Increasingly Fergus had the feeling of being an imposter. He knew – as did everyone else – that he only held the high military rank he did because he was the king’s brother. Even if the new recruits didn’t know who he was they could tell that he hadn’t earned the rank, all they had to do was look at Fergus compared to the other officers to know that he had next to no experience. Some of them practically had every major conflict of the past thirty years written in scars on their skin, even the ones without such visible marks possessed an aura of certainty that Fergus somehow lacked.

Having held the rank for a long time he’d been trained in the arts of war and what he’d be expected to do, so he at least had something to work towards. Unlike the recruits who clearly hadn’t the faintest idea what they were doing, although it had to be said that he tried to avoid the drill sergeants least they should start shouting at him for being incompetent. It was unlikely to ever happen, but he felt unsettled enough in his position to entertain the possibility. Some days he certainly felt as if he should be on the training grounds being shouted at, especially when it came to the subject of killing the barbarians.

He hadn’t mentioned the one he’d left alive to anyone. In fact he didn’t even know if the man survived – he hadn’t seen the body among the dead, but it was always possible that he hadn’t recognised him. It wasn’t as if he’d spent much time looking. Apart from letting one of them run away and leaving the other bleeding on the floor he’d also charged into a minor skirmish when the other officers were downstairs, sheltered and waiting for a bigger battle to risk their lives in. He’d felt such a fool when General West had sent men to fetch him down, and was still expecting someone to take him to one side and reprimand him for it. Or maybe inform Aedan, who wouldn’t think twice about announcing his idiocy to the whole court these days. Fergus wasn’t aware when exactly their relationship had become so bad, but it had, and as Aedan was to be married soon he thought it was unlikely to improve. As it wasn’t likely to improve, there was a decent chance that he was going to end up dead even if the war didn’t kill him.

Currently most of the work was organisation. Recruits were flooding in, and needed to be sorted into units and regiments. The bulk was being poured into the infantry, not much training was needed compared to the other groups and it was altogether cheaper. Fergus had far more knights than he could name at his disposal, and as the knight was a fighter for pitched battles in open terrain he wasn’t quite sure how much use they were going to be. True, there were open spaces where they could hold pitched battles, but from what he’d seen so far the barbarian’s weren’t likely to go into pitched battles at this stage. It would be quite foolish, in Fergus’s opinion, for them to do so because they simply wouldn’t last long in one, even if they were united.

Which was in fact something that Fergus was wondering about, and the reason why he wasn’t with the other officers at the midday meal. Things got overlooked during fights, he knew, but he was completely certain that he’d seen one barbarian attack the other, seemingly without provocation. Fergus wasn’t going to claim to have an in depth knowledge of the barbarian culture or current allegiance, but if there was some sort of tension then it would be good to exploit it. Facing two separate groups was preferable to facing one big, organised one, especially if they were fighting each other as well. He’d been leafing through the copies of the records of the information the spies had brought back to this particular garrison, looking for anything that could tell him what might have happened. Or other weaknesses they could exploit. The two tribes had been fighting for generations, so any allegiance wasn’t going to be stable and almost certainly had some point that they could use to bring it down.

The records were written on thin paper and stored in boxes in a small room on the ground floor. Being tucked away as it was it was still cool despite the heat of midday, and Fergus was quite comfortable in a set of hose and tunic, which simply wasn’t possible outside. Perhaps the barbarians would realise that if they simply left things for midday most of the cavalry and perhaps some other units would be immobilised by the heat and unable to fight them. The very thought of wearing mail and armour under the sun outside made Fergus shudder, to say nothing of the layers of protective clothing that went with them. Papers were now covering the floor around him, there was no desk as it was expected that specific reports would be collected and taken elsewhere without people needing to browse through them. He ruefully thought that he’d no desk big enough to put all the papers on at this stage anyway, and even if he did it would be somewhere much warmer.

Only a small amount of light made it in through the narrow arrow slits and from the open door, and Fergus was relying on a candle placed in a holder beside him and kept carefully away from the paper for light. Not the best arrangement, considering how flammable everything in here was, but he had no plans to shift the whole library somewhere else. Engrossed as he was with the records and wondering just how the spies had come by this information he had little sense of the time, or what other tasks he needed to accomplish before night fell.

"Lookin' through records?"

Digby leaned against the doorframe, watching the Prince. His own reading skills were hard-won and paltry. It was a daily struggle even to make out reports to the General, as all officers had to do, or to read spies' messages. He had to admit, though, he saw how useful writing was when fighting an illiterate enemy like the Baskar. It was the best sort of code, a code that wasn't one at all. So far as he knew, none of the bastards could read.

Not that they were capable, probably. But then, anyone was capable of anything. It was just the barbarians, the way they were raised--that was what made 'em evil..

"I can't say I envy you, though I may not be pleased with what yer doing depending on aim. May I ask--" Digby propelled himself from the doorframe and ambled slowly toward Fergus. "May I ask, yer Highness, what it may be you're looking at?"

He tilted his head, peering down at the papers. His eyes were already going with age, age and the hot glare of one too many a battlefield, so the tiny scribble wasn't easy for him to parse. Add that to the dimness and you had a regular tomb of a room, but then, scholars always did live as if moribund. "No disrespect, o' course." But he was wary. Was always wary of the nobility, who did naught to earn their titles.

Absorbed in trying to make out the words written in a particularly illegible hand, Fergus hadn’t heard anyone approach. The sudden voice made him jump, hands jerking, crumpling the parchment they held and his eyes checking that the candle wasn’t disturbed as he looked round. Lieutenant Tremaine was leaning against the doorframe. From what Fergus had heard of him he’d been in the last barbarian war, so he had no idea how old the man actually was, but he certainly looked as if he had a lifetime of experience behind him. He also gave Fergus the impression that he’d have happily clipped him round the ear or worse if he thought he could get away with it if Fergus told him that no, he wasn’t looking through the records and was sitting in a darkened room with them spread around him to avoid talking to people, so he didn’t. “Yes, lieutenant.” He tried to sound respectful, but suspected that he might have sounded more irritated at being disturbed.

With his attention finally dragged away from the dense script he began to become aware of his body again. His eyes were stinging abominably from the strain of reading in the bad light and he used the excuse of putting the parchment down in a specific place to turn his face away from Lieutenant Tremaine and rub them with the fingers of one hand. It suddenly seemed a long time since the morning meal, and judging by the bits of paper and boxes heaped on the floor around him he’d been reading for some time. In addition his neck was stiff and his shoulders ached, and he really did wish that it was someone others than Lieutenant Tremaine who was down here. He was a good man, Fergus was sure, but not the sort of man he’d have felt comfortable admitting any sort of folly to and reading in the dark for several hours did seem like a very bad idea now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time he was sure, it always did – but things seeming like a good idea at the time would someday get people killed.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the thought – which was not at all helpful now, but something he’d have to consider when he had the time to do so – he saw the lieutenant approaching out of the corner of his eye. That he presumed to tell Fergus that he might not approve of his reading this depending on why he was doing so grated on Fergus’s nerves in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d had people do it to him before of course, but the bulk of those people had been tutors he’d seen the last of years ago and Aedan, who had the right to. Lieutenant Dibgy Tremaine did not have the right to imply that his displeasure had some control over Fergus’s actions, even if his foot had more experience than Fergus did and they both knew it.

For a moment he was tempted to say that Lieutenant Tremaine may not ask him what he was looking at, pack everything away and stalk off in a huff. Such behaviour would easily have lived up to the expectations of the experienced officers who’d gained rank through skill rather than connections, he was sure. It wouldn’t do to encourage Lieutenant Tremaine to treat him as an equal, inferior or even student – though God knew he certainly thought he could learn more from watching Lieutenant Tremaine and his kind for a week than he’d learnt in a year with his tutors – but there was no point in alienating him either. Some day soon he was probably going to have to call on Lieutenant Tremaine’s experience, and although it would be in Lieutenant Tremaine’s interest to share it might make things easier if they could stand talking to each other.

“Of course.” He said with a slight edge to his voice which he hoped would tell the lieutenant that he didn’t appreciate being talked to in that manner before getting to his feet and arching his back, trying to stretch the ache out of his shoulders. One hand rubbed the back of his neck as he looked over the mess he’d made. The scribe in charge of the records would not be impressed, and Fergus suddenly realised that he couldn’t remember which reports went in which boxes despite the piles. There hadn’t seemed much of an order at times, but he was still going to have to try and pack them away properly again.

“I was looking for any reports of infighting, or any signs of the alliance breaking down.” He was going to have to explain why he was looking for them, of course. Lieutenant Tremaine would want to know more, in his position Fergus was sure that he would as well. His hand was still rubbing circles into the back of his neck, his other rested on his hip as he looked at the lieutenant, his body turned slightly away. “During the skirmish a while back, I believe I saw two barbarians fighting.” More one turning suddenly on the other, but it was a close enough description. “It may simply have been a mistake caused by the darkness and confusion,” although Fergus was more inclined to believe that this happened rarely, especially when the two sides were easy to distinguish, “but if it was deliberate then there may be a reason for it that we could use to our advantage.”

Also if the two tribes or members of the same tribe started fighting each other during a larger battle Fergus had no idea what he’d be expected to do about it, his education hadn’t covered that part. Stand back and let them get on with it, he supposed, then fight whichever group was victorious. “Have you heard of it happening before?” A lot of things never made it to the records, and even more would be removed before reaching students. If anyone did know about these incidents it would probably be the men who’d come back from the field, although any information that hadn’t gone into the records the first time was unlikely to be forthcoming now.

"Aye." Digby nodded grudgingly, and pulled out a chair, taking a seat on it backwards, his hands resting on the back. He'd given up the stiff manners of a new conscript, oh, years and years ago. Now it was part of his freedom to sit as he liked and rest as he liked--and to speak as he liked to Princes. But Fergus was a good one. He'd been up on the wall during the skirmish, just as had they all, even if he wasn't too much use.

"I did make that out. And I tell you, that was part of why we won, first time around." He sighed. "The two Tribes of them, see, they're a warlike people. They kept fighting among themselves over, I don't know what--women, horses--and our coming in on them--well, the old King actually tried striking a bargain with each of them. 'You help us, we'll help you take down the other side...' They caught on eventually, but it was a good plan. We've heard news, though, that in the past few years things've settled down even far into barbarian land. They've allied, we heard."

He squinted at the Prince, wondering if he'd been mistaken.

"As for the attack--I'm used to the bastards, and the ones that came were the more bloodthirsty Eastern Barbarians, I think they go by the name of Zerui now. None of them were from the other Tribe so far as I know. But if there was fighting among them--was it a lot of 'em or just two? Someone important, could you tell? You can tell by the face-paint if it's one of their chiefs."

In truth, Digby knew a lot more about the Baskar than he wanted to admit, but this was the time for sharing his knowledge and reaping mutual benefit from what the Prince had noticed. It wasn't a time for prejudice or petty grudges.

Did Lieutenant Tremaine not wish to share? He’d sounded grudging, as if he didn’t relish the prospect of discussing it with Fergus. Almost like talking to a new recruit in some respects Fergus guessed, something the lieutenant had been doing a lot of recently with the conscripts flooding in. Fergus almost clicked his tongue disapprovingly as the man sat down, he’d rarely seen anyone sit in that manner and never anyone he’d been speaking to. It probably wouldn’t have gone down to well though, and there was no reason for him to expect the lieutenant to behave as he’d been taught was proper. Clearly the entire war was going to be an exercise in learning to tolerate people outside his social circle.

Fergus didn’t bother to try and look interested, but kept on nodding impatiently. He knew all of this, most of it he’d been made to learn or had heard of in reports because strangely enough sharing a border with the barbarians meant that he liked to know what was going on. Besides which he’d held an army post for most of his life even if it had been mostly honorary up until now so he was obliged to pay attention to what was going on in terms of possible warfare, and Aedan was keen on war so even if he hadn’t been interested he’d have heard about it.

What came next was new information and Fergus was clearly more interested. While he knew there were two tribes he hadn’t been aware that they were so easy to tell apart, every barbarian he’d seen looked like almost every other barbarian he’d seen so far. He made a note to ask more about that later, but for the moment he had to find a way of answering Digby’s questions while not informing the man of more of his own blunders than was strictly necessary. “Just the two, I think. I didn’t notice any others fighting.”

He frowned, trying to picture the face. Had there been face paint? The only clear memory he had was of the stabbed one, with his face drenched in blood. Maybe there had been face paint underneath it, but Fergus couldn’t say that he was certain he’d seen any and even if he had it probably wasn’t accurate enough for any sort of identification. “There may have been, I didn’t see. He took a wound to the head; there was a lot of blood.” He said, shaking his head and lowering his hand from the back of his neck. It felt marginally better for the rub. Suddenly he snorted, rolling his shoulders back. “I’d make a terrible scout or spy, don’t you think?” He couldn’t even get basic details such as rank right, and Lieutenant Tremaine could apparently tell the Baskar apart simply by looking at them or watching them fight. It almost made him feel better about holding a higher rank, because he could say that there was only a slim chance that he could be worse at it than he’d be in an information gathering post.

"You've been raised a Prince, not a spy," Digby said, a little amused. "The two are basically opposite. The ones all about the spectacle and bein' noticed. Th'other's about blending in. The best spies--the only spies, really--are poor folk. Not folk with their faces on coins." He winked making it clear he was jesting at least a little, a habit he occasionally fell into with his men. Whether Fergus would realize it or not, it was something of a compliment. It meant he respected him enough not to care that he was a prince.

Digby shifted in his seat, then got up to lean over Fergus, squinting down at the papers spread before him. Christ's blood, that writing was hard to read--but he remembered seeing it when it had first come through. A report from one of their own, who'd posed as a missionary in Baskari territory. Poor devil. He'd come back all addled-like.

"My lad, among such a people as the barbarians--" And so he persisted on calling them, though he knew their 'proper' name. "Among such a people as those, there's a lot of killing gets done for no reason we can understand. Maybe now they can't kill the other Tribe they've taken to killing their own. Won't it make our lives easier? But we can't count on 'em to kill each other off quietly, and besides, they breed as fast as they die. If this is a help to us, all well and good, but something we can use?" He shook his head ruefully. "Better to study their tactics and spend some time leveling the trees we come across by advance party, to avoid ambush--and to secure the wood--that's the tactics I'd say matter most. To equip--" He recalled his chat with the new sergeant. "--to equip the men in more leather armor and save the steel for weaponry, and to train up more archers."

Now he was a little embarrassed; he'd gone on about all of this to no less than the Prince--but the Prince was someone with sway, and he had to get his ideas out there.

"Saving your presence, your Highness," he added belatedly, stepping back from the young man. "I'm just an infantry officer, but we all have our ideas."

True, although Fergus still felt that his powers of observation were lacking if he couldn’t even notice face paint. He couldn’t stop looking surprised at Digby’s amused, teasing tone, but the expression was swiftly replaced with a faint smile and a shake of his head. No one had teased or joked with him freely in years, and it was probably his own fault for isolating himself. “I don’t have my face on a coin, that’s my brother.” The point still stood, though. Even if most people couldn’t pin Fergus as a prince straight away, he did clearly belong to the upper nobility. “Shall I take it that I’ll be the one you send out with a horn if ever you need a distraction, then?” He might have been serious if the suggestion hadn’t been silly, for his expression and tone gave no indication that he was joking.

The two tribes killing their own would make things a lot easier, but as Digby had said, it shouldn’t be something they should count on. Unless they could understand what it was and take advantage of it, something Fergus didn’t think was at all likely from looking over the reports and the scant information he held. The news that they bred as fast as they died made Fergus wince – if that really did happen and a lot of them were about to die, then surely that meant that there were going to be a lot of children that the army was going to have to deal with? There was no other organisation for it, and as the army wasn’t an organisation that left many people from other groups alive behind it Fergus could imagine what the result might be.

“Your ideas are backed up by experience, that has to hold some value.” Possibly not enough to ensure that all his ideas were heeded, or even heard, but enough to have some merit. Certainly Fergus thought that Digby’s ideas held some value over his own as Digby knew what they were going to be facing while Fergus only thought he did, but saying that wouldn’t be a good idea. He could see the possibilities of what Digby was saying – if they could hold the wood, then by default the barbarians would be forced into more open land where they’d be easier to deal with. Possibly by the archers as well as other units less suited to the woods. He was surprised to hear that Digby thought they were lacking in archers though, he’d been under the impression that there were a larger number of them already. Perhaps that was just because he had a different perspective from Digby, though.

“This leather armour, are you thinking of a replacement of whatever armour the men have now, or something a bit different?” He asked, stooping to start putting the papers away again as he didn’t think he was going to be going back to them today. Not remembering which exact box they came from and not recalling any specific pattern he put the papers in the box nearest to them, heaping them in untidily by the handful. At the moment, as far as he was aware, the average infantry man had some sort of padded jacket and maybe a basic shield depending on what weapon they had. Kitting them out in leather would probably cause an upset at this stage as they’d only recently been assigned gear, not to mention that it would cost a lot and Fergus wasn’t entirely convinced that leather could be sufficiently more useful as armour to ensure that any changes to the standard gear were made. Maybe it depended on how you treated the leather.

"Perhaps." Digby laughed, and even chanced giving the Prince a pat on the shoulder, in a comradely fashion. Sure, he was only a lieutenant, but he knew a good egg when he saw one. Fergus had his head in the right place. He was still idealistic and still young, but idealism, Digby had found, was to be expected from all nobility, grand or petty. But it was a luxury those of his rank could ill-afford.

"As for the armor I really don't know," he said frankly, turning away and letting Fergus go about putting the papers back in place. "It's only a suggestion from a sergeant, but a good one. Aye, and the problem ain't the infantrymen, either, as you see--it's all the cavalry. Metal armor's the death of you in heat like this, 'specially if we do go to war in the dead of summer." He shook his head and ran a hand through lank, graying hair. "It's all tactics, don't you know. Tactics, little choices--that's what wins. Not grand plans nor horn-blowing, even if that's what they teach Princes."

He chuckled a little and moved back, opening the door for Fergus.

"I'll see your Highness at dinner, then. Sorry to interrupt your studies. If I can be of any service--" Because there was a time and a place to show willing, and this was it. "--let me know." Digby bowed.

Perhaps. From Aedan the word would have Fergus worried into a fit in no time, but from Digby it felt more like a jest of sorts. Especially as he’d laughed. When had Fergus last laughed? He didn’t remember the last time he hadn’t forced a smile for someone, or when someone hadn’t forced it or sounded nervous around him. Really he knew that he shouldn’t allow Digby to pat his shoulder like that, not with the difference of rank and class, but all he was able to do was give the man a small, awkward smile.

Stooped over with a handful of paper, Fergus winced at the very idea of being under the midday sun in full armour. In summer it was bad enough in a thin shirt most of the time. He’d never even attempted being in full armour during the hottest part of the day during the summer, but he’d been told that men had been known to keel over dead just from the heat. Tossing the handful into a nearby box he turned to face Digby, frowning. “If they’ve still got bronze weapons we might get away with it for the bulk of the cavalry.” Against archers armour wasn’t always helpful anyway, horse’s legs were generally small targets but if you aimed at the legs of a charging group of them you were bound to hit something, and that could send several riders flying. As far as Fergus was aware the heavy armour they used had been designed to work against steel weapons, bronze was softer and so there might not be such a great need to wear the armour all the time. “I doubt that you’d get everyone giving it up though.” Armour being as expensive as it was Fergus himself tended to view it as a sort of status symbol and assumed that others did as well. After training with it for years Fergus wasn’t sure that he’d feel very confident riding into a fight without it either, although he did understand Digby’s point.

You’d still need a view over the entire thing of course, but Fergus did understand what Digby was trying to say. Details. “What they teach us and what we need to know often seem to be different things.” He muttered, mostly to himself as he went back to picking up the papers strewn about the floor. Some of the things he’d been taught he still hadn’t found a proper use for, while currently he was encountering a number of things that he wished someone had told him about sooner. “I know I need an understanding of tactics, Lieutenant, but currently it seems my purpose is to stay afloat of all the different groups and somehow organise them into a coherent structure of sorts. I probably won’t notice half the little things you do.” Besides which they’d already established, in Fergus’ mind, who was the more observant.

The last of the papers was placed in a box, and the lid closed on it. Fergus slipped the latch into the closed position and rose to his feet again, turning to see that Digby holding the door open for him. “Of course,” he replied, not sure if he’d actually take the man up on his offer or not. There was a lot he thought he could learn from the man, but the time to do it in was going to be hard to come by as they both had numerous things to do every day. “If you and this sergeant come up with any more ideas, you’ll tell me?” He tried to phrase it as a request rather than an order, although he wasn’t sure if an order would have worked better with the lieutenant. As he had more standing than the two men he stood a better chance of at least getting the ideas looked at even if he’d never heard of any official procedure for it.