the faint muffled sound of voices coming from the Common Room. There was laughter too; that was a good sign. Morale was usually high in the Watch, which was especially true at the moment, and all in all the pay was pretty good, too. All things being considered, it was a secure career with generous rewards and in a place like Highport it was never truly dangerous. Winterburne liked to see his men in high spirits and it was good to let the men have some relaxation time; the Watch were never officially off duty and he could never tell when he might need to call on the goodwill of the men at short notice.
Winterburne closed the heavy main door behind him before walking down the steps of the porch and onto the street. The uneven cobbles beneath the soles of his boots felt familiar; he was home. Up the road, to his right, carts laden with goods made their way in the direction of the harbour. They would have entered the city through the toll on the East Gate, making their way along West Street either to the Market or, more likely, delivering merchandise to the ships that sat in port.
Ahead of him, up the hill, he could just see the expanse of Imperial Square and beyond that the Palace. With the Emperor out of the city the number of guards around that area would be less in number than would normally be the case but it would still be well guarded.
He turned right, strolling up the gentle incline that led to the East Gate. There were fewer people coming in and out of the city now than during the first or last hours of the day but it was still early enough that the farmers in the market would have plenty of wares to sell, and, as long as purchasers still arrived, they would keep selling.
The gate itself was, in truth, a large protective stone fortress which had repelled many attackers in its time, but it was now approaching seven hundred years old and looked tired. The sandstone blocks were worn at the edges, the joints were deep, and the wind and rain had left their mark after the centuries. The outer section of the wall housed inch-thick iron portcullis gates that could be wound down to shut off the entrance, as opposed to the inner, more defensive tower, which was secured by huge wooden, iron-bound doors for added strength. At times of great stress the doors would be closed and could be secured by four massive beams, each the size of a fully grown oak, that would slide into place and which also provided additional support. Despite a number of attempts over the centuries, no enemy forces had ever been able to enter the city through this gate and no one alive remembered the last time that they had been closed against a horde.
As Winterburne continued on, he passed townsfolk that sauntered along either side of the road. Some were laughing, others were more sullen, and it had often been said that at any given time every range of human emotion could be felt in this city. And it was true, he supposed. He continued his walk up the street, stepping aside to allow a horse and rider to continue unheeded, and to his left, stood the Garrison Headquarters building with its two floors and numerous windows looking towards the entrance to the city. The office of the Commander overlooked the main street and in all likelihood, Winterburne suspected, the man would be watching out of the window at that precise moment, planning how he would try to control the course of their discussion.
The Guard contingent at the door to the Garrison office consisted of two Imperial Guardsmen who stood tall and proud as they performed their duty to the best of their abilities. These days, their presence was mostly ceremonial although they were also highly skilled fighting men. They were motionless. Winterburne grudgingly accepted that they looked resplendent in their blue tunics, polished silver breastplates and in their right hands, leaning against their shoulders, both men held a steel-bladed halberd which had been polished to a reflective shine so bright that it could have been used as a weapon in its own right blinding any attackers with a concentrated beam of sunlight. With the addition of the long wooden handle, the weapon towered over their heads and he smirked as he thought of the hours of pointless tedium that the guards must have endured polishing and cleaning their kit and he suddenly felt glad that he hadn't joined the Guard. The red plumes on the guards' helmets waved in the breeze, it was he only part of a their uniform that even they could not control.
As Winterburne approached the door to the Garrison Headquarters the guards brought themselves to attention, pulling their halberds to an upright position. He was a well known figure around the city and today, at least, the soldiers seemed to have received orders to allow him in, unchallenged.
He reached forward and turned the heavy brass handle. It had been polished so much over the ages that the mouldings had begun to wear away and in places the grooves which were meant to be there could no longer be seen. The door swung inwards on its hinges and, on the other side, through a small atrium, lay a large room with three bay windows running down the wall to his left. The panes of glass within each window were spotless. These people have a major problem, he thought to himself as he approached a large reception desk. The secretary rose from his seat, saluting him.
'There's no need for that,' Winterburne said. Whilst he technically outranked all but the Commander, it was a mark of respect that he neither sought, nor expected.
The man behind the desk wore a variation of the uniform displayed by the soldiers outside but his was more practical for a desk-bound job. The boots and jodhpurs still remained but gone was the helmet and breastplate. Gold braiding ran down the front of the tunic and around the cuffs, also edging the silver buttons that fastened it. The collar of the tunic was tightly buttoned and was trimmed with black upon which the gold insignia of the Imperial Guard was sewn – a single spear with a three pointed crown above it.
'The Commander is expecting you, Captain.' The secretary pushed the chair away. 'Please come this way,' he said, stepping out from behind the desk and setting off down the hallway.
Winterburne followed the man, past the banners of blues, golds and greens on the wall opposite the windows. He recognised the insignia of some of the regiments that had served the Empire over the years but, as the finer point of heraldic designs were not his strong point there were few that he could name by heart, except perhaps one, the Home Province; Westmoreland.
Highly polished wooden planks were laid out as the floor, Winterburne had always suspected oak, and the boots of the men thumped as they walked on. Off to the right, a straight staircase rose up to the first floor and would take him up to a hallway at the end of which was a dark, hardwood door. The Commander would be waiting for him on the other side.
'This really isn’t necessary, Corporal,' Winterburne said, as they climbed the stairs. 'I have been here so many times that I could make this journey in my sleep.' This whole charade had been repeated at every meeting he had ever had with the Commander. He was equally sure that it would also continue to be the case into the future.
'I have my orders, Captain,' the man replied, as he led the way up to Martell's office. 'The Commander will expect that I follow them.'
A window had been added at the far end of the first floor corridor allowing a view across the city to the walls. In the distance, the battlements could be seen atop which soldiers of the Guard paced their endless march along their allotted section of wall. The Corporal turned back on himself and walked along the gallery, stopping in front of the door to the Commander's office. He pulled down his tunic and cleared his throat, rapping twice on the solid wood of the door.
'Come,' came the muffled response from the other side.
The Corporal turned the handle and pushed the door open, bidding Winterburne to enter. 'Captain Winterburne to see you, Sir,' he announced, before coming to attention.
Winterburne entered the room; it was large and bright, taking up almost the whole of the top storey. Apart from the wall on which he entered, the other three had double windows looking out over the streets below. Sunlight streamed through them and light fell across a large desk behind which stood the Commander. Martell was as well preened and polished as all the other soldiers under his command, his blue tunic immaculate. Winterburne had always considered that the most striking thing about Marte
ll was his shaven head; it shone as the sunlight hit it from behind, and he smirked at the sight. The men were right, he thought, his head does look like a pink melon. The man was fit and lean, and his face strong and angular. His piercing green eyes stared back at him with an obvious intelligence that reminded Winterburne that the Commander would be a tough adversary on the battlefield.
'Thomas,' Martell said, 'please, come in. Take a seat and make yourself at home.'
The Commander motioned towards a large padded chair that seemed to have been strategically placed precisely where the beams of light that hit it would put its occupant at a distinct disadvantage.
Bastard! thought Winterburne as he stepped further into the room and walked slowly towards the seat. He heard the door close behind him with a click, and he stopped, waiting for Martell's first move.
'Can I offer you a brandy, Thomas?' Martell raised the decanter to pour himself some of the rich brown liquid into a crystal glass.
'No,' Winterburne held up his hand, 'but thank you, William.' He could already feel the tension beginning to build in the room after the opening salvo from the Commander.
Winterburne did not particularly like people to use his given name, much preferring his surname to be used, or just plain ''Captain''. He knew that Martell was also aware of this fact but tried his best not to let his rising ire show since he also knew that the Commander would try to exploit what he perceived to be a weakness at every opportunity.
Winterburne disregarded the chair that Martell had offered to him and instead continued walking past it, aiming for its companion which currently, at least, offered shade. He looked directly into Martell's eyes as he sat and crossed his legs in a relaxed pose. It was a direct challenge to the man, and he knew that Martell would also see it as such.
'William,' Winterburne said, 'we both know that neither of us wants me to be here, so why don't we get on with this and then we can go about our business. I have a full schedule, and to be frank, your office depresses me.'
He had to admit to himself, though, that he was eager to discover what news the Commander had received from outside the capital, and from the man's air of superiority, which was even more nauseating than usual, he suspected that the news was important.
'Very well,' Martell said. He took a deep breath and sighed, a sneer crossing his lips. 'I had hoped that this frost between us could finally be thawed a little for the sake of the greater good, but I see that is not to be the case.'
Winterburne watched him raise the glass to his mouth and take in some of the brandy. When he had taken enough, he placed the glass on the desk, holding the fluid in his mouth as he walked over to the window. He posed with his hands clasped behind his back and looked down on the street below. Martell paused for a moment longer and then, when he was ready, he swallowed hard.
'Let’s keep this strictly to business then,' Martell said.
Winterburne watched him closely for a moment. 'I think that's best, don't you?' he said.
Martell took a sideways look at Winterburne, and shook his head, a sneer passing across his lips. 'As you know,' he said, 'there have been reports of attacks on Commonwealth troops and citizens in the villages across the border to the east. The Commonwealth accuses us of being behind them. We continue to deny it.' He boiled down the information to just the hard facts showing no signs of emotion or judgement of the situation. 'The day before yesterday, I received a dispatch from the Emperor.'
Martell walked over to his desk and pulled the
Angels Page 5
