by N. C. Reed
“You believe him?” Wilson asked.
“I do,” the Provost nodded. “His aide is the last man Daly should have had to fear. He has protected the man for most of his career and because of Daly's influence the man's never been in a line unit. Served as a staff officer his entire career. He also apparently took advantage of Daly's protection to be something of a bully toward his contemporaries and on occasion even those right above him in seniority and rank. He's already feeling heat as word of Daly's death spreads. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose in the event of the Brigadier's demise.”
“Makes sense,” Wilson mused. “So, any theories? I 'll have to notify the Emperor of this right away. I need to be able to tell him something.”
“He was killed with a single knife thrust to the heart, from the front,” the Provost replied. “Doctor Freed was here and did an examination of the body. No other wounds defensive or otherwise, and no sign of struggle. There's also no indication of stealth or forced entry. Whoever did this, General, I think Brigadier Daly had to know them and allowed them into his quarters. The thing I can't figure at this point is how they could gain entry without the guard detail seeing that someone had come in, regardless of whether they knew who it was. That's the part that doesn't make sense to me.”
“Could it have been a woman?” Wilson asked.
“Yes,” the Provost nodded. “He wasn't overpowered so a woman could have knifed him as easily as a man. Easier I suppose, depending on why she was here,” he added carefully. Daly's 'dalliances' were well known as was his affinity for certain distasteful acts, hence the small graves out back.
“Could the guard detail be in on this?” Wilson asked suddenly.
“And they're all being held for now,” the Provost nodded affirmatively. “I have a hard time seeing all of them being in on it, but that doesn't mean they aren't.”
“What if some of them were supplying him with women?” Wilson asked, looking for anything that might make sense. The Provost frowned at that, clearly thinking.
“It would be hard to get them into the camp unseen, but it could be done,” he admitted finally, albeit reluctantly. “The camp is so large, no matter how well we patrol there are gaps. Someone determined enough could find them. Exploit them.”
“I'm not blaming you or your men, Provost General,” Wilson said formally. “I'm looking for a reason and a way that this happened. Nothing more.”
“I can't imagine either at the moment, sir,” the other man admitted. “Brigadier Daly was very unpopular but given his connection to the Emperor I can't imagine anyone attacking him just because they didn't like him. As to the way, other than what I've given you, so far there's nothing. We 'll be interrogating the members of his escort over the next few days, looking for inconsistencies in their story. Their initial stories are just far enough apart to ring true, though.”
“What does that mean?” Wilson frowned. Shouldn't they all be telling you the same thing?”
“That would mean they had gotten together to come up with a story to tell us,” the Provost was shaking his head. “We all see and hear things slightly differently, no matter what it is. One man may pay closer attention, have a better angle of vision, or just not have cared enough to pay attention to begin with. All of that results in men telling a slightly different version of what happened even when they technically all saw or heard the same thing.”
“Huh,” Wilson grunted, having never considered such a thing.
“No reason for you to think of it, sir,” the other man shrugged. “And it's something we learn at investigatory school. A technique for separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”
“Sounds like a good one,” Wilson admitted. “Well, if nothing else I've learned something new today,” he sighed. “I 'll have to hear from the Emperor on what he wants done with the body. Have we a way to store it so that. . .well. . . .” he trailed off.
“I 'll check with the Doctor, sir,” the Provost promised. “I'm sure he can do something.”
“Report to me daily on what you find,” Wilson said, forcing himself not to laugh at the unintended pun.
“Will do, General.”
Wilson caught himself having a slight spring to his step on the way back to his headquarters and chided himself for it. He had to keep his elation from showing for at least a few days.
It would be hard though.
~*~
“Done?”
“We're done and they're all on the way back to Nasil,” Karls nodded to his Marshal. “Full company of the Regiment as guards in addition to the IG and Provost troops. Have you sent word to Brock as yet?”
“Yes,” Parno replied. “He knows who and what to expect. Maybe this will get us somewhere in cleaning out things. A bit at least.”
“Should,” Karls agreed. “So what now?”
“Keep working with 1st Corps,” Parno ordered absently. “The quicker they're in shape, the faster they're back on the line. They hadn't suffered near the losses that 2nd Corps had so their replacements should shake down faster. They weren't as tired, either.”
“What did you think about what Graham said?” Karls asked.
“About making appointments based on Therron's 'recommendations'?” Parno turned to look at him. “Sounds right. No one, even a Corps Commander refuses a 'request' from his Marshal or his Sovereign. Therron casually mentions he'd like to see a particular officer in a particular post and the officer in question gets the post. It's worked that way since. . .well, ever,” he shrugged helplessly. “Only so much changes, Karls.”
“True that,” the other man nodded. “I'm starting to think Graham may be okay,” he admitted.
“I'm starting to think he's not a traitor,” Parno semi-agreed. “'Okay' is another matter. For now though, I 'll take what I can get.”
~*~
“What are we doing now, Mi-Tinker,” Rosala asked as they sat in the Inn, alone for the moment.
“We carry on,” he told her simply. “Our job is not done until and unless the Prince says it is done. We have made a good start. We will continue.”
“Where does this end?” she asked him. “Where do we stop and go back to-”
“Go back to what?” Tinker cut her off, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “Is your life not better here, at this moment, than at any time in the past since your fourteenth birthing day?”
“I was not complaining about being here,” she said patiently. “Nor was I wanting to leave. You are correct in that this is the best I have ever had it, and the same is true of the other girls. We simply wonder how long this can last.”
Tinker realized he had snapped at her, assuming this would be another in a long line of complaints. Rosala loved to complain. He was convinced she sometimes simply walked and looked for something to be disagreeable over. Perhaps her behavior was a cover for some insecurity.
“It will last so long as the war lasts I am sure,” he shrugged. “Regardless or how long this job lasts, the Prince has given his word that we will be taken care of. We will not lack for a future, assuming that the Kingdom has one.”
“And we are to simply trust this nobleman to keep his promises?” she raised an eyebrow of her own this time. “I've yet to meet a man of so-called 'noble' birth who believes that he must keep his word to the likes of us. I find it difficult to trust him.”
“Then trust me,” he replied calmly. “The Prince has always done as he promised. If he promises to help you, he will. If he promises to support you, he will. If he promises to kill you, then he will. Whatever he says, he does. I have seen this too often not to believe it. So trust in that if nothing else.”
“If I didn't trust you I wouldn't be here,” she snorted lightly, a faint look of amusement on her face. “I need you to speak with Bell,” she changed the subject suddenly.
“About?” Tinker looked at her.
“He has been paying Briel a great deal of attention,” Rosala replied.
“She is a pretty girl,
he is a healthy young man,” Tinker shrugged. “That should not surprise you.”
“She is not for this life, Mi-Tinker,” Rosala shook her head. “I will not have it.”
“Nor would he,” Tinker replied evenly. “If he is looking at her, interested in her, then it is not because of anything in this inn. If he is interested in her it is because he sees someone he might take as a wife.”
“A wife?” Rosala's disdain was apparent. “One of the Prince's Own? Take one of us for a wife? Now I know you have taken leave of your senses. Why would one in the Prince's Service take a serving girl as a wife?”
“Why wouldn't he?” Tinker fought the urge to smile at what he was about to say. “Briel is a rare beauty as well as a fine young woman. Aaron is a fine young man and a good soldier. Before he was a soldier in service to the Prince however he was a highway man of sorts,” he smirked at the look of shock that appeared on Rosala's face. “Left an orphan at an early age, he fell in with a poor crowd out of necessity. He wound up in prison because of it and that is where the Prince found him. In fact, the majority of the Black Sheep are former prisoners or wanted criminals. Of those who were actually soldiers to begin with, only Colonel Willard and small company of men were not rejects and washouts. On their last chance tour when sent to the Prince.” He stood, still smirking at Rosala's expression.
“So you need not believe that he is somehow offended by what you do to survive. If any man understands it, Aaron Bell does. He has done what he had to in order to survive for far longer than most. And as I said, he is a man of strong honor. If he is looking at Briel, he intends to ask for her hand. I will speak with him at some point, but that is what I will speak to him about.”
“All of them?” Rosa's voice betrayed her shock, her worry over her niece at least temporarily forgotten.
“Most,” he shrugged. “Three-fourths at least.”
“And the Prince takes them into his service despite that?” she asked, clearly reevaluating her position on at least one 'noble' man.
“Yes. He promised if they served him, they would be free. After the battle of the Gap the King himself gave them all a royal pardon. Yet they still remain. Loyal to the Prince to a man. As I said, what this Prince says, he does. I will speak to Aaron when the time is right. If you truly wish for her to have a life away from something such as this, he is a good way for her to accomplish that. Should he live, he will do well in the Prince's service. Should he die, she will be cared for. The Prince takes care of his Own.”
~*~
“I'm sorry, sir. There's just nothing to report as yet.”
Gerald Wilson nodded slowly as the Provost Inspector reported. Word of Daly's death had gotten around the camp quickly enough, it being difficult to hide something like that in a camp, no matter how large. The details of his death were still being kept to only a few, however.
“Very well,” he sighed. “Keep me informed of anything new. Report each day, even if it's nothing to report. I have to send a courier to the Emperor.”
“Sir,” the man saluted and departed.
Wilson spent nearly an hour composing his missive to the Emperor, telling him everything they had learned to this point and offering, he thought, just the right amount of sympathy to be thought correct. The Emperor hadn't cared for Daly much it appeared, but he was a member of the Imperial Family. Appearances had to be maintained. When finally finished he called his aide and handed him the message.
“I want this taken to His Lordship right away,” he ordered. “Make sure it's a good man. This is important.”
“Sir,” the aide nodded, taking the envelope and hurrying away.
After that, Wilson turned to finding a new chief of staff. Maybe one that actually could get work done this time.
~*~
“Penny for your thoughts, General,” Enri Willard said as Davies gazed at the map before him.
“They have to hit us again soon,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Don't they?” he looked up.
“No sir, they don't,” Enri shrugged. “They're defeating us by just sitting there and they know it. We're losing millions of acres of crop land while they occupy so much of our territory. We have to stay here and keep them at bay, but they don't have to attack.”
“Our new weapons had to come as a shock to them,” the younger man continued. “It hurt their confidence in themselves and in their commanders. Likely hurt their General's confidence in himself as well. They won't be eager to face that kind of destruction again, even if the shock value is gone now. Another defeat like that last one might break their army entirely.”
“It might break us, too,” Davies pointed out. “Our casualties were horrendous.”
“That is true, sir,” Enri agreed. “But we've got two fresh corps on that line now. If their scouts and spies are worthy of the title, they know we've been heavily reinforced. They do still outnumber us but not by enough they can absorb the losses it would take to just try and roll over us. They're just as stuck as we are for the moment.”
“If they keep sitting there it damages their morale almost as bad as the battle did,” Davies argued. “The men will think their commander is afraid to face us.”
“Maybe not,” Enri countered “He may well explain to them the exact thing I just noted. 'We're winning just by being here and we don't have to lose another man in doing it'. That would appeal to the rank and file and keep their confidence up in both themselves and their commander.”
“Are they smart enough to do that?” Davies asked.
“That I can't say, sir. That I can't say.”
~*~
“So, we just sit here?”
Several heads nodded at the question, interested in hearing the answer themselves.
“For now, yes,” Wilson nodded. He was entertaining his assembled Corps Commanders for supper, explaining his plans to them. “When the boats arrive we 'll look at what can be done with them, and I've sent Stone into the middle province to try and pull some of their cavalry away from here. Anything we can do to weaken them, we 'll do. I've also sent a courier to General Andrews asking if he can step up the pressure at the River Bridge. Even an attempted crossing there while we sit in camp might convince the Soulanies that we're making our push there now. If they draw off forces from here to help meet that threat it can only help us.”
“How long?” another man asked, even as several men murmured their agreement to Wilson's plan.
“As long as it takes,” Wilson replied evenly. “We're winning the war just by being here,” he pointed out. “This is their prime growing area and we're sitting square in the middle of it. They have two choices; throw us out or starve. I don't care which one they chose, to be blunt. So long as we can defeat them without risking our soldiers any more than we have to, that's what we 'll do. Until I hear otherwise from the Emperor, that is our plan.”
He didn't like having to explain himself or being questioned like this. But these men were his top commanders, each leading several divisions of his army. He needed them supporting his decision, and he needed them talking about it. Knowing that the Commanding General was concerned for the welfare of his troops would give the army a badly needed boost in morale, or at least he hoped it would. He had been careful to make sure that several enlisted men were gathered to serve the table and take care of the chores and had ensured they could overhear his concern for his army. It wasn't feigned, he meant it. But allowing them to hear would add strength to the 'rumors' of why they weren't moving. Stolen information was always more accepted than given. Just human nature to be distrustful of open information he supposed.
His plan was brutally simple. Preserve his army, force the Soulanies to either attack him or just sit there. Either way he was winning. Meantime he had Stone going to raise a ruckus in the middle of Tinsee territory, the boats were on their way down the river and Daly was out of his hair.
And now he seemed to have convinced his leading commanders that his idea was absolutely the way to go.
/> “I like it,” he heard more than once.
“We need our army as intact as possible to occupy Soulan after the war,” he decided to add. “This allows us to do both. It will take a little longer, but we've waited for centuries. A few months more won't hurt us. We will win.”
Heads nodded all around the table and Wilson sat back, relaxing slightly. He had convinced them that his plan was better. Hopefully that would help rebuild the confidence of the army and buy him some time to get things moving again.
He had won for now.
The collected commanders remained for another half-hour or so before they began to drift away, usually in pairs as they discussed the next day's duty or training or some other nuance. Wilson himself waited until the room was essentially empty before returning to his own quarters, stopping to thank the staff on his way out for doing such a good job. He knew that would be repeated throughout the camp and hoped it would add to the morale of the army in general.
Ignoring the presence of his escort and aide, Wilson ambled his way back to the small house he used as his private quarters. He barely registered his aide telling him goodnight and took no notice at all of the escort and guards around the small dwelling. Stepping inside he stripped off his uniform belt and tunic, placing them on a chair. He had just reached for the small decanter of bourbon on his desk when. . .
“Good evening, General.”
Wilson spun on his heel, hand flashing to his side only to find his sword not there.
“That isn't necessary, General,” the man seated by the window said quietly. “If I meant to kill you, you would be dead already. Do go ahead and have your evening snort,” a hand waved in the dark. “I'm not here to interrupt your routine.”
“Then why are you here?” Wilson demanded, for some reason not bothering to call out to his guards. “For that matter who the hell are you and how did you get in here?”
“How I got in isn't really important, General,” came the sardonic reply as the man stood, little more than a shadow against the wall it seemed. “As for who I am, call me Smith, I suppose. Colonel Smith, Imperial Secret Police.” He said it calmly, as if he was just asking for a favor or giving a report.
