Theodor grinned and struck a pose.
“Not you, you pompous ass,” I joked. “I have a country.”
“That we do,” Theodor replied. “And now we have to move quickly, to push northward and finish this war.”
“We’ll have the capital by first snowfall, I can move into my old row house again, set the council up in the old Stone Castle?” I joked. There was little chance our luck would hold for such a quick victory.
“I’m not counting on it,” Theodor said. “Given that we’ve secured Rock’s Ford and this will become our primary base of operations for the time being, the council will join us here. Along with Kristos and Alba and more wagonloads of grain and dried beef than I care to think about.” He finished dressing and hurried away to oversee the morning roll call and inspection on the fields in front of the military school.
In the following weeks, the troops that had been held in reserve and wagons of supplies poured into Rock’s Ford, along with the Council of Country. The first decision put to the council was Kristos’s idea, pitched before his horse had even been properly stabled. I waited for him on the broad lawn in front of Westland Hall as soon as our pickets reported that the caravan of wagons and men was spotted on the road from the south.
“Sophie!” he called as he swung down from the saddle with an awkward stiffness and a graceless thud. “I’ve been thinking about it the whole ride up—when I wasn’t thinking of my poor ass. We need a new name.”
Theodor joined us. “Good to see you, Kristos,” he said, extending a hand, and as Kristos took it for a hearty shake, I was pleasantly shocked to see that both meant it. Kristos would never quite get over Theodor’s noble upbringing, and there would always be the bitter memory of how my brother had used me, but the two had become comrades in arms and stood shoulder to shoulder as leaders. As they briefly discussed the events of the past weeks, cracking jokes and sharing moments of concern, I saw two friends.
“A name?” I prodded.
“Yes. The first thing the council should deliberate on—what ought our new nation be called?” Kristos grinned.
“Isn’t it still just Galitha?” Theodor asked, brow wrinkling. “We aren’t forming a new country.”
“True,” I said. “But I like this suggestion—that we ought to formalize the break with the old regime. Some minor change, perhaps, could have a significant meaning. And a significant effect on morale.”
“I had thought to suggest the Democratic Union of Galitha,” Kristos said, gathering me into a bear hug. “You’ve gotten thinner.”
“It’s all the peas porridge,” I said. “The DUG? That’s a terrible idea.”
Kristos paused. “Fair point. But the first lesson of writing a country from scratch, there are no bad ideas in a first draft. One must trust one’s comrades to provide commentary and editing.”
“Duly noted,” I said, “and edited.”
“I’d say that our council’s first session in Rock’s Ford, not to mention Kristos joining us, is worth a celebration,” Theodor said with a strained smile. Very little was yet worthy of celebration, but we had to elevate the moments that we could. “And all of us together, for a little while at least. I’ll have Alba requisition us a chicken to roast and some wine.”
“A chicken?” I grinned. “An actual, real live chicken?”
“It won’t be alive for long,” Theodor quipped.
40
THE NEXT WEEK WAS SPENT IN PREPARATIONS FOR THE PUSH NORTH. Sianh and Theodor were in agreement—with the Royalists on the run, now was the time to press toward Galitha City. Supplies made their way from Hazelwhite, along with messages from Annette. She was ready, she said, to engage with the Royalist navy at Galitha City, opening the port and, we hoped, cutting off a route of retreat for the Royalists. Alba tallied the northbound supplies, perched on top of wagons with a logbook as she ran calculations on the fly.
Meanwhile, detachments left Rock’s Ford moving north, securing the routes we would use for the main contingent of the army. Sianh put Gregory, Jeremy, and the rest of the rebellious military school students to use, assigning the oldest, who had been ready to commission, as advisors to our untrained officers. The younger ones joined Fig as aides-de-camp and Alba as quartermaster’s assistants, and served as runners. Sianh grumbled about his fleet of mosquitoes, but he was so attentive in his mentorship that I knew his complaints were more habit and show than truth.
I did everything I could to fill the long hours between dawn and dusk with useful additions to the war effort. I cast charms in the field hospital—and pushed a broom and ferried sheets and shirts to the laundresses when Hamish didn’t notice me. I made sure any new recruits joining us, both the young military school officers and recruits from the adjacent countryside, had charmed uniforms.
It was inadequate, and I found myself with little to do too many long hours. Even when I was working, my mind was churning in a thousand unhelpful ways, and when I wasn’t working, the feeling of inane uselessness folded itself into every crease and wrinkle of my worries. I wasn’t helping. I wasn’t doing enough. The march north could fail and I didn’t even do anything to help. Finally, I set to making as many health-charmed rollers and bandages for Hamish as I could before the march north.
“You do realize what you’ve the opportunity for here, don’t you?” Hamish interrupted me as I worked in the formal parlor, which he and the entire medical and clerical staff had adopted as an office. He sat next to me, marveling at the stacks of linen rollers.
“The opportunity?” I asked.
He swung one leg up and balanced it on the window frame. I imagined Polly’s reaction at seeing his dirty shoe marring the woodwork and winced. “Real scientific study, girl!” When I didn’t respond, he added, enthusiastically, “Study on your casting. You told me you don’t know for sure when it’s done some good, what degree it’s affected the outcome.”
“That’s true, it’s… it’s influence more than anything,” I replied carefully.
“And if you could measure the outcomes of those under that ‘influence’ against those who aren’t, with time and numbers, you’d have some real statistics.”
“Treat some of them and not others?” I asked, brow knitting. “But I—I couldn’t. That seems positively unethical—presuming it’s doing some good.”
He huffed in frustrated agreement. “I suppose not. It is, I do believe, doing some good. My survival rate is far better than usual.”
“You usually kill more people?” I teased with a lilting smile.
“I try to avoid killing people, though I could be persuaded to consider the habit if Grove over there doesn’t quit squeaking his pen.” He stared at the back of the clerk’s bobbing head. “It struck me, though, that this is right fascinating stuff. I’m no scholar, I’m just an ordinary barber surgeon. But someone who was learned, who could write well—he’d have a book in him, most certainly.”
“You can write.” I laughed. “I’ve seen your logbook.”