Pahner looked at her, then glanced at the door as the sound of hacking came from the far side. The door shook to the pounding blows of the prince's sword.
"What did you say to him?" the captain asked incredulously.
"I told him the truth, Captain," the former tutor said tautly. "All of it."
"Oh," the Marine said. "You're right. We do need to talk." He looked around the room. "Kyrou, back on post. The rest of you—" He glanced at the door and winced at the sound of steel skittering on stone. Roger loved that sword; if he was willing to bang stones with it, his fury was even more towering than the captain had thought.
"The rest of you, go back to sleep," he said finally, and beckoned for O'Casey to follow him out of the room.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The next day passed quietly, especially in the hostages' suite.
Roger failed to emerge from his room even when a breakfast of barleyrice and vegetables was brought to the suite. The food no longer contained the obnoxious herb that had been so prevalent in the first dinner, but there was still a weird, bitter aftertaste. Despite that, Roger had been able to stomach it on the previous two days, but he obviously had no interest in it at all today.
An hour after the breakfast had been cleared, Pahner opened the door to make sure he was all right. Roger was sprawled on his camp bed, in the middle of a mass of broken fixtures, his forearm across his face. When the door opened, the prince simply glanced at the captain and resumed his position. Recognizing a deep funk that was in no mood for semi-parental bitching, the Marine shook his head and closed the door.
Back in the troop barracks, however, the mood was quiet but active. Rumors were still the only method of faster than light communication the military had discovered.
"I heard he called the Empress a whore!" St. John (M.) said.
"I heard it was just a bitch," St. John (J.) said. The older twin had often had to control the outbursts of his younger brother. "But still."
"It was a bitch," Kosutic confirmed, appearing as if by magic behind them. "To be precise, a 'paranoid bitch.' But," she added, "he was also referring to the Empress as his mother, not the Empress. It's a big difference."
"How?" St. John (M.) asked. "They're the same person, ain't they?"
"Yes," the sergeant major agreed. "But calling one of them a bitch is treason, and calling the other one a bitch is just being really, really pissed at your mother." She looked from twin to twin. "Either one of you ever been upset with your mother before?"
"Welll..." St. John (M.) said.
"He always calls her a damnsaint when he's mad at Momma," St. John (J.) said with a grin.
"Well so do you!" St. John (M.) protested.
"Sure, Mark. But not to her face!"
"The point is," the sergeant major said before the family feud could go any farther, "that he was mad at his mother. Not at Empress Alexandra."
"Well, why?" St. John (M.) asked in a puzzled tone. "I mean, Her Majesty's not exactly here to get mad at. I mean, I don't get mad at Momma back on New Miss just 'cause, well, she ain't here."
"You got mad at Momma just the other day 'cause she had twins," St. John (J.) said slyly.
"Well, the Prince ain't got no twin," his exasperated brother said, then he got a puzzled expression and turned back to the sergeant major. "He doesn't, does he? We'd a heard, right?"
Kosutic kept the smile off her face only with difficulty. She knew why the St. John brothers had made it into the Regiment; they were both very, very good soldiers with the protective instincts of Dobermans. But the younger twin was no Hawking.
"He doesn't have a twin," she said precisely. "However, he was told something yesterday about some of his mother's decisions that really upset him."
"What?" St. John (J.) asked.
"What it was is between him and his mother. And he really wants to talk to her about it. The thing for all of you to keep in mind is that our job is to make sure that that conversation takes place."
"Okay," St. John (J.) said with a snort. "Gotcha, Sergeant Major."
"Now, I want you guys to pass it on. What happened yesterday is between Roger and his mother. Our job is to make sure that he gets home to ask her why she's a paranoid bitch in person."
Roger emerged without a word just before dinner was delivered. There'd been sounds of movement for some time before that, and he carried a pile of crushed and broken fixtures from the room. He took them to the door to the suite, deposited them in the guarded hall beyond, and turned to Pahner.
"What's the status of the Company?" he asked coldly.
"Nominal," the CO replied in a neutral tone. He was seated on a cushion, tapping on a pad, and he cocked his head as he looked up at the prince. "They've been doing some training with the new weapons, and they're waiting for the word on when we move." He hesitated, then went on. "They got the word about last evening. The Sergeant Major has been spending most of the day quelling rumors."
Roger nodded in acknowledgment, but didn't respond directly to the last sentence.
"We have a problem, Captain," he said instead.
"And that is?"
"I don't think we have enough troops or ammunition to make it to the coast." The prince pulled up a pile of cushions beside the Marine and dropped down onto them, and Pahner regarded him calmly as O'Casey looked up from her own pad.
"To an extent, I agree, Your Highness. Do you have an answer?"
"Not directly." Roger picked up a canteen and took a sip. The water was tepid, but his chilled camel-bag was in the other room. "But I was thinking about Cord and his nephews. We need more Mardukan warriors attached to us, whether that be by cash or loyalty oaths."
"So we keep an eye out for a group of mercenaries to attach?" Pahner sounded dubious. "I'm not sure about using mercenaries to protect you, Your Highness."
"Let's not look too far down on mercenaries," Roger said with a bitter smile. "After all, we're about to take still another city so that we can get the gear to continue our journey. I don't think we should be calling the kettle black."
"That is a point, Your Highness," Pahner said ruefully. "However, it's not like we're doing it by our own choice."
"Let's go," Denat hissed. "It's not like we have a choice!"
The little female didn't even look around. She was totally focused on the path from the walls to the water, and a part of Denat wished he could match her total concentration.
Unfortunately, he couldn't. He didn't know what was happening back at the barracks, but whatever it was, it was making Julian nervous as hell, which hadn't done a great deal for Denat's state of mind, either. The good news was that the NCO had steadied down when the time to move arrived, and now he was monitoring the sensors scattered over the Mardukan's gear.
"Well," the earbud whispered. "There's nothing large moving between you and the water. By the way, I'm glad it's you and not me."
Denat wrinkled his nose but forbore to comment. The exit from the city was a sewer, and although the runoff stream was currently a mere trickle, the first hint of rain would transform it into a flash flood of obnoxious matter. It was high time to make a bolt for the river.
"Come on!" he hissed again.
"Great hunter," Sena said derisively, "I have learned not to move too fast. You have to know what the next step is. Otherwise, you find yourself paste between the toes of the flar-ke."
Denat shook his head and stepped forward.
"Julian," his subvocalized, "have you got anything?"
"Guards on the bridge," the human responded, detecting the movement at a hundred meters. "Other than that, there's no movement."