“Which do you prefer: a gourmet meal or a solvent operations budget?”
Linciard opened his mouth, then shut it. They valued Benson because he knew to choose the right answer, not the indulgent one. “But shouldn't we stockpile? It's winter. If we have nothing—“
“It's winter in Illane, not winter in Wyndon. No ice, no snow. I'm told they raise their best crop over the cooler months because of the rains, so there will be no shortfalls. We don't need to fill a longhouse with supplies.”
“That doesn't mean we won't have need. Just because the merchants are selling now, doesn't mean they'll do it forever.”
“It's Illane.”
“It's—“ Linciard shot a look down the street to the northeast. Past the fountain, the Civic Plaza was full of civilians in lavish merchant attire or lawyers' robes or sober servants' gear, for it housed not just the garrison but the courts, the council house, the public scribes' offices, the defunct local press, a double dozen shops and services for the militiamen, and the half-empty debtor's jail across the road in Latchyard. All these city amenities were cupped within a raw stone basin left by the partial collapse of the Old Crown fortress above. The remaining fortress walls towered fifty feet above the jail-yard and thirty above the garrison's sheltered training ground, with a road rising between them to the plateau where the estates of the merchant-princes and the Lord Governor sat enthroned upon the ancient wreckage.
But that northeast road, called Bargeward Way, led to the river and the bridge and the Shadowland beyond. No polite price-gougers there, just cultists hunched like spiders in their web, watching. Plotting.
In his mind's eye, Linciard saw the route to that smoking hole in the ground. Straight down Bargeward Way, left on Ridge Road, right on Tomcat's Tail. A quarter-mark on horseback.
He'd been studying the maps and riding out with his patrols—switching between them as the shifts changed, trying to learn the lay of the land. They'd gone as far as the river on this side, then south to the edge of the district known as Lower Hook and west into Night Fields and the Morass, overall covering the central third of the city. A quiet, businesslike, evasive area. Even the youths who threw bricks and bottles at them were quick to disappear up stairs or down alleyways too treacherous for a horse to pass.
He didn't like it. It reminded him of the woods of northern Wyndon when the bird-calls ceased and the deer fled. Bigger predators were on the prowl.
“It's a conquest,” he told Benson, stressing each word. “It's thin ice. Let's not drown for the weight of our money.”
Benson gave him a sour look. “So you'd have me lay in winter supplies? Firewood, I suppose? Blankets?”
“Are you mocking me, sergeant?”
“I'm soliciting guidance.”
“Food, man. Food. Kegs in case someone fouls the well. Replacement gear—enough for at least a month.”
“For two hundred men? Lieutenant, we will not be snowed-in.”
He thought about the bars on the insides of the doors. “Listen, you were in the Jernizan campaign, and the first Illanic, right? But nothing where we've had to dig in, hold ground. I have. We're doing that now, so we should do it right.”
Another long look, less scrutable, then Benson pulled the quill from behind his ear, uncapped a vial of ink and started scribbling in his ledger.
Linciard exhaled and turned his attention back to the men at the fountain. From his vantage on the garrison steps, he could easily count heads, but seeing faces wasn't as easy. He wanted to memorize the roster, to be as good as the captain was about knowing the company, but those weren't his lancers; they were from the First Infantry platoon, a veritable sea of short dark Amands and broad blond Wynds.
Sergeant Benson's people and his. The backbone of the Gold and Crimson Armies.
Rallant was there at one side, overseeing the exercise. Linciard tried not to look at him. He wasn't ashamed, no; he just needed to focus on his own work. Obviously.
On the other side of the plaza, four horses stood bored at the hitch before the council house: the captain's and his bodyguards'. Linciard wasn't sure why the captain had taken them out, except perhaps to give them some fresh air. The stables were cramped, made for maybe half of the forty-five Tasgards and three Ten-Skies they now housed.
Thus why Linciard sent out lancer patrols as often as possible. He had four out right now, half a section each, getting a feel for the city. His awareness of their routes made him feel like he had phantom limbs—like if he focused hard enough, he could sense them, see through them.
In truth, his only link was to the two corporals who wore earhooks. His own felt awkward on his ear. He wasn't supposed to take it off, but he did, constantly, for fear that he'd somehow broadcast his thoughts to the rest of the company. Scryer Mako hadn't chastised him yet, but he was sure she knew.
Everything made him agitated. He wished he was back in the ranks, supplying unasked-for opinions and corralling his more combative comrades. It felt like everyone was watching him now, waiting for him to choke on his own foot or fall on his sword. And Rallant wasn't helping.
Don't think about him. Think about names. That man's Tinsmith, that one's Teppett, that one's Coromant. Wait, there's two Coromants. Which one is he?
Piking infantry...
Suddenly he didn't care. The infantrymen weren't his purview, and anyway his head hurt; it was a bad time to be learning new things. He needed to stretch his legs, give his horse a run.
“Benson, I'm going out,” he said. “Gonna join up with Skinner's patrol.”
“You can't, sir. We have business to go over.”
“I thought we just went over it.”
“Other business.” Benson flipped his ledger to a later page and said, “Lieutenant Arlin reported that the Jernizen lancers have been harassing his Drixi. He's been able to keep the Drixi in line but apparently Corporal Vyslin is having trouble reining in the Jernizen.”
Vyslin. His former lover's name rang so loud in his head that feared it would trigger the earhook. By reflex he glanced toward Rallant, but the man was a controller, not a mentalist, and hadn't stirred from watching his troops. “What, again?” Linciard mustered. “When did this happen?”
“Earlier, sir. Shift-change. While you slept in.”
Linciard winced. “Arlin's on nights, right? Vyslin and the Jernizen are on the overlap, so...”
“They should be in the mess-hall, sir.”
“I guess I should talk to them.”
“Yes.”
“Pikes.”
Benson didn't comment. His silence was enough. “All right, get on the supplies,” Linciard said irritably, turning to stomp up the steps. “I'll go do some yelling.”
“Yes sir.”
Stuck between an ex and a zealous place, he thought. Piking Jernizen. Piking Vyslin. I should split them up, but who else would take either of them?
No one but me. Only I'm enough of an idiot.
*****
Captain Sarovy nursed a cup of tea across the table from the Bahlaeran council. They had opened with sneering pleasantries before ushering him to his solitary seat, behind which his lancer-bodyguards and Scryer Mako stood as a mirror to the councilors' guards: six militiamen, a mage and the Crimson turncoat.
Houndmaster Chelaith, if memory served.
Until now, Chelaith and his platoon had been all that Bahlaer knew of Crimson rule. Sarovy let his gaze linger on the man, not concerned that the council would take it as a slight; pettiness seemed to rule here, and short of throwing his tea at them or drawing his sword, he doubted he could make things worse. He had met Chelaith only briefly, when the Lord Governor had tried to bribe and threaten him, but knowing what he did now, he saw more.
A lean man with a narrow, pointed face, yes, and wearing the noxious green Bahlaeran livery with a token Crimson lieutenant's medallion to show his provenance. But there was a glint of gold beneath the medallion, and while he did not share Houndmaster Vrallek's bulk, he had a feral gleam in his eyes. When their star
es locked, Sarovy felt the same wave of disorientation.
So, a ruengriin among the heretics. He would have to bring it up with Vrallek.
The others were less interesting. The mage looked bored; Sarovy had felt his mentalist's probe the moment he entered the room, but Scryer Mako had smacked it down in short order, and with it his apparent interest in the proceedings. The militiamen were unspectacular, and the four councilors had not changed: the gut-heavy Lord Governor in green velvet and jewels, grizzled Commander Tonner in dress armor, a merchants' guild representative named Narreth who outshone the Lord Governor by sheer number of accessories, and the prim and quite sedate Madam Lirayen, whom Sarovy gathered was a representative of the aristocracy.
Sarovy disliked both the Commander and the Governor, and they had made it clear they felt the same. The other two were civilians and thus of little consequence, though he appreciated that they listened more than they spoke. Still, if he'd had his way, he would have ignored the summons. He did not understand the need for yet another fruitless shouting match.
At least the tea was strong.
“We need the limits of your authority in writing, captain,” nagged the Lord Governor for what felt like the thousandth time. The rings on his fingers sent scintillations through the room every time he jabbed at the pile of papers. “Your General may have set you up in our garrison, but he has not presented me with any sort of documentation detailing your purpose, your purview, or even your rank relative to my men.”
“The papers will be delivered once they have been drafted,” said Sarovy calmly. “For the moment, understand that my authority extends over the whole of the militia—including you, commander. I do not intend to involve you in my operations, as I would rather you continue your standard policing duties, but if it is necessary, I will take command and deploy you as I see fit.”
It was mostly a bluff. Field Marshal Rackmar had laughed off his request for a writ of purpose, but bureaucrats, like wolves, sensed weakness and would attack relentlessly if he let on that he had no orders. The appearance of strength was essential.
“You, a captain, are to command me,” said Commander Tonner doubtfully. Despite his fancy armor, he had the steely eyes of a career soldier, and the grey that had overrun his beard only gave him more incentive to hold his ground against a usurper. Sarovy could read the man's contempt in his look—this city will chew you up and spit you out—but it did not rankle him. Privately he suspected Tonner was right.
But orders were orders, and he knew how to handle soldiers.
“As I said, Commander, I am not here to replace you, nor to particularly control you. I have my own mission against the Shadow Cult. However, should the call come from my General, I expect your full force at my disposal. Is that understood?”
Commander Tonner did not blink, did not even narrow his eyes. “I hear you.”
Which translates to 'in your dreams, interloper'.
Not unexpected. Not even unwelcome. It was good to know where he stood with these people.
“But do you have any authority over the civilians?” said Guildsman Narreth, fiddling nervously with a few of his pearl-studded chains. He looked like a walking frill display, skinny but covered in them from collar to belt like a bird trying to make itself seem bigger, and while some of his jewelry appeared to be chains of office or guild badges or other semi-practical ornaments, the rest were overwrought gewgaws. He even wore some in his oiled and curled black hair.
Sarovy could hardly bear to look at him. Just one of his gaudy jewels could have paid a soldier's salary for a year. But that was the lure of these men—these beady-eyed merchants and petty lords, flaunting their silver and gilt with such abandon. Scryer Mako had chattered something about 'elected officials' and 'garb of station' earlier, but Sarovy could not fathom it. All he saw were well-born fools.
“I have authority over civilians inasmuch as your militia does,” he said, trying to focus on the man's flat nose and not his jewelry. Beneath the glitter and powder, he was plain-looking, loose in the neck—older than he seemed. “If they behave criminally in our sight, we will arrest them. If they assault us, we will respond with commensurate force. However, we are not interested in policing them, and we will not be hunting heretics. Only the Shadow Cult.”
“I believe he is concerned about the confiscation of merchant wares,” said Madam Lirayen, “though I appreciate your disinterest in persecuting us.”
Sarovy inclined his head to her. Unlike the men, he could look at her for more than a moment without being dazzled by reflections. Not to say that she was unlovely; for a woman of late middle age, she had weathered the years well, sweet-faced and with less paint and corsetry than the Guildsman or the Governor. Her gown, a deep brown that matched her eyes and dyed hair, seemed almost aggressively plain against the men's attire, her only accessory a bronze marriage band on her ring-finger.
“We will not confiscate wares belonging to anyone other than the Shadow Cult,” said Sarovy. “With that said, if we discover that someone is hiding cult property, or supplying or being supplied by them, we will do what is necessary to break that chain. The Crimson Claw has no interest in disrupting your businesses, but if you aid our enemy, you become our enemy.”
“And if a civilian aids a...cultist?” said Madam Lirayen.
“Any who aid the cult are enemies of the Empire, Madam. But if they do not fight, they will not be harmed.”
“Only incarcerated.”
“Yes.”
“And their kin? And the kin of the supposed cultists? How many Bahlaerans do you intend to lock away, captain?”
All of them, if necessary. But that was wishful thinking; he had neither the manpower nor the space for a mass incarceration, and no interest in taking control of the debtor's jail to expand his options. “I do not intend to lock away anyone. The choice to misbehave is in their hands, but I would rather they stay out of our business so that we can stay out of theirs. As for the Shadow Cultists, we will not be incarcerating them. We have other orders.”
“Executions?” said Guildsman Narreth. “That is completely uncivilized.“
“They are the sworn enemies of the Imperial Light, and so the Light will scour them of their misdeeds. Either by the axe or at the Palace.”
“But to persecute them simply because of their faith—“
“For the greater part of two years, we have restrained ourselves,” said Sarovy. “But the situation has changed. I warn you, here and now, to cut your ties with the Shadow Cult. If you do so, we shall have no reason to target you. It is in all of our interests to cooperate, so that your Dark-touched ways may transition to those of the Light in peace.”
“And if that is not possible?” said Madam Lirayen.
“Then I imagine we will all do as we must.”
Lips thinned, eyes narrowed. Sarovy's skin prickled; he knew it was dangerous to make such threats, but if they pushed him, he would follow through. Two hundred and thirteen men under his command, and he would take on the whole city with them.
“You're a fool, captain,” said the Lord Governor. “You were a fool when first we met, and you seem determined to top that now. But so be it; if that is the Crimson Claw's new policy, we will act accordingly. I expect to see your papers as soon as they arrive.”
“Of course,” said Sarovy, setting his cup down and pushing to his feet. Though this had been far more civil than usual, he had no desire to stay. He had too much work ahead.
Drafting his own orders not the least of it.
“If you will excuse me then, sirs, madam. I assume you will send for me as needed.”
“Indeed,” said the Lord Governor.
And just like that, the four councilors turned away to bicker amongst themselves. The cold shoulder could not have been more obvious. Only the militiamen and Houndmaster Chelaith still watched him, the latter with a smirk on his lips.
Sarovy took a moment to adjust his uniform coat, then tugged the winged star pendant to the fore. Brus
hing it into place atop the coat, he stared at Chelaith and saw the illusion peel away, the man's mouth becoming a slice in white chitin, his eyes dark beads, his hair a crest of spikes.
As if sensing Sarovy's perception, Chelaith closed one eye in a slow, insolent wink.
Irritated, Sarovy let the vision fade, but left the pendant out. He had no need to hide.
At his gesture, one of his bodyguards opened the door, and he strode out with Scryer Mako on his heels and the bodyguards stepping swiftly in his wake. Beyond, the council house seemed almost palatial: Thundercloak marble floors, stained glass windows and chandeliers, imported rainbowwood furniture and copious amounts of gilt, all burnished by the morning glow. Its luxury made his jaw clench.
Two militiamen lurked at the bottom of the main staircase, and Sarovy cast them an evaluating glance as he descended with his escorts. They seemed uneasy, and from the way their eyes flicked from each other then up to him, he felt a sudden regret for not pulling on his chainmail this morning.
“Sir, uh, captain sir?” said one of them as he set foot on the main floor.
He paused, and immediately his lancer-bodyguards bracketed him, Scryer Mako at his back. “Yes?” he said, considering their faces. There was something familiar...
“Uh, I'm Ven Rynher,” said the first, “and this is Jouni Beltras. You... We were down in the tunnels with you lot when you fought those metal things, sir. You dragged us into the room. I dunno if you remember...”
Staring at their anxious, earth-dark faces, Sarovy saw again the metal plate dropping to seal off the exit, saw the copper and iron statues come to life. Saw the gore that shellacked the hallway when they finally raised the barrier again.
Two militiamen out of the nearly twenty that had followed him down.
“I remember,” he said tightly.
“We just... That is, we saw you lot were back in town but there wasn't time before now to come and, y'know...” He trailed off awkwardly, then stuck his hand out. “We just wanted to say thank you, sir.”
'Caution,' came Scryer Mako's thought-whisper, but he already knew what this was. Beltras hovered at his comrade's shoulder, hands hidden, and Rynher himself had half-turned when he offered his hand, his left concealed behind his back. Even the offering—a shake instead of a soldier's fist-bump—spelled deception. Rynher meant to clasp his right arm and hold him while one or both of them stabbed.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 9
