Captain Jardis should have been feeling something other than grim foreboding. The messages that his men had been sending back from the trenches had spoken of progress on the berm works, the repairs to the cannon embankments had gone smoothly, and they'd managed to silence Lemain's cannons for a time with yesterday's attack. And while they hadn't gained a foothold, the plan to disperse the new recruits through the ranks had gone a long way to keeping their casualties to an expected number. The fog had improved their crumbling position on the field. If it could hold through tomorrow, the scouts he sent out at dawn would have another day's worth of searching to find the entrance to the tunnel the enemy was using to shift supplies into the town in secret. But as he stood at the edge of camp staring at the fresh supply wagon, the requisitioned supplies list held stiff in his hand, he knew nothing else.

Foreboding. That was the all-consuming fact of it. And perhaps worse than that, it was dread. Dread for what was to come.

He glanced at the men waiting to unload the wagon, two of them standing in the bed holding the oiled tarpaulin back from the crates and barrels of supplies. "Check it again," he said, his voice calm and level, knowing better than to show any of his disquiet to the men around him.

The men counted again, Jardis checking each item against the list in his hand. Everything was accounted for, no crates broken or spoiled. Food and ammunition enough for half a week, all clearly labeled and signed by the commissioned officer in the western camp…. Enough supplies for an army a third their size….

The cut was more drastic than last time. At this rate, his men would die of starvation before winter's end, war or no. That was fact.

"Very good, Pierre," he said, a flat metallic taste in his mouth. "Get this to the quartermaster and send the scribe to my tent." He handed the requisition to the man who bowed and hurried off. He motioned to the rest of the men. "Get all of this unloaded and squared away."

He turned on his heel and headed back toward the center of camp, his thoughts turning to which of his sergeants he could trust enough to organize a reliable watch guard on the supply tents. The time had come to defend their supplies against their own men. He knew from experience how desperate hungry men would get. The trick would be to set up the guard quietly so as not to inspire a riot. By the time any man thought to steal food from his brothers, he would be well prepared to stop them. No one could claim that he had squandered his sense of foreboding.

Out of eyeline with the men behind him, Jardis drew a careful breath, the smell of mud and horses thick in the taking. They would need to employ stricter rations. At the same time, he was not willing to swallow this meekly. He would send more patrols into the countryside to gather what supplies the locals had to offer and perhaps another few to hunt what game might exist in the hills. For those tasks too, he would need trusted men, men who could carry a sack of coin to a farmer who might starve his family for the loss of his grain. The land would yield little, but they would have to scrape it bare.

He would do everything in his power to ensure his men weathered this as best they could, which was leading him down his next course of action. Beyond preparing to starve and scrounging for further supplies, there were two things he could do, and he intended to do both. The commander be damned….

He would find out who was responsible for these supply shortages, and he would win this siege before they lost it. He wasn't sure how he was going to achieve the latter, but now he knew they weren't going to win this fight by attrition. They had to take the fight to the walls, whatever way they could.

The scribe was waiting for him when he returned to his tent. The lanky man standing awkwardly in the grey, his buckled shoes impractical in the camp's muddy thoroughfares but stiffly held as a symbol of his station, that same pride showing through in the near-pristine white of the lace beneath the cuffs of his velvet jacket. Jardis had often wondered which influential patron the man had managed to displease to end up where he clearly had no desire to be. Still, the man's penmanship was as upright as his dress, if a little formal.

Jardis waved the man inside and motioned him to the desk in the center of the space.

The scribe didn't question the muted silence as he sat and began unpacking his box of parchment and ink.

The feeble light of the day barely pierced the canvas walls so Jardis lit a candle off a small switch from the brazier and placed it at the corner of the desk. The flame hissed and sputtered in the damp. He set about to pacing, waiting for the man to finish the task of sharpening his quill.

When the soft click of quill to inkwell signaled his readiness, Jardis stopped and turned to him. "Before we begin. This letter is to be held in confidence. You will not mention this to anyone in passing or otherwise. Not even to the commander. Is that clear?"

The man stared at him, his face impassive but the pause itself serving as his curiosity.

Finally the man said, "And the commander… if he asks directly? What do I tell him?"

"He will not ask directly because no one will tell him this letter exists."

"And if … if the contents are somehow … treasonous?" The man swallowed. Perhaps realizing just how foolish it might be to ask that question.

Jardis leaned over the desk, his patience running thin. "Then I would be writing the letter myself and you would know nothing of it. No, this letter must go through official channels. Now let's begin…. To the commander of the western encampment on the matter of supplies and the distribution of requisitioned goods…."

Drafting the letter took the better part of an hour and by the time Jardis pressed his seal into the molten wax, the fact that he had foregone breakfast that morning was making itself known in the coil of his gut. He ignored the small pang of hunger and pressed the scribe into writing eight more notes, this time in the service of brief orders for a handful of patrols, hunting parties, and guard shifts.

The scribe set to his task without complaint though his face visibly paled when Jardis had him draft the order to prepare for the cutting of rations, including even for clerks and officers.

As Jardis rolled the ration order and slid it into a carry tube destined for the quartermaster, he knew he would be hearing directly from the commander about its contents. As the thought crossed his mind, he drew the parchment back out of the case and asked that a postscript be added to the bottom for the quartermaster to deliver a written report regarding the current state of their supplies and his estimate for ration limits.

The commander would be eager to reprimand him for going over his head, but the quartermaster's report would hold him to the overall need. Even still, the commander would likely push back on the rationing for officers. Jardis would have to give way and revise the order as a compromise. It was going to be the best he could do, but giving ground like that was sometimes the only way to disguise the true victory. This time he had no intention of begging his commander for the privilege of handing out suffering to his men.

Orders drafted and the letter written, Jardis waited for the scribe to collect his things and leave before dividing the documents between those that could be delivered by an aide and those that he would need to deliver himself. He stepped out into the dreary mid-day, the letter safely tucked into the breast of his leather jerkin. He handed off the package of orders to the next available aide and went in search of Sergeant Alphonse who would be his man for managing the guard detail.

Asking a few men in passing where he might find the sergeant, his hunt led him to a gathering of soldiers near the entrance to the trenches, their voices raised in cheers and jeering as they jostled for a view of whatever was at their center.

Jardis wasn't a particularity tall man but he knew the effect of a good stern look. A few men on the outskirts caught sight of his approach and stepped back to let him through. Finally he had a clear view of the two men stripped to breeches and circling each other in the mud, fists raised and each sporting a smattering of fresh bruises. Most of the onlookers, still unaware that their captain had stepped into their midst, cheered and urged the fighters on. Wild grins lit faces in the crowd, echoed by the leer of the most confident combatant.

Sport like this was not uncommon, and depending on the temper of the men, it could boost morale or breed unrest in equal measure.

Jardis sighted his sergeant standing at the inner-most circle, gruff features pensive as the broad-shouldered man sized up the contenders. Jardis calmly moved through the crowd until he reached the sergeant's side. He felt his lips quirk as he noticed the chill he seemed to inject in the men nearest him as they realized who they were suddenly standing next to.

"They're fairly evenly matched," he said to his sergeant.

The man glanced at him and grunted, his unflappable calm not sharing a hint of surprise to see Jardis. "Both from Gascony. You know how they breed them down there."

"Flamboyant and stalwart."

"Just so. Did you want me to wrap this up?"

Jardis scanned the cooling crowd, feeling eyes watching him. He decided the sergeant seemed to have this well in hand. If the mood changed, he could trust Alphonse to have loyal men scattered here and there to force things back to order. In fact, that discretion was why he wanted Alphonse for this job.

"No, as you were. I've new orders for you when you're done. A new guard detail. You'll find more information here." He held the rough square of folded parchment with two fingers. "Keep it discrete. You'll know when you read it."

The sergeant casually took the orders and slipped them beneath the open collar of his arming coat. "Will do, sir."

Jardis nodded and made his exit, the crowd shifting and letting out a roar as someone landed a solid blow.

The first task done, Jardis went to deliver the letter to his hand-picked messenger. He beckoned the man away from a low fire near the edge of camp. The man leapt to attention, grabbing his riding gloves in preparation of his captain's need. Jardis led the man a pace or two away from his brothers, giving him a chance to button up his coat. He handed over the letter with instructions for him to wait for a reply from the western camp before making his return trip. "… Whatever message you receive, you are to return it to me personally."

"Captain?" someone called from behind him. Jardis glanced over to see an errand runner heading in their direction.

Jardis waved his messenger away. The man saluted and hurried off to the line of picketed horses, the letter safely hidden in his satchel.

The runner didn't wait for a proper acknowledgment before saying, "Captain, the commander wants to see you in his tent."

Already? He'd requested that the aide deliver his orders to the quartermaster first, but surely the commander wouldn't have heard of it that quickly. Jardis frowned. If he had, then they would be meeting on the subject without the benefit of the quartermaster's report. The twist in his stomach made his niggling hunger more apparent.

"He said it was urgent, sir. You are to come at once."

"Then best not to keep him waiting." Jardis set a brisk pace for the command tent, the runner caught by surprise and taking a moment to catch up. The man appeared determined to accompany him all the way to his destination. Perhaps that had been a prerequisite to the errand.

"Tell me," Jardis said, "After bringing me to the commander, were you assigned another task?"

"No, sir."

"Then I would ask that you seek out Lieutenant Bachard on the front lines and tell him I'll be looking to speak to him as soon as I'm done here."

"Very good, sir."

They reached the large command tent, its ornate banners hanging limp in the fog. The runner bobbed his head and darted away to complete his next job.

The guards at the entrance gave Jardis polite nods on his approach. They were Lestrat's men so he appreciated their show of respect. He hoped that today was not a day for testing loyalties. Given the course of action he'd set that morning, he knew he was pressing things. The friction between him and the commander had been growing for some time. It was very possible the commander would jump at the chance to court-martial him. The justification would be paper-thin and the commander would make himself very unpopular with the troops, but keeping things in perspective wasn't one of the commander's strong points.

Jardis steeled himself, letting an expression of cold detachment fall across his features. He kept his hands loose at his side instead of resting on the hilt of his sword where they wanted to be. He had invited this on himself; he would meet it with the firm grace befitting his station.

The air inside the tent was warm and humid, the carpets and hanging tapestries doing their part to fight the chill. The commander was seated behind his desk, a half-eaten meal in front of him, one hand grasping a short eating knife, the fingers of his free hand slick with grease from the piece of chicken on its way to his mouth. Next to the commander and turned partway as if in discussion, Jardis recognized one of the commander's sergeants.

Jardis strode into the center of the space, feeling a rush of irritation at finding the commander flaunting the few stores they possessed. If the man was purposely goading him, it was working. "Commander, you sent for me," he stated, determined to ignore the topic on the table.

Commander Lestrat glanced up. His dour expression turning even more surely.

"Captain, my sergeant here has informed me of something I find greatly troubling."

"What's that, sir," Jardis asked, bracing himself.

"Go ahead, Sergeant."

"I caught men fighting on the front."

Jardis stared at the man, not comprehending the words. "Fighting?" Surely that wasn't what this was about. "You mean dueling?"

The sergeant scoffed. "This was no duel. Your man was determined to kill his opponent. And what's more, when I intervened, he nearly would've killed me if it weren't for the fact that I was wearing armor. Naturally, I sought to punish the man, but I was then confronted by another of your men. Issuing a threat to a superior officer is a serious offense and yet your lieutenant, who witnessed the threat, had the gall to ignore the severity of it and claim jurisdiction over the entire situation. As it stands, neither men have received the punishment they are due, and I have a man who will be out of the fight for days while he recovers from a stab wound!" The man had turned a deep shade of red as his ire rose with his words.

Jardis narrowed his gaze, finally remembering who this sergeant was. On the back of that knowledge, he also remembered how much he disliked the man.

The commander drove the point of his knife into the table, making his plate jump. "These are your men, Captain! Your lieutenant even! I wonder why we can't progress on the field and yet I find I may not need to look any further than this for the answer. I'll have none of this dissension in my camp. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"You will punish these men, or I will instruct Bernet to return to the task of doing it himself."

Jardis bowed. "Give me their names and I'll see to it. The price will be paid."

There was a flash of disappointment on the sergeant's face, clearly the man had hoped to do the punishing himself.

"Oh, the price will be paid indeed. If I hear of your men causing trouble like this again, I will be holding you personally responsible."

"Rest assured. I will get to the bottom of this." Jardis turned to the sergeant, letting his icy glare convey the true intention behind his words. He knew the man was capable of picking his truth. "Their names?" he asked.

The sergeant crossed his arms and leaned back, confident that he was untouchable in the commander's circle. "Aramis issued the threat, but it was that new recruit, Athos, who wounded my man and went for me with equal zeal. And your Lieutenant Bachard is the one with no stomach for discipline. One worries if he has any discipline of his own if he can't recognize the lack of it in another…."

"We can all agree that threats against a superior officer are dangerous things, Sergeant. On a scale, one might agree they sit below betrayal and outright disobedience and only slightly above other things like slander." Which you seem to be so fond of… "We must hold to discipline and honor lest we all revert to beasts. As I said, I will get to the bottom of this."

"See to it this won't happen again, Captain. Now, both of you are dismissed." The commander motioned them away. "I wish to enjoy the rest of my meal in peace."

Jardis saluted. "Yes, sir."

The sergeant bowed and followed Jardis out, Jardis trying not to itch at having the detestable man standing at his back.

Any relief he'd initially felt at having his assumptions shattered had disappeared. Now he was simmering in frustration and anger. There were plenty of issues on his plate besides the troubles of a marksman and his fresh partner, no matter that the marksman was one of the only ones they had left and that their cause was more than likely just. He couldn't imagine the latter being any other case with the sergeant involved. Still, all of their hands were tied. The anger he was feeling now was equally spread to Aramis himself for dragging Bachard into this. While he could barely afford to lose the effective marksman, he could afford to lose his lieutenant even less. The very fact that his lieutenant's capabilities had been called into question in front of the commander might prove to be poison enough. He would need every capable man loyal to the cause if they were to succeed. At this rate, only the deserters would get out of this alive.