Farther down the platform, the expedition members were unloading their baggage and tools. Professor Wynn approached. He’d gone low-key, dressed for a dig rather than in his finery, but he grinned when he saw all the blue-and-gold armor. “Why, lieutenant, you appear to be ready for diplomacy.”
“Good afternoon, your Lordship. If it would suit you, my squad would like to provide an honor guard as you go about your business today.”
“I do need to pay a courtesy visit to Baron Rathleagh. Despite what I said to you earlier, I think this might be a bit of overkill.”
Cleasby had learned how to be a soldier from Sir Hugh Madigan. “The Malcontents have no concept of the term ‘overkill,’ your Lordship.”
That seemed to please the professor. “Two of you should be more than sufficient to make a point.”
“Very good. Rains, you’re with me. Thornbury will secure lodgings for the night. The rest of you help unload the gear and keep an eye on the expedition.” There were some groans and murmured complaints at that. No proper soldier wanted to get stuck with manual labor or guard duty while there were perfectly good pubs right there.
Apparently such grumbling had been normal back during Baron Wynn’s time in the service as well, because he told Cleasby, “My business with the baron shouldn’t take long. As long as they’re able to march in the morning, I don’t care what your men do tonight.”
“You heard the man. If the wagons are packed and ready by the time I get back, you can have liberty for the night.” The men seemed to like that. “Provided you’re on your best behavior.”
He pointed at Private Langston as he said that last part, because the man still had a tendency to drink too much and say stupid things to the wrong people. “I’m not bailing anyone out of jail in this town. Now get to work.”
The men saluted. Despite all they’d been through together, it still surprised Cleasby that Madigan’s gang of killers and ruffians actually respected him enough to do as he said.
Dalton Pickett joined the professor. He was wearing an armored great coat and had both a sword and a repeating pistol on his belt. It was as if Pickett were trying to dress like his idea of an accomplished adventurer, but Cleasby noted that the coat was spotless and the repeater and sword were brand new. The look might not impress a veteran soldier, but the ladies would love it, and he supposed for Pickett, that was the important thing.
“I’ve been to Ironhead before. I’ll show you the way to the baron’s offices,” Pickett suggested.
The four of them made their way through the mob. It only took a few blocks for Cleasby to learn a few things. First, the streets of Ironhead Station were a maze, and without a guide, he would’ve become hopelessly lost. Second, Rhulfolk had a lower center of gravity and walked with speed and determination. They were polite, but when you got in the way of a bunch of hurrying dwarves it was like being caught up in a stampede. Rains got in front, because his gigantic Precursor shield served a similar function in a thick crowd as the cattle guard on their train engine did.
Pickett took them up stairs, across bridges, through tunnels, and onto a swaying metal platform suspended by chains, where an engine hoisted them up diagonally across several levels. Cleasby—as a perpetually inquisitive sort—found that contraption enthralling. Looking over the railing, he realized it was a long way down to the cavern floor. The fall would be sufficient to kill them instantly.
“Fascinating,” he said. “I wonder what happens if a chain snaps? Would we fall all the way or is there a safety mechanism to stop us? What happens if the engine stops? Would we be trapped here and have to climb down with ropes?”
Pickett shrugged. Wynn had no answer but seemed to be enjoying the ride as well. Rains looked like he would have preferred staying on the train with Pangborn.
The moving platform came to a shuddering halt at a ledge carved from the native stone. As fun as the ride had been, it felt good to have solid rock beneath his boots again. The banner of Mansgrave Province hung above them, and a giant Cygnus had been carved into the floor. “This section is reserved for local government offices,” Pickett explained as he lifted the safety gate. “The baron’s office should be somewhere over there.”
“I believe someone saw us coming and told Rathleagh.” Baron Wynn nodded in the direction of the main hall. A group of men was rapidly approaching, walking in such an all-fired hurry that the short-legged ones were forced to jog to keep up. Their vests and jackets were decorated with blue sashes and medals, suggesting that they were local officials. “Drat. I was hoping to drop in unannounced, ruin the baron’s day, and get out before incurring any pomp and puffery. Now I’m afraid you lads will have to listen to blathering politicians talking about how wonderful I am.” He stepped forward, ready to be greeted.
Except Baron Wynn had misjudged their intentions, and the group rushed right past him without slowing. At this point there should have been bowing and polite handshakes, but instead they approached Cleasby and Rains. The high-ranking Wynn gave the officials an incredulous look as they rudely shoved him out of the way to get to the soldiers.
“Storm Knights!” The official with the most badges pinned on him was a fat, ruddy-faced man. “Have you come for the execution?”
“Excuse me?” Cleasby asked.
“Forgive us—” The lead official looked for the rank stenciled on Cleasby’s shoulder plate. “—lieutenant. We didn’t know if the military would be sending any official representatives for the execution. Our local garrison didn’t care and had no claim to the murderer. We sent a message to the Storm Division in Caspia to tell them that we’d arrested one of their deserters, but we hadn’t had any reply until now. I certainly hope you don’t want to claim him, because we’ve already scheduled the execution for tomorrow morning.”
“A hanging,” chimed in one of the other functionaries.
“Yes, a hanging, as befits a lowlife murderer who’d go about cutting down one of our upstanding citizens in the street. We’ve already scheduled the gallows and printed the announcements. So, as you can see, we’d prefer it if you didn’t take the prisoner back to Caspia. A hanging always draws a crowd.”
“He’s a deserter, so you’d just hang him in Caspia. Might as well hang him here,” added a different official.
“Yes, a hanging is a hanging,” agreed the first official. “Unless, of course, you’d like to publically flog the criminal first?”
Rains looked to Cleasby. Apparently his sergeant was as clueless about this as he was. The 6th was full of men with a tendency to get in trouble with the law, but they’d just arrived here. Cleasby addressed the officials as politely as possible. “My apologies, good sirs, but I have no idea who or what you’re talking about. I’m curious to know the identity of this criminal, but right now we’re here to escort his Lordship Baron Conrad Wynn of Caspia on a mission of some importance for the Royal Cygnaran University.”
The herd of bureaucrats slowly turned to look at the slovenly, bearded man they’d disdainfully passed by earlier.
“Ahem.” Wynn gave them a very gruff nod. “That would be me.”
Then the bowing and scraping began. Cleasby watched the spectacle, amused, as the officials tripped over themselves to try and apologize to the nobleman. Pickett, too, chuckled at their misfortune. “It’s remarkable how much more respect one gets once they realize you routinely rub elbows with royalty.”
“Military life is much simpler. Everyone wears their rank on their sleeve,” Cleasby responded. In truth, that didn’t really make too much difference for him. His parents had raised him to treat everyone with respect, whether they ruled a kingdom or shined your boots; there was seldom any reason to be impolite.
“Mistakes such as that are difficult to make where I’m from,” Rains said as he watched the spectacle. As a group, they were moving into the hall. “High-ranking Protectorate officials are difficult to miss.”
“Gilded everything?”
“That, and terrifying masks and flames.�
�
The professor must have had enough because he finally roared, “I’m here to see Baron Rathleagh! Someone fetch him so I can be about my business.” A couple of the functionaries fled immediately, but the rest kept apologizing.
As interesting as this was, Cleasby was more curious about the pending execution. He tapped one of the younger officials on the shoulder—and it was difficult to ignore tapping when it came from an armored gauntlet. He took the man aside while the rest sucked up to the professor.
“Pardon me, but this prisoner you mentioned. May I assume it’s a Storm Knight you have in custody?”
“Correct, sir. He entered into an illegal duel with one of our most respected citizens and cut him down in the street. He’s in our jail, but he’s been most uncooperative.”
It wasn’t one of Cleasby’s men, and it wasn’t his job to meddle in local law enforcement, but if the prisoner was a Storm Knight, he could at least find out which unit he belonged to so it could be reported up the chain of command. “How do—”
“Good day to you, Baron Rathleagh!” the professor shouted.
More people had arrived in the hall, and the man in the lead was as tall and thin as the professor was short and pudgy. He had long black hair hanging from beneath his blue top hat and a narrow black mustache waxed into a curl. The baron stopped and leaned on a silver cane as he studied his new visitors. “Always a pleasure to see you again, your Lordship,” he said to Wynn, but based on the expression on Rathleagh’s narrow face, it was anything but. “What brings such an august visitor to my humble city?”
The professor got right down to business. “Greetings, Rathleagh. I’ve come to see the Molgur ruins in the mountains. On behalf of the Royal Cygnaran University, the kingdom thanks you for this remarkable discovery.”
“Yes. We did have a find recently. I was unaware that news traveled so quickly to the capital. You needn’t have come all this way.”
“Modern travel is certainly a marvel of convenience, so I’ve come to personally supervise the survey. I’ll be taking over now.”
The hall was extremely quiet as Baron Rathleagh stared at Baron Wynn. It was obvious that Rathleagh was completely taken by surprise. “I believe there has been some misunderstanding. This is a local matter, of no concern to the university.”
“The rubbings you sent me suggest otherwise.”
“I sent nothing to Caspia.”
“Oh well. Someone who works for you did. Good thing, too. The fact you don’t realize just how vitally important this place might be indicates that I made the right decision to take it over. I mean no insult, baron. It was a mistake that any amateur hobbyist might make, but this project requires an expert’s touch.”
Cleasby had always been impressed with how thoroughly insulting nobles could be, even while sounding perfectly polite.
Rathleagh’s cheeks had turned red. “I see…” he trailed off, looking as if he wanted to say more, but there was no point in having a heated exchange in front of a room full of witnesses. They were of equivalent rank, but Wynn had far more clout in the capital. It was a battle Rathleagh could only win temporarily, at best.
To further rub it in, Baron Wynn added, “My good friend Archduke Galten Sparholm sends his regards. He is a major patron of the university. I’ll be sure to mention your assistance the next time we dine together.”
Rathleagh noticed the Storm Knights for the first time. “They are with you?”
“That is correct. The army has pledged its full support to the university for this project. This is Lieutenant Cleasby. His platoon will be guarding the site for the time being.” As a former military man, the professor surely knew the difference between a platoon and a single squad, so Cleasby could only assume that Wynn was lying for effect.
“I assure you,” Rathleagh said, “such precautions are unnecessary. My men can provide sufficient security for us. In fact, I hired a group of mercenaries to protect the workers I left there. I will be happy to return to the site with you and—”
“That won’t be necessary, and there is no us.” Wynn certainly had a malicious streak. Over the last few days, Cleasby had begun to think of him mostly as a kindly academic, so it was interesting to see the cunning nobleman come to the surface. “I’d hate to pull you away from your vital duties. If I require anything, I’ll summon you. Otherwise, these ruins are no longer any concern of yours.”
“But this is my discovery. I can be of great help. My vast arcane knowledge—”
“Your arcane knowledge will have to get by without you looting any new magical trinkets for the time being. If I wanted to clumsily smash open ancient antiquities with sledge hammers and then pick out the shiny bits, I’d hire my own thugs. Anything found buried in Cygnar rightfully belongs to Cygnar, and as King Leto’s appointed representative for digging those things up, I would prefer for you to stay here.”
From the admittedly limited amount of high-ranking political debate Cleasby had seen, that seemed to be a rather direct and brutal slap to the face.
Rathleagh managed to keep his composure, but his jaw was clenched as he gave a polite bow. “As you wish, your Lordship. May I at least invite you to be a guest in the comfort of my estate until you are ready to enter the wilderness?”
“A common inn will suit me just fine for the night. We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”
“Very well. Ironhead Station will be happy to provide anything your expedition requires. Now, if you will forgive me, I have appointments to keep.” Rathleagh did a fairly decent job of hiding his anger as he said that. He then tipped the brim of his hat with his cane and turned to walk away.
“Good day to you too, baron,” the professor called after Rathleagh. “Now, which one of you people do I talk to about borrowing some wagons?”
As the functionaries surrounded Wynn and Pickett, Rains muttered to Cleasby, “I’ll never get used to such games.”
“Above my pay grade, sergeant, but that seemed to go well enough.”
Since their noble charge was otherwise occupied, and Cleasby still wanted to know about the criminal who was to be hanged in the morning, he picked out the young Ironhead Station official he’d been questioning earlier and tapped him on the shoulder again. “Pardon me, but our conversation was interrupted. You were telling me about this prisoner of yours. He’s supposed to be a Storm Knight?”
“Yes. But when he refused to even identify himself by name, the judge sentenced him.”
“How do you know he’s a Storm Knight then?”
The official pointed at the storm glaive Cleasby had slung over his shoulder. “The lightning sword, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Sebastian Nemo’s invention is only issued to members of our knightly order.” Despite being the elite infantry of the kingdom, considering the types of men who’d originally made up the 6th, Cleasby didn’t find it so hard to imagine a random Stormblade could be tempted toward lawlessness. “A reasonable assumption then. We’re the only ones trained to fight with galvanic blades without electrocuting ourselves in the process.”
“He must be really good at it then, because he dueled with two of them.”
“Two storm glaives?” Rains interjected. “At the same time?”
“The witnesses say the murderer fought with a lightning sword in each hand and managed to beat the most feared swordsman in all of Ironhead Station.” The young man sounded rather impressed.
“No…” Cleasby muttered; he and Rains shared a horrified look. “It can’t be.”
“You have a better explanation?” Rains asked. There was only one man they knew who could fight with a pair of storm glaives. Rains turned back to the official and asked with urgency, “Does he speak with an Ordic accent?”
“Why, yes, at least he seemed to as he berated our barrister. Then he called our judge all manner of names. It was most disrespectful, and I only recognized the insults in Cygnaran. There were quite a few in Ordic, Khadoran, and Llaelese as well. Do you know this man? Is he one o
f yours?”
“Not really. Well, perhaps on an honorary basis. Temporarily.” Cleasby didn’t know what to call Savio Montero Acosta. The murderous mercenary had been a friend of Sir Madigan, hired under false pretenses and illegally retained, but he had fought as one of them during the invasion of Sul. Cleasby looked at Rains apologetically. “Sort of.”
“He is no Storm Knight,” Rains stated emphatically.
“Excellent,” the young official said. “Then we’ll proceed with the hanging. We’ve already printed the announcements, you know.”
Cleasby sighed. The mercenary might not have actually been a Storm Knight, but that didn’t take away the fact he had helped forge the 6th into a real fighting unit and saved Cleasby’s life on several occasions. “You had better take me to this prisoner.”
And to think, he’d been very clear earlier that he didn’t intend to bail anyone out of jail while in Ironhead Station.
The Ironhead Station jail was beneath the main cavern. The tunnels were smaller here, and the air seemed humid. It made Cleasby uncomfortable, especially whenever a train would rumble by above them—the vibrations caused dust to rain down.
The jailer walking ahead of him was Rhulic. The dwarf had an iron helmet shaped like a pot, a gigantic ring of keys in one hand, and a knobbed club on his belt. “I’ll warn you, lieutenant, this prisoner is a scary one. I’ve been running this place for a long time, seen a lot of hard cases come and go, but there’s something not quite right about this one. Lots of mercenary scum pass through Ironhead, and when they get out of control, they end up here. Years of dealing with them, and I get a gut feeling for the ones who are really dangerous. The worst, the real killers, there’s an intensity about them, but at the same time, they just don’t give a damn about nothing. This one is like that but worse somehow. Like the only thing keeping him from killing you is that you’re not worth his time.”
“If it’s who I think it is, I understand completely,” Cleasby agreed. “No offense intended to your brave city watch, but I’m curious how they were able to apprehend such a man.”
Into the Wild Page 5
