Falkenberg and his companion stood when she reached the table after a perilous journey across the crowded floor. Pipers marched past pouring out more sound.
Falkenberg’s face was flushed, and she wondered if he were drunk. “Miss Horton, may I present Major Oscar von Thoma,” he said formally. “Major von Thoma commands the Friedland artillery battalion.”
“I—” She didn’t know what to say. The Friedlanders were enemies, and Falkenberg was introducing her to the officer as his guest. “My pleasure,” she stammered. “And this is Colonel Hiram Black.”
Von Thoma clicked his heels. The men stood stiffly until she was seated next to Falkenberg. That kind of chivalry had almost vanished, but somehow it seemed appropriate here. As the stewards brought glasses von Thoma turned to Falkenberg. “You ask too much,” he said. “Besides, you may have fired the lands from the barrels by then.”
“If we have we’ll reduce the price,” Falkenberg said cheerfully. He noted Glenda Ruth’s puzzled expression. “Major von Thoma has asked if he can buy his guns back when the campaign is ended. He doesn’t care for my terms.”
Hiram Black observed drily, “Seems to me the Council’s goin’ to want a say in fixin’ that price, General Falkenberg.”
Falkenberg snorted contemptuously. “No.”
He is drunk, Glenda Ruth thought. It doesn’t show much, but—do I know him that well already?
“Those guns were taken by the Forty-second without Council help. I will see to it that they aren’t used against Patriots, and the Council has no further interest in the matter.” Falkenberg turned to Glenda Ruth. “Will you win the vote tomorrow?”
“There won’t be a vote tomorrow.”
“So you can’t win,” Falkenberg muttered. “Expected that. What about the war policy vote?”
“They’ll be debating for the next two days—” she looked nervously at Major von Thoma. “I don’t want to be impolite, but should we discuss that with him at the table?”
“I understand.” Von Thoma got unsteadily to his feet. “We will speak of this again, Colonel. It has been my pleasure, Miss Horton. Colonel Black.” He bowed stiffly to each and went to the big center table where a number of Friedland officers were drinking with Falkenberg’s.
“John, is this wise?” she asked. “Some of the Councillors are already accusing you of not wanting to fight—”
“Hell, they’re callin’ him a traitor,” Black interrupted. “Soft on Fedsymps, consortin’ with the enemy—they don’t even like you recruitin’ new men to replace your losses.” Black hoisted a glass of whiskey and drained it at one gulp. “I wish some of ’em had been ridin’ up the Valley with us! Glenda Ruth, that was some ride. And when Captain Frazer runs out of fuel, Falkenberg tells him, cool as you please, to use bicycles!” Black chuckled in rememberance.
“I’m serious!” Glenda Ruth protested. “John, Bannister hates you. I think he always has.” The stewards brought whiskey for Falkenberg. “Wine or whiskey, Miss?” one asked.
“Wine—John, please, they’re going to order you to attack the capital!”
“Interesting.” His features tightened suddenly, and his eyes became alert. Then he relaxed and let the whiskey take effect. “If we obey those orders I’ll need Major von Thoma’s good offices to get my equipment back. Doesn’t Bannister know what will happen if we let them catch us on those open plains?”
“Howie Bannister knows his way ’round a conspiracy better’n he does a battlefield, General,” Black observed. “We give him the secretary of war title ’cause we thought he’d drive a hard bargain with you, but he’s not much on battles.”
“I’ve noticed,” Falkenberg said. He laid his hand on Glenda Ruth’s arm and gently stroked it. It was the first time he’d ever touched her, and she sat very still. “This is supposed to be a party,” Falkenberg laughed. He looked up and caught the mess president’s eye. “Lieutenant, have Pipe Major give us a song!”
The room was instantly still. Glenda Ruth felt the warmth of Falkenberg’s hand. The soft caress promised much more, and she was suddenly glad, but there was a stab of fear as well. He’d spoken so softly, yet all those people had stopped their drinking, the drums ceased, the pipes, everything, at his one careless nod. Power like that was frightening.
The burly Pipe Major selected a young tenor. One pipe and a snare drum played as he began to sing. “Oh Hae ye nae heard o’ the false Sakeld, Hae ye nae heard o’ the keen Lord Scroop? For he ha’ ta’en the Kinmont Willie, to Haribee for to hang him up . . .”
“John, please listen,” she pleaded.
“They hae ta’en the news to the Bold Bacleugh,
in Branksome Ha where he did lay,
that Lord Scroop has ta’en the Kinmont Willie,
between the hours of night and day.
He has ta’en the table wi’ his hand,
he has made the red wine spring on hie.
Now Christ’s curse be on my head, he said,
but avenged of Lord Scroop I will be.”
“John, really.”
“Perhaps you should listen,” he said gently. He raised his glass as the young voice rose and the tempo gathered.
“O is my basnet a widow’s curch?
Or my lance the Wand o’ the willow tree?
And is my hand a lady’s lilly hand,
That this English lord should lightly me?”
The song ended. Falkenberg signaled to the steward. “We’ll have more to drink,” he said. “And no more talk of politics.”
They spent the rest of the evening enjoying the party. Both the Friedlanders and Falkenberg’s mercenary officers were educated men, and it was a very pleasant evening for Glenda Ruth to have a room full of warriors competing to please her. They taught her the dances and wild songs of a dozen cultures, and she drank far too much.
Finally he stood. “I’ll see you back to your quarters,” Falkenberg told her.
“All right.” She took his arm, and they went through the thinning crowd. “Do you often have parties like this?” she asked.
“When we can.” They reached the door. A white-coated private appeared from nowhere to open it for them. He had a jagged scar across his face that ran down his neck until it disappeared into his collar, and she thought she would be afraid to meet him anywhere else.
“Good night, Miss,” the private said. His voice had a strange quality, almost husky, as if he were very concerned about her.
They crossed the parade ground. The night was clear, and the sky was full of stars. The sounds of the river rushing by came faintly up to the old fortress.
“I didn’t want it ever to end,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because—you’ve built an artificial world in there. A wall of glory to shut out the realities of what we do. And when it ends we go back to the war.” And back to whatever you meant when you had that boy sing that sinister old border ballad.
“That’s well put. A wall of glory. Perhaps that’s what we do.”
They reached the block of suites assigned to the senior officers. Her door was next to his. She stood in front of it, reluctant to go inside. The room would be empty, and tomorrow there was the Council, and—she turned to him and said bitterly, “Does it have to end? I was happy for a few minutes. Now—”
“It doesn’t have to end, but do you know what you’re doing?”
“No.” She turned away from her own door and opened his. He followed, but didn’t go inside. She stood in the doorway for a moment, then laughed. “I was going to say something silly. Something like, ‘Let’s have a last drink.’ But I wouldn’t have meant that, and you’d have known it, so what’s the point of games?”
“There is no point to games. Not between us. Games are for soldiers’ girls and lovers.”
“John—my God, John, are you as lonely as I am?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Then we can’t let the party end. Not while there’s a single moment it can go on.” She went inside his room.
After a few moments he followed and closed the door.
* * *
During the night she was able to forget the conflict between them, but when she left his quarters in the morning the ballad returned to haunt her.
She knew she must do something, but she couldn’t warn Bannister. The Council, the revolution, independence, none of them had lost their importance; but though she would serve those causes she felt apart from them.
“I’m a perfect fool,” she told herself. But fool or not, she could not warn Bannister. Finally she persuaded the President to meet John away from the shouting masses of the Council Chamber.
Bannister came directly to the point. “Colonel, we can’t keep a large army in the field indefinitely. Miss Horton’s Valley ranchers may be willing to pay these taxes, but most of our people can’t.”
“Just what did you expect when you began this?” Falkenberg asked.