The Crimson Campaign

Taniel sat brooding in his quarters, watching out the window as a line of wagons carried wounded soldiers away from the front. He thought about opening the window and asking how the battle was going. But he already had a guess: badly. This lot had probably taken a mortar round — their wounds were bloody and varied, and by their uniforms they were all from the same company.

General Ket had sent him to an inn about five miles behind the line, under guard twenty-four hours a day. It seemed like weeks since Ket had given Taniel her ultimatum. He knew it had been a single night.

The provosts had demanded to know where Ka-poel was. Taniel had shrugged and told them to stuff it, but inside he’d worried about what they’d do when they caught her. Had they been given orders to give her a beating like the one they’d given Taniel? Or worse? Without dolls of them, would Ka-poel be able to fend off the provosts?

General Ket had come by his quarters early this morning to tell him that every day he refused to apologize to Major Doravir was another day that men died on the line.

Taniel would be up there now if it weren’t for General Ket. He wouldn’t let her convince him it was his fault that the line was being pushed back again.

Outside his window, Taniel caught sight of a young man. It was a boy, really. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen. His leg had been taken off at the knee. Whether by a cannonball or a surgeon, Taniel didn’t know, but he was struck by the calm on the boy’s face. While men three times his age wailed over any number of flesh wounds, the boy sat stoically in the back of a wagon, his stump hanging off the edge, watching serenely while a fresh group of conscripts were sent to the front.

Taniel lifted his sketchbook and began to outline the boy’s face.

A knock sounded at the door. Taniel ignored it, wanting to give the boy’s portrait some shape so that he could finish it later.

He’d almost forgotten there even had been a knock, when it sounded again. The wagon outside was moving on, and the wounded boy with it. Taniel dropped his sketchbook on the table and went to the door.

He was surprised to find Mihali there. The big chef held a silver platter aloft in one hand, a towel over the opposite arm. His apron was dirty with flour and what looked like smudges of chocolate.

“Sorry to bother you,” Mihali said, sweeping past Taniel. Two provosts followed the chef inside. One held a folding table, the other a bottle of wine. “Right there,” Mihali told them. “Next to the window. Now some privacy, please.”

The provosts grumbled, setting up the table and then retreating into the hallway.

“Sit,” Mihali instructed, pointing at the only chair in the room. He deposited himself on the edge of the bed.

“What’s this?” Taniel asked.

“Dinner.” Mihali swept the lid off the silver tray. “Braised side of beef with quail’s egg quiche and sweet goat cheese, and served with a red wine. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid, but the wine is a lovely ’forty-seven and has been chilled.”

Nothing fancy? The smell rising from the platter made Taniel shudder with pleasure. His mouth watered immediately, and he found himself at the table unable to remember sitting down, with a piece of beef already on his fork. He paused. “May I?”

“Please, please,” Mihali encouraged. He popped the wine cork and poured two glasses.

It was a little unnerving that Mihali watched him while he ate, but Taniel quickly learned to ignore the chef’s presence and was soon reaching for seconds.

“What,” Taniel asked, eyeing Mihali, who was on his third glass of wine, “is the occasion?”

Mihali poured Taniel another glass. “Occasion? Does there need to be an occasion to eat well?”

“I thought so.”

Mihali shook his head. “I heard they’d relegated you to quarters and were feeding you soldier’s rations. That qualifies as a war crime in my book.”

“Ah.” Taniel smiled, but couldn’t be sure that Mihali was actually joking. He leaned forward, taking his wineglass, and noted that the wine bottle was still full after, what, five glasses between the two of them? Perhaps Mihali had a second bottle hidden somewhere.

“I have a letter for you,” Mihali said, removing an envelope from his apron.

Taniel paused, a fork halfway to his mouth. “From?” he mumbled around a mouthful of quail’s egg.

“Colonel Etan.”

Taniel tossed his fork down and snatched the letter. He tore it open and ran his eyes over the contents. When he was finished, he pushed his chair back and took a deep breath. He wasn’t hungry anymore, not even for Mihali’s food.

“What is it?” Mihali asked.

“None of your…” Taniel swallowed his retort. Mihali had come all this way from the front with a full meal, and delivered a letter that would likely not have reached Taniel otherwise. The chef deserved his thanks, not his anger. “I asked Colonel Etan to pull the quartermaster records regarding black-powder use in the army.”

“Oh?”