Free The Guns of Empire by Django Wexler

“Borels are civilized. They abide by the rules of war.” His face went sour, heavy mustache quivering. “Not like where we’re going. The Murnsks are damned savages. Keep a knife in your boot, is my advice. That way you can at least cut your own throat if you’re going to be captured.”
    Blackstream was cut from a rather different cloth than Parker Erdine. He was the oldest man at the table by a considerable margin, in his fifties at least,with his gray hair grown long and tied back in an elaborate braid. His jowly face was dominated by a luxurious mustache and canny, deep-set eyes. He didn’t smile much, which Winter counted as a blessing, given the state of his teeth. Blackstream had been a captain in the old Royal Army, a War College graduate with a long service record. Something in that record must have impressed Janus, since he’d given the man an infantry regiment.
    â€œThen again,” he went on, “we’ve got to go through Dorsay before we get much farther into Murnsk. So maybe we won’t have to worry about getting captured by the Murnskai after all.”
    â€œYou were at Vansfeldt,” Sevran said, apparently eager to change the subject. “Is Brookspring as formidable as everyone claims?”
    Blackstream blew out a breath, lifting the ends of his mustache. “He’s clever,” he said, after due consideration. “Patient, cautious. When he was fighting Prince Dominic, he waited until the prince was frustrated enough to do something rash, and then pounced.”
    â€œThat’s unlikely to be a problem,” said Colonel Martin de Koste, the last member of the party. “First Consul Vhalnich won’t give him that kind of opportunity.”
    If Blackstream represented the old army, de Koste exemplified the new. The son of a noble house from the Transpale, he was young, well educated, and utterly besotted with the ideas of the revolution. This translated into an admiration for Janus that bordered on hero worship; he was the only soldier Winter had met who insisted on addressing their commander by his full title. Of all her new subordinates, de Koste made Winter the most uncomfortable, since he seemed to regard her as some kind of demigod orbiting the prime divinity.
    â€œJanus has done fine against a bunch of creaky old merchants,” Blackstream said. “We’ll see how he fares against a proper commander.”
    â€œI don’t know about the Hamveltai commanders,” Abby drawled, “but I assure you the yellowjackets aren’t made up of creaky old men.” She looked from Erdine to Blackstream. “Some of us spent last year fighting instead of squatting on the south coast or heroically running away.”
    â€œI go where the Ministry wills,” Blackstream said phlegmatically. “For my sins. I had my fill of fighting ages past.”
    â€œAnd I for one am looking forward to an honest battle,” Erdine said. “Not much fun in it when you’re outnumbered twenty to one.”
    â€œThere’s not much
fun
in it in any event,” Blackstream said. “Whatever Janus does, it’s us who’ll do the bloody work.”
    De Koste jumped in again, presumably to insist that Janus would win the battle single-handedly. Winter abruptly got to her feet.
    â€œIf you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I have work to do.”
    Abby tried to catch her eye on the way out, but Winter kept her head down. The conversation picked up behind her as the tent flap closed.
    Abby.
The circle of people Winter trusted had shrunk considerably over the past few months. Marcus was back with Janus, second in command of the whole Grand Army. Feor was still in Vordan, studying the Thousand Names. Of the men and women at her side, only Bobby and Cyte were privy to all her secrets. And Abby . . .
    The ghost of Jane hung between them, a dark specter of guilt and loss. Winter and Jane had been lovers