Winter Duty (28 page)

Back at Fort Seng, Valentine observed some new vehicles in the well-guarded motor lot. The vehicles were an ill-matched set compared to Sime’s quick-moving column and looked better suited for extensive off-road operation. They had extra tires and cans marked “diesel,” “gas,” and “water” mounted on them.

He reported to Lambert first, who only told him that they had a new set of headaches for the battalion but that it might work out to the benefit of the Cause in general and the battalion in particular. Then he drank a large, cold glass of milk—it was goat’s milk; cow milk had run out—and went out to observe the arrivals.

They were equally interested in meeting him. Frat offered to introduce him to the visitors.

The gathering looked like a small, well-armed gypsy camp filled with people in neatly mended surplus uniforms that had a sort of broken double ring stitched on the shoulders.

If Valentine had been forced to describe the woman following the corporal walking up to him, he would have said “statuesque.” Her face, under a bush hat with the brim stuck up on the left with a jaunty feathered pin, might have been molded alabaster. He put her age as fortyish or a very youthful-looking fifty, though her eyes danced with an ageless sparkle, blue ice on fire. She wore a long leather skirt and steel-tipped jodhpur boots with thick canvas half chaps, and she evidently knew enough about uniforms to pick him out as the ranking officer.

“Visitor in camp, Major,” the corporal reported. “Mrs. O’Coombe, with a Southern Command travel warrant.”

As Valentine introduced himself, she shook his hand. The almost challenging grip and steady eye contact marked her as a Texan.

Valentine knew the name O’Coombe. The family owned the largest cattle ranch in the United Free Republics—some said it stretched beyond the official borders. Now that he had a name, he even recognized the emblem on their fatigues, the Hooked O-C. They were said to be fabulously wealthy. At least as such things were measured in the Freehold.

“Mister Valentine. I’ve read about you on several occasions, as I recall. You’re just the man I want to see about my venture into Kentucky.”

She said the word “Mister” with such polite friendliness, he had no business correcting her. But her use of the word “venture” put Valentine on his guard. Was she some kind of wildcatter with an eye toward opening up a trade in legworm leather?

“I have here, Mister Valentine, a letter from the president himself. President Starpe was a good friend of my late husband’s. He dined on our ranch on three occasions while in office and was a frequent visitor before.”

She reached into her hacking jacket and removed a folded manila envelope. The letter within had a foil seal over a red-and-blue ribbon, with the outgoing presidential signature and a notation indicating it had been transcribed by his personal secretary.

After noting that it was simply addressed to “Officer, executive, or mariner commanding” and contained some polite words of thanks, Valentine read to the meat of the letter.

A crusader. Valentine had seen a few in his time, dedicated to relieving Southern Command of the evils of drink or the dangers of professional women and syphilis. This woman was clearly here to do more than give a few speeches, take a few oaths, or show some slides of tertiary cases. Were these vehicles a specialized medical train to care for the few wounded that remained in Fort Seng’s small hospital?

“I would be delighted to accommodate you, Mrs. O’Coombe. Please tell me, how may I be of service?”

She looked around before answering. “I understand that during the battles of this summer, some wounded were left behind with such of our Kentucky allies who could be trusted with their safety. I would like to help recover them. From what I understand of your expertise, Mister Valentine, you have a good deal of experience going in and getting people out of difficulty. I’ve hoped that you could aid me from the first I heard.”

“Why here, Mrs. O’Coombe? As a Texan, I’d think you’d be more interested in the Rio Grande Valley. More troops were involved in that action, I believe. I suspect there are more wounded scattered around southern Texas than we have here. We had the advantage of legworms, you see. All but our worst cases could be moved while remaining in their beds—or hammocks, rather.”

“I have a personal interest, Mister Valentine. I recently learned my son was among those left behind as your column retreated from the mountains.” Her gaze wavered a little, and Valentine saw what he suspected to be tears. “I have come to get him back. I should like you to guide me across Kentucky. As you’re the one who left our soldiers scattered across the Cumberland, I expect you would be the one best able to help me retrieve them.”

Frat stiffened a little at that.

“I would suggest that you speak to my commanding officer, ma’am,” Valentine suggested.

Lambert heard Mrs. O’Coombe out and invited her to enjoy what hospitality Fort Seng could provide while she considered the matter. Could she perhaps return this evening, for dinner, and there they could discuss the matter in detail?

Mrs. O’Coombe was much obliged and said she’d be delighted.

Valentine was curious, a little aggravated, and anything but delighted at Lambert’s response.

“You’re not considering sending me across Kentucky as a tour guide for that stack of grief, I hope, sir,” he said once Mrs. O’Coombe had left the building.

“I’m certainly inclined to let her have you,” Lambert said. “Apart from wanting our wounded back and safe, the gratitude of the Hooked O-C is well worth having. I expect she’ll be as influential with the new president as the old.”

“I didn’t even know her son was with us,” Valentine said. “Usually Southern Command tells us when we have to deal with a scion of the carriage trade. Quietly, but they tell us.”

“Someone slipped up,” Lambert agreed. “Noble of him to volunteer. Mom passed down something besides Texas sand.”

Valentine didn’t have a number one uniform worthy of a formal dinner with Lambert and their important guest. His least-patched ensemble was the militia corporal’s uniform he wore when traveling in Southern Command, but that had bloodstains on it now, and no effort of soap or will could eradicate them.

He settled for the Moondagger robes he’d worn the night he knocked the young Kurian out of its tree, with his leaf clipped on the collar and a Southern Command tricolor pinned to the shoulder.

David Valentine wasn’t one to stand in front of a mirror admiring himself, but he had to admit the Moondagger robe-uniform suited him. The various shades of black complemented his skin and dark hair and made his perfectly ordinary brown eyes look a little more striking when set in all that black. His old legworm boots gave him some dash and swagger with their silver accents. The scars on the left side of his face had healed down to not much more than big wrinkles and a pockmark, and the old companion descending his right cheek looked more like the romantic scarring of a dread pirate than the stupid souvenir of nearly having his head blown off.

The dinner was held in the conference room, complete with a white lace tablecloth and candlesticks.

It turned out he needn’t have worried about his appearance. Colonel Lambert had invited an eclectic company to her dinner.

Mrs. O’Coombe was there in her same field skirt and little lace-up boots, only now garbed in a silken blouse and a—Valentine couldn’t find the word for it. Stole? It was a leather half vest that went around behind her neck and hung down in two narrow pleats in front with bright brass emblems. All Valentine could think of was sleigh bells on a horse.

Fort Seng’s three Logistic Commando wagon masters were there as well, two western Kentucky specialists and one more they’d hauled all the way to the Appalachians and back. They smelled faintly of stock animals and sweat, but they’d combed their hair and flattened it with oil. Patel wore his new legion-style captain’s uniform and had polished his two canes. That was a bit unlike Nilay Patel; he was more the type to grit his teeth through an evening of aching knees and retire with a bottle of aspirin. Lambert looked trim and neat as one would expect, her hair brushed and shaped by a dress clip for the use of female officers. And finally Alessa Duvalier stood next to the fire, warming her backside and dressed in a little black outfit that must have been liberated from the basement, perhaps from some formal ball of the great man’s daughter. A red bra peeked from behind the low-cut front. Valentine vaguely thought it was a sartorial faux pas, but Duvalier’s red hair, spiky and disarrayed as usual, made it work.

Odd assortment. If Lambert wanted to impress Mrs. O’Coombe, why not invite Captain Ediyak with her model-cheekbone looks and polished Eastern manners? Why not Gamecock, who had a courtliness all his own behind the braids and scars, smooth as his rolling accent, that showed off some collective unconscious vestige of the grace of old South Carolina?

Brother Mark, the other obvious candidate, was off on a junket with the Agenda from the late Assembly. Or, more correctly, the soon-to-be-late Agenda. They were arranging for the establishment of a temporary government in Kentucky, and the ex-churchman wanted to plead for an office devoted to relations with allies in the Cause.

Valentine joined Duvalier at the fire.

“What the hell is that, Val?” she asked, fingering the finely patterned knit trim on the top robe.

“It’s the nicest thing I have that fits me. Some Moondagger’s dress-up outfit.”

“I’ve seen those before,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “That’s what they wear when they have a date with a Reaper. They treat it like a wedding.”

Valentine searched her eyes for some hint of a joke. She did sometimes put him on.

“No joke,” she supplied.

“Well, it’s still an attractive ensemble,” Valentine said. “I like how it looks, so what the hell.”

“Your funeral,” Duvalier said.

Lambert finished making her introductions, and everyone sat. Valentine sat opposite Lambert with Patel on one side and Duvalier on the other, with the Logistics Commandoes near them. Mrs. O’Coombe was in the place of honor to Lambert’s right.

Patel fiddled with his array of silverware. “Which is the one to clean the grease from one’s lips, Major?” he asked quietly.

“You can dip your fingers in the fingerbowl and touch them to your lips when you’re done eating,” Valentine said under his breath.

Lambert, as host, got the Logistics Commandoes talking about their difficulty finding even food staples, with Southern Command currency worthless here and what was left of Colonel Bloom’s booty pile diminishing rapidly.

“They want gold, or Kurian bank guarantees, or valuables for trade,” one of the Kentuckians said. “We’re out of all the usual stuff we trade. Our depots don’t have dynamite or two-way radios; not even paper and ink or razor blades.”

“The vote didn’t change nothing,” his friend added.

“We could send a few Wolves with the LCs on their next run, sir,” Patel said. “Give them a choice of Southern Command scrip or lead.”

Valentine was tempted. “No.”

“Been done before, Major,” Patel said.

The dishes came out. It was a meager dinner, “ration beef” and seasoned patties made from falafel and corn that would probably be allocated to the pigs on Mrs. O’Coombe’s ranch.

Lambert spoke up. “We’re trying to teach these recruits that just because you’ve got a uniform and a gun, whatever you can grab is not yours for the taking. We have to set an example. Tighten our belts.”

“We’ll be eating our belts before winter’s up, at this rate,” the third Logistics Commando said.

“Mister Valentine,” Mrs. O’Coombe said. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation regarding the supply difficulties. I’m traveling with a substantial amount of gold and Kurian Bills of Guarantee.”

Duvalier choked on her apple juice.

“I’ve dealt on both sides of the border often enough to know that one needs hard assets and negotiables to overcome certain bureaucratic difficulties.”

“Excuse me, madam, but where did you get bills?” Valentine asked. Bills were certificates guaranteeing “employment, useful or otherwise” for a set period, usually five or ten years. They were extremely difficult to forge. Some said the seals acted in much the same manner as a brass ring, and they were very valuable in the Kurian Zone. Many an old-timer would trade his entire life’s accumulation for a five-year certificate.