, protect him from those inclined to do him harm.”

“Yes, sir,” Marquand said. “I won’t let you down.”

She paused, but the glib remark she expected never came. Instead she nodded. “Dismissed, then, Colonel,” she said. Just as well if she could leave that piece to Marquand. The bigger puzzle lay ahead of her: two wars, one she knew how to fight, unfolding in the Thellan foothills, and a second, far more deadly, in back rooms and hidden meetings here at home.