"Vicious little upstart, is what he is," said Lovell, draining his mug and slamming it onto the table. He glared around with the belligerence of a man on his fourth round, daring someone to challenge him. "Don't know the war's over, and thinks making a few ranks make him a man."
"No argument here," Garrick said, raising his hands in a mock-placating gesture.
"Cold, snaky bastard," agreed Savidge.
"He's young, too," Lesley added, eager to be part of the conversation. "Hardly older than me. He can't even have been in the war, but he lords it over you fellows like he led you through it."
That set off another round of grunting agreement, and Lesley sat back, relieved. Often his fellow soldiers were less than civil to the newer recruits; these men were career soldiers, who had been through the war with the mazoku and afterwards found themselves unsuited for much else, and they saw newcomers as mere status-climbers hoping to gain a few ranks in relative safety before retiring in comfort. It seemed a common enemy made him a friend, though, and little wonder. Looking at a man like Maxine, one could see exactly why they distrusted their younger comrades.
"Wears that uniform like it were one big medal," Lovell started in again. "Told me yesterday to re-button mine according to reg-u-lations."
"Told me to cut my hair," said Savidge, with the air of one playing a trump card. The table roared appreciatively. "Well, it's getting a bit shaggy, but, 'Talking of hair, sir…!'"
Garrick mimed pulling his own hair into a ponytail.
"Don't forget the sides," Lesley suggested.
"Shaves 'em in the morning with that beard of his!" Lovell said, giving Garrick a clap on the shoulder which would have been extremely dangerous had he been holding a real razor in the elaborate shaving ritual he was now feigning.
"They say the more attention you pay up there, the less you have to occupy you down there," Savidge said, draining his mug at last.
"You'd know, eh?" Garrick dodged the mock swing Savidge took at him. "But at least the poor fellow has one thing more'n half a hand's length. We can't begrudge him that, can we?"
The general gaiety was cut short by a sound outside the tent.
"Balls," Lovell hissed. "He would, wouldn't he?" Then in a louder voice, "You can come on in, sir. We was just discussing a friend. Friend of ours on leave. Very nice fellow."
There was no response. A look went around the table. The group's silent vote was quick, and Garrick reluctantly eased himself out of his chair. With a final glare that named them all as co-conspirators in the case of his sudden and violent death, he disappeared outside.
A minute passed, and then he reappeared, beaming widely over a mass of fur clutched awkwardly to his chest. He deposited the fur onto the floor between Lovell and Lesley, where it rearranged itself into a mid-sized dog which gave them a rather mournful look.
"Well," said Savidge, on his feet and peering over Lesley's shoulder. "How d'you like that?"
"Got ourselves a furry little soldier, have we?" said Lovell, beginning to grin.
"Must of walked a ways to enlist," Garrick agreed solemnly. "That's thirsty work, Private. Care to join us for some refreshment?" He lowered his mug to the ground.
Lesley had had a dog or two back home. "Oh, you shouldn't give him—" Their eyes shifted to him, and he was suddenly mindful of his tenuous social standing. "I mean, you carried him in and all, so he can have mine instead." They grinned at him, satisfied.
The dog seemed to appreciate the drink; he certainly lapped it up quickly enough, although Lesley resolved privately to give him a proper bowl of water later on. When the animal had finished, it looked up at them with the same mournful expression. On closer inspection, this was due not to any emotion on the dog's part, but rather to two patches around its eyebrows, which were large and dark and shaped so as to give the impression of a permanent and deep-seated grievance. Besides that, its face and head were more or less light brown, and the rest of it a dark brown, save for a grey belly that extended nearly halfway up the sides. Its ears flopped down, and its tail seemed nearly the length of its body.
"Looks like he was made of three different dogs and a cat," said Savidge.
"Naw," said Lovell, a little indignantly. "He's a perfectly normal dog."
"Aren't you, Private?" added Garrick. "Aren't you perfectly normal?" (Savidge gave him a look, which he didn't seem to notice.)
"It's not so much what he looks like as who," said Lesley, who had been thinking for a while. "Doesn't he remind you of someone?"
They all examined the dog for a few more moments.
"Oh, hell," said Savidge suddenly. "That tail!"
"Oh," said Garrick. "Well, the eyebrows help a bit. He don't have that smug look."
"Ugh," said Lovell. "But he can't help it, I suppose. All right," he added, addressing the dog, "'Max' it is, Private—and may you do the name better than it's had."
They played cards for a few hours after that; Lesley managed to excuse himself to bring Max some water, and when supper arrived he went through the scraps to take out the small bones. Max—actually, his full name seemed to now be 'Private Max'—appreciated the food and water, but otherwise was fairly stoic. Still, his popularity among his new friends seemed unaffected either by their distrust of newcomers or distaste for his namesake. Lovell especially seemed to have taken to the animal, with Garrick a close second and even the more reserved Savidge by no means far behind. Max didn't seem to be entirely in control of his abnormally long tail, but he wagged it politely when petted before returning to his supine position.
It was unusual for them to be left unbothered for so long. Usually Maxine was in and out of the tent several times a day, making sure they weren't wasting their spare time lollygagging. It was a rarity for three older soldiers to be assigned to the same tent, and their combined resistance to his authority seemed to have made Lesley's unit into Maxine's personal bête noire. As such, they never went long without seeing his face. But it was long after dinner, as Lesley began to wonder if it would be in good taste to suggest forming a search party, when the man himself appeared.
It was dark by then, and with the dark blue of his uniform he managed to appear in the door of the tent so suddenly that Savidge, the only one facing the entrance, dropped his hand to reveal a pair of kings.
"Fold," said Lovell. "Oh, hell!" he added, following Savidge's gaze behind him. "Er, hell-o, sir."
With the dark yellow of the lamplight at his front and the black night behind him, Maxine looked even more menacing than usual. He was scowling, and it was clear that he was in a terrible mood.
"Savidge," he snapped, "I thought I told you to cut your hair. Lovell, I know without looking your uniform's buttoned wrong—and I know you're about to mouth off, too, so don't bother."
"You've forgotten Lesley and me, sir," Garrick said, innocently.
"You watch your mouth as well—and Lesley," he added, taking the bait anyway, "you ought to have learned by now to wipe your hands after eating, unless you're trying to mark your cards."
As if on cue, the only member of the tent left to be admonished let out a bark, the first since he'd arrived, and timed as precisely as if he were echoing Maxine in agreement. Lovell hastily turned a snort into a cough.
"What in god's name is that?" demanded Maxine, noticing the dog for the first time.
"He's a dog, sir," Savidge offered. "Furry little animals, you keep 'em as pets. Maybe you've seen one before."
"They're easy to miss," said Garrick. "I didn't believe they existed myself until—"
But Maxine wasn't taking the bait this time. "Would one of you—how about you, Lovell—mind telling me," he said icily, "where this creature came from and who decided it belonged here?"
"He wandered in, sir," said Lovell. "We couldn't turn him away, he's got nowhere to go."
"You can and you will. If—"
"You can't mean to put him out!" Savidge broke in, horrified. "He'd never—"
"If," Maxine continued, with a dangerous calm come over him, "the animal is still in the camp within twelve hours, I will take appropriate action. The king is bringing his family to survey the area in one week, and he is to find nothing out of the ordinary."
"But he's a good dog," Garrick pleaded, with Savidge nodding in agreement. "That was the first bark out of him all day just now."
"And, sir," Lesley said with some effort, "he'd never make it to a town or anywhere. They're all too far away." Maxine's eyes were on him now, and for a moment he felt like squeaking whatever apology he could manage and diving under his cot in the corner. But the other members of his unit were nodding, waiting for him to finish, and so he went on. "He'll die if we send him out there, sir."
"You'd be doing the thing a favor," said Maxine. "It looks positively suicidal." Max's eyebrows did indeed give him the look of one who has suffered much, but he hardly looked, Lesley felt, like one who could not go on.
"But, sir—"
Maxine turned in the doorway. "You have twelve hours."
The three older men stared at him in disbelief.
"Why, you slimy—" Lovell began hotly, rising out of his seat and advancing on Maxine. He staggered, and Lesley saw the lamplight flashing in thin lines across the air between the two men. Lovell gagged and tried to raise his hands to his throat, but they were held in position by the strings that spidered around them, crossing and wrapping around his arms and torso. He was immobilized, Lesley saw, by a few strings that somehow attached to Savidge's chair on the other side of the table, although Maxine had never come that far into the tent.
Following the threads in the other direction, he saw that they converged in Maxine's hand, gathered together in the loosely clenched fist hanging at his side. He had made no visible movement; indeed, he hadn't even turned to face them again.
"What in the hell…" Garrick was out of his chair, but he didn't quite dare to approach Lovell; instead he turned a glare on Maxine. "What the hell are you doing?"
In answer, Maxine, still not turning, extended his index finger, and Lovell choked again. He made another desperate attempt to move, but to no avail.
"Mr. Savidge, get up!" Lesley said urgently, seeing Lovell start to sag. Savidge was surprised enough by the command from his junior that he obeyed immediately. With the balancing weight gone, his chair slid forward, and the strings slackened. Lovell, still struggling against his restraint, staggered forward a few steps, taken by surprise at his sudden release. The extra steps loosened the cords around his neck, and he sank to his knees, wheezing for breath. Savidge hurried around and joined Garrick at Lovell's side.
Maxine's hand twitched slightly and the glints of light in the air disappeared; the strings had been pulled back into his hand as if by magic—and it was hard to believe this was anything else, seeing the ease with he had handled a big man like Lovell. In a matter of seconds he must have registered Lovell's movement and sent the threads flying behind him with perfect aim, even thinking to use Savidge's chair as a counterweight rather than the table, which Lovell would simply have dragged behind him. It was impossible.
Garrick and Savidge were still hovering awkwardly around Lovell, who was rubbing his throat, trying to stop gasping for breath. All three were throwing nasty looks at Maxine's back, but for once they were wise enough not to speak.
It was Maxine who broke the silence.
"You may not have realized it," he said, "but there is a reason for the difference in our rank." His voice was as cold as ice, but when he turned around there was a thin smile on his lips.
"I really ought to kill the beast right now," he continued, "but out of the kindness of my heart you now have six hours to dispose of it. Count yourselves lucky that discharging all four of you would take long enough to fall during the king's visit. If you don't make any more trouble, I might even forget about this little incident in all the excitement." The smile widened. "Of course, I might not. So I suppose you had better be on your best behavior for a while, difficult as that might be with so little practice."
Lesley hoped desperately that his companions wouldn't rise to the bait. Fortunately they stayed silent.
Maxine was really smiling now, as far as it could be called a smile with a complete lack of good will behind it. He seemed about to go on—and if he kept up Lesley was sure one of the three would do something really stupid—when Max whined softly.
He had retreated to the back of the tent at the first sign of trouble, and now that comparative silence had returned he was back at his old spot. The tension in the air didn't seem to bother him, but perhaps he had slept off his phlegmatic mood, for he was taking much more of an interest in his surroundings. As he whined, he was making his way towards Maxine as if he were a new visitor in need of greeting. Lesley grabbed at him, hoping to forestall some new crisis, but Maxine was backing away on his own, smile fading.
"Well," he said, looking uncomfortable, "you'd better start giving him directions now if you want him to remember them. Remember, you have six hours."
As soon as he had disappeared into the blackness outside the tent, Lovell let out a roar.
"Just half a hand's worth, was it?" Garrick said, but his heart clearly wasn't in it.
"Slimy bastard," said Savidge. "You see him smiling? Six hours is as good as none. Just wants us to squirm."
Max regarded the flap of the tent. Well, he seemed to decide, it took all kinds. He returned philosophically to Lesley and flopped down at his feet, unaware of his fate.
Lesley looked down at the dog, then out into the night. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.
It wasn't—
He felt a strange calm come over him. He'd just have to do something, that was all. As he scooped Max off the ground and moved forward he was aware only of the pounding of his feet against the ground and the startled cries of his companions sounding dimly in his ears, fading as he ran. The thought came to him suddenly that he had gone mad, but it was unimportant.
His senses returned abruptly about halfway from the tent to the main part of camp. Even during the day it was an isolated spot, and at this time of night there were no tents even visible.
"So they sent you, eh? I was expecting Lovell again."
Maxine was right in front of him, he realized as his eyes adjusted to the dark. With his wits back in place he realized that he had no plan whatsoever of what to do after catching up to the man. At a loss for a response, he lamely held out Max, who was still calm despite what must have been an uncomfortable few minutes.
"What are you planning to do, have him bite me?" Maxine demanded. "You'll only make things worse for yourself."
"I'm not here to attack you, sir!" Lesley protested. "I just want to… to discuss your decision."
Maxine still looked suspicious. "There's nothing to talk about, Private. My decision is final."
"But there must be another way," said Lesley, "even if he can't stay with us. He's a good dog, sir." Max wagged his tail obediently.
"His behavior is not the issue here. It's his existence. Pets are not an authorized presence in camp or on the battlefield, and any violation of the rules reflects directly onto me. Especially in the king's presence."
Maxine was hardly the highest-ranking officer in camp, but Lesley chose not to point this out.
"You couldn't send him away like this if you'd seen him when he got here," he said. However unlikely it was that an appeal to Maxine's pity would succeed, it was the only remaining ploy he could think of. "He was half-dead, sir. You can't just send him back out there."
"I can and will," Maxine snapped. "I don't know what kind of sentimental fool you've taken me for, but I promise you, if I'm any later for my dinner you'll find out just how mistaken you are."
"He was hungry too, when he came in." There might be a weak point under this sudden flash of irritation; either way, giving up now meant losing. "You should have seen how fast he ate the food we gave him."
"Wasting rations on animals now," Maxine muttered, but he was on the defensive now.
"If we send him back out, who knows when he'll find food again. Haven't you ever been really hungry, sir? Even you have to have some sympathy for that!"
Maxine shot him a dark look, and he knew he'd gone too far. He cringed, but Maxine turned away. He looked up at the night sky, seemingly deep in thought. Lesley drew Max closer and waited for the axe to fall. At last Maxine spoke.
"Dugald Mallory is returning to his village in two days. See if he'll take the creature with him."
Lesley nearly dropped the dog. "Really? Do you really mean that, sir? I mean," he added hastily, "not that you'll regret it, and thank you very much, sir, you won't regret this—"
"Hurry up before I change my mind," Maxine said. "Mallory's tent is on the center row, the fifth down if you approach from this direction."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir!" Realizing suddenly how heavy Max was, he set the dog down. "Come on, Private, this way." Max was only too glad to follow his namesake's advice and hurry, since it gave him a chance to stretch his legs after being held all this time. After a minute, Lesley braved a glance backward; Maxine hadn't followed them. Relieved, he followed Max's example and set a brisk pace for the center of camp.
Dugald Mallory was a large, jovial man, one cut of the same cloth as Lovell. Looking at him now, Lesley realized he'd seen him before, always in the center of a crowd, towering over his friends and booming with laughter.
He was alone now, though, and he seemed to be in a sour mood. Dinner sat half-finished on the table, and he was digging through a pile of things, occasionally pulling something out and slamming it into a travelling chest. Lesley felt a new twinge of fear for poor Max. Things might not be settled after all.
He took a deep breath. "Excuse me, sir!" It came out more panicked than confident, and his voice shot up into a squeak as Mallory whirled around before he had even finished.
"Name?" Mallory barked.
"Private Frans Lesley, sir!"
"Lesley, eh? Dugald Mallory. What can I do for you?" He still didn't look in anything close to a good mood, but Lesley tried to gather his courage. Two terrifying men in one evening, he thought miserably, was just too much.
"I—I'm here to…er, to ask—"
"What the hell's that?" Mallory interrupted. Lesley looked down to find Max at his feet. "A dog? What the hell are you doing with a dog?"
Max had evidently tired of waiting for his cue, and decided to enter ahead of schedule. He sniffed the ground, then seemed to pick up the scent of the half-eaten dinner. He trotted over to the table eagerly. Even in his horror, Lesley couldn't help noticing how energetic the dog had become.
"No, no, no, come back over here, boy!" he begged.
"What's his name?" demanded Mallory. Lesley was taken aback by this reaction.
"His name is Max, sir," he answered, too surprised to be nervous.
"Well, Max," said Mallory, "aren't you a sorry-looking little fellow?" He crossed over to the table in one huge stride and ripped off a strip of meat. Dropping it in front of the dog, he added, "No small bones, don't worry. I know how to feed a dog."
Lesley must have looked worried without realizing it; he felt his face reddening. If Mallory noticed, he ignored it.
"What on earth have you been doing to this dog that it's so scrawny?" Mallory asked. His tone was half-joking, but his face was serious. "More importantly, where have you been keeping it? A dog is against regulations, you know."
Lesley explained. Mallory dropped another strip of meat to the ground, where Max started in on it eagerly. "And why bring him here?"
"We were ordered to get rid of him by our supervising officer, sir. He has to be gone by the time of the king's visit, so if you could bring him with you when you leave, we'd be very grateful, sir."
Mallory grunted. "Well, I don't need to ask who your supervising officer is. There's just one man who'd give you that deadline." He began to grin. "That where Max here got his name? I thought he looked familiar. You sure he didn't finally piss off some magic user and get himself changed?"
"I don't think magic can do that, sir," said Lesley. "But I saw them together just now when he came to our tent."
"Pretty good evidence," Mallory admitted solemnly. "The dog's too good-natured anyhow."
Max finished the second strip of meat and looked up expectantly. "That's enough for now," Mallory told him sternly, then looked back at Lesley, frowning. "You said he was there just now? He hasn't been gone from here half an hour."
"Just a few minutes ago, sir. He seemed to be in a bad mood." Lesley winced. That was no way to be talking about an officer.
"Worse than usual, you mean?" Mallory didn't seem to notice Lesley's misstep. "Well, he ought to've been. If you're Lesley, you must be that unit he's always on about. I suppose he went over there to work off a bad temper on you fellows, the sour son of a—" He checked himself. "Well, I shouldn't even use the phrase. His mother's a great sort, and the rest of the family too. It's a wonder he turned out so rotten." His scowl was returning, Lesley noted with alarm.
"D'you know why he was in such a bad mood? His brother's wedding is in six days, and he's missing it so he'll be here for the king's visit! He ain't so high up in the army that they'd miss him, but he can't miss an opportunity to suck up. Well, I told him just how low that was, and he has the nerve to say I don't 'understand the situation.' So I give him a piece of my mind and he runs off to pick a fight with someone he can beat—that's no offense to you and your friends, mind."
Lesley nodded uncomfortably. He seemed to have touched on a sore subject, and the situation was getting more and more awkward. Not sure of what else to do, he ventured, "Er, sir, about Max? Will you be able to take him?"
To his surprise, Mallory's answer was completely amiable. "Oh, sure. He seems like a good-tempered dog." He grinned. "And he'll save me money on a wedding present."
Lesley was a bit taken aback at this sudden change, although now that he thought about it, the other man had rapidly shifted moods several times now.
Mallory chuckled. "I've been running off at the mouth a bit, haven't I? Don't pay it any mind, it's just my nature. That's right," he added suddenly. "You haven't told me who sent you here. I haven't told a soul I'm leaving."
"Why, yes, I have, sir," Lesley said, surprised. "It was Sgt. Maxine who told me to come here."
Mallory stared at him. "Nigel Maxine went out of his way to help you?"
Lesley reddened. "Well," he admitted, "he didn't at first. I…I lost my head a bit and chased after him, and… I just held Max up, and I said how hungry he'd be if we just sent him off. And that convinced him, I guess," he finished lamely. "He didn't seem to like Max at all, but I thought I shouldn't ask any questions, and he was late for dinner, so—so, I…" He trailed off. Mallory was turning red. He cringed, thinking he'd triggered another outburst, and braced himself for the roar.
Mallory roared, all right, but it was his great booming laugh rather than a bellow of rage. At his feet, Max, who had settled down for another nap, leapt to his feet in alarm, eyes darting around in search of the threat.
"So you went chasing after him, did you?" Mallory managed at length, still wheezing a bit. "And held the dog in his face and hoped his stomach would be sympathetic?"
"I just held him up," Lesley said. "I didn't hold him in the sergeant's face."
"Well, you couldn't have done it better," said Mallory, chuckling, but somewhat calmer. "I don't know how you managed it, but… You said he didn't like little Max, here? Well, I'll tell you a secret. That sour bastard has a soft spot for dogs. That's why he don't like them. Can't stand being near 'em. When me and his brother Neil was little, you looked for Nigel in the kitchen with Mummy or out with the dogs. After a while he wouldn't go near them—probably our fault for teasing him, but even so he was always after us to feed them, make sure none'd whelped over night, and all that.
"It's a bit sad, really," he added as another gale of laughter overtook him. "Really, it is, but I can't help myself! And you went for the stomach, too; well, I don't eat with the officers here, but back home you should have seen him tuck into a meal. That was the only time you couldn't get a smart answer out of him—not that we didn't try. It's funny he turned out so puny, with all that."
Lesley looked down at his own small frame and wondered what exactly Mallory considered 'puny'. The man was nice enough, but he didn't envy Maxine the experience of growing up with him. He was glad, anyway, to have Lovell in his unit instead of Mallory; this type of mercurial temperament got better with age.
"Well," Mallory continued, "you'll want to be getting back to your tent. You'll be waking up early for drills, but I didn't tell you that. I'll keep this fellow here." He bent down to scratch Max's ears. "But I'll bring him by for a visit before I go. And don't worry; he'll be gone by the king's visit."
"Thank you, sir. Good night, then. Good night, Max," he added. Max lifted his head and blinked sleepily. Maybe that was Dog for goodnight or goodbye, Lesley thought as the tent flap closed behind him and his shadow faded before him into the darkness.
He met Maxine again as he was stumbling back through the empty section of camp. Maxine seemed to be occupied by the shape he was forming with his strings; a loop slipped off and he swore under his breath. He looked up as he did so, and noticed Lesley. He jumped back, dropping several more loops.
"I haven't done this one in a while," he said defensively. "These strings aren't made for—" He broke off, having recovered from the surprise, and glared furiously at Lesley.
"Mr. Mallory agreed to take Max with him," Lesley said quickly, hoping to defuse the situation. "Thank you very much, sir."
"Hmph," said Maxine. "I suppose those three will revolt if you don't tell them, but not a word of this to anyone else."
"No, sir."
Maxine paused a moment; then, trying unsuccessfully to sound casual: "What kind of mood was Mallory in, would you say?"
"Oh—fine," Lesley lied, hoping that was the right answer. Fortunately, Maxine seemed relieved. His face showed it only for a moment, though, before returning to a scowl.
"Get moving, private," he snapped. "You shouldn't be out of your tent at this hour."
"Yes sir, sorry, sir."
Lesley was about to depart when Maxine spoke again. This time it seemed to cause him actual pain. "Private!" His face worked for a moment. "Tell your friends," he said in a strangled voice, "tell them that I have considerably more than half a hand's length."
Lesley caught his laugh before it escaped. "Yes, sir. Good night, sir."
He set off again, wondering how long Maxine had been turning that over in his mind. He looked back over his shoulder; in the moonlight, all that was visible was the outline of a man, head bent again over the strings spreading wide between his fingers.