The wounded were being cared for in a building that bore the sign of the Silver Eagle, which had been apparently been a nest of paper pushers. Winter’s soldiers had cleared the desks out of the way and laid bedrolls on the floor, where the cutters worked with scalpels and bone saws amid the usual mix of screams, moans, and prayer. Very few of the patients were from the Girls’ Own, who had so far gotten off lightly; the majority were Patriots or militia, along with some Royals who’d staggered back from the bridgehead under their own power. There were also some civilians, who’d been discovered alongside the wounded militia. Both groups had a great many burn victims, including some corpses that had been reduced to charred skeletons, but since none of the buildings had caught fire, the cutters were at a loss to explain why. Perhaps Marcus can shed some light on the subject.

A row of offices had been mostly appropriated for surgeries, but Cyte led her to one on the end, where Marcus was lying on a bedroll. The desk that had been in the center of the room had been pushed to one side, and a teenage girl in a blue army jacket sat on it, looking worried. Beside Marcus, sitting cross-legged, was an older woman in tight-fitting black, speckled with blood and ashes. Bobby, waiting at the door, saluted Winter and stepped aside to let her in.

Marcus still wore his uniform, but one leg of his trousers had been cut away and his thigh was swathed in bandages. He was propped up on a pillow, looking a bit gray but undoubtedly conscious.

Seeing him again, especially like this, was strange. Throughout the Khandarai campaign, and even during the fighting around the revolution, Marcus had been Janus’ right hand, far above Winter in authority. In her ranker days, she’d thought of the senior officers in the same way the Khandarai thought about their gods, as inexplicable, capricious beings whose notice was to be avoided if at all possible.

Now, though, the eagles on her shoulders matched his, though he was still nominally her superior by seniority. But he had no troops under his command, and his wounded, exhausted state made Winter look at him with new eyes. He was just a man, tired and in pain. He always was. That was the secret that the officers conspired to keep the rankers; you gave orders, because it was your job to give orders, but it didn’t actually mean you knew any better. We’re all just doing the best we can, under the circumstances.

He looked back at her, and she wondered if the change in their relative status had given him any matching revelations. If it had, he didn’t voice them. Instead he glanced at the open door and coughed.

“It’s good to see you, Colonel Ihernglass.”

“Likewise, Colonel d’Ivoire.”