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"Mister Valentine. I've read about you on several occasions, as I recall. You're just the man I want to see about my venture into Kentucky."
She said the word "Mister" with such polite friendliness, he had no business correcting her. But her use of the word "venture" put Valentine on his guard. Was she some kind of wildcatter with an eye toward opening up a trade in legworm leather?
"I have here, Mister Valentine, a letter from the president himself. President Starpe was a good friend of my late husband's. He dined on our ranch on three occasions while in office and was a frequent visitor before."
She reached into her hacking jacket and removed a folded manila envelope. The letter within had a foil seal over a red-and-blue ribbon, with the outgoing presidential signature and a notation indicating it had been transcribed by his personal secretary.
After noting that it was simply addressed to "Officer, executive, or mariner commanding" and contained some polite words of thanks, Valentine read to the meat of the letter.
Please offer whatever aid and assistance to Mrs. Bethany O'Coombe you consider practical. The retrieval and return of any and all of our wounded left behind on last summer's retreat would be, in my opinion, invaluable to our cause as well as the morale of the forces of Southern Command.
Mrs. O'Coombe is a personal friend of mine. She can be trusted with Southern Command information and materiel relevant to her plans, and her signature would be accepted on any equipment voucher if she requests the use of any device or machine. I would consider it a singular favor for you to offer her any assistance that does not materially endanger your other duties.
A crusader. Valentine had seen a few in his time, dedicated to relieving Southern Command of the evils of drink or the dangers of professional women and syphilis. This woman was clearly here to do more than give a few speeches, take a few oaths, or show some slides of tertiary cases. Were these vehicles a specialized medical train to care for the few wounded that remained in Fort Seng's small hospital?
"I would be delighted to accommodate you, Mrs. O'Coombe. Please tell me, how may I be of service?"
She looked around before answering. "I understand that during the battles of this summer, some wounded were left behind with such of our Kentucky allies who could be trusted with their safety. I would like to help recover them. From what I understand of your expertise, Mister Valentine, you have a good deal of experience going in and getting people out of difficulty. I've hoped that you could aid me from the first I heard."
"Why here, Mrs. O'Coombe? As a Texan, I'd think you'd be more interested in the Rio Grande Valley. More troops were involved in that action, I believe. I suspect there are more wounded scattered around southern Texas than we have here. We had the advantage of legworms, you see. All but our worst cases could be moved while remaining in their beds-or hammocks, rather."
"I have a personal interest, Mister Valentine. I recently learned my son was among those left behind as your column retreated from the mountains." Her gaze wavered a little, and Valentine saw what he suspected to be tears. "I have come to get him back. I should like you to guide me across Kentucky. As you're the one who left our soldiers scattered across the Cumberland, I expect you would be the one best able to help me retrieve them."
Frat stiffened a little at that.
"I would suggest that you speak to my commanding officer, ma'am," Valentine suggested.
Lambert heard Mrs. O'Coombe out and invited her to enjoy what hospitality Fort Seng could provide while she considered the matter. Could she perhaps return this evening, for dinner, and there they could discuss the matter in detail?
Mrs. O'Coombe was much obliged and said she'd be delighted.
Valentine was curious, a little aggravated, and anything but delighted at Lambert's response.
"You're not considering sending me across Kentucky as a tour guide for that stack of grief, I hope, sir," he said once Mrs. O'Coombe had left the building.
"I'm certainly inclined to let her have you," Lambert said. "Apart from wanting our wounded back and safe, the gratitude of the Hooked O-C is well worth having. I expect she'll be as influential with the new president as the old."
"I didn't even know her son was with us," Valentine said. "Usually Southern Command tells us when we have to deal with a scion of the carriage trade. Quietly, but they tell us."
"Someone slipped up," Lambert agreed. "Noble of him to volunteer. Mom passed down something besides Texas sand."
Valentine didn't have a number one uniform worthy of a formal dinner with Lambert and their important guest. His least-patched ensemble was the militia corporal's uniform he wore when traveling in Southern Command, but that had bloodstains on it now, and no effort of soap or will could eradicate them.
He settled for the Moondagger robes he'd worn the night he knocked the young Kurian out of its tree, with his leaf clipped on the collar and a Southern Command tricolor pinned to the shoulder.
David Valentine wasn't one to stand in front of a mirror admiring himself, but he had to admit the Moondagger robe-uniform suited him. The various shades of black complemented his skin and dark hair and made his perfectly ordinary brown eyes look a little more striking when set in all that black. His old legworm boots gave him some dash and swagger with their silver accents. The scars on the left side of his face had healed down to not much more than big wrinkles and a pockmark, and the old companion descending his right cheek looked more like the romantic scarring of a dread pirate than the stupid souvenir of nearly having his head blown off.
The dinner was held in the conference room, complete with a white lace tablecloth and candlesticks.
It turned out he needn't have worried about his appearance. Colonel Lambert had invited an eclectic company to her dinner.
Mrs. O'Coombe was there in her same field skirt and little lace-up boots, only now garbed in a silken blouse and a-Valentine couldn't find the word for it. Stole? It was a leather half vest that went around behind her neck and hung down in two narrow pleats in front with bright brass emblems. All Valentine could think of was sleigh bells on a horse.
Fort Seng's three Logistic Commando wagon masters were there as well, two western Kentucky specialists and one more they'd hauled all the way to the Appalachians and back. They smelled faintly of stock animals and sweat, but they'd combed their hair and flattened it with oil. Patel wore his new legion-style captain's uniform and had polished his two canes. That was a bit unlike Nilay Patel; he was more the type to grit his teeth through an evening of aching knees and retire with a bottle of aspirin. Lambert looked trim and neat as one would expect, her hair brushed and shaped by a dress clip for the use of female officers. And finally Alessa Duvalier stood next to the fire, warming her backside and dressed in a little black outfit that must have been liberated from the basement, perhaps from some formal ball of the great man's daughter. A red bra peeked from behind the low-cut front. Valentine vaguely thought it was a sartorial faux pas, but Duvalier's red hair, spiky and disarrayed as usual, made it work.
Odd assortment. If Lambert wanted to impress Mrs. O'Coombe, why not invite Captain Ediyak with her model-cheekbone looks and polished Eastern manners? Why not Gamecock, who had a courtliness all his own behind the braids and scars, smooth as his rolling accent, that showed off some collective unconscious vestige of the grace of old South Carolina?
Brother Mark, the other obvious candidate, was off on a junket with the Agenda from the late Assembly. Or, more correctly, the soon-to-be-late Agenda. They were arranging for the establishment of a temporary government in Kentucky, and the ex-churchman wanted to plead for an office devoted to relations with allies in the Cause.
