Best Served Cold

“I am avarice itself, which is not quite the same, but will do in a pinch. Now, perhaps, for dinner. Would any of you gentlemen care for a drink? We came by a crate of a very fine vintage in a manor house upstream only yesterday, and-”

“It might be best if we were to discuss our strategy before the levity begins.” Colonel Rigrat’s shrill voice was as a file applied directly to Cosca’s sensitive back teeth. He was a sharp-faced, sharp-voiced, sharply self-satisfied man in his late thirties and a well-pressed uniform, previously General Ganmark’s second in command and now Foscar’s. Presumably the military brains behind the Talinese operation, such as they were. “Now, while everyone still has their wits close to hand.”

“Believe me, young man,” though he was neither young, nor yet a man as far as Cosca was concerned, “my wits and I are not easily parted. You have a plan in mind?”

“I do!” Rigrat produced his baton with a flourish. Friendly loomed out from under the nearest olive tree, hands moving to his weapons. Cosca sent him melting back into the shadows with the faintest smile and shake of his head. No one else even noticed.

Cosca had been a soldier all his life, of a kind, and had yet to understand what the purpose of a baton truly was. You could not kill a man with one, or even look like you might. You could not hammer in a tent peg, cook a good side of meat or even pawn it for anything worthwhile. Perhaps they were intended for scratching those hard-to-reach places in the small of the back? Or stimulating the anus? Or perhaps simply for marking a man out as a fool? For that purpose, he reflected as Rigrat pointed self-importantly towards the river with his baton, they served admirably.

“There are two fords across the Sulva! Upper… and lower! The lower is much the wider and more reliable crossing.” The colonel indicated the point where the dirty stripe of the Imperial road met the river, glimmering water flaring out in the gently sloping bottom of the valley. “But the upper, perhaps a mile upstream, should also be usable at this time of year.”

“Two fords, you say?” It was a fact well known there were two damn fords. Cosca himself had crossed in glory by one when he came into Ospria to be toasted by Grand Duchess Sefeline and her subjects, and fled by another just after the bitch had tried to poison him. Cosca slid his battered flask from his jacket pocket. The one that Morveer had flung at him back in Sipani. He unscrewed the cap.

Rigrat gave him a sharp glance. “I thought we agreed that we would drink once we had discussed strategy.”

“You agreed. I just stood here.” Cosca closed his eyes, took a deep breath, tilted up the flask and took a long swallow, then another, felt the coolness fill his mouth, wash at his dry throat. A drink, a drink, a drink. He gave a happy sigh. “Nothing like a drink of an evening.”

“May I continue?” hissed Rigrat, riddled with impatience.

“Of course, my boy, take your time.”

“The day after tomorrow, at dawn, you will lead the Thousand Swords across the lower ford-”

“Lead? From the front, do you mean?”

“Where else would a commander lead from?”

Cosca exchanged a baffled glance with Andiche. “Anywhere else. Have you ever been at the front of a battle? The chances of being killed there really are very high.”

“Extremely high,” said Victus.

Rigrat ground his teeth. “Lead from what position pleases you, but the Thousand Swords will cross the lower ford, supported by our allies from Etrisani and Cesale. Duke Rogont will have no choice but to engage you with all his power, hoping to crush your forces while you are still crossing the river. Once he is committed, our Talinese regulars will break from hiding and cross the upper ford. We will take the enemy in the flank, and-” He snapped his baton into his waiting palm with a smart crack.

“You’ll hit them with a stick?”

Rigrat was not amused. Cosca had to wonder whether he ever had been. “With steel, sir, with steel! We will rout them utterly and put them to flight, and thus put an end to the troublesome League of Eight!”

There was a long pause. Cosca frowned at Andiche, and Andiche frowned back. Sesaria and Victus shook their heads at one another. Rigrat tapped his baton impatiently against his leg. Prince Foscar cleared his throat once more, nervously pushed his chin forwards. “Your opinion, General Cosca?”

“Hmm.” Cosca gloomily shook his head, eyeing the sparkling river with the weightiest of frowns. “Hmm. Hmm. Hmmmm.”

“Hmmm.” Victus tapped his pursed lips with one finger.

“Humph.” Andiche puffed out his cheeks.

“Hrrrrrm.” Sesaria’s unconvinced voice throbbed at a deeper pitch.

Cosca removed his hat, scratched his head and placed it back with a flick at the feather. “Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm-”

“Are we to take it that you disapprove?” asked Foscar.

“I somehow let slip my misgivings? Then I cannot in good conscience suppress them. I am not convinced that the Thousand Swords are well suited to the task you have assigned.”

“Not convinced,” said Andiche.