Gaunt said little, and ate quietly, catching the conversation strands as they cut back and forth along the table. There were a lot of thinly veiled, disrespectful remarks about Imperial soldiery, which Gaunt felt were entirely for his benefit. The Alliance staff were goading him, seeing what they could get away with, seeing what would make him comment.
Three courses came and went, including the main course of braised game, and were followed by a sticky, over-sweet pudding called sonso that the Alliance officers greeted with much approval. It was a local speciality. Ortern, and some of the others nearby, extolled its virtues. To Gaunt, it was almost unbearably sugared. He left a good deal of it.
The stewards cleared the tables, brushed off the cloth, and served sweet black caffeine and amasec in large, green-glass balloons. The locals, who had all dined with their pressed white napkins tucked into the buttons of their dress frocks like bibs, now tossed the loose ends over their left shoulders, apparently a custom that showed they were finished. Gaunt folded his own loosely and left it on his setting.
A tiny servitor drone circled the table, clipping and lighting cigars. One of the Kottmarkers pushed his chair back and started to smoke a long-stemmed flute-pipe with a water bowl. Ortern offered Gaunt a fat, loose-rolled cigar, which he declined.
Ortern chuckled. “Your customs, sir, are rather alien. On Aexe Cardinal, a gentleman never leaves his sonso unfinished. And he never declines the offer of another man’s smokes, for when can he be sure he’ll sample such delights again?”
“I mean no offence,” said Gaunt. “Is it protocol to accept a cigar and save it for a later time?”
“Of course.”
Gaunt nodded, and took one of the proffered cigars. He knew Corbec would appreciate it.
The conversation now opened up more freely across the table.
“Ibram,” Van Voytz greeted Gaunt from the table-head with a toast of his amasec, “you joined us late.”
“My apologies, lord. I encountered transit problems on my way from Rhonforq.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t make it,” said the bespectacled Kottmark general. “I was looking forward to meeting you.”
“Sir,” Gaunt acknowledged.
“Ibram, this is Vice General Cam Martane, commander in chief of the Kottmark Forces West, and deputy supreme commander of the Alliance.”
Lyntor-Sewq’s right hand man, then.
Martane smiled blandly at Gaunt and sipped his amasec delicately. “I have been intrigued by certain reports,” he began.
“Come now, Martane!” Van Voytz cut in, good humouredly. “This is a social event. We can leave the war room talk for the morning.”
“But of course, lord general,” said Martane deftly, sitting back in his seat. “The war consumes our every waking moment in ways I forget must seem strange to visitors.”
Van Voytz’s face darkened. It was a tremendous but subtle slight. Martane was deferring to Van Voytz, but doing so in such a way that suggested the Imperials took the Aexe struggle far less seriously than the locals.
“Actually, my lord,” said Gaunt brightly, “I’d be interested to hear the vice general’s comments.”
The conversation stilled. It was a duel, no more or less, verbal but still vicious. Imperials versus Alliance. Martane’s remark had been cutting and poised, allowing Van Voytz two options: pass over it and take the put-down, or trigger a more obvious clash by marking it.
Either way, Van Voytz would lose grace. Now Gaunt had stepped up and deflected the slur as deftly as Martane had made it.
Martane chose his words carefully. “Colonel Ankre, that worthy son of Kottmark, has suggested to me in despatches that you have been… less than impressed with our military organisations.”
“Colonel Ankre and I enjoyed a robust exchange of views, sir,” said Gaunt. “I imagine that is what you are referring to. I admit I’m surprised he took them so to heart he needed to bother you with them.”
Gaunt saw Van Voytz disguise a smile. There was a word that usually followed a remark like Gaunt’s latest. The word was “touché”.
“I was not bothered by them, colonel-commissar. I was glad Redjacq took the time to instruct me. I would hate to think that our new Imperial allies are fighting against us. Administratively, I mean.”
Martane was a skilled political operator. There was another comment that seemed light and warm yet had sharp steel running through it.
“Why would you think that?” Gaunt asked, parrying directly.
“Ankre said you took issue with the workings of chain of command and field etiquette. That you remonstrated with him over a lack of intelligence.” Martane was more direct now. He clearly felt he had Gaunt on the back foot and was about to force him into damning himself.
Gaunt saw Golke across the table. The man was impassive. Gaunt recalled clearly how direct and brutal he’d been with Golke at Rhonforq, Ankre too. He could tell Golke was willing him not to be similarly forthright now.
As if I’d be that stupid, Gaunt thought to himself. “I did, sir,” he said.
“You admit it?” Martane caught the eyes of some of his fellow officers slyly. Gaunt saw Van Voytz ever so slightly shake his head.
“The Imperial Expedition has come here to be your comrade in arms, vice general. To be, as it were, part of your determined Alliance against the Shadik Republic. Surely it is right we enmesh ourselves properly into the Alliance forces? Elements of field etiquette and intelligence were particular to this war, and I needed clarification. I’ve fought many battles, sir, but I can’t pretend to understand the nuances of this one yet. My question came, vice general, simply from a desire to best serve the high sezar and the free people of Aexe.”
Martane’s pale cheeks flushed briefly as red as the first course soup. Behind a guard of honesty, Gaunt had just outstepped him. Martane fumbled. “Ankre also suggested you believed your men too good for front-line combat,” he began, but it was the blunt move both Gaunt and Van Voytz had been waiting for. Unable to force Gaunt to condemn himself with his own words, Martane had stumbled and voiced an actual insult.
“For shame, vice general,” growled Van Voytz.
“I am affronted, sir,” Gaunt said.
“Come now, Martane,” Golke said, speaking for the first time. “That is hardly the courtesy we of Aexe extend to voluntary allies.”
Voices rambled round the table. Many of the officers were embarrassed by their commander’s comment.
Gaunt smiled to himself. As with war, so with decorum, Aexe was so old-fashioned. He remembered some of the staff dinners when Imperial commanders had hurled abuse at each other across the table and then sat laughing over the port. There was no such frankness here. There was simply a culture of martial formality that stifled any hope of victory.
“My apologies, colonel-commissar,” Martane said. He made his excuses, and left the table.
“Nicely done, Ibram,” said Van Voytz. “I see the old political skills of the commissar haven’t left you.”
Gaunt had retired with Van Voytz, Golke and Biota to a small library room. Servitors adjusted the lamps, refreshed drinks and then left them alone.
“Did you summon me here to make a fool of Martane, sir?” Gaunt asked.
“Maybe,” smiled Van Voytz, as if the idea was delicious.
“Vice General Martane needs no help making a fool of himself,” Golke said.
“I was hoping I would come away with more than that satisfaction tonight,” Gaunt said.
“Just so,” said Van Voytz. “I’ve studied your despatches, and listened to the comments our friend Count Golke here has passed along… unofficially, of course. You could have caused trouble with Ankre, Ibram. He speaks as he finds, and he speaks ill of you.”
“Quite obviously. But I won’t stand by and see Guard units hammered for no reason.”
Van Voytz sat down in a large padded armchair by the fireplace, and took a book at random off the nearest shelf. “This is a difficult theatre, Ibram. One
that requires tact. If we had supreme command here, I’d gladly take the Alliance and shake it by the scruff until it worked properly. Worked like a modem army. God-Emperor, a full Guard army employed here purposefully could turn Shadik back in a month.” He looked up at Gaunt. “But we don’t have that luxury. Albeit nominally, the Alliance leaders — Lyntor-Sewq, who I’ll confess I cannot stand, and the high sezar himself — have battlefield command. My Lord Warmaster Macaroth himself made it clear we were here to support the Alliance, not take command from them. Our hands are tied.”
“Then men will die, sir,” said Gaunt.
“They will. We are obliged to fight this war at the Alliance’s pace, to the Alliance’s rules, and following the Alliance’s traditions. Aexegary and its allies are desperate to retain control of the fight. No offence, count.”
Golke shrugged. “I’m with you on that, lord general. I tried to change things for years. Tried to modernise tactics and strategy. The simple fact is that Aexegary has a long and illustrious martial history. They will not admit, not ever, that they are capable of losing a war. Aexegary never has, you see. And especially against an old foe like the Shadik.”
“The Alliance won’t admit they are fighting a modem foe,” said Biota quietly. “They will not accept that the Shadik Republic has changed, been corrupted, that it is no longer the neighbouring power Aexegary has bested in five wars.”
“And the Alliance members don’t see it either?” asked Gaunt.
“No,” said Golke. “Kottmark especially. They see their entry into the war as an opportunity to prove their worth on the world stage.”
“Pride,” said Gaunt. “That’s what we’re fighting. Not Shadik. Not the arch-enemy. We’re fighting the pride of the Alliance.”
“I think so,” said Van Voytz. “Undoubtedly,” said Biota.
“Then I am ashamed of my country,” Golke said sadly. “When the high sezar told me the Guard was coming to assist us, my heart leapt. Until I saw the look in his eyes.”
“What look?” asked Van Voytz.
“The look that told me he saw you Imperials as brand new toys… toys that he would use in just the same way as the old ones. I had hoped that the Alliance might learn things from the Guard… new ways of fighting… things like fluid field orders and unit-level decision making…”
“You’ve been reading your Slaydo,” said Gaunt with a smile.
Golke nodded. “I have. I think I’m the only man on Aexe Cardinal who has. To no avail. The Alliance is still living in the glory days of the great sezars. They will not change.”
“A dutiful father,” said Biota softly, “is distressed to find his son mourning the death of the family pet, a feline. The boy complains that he looked after it, groomed it, fed it, and yet it passed away despite his care. Anxious to please, the father purchases a new pet for his son, a hound. He is horrified when he catches his son pushing the hound off the balcony of the family house to its death. The son is distressed once more. ‘That pet wouldn’t fly either,’ he tells his father.” Biota looked around at them. “We are the hound,” he said.
Dawn fog from the Upper Naeme shrouded Meiseq the next morning when Gaunt rose. He had made sure Beltayn woke him early for the return trip to Rhonforq. While he was shaving in the cold, new light, a messenger arrived and asked him to attend Lord General Van Voytz.
Van Voytz was taking breakfast in his staff apartments, along with Biota and a small group of aides. At Van Voytz’s instruction, a steward brought caffeine and fried fish and egg mash for Gaunt, so he could eat with them.
“You’re starting back to Rhonforq today, Ibram?” Van Voytz said, eating heartily. He was dressed in an embroidered cape and a linen field suit of dark red.
“I’ve been away too long as it is, sir. And you?”
“North. Lyntor-Sewq awaits me at Gibsgatte to address the Northern generals. It’s a mess up there. We’re deploying our Urdeshi units there tomorrow. I’ve good news for you, however.”
“Sir?”
Van Voytz dabbed his mouth with his napkin and munched, taking a sip of fruit juice. “Well, it was good news until five-thirty this morning. Then it simply became interesting.”
“Go on.”
“Our friend Count Golke has been working his influence on the Alliance GSC planners for the last few days, and after last night’s dinner it paid off. The First is to be reassigned, in keeping with their scouting abilities. Right over to the west, an area called… what is it, Biota?”
“The Montorq Forest, sir.”
“That’s it. Orders will follow. But you’ve got your way. The Tanith will be used to its strength at last. Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t, sir.”
“Me or Golke. It was the devil’s effort to convince them.”
“What’s the interesting part, sir?” Gaunt asked.
Van Voytz paused, chewing, and emptied his mouth. Then he picked up his glass. “Come with me, Ibram.”
Van Voytz led Gaunt out onto a verandah overlooking the river. The landscape below them was barred with chalky mist.
“There’s a rider,” Van Voytz said. “Golke talked your mob up, emphasising how terrific they were as stealth scouts so the GSC would agree to reassign them. Trouble is, he may have talked them up too well. They’ve taken the idea to heart. Suddenly, they like the idea of scouts. They see uses of their own.”
“Right and what does that mean?”
“It’s a give and take thing, Ibram. Fifty per cent of your force gets to scout the Montorq Woods. In return for that, the other half gets deployed into the Pocket.”
“The Pocket?”
“The Seiberq Pocket. Front line. Their job is to penetrate the Shadik defences and locate… and maybe disable… these new super-siege guns. They reckon if you’re so good at recon…”
“Feth!” said Gaunt. “There’s a word for a deal like that.”
“I know. ‘Ironic’, I think it is. I’m pretty sure Martane and Ankre had something to do with it. Give and take. You get to play to your strengths in the west… provided you show the same skills at the blunt end. I’m sorry, Ibram.”
“Sorry? I play the odds, my lord. All of my men on the front or half of them.”
“Good lad. One hand gives, one hand takes, as Solon used to say.”
Overnight bag in hand and his mind full of troubles, Gaunt walked out of the military hall into the Meiseq sunlight. It was 08.30. Imperial personnel threaded between the Alliance sentries as they loaded Van Voytz’s transports.
Gaunt looked around for Beltayn and the car. He found only Beltayn.
“What’s up? Where’s the car?”
“It’s really weird, sir. Something’s awry. I think the car’s been stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“It’s not where we parked it.”
Gaunt put his bag down. “Give me the keys, then. I’ll find it.” Beltayn grimaced. “That’s the other weird part, sir. I can’t find the keys either.”
“Feth! What’ll I tell her?”
“The old woman?”
“Yes, the old wo—”
Gaunt sighed. “Don’t bother, let’s not waste any more time. Scare us up some transport… or at least get us tickets on the next southbound train.”
Beltayn nodded and hurried away.
“A problem, colonel-commissar?”
Gaunt turned and found Biota behind him.
“Nothing much, nothing I can’t deal with.”
Biota did up the neck clasps of his red, tactical division body-glove and nodded.
“That story last night. About the feline and the hound. Very pertinent. Very sharp,” said Gaunt.
“I can’t presume credit,” Biota said, off-hand. “One of DeMarchese’s fables.”
Biota walked away towards the waiting vehicles.
“Tactician Biota! A moment!”
“Gaunt?”
“DeMarchese? You said DeMarchese. Who is that?” Biota paused. “A minor philosopher. Very minor.
You know the name?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“DeMarchese served as an advisor to Kiodrus, who in turn stood at the right hand of the bead during the First Crusade. His contribution is rather eclipsed by Faltomus, who was the real architect of Saint Sabbat’s strategy, but still his homely fables have some merit. Gaunt? What is it?”
“Nothing,” said Gaunt. “Nothing.” He looked up at the pale sun and then said, “Elinor Zaker. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Elinor Zaker?”
“Of the Adepta Sororitas Militant, the order of Our Martyred Lady?” Biota shook his head.
“All right. Never mind. Good luck at Gibsgatte. May the Emperor protect.”
Gaunt walked off to find Beltayn. He had seldom felt so uneasy. He had finally identified the pervasive flower-scent from the previous day.
Islumbine. The sacred flower of Hagia.
SEVEN
POACHING
“And this, my friends, is what they call sweet.”
—Murtan Feygor
The forest beckoned.
They could smell it. From Ins Arbor, coming off the transports, they could see it. Rolled like green fur around the uplands east of them. Big. Silent. Inscrutable.
It wasn’t as if the Tanith hadn’t seen forest since the Founding. There’d been plenty. The thick rainwoods north of Bhavnager, the tropical groves of Monthax, the Voltemand Mirewoods. But there was something about this forest, something temperate, old and cool, that reminded them all achingly of the lost nalwoods.
Ins Arbor was a shabby dump of a town, ill-supplied and stinking in the summer heat. There were no proper billets, virtually no water, and the worst rations they’d yet experienced.
But morale had improved overnight.
The forest beckoned.