heart lurched. ‘You mean . . .’
‘I think this is it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, as acting chief officer of the company, it means me, and I need a second. Hell, everyone else’ll have one. It won’t do for me to be left out.’
‘But . . . I’m only an ensign. Surely someone else would look better.’
‘Mallen out-and-out won’t do it. He says he’s got no time to watch the colonel and his cronies comb their moustaches for hours on end. And I wouldn’t trust any of the sergeants to be able to write their own names. That leaves you, Em. Come on, it’ll be . . . educational.’
In that moment she had a very clear image of Elise with the red rosette flowering on her shirt.
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘What?’ He gave her a quizzical look that she did not meet.
‘The battle plan, Tubal. I don’t want to hear it: that this squad or that company will take the brunt. That the charge will come here, or there. Who lives and who dies. I’m an ensign. I just lead squads into battle.’
Tubal put a hand to her arm, unconsciously mimicking Sharkey’s earlier clutching. ‘Em, how do you think I feel? And what do I say when the colonel says, “Lieutenant, I want six of your squads to charge the Denlanders here, as a diversion.” But it’s all part of the job, Em. It’s not just leading from the front. Sometimes that’s the easiest bit. I want you with me. I know I can rely on you.’
Those last words decided it. The words, again, of an officer to a junior, not a relative, nor a friend. If he knew he could rely on her then she would have to be reliable, to justify his trust.
‘I’ll come,’ she agreed, and a soldierly nod hid his relief, and they both pretended it was just another onerous part of the job, like fighting the Denlanders.
The main table of the colonel’s building had a pitifully small map tacked out on it. She recognized it instantly and the sight brought a sound – half-laugh, half-sob – into her throat. It was the very same map they had studied at Gravenfield: that pitifully inadequate balloonist’s-eye view of the swamp. There was no other map, she realized. All their strategy would be based on this: an artist’s impression of one fleeting aerial glimpse from years before, of a terrain that could shift from one day to the next.
She and Tubal were the last ones into a room already crowded. As Tubal stepped into the place left for him, she looked from face to face. She recognized most, but actually knew very few.
The decisions these men make will govern the future of my world. It was not a pleasant thought.
To one side of Tubal stood the greying solid form of Captain Mallarkey, commander of Leopard Passant company for his sins. The colonel’s favourite henchman looked worried, eyes shadowed by sleepless circles. His hands unconsciously wrung the hem of his jacket as he stared at the map. The prospect of imminent action on such a grand scale did not sit well with him, but Emily was unsurprised. He had a camp-wide reputation as a cautious, even pedestrian, man – an administrator, not a field officer. Regarding his second, the slight-framed Lieutenant Gallien, Emily knew next to nothing. Mallarkey had spared Tubal a nod as they entered, but his attention was away from anything actually in the room, looking into a dismal future instead.
Bear Sejant company was the province of the grandly named Captain Sir Huillam Pordevere, a man ten years younger than Mallarkey and about whom the women recruits whispered adoringly. He was a trim, athletic piece of work, never without his sword, never anything less than immaculate. His word or smile could inspire men and melt women; his duelling scar did not detract from his looks but lent him a rakish devilry. He had a reputation to match his appearance, too, and Emily knew he was a man for leading from the front and surviving the experience. Most of the long-time soldiers had a lot of time for Captain Pordevere, but wiser men like Mallen shook their heads. Mallen had no time for recklessness. As an example, Pordevere’s second was the newly arrived Lieutenant Cauldry, a youth of good family and three years younger than Emily. Lieutenant Potter, Pordevere’s old second, was dead out in the swamps, having followed his master on one dashing charge too