Chapter Four
At dawn, animals were already moving, though soldiers were not. Some horrific form of bird was screeching through the trees, if it was not the fabled monkeys that Cole and the other officers had spent so long planning for and working against and protecting their stores from only to have never encountered. It would be appropriate for them to join the chorus at reveille, and give screaming, mocking farewells to the prisoner details.
The prisoner details didn’t know they were leaving yet, but leaving they were. They would be pleased until they realized it meant they had to march some extra two hundred men heavy. They despised marching. It’s why they were adjudication officers under the Provost rather than regular soldiers under nasty march-loving Executive officers like Cole.
Little did they realize; Cole was difficult to escape.
Lieutenant Guy entered Cole's tent before the half-hour call to breakfast had sounded, his papers for the day held firmly in hand and with his usual vaguely disturbed look held firmly between his brows. The poor boy needed to go back to whatever little country hamlet he called home. The bags under his eyes were impressive. He only spared a moment to look around the bedraggled tent (and if it looked to him as if Cole had not slept, that would be because he hadn’t), and ratcheted up his perpetual sense of impending disaster a notch or three.
“The staff of the 2nd Battalion would really like for you to look over their assignment to Colonel Porter by Major General Firth, b-because y-you see...”
Guy stuttered to a halt as Cole had walked past him out of his tent, patting him on the shoulder as he went. Cole stretched, reaching fists up to the sky, and ran through a few other early-morning exercises while Guy caught up.
“This is really, I mean, they’re terribly interested, sir, and it’s really important, and rather pressing, if you could just...”
Good man! He was going to try. That was part of why Cole liked him. So he stood up from touching his toes and smiled broadly at Guy. Lieutenant Guy’s face fell as if crushed by hundreds of tiny hammers. Cole pretended not to have any idea why it would do that.
“Oh, Virtue’s Tits! Sir, what’s going on?”
Cole started walking. “Let’s have breakfast, Guy.”
Guy followed after, papers fluttering precarious and forgotten in his arms. “You don't eat breakfast while campaigning, sir, this is some kind of ruse, and I don’t want to lodge a complaint, but by Honor and Glory, I will.”
Cole smiled at their own little joke. Lodge a complaint, indeed. He would have to complain to Hammerlyn, who was technically Provost (a fact very relevant to today), and Guy was more frightened of him than he had ever been of Cole.
“Sir... sir... sir...” Guy stuttered fell behind as they passed the regular mess, where Cole usually chose to eat – not because it was heartening to the men, or anything. On the contrary, they found it depressing, seeming to indicate the officer’s food – the only inducement for promotion – was as miserable as their own, thus rendering promotion entirely undesirable. In truth, Cole just hated talking seriously at breakfast. It’s why he had stopped the habit of eating it once he had been promoted high enough that politesse required his attendance at the Officers' Mess.
Jogging to catch up, he could hear Guy mumbling miserably to himself. “Officer’s Mess, we’re going to the Officer’s Mess, Bravery's Balls, it’s going to be a bloody charade...”
But he dutifully straightened his buttons. Not that they needed it; Guy was always impeccably prepared for the day; sometimes – or rather, usually – better dressed than Cole. Another reason he was good to have around. It made Cole look good that his officers were so impeccable.
The Officer’s Mess was some way away from the regular mess, having its own cooking staff, and rather farther from Cole’s tent than was necessary (Cole's fault – Cole put Cole's tent far away. He liked the solitude of rank – or its lack of meddlers – as it turned out). At a clip, they made it as all seven of the great and gloried staff of High Command unfortunate enough to be in the field were tucking their napkins into their collars, so as not to drip on their plentiful insignia.
Cole went in around the guard, Guy on his heels, and pushed the flap aside. The officers paused, all eyes upon him as he held the flap for Guy to come stumbling in after him, too busy minding salutes to mind his feet. Cole took a deep breath. It was a good thing they had tucked their napkins in – it was blintzes. Spiced pork of some kind... and it looked like some cream-honey thing drizzled on top. He almost thought about sitting down. They had blackberries, and he loved blackberries.
“General Cole?” Durante said, scooting himself slightly closer to his plate.
It was a decision worthy of knuckle-biting, but, after all, his intention was to make several people rather angry at him. So he shook his head at the indication that he might sit.
He clicked his heels together and nodded, letting them all nod in return. “Sirs.”
“I presume,” said Orean, Ceannaire Capall – Head of Horse – and a genial and capable enough fellow that the soldiers refrained – mostly – from amending his title, “that you have some dire news, and you have not just come to torture your subordinate?”
Cole shot Guy a surprised look. Guy was staring longingly at the plates. Guy still wasn’t used to not eating breakfast, which he had given up to keep up with Cole. He frowned; Guy ignored him and continued to look far more put-upon than was necessary. Cole cleared his throat. “Indeed. I’m letting you know that I intend to move out all Executive Class prisoners after breakfast this morning.”
There was some humming over mouthfuls and looking back and forth. Hammerlyn, sitting at a corner, dabbed delicately at his mouth. “And why would you presume to do that?”
Cole spoke gravely to him, “The sooner their officers are secured, the sooner we can send word to the Comids that this war is over. In addition, having the number of prisoners we do, it would be unwise to move them together; a simple raid by a few soldiers could free them, and let loose a large enough portion of the Comid Army that their position in peace negotiations would be strengthened... if negotiations do go to mediation rather than full surrender. I fear I must remind you that we did not capture any of their core government or High Command – a failure on my part.”
“Well, it was likely never possible – we wouldn't expect Gaius to take the field anymore than the King would,” Durante sighed.
The old men all exchanged wary glances – Durante was right, but prisoners were Hammerlyn’s bailiwick. Few of them, even at their rank and especially at their age (that is, well past young men’s passions), would choose to risk his temper. “I... am in agreement,” he shrugged, putting his fork down delicately next to his delicious-looking, poofy, little stuffed blintz (would Cole reconsider? Not at all, but the blintzes looked almost worth it). “...in principle. I had the same thought myself. So I wonder why it is you, in particular, who shall be taking this action.”
Cole nodded deferentially. “I didn’t doubt your plans, if that is what troubles you. Rather, I was going to take charge of my duty.”
Glances passed yet again, yet more cautious. Horace was a white-haired fellow on Cole’s side of the table. Though younger than his colors made him look, he was wise enough to hide his amused smile behind his napkin before he spoke. “Your duty, General Cole?”
“Why, yes, General Horace, my duty,” Cole said, as if to a favorite pupil. “I personally accepted the surrender of the Executive General of the Comids yesterday, and once that happened, my own term as an Executive Class officer has very nearly ended. My duties as an active general have ended with their goal accomplished – the military suppression of the Comid Republic. With the Executive General of the Comid Army in custody and having given an uncontested surrender, why, my continued presence on the battlefield becomes a hostile action, implying continued conflict.”
Nobody was yet reacting except Horace, who had half his napkin over his face trying to suppress laughter. Horace’s family had Midraeic roots; he and Cole had always gotten along, as their sympathies tended to align. Their senses of humor also tended to coincide, to everyone else’s dismay.
Durante was no fool, though. “You say, ‘very nearly’?”
Cole nodded again, careful to remain at attention – Durante, as Cole's mentor, didn't often override Cole, but he outranked him by many blazing miles of accolades and experience. “Despite recent tradition that the Provost take over all duties regarding prisoners, in my particular case, with the very particular nature of my rank, and because the surrender was given explicitly, and personally, in my name, I am held responsible for the safe return of the Executive General to the Capitol for trial. It is a debt of honor as well as official duty.”
“’Debt of honor’?” Hammerlyn snarled, eyes fixing on Cole. “‘Recent tradition’?”
Sure, that was perhaps overdoing it. Prisoner transport had been handled thusly for the last five hundred years or so.
Hammerlyn’s face was turning red. He tore his napkin from his collar and bunched it in his fist on the table. “This is ridiculous. Ridiculous and insubordinate.”
“And entirely true,” said Orean, pursing his lips, revealing the one trait – procedural pedantry – that caused his subordinates to refer to him as other parts of horses as well. “I think, anyway. Just... ah... unprecedented. Would you not rather remain on the field with your men? Regardless of the technicalities of the position, traditionally it has been deemed wisest for the Executive to maintain his powers until negotiations have officially begun.”
Hammerlyn did not entirely check the anger in his voice. “And don’t you all agree that General Cole in this situation has a conflict of interest?”
The council of wizened glances silently convened again, some more confused than others. Durante's eyes narrowed at Hammerlyn, well aware, of course, of what he meant.
Horace also knew, as Cole had revealed it to him during the drunken confessions that had made them friends, and Horace’s brow now contracted in sympathy. “That is... true, General Cole; I’m afraid it does seem that there would be a rather prominent conflict of interest.”
Cole nodded. “I know.” He looked around at the table. “However, any of the other officers to whom this duty would fall also have a conflict of interest to some degree or another. You all know that Dominicus Galen was a student at Academy in my class. There are hardly twenty officers who haven’t been his ollamh, friends, or acquaintances. My association may be stronger than that of others; I, however, am the only one who will be held responsible should the Conventions of War not be followed.”
He looked particularly at his old teachers, but it was Durante to whom he ceded the telling agreement. Durante could make the call, even if Hammerlyn disagreed, even without the others. It was his wisdom that was most respected, his vote that most swayed. But it was also true that Cole was considered his protégé, and as such, his reputation was entwined with Cole’s. He did not appreciate Hammerlyn calling on Cole's personal business to slander him before High Command, however appropriate it might be.
And, Cole hoped, he remembered that Hammerlyn hated Nika with a passion, and had some pity for his former cadet. It was Durante who had presided over them all as head of the Academy Council.
Cole was good at military politics, but Durante was better. Durante’s brows contracted in thought, then he seemed to give up the battle in the face of impossible odds. Of course, the final jab of the pantomime was to Hammerlyn: he shrugged, as if his concern were unwarranted. “I... well, I suppose that’s true, General Cole. Your record has been good... it would be a shame to allow this to tarnish it... and the Conventions must be upheld.”
Hammerlyn’s fist came down, shattering his thin pretense of calm. “This war long ago gave up on the Conventions, and it was the god-soaked scum who broke them first. You know very well there will be no blame!”
“It is my duty–” Cole began, careful to keep his tone banal.
“It is a ruse,” Hammerlyn hissed, leaning over the table to glare at Cole, “of the sort that kneeler has always preferred. The traitor seeks to destroy us from within, by playing upon the sympathetic and weak. And who is fool enough to fall for it – twice – but Cadet Cole.”
The council of glances met over their plates; they feared anger, hot and sharp, would rage over the table and smash all their blintzes. Cole demonstrated he was not so easily ruffled – though a bit surprised, perhaps, that Hammerlyn would get so heated.
Guy hid behind Cole.
“Let us not fall into disrespect for each other, or our duties…” Durante began.
Hammerlyn, falling heavily back into his seat, interrupted him. “Respect – these are traitors, not foreign enemies – to call for respect is ridiculous. You,” he glared at Cole, “are endangering our efforts, and those of our soldiers, selfishly – for personal honor and an ill-chosen old lover. The Conventions are moot.”
Durante’s voice rang out over the table. “If the Conventions have not been broken, it is our duty to repair them, and it would be utmost arrogance to cast aside what our people – our soldiers – have chosen to guide them through the horrors of war.”
Durante’s gaze had leveled on Hammerlyn, whose face reddened, clenched fist shaking in fury – and who finally turned away. Durante then turned to the rest of the illustrious table, delicately resuming his fork. “The Conventions were established by Keadar-Ainjir himself, and lie at the foundation of the Six Nations and at the foundation of more than just our Army; they are the heart of our very country. If we have failed to uphold them, we have failed our founder and five-hundred years of history, and it is up to us to make good again. On that I think we all agree.”
The others nodded slowly – on the Conventions, they all agreed. Cole's personal conflict was another matter, but one they could not dig out from under the avalanche of duty in which Durante had buried it. Durante waved his hand, summoning his steward and releasing Cole in the same vague, early-morning gesture of continuance. “You will be in charge of the Executive Class officers, go and good luck.”
Cole saluted and turned to leave. General Horace caught his attention long enough to give him a broad congratulatory smile.
“Oh, yes, General Cole,” Orean leaned back in his chair prodding his blintz with anticipatory delight. “Doesn’t this also mean you need to name your own provost for the two hundred and sixty-five commissioned officers that also fall under Executive jurisdiction? We must put it on record after breakfast.”
Cole nodded. “Of course.” He pointed with his thumb. “That’s why I brought Guy.”
***
“Gracen’ goodness, sir, you’re joking. You’ve got to be joking.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Guy, but I just didn’t have time to warn you of your new responsibilities.”
“All due respect, sir, you warned the cooks. And your steward. Your tent’s already packed.”
Nika would’ve liked to say he’d woken up to those voices. But when he cracked his eye open and caught sunlight and shadows outside his tent, it was only waking from a fitful nap. It took more resilience than he had to sleep comfortably in one position for longer than an hour.
“Exactly why I didn’t have time to warn you.”
So Cole found Nika, when he walked into the prisoner’s tent, lying back rather stiffly with one eye cracked open at the flap. Cole judged the other might not be able to open; his face had swelled somewhat more. Kneeling, Cole reached into a pocket and produced a paste stuck to a folded paper. He squinted down his nose and smeared some on Nika’s face before he could bat his hand away.
“Do you sleep with one eye open? If not, then your evasion could use work,” Cole declared.
“What are you doing?” With some effort, Nika rolled himself up. “This smells like piss and flowers.”
Cole nodded, tossing him the paper. “Put some on. It’ll help the swelling.”
“First they give you wounds, then they heal the wounds. It is marvelous, this army you have, General Cole.”
Cole laughed, falling back to his seat rather than continue kneeling. “You are a clever bastard – clever and devious. And still almost too clever for your own good.”
Nika raised his eyebrows. “Did you finally figure out what went wrong at Kinsael?”
That brought them both up short. Guy’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to recall the battle at Kinsael. It had been a terrible rout, indecisive for both sides, leading to a protracted but nearly casualty-free engagement across idyllic mountain-and-valley terrain... the issue had eventually forced the brutal battle of Col-Raith. It was a peculiar battle, but not a remarkable one...
Cole spent some time recalling as well; then, frowning, he shook his head.
Nika shrugged. “I should tell you sometime. That was clever. Even I think that was clever and I did it.”
“No, not Kinsael,” Cole said, ending Guy’s attempt to question before it got out of his mouth. “You surrendered to me. The trick was, that you surrendered to ‘General Cole’ by name. It took me some time, but I got it, you bastard. You planned this.”
Nika sniffed and wrinkled his nose, putting the paper and its remaining paste into his pocket. He ran a hand through his hair, having to stop mid-way, as it got stuck. He wrinkled his nose again. “I was never good at politics.”
“Sweet Fortune, please, bear that out! What would happen were you ‘good’ at politics?” Cole exclaimed.
“If you were in charge of the prisoner transport, then it was more likely I would arrive at the Capitol alive.” Nika rubbed his nose, then frowned at himself for getting the comfrey paste on it. Now he’d smell it all the time.
Cole shook his head. “This, Lieutenant Guy, this is the man you can thank for your new duties. I was up all night trying to come up with a way, and he’d already set one up.”
Guy flushed, seeming disinclined to express his displeasure directly at the Executive General of the Army of the Comid Republic. He also resisted the urge to point out to his superior that this was also the man who had nearly killed them several dozen times. Nonetheless, being no fool, Guy grabbed the opportunity to speak. “I... er... how did you know it would work?”
Nika looked up him, sniffing (again) and frowning (again). “I didn’t. When you’re a General, you make plans, then you put them out of your mind and deal with what’s before you. If you’re like Cole, you hope – I don’t hope – which is part of why I knew it would work. He would be hoping for the chance to end the war, and he’d take the chance the moment he saw it.”
Guy nodded; then wrote some small note on his ever-present notepad. Nika looked at him strangely, but Cole shrugged. “Lieutenant Guy is now Provost for your officers. They'll be traveling with us, as Executive Class officers. I was thinking of giving you the chance to see them before we left for the Capitol.”
Nika grumbled, “ You'll have charge of the officers – the 'executive class', won't you? That is probably unwise.” He shifted his seat, and briefly contemplated applying the soothing paste to less decent places. “There isn’t much longer to prepare if we’re moving out after breakfast.”
Cole nodded, but Guy exploded. “You even told him before me!?”
Nika shot Guy a narrow-eyed glance that made the lieutenant shrivel and stutter out a ‘sir’ before he realized what he was doing. Cole laughed.
“He didn't need to,” Nika said, more patient than his expression indicated he would be. “General Cole needed to take control of the situation and move it out of range before Provost General Hammerlyn could act.”
“Why?” Guy blurted, clinging to the chance to ask questions like a drowning man to a bit of wood.
“General Hammerlyn hates me.”
“'Hate' is an awfully strong word,” Cole mused.
Nika glared at him. “Do not underestimate General Hammerlyn's hate,” he said, voice flat.
Guy had the next 'why' already formed on his lips anyway before Cole put a hand to his chest. “You should attend to your new duties, Lieutenant. You are dismissed.”
Guy managed a salute and shrank from the tent. They listened as he ordered the guards outside to ready themselves for the march. Cole nodded appreciatively, but Nika frowned.
“He is quick,” Nika said, watchful eyes fixed on Cole with the same focused surety that had so unnerved their fellow cadets. “But if you are hoping for the war to end, you must be swift indeed. Things will only move more quickly now.”
“I know,” Cole replied, holding Nika's gaze, the threat of a smile threatening an attempt to annoy Nika away from his seriousness. It was not appropriate – not yet; Cole held himself back. “He is quick enough, or will be. And we certainly are. Not even you could plan so far ahead I can't catch up, no matter how quickly things move.”
Cole did smile when Nika grunted a disdainful agreement. “Is he really a Lieutenant?” He asked, gesturing with his chin.
Cole nodded, watching Guy’s shadow disappear. Nika started stretching. “You realize he’ll be in charge of more than three hundred men?” Nika paused. “He isn’t Academy trained?”
“Not even from the Capitol. I have confidence in him,” Cole said, as if this were substitute for Academy training. “He was promoted rather quickly to earn his commission. I was very impressed.”
“But not enough to promote him. How does he get this job? Following you around? Do you mean he’s a Lieutenant General?”
“No. And I just take him with me. When High Command isn't around, I’m ranked highly enough that anyone who would claim him is so much my junior as to be unable to contradict me.”
Nika began to speak, then considered. He stretched very carefully, one arm then another. “Cole... you’ve put him in charge of nearly quadruple the number of men he should be in charge of. He is still a First Lieutenant?”
Cole nodded. “And a very good one.”
“But you don’t promote him... even though he likely worked very hard to earn his commission so young, and all of this war he could’ve been killed standing next to you in the field?”
“Well, that’s not a danger anymore. If he’d been killed in the field, it probably would’ve been jumping in front of a blow aimed for me. He’s a good man – fantastic when facing danger – and he's not much younger than us. If he’d died I would’ve promoted him higher than myself if I could.”
“This would be...” Nika counted on his fingers, “... eight ranks? And a switch to Executive Class?”
Cole nodded.
Cole stood as Nika did. Nika stared, waiting for an answer. Finally, he stopped and looked at him very seriously. “All right, Cole – I will ask: Why don’t you promote him?”
Cole shrugged. He squinched up his face in thought, throwing back his shoulders and holding his hands before his chest in an abstract gesture. “He just doesn’t... possess his rank yet. When he does, I’ll promote him. It took us four years of Academy, not to mention my two years of Prep, and I wasn’t even a Lieutenant or Executive Class when I came into the army – there’s more to being an officer than that.”
Nika stared at him. Cole stared back.
“Cole... that’s ridiculous.”
Cole gave an equivocating bob of his head. “I don’t know how your army ran, my friend, but I find that the ridiculous is entirely military.”
Nika raised his hand, and slowly brought it to his forehead. He reminded himself that many thought this attitude was all part of Cole’s charm. He might have a headache.
Cole smiled at him as he left the tent. “Prepare to move out.”