Devices and Desires by K. J. Parker

desperate rearguard action so the army could escape,” someone else said. “I’d rather
     we were bringing home a victory, but a glorious defeat’s not so bad. Better than a bloody good hiding, anyway. How’s the water
     holding out?”
    “Not wonderful,” Miel answered. “Thank God we were able to save the barrels, or we’d be completely screwed. As it is, we’ll
     probably get to the foothills tomorrow night, and there’s plenty of springs coming down off the mountains. You’d better cut
     the ration, though. The horses should come first, we can’t afford to lose any more.”
    “All right.” The second voice was getting further away. “We were right, though, weren’t we? I mean, basically it was a good
     idea.”
    He heard Miel laugh. “No,” he said. “No, it was a bloody stupid idea. Maybe next time when he says, let’s not pick a fight
     with the Mezentine Empire, somebody’ll listen.”
    (But that’s wrong, Orsea wanted to say. I was against it to begin with, but then they explained and I realized they were right.
     It made good sense, it was the bigger, broader view, and the only reason I was against it at the start was fear…)
    “Doctor’s here,” someone else called out. “Is he awake?”
    “No,” Miel replied. “At least, I don’t think so. Tell him to wait, I’ll take a look.”
    They lit a lamp so the doctor could see what he was doing. Not anyone Orsea had ever seen before; he looked drained, as was
     only to be expected. His eyes were red, and all he said when the examination was over was, “He’ll keep. Just don’t bounce
     him up and down too much.”
    “I’ll bear that in mind.” Miel turned his head, knelt down beside him, and for the first time since the battle, Orsea saw
     his face without the thick, obscuring smear of caked blood.
    “Hello,” Miel said. “How are you doing?”
    He was glad he hadn’t had to see it before they stitched it up; but Miel wouldn’t be getting the sort of stares he was used
     to from the pretty girls in future. Orsea felt bad about that; he knew how much it meant to him, always being the best-looking,
     never having to try. Well, that was a thing of the past, too.
    “Awful,” he replied. “How about you?”
    Miel shrugged. “Things are pretty much under control,” he said. “One more march should see us off this fucking plain. I don’t
     see them following us up the mountain. I’ve sent ahead for what we need most.”
    Orsea closed his eyes. “I was lucky,” he said.
    “You bet. Another sixteenth of an inch, the doctor said —”
    “That’s not what I meant. I was lucky I got hurt. It meant I got to sleep through all the worst bits, and you’ve had to cope.
     I’m sorry about that.”
    Miel clicked his tongue. “Forget about it,” he said.
    “And your face…”
    “Forget about that too.” Miel’s voice tensed up just a little, nonetheless. “It was pretty comical, actually. Ducked out of
     the way of one of those bolt things, tripped over my feet, laid myself open on a sharp edge. Of course I’ll tell all the girlies
     it was hand-to-hand combat with the Mezentine champion.”
    “You were standing over the crumpled body of the Duke,” Orsea said. “Outnumbered five to one —”
    “Seven.”
    “You’re quite right, seven to one; and they were all in full armor, and you’d lost your sword, so all you had was a tent-peg
     —”
    “A broken tent-peg, please.”
    “Naturally.” Orsea sighed. “Actually, that’s not so far from the truth. In fact, what you did was rather more important. You
     see, I wouldn’t have been able to —”
    “Balls.” He heard Miel shift; he was standing up, presumably. A leader’s work is never done. “The doctor says you need to
     rest. I said, it’s what he’s best at. Try not to die in the night.”
    Orsea pulled a grim face. “Just to spite you, I will,” he said, “and then you’ll be left with all my messes to sort out on
     your own.”
    Miel frowned at him.