Yes, the memory still galled. But Jan ignored it and saluted the troops from his seat open to the air, nodding now and then to those with the star of Tennshah pinned to their uniforms.
Several large tents had been set at one end of the field, and the carriage pulled up there. Servants rushed forward: to take the reins of the horses, to open the door of the carriage, to set a stool on the ground, to take his hand as he dismounted, to relieve him of his sword and his military overcoat, to hand him his walking stick, and to offer refreshments and drinks which he waved aside.
Markell, his aide, was there directing the staff. “Your Hirzgin and daughter are within, my Hirzg.”
Jan followed Markell between the twin rows of bowing servants and court followers and into the welcome shade of the tents. The tents had been arranged so as to mimic the Palais a’Brezno, the “rooms” curtained off, carpets laid over the grass and furniture set along the “walls” as if they had sat there for years. He allowed himself to be escorted down canvas-lined corridors to where another servant held aside a flap painted to resemble a wooden door. Inside the room-a separate tent-he could see his eleven-year-old daughter Allesandra playing with a set of toy soldiers on a table, while the Hirzgin Greta, grandniece of the Kraljica, rose with her ladies-in-waiting from the circle of seats where they’d been chatting. Greta was heavily pregnant with their third child-Jan had performed his duties as husband every month or so, grudgingly, but Greta had remained stubbornly barren since Allesandra’s birth until this unexpected, late pregnancy. Greta was helped to her feet by Mara cu’Paile, one of her attendants; as Jan nodded to their courtesies, he caught Mara’s eye and her smile in return.
“Please, sit and take up your conversation, Hirzgin, Vajica,” he said. Greta had lowered her own gaze, as if afraid to look to see where the Hirzg had put his true attention. The relationship between Vajica cu’Paile and the Hirzg was something that any close observer of the court could see but that no one-not Greta, not Mara’s own husband, nor any of the inner circle of the court-would dare to mention aloud.
But Jan’s interest was focused now on the blonde-haired child standing with her maidservant, who had survived the outbreak of Southern Fever that had taken her older brother six months ago. Jan had wept bitterly at Toma’s funeral, but if Cenzi must take one of his two children, it was better that it was Toma. He had been too much his matarh’s child, or perhaps too much like Jan’s brother Ludwig: weak both physically and mentally. His daughter, however, was molded from the true ca’Belgradin line, the line of the Hirzgs. .
It was the second child of the ca’Belgradin line that was always the strongest. His vatarh should have realized that.
“How is my Allesandra today?” Jan asked. He crouched down and opened his arms. Allesandra smiled and rushed toward him to be gathered up, giggling and kissing his stubbled cheeks.
“I received your present, Vatarh,” she said.
“And do you like it?”
She nodded solemnly. “I do, very much. Would you like to see?”
She took Jan’s hand and led him to the table (the maidservant stepping shyly aside), where tiny golden figures of soldiers were arrayed over a varnished field. “Look, Vatarh, I had Meghan tie beetles to the supply wagons to pull them, but they don’t do a very good job of going where I want them to go. I have to keep them in place with this.” Allesandra plucked a knitting needle from the table and used it to nudge the glossy green carapace of an insect laced by the hindmost legs to its silken traces.
“You’ve done nicely. I’m certain you’ll train your beetles well, and they will bring the supplies safely to your army,” Jan told her. He took one of the figures from the table: no larger than the top of his little finger, the figure was delicately carved and cast. “I’ll have to send the artisan a small sum in appreciation since you like the soldiers so much, won’t I? See, this is one of the Red Lancers-down to the lacing on his boots.” He placed the figure down again. “But you should move your archers back behind your war-teni, Allesandra. They’re too near the front ranks, where they can be easily overrun by the enemy chevarittai.”
Allesandra frowned. “That’s what Georgi said, too, the offizier you sent.”
“Then he knows what he’s doing. Did you like him?”
Allesandra nodded. “He was nice. And very patient.”
“I’ll tell him you said so, and I’ll make sure he gives you more lessons.”
“Hirzg, she is only a child,” Greta chided him softly from her chair.
Jan looked over; Mara was standing just behind the Hirzgin, her green eyes on his. “I don’t know why you told that o’offizier to teach her battle tactics. She doesn’t need to know this.”
Jan looked away from Mara to the far-less pleasant face of Greta. “If she is to be Hirzgin after me, she does,” Jan answered firmly. “Firenzcia always needs leaders who can also be starkkapitan at need.”
“Firenzcia is part of the Holdings, and the Holdings are at peace,”
Greta said placidly. “Firenzcia needs a leader, yes, but not another starkkapitan. The threat to us isn’t from soldiers, but from dangerous beliefs that pull the people away from the correct path Cenzi has given us.”
Her hands, folded over the mound of her stomach, now made the sign of Cenzi on her forehead. She was plain and unhandsome, her straight hair an unremarkable brown, her jaw slightly too square and protrud-ing: that damned family trait. Jan could see that in another few decades, if she survived her pregnancies, she would look much like the Kraljica or, worse, like the A’Kralj. She already, for Jan’s taste, sounded too much like the old hag Marguerite. “We should not be practicing war; we should be preparing for the Kraljica’s Jubilee in Nessantico.”
“There will be time for that after the maneuvers.”
“Yes,” Greta said, her voice just shy of mockery. “You have to play with your own toy soldiers.”
“Nessantico is a doddering old woman, just like the Kraljica, Hirzgin, and it is only the army of Firenzcia that keeps her safe,” he told Greta. “And only stupid and useless people think otherwise.” The
ladies-in-waiting, all but Mara, sucked in their breath and pretended to be engaged in their own whispered conversations. Jan gestured toward Allesandra’s table. “If Firenzcia weren’t the strong right arm of Nessantico, then Nessantico would be nothing. Unless you think the effete chevarittai of the Garde Civile can protect you.”
“The Kraljica is the Genera a’Pace. She has brought peace to the Holdings. You talk like a Numetodo railing against Concenzia.” The rebuke was gently spoken, almost an apology, and she brought her hands to her forehead at the mention of the Faith. But the chiding tone was still there, and it would be there again, and again, and again, until the constant touch of it burned like witchfire. That was her way.
He hated the woman. He hated that his vatarh had been so cowed as to agree to the Kraljica’s “wish” that the two of them marry.
“The Kraljica has put the Holdings to sleep,” Jan retorted, “and I talk like a realist, Hirzgin. That’s all. A good general-a good leader-must make certain his sword is sharp and his skills well-practiced for when the need is there. And it
“There is such a thing as Truth, my dear husband, and Truth comes from faith-faith in Concenzia and faith in the Kraljica.” Greta shook her head, a disagreement so slight as to be nearly invisible. “Truth does not change. It remains the same. Eternal.”
“Much like our argument, dear wife,” Jan answered, with no warmth in his voice at all. Greta’s hands pressed together hard enough to pull the color from them, and he thought he saw the faintest glimpse of annoyance in her eyes. He smiled, but the smile was for Mara, whose eyes glittered in silent amusement behind Greta.
“Look, Vatarh,” Allesandra interrupted before Greta could gather herself for another rejoinder. “See, I moved the archers. .”
Jan looked down at the table. Allesandra had altered the ranks of soldiers. They were set now as he might have set them himself before a battle. He noticed especially the lancers set to either flank, where they could wait for the right moment to enter the battle, and a vanguard was set well ahead of the main force to draw the enemy’s attack and force them to show their hand. He grinned and patted Allesandra’s soft curls. “Well done, my dearest one. Perfect. Each piece has its own part to play in the whole. Just remember, a good Hirzgin would never move without knowing what is set against her. You must know when to bow, and when to take up arms. Knowing which battles you can win and which you cannot is what separates the great leader from a mediocre one.”
“Then you must be a great leader, Vatarh,” Allesandra answered.
He heard Mara’s soft, encouraging laughter (but not Greta’s) as his daughter spoke, though he kept his attention on his daughter’s large, earnest eyes.
“I try, darling one. But history will be the one to judge that, I’m afraid.” He patted her head again. “I find that I’m more tired than I expected from my journey,” he announced. “I will retire to my own
