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"Daveed!" Narcisse said, spinning on her stool. "This recipe I learned on Jamaica-they call it 'jerked.' Have some!"
"In a second, Sissy," Meadows said. "We're getting a drink first. Spell me, Cossack."
A soldier prodding the coals stood up and took the carving knife out of Meadows' hand. Meadows tossed him the apron.
They filled pewter mugs from a barrel at the beer tent-it was poor stuff, as Southern Command had better things to do with its soil than grow hops-and found a quiet spot away from the band. Duvalier followed with a plate at a respectful distance. She had good hearing, if not quite Valentine's Wolf ears, and positioned herself downwind, back to the men but undoubtedly able to hear every word said.
Some fool fired off a blue signal flare to add to the festive atmosphere. It turned the beer black inside the mugs and added deep shadows to Meadows' eyesockets.
"Great party, sir," Valentine said, and meant it.
"We deserve it." Meadows was a we kind of officer. He held out his mug and Valentine touched his to it, the faint klink sounding a slightly sour note thanks to the pewter.
"An interesting letter in the courier pouch hit my desk the other day. This is as good a moment as any to tell you: They're offering you a Hunter Staff position."
Valentine felt his knees give out for a moment, and he covered with a swig of beer. "Staff?"
"Easy now, Val. It's a helluva honor."
Duvalier brushed past him on the way to the beer tent, and gave his hip a gentle nudge with hers.
"Not that you'll have a lot of time to show off your swagger stick. I hear they work you to death."
Valentine understood that well enough. Southern Command operated on a general staff system that selected and then trained a small group of officers in all the subsidiary branches of service: artillery, logistics, intelligence, and so on. The highly trained cadre then served as staff inspectors or temporary replacements or taught until promoted to higher command or, in the event of a crisis, they took command of reserve units.
The Hunters-the Wolves, Cats, and Bears of Southern Command that operated as special forces outside the borders of the Free Territory-had their own identical staff system that trained with the others and then performed similar functions with the smaller Hunter units. A couple of hitches in Wolf and Bear formations was enough for most; the veteran soldiers usually transferred to support units-or the Logistics Commandos if they still had a taste for operating in the Kurian Zone. But most still served Southern Command by belonging to ghost regiments that might be called up.
Captain Moira Styachowski, one of the most capable officers he'd ever met, had been on the Hunter Staff.
Valentine might end up in command of one of those formations. The role was wryly appropriate; he'd been nicknamed "the Ghost" when serving in the Zulus, his first Wolf company.
Meadows broke in on his thoughts. "Valentine, it's official enough so I thought I'd tell you. You're better than two years overdue for a leave. It'll take them a while to get your training schedule worked out. When we're done here you'll be cleared to take a three-months' leave. I'll miss you. It's been a pleasure."
And Valentine would miss the Razors. They seemed "his" in a way none of the other organizations he'd served with or commanded ever had. Seeing them broken up was like losing a child. "Thank you, sir."
He didn't feel like thanking anyone, but it had to be said.
He wandered back among the Razors, accepted a few congratulations with a smile, but all he wanted was quiet and a chance to think. Meadows had tried to add a sparkle to a bittersweet party, but all he'd done was ruin Valentine's enjoyment of the festivities.
Stow that, you dumb son of a grog. You're ruining your enjoyment, not Meadows.
Back in his days visiting the opulent old theater in Pine Bluff, they'd show movies now and then. He remembered sitting through part of one when arriving early for the evening's movie; the smell of popcorn and sweat on the seats all around him, unable to shut out even the blood from a tiny shaving cut on the man next to him with his inexperienced Wolfs nose.
The early show for the families was a kids' cartoon, full of bright primary colors even on the shabby little projector rigged to an electronic video-memory device. He recalled a bunch of kids' toys in a machine, and a mechanical claw that came down and selected one of the dozens of identical toys now and then. The toys responded to the mystical selection of the claw as though at a religious ceremony.
Life in the creaky, stop-and-start mechanism of Southern Command had never been so elegantly summed up for him. "The claw chooses!" Orders came down and snatched you away from one world and put you in another.
Duvalier proffered a fresh, cool mug filled with colder beer. "Guess that's it for Cat duty, far as you're concerned," she said. Her eyes weren't as bright and lively as usual; either her digestive troubles were back or she'd continued drinking. Valentine sniffed her breath and decided the latter.
The swirl of congratulatory faces wandered off after he took the mug, offered a small celebratory lift of the brew to the north, south, east, and west, and took a sip.
"Did you run down that Lifeweaver?" On second taste, the beer wasn't quite so sharp.
"No. There was a rumor one'd been killed by some kind of agent the Kurians planted last year. Guess Kurs' got their versions of Cats too."
Valentine had heard all sorts of rumors about specially trained humans in Kurian employ. That they could read minds, or turn water into wine, or redirect a thunderstorm's lightning. Everything from mud slides to misaddressed mail was blamed on Kurian agents.
Valentine shrugged.
