"Native Rifles!"
Dunning stalked back and forth in the confined space before the major's desk, a sheaf of folded papers in hand. He had come to plead his case, and in the time leading up to his arrival he had foreseen a calm, collected exchange in which he made a reasoned appeal to authority and authority, having mistakenly wronged him through bureaucratic oversight, cheerfully corrected their slip and filed straightaway for the new orders that would send him to the correct station. He had hoped the simple clarity of his argument would sway them. Failing that, he hoped that his blood ties to the major would grease the wheels and add the necessary weight to expedite his appeal.
He was thus far disappointed.
Major Kerr only leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together across a belly that fought to escape the confines of his uniform jacket. Like most officers in administrative positions he had arrived a fit junior officer, only to see the years and a life of formal dinners and frequent parties take the polish from his boots and more than a little iron from his spine. He had smiled when first the young officer had entered his office; he was not smiling now, mouth drawn in a taught line, eyes fixed on the ensign - his nephew - as he stopped and drew himself up ramrod straight before a window smeared to opacity by the steady thrum of rain.
"Valantine," he said. "Ensign Dunning, sit down."
Dunning stood still, motionless as a statue in the parade posture known to all who had endured the forge of the Citadel and been refined from common men into the officers who would someday become colonels and generals. It was a proud stance. That of a man who had seen the enemy and elected to sink his heels in, plant the colors, and fight to the death.
Dunning turned to look over his shoulder at his uncle.
"They can't damn well do this to me."
"It seems they have," his uncle said. A peal of thunder broke, rattling the window panes. Dunning faced forward, through the murky glass. He didn't dare let his shoulder sag or his bearing slip. If he was to make a convincing argument he would have to keep all signs of slack and weakness out of his posture and countenance.
"I graduated fourth in my class, Uncle."
"I am aware."
"Tell me then," he said, making a fist. "How is it that the army takes me from the Imperial Horse Guards and hands me off to a mongrel regiment like the Rifles. Explain it to me so that I can understand. I want to know."
The major made a sound that could have been a cough or a stifled laugh.
"I remind that you were never a part of the Imperial Horse Guards. You are a new ensign, subject to the whims of the army, and they will send you where you are needed. That, nephew, is the nature of the service."
He scoffed, fingering the disc worn on a leather cord around his neck.
The Imperial Horse Guards, the King's own household cavalry. By rights he should have gotten it. Instead they had given him the King's Native Rifles, two companies of horse and eight of foot that bore a reputation more akin to the barbarians of old than any modern royal army, their recruits drawn from jails, doss houses, and the far western frontier they were frequently called to police and pacify. To a professional military man such as himself the KNR was above the local militias kept by western lords, but not by much.
"I'll be wasted there." He slapped his orders on the edge of the desk. "This isn't good enough."
"Perhaps not."
"What can I do?" he asked. "How can I be reassigned?"
"If you must know, there is a way." The major snorted and rooted through his pockets for a handkerchief. He found one and blew his nose, then studied the result.
"Tell me," Dunning said, pleading. "Anything but the Rifles."
His uncle sighed and put away his handkerchief, pushing himself upright behind his desk. He picked up the orders his nephew had dropped.
"Go to the Rifles. Serve for a year. Comport yourself as the crown expects of its young officers. Then put in your request. The army will find you a place, of course. It won't likely be to the Horse Guards - in fact it almost certainly won't. But you'll be out of the Rifles and on to better things."
"A year," he said.
"Yes, a year. Twelve months. Four seasons. Enough time to learn the workings of the army and bloody your knuckles. If you find yourself unhappy at that point at least you'll be a man with a year's service to his name rather than a bothersome green cadet."
Dunning's temper flared.
"Fourth in my class," he growled. "Is that a bothersome green cadet?"
"Valantine, Valantine," his uncle laughed. "You were fourth in your class, yes. Your class was at the academy, and you are presently an officer in his His Majesty's Army - which you will find is not the academy. All tales and lore and legends aside, that golden disc you wear gets you no more weight than your peers. First in your class or last, when you leave the Citadel you are all of equal value to the crown, and as you've begun to learn the career of an ensign is not of much importance to anyone save an ensign."
"So it means nothing."
"It means you acquitted yourself well in the classroom and on the parade field," his uncle said. "No more. You cannot ride your achievements in bookwork to glory. Everything must be earned, nephew. If you want the Horse Guards you'll need to start now, and you'll find the game is changed significantly. You'll be against other good officers. Other men who were fourth - and third, and second, and first - in their classes, men who've got years of distinguished service to their name, men who have friends and blood relations in a proper court instead of fat old uncles who shuffle paper in a corps headquarters on the Continent."
"And if I do - if I go the Rifles, and if I do well, and I prove myself - what does that get me?" Dunning tugged at the hem of his jacket. Part of him - some small part - was inclined to follow his uncle's advice, to put in a year's service with the hand he was dealt. The greater part, the pragmatist, the realist, knew that the regiment in which a man began his career was more often than not the regiment from which he mustered out. He would be promoted or penalized under its colors, serve with the same pool of men for the duration, and be borne by its caissons upon death. By turns, his every action would be known not only in the records, but in the minds of the men he was to lead. Any missteps would follow him to the end.
Transfers were not unheard of between regiments; they were however sufficiently uncommon as to raise considerable interest and require a good deal of paperwork and interventions from above. And, as leaving one's unit was considered a sign of weakness, inability to control subordinates, or poor temperament a man granted a transfer was often regarded in dubious light. Even if it was possible to escape the fate the army bureaucrats had chosen for him it was long odds he'd ever get anywhere near the Horse Guards.
Standing before the blurred panes of the window he felt the knot of doubt settled deep in his stomach that told him he would not win here. Worse yet, he was long beyond the point of a dignified withdrawal.
Coming in, he had walked a long corridor lined with the offices of important men, of colonels and generals, and suspended and aligned carefully between doors hung gilt-framed paintings of great battles ranging back into antiquity. He thought of the wide-eyed horses, erect on hind legs and pierced and bleeding in half a dozen places, of wounded officers still in the saddle and shouting orders, of the last man standing alongside, legs braced, one armed extended with a smoking pistol in the hand, the other bearing the colors, clutched to the breast as the waves of an enemy army broke around them like an angry sea.
Not all were victories. Yet knowing as much, he found some of the most stirring to be those in which determined men kept the faith until the moment of death. In which the King's battle jack waved in defiance until the last of his men were cut down. Since the day he had resolved to make the army his livelihood they had been his heroes, the men who had died long ago in the distant and dismal corners of the world, falling with a defiant curse on their lips for the hordes that streamed ever onward over the bodies of their fallen comrades.
He admired them not for dying but for the manner in which they faced death, for knowing that even if the colors were cased afterwards and the regiment stricken from the rolls that the names were not forgotten and their heroism and gallantry assured a legacy wherever the King held sway and army officers drank together. There were those who argued that honor meant little if life was the cost. For the most Dunning paid them little mind - tavern drunkards, educated men who lived comfortably in the protected glow of imperial might, those whose homes were protected by the batteries of guns they so wanted smelted into plows, who preferred to shower money and favor on the lazy and shiftless rather than pay the wages of a single soldier. Men with no need or understanding of honor and no grasp of any calling beyond their own contentment.
The battleground here was certainly not of his choosing, and the odds were not good. In the dreams of youth he had always seen himself as one of them. One of the fortunate few who faced the impossible and, with a little luck, lived to tell. Holding the line against whatever barbarians made up those parts of the world he'd seen only on yellowed and brittle pages of the old atlases in his father's library. Slowly it dawned that he might be able to salvage something of an otherwise untenable situation. The King's Native Rifles had a reputation, true, and by common knowledge they made for competent fighters, but by turns their shortcomings in the field of martial formality was no great secret.
Dunning stood, thinking.
True, he was only an ensign himself - a brevet lieutenant, if he opted to flatter himself - but while an ensign was hardly a powerful figure in the army's organization he was far from powerless. Supposing he went to the Rifles he would have two dozen men and a sergeant at his command. Not an army, perhaps, but not inconsequential. Highly consequential, in fact, should his squadron distinguish itself. If the wartime record of the KNR could be matched to a proper respect and observance of custom and ceremony it would be a fine achievement for a lackluster unit - not to mention a feather in the cap of the man who brought about the change.
Suppose, he mused, that his greatest glory came not from fighting to the death on some far continent but instead by the transformation of a lackluster regiment into the pride of the King's army? It might not get him a shot at the Imperial Horse Guards, but it could scarcely hurt. Given time it might even mean he'd get command of the KNR himself - an unappealing proposition at present, yes, but after the fact...that was something else.
"You've gone quiet, nephew," his uncle mused. "Resigned yourself to cruel fate?"
"I suppose." Dunning took his time in answering.
"It's a strange turn, sending a man Citadel man to the Rifles. Usually they promote their own - sergeant to ensign. Rare thing in this army, in this day and modern age. Perhaps even a touch barbaric. But I suppose they get along. You'll scarcely find a regiment with its name on more battles. It'd be a fine show of colors, did they carry any."
Dunning arched an eyebrow and dipped his chin. "Say again?"
"Hmm? Oh, right. They don't have colors, the Rifles. No flags, no streamers. Not a properly numbered regiment for that matter. Not even the imperial jack. I believe they have company guidons for parades and inspections, if they still hold those. "
He wondered if his face betrayed the disbelief that blossomed suddenly in his chest. He felt lightheaded. No colors! No number! Raising enlisted men - some of them probably even conscripts - to the officers' mess! Lunacy itself let free within the King's army.
"Good God," he said. "Are we sure they're even ours?"
"I'm afraid so," the major chuckled. "But all is not lost, ensign. Rough they may be, but the Rifles have always answered to the summons of the crown. 'Loyal Silvers' they call themselves. Should you see fit to delve deeper into their lineage you'll find they've won a goodly number of battles by themselves and turned a fair few others. I believe the KNR - what became the KNR, at any rate - was the first of the..."
He half-listened as his uncle went on, talking at great length about the role of the volunteer militiamen who had armed themselves with all manner of private weapons (of which rifles of comparatively small caliber were favored over larger bored muskets of the day) elected their own officers, provided their own uniforms and kit, and preferred to lie in ambush and kill at long range rather than standing should to shoulder in battle lines with their regular army brethren. They were a highly insular group - hated by the King's enemies, kept at arm's length by the King's officers, and decried widely in the gentlemens' circles as a form of institutionalized murder.
The Rifles, their ranks graced by precious few gentlemen, took little notice. In the beginning the unit raised itself from a small hamlet on the coast - the major forgot which one, exactly - and so, with ranks comprised of butchers and tanners and tinsmiths they marched to war, fortifying their ranks from taverns and small gaols along the way. More than a few men had escaped the noose by donning rifle green, and more than a few others had traded the life of a father and husband for a chance at uniformed adventure. There was no great formality in joining, few disqualifications and, so long as a man kept his rifle clean and demonstrated an ability to put it to good use, no questions asked.
"...of course all the army carries rifles now, so the title is somewhat redundant. Still, they take a considerable degree of pride in the fact that they had them first. It may very well be that's the only thing from which they take their pride but no matter."
Major Kerr had been gesturing as he spoke, hands waving back and forth to lend action to descriptions of battles or weight to the words shouted by Rifle officers past. Now he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over the gold buttons of his straining red jacket.
"You may not believe this, nephew, but you might have done worse."
"Possibly." Dunning's excitement at the possibilities of turning his squadron into a crack unit was ebbing.
Still - he forced himself to stand straight, to touch his heels together - he was a Citadel man. Top of his class with the gold disc as proof. That was no small trick. There were unseen machinations in the hierarchies and bureaucracies that had a hand in this, that much he was certain. Fleetingly he wondered if his uncle was so involved, perhaps as the result of some long-ago slight he himself had forgotten. But no - no, he knew the cause of this, the one reason that held up where others failed.
He tapped the backs of his fingers against the window glass, chilled to the touch. The high collar of his gray woolen cadet's jacket chafed his neck. Buttoned up to the throat it was ideal for the cool, damp autumns and winters at the academy, markedly less so for a cramped office kept hot by a potbellied corner stove. He could see orange flames licking inside through gaps around the door and kept close to the window, which was steadily admitting a cold draught.
"Should you decide to pursue the matter I can provide you the names of officers who might be willing to hear you out. This assuming you can convince them." The major produced a scrap of paper and selected an ink pen from a well on his desk. "I regret that I have no real pull outside this office. Keepers of records aren't held in great esteem by the rest of the army, it seems."
"No," Dunning said.
"No?"
"No, I'll take it." Dunning's voice was measured. Composed, as had been drummed into him over the course of the previous years when facing an unpleasant obstacle that nevertheless had to be surmounted before progress could be made. If nothing else the Rifles were a regiment that took to the field; he supposed he'd rather that than assignment as a quartermaster's assistant or hospital administration or any number of other bureaucratic dead ends. He might not be getting his first choice, but damned if he was going to survive the Citadel and wear the uniform for the purpose of shuffling papers. He had no desire to follow in his uncle's footsteps.
The major moved as if reaching for a pen and paper. "You're certain?"
"I'll take it," he repeated. There was a silence.
"Well then. I believe that concludes our business, ensign."
"I believe so."
"Right. Now I find I must get back to my bean counting - God forbid the army misplace its head, though I'm certain it's been done before. Good day to you, nephew. Good luck."
"And to you, major." Dunning stiffened his spine, clicked his heels, and turned to go. He eased the door closed behind him and tried to muffle the sound of his footfalls. Having made a false advance he had no desire to explain his presence to any curious officers who might question the nature of his visit. He trusted his uncle would pass it off as a farewell visit before his departure west. How the major would have explained the raised voices earlier he didn't know.
Fremant was waiting outside, sitting on the gallery rail. At Dunning's approach he sprang from his seat, dusting the seat of his trouser, and shrugging into his heavy overcoat. Like many of the Citadel's former cadets, he had not yet acquired the silver to have his general issue uniforms tailored, and the misfitting dress and oversized coat gave him the air of a well-dressed beggar.
"Well?" he pressed. "Did you get him?"
"We spoke," Dunning said.
"And?"
"The matter has been settled."
"Good." Fremant grinned, donning a broad-brimmed hat. Assuming a dramatic pose, he swept an arm across the panorama of the street, blocked on the opposite by the fortress-like side of a brick warehouse. The rain had slackened, but the sky remained cloudy, rumbling with discontent, and the cobblestones were polished to high sheen. "We've got a few minutes for the train, but no need to lag. Officer or not, the railroad waits for no man."
"I may not go," Dunning said, his earlier optimism for the future dampened by the wet, miserable state of things.
"The hell you say." Fremant grabbed him by the arm dragged him down the steps. Dunning didn't fight him. He'd already lost one battle today, and he hadn't the heart to lose another.