Straight Silver, page 17
‘I–’ Gaunt began.
‘I have to sweep the floor now,’ she said.
She paused and turned her head towards him. ‘I really shouldn’t say this. I’m stepping way beyond my role… but when you see her, commend me to her. Please. I miss her.’
From outside, the cough and snarl of a motor engine racing into life broke the stillness.
‘Of course,’ said Gaunt. He gently took her hand and kissed it.
‘The Emperor protect you, sister.’
‘He’ll have his hands full protecting you, Ibram,’ she replied. ‘You, and that boy.’
Gaunt retreated down the aisle. ‘We’ll return the car.’
‘Ah, keep it,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Outside, in the damp trackway, Beltayn sat behind the wheel of a massive old limousine. Its night-blue body was chipped with rust and lichen caked its running boards. Weeds had sprouted from the grille and fender. Beltayn had turned on the headlamps, which burned like the eyes of a nocturnal predator.
Gaunt walked up to the car and ran his hand along the grey hide of the retractable roof.
‘This come down?’ he called.
Beltayn fiddled with the dashboard controls. With a creak, the hood retracted on concertinaing iron hoops so that the car was open-topped.
Gaunt got into the back. Beltayn looked back at him and raised his bandaged hand in a rather pathetic gesture.
‘I… uh… don’t think I can handle the transmission, sir,’ he said.
Gaunt shook his head, amused. ‘Change places,’ he said.
They roared away down the woodland lane, leaving the chapel behind. Sunlight dappled and flickered all over them.
‘So…’ shouted Beltayn from the back over the roar of the eight cylinder engine, ‘…how strange was that?’
‘Forget it!’ yelled Gaunt into the slipstream, changing down as he took the massive, elderly automobile around a hard bend. ‘She was just hankering for company.’
‘But she knew about Brin–’
‘No, she didn’t. A few enigmatic remarks. That’s all. Hive-market preachers use that kind of routine all the time. It works on the gullible.’
‘Okay. So she was trying to fool us?’
‘Nothing so calculating. She was just… not altogether there.’
A drove road brought them through Veniq, and then on across open arable tracts to Shonsamarl where they joined the Northern Highway. Southbound, the highway was thick with munition trains and troop carriers. Northbound, they caught the end of a convoy of Guard Thunderers and light armour moving up to Gibsgatte. They played leapfrog up the line of heavy tanks as well as the passing traffic would allow, until the convoy turned off at Chossene, and then they raced on over the Naeme viaduct and into the cornfield flats of Loncort County.
Fitful light rain and patchy sun followed them through the afternoon along metalled roads that lay like ribbons over the salty-green fields. They saw slow formations of Alliance triplanes buzzing east towards the front, and once or twice the glint of Imperial air support banging in supersonically, taking a new kind of war to this lingering, old-fashioned theatre.
Shortly before 18.00, Gaunt saw the skyline of Meiseq rising over the fields.
Meiseq was a new town built on old roots. It had been almost entirely razed in the early years of the Aexe War, when the initial Shadik advance had sliced mercilessly right across country to the Upper Naeme. Five years of counter-fighting, focused especially on the Battle of Diem, had eventually ousted the enemy from a portion of territory marked in the north-west corner by the city of Gibsgatte and in the south-east by Loncort. This, the so-called ‘Meiseq Box’, was now perhaps the most sturdy of the Alliance’s line defences, forming as it did the middle section of the Northern Front. To the south, from Loncort, ran the Peinforq Line that held the Naeme Valley. To the north ran the hotly contested sectors beyond Gibsgatte. The Alliance considered the Box so sound it had turned the areas around Diem into a Memorial Park for the fallen. An eternal flame burned at the site of Diem’s cathedral, and the oceans of grass around it were lined with row upon row of white, obcordate grave markers.
Meiseq had been rebuilt. Its buildings were made from pressure treated wood-pulp, coated with an emulsion of rock cement. It perched on an escarpment above a bend in the Upper Naeme, encircled by pales of timber and flakboard. At its centre rose the wooden cathedral of San Jeval.
It was getting dark by the time they drove up through the fortress gate in the south face of the walls and entered the town. The cathedral bells were ringing, and lamplighters were igniting the caged chemical torches that lined the streets.
Meiseq reminded Gaunt of a frontier city. Its prefabricated bulk smelled new and entirely at odds with the old, stone-built population centres he’d experienced so far on Aexe. It was strategically important, and wanted visitors to know that, but it seemed little more than a camp, an earthwork. The air smelled of roofing pitch and sweating wood. He remembered moving in to occupy Rakerville, years ago, with the Hyrkans. That had smelled the same. An outpost. A brief statement of Imperial activity. A gesture made without confidence at a frontier.
They parked near to the cathedral in a yard surrounded by trees. The trees were old and withered, but the Aexegarians who had remade Meiseq had remade the trees too, grafting new boughs onto the old trunks shattered by war. Late blossom and fresh green growth formed a roof over the gnarled, grey trunks.
Gaunt and Beltayn walked down the neighbouring streets, through the light crowds, and found the military hall, a grim, twin-towered edifice with a walled precinct of its own.
It was nearly 20.00 hours.
Washed and changed, Gaunt left Beltayn in the officio suite appointed to him, and went down to dinner. His guides were two subalterns of the Bande Sezari, dignified in their plumed head-dresses and green silks. Night had fallen, and the narrow passages of the military hall were caves of fluttering rushlights.
The dinner had just begun in a terrace room overlooking the river to the west. The last scraps of day-fade smudged the sky outside, and drum-fires flickered along the low river bend.
There were nineteen officers present, and all stood briefly as Gaunt took his place at the empty twentieth place. He sat, and the mumble of conversation resumed. The long table was dressed in white cloth, and lit by four large candelabra. Gaunt’s place setting twinkled with nine separate pieces of cutlery. A steward brought him an oval white bowl and filled it with chilled, blush-red soup.
‘Imperial?’ asked the man to his right, a short thin-faced Aexegarian who had clearly drunk too much already.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gaunt, careful to acknowledge the man’s rank boards. A general.
The man stuck out his hand. ‘Siquem Fep Ortern, C-in-C. 60th sector.’
‘Gaunt, Tanith First.’
‘Ah,’ said the drunk. ‘You’re the one they’ve been talking about.’
Gaunt looked down the table. He saw Golke nearby, and Lord General Van Voytz at the head of the table. He didn’t recognise any other faces, except for Van Voytz’s chief tactician, Biota. Like Ortern, all the others were senior Alliance officers, either Aexegarians or Kottmarkers. Gaunt began to feel like he’d walked into a lion’s den. He’d assumed Van Voytz had summoned him to attend a private dinner where he could voice his disquiet at Alliance tactics in the company of chosen staff chiefs. He hadn’t expected this, a full, high brass banquet. Though Van Voytz, imposing in his dark green dress uniform, dominated the head of the table, the presiding influence seemed to come from the man to Van Voytz’s left, a bullish Kottmark general with a disturbingly bland, pale face, half-moon clerk’s spectacles and white-blond hair.
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 Carn 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 rumbled 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 modern 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 modern 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.’
