well, she thought: three companies of soldiers pushing through the treacherous swamps; Denlanders that could be hiding anywhere except where they were supposed to be . . . and of course the camp left unguarded. She wondered what explosive invective John Brocky would muster if his plans to live forever were thwarted in such a way.
‘Right down the middle,’ the colonel was saying to Pordevere. ‘You get the hammer, Huill. Make good use of it. The other two companies are supporting you. Everyone’s got that?’
There was a general murmur of nodding around the table.
‘Now, Warlocks,’ said the colonel. ‘I want you both with Bear Sejant, to push the main attack. One at each end of the line. Pincer within a pincer, I suppose.’
Before Scavian could reply, Lascari put a finger down to the left of the map. ‘I will post myself here, I think, towards the Stag. Scavian, you can support the Leopard’s end of things.’
He’s keeping Giles away from me, Emily realized, blankly puzzled. Even if Lascari knew of Scavian’s attraction to her, what possible reason could he have? Or was it simply that he and Scavian did not get on? She had seen plenty of evidence of that already.
‘We move day after tomorrow,’ the colonel said. ‘Short notice, I know. Have to catch old Jan Denland on the hop. Make sure your companies know what’s happening.’
The day after tomorrow. Her stomach wrenched suddenly. Tomorrow was too soon. She needed more time. She could not march out for such a venture without at least three days, four days, more, to compose herself.
But she knew that was not true. The more time, the more twisting of the knife. The day after tomorrow was as good, or as bad, as any day. There was never an ideal time for a venture of this sort.
Captain Goss returned the next day.
Emily wasn’t sure what she had been expecting of the man. She had heard so little during her time there. Only that he had fallen, taken down by a Denlander musketeer, then was dragged back in agony to the camp and carted away to Locke for treatment. It was not the history of a man so much as the anatomy of an injury.
‘Was he a good commander?’ she asked Tubal.
‘He was the only one I’ve had. He could have been the worst or the best ever. I’ve got nothing to compare him to.’ The lieutenant was mustering all of Stag Rampant to welcome the captain back. Almost half the company would be completely unknown to him.
‘Did Mallen like him?’ she asked, because Mallen, to her mind, was a good yardstick for the character of military men.
Tubal shrugged. ‘Mallen never expressed an opinion. He was master sergeant before Goss came, and you know he only really takes orders from the colonel when he’s doing his scouting.’
They had the company lined up parade-ground-style. There were so many of them, all put together; Emily had never imagined Stag Rampant could field such a host. She stood at the front and left with the other junior officers, the soldiers-at-arms arrayed in red-coated rows behind them, with polished muskets at the shoulder. She glanced across the line of her peers: ensigns and sergeants, with Mallen at the end of the line. Tubal was a few paces ahead, his sabre drawn, glinting in the wash of warm sunlight that had come with the captain’s return.
There were a good two score men coming into camp now. Some of them limped and others were gaunt and drawn like fever victims. One had his left sleeve pinned up to his shoulder. They had a common look about them, of men returning to a nightmare. They were the walking wounded, she realized: the men who had survived long enough to get to Locke and the physicians, and healed well enough to be sent back. By the look of them, the doctors had not been too stringent in their criteria. Some would never hold muskets again; some could not march or run. One man had a patch across his eye. What madness has refused to release these men, but has sent them back to war?
The same madness that brought me here, of course. We stand on a knife-edge. Even a single hand will do to defend Lascanne from the enemy.
Individual soldiers broke away from the parade ground to find their quarters, their comrades. Some were met by friends: tentatively clasping hands with a few awkward words exchanged. A few just struggled off on their