The Blade Itself

Furthermore, in terms of social standing they were anything but equals. Vallimir was old nobility, from a powerful family, and arrogant beyond belief. He made Jezal dan Luthar seem a humble, selfless type, and his total lack of experience in the field only made matters worse: he behaved doubly like an ass in order to compensate. Instructions from West, though they might come from Marshal Burr himself, were as welcome as they would have been from a reeking swineherd.

Today was no exception. “This month’s quotas are fulfilled, Major West,” Vallimir managed to put a sneering emphasis into the name, “and so the forges are closed. That is all.”

“And this is what you would have me tell the Lord Marshal?”

“The arming of levies is the responsibility of those lords that provide them,” he recited primly. “I cannot be blamed if they fall short on their obligations. It is simply not our problem, Major West, and you may tell that to the Lord Marshal.”

This was always the way of it. Back and forth: from Burr’s offices to the various commissary departments, to the commanders of companies, of battalions, of regiments, to the stores scattered around the Agriont and the city, to the armouries, the barracks, the stables, to the docks where the soldiers and their equipment would begin to embark in just a few short days, to other departments and back to where he began, with miles walked and nothing done. Each night he would drop into bed like a stone, only to start up a few hours later with it all to do again.

As commander of a battalion his trade had been to fight the enemy with steel. As a staff officer, it seemed, his role was to fight his own side with paper, more secretary than soldier. He felt like a man trying to push a huge stone up a hill. Straining and straining, getting nowhere, but unable to stop pushing in case the rock should fall and crush him. Meanwhile, arrogant bastards who were in just the same danger lazed on the slopes beside him saying, “Well, it’s not my rock.”

He understood now why, during the war in Gurkhul, there had sometimes not been enough food for the men to eat, or clothes for them to wear, or wagons to draw the supplies with, or horses to draw the wagons, or all manner of other things that were deeply necessary and easily anticipated.

West would be damned before that happened because of some oversight of his. And he would certainly be damned if he would see men die for want of a weapon to fight with. He tried yet again to calm himself, but each time his head hurt more, and his voice was cracking with the effort. “And what if we find ourselves mired in Angland with a crowd of half-clothed, unarmed peasants to provide for, what then, Major Vallimir? Whose problem will it be? Not yours, I dare say! You’ll still be here, with your cold forges for company!”

West knew as soon as he said it that he had gone too far: the man positively bristled. “How dare you, sir! Are you questioning my personal honour? My family goes back nine generations in the King’s Own!”

West rubbed his eyes, not knowing whether he wanted to laugh or cry. “I have no doubts as to your courage, I assure you, that was not my meaning at all.” He tried to put himself in Vallimir’s position. He did not really know the pressures the man was under: probably he would rather be in command of soldiers than smiths, probably… it was no use. The man was a shit, and West hated him. “This is not a question of your honour, Major, or that of your family. This is a question of our being fit for war!”

Vallimir’s eyes had turned deadly cold. “Just who do you think you’re talking to, you dirty commoner? All the influence you have you owe to Burr, and who is he but an oaf from the provinces, risen to his rank by fortune alone?” West blinked. He guessed what they said about him behind his back of course, but it was another thing to hear it to his face. “And when Burr is gone, what will become of you? Eh? Where will you be without him to hide behind? You’ve no blood, no family!” Vallimir’s lips twisted in a cold sneer. “Apart from that sister of yours of course, and from what I hear—”

West found himself moving forward, fast. “What?” he snarled. “What was that?” His expression must have been dire indeed: he saw the colour draining from Vallimir’s face.

“I… I—”