2. A New Posting
Several hours later, Horyse lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to get rid of a deep sense of gloom and foreboding. Unable to face the Officers' Mess dining room, with its mahogany panelling and poished silverware, Horyse had retreated to his room, feeling more alone than at any other time in his life. It was true that Sayre had stopped by his room earlier, with an invitation to come and dine with him at his family's townhouse, now that he was no longer confined to barracks. But the invitation had been half-hearted, and when Horyse had politely declined, Sayre had not pressed him. Instead, he had prevailed upon the Mess Sergeant to bring him sandwiches in his room. The sympathetic Sergeant had, on his own initiative, brought instead a generous helping of roast beef, and a carafe of wine. Horyse, who had not even realised he was hungry, had been briefly cheered by both the food and the kindness of the gesture. Now, he was alone with his thoughts once again.
It was true that he had avoided a court martial and might yet salvage his career; but the convenient disappearance of Halstead had made him realise just how powerful his enemies were. Certainly, he thought, his days with the Arquebusiers were over. The oldest and most famous infantry regiment in Ancelstierre, they only took young officers with ability, money and connections. Horyse had the first quality but not the other two. However, it was also tradition that every year, the Arquebusiers would offer an Ensign's commission to the top-placed cadet of the graduating class at the Academy. Horyse had been second in his class, but Manders, who had pipped him to the top slot by one mark overall, had already elected to join his father's cavalry regiment. Horyse had been nervous about joining such an elite regiment, but to his surprise, despite his lack of money and connections, he had fitted right in and had done well – that is, up until now. Return to the Arquebusiers was unlikely, he thought, and wondered what his fate would be. Shunted off to a sanitation company, or to the swamps of the south western border where fever killed more men than enemy action. Or, worst of all, the Perimeter.
Once again, his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.
"Come in," answered Horyse, and a Mess Corporal entered, immaculate in sharply creased blue trousers with a red stripe, and a starched white jacket.
"Major Fazackerly's compliments, sir, and will you join him for a game of billiards. No need to change into mess kit."
This was an invitation that could not be refused. Besides, it was a long-standing tradition in the Ancelstierran army that if an officer of major's rank or above invited a junior officer to play billiards, the real purpose was to have a conversation that was unofficial and off the record; Fazackerly obviously had something important to say, and Horyse realised that he wanted to hear it.
Major Fazackerly was waiting in the billiard room, which was otherwise empty. The Mess Corporal brought in a tray with decanter, water jug, glasses and ice, then left to stand discretely on guard at the door. Fazackerly was immaculate in mess kit; gold-striped blue trousers and a short red jacket with blue facings and gold trim, the insignia of the Arquebusier Guards gleaming on his lapels. Horyse was suddenly aware that his khaki tunic, which had been immaculately pressed that morning, was now creased and rumpled; and that the shine on his boots and Sam Browne belt had dulled.
"Horyse!" exclaimed the Major, in welcome. He gestured to the tray. "Help yourself, it's best single malt from the Old Distillery in Bainshire. Pour me two fingers, with a splash of water and some ice. Yes, that's perfect."
Horyse whistled. He had a fondness for whisky and the Old Distillery was a legend among connoisseurs. The Old Distillery was north of Ancelstierre's most northern town, Bain, close to the perimeter that separated Ancelstierre from the mysterious Old Kingdom. Rumour had it that the Master Distiller had spent time in the Old Kingdom and gained strange powers there; whether or not that was true, the Old Distillery's whisky was the best in Bainshire, which meant the best in all Ancelstierre, and that was reflected in the price. Old Distillery single malt was far beyond the pocket of a penniless ensign, and Horyse savoured it, briefly forgetting his troubles.
"Let's play." Fazackerly gestured to the green baize table. Both were good players, and for a while there was silence. Concentrating on the game, Horyse found that the thoughts and worries that had been chasing around his head all afternoon finally began to slow, aided by the excellent whisky. By the time the major gestured for them to sit, he felt that he was ready for whatever was coming.
"I'm sure you already know that you've been fitted up," Fazackerly said, without preamble.
"Yes, sir," Horyse answered. "I know that Halstead has no connection with the Western Archipelago. But I thought Colonel Richards would have written." He could not help a note of bitterness entering his voice.
"I'm sure he did," answered Fazackerly. "He was a year above me at the Academy, and a more honourable chap you couldn't hope to meet. I expect his letter was conveniently 'lost'."
Horyse felt a little better. He had served under Major Fazackerly ever since graduating from the academy, and knew that he could trust him. The little knot of betrayal and disappointment in his stomach began to loosen.
"You did have one piece of luck. Two, in fact. The first is that the paperwork for your promotion to Lieutenant went through before all this happened." Smiling, Fazackerly reached into a pocked and pulled out a pair of pips. "You are improperly dressed, young man," he added, with mock severity.
Horyse took the pips and fastened them onto his epaulettes with clumsy fingers. "What was the second piece of luck, sir?"
"The fourth member of the board was meant to be a staff colonel, another shiny-bummed red tab who would have gone along with whatever he was told. But he went down with influenza, and Bob Quartermain was the only officer of suitable rank to fill the vacancy."
That explained much, Horyse thought. He had been surprised that a board that was obviously supposed to rubber-stamp a whitewash had included a man as experienced in the Frontier as Quartermain.
"You've made a friend there, by the way," Fazackerly continued. "Bob was my squad leader when I was a Nugget." Nugget was the slang used in the Academy to refer to first year cadets. "He doesn't suffer fools at all, but if he thinks you are made of the right stuff, he'll fight your corner. He said to tell you that when the dust settles, he'll gladly help find you a post on the Frontier, if that's what you want."
"When the dust settles, sir," said Horyse, thoughtfully. "What happens in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, you are being posted to the Perimeter."
"The Perimeter?" Horyse almost spat out the sip of whisky he had just taken, then choked in his efforts not to waste the precious stuff. The Frontier was known as a place where careers could be made. The Perimeter, the northern border with the Old Kingdom, was equally well known as a place where careers were more often than not irrevocably broken.
"Steady, lad," the Major said. "The Perimeter isn't all it's cracked up to be. I've spent much of my time there. Didn't you know? Actually, I envy you." Fazackerly touched his bandaged forehead, in a spot where Horyse knew there was a scar of some sort. He had always wondered about it; it was too round to be a shrapnel wound or a bullet graze, and a direct hit in that spot would kill a man for sure.
"I was like you," the Major continued. "Graduated first in my class at the Academy, got offered a place in the Arquebusiers and jumped at the chance. Then, as a Lieutenant, I got posted to the Frontier."
"Did you mess up too, sir?" Horyse realised immediately how insolent that must sound. Obviously the whiskey talking. But Fazackerly did not take offence, and waved away his awkward apology.
"It's only recently that the Perimeter has been regarded as a dead-end posting. Not so long ago, it was where young officers were sent to see some action, get a bit of seasoning. Rather like the Frontier is now. Fact is, I took to the Perimeter. Some do. I was persuaded to take the posting on the Frontier to further my career, and have regretted it ever since. Sooner I can get back to the Perimeter, the better." Fazackerly paused to refill their whisky glasses.
"You've a difficult time ahead of you, lad. But if you are made of the right stuff, and I think you are, then this could be a real turning point for you. You'd better get to bed. You are expected at the Crossing Point the day after tomorrow. There's a train leaving for Bain first thing in the morning, and if you are on it, you can fit in a visit to that sister of yours."
"Thank you, sir," Horyse said, genuinely touched. His sister was at Wyverly College in Bainshire, and he saw her only rarely.
"I'm pulling strings to get posted back up there myself," the major said, "so it may be that we will meet again soon. In the meantime, may the Charter… that is, take care of yourself."