POV - Ravik
The forward camp smelled of wet canvas and boiled grain, and Legate Ravik Threnn had long since stopped minding either, the way a man stops minding his own breathing.
He had the map weighted flat with four stones that weren't quite the right shape for the job, because the good weights had gone forward with the supply column and hadn't come back yet, which was itself a small, specific fact he'd noted and set aside to worry about later, the way he set most things aside now.
"Eight days to the Marchcombe crossing at present pace," Hasse said, tracing the road with two fingers like he was tracing something already won. "Six, if we commit the cavalry ahead of the main column. The Compact's still tangled up evacuating Callmoor — every soldier they've got is on wagon duty, not wall duty. There won't be a better window before winter."
"There won't be a worse one, either, if the column outruns its own grain."
"The column's fine."
"The column is fine for eight days at present consumption, which is not the same number as six days at forced pace, and you know that, because you were a quartermaster before you were a Legate." Ravik kept his voice level. Level was the only register that worked in this tent — anything sharper and Hasse would repeat it back to the capital sanded into something that sounded like fear.
"I'm not saying no. I'm saying I want the wagons a day closer before I commit riders eight miles ahead of them."
"We don't have a day to spend admiring the wagons, Legate." Hasse said his rank the way some men said an insult, which Ravik had decided months ago not to react to, because reacting was exactly what it was for.
"The Heir-Designate didn't put his name behind this campaign so it could move at the pace of an ox cart. Every week this coast doesn't fall is a week the Sovereign's council asks why."
There it was, laid on the map as plainly as the road. Ravik had known it would come out eventually — it always did, in every council, dressed as strategy — but Hasse saying it directly, in front of two junior officers who'd repeat it verbatim to whoever asked nicely, meant Hasse wanted it said directly. Wanted it on record that someone had raised the pace, in case the pace turned out to matter later, one way or the other.
"Send the cavalry," Ravik said. "Eight miles, not further, and I want a rider back the moment they raise the Marchcombe road, whether they've engaged anything or not."
Hasse smiled like he'd won something, which he had, though not the thing he thought.
—
Wyle found him afterward, alone, going back over the supply figures with the particular grim patience of a man hoping the numbers might have changed since the last time he'd added them.
"The Reyven position's secure," Wyle said. "Cleared through this morning."
"And the Marked."
"Two. One old, no use to anyone, released back to the town with the rest. One young — a boy, maybe fifteen." Wyle's voice didn't change at all, which was the whole discipline of it, the thing that let a man carry out an order every week and still sleep. "Handled per policy."
Ravik didn't ask how. He'd asked once, years ago, and had regretted having the answer in his head ever since, and had never asked again, which he understood was its own kind of cowardice — the choosing not to know, so that not knowing could stand between him and what he'd ordered.
"Any trouble from the town."
"Some. Not enough to slow anyone down." Wyle hesitated, which he almost never did. "Boy's mother asked why. I told her the truth — that it isn't punishment, it's prevention. She didn't find that as much comfort as command seems to think it is, sir."
"No," Ravik said. "I imagine she wouldn't."
He let Wyle go without saying anything else, because there was nothing else that wouldn't sound like an apology he wasn't in a position to make, or an order he wasn't willing to give, and a Legate who couldn't decide between the two out loud was worse than one who'd simply decided.
—
The supply officer came in an hour after the cavalry had already ridden, which Ravik understood, the moment he saw the man's face, was not a coincidence anyone had planned so much as the ordinary bad luck of a war run by men who couldn't wait for good news before making decisions that needed it.
"Grain stores," the officer said, laying the tally on the map, on top of the road Hasse had traced that morning with two confident fingers. "Eleven days at forced pace, Legate. Not fourteen. The Reyven foraging came in a third short of projection — the town had already been stripped by whoever held it before us."
Eleven days. The cavalry was two hours gone, riding eight miles ahead of a column that could no longer promise to catch up to them in the time anyone had planned for.
Ravik looked at the map a long moment, at the neat confident line Hasse had drawn with his fingers and the much less confident one the grain tally was now drawing underneath it, and did the arithmetic himself, because someone was going to have to, and it wasn't going to be Hasse.
He didn't like the number any better than the officer clearly had, delivering it.