Guy watched Cole leave. The camp was in uproar. Heary was trying to congratulate him, but couldn’t decide between a restrained salute befitting Guy’s exalted rank, or a long list of his filthiest and most detailed exclamations. The messenger stumbled to his feet – though dramatically executed, Cole had pulled his blow, so the messenger was not terribly injured – but it was still a blow, so the messenger’s face was split and bleeding, iron bars having left their squares scratched across his cheek.
“That was my horse,” he said.
Heary’s list was very long. Guy wondered how long it was appropriate to watch Cole leave. He didn’t have much in the way of instinct for dramatic timing, really.
The messenger, clearing his throat, spoke more loudly, “I need another horse to get back to the Palace.”
Turning away from the horizon, Guy looked at him, bleeding from the nose like a slapped schoolboy, uniform of office marred with dirt and mud. The messenger frowned at him, voice imperious. “You will find yourself in a very poor situation indeed, if not only do I come with your superior’s message, but I also come late to His Highness for lack of a horse.”
Already setting his mind to other things, Guy decided on the quickest way he had yet seen to express his emotions, and spat at the messenger's feet. The messenger started back, a mixture of confusion and disgust on his face. Guy smiled, then let it fade, voice low and threatening.
“Get out of my camp.”
And if the messenger thought he might find some sympathy – or at least an explanation – all he found in looking for any other person to appeal to, was that Guy’s soldiers had heard his order.
“Your camp, eh?”
Guy turned away from the messenger (already beginning his long walk rather than try to argue his point) to find General Galen standing behind him, having just let loose his guard’s collar. Lo, looking wounded, tried hastily to right himself and straighten his uniform.
Guy decided it was his prerogative to ignore Lo’s predicament. Likewise, either because fatigue had eaten a great fat hole in his brain, like a weevil, or because he truly felt vested with new authority, he decided it was time to stop pussyfooting around with General Galen and appearances. It’s not like appearances could be maintained anyway – not when Lo looked more chagrined and vaguely hurt than furious or embarrassed at being dragged around by his collar by his supposed charge.
“Have you heard, yet?”
Galen shook his head.
“General Hammerlyn ordered a decimation at the end of the parade tomorrow.”
Galen’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, before he grunted with disdain past reckoning. “Fucking Hammerlyn.”
“And they were going to knight Brigadier Cole.”
Galen snorted, turning away, hands coming to his hips.
“They sent along a scold’s bridle,” Guy said, meeting Galen’s rising eyes, “for you.”
“Well,” Galen said dryly, looking in the direction Cole had disappeared, “that was stupid.”
Guy shrugged. “Brigadier Cole seemed to think so. He said he was going to ‘get the law.’”
Galen’s loud and sudden laughter made them all jump. “Oh, my – things are very serious then, if he bit down his ego enough for that.”
“For what?”
But Galen only grinned his sharp, wolfish grin, and said, “He listened to me.”
“…Yes,” Guy said, before the silence that followed that statement got too noticeable. “We can’t assume whatever he’s planning will succeed, however. We’ll need to prepare for decimation. I assume – rather, it seems best the news should come from you, to your soldiers.”
Galen grunted again. “Yes, I’ll do it – I’ve become familiar with delivering bad news.”
“For our part, let us offer what succor we can,” Guy replied, letting a deep breath puff his chest. “Brigadier Cole said our care would not be wasted, nor our actions made dishonorable. We’ll be as the warriors of old were, and end our contention with honor by granting our enemies dignity in death, if we can do nothing else.”
Though he did not bow, Galen lowered his head in acknowledgement of the magnanimity of Guy’s offer. Those who still watched swore they could tell – Guy commanded as much respect from the foe as Cole had.
Luckily, those who watched couldn’t see the rueful smile on Galen’s face as he stood again, taking his own deep breath. For a moment he looked both tired, and happy – neither quite fit, though what emotion one was supposed to have before one marched defeated to ignoble slaughter before a jeering crowd, Guy was not at all sure.
“Esras Cole,” Galen said, after a moment’s silence. Then he laughed. “Do you know how many people he is going to piss off in the next few days?”
Guy tried to smile, over the knots the thought put in stomach.
“Do you know,” Galen went on, conspiratorially, “he was like this at Academy, too. I think he must always be like this. Perfectly obedient – all anyone expected of him – and then perfectly not, the utter worst nightmare of them all – the ollamh, the instructors, the cooks – and the cooks were the most frightening! – the guards, the officers, the mighty generals – all of them! He was never afraid of me. This is why he could beat me – he was never afraid of anyone. They called down Hell and they don’t know it – they don’t even know what Hell is, anyway, but they will now.”
He laughed harder, looking away to calm himself, and when he looked back up, it was towards the city on the horizon – where Cole had gone.
“That is the man I would give up Heaven for.”
Galen broke his gaze before Guy could figure out what made his eyes shine that way, what made his voice go quiet. With a loud bark of laughter, he clapped Guy on the arm. “I'll have to tell you stories about the Academy days, before he gets so famous nobody will believe them anymore. They're not all good – but they're all funny. I'll tell you some, then, maybe, we'll be enemies again.”
Galen's other arm stretched out to hit Lo's shoulder, nearly causing the man to fall over. Lo grinned, then seemed to realize how strange it was and tried and failed to wipe the grin away.
Guy, too, had trouble with his expression, but he tried putting a magnanimous smile on his face. Both he and Galen knew how precarious this peace truly was – it was Cole’s gift to inspire and motivate, to extract the best in those around him, and Cole was long gone. Both he and Galen also knew that things would only get harder from here; neither of them really had much to smile about. But they were committed; they chose to follow the path before them. So, somewhat belated, Guy managed.
“You prepare your men to meet their God,” Guy said. “We will prepare to march tomorrow.”
Dismissed, Galen turned, grabbing Lo with an arm over his shoulders and shaking him briskly under a thunderous, joyful laugh. Guy, while trying to look nonchalant, couldn't help but notice the way Galen's laughter made his own victorious army flinch. “Now that we are friends, would you like to know, my friend Lo, how it is that the Midraeics, devout and long-suffering bastards that we are, go to meet our God?”
Lo had to stumble like a fool just to keep his footing under this assault, which only amused Galen further. For some reason, even in his friendliest gestures (or perhaps 'especially' in his friendliest gestures, Lo had noticed) seemed designed to assure Lo that despite being armed, and surrounded by his comrades, General Galen could still kill him. Easily. And without too much thought, either. He wouldn't, of course – of course! Were they not friends now? – but he could.
In his private dark moments, though nonetheless ashamed of himself, he recalled their earlier status as 'regular guard' and 'despicable prisoner' with some fondness, if only for its clarity of protocol.
In darker moments, he realized Galen could've killed him then, too.
Lo's expression easily conveyed his decision that it was better to humor the frightening man than press for his dignity.
“How do Midraeics go to meet their God?”
Galen laughed, turning them towards the watching crowd of soldiery, booming his reply over them as if each and every one was in on the joke – or soon would be:
“Hungover!”
Nika told stories.
Even the soldiers who were from the Capitol, familiar with its streets, sat to listen, finding the way he opened the distant walls to them like peeking into tomorrow's windows. The Ainjir soldiers gathered in little crowds and clusters, discussing neighborhoods and business, their trades and their neighbors, like there weren't years of absence rendering their postulations wildly inaccurate, at best.
It was difficult to feel anger or be suspicious when they were all wondering what it would be like to go back to their carpentry or their cattle-raising.
To the less metropolitan of the Midraeic soldiers, Nika's stories were wonders, and for them he told of wonders. He remembered coming from far into the country to learn at the Academy, seeing the big gates and basalt towers and color-spattered markets for the first time. He told them in tune with a walking step, like they were touring the greatest city of Ainjir instead of marching through. He made sure they wouldn't miss anything he thought they would like. The Ainjir soldiers chimed in with comparisons to other towns, familiar vignettes of what it was like to run about the streets as a native.
“Aidan's beer,” Nika said, and the Ainjir soldiers sighed and swooned, “is only the beginning of the Capitol's wonders. The cadets would run all the way across town to his inn at the gates just to have a sip before being called back for muster.”
“So good it melts,” said one Ainjir.
“Like butter,” said another.
“Fresh cream and hops,” said a third.
“And the Capitol's food –” Nika said.
“The Food! The Food!” the Ainjir soldiers chimed in longingly.
Nika raised a brow at them, as if annoyed they had interrupted, and they fell silent, nudging and lip-licking and nodding at the listeners to make sure they got the point.
“Even the Midraeic food – eha! You can get any Midraeic food you like. If the followers of Midras come from everywhere, then the Capitol Midraeic sample a little bit of everything.”
“The 'bitas! Those are Midraeic, right? I had those once by the South Wall...”
“Curcurbitas frictas,” Nika translated, “with a breading, instead of sauce, made of crumbs so fine it melts in your mouth...”
“You can get a bag of cicer as you walk to the market through Táilliúir road from there – so fine and hot...”
“I know that neighborhood well,” Nika grinned. “There is a widow, Viduavi Antonia, who sells them there, and her ciceris are fine indeed. They are cooked and dried, then dusted with a hot spice, so they're crunchy...”
“What about the pipers? You can get those around there, can't you?”
“He means dulcia piperata – the Ainjir always like the hot spices – these are the ones made with nuts, aren't they?”
“What about the pocket-things at the market? The what-d'you-call-ems...patina?”
“Patina versatilis vice dulci. In the Capitol, they make a pastry very like, filled with sweet custard – again, and with peppers. But, that is the east side of the market,” Nika said, “and if you're in the eastern market, you must stop for the lupa – lupanica – at–”
“Servan's!” several of the Ainjir soldiers said at once, like piping gulls. They fell back, eyes a-glow with tastes fondly remembered.
“Tits!” cried one of the Ainjir, ignoring the looks of Midraeic soldiers who could understand the word, if not the exclamation. “I had almost forgotten about Servan's. The cinnamon balls you can get there...”
“Does he still do the military discount?”
“I haven't been there in YEARS.”
“How soon d'you think we'll get leave?”
“His shop was destroyed,” one soldier informed them – and instantaneously became the uncomfortable center of attention. “Rioters burned it down and beat him up,” the looks of despair were too much, “but that was a few years back when I was garrisoned in the Capitol. He's still around. You know Servan. He'll never give up.”
“Servan has the best lupa,” Nika said over the cheers, hand sweeping a straight line to demonstrate its singularity, “and the best casiae nivis, and all right tea – you can get better at Vulpes, up the road, but it is only a tea shop. I used to go there as a cadet, though not too often. ALL the cadets went to Servan's.”
“EVERYBODY goes to Servan's,” one of the Ainjir interrupted him. He shrugged at the Midraeic soldiers. “He's nice to soldiers.”
“He is also a butcher,” Nika said grimly. It was the Ainjir's turn to look startled and confused; as a body, the Midraeic soldiers took a telling breath and leaned back, nodding to one another with sudden understanding.
Nika left the Ainjir soldiers to hang, letting the moment seal in his memory the firelight glow of mutuality that let one-time enemies converse so easily. He only explained when he had had enough of the vision; it was hard not to laugh, so he didn't stop himself. “The butcher knows everyone's business, and as a cadet, as a young man, the lure of the finest lupanica in the city could only conquer my desire to be deep and mysterious every so often.”
“Nobody is mysterious to the butcher!” cried one of the Comid soldiers, a hand over his eyes as he winced at his own memories.
“I suppose it's a Midraeic thing...” ventured one of the Ainjir.
“Eha!” cried another Comid soldier. “You think you Ainjir have mysteries still, having been in front of a Midreaic butcher? The butcher shop is the house where coincidence sleeps.”
“I met my wife at Servan's,” another Ainjir soldier blurted. Every eye around the fire turned to him. He hesitated, unhappily rubbing his chin. “She was just picking something up, but her order was taking a long time. We met because Servan had only half of the chairs out and there was nowhere else for her to sit and wait; he said they were being repaired. She was almost past courting age at the time. We both felt... it was so lucky. My... my brother-in-law is an officer in Farrell's Battalion.”
A Midraeic soldier reached up and patted his shoulder consolingly. “Coincidence.”
They laughed – all together, they laughed. Nika watched as if there were nothing else as beautiful in the world.
Not all would laugh, as Nika knew – nor would those who laughed, laugh all night – nor should they. For the more serious Midraeic soldiers, Nika and Guy had arranged a place to pray, out of the way, kept somewhat quiet by the confused stares of the Ainjir soldiers who guarded it, respectfully silent, but also unable to comment upon it. Though busy being everywhere and among everything, it was Nika's solemn absence and his silence at the periphery of this group that gave them recognition.
For the more serious Ainjir soldiers, Nika had offered to wrestle anyone who still felt the need to express their displeasure physically. Potentially disastrous as this was, Nika had waited until spirits were high, and more than a few of the Ainjir had been reminded that he had the same training as Cole – and, the Ainjir reminded each other, they would never get the chance to see how they matched up against a dignitary as august and laudable as General Cole (he did not mention that, in fact, in Academy rankings, he was far better at wrestling than Cole).
A flock of officers had descended before the second match was over, putting a stop to the proceedings for 'the sake of the men's safety'. Nika laughed, but enthusiasm had already waned after he was done with the first contender. Everyone was allowed to slide away with no loss of face.
Guy, heaping a healthy amount of reprimand on Nika for being so irresponsible, challenging the men the wrestle, arranged the slightly more serious side of things.
“Letter writers,” Guy explained, watching his clerks set up their tables and wet their ink cakes, “so your men can get word back to their families, if they have any. The Ainjir army post will ensure they get to their destinations.”
“You plan to be marching through Comid territory anyway, after all,” Nika said, bitter grin on his face.
Guy blushed but stood his ground. “It's a good idea. You said family, community was very important.”
Guy raised his hand, gesturing towards the little clumps of nervous prisoners, already lining up to send word.
Nika nodded. “You're right. They are the most important.”
Guy had turned to direct his soldiers to line up the prisoners, keep the affair orderly, but when he turned back around, Nika was gone, off to continue causing mischief.
Namely, as the evening wore on, Nika had cajoled, threatened, wheedled, and eventually invoked several little-known points of army discipline to convince the quartermasters to tap the remaining stores of wine and brandy. Of course, it had helped somewhat that he had recruited a loyal band of Ainjir soldiers, who under his careful direction, were in the act of 'commandeering' the casks in a similar style to the 'Great Academy Kitchen Raid of Second Year,' the tale of which had already torn across camp – Cole's part in the raid especially quickly. While Nika was distracting the quartermasters, full half of the casks had already been rolled off and hidden. Finding their supplies under such assault, the quartermasters had little choice but to consign it to paper. Nika called them all good men for it:
“Which,” he assured them, “is a name I have never had cause to call a quartermaster.”
By the time evening fell, and all of the men were off duty, and the great fires had been lit so that the City could see them, the prisoner convoy had turned into a celebration.
Telling stories of the Comid side of their battles proved to be uproarious entertainment, as Nika pulled no punches in either his admiration of Cole's tactics, trying to outsmart him, or in his own errors and mistaken estimations and the follies of his fellow commanders. To find out the opposing army had as many missteps and conflicts and confusions as their own made the whole war seem like a comedy of errors – albeit one of gallows humor. Fortunately, soldiers lived by gallows humor.
“Where is Guy?” Nika asked the men sitting around him, “I was thinking maybe he would like to hear what happened at Kinsael. If I don't tell anybody nobody will know how clever I am – that's how clever what happened at Kinsael was.”
Someone recovered enough to indicate that Guy was in his tent, and Nika, glancing back, smiled at the light still burning behind the fabric.
“Let him sleep.”
Guy had gone back, for one, because commandeering his entire supply of booze on his final night outside the Capitol was going to require some explaining. To put it in no uncertain terms, his explanation was that he wanted to, so screw the bean counters.
Still, he had to write that in triplicate. It took some time.
Then, of course, shuffling papers, he had gone in desperate search for anything Cole might have left behind.His superior (as Guy still thought of him) was something of mess with his papers, in spite of the fastidiousness he insisted upon with others – or perhaps because of how useful the fastidiousness of others was to him. If protocol would let him, Cole would simply burn everything he was done with – less mess to keep track of. All Guy found were absently scribbled verses on the bottom of requisition sheets and battle reports, the occasional drawings of little ducks and an odd boat or two. Cole, never having seen a boat, drew boats that were... 'interesting', but sadly, not really illuminating in any strategic sense.
While despairing over his predicament, Guy surreptitiously dragged his own bedding into the general's tent, as he would have to sleep there, and well...
Not that embarrassment was the only reason. The little camp bed Cole used was all a-splinter anyhow.
Of course, Guy could despair with the best of them, but a little physical activity awakened him again. Though he could hear the laughter and music coming from the camp outside, he pressed his mouth into a line and stared at the mess of papers on the little table.
He still didn't have it quite complete, still couldn't account for the entirety of Galen's activities during the war, though he had some very good suppositions at the moment. He needed to finish this, he needed to be as helpful to Cole as he could.
Battle accounts peeked out from under clerks' reports, over wine stains on the table. Guy hauled the papers up to his camp desk (what in all of Fortune's vast fuckery had happened to Cole's, he didn't know) and, pulling his chair close, began to pore over them one last time.
One last time, and maybe something would jump out him...
Just one more, then he would go out and make sure this party wasn't getting out of hand. Galen could probably handle it, not that he should, but still, it was Guy's responsibility.
Missing papers didn't help, nor did conflicting reports – he would have to dig deeper, go for a little bit longer.
He almost had it. But by then, cheek against the cool paper, he was deeply dreaming.
Cole had to admit, it was with some pleasure he laid the stacks of forms down on the clerk's desk at the Academy, detailing all the different reports, processessings, lists, promotions, demotions, awards, and inquiries he needed to fill out to account for the current position of things.
It was the first time he had ever seen a clerk come near weeping. He hadn't thought them capable of such emotion.
He didn't feel much pity; the clerk was the one who had directed him – snottily – to all the required forms as if doubting his ability to fill them out from memory, mercilessly tutted as each pen wore off is sharpness and he had to ask for another, and watched him work over the last two hours or so with a growing sense of personal aggrievement. He had seemed to want to indicate that his office should be closing, but Cole merely grinned, and informed him that this was his triumphal parade, and it would last as long as he wanted it to.
By the time Cole, on horseback, had reached the Capitol, it had been late afternoon. Then he had snuck into the Academy, careful to avoid being seen by anyone who might make a fuss, and gone down to the dungeons of paperwork. Filling out everything he needed to properly ruin everyone's day tomorrow meant that by the time he emerged it was well into dark. He had had to awaken the clerk in charge of addresses personally, in his room, and by sheer force of personality (it's not every day one gets awoken by the victorious Executive General of the Ainjir Army) gotten the one street and house number he needed.
Bloody Nika – was it any wonder the Comids had gotten as far as they did? It was as if Cole were always hearing Nika's footsteps beside him, only to spot him a second later a hundred feet ahead.
‘I also know people who know the law sufficiently.’ Nika had said, his clear gaze fixed unwavering on Cole.
It was with a grumble, with a pang of jealousy as he rode, that Cole realized there was one who would defend most assuredly Nika, though not just for the Law's sake.
The house he sought was in the legal district. Except that his horse was tired, he would've galloped through the cobbled streets to get there. He rang the bell hanging over the door.
It was so late that Faerghal Archambault answered Cole's ring in a hastily-tied robe, blinking his weary eyes, and thinking he was still dreaming.
“…Cole? Did the… front move?”
“A bit,” said Cole.
Who would defend the law for the law's sake who was also still a friend of Nika? Friend of Nika being the operative clause, as sure, Cole hadn't forgiven him. They hadn't spoken since Academy, and even so many years later, Cole hadn't forgiven him.
It could be many years yet, and he still might not forgive him.
“Surely not that much,” Faer said, responding to Cole’s grim demeanor – and mere presence – more than any specific expression on his face. They had been friends, after all – even if it was a long time ago, and things were very different now. Faer rang the stable bell by the door himself rather than wasting time asking Cole more questions, and stepping aside, he checked up and down the street while Cole came inside.
It was a comfortable little set of rooms. Law paid well. Cole heard the door shut behind him.
“You said once that you would do anything for Nika…” Cole began.
“And I meant it,” Faer replied, pulling his robe tighter like an officer straightening his uniform.
Yes, they had been friends, but not only was the past a difficult barrier to mount, but if Cole at all miss-stepped in this moment, heads could literally roll for it. Faer’s face was more harried by his employ than Cole's, touched more with lines of quick expression, brown hair speckled with premature white like a quail egg. Feeling like a teenager again, Cole was aware of the temptation to mockingly try to relate the softened lawyer to the hard cadet, to discern what had made he and Cole once friends, and what had made the figure before him once attractive to Nika.
Attractive enough Nika had almost chosen him, instead.
But there was a job to do. Cole smiled as if Faer’s answer had pleased him – as if reminders of lifelong devotional vows to Cole's lover that weren't made by Cole were acceptable – hoping something of the friendship they used to have would shine through.
But in the case of Nika's old courtships, Cole had never been that shy with his opinions.
Faer rolled eyes.
“Virtue's Tits, Cole, years haven't dimmed your dramatics. It was all of thirty minutes – not counting the months of recovery on my part – and you're the only one who wouldn't let it go. Galen chose you, and I’ve always respected his choice.”
He smiled, quick to do so as always, though it was rueful. “For my part, we never stopped being friends – we just added the impediment of a mutual love... Except maybe for when I was in traction; for obvious reasons, I didn't care for you then. What's a few weeks spent nigh-immobile of a mortal man's short life, though? I got a lot of reading done. And speaking of mortal man's short life, please tell me you didn't ring my bell in the middle of the night just to have some sort of heart-to-heart about youthful romances.”
“No,” Cole said, “I’m afraid it’s rather more serious than that.”
“For what you call serious, maybe I should sit down,” Faer chuckled, though he made no actual move to sit. “If it helps, I’ll say it again, and as many times as you like, I’ll do anything for Galen. And that means, because of the way you two work, I’ll do anything for you.”
“Does that 'anything' extend to treason?” Cole said, trying to restrain his discomfort with Faer’s easy devotion. “Does it include potentially standing against the Prince Regent, and the Palace? Maybe the High Command, Academy Council, or the military itself? Are you willing to use the law to defend him, even when he has confessed to treason, and is working for his own death?”
Faer raised his eyebrows, as if this deserved consideration, but the ghost of a youthful grin betrayed him. He was, after all, never inclined towards too much gravity.
“Sure.” Faer shrugged. “What do you want to do after breakfast?”