March To The Sea

'I don't guess I ever thought that far ahead,' Roger said slowly.

'I'd be surprised if you had. However you got here, you're in the position that every junior officer worth a flying fuck finds himself in sooner or later, Roger. To work with your troops, you almost have to love them. If you don't give a damn about them, that comes across, and not caring is like an acid that corrodes whatever you have inside that's worth keeping. But you also have to be willing to let them go. People die, son. Especially Marines, because we're the ones who volunteer to be at the sharp end of the stick. That's what we do, and sometimes we crap out, and sometimes the mission means that we have to die or, worse, we have to let our people die . . . or choose which of them are going someplace we know some of them won't be coming back from and which of them aren't buying a ticket this time. Either way, Roger, when it's time, it's time.'

Roger crossed his arms and looked away, his mouth a stubborn line, and despite his own sincerity the captain almost laughed at how hard the onetime royal brat was fighting against accepting what he knew was true. There was nothing at all humorous about it of course, and Roger would never have forgiven him for even the driest chuckle, yet the irony was almost overwhelming as the captain reflected on how the mighty had fallen . . . and how much Roger had discovered that losing his people hurt.

'Roger, here's the bottom line. If you stick yourself out on a limb, everybody else climbs out there with you, and now it's less because they have to than because they want to follow you into whatever desperate situation you've managed to find. There are times when that's good, but only when things are already desperate. So quit climbing out on the limb, okay? It might make you feel a little better, because you're sharing the danger, but it just gets more troops killed in the end.'

'Okay.'

'For what it's worth, you seem to be a natural born leader, and it's not just your hair. The Marines are bad enough, but the Diasprans seem to think you shit gold. It's an unusual commander who can cross species like that. I can't. They respect my judgment, but they don't think I walk on water.'

Roger inhaled deeply, then nodded.

'So what you're saying is that if I go out and do something stupid, it's not just the Marines I'll imperil.'

'No, it isn't,' the captain agreed. 'So start letting other people take point, all right? We all know you care, so put down the rifle.'

'Okay,' the prince said again, then met the Marine's eye. 'How does this affect my command?'

'Like I said before, it's going to be a reserve. If I need you, I'll use you, and you'll go out with the scouts if everything works out right. But behind the scouts, right?'

'Right,' Roger said. 'Behind the scouts.'

'Take care, Your Highness,' Pahner said, nodding in dismissal, and Roger set aside his wine and rose.

'Good night, Captain.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

'It worked,' Wes Til said as he swept into the room, and Turl Kam looked up from the letter he was drafting.

'They agreed?'

'They're willing to agree, with some tremendous qualifiers—the most serious of which is that we have to demonstrate our willingness to fight a 'war to the knife,' as Prince Roger puts it. He seems awfully fond of that phrase . . . I wonder if it could be the motto of his House?' The councilor thought for a moment, then made a throwing-away gesture. 'At any rate, that's what they demand—that we throw the entire power of the city into the war. No faction fighting, no politicization of the commands, and no graft.'

'That won't be simple,' Kam said, sitting back. 'To get agreements, we're going to have to make promises, give favorable contracts, that sort of thing.'

'As long as it doesn't have any negative effects, I think anything goes.' Til sat on a cushion. 'They also require us to throw our support behind building these ships of theirs. They want them completed while the campaign is actually underway.'

'Where do they expect us to get the materials?' the Council chairman demanded in exasperation.

'Well, they've already said that the first stage has to be the retaking of D'Sley to use as a base, so the materials will be available. And let's be honest, Turl. Sure, materials are tight here in the Cove, but they're not as tight as we've been telling them. The Navy is still sitting on its minimum stockpiles, and if the Council officially agrees to help build their ships, you and I can pry at least the keels and ribs out of old Admiral Gusahm if we have to.'

Kam grabbed his horns and pulled at them.

'Krin! I hate trying to get things out of Gusahm. He seems to think he invented the entire concept of navies and that everything that floats is his own private property!'

The chairman stared into space, trying to suppress a shudder as he pictured the looming confrontation with Gusahm, yet he knew Til was right. Eventually, Gusahm would yield, however gracelessly, to the direct orders of his civilian superiors. The real problem was going to be lining up the political support to meet the rest of the humans' demands.

'Can you swing your faction? I think I can convince the fishing contingent, and the trade faction is already screaming for me to do something.'

'We need to do more than convince them,' Til said. 'We need to get them enthusiastic. To raise an army the size of the one the humans insist is necessary, we're going to need every able-bodied sailor from the Navy, and we're going to have to triple the Guard, as well, and that will require volunteers.'

'Our citizens are very civic minded, but I'm not sure we can get all the volunteers we need with a straight appeal to civic duty. You have any suggestions?' the former fisherman asked. 'Because I'm not sure those kinds of numbers are possible.'

'Yes, I do have a suggestion. Or rather, O'Casey had some,' the merchant said. 'Very good ones, at that. That human is tricky.'

'Suggestions such as what?' the chairman asked skeptically.

'You know,' the councilor said pensively, 'the Cove has a reputation for pinching coins till they squeal. I'm certain a lot of that reputation comes from jealousy among other cities that can't seem to pinch quite as tightly as we do, but there may be a little truth to it. So what we have to ask ourselves is what one factor could convince our mercenary countrymen that taking on the Boman would be a good thing?'

* * *

'So are we going to fight, or not?' Chem Prit asked as the squad of New Model pikemen navigated the streets of the city.

'I don't know, Chem,' Krindi Fain said. This was the first evening their company had had off, and he didn't really care one way or the other about what the high command was thinking. He and Erkum Pol had a pouch of silver each, and he was far more interested in the fact that somewhere up the street was a tavern that served soldiers. 'When Bogess tells us to fight, we fight. Until then, we wait.'

'I hate waiting,' Prit complained.

The private was a replacement, and not much of one, for Bail Crom. He'd been at the Battle of Diaspra, but not with Fain's squad, and he wasn't fitting in well.

'You hate everything,' Fain responded. His tone was absent, for he'd spotted the tavern he'd been told about. Most of the drinking places in the town had prominent signs denying entry to thieves, itinerant singers, and soldiers. Unless they wanted to go all the way down to the docks, this was one of the few taverns available.

'Keep your hand on your cash,' the corporal said as they approached the open door. 'I hear a singer.'

The dirt-floored room was long and low. Something about the setup made Fain sure it had been a stable at one time, but if there was any remnant of the stable smell it was overwhelmed by the stench of urine and rotting beer. Drinkers lounged on piles of barleyrice straw, their drinks and food propped on low tables that were no more than heavy planks set on split logs, and listened to the crack-throated singer in the middle of the room.