After questioning Ehrhart one last time and then making sure that my troops were well-informed about the fact that we had visitors dining with us (and about the importance of being on their best behavior), I returned to the mess tent, leaving energetic chaos in my wake.
If looks could kill, Katya would have been rinsing Loegrian blood off her face, but her eyes were only metaphorical daggers. She was not making any motion to finish the last piece of the sandwich on her plate, leaving her hand in her lap under the table.
When I came around to her side of the table, I saw the reason why; she was still holding the pistol in her lap, cocked and ready to fire, concealed by the tablecloth. I appreciated the dedication to duty that left her ready to shoot the Loegrian officer at the drop of a hat, but on the other hand, I didn’t want it to happen accidentally. How could I defuse the situation without revealing that Katya had been a trigger-pull away from killing Captain Winslow the entire time?
Rather than immediately taking my seat, I first walked behind Katya’s chair, then bent over to whisper in her ear. I told her that I was confident that she could draw, ready, and fire the pistol quickly enough if something went wrong, so she could afford to relax a little. Then, on impulse, I nibbled on her earlobe as I reached down into her lap, gently uncocked the pistol, and helped her stick it in a loop on her belt usually used for a cleaning rod. (As she was not toting her rifle and its accessories about at the moment, said loop was conveniently empty.)
In my defense, while I whispered, that earlobe was right there next to my mouth, it was a cute earlobe, I had nibbled on it before, and its owner usually reacted well to having an earlobe nibbled upon by me. And she didn’t react poorly this time, either; she smiled at the compliment I paid her skill with guns and blushed fetchingly at the affectionate gesture.
I realized too late that the Loegrian officer, sitting across the table, had her eyes locked on my hand as I withdrew it from Katya’s lap and seated myself. For a moment, I thought she might have developed suspicions about me; then I took into account the embarrassed way she looked away when I met her gaze and thought about what she would have seen from her perspective.
The mercenary colonel whispering something flattering in his female subordinate’s ear, then reaching down between her legs, causing her to flush bright pink in what could easily be taken as a combination of pleasure and shame. A crude and unseemly display, in other words, of our status as lovers. I sighed to myself; Captain Winslow’s alternate interpretation of my actions had probably lowered her opinion of myself and my dear red-headed sniper, but it was fairly innocuous compared to the truth. It was no secret that Katya and I were lovers, after all; and better to be taken for an exhibitionist than for the captain to realize how much danger she was in from Katya.
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The ogre-like bodyguard returned with three normal-sized Loegrian soldiers and then went over to the corner, where he loomed discreetly. If Katya decided to shoot Captain Winslow (or vice versa), we could expect a rapid response from the bodyguard. As Captain Winslow introduced her three subordinates, I assessed them carefully as she did so, first with an eye towards immediate danger, and then with an eye towards trying to determine their background.
The first was named Caleb Pendley. He looked old and hard-bitten enough to be a veteran of the Century War, with a trio of missing fingers on his right hand suggesting he’d been an archer on the losing side of one of that war’s bitter battles before seeking his fortune in the Gothic Empire. He had a longsword with a pistol barrel running along the forte strapped across his back, a pair of knives in each boot, and the brightly colored puffy sleeves of his outfit likely concealed additional weapons. His eyes flitted around the tent often, a display of professional paranoia.
The second was named Jacob Fairfax. He was armed only with a brightly-polished pistol and a dress sword that looked like it would bend if I glared at it, a more normal practice for someone simply attending dinner in friendly military company. With his bright blond hair and his dress sword, he looked more like a young noble dressed up as a soldier for a masquerade than the genuine article; he looked too young and his uniform too new and too well tailored to belong in a war zone.
The third was introduced as Alan Gant. He was a weathered man of average height, medium build, and an indistinctly muddy hair color. Next to the other two, he looked drab; his clothes were well-worn, with stains that looked as if they had been ground in over the course of several years, and plainly had not tailored to his particular build originally. His features were so remarkably forgettable that it would be hard to place him in a crowd; from his boots and equipage, I guessed him to be a scout. He entered the tent with a rifle over his shoulder, which he politely handed off to the bodyguard as he entered.
If dinner ended violently, the odds were not in the favor of the five Loegrians in the mess tent; besides, it was not certain we were enemies, even if we were not allies. In the meantime, we dueled with our wits over dinner. Caleb Pendley had been a mercenary for some time in the Gothic lands before joining his fellow Loegrians in Captain Winslow’s company, and he was the main weapon in her arsenal as she fought to convince me that the margrave was reliable and trustworthy, with a policy of treating mercenaries well. After all, his association with her company was both recent and voluntary.
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If the mercenary with the garish clothes was Captain Winslow’s principal weapon, mine was Katya. Though remarkably hale for someone who’d had the ragged remains of her leg amputated a day ago, Katya’s injuries were a vivid illustration of the need of military units for rest, recuperation, and the occasional replacement of limbs and/or persons. When the conversation veered back towards the margrave’s need for soldiers, Katya would start to glower, as is natural for a patriotic citizen of the Golden Empire considering service with a foreign prince; then I would fuss over her and her injuries, playing up the role of the concerned lover to the best of my ability. (This was not difficult, as I was in fact both her lover and also concerned about her injuries.)
A few verbal nudges from Captain Winslow, and Jacob Fairfax was discussing the training of their medics, talking about how Leon the Usurper had spearheaded reforms in military medical practice, and that their medics were as good as those in Leon’s military service. Partway through what was sure to be a lengthy lecture, I spied Katya yawning out of the corner of my eye and pounced upon the excuse to cut short my attendance. I cited Katya’s need for rest. Then I picked up Katya, caught Vitold’s eye, and motioned to the crutch and the box with the rock in it; the three of us departed the mess tent on four legs with full arms.
As I walked away into the night, Captain Winslow turned, casting a quick look in my direction. For the space of a single unguarded heartbeat, her expression fell, sadness crashing across her face like a wave over battered rocks in a storm. Disappointment, perhaps even outright despair; I would not have found it out of place on a mourner at a funeral. Then she fixed a bright and artificially cheerful smile back on her face and turned back towards the table, gesturing for a refill on her drink.
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I woke shortly before dawn and watched the light change from pale gray to warm reddish-orange to the bright yellow of full day as I tended to Katya. Her wounds looked much better than they had the day before; the speed of her recovery was, on the whole, quite impressive. She was in pain still, though she tried her best to hide it when she thought someone else might see.
It was my intention to get my army moving again early in the morning, but one delay led into another, and it was nearly noon before I was watching a familiar draft horse’s rear end plod away as the wagons I sat in bounced and rattled over roots and rocks. I had taken one of our better-sprung wagons and installed a padded cot in it so that Katya could lie down and rest with a minimum of jostling; that was the cause of one of the delays. That minimum of jostling was probably still quite uncomfortable. The cart was large enough to hold my own suit and one of my jury-rigged mechs, so it did; it would have fit more if I hadn’t made space for Katya, a collection of spare parts, and a small workbench.
Minor complications included the fact that two of our lieutenants (Fyodor and Quentin) were, in fact, still drunk as of the crack of dawn, and were absolutely no good for organizing anything until they were sober. We strapped the injured one onto another cot and threw both of them into a wagon filled with lots of charcoal and absolutely no more liquor. The root cause of their mutual inebriation had not returned, and I was not inclined to wait for her in any event. The acolyte would either catch back up to us or she wouldn’t. I would be content with either case as long as she didn’t bring along her master or another army of savage bear-warriors.
Another source of delays: The Swedish mobile cannons had to be unloaded and then loaded back up; the walking guns had been placed in carts parked on softer ground, and in two nights’ time, the heavy load had pressed the wheels a third of the way into said softer ground. After enduring one last half-hearted attempt at recruitment into the margrave’s service, we bid the Loegrians farewell and headed westward out of the forest, down a trail that the captain promised would lead to a real road within no more than three days’ march. I could sense the captain’s sad gaze on us as we rode off.
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The draft horse told me he was much happier to pull two modified steam suits, a heavy wagon, and assorted supplies than to carry a single rider in heavy armor; not that I blamed him, pulling heavy things something he was more accustomed to. It was calming to watch the draft horse cheerfully pull close to two tons of metal and wood with nary a word of complaint.
Then Katya woke up with a groan. Half-woke, really; the task of resting and letting her body heal was an exhausting one, and I had aided her pursuit of that task by applying more vodka to her body both internally (through her mouth, along with a measure of laudanum) and externally (to insure her wounds were thoroughly cleaned). Her groans took on the edge of a whine, an uncomfortable tone, edged with insecurity and unhappiness, and I worried that she was reliving her recent trauma in her dreams.
She calmed when I held her hand, but I could not both attend to her and direct the draft horse at the same time. She needed something familiar to hold onto in her pain-ridden vodka-numbed exhaustion, so I made a snap decision that saved my life later that afternoon; I unpacked the pair of beautiful runed pistols I had taken from the ogre, an ammunition pouch, and several silk-wrapped pre-measured charges for her to snuggle up with under her blankets.
I would have brought out her rifle, but I thought it might get damaged if she dropped it and it went rattling around the cart, and she loved that rifle very dearly. The comforting feel of gunmetal and the familiar scent of ammunition served to relax her; she hugged the guns with her arm like they were cloth dolls, and nuzzled her face into the ammunition pouch like it was a lover’s shoulder.
It was both adorable and a little sad.
I climbed back into the front of the cart. We were near the head of the column, so there was not too much dust, and the weather was pleasant. Yuri, bored of riding, paced alongside, easily matching the draft horse’s slow plodding pace. Remembering the request of the old woman that I should show the rock she’d given me some daylight, I took it out of the box and set it next to me for the ride. The rock looked a little less dirty and dingy in the sunlight, a hunk of plain white quartz. Humoring the old woman’s request seemed harmless enough.