Perhaps it was from being in the church, but at that moment, Milo remembered a stylized stained glass panel where an angel hovered, one hand out, over a man at whose feet lions prowled.
“You haven’t dragged this young man in to judge the rightness of his actions, or even for an explanation of how it was achieved. You’ve brought him in here to remind him who is in charge and to ensure that he knew that he was yours. You discovered you have a weapon to win the war, and you wanted to make sure it couldn’t turn on you before you could strike the killing blow. Do not waste any more time pretending it is otherwise.”
Jorge’s voice wasn’t raised above a conversational volume, but the severity of his tone, the hardness of each syllable struck the snarling general staff. By the time Jorge had finished speaking, he’d beaten them into submission with the steady hammer strokes of his unyielding words. Silence reigned in the conference room, and Milo failed to keep a smile from creeping across his face as he looked at the glowering officers.
The stillness stretched until Milo lost his confidence and looked at Jorge to see if things had gone too far. The colonel was a veritable bastion of serenity, settled easily into the chair while he looked without fear or challenge at every face before him. Everything about him exuded “Don’t worry, I can wait,” and Milo envied him fiercely for it.
When Ludendorff finally spoke, it sounded harsh and braying, yet there was not the anger Milo might have expected. The most powerful man in the German Empire simply sounded tired.
“Is he trustworthy, Colonel? Is this someone upon whom we can stake the fate of our Empire?”
Jorge met Ludendorff’s eyes and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, another man did.
“He’s not even German,” said a tall officer with a curling dark mustache a few seats to the right of Ludendorff. His voice did not echo the guttural noises of his fellow staffers, but there was a sharpness to the simmering baritone that couldn’t be missed. He tapped out a cigarette and nodded at the colonel as he continued.
“I’m sure Jorge had something very eloquent and witty to tell us about this sorcerer's character, but one simple fact remains,” the man continued, turning now to look at Milo with a burning intensity at odds with his otherwise calm features. “He is a Slav, a motherless Russian savage plucked from the streets of Petrograd. Try as he might, he will never be a true German, and as such, he can’t be trusted.”
The back of Milo’s neck prickled as he glared at the officer, a sensation familiar to anyone spotting an enemy for the first time. He’d heard of the Reich, felt their influence, and fought men inspired by them, but now, here, so close to the seat of ultimate power in the German Empire, he met one of their number.
The wizard, having a long experience with bullies and bigots in his relatively short life, narrowed his eyes but bided his time. Now was not the moment when he could strike a meaningful blow.
That didn’t seem to apply to Colonel Jorge, though.
“I don’t believe his parentage was asked about, Mayr,” Jorge remarked dryly. “But I appreciate how you so keenly illustrate that even a very smart man is capable of saying something very stupid if he’s determined to make an ass of himself.”
Mayr’s gaze swung back to Jorge to reply, but the colonel continued in that same even and unstoppable tone of voice. It was like a rhetorical engine driving a verbal spike with an unhurried but undeniable relentlessness.
“General Ludendorff, to answer your question simply, I say yes on both counts,” he said, his eyes meeting those of the addressee with resolution in their depths. “Milo Volkohne has proven himself to have greater honor and virtue than even he realizes, and we both know that is a rare quality in any man worthy of the name. He can be trusted to do what is right, and considering the power he wields, that is the best any of us can hope for.”
Milo knew he would look like a fool, but he couldn’t keep from glancing at Jorge. Something caught in his throat, but his emotional expenditure for the day had drained him for the next decade, so he only regarded his commanding officer with softly dewed eyes.
“But he’s not German,” Mayr pressed, his eloquence beginning to fray as his voice showed the anger in his eyes.
“If you are going to keep repeating yourself, you might want to find something worthwhile to say, Mayr,” Jorge retorted, eyes flashing in the first sign of temper he’d displayed.
Mayr slammed his fist down and prepared to launch into a scathing tirade, but a thick, hoary voice croaked loudly enough across the conference room that nearly everyone jumped at the violence of the exclamation.
“Enough, Mayr!” Ludendorff cried, his eyes boiling in the porridge that was his sweaty face.
Mayr glared at the old man, but after a surreptitious scan of the room, he sank back without another word.
“Very well, Jorge,” the general said after reluctantly turning his gaze back to the colonel. “You will have your way yet again, but remember that the terms are the same as before. Do you understand?
“Perfectly.” Jorge nodded, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Are we free to get back to saving the Empire and ending the war now?”
Ludendorff gave Jorge one more long look and shook his head, a smile working its way across his flabby face.
“Volkohne, report to Colonel Jorge immediately,” the general instructed without bothering to look at Milo. “This special conference of the general staff is hereby dismissed.”
Jorge’s hand once more descended to Milo’s shoulder, and the man drew him into a whispered conference.
“I’ve had an office cleared. We need to talk.”
Milo and Ambrose followed him down the corridors. As unhurried and unflappable as ever, he led them to a room with an ornate brass “7” over the door.
“You’ve got to be joking,” Milo groaned as he looked at the number emblazoned on the door.
“What?” Ambrose asked, following Milo’s eyes to the digit.
What is going on? Imrah whispered.
Milo looked at Jorge, who beamed at him, his weathered face beatific.
“A little inside joke between the magus and me,” the colonel said softly as he led them into the room.
It was a small space with rudimentary furnishings, the desk being a metal table with wire filing baskets stacked on either end. There was a bookshelf on one wall beyond the table, where a few dusty files sat unmolested by time or attention. The glow of the city played across the bookshelf from the slightly open window, which also circulated a cool current that kept the room from becoming miserably stuffy. One chair sat opposite the door on one side of the table, and two more sat with their backs to the door. Jorge shuffled to take the seat opposite the door, and Milo and Ambrose sank into the two remaining seats.
Jorge eased down into the chair, and Milo was once again struck by how at the turn of a moment, the colonel could transition between being in absolute control to seeming helplessly fragile. He remembered Jorge’s wry remark about being a “crippled soldier,” and once again, he wondered at the tale of Colonel Jorge before he was head of Nicht-KAT.
“It seems I did not arrive early enough to spare you,” Jorge said, giving Milo an even look. “But not so late that I couldn’t save you some of the worst bits.”
Milo and Ambrose exchanged surprised glances.
“What might the worst bits have been?” Ambrose asked. Milo realized he didn’t want to know.
“Oh, I imagine you would have been thrown in a cell and threatened with all sorts of horrible torments,” Jorge replied with about as much concern as a man might use to describe an errand he ran the other day. “You probably would have been slapped around a bit by Mayr’s bully boys, most certainly called all sorts of very rude names, and then forced to swear some ridiculous pledge or oath to the Fatherland while men were threatening to shoot you.”
Yes, Milo was quite certain he could have done without all that. He gave Ambrose a sour look, which prompted a defensive reply from the big
man.
“Well, at least they weren’t going to kill you,” he spluttered, crossing his arms. “It was all a show to try and make sure you toe the line.”
“Quite,” Jorge responded. “Needless to say, they can’t very well kill you now that they know what you are capable of. You’re far too valuable for that.”
Milo’s stomach lurched as he thought about what he was capable of, and it took considerable effort to keep the anxiety and frustration out of his voice.
“The thing is, Colonel,” he began, the words almost painful in his suddenly dry mouth, “I’m not capable of it. It was all an accident, a fluke. I didn’t know the Soviets would be vulnerable to possession by the shades I’d left, and to be honest, sir, knowing what happened last time, I’m not going to do it again.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loud,” Jorge cautioned as he nodded sagely. “But the fact that you believe that is one of the reasons I stuck my neck out for you in there.”
Human squeamishness is so quaint. Imrah’s thought slithered through his mind icily. It is a wonder your kind has survived this long.
Shut up, Milo warned. Or I’ll start using you to scrape muck off my boots.
The ghul promptly decided her council was not necessary, and he felt her consciousness sink into the essence of the cane, the closest thing she had to sleep.
Milo looked away from the momentary distraction to see Jorge watching him over steepled fingers.
“Oh, uh, thank you, sir,” Milo muttered weakly as he fought to recall the threads of the conversation. “For, uh, sticking your neck out, that is, sir.”
“Quite welcome.” Jorge nodded, but his increasingly pointed stare didn’t waver from Milo.
“Sir?” Milo asked. He had the feeling that Jorge was waiting for him to say something, but for the life of him, he didn’t know what. Milo held up his hands in surrender and stole a glance at Ambrose, who seemed to be choosing between pretending he was asleep and diving under the desk for cover.
Jorge took a deep breath and very slowly leaned forward onto his elbows, his eyes boring into Milo’s as he spoke
“Milo, I understand that you and Mr. Ambrose have a rather loose perspective on military discipline and hierarchy, and I’ve allowed you as much leeway as could be afforded and then some.”
The magus struggled to keep from wincing as he realized what was going on. He knew the collar was sliding around his neck and the slack being taken up in his leash even if he couldn’t see or feel them dangling from his neck.
“But,” Jorge continued with that fatal conjunction, and Milo felt his shoulders sag, “that ends now because you are officially under scrutiny by the general staff. It might seem silly to explain this to you, but I need to make sure you understand. The military thrives on hierarchy, one man in higher authority knowing without fail that the men beneath him will follow his orders, also without fail. If you can’t be trusted under that system, not even your incredible power will spare you from their wrath. A soldier who doesn’t take orders is a weapon that can turn on its owner, and you know what they do to a weapon like that.”
Milo didn’t like being compared to a weapon but forced a smile onto his face in defiance of the grim thought.
“Send it back home to let it live in peace?” the wizard asked with an exaggerated cheer as he grinned hopefully at the colonel. Jorge didn’t bat an eye at his attempt at levity.
“They dismantle or destroy weapons like that,” the colonel said gravely. “So unless you want someone to change their mind about you, you need to be on your best behavior after Georgia.”
“You mean Georgia, where we single-handedly ended a communist coup on the southern border of the empire?” Milo replied tartly. “Or do you mean Georgia, where we again single-handedly captured one of the most powerful Red warlords and his right-hand man to deliver to military intelligence?”
“I mean Georgia, where you risked the operation multiple times while acting in direct and belligerent defiance of a senior officer,” Jorge stated coolly. “An officer I happen to hold in some regard, mind you.”
Milo wasn’t sure which he disliked more: Jorge reminding him of the constant near-failures or stating plainly that he had regard for Captain Lokkemand. Ambrose stirred from his seat and cleared his throat, sparing Milo the burden of his thoughts on that score for the moment.
“Or maybe the Georgia where you won over the support of a powerful fey to our allies, the Shepherds, while mastering a new form of magic,” Ambrose added as though Jorge hadn’t spoken, frowning thoughtfully beneath knit brows. “Or the Georgia where we repeatedly fended off American agents and their mercenaries to save a member of that same group of allies I mentioned.”
Jorge stared at the pair, his face a practiced mask of disinterest and his eyes flat.
“My, we do sound heroic when you put it that way,” Milo said, looking at Ambrose, who smiled, white teeth flashing beneath his mustache. “Do you think they give medals out for such things?”
“If they don’t, they should.” Ambrose chuckled.
“I’m gone for a little while, and you boys start developing delusions of grandeur.” A silky voice behind Milo and Ambrose made both jump.
Before either of them could turn around fully in their chairs, Rihyani had reached between them to lay a folder on the table in front of Jorge.
“As you requested, Magpie,” she said softly as her traveling cloak brushed Milo, and her dark lips smiled teasingly in his direction.
“Thank you, Contessa,” the colonel replied as he took up the folder and began reading.
“Rihyani,” Milo blurted and made to rise, but she settled her hand on his shoulder, and he sank back into his seat.
“In a moment, darling,” the fey said softly and bowed her head to press her wine-dark lips against his mouth.
Milo’s shock turned to delight, and he suddenly felt that perhaps the travails of the day were not quite so bad after all. He took the fey’s long fingers and their hands intertwined as she stood at his shoulder.
“Nothing for your favorite cook, then?” Ambrose called, looking forlorn with a great puckered frown.
Rihyani rolled her eyes and leaned over and planted a peck on his proffered cheek.
“I’m glad to see you too, Simon,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Thank you for keeping my young rascal alive in my absence.”
“J'aurais fait n'importe quoi pour toi,” Ambrose replied before pressing a kiss on her outstretched hand. “It is good to see you again, my dear.”
“I’m glad to be back,” she said softly, then retrieved her hand and clasped it over her and Milo’s interlocked fingers. “I’ve missed you both.”
Ambrose smiled as he settled back into his chair. Milo looked up at Rihyani, who was smiling down at him. She nodded at Jorge, and Milo turned and saw that the colonel had put down the folder, and despite his best efforts, a small smile had formed on his lips.
He realized he was smiling too, and for one moment, a moment that seemed etched in stone, Milo understood that everyone he cared about, everyone he loved, was here in this small room in Berlin. The world was at war, there were nefarious schemes afoot, and danger lurked around every corner, but right then, this mad bunch was bound together in the shared joys and smiles of reunion.
For a moment, Milo wondered if all the magic he’d learned would equal what flowed between and through each of them at that moment.
But precious moments are fragile, and it soon ended. Jorge sniffed, Ambrose shifted in his seat, and the fey’s hands let go of Milo’s, though one hand settled on his shoulder.
“Yes, well.” The nearly unflappable Jorge floundered for a moment as he looked down at the folder he’d been perusing. “To business.”
“Something is going on in Russia,” Rihyani said solemnly as the colonel gathered himself. “The forests around Moscow have been dangerous for some time, but something much bigger than bandits is happening.”
Ambrose leaned forward keenly, and M
ilo felt his stomach tighten.
Thinking of Russia reminded him of the man he’d dragged as a penitent to the general staff. Milo remembered the Georgian who had once come so close to ruling all of Russia and remembered the name he’d hissed into Milo’s face on the night of his capture.
He recalled the name that burned in his mind and made the card in his pocket chafe like an iron shackle.
Milo fought to remove the swirling thoughts and emotions from his head as Jorge cleared his throat.
“Our garrison at the village of Sergio-Ivanoskye has sent some rather troubling reports, the most recent being that the nearby town of Gzhatsk was secretly emptied overnight. Given your report from Imrah about Zlydzen and his allies camping near that area, combined with Rihyani’s network of sources, I’m inclined to believe that this is something that will require your attention.”
Milo recalled the dwarrow’s declarations of his plans and damning proclamations before he’d fled in Georgia. Given the power his magical creation had in enthralling the minds of men, it was within the realm of possibility that he could enslave an entire community in a night. But to what aim? Nothing good, that he was certain of.
“We have all sorts of questions about what is going on out there but no answers,” Jorge summarized, both hands opening in front of him as though waiting for solutions to land in them. “I need you three to go there and find me some answers.”
“Have you extracted any more information from the prisoner we brought in?” Ambrose asked, not hiding his sidelong glance at Milo. The wizard didn’t begrudge him the look, though he had to batter down a surge of annoyance. They both knew it was a sore subject.
“Stalin’s interrogation results have been strictly mundane thus far,” Jorge said, looking at Milo and Ambrose in turn as though trying to keep them both in his sights like creatures that might attack.
Milo supposed if the colonel was going to make the effort, he might as well oblige.
Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) Page 6
