The Heroes

‘Then—’
    ‘Imagine yourself a master mason, Lord Marshal, working upon one turret of a grand palace. A craftsman whose dedication, skill and attention to detail are disputed by no one.’
    ‘Mason?’ Mitterick looked baffled.
    ‘Then imagine the Closed Council as the architects. Our responsibility is not the fitting of one stone to another, it is the design of the building overall. The politics, rather than the tactics. An army is an instrument of government. It must be used in such a way that it furthers the interests of government. Otherwise what use is it? Only an extremely costly machine for … minting medals.’ The room shifted uncomfortably.
Hardly the sort of talk the toy soldiers appreciate.
    ‘The policies of government are subject to sudden change,’ grumbled Felnigg.
    Bayaz looked upon him like a schoolmaster at the dunce ruining the standard of his class. ‘The world is fluid. We must be fluid also. And since these latest hostilities began, circumstances have not flowed for the better. At home the peasants are restless again. War taxes, and so on. Restless, restless, always restless.’ He drummed his thick fingers restlessly on thetable-top. ‘And the new Lords’ Round is finally completed, so the Open Council is in session and the nobles have somewhere to complain. They are doing so. At tremendous length. They are impatient with the lack of progress, apparently.’
    ‘Damn windbags,’ grunted Mitterick.
Lending considerable support to the maxim that men always hate in others what is most hateful in themselves.
    Bayaz sighed. ‘Sometimes I feel I am building sandcastles against the tide. The Gurkish are never idle, there is no end to their intrigues. But once they were the only real challenge to us abroad. Now there is the Snake of Talins, too. Murcatto.’ He frowned as if the name tasted foul, hard lines deepening across his face. ‘While our armies are entangled here that cursed woman continues to tighten her grip on Styria, emboldened by the knowledge that the Union can do little to oppose her.’ Some patriotic tutting stirred the assembly. ‘Put simply, gentlemen, the costs of this war, in treasure, in prestige, in lost opportunities, are becoming too high. The Closed Council require a swift conclusion. Naturally, as soldiers, you all are prone to be sentimental about warfare. But fighting is only any use when it’s cheaper than the alternatives.’ He calmly picked a piece of fluff from his sleeve, frowned at it, and flicked it away. ‘This is the North, after all. I mean to say … what’s it worth?’
    There was a silence. Then Marshal Kroy cleared his throat. ‘The Closed Council require a swift conclusion … do they mean by the end of the campaigning season?’
    ‘The end of the season? No, no.’ The officers blew out their cheeks with evident relief. It was short-lived. ‘Considerably sooner than that.’
    The noise slowly built. Shocked gasps, then horrified splutters, then whispered swear-words and grumbles of disbelief, the officers’ professional affront scoring a rare victory over their usually unconquerable servility.
    ‘But we cannot possibly—!’ Mitterick burst out, striking the table with one gauntleted fist then hastily remembering himself. ‘I mean to say, I apologise, but we cannot—’
    ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’ Kroy ushered down his unruly brood, and appealed to reason.
The lord marshal is nothing if not a reasonable man.
‘Lord Bayaz … Black Dow continues to evade us. To manoeuvre and fall back.’ He gestured at the map as though it was covered in realities that simply could not be argued with. ‘He has staunch war leaders at his side. His men know the land, are sustained by its people. He is a master at swift movement and retreat, at swift concentration and surprise. He has already wrong-footed us once. If we rush to battle, there is every chance that—’
    But he might as well have reasoned with the tide. The First of the Magi was not interested. ‘You stray onto the details again, Lord Marshal. Masons and architects and so forth, did I speak about that? The king sent you here to fight, not march around. I have no doubt you will find a way to bring the Northmen to a decisive battle, and if not, well … every war is only aprelude to talk, isn’t it?’ Bayaz stood, and the officers belatedly struggled up after him, chairs screeching and swords clattering in an ill-coordinated shambles.
    ‘We are … delighted you could join