Brian McClellan - Return to Honor

“I said you should leave,” Emerson slurred.

“I’ll leave when I’m damn well ready.”

“I am your superior officer,” Emerson said. “I order you to leave.”

“And I’m a powder mage. Field Marshal Tamas is my superior officer. Remove your hand, or I will remove it for you.”

Through the whole exchange, Verundish had remained quiet. At Vlora’s threat she stood up and took Emerson by the arm. “Go sit down, Major,” she said. “You’re drunk.”

Emerson jerked his arm from Verundish’s grip and tightened his own on Vlora’s shoulder. His whole body trembled. “Remove yourself, or I will throw you out the door.”

Vlora reached up and grabbed Emerson by the front of his shirt. She kicked out with one foot, knocking his knee sideways, and brought his face down onto the table with enough force to knock the wind out of an ox. He bounced with a drunken shout, somehow still conscious, and struggled to reach for her.

Vlora leapt to her feet and hauled Emerson up to his, holding him by both lapels, then slammed him down into the table. She was half his size, but the powder trance would allow her to manhandle five men just like him. A second thumping took the fight out of him completely.

“Vlora,” Verundish said sharply.

Vlora’s hands were wrapped in Emerson’s jacket, her arms shaking with rage. She could barely see through a cloud of red.

“Vlora,” Verundish repeated, louder this time.

Vlora let out her breath and released her grip, stumbling backward. The whole room was staring at them. She’d assaulted an officer in front of dozens of witnesses. Even if she was on Tamas’s good side, she might not have gotten away with it. Now…

Verundish caught her by the arm. “Time for you to step outside,” she said.

“Yeah,” Vlora muttered. She suddenly felt very small and far away, like she was looking at her actions from another place and time. How could she let herself be provoked like that?

Vlora allowed herself to be escorted to the door, where Verundish took her by the shoulders and forced her to meet her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do to clean this up. Go on. Don’t worry about this trash. You’ve got work to do. If anyone can help you find Wohler, it’s Olem. Tell him I sent you.”

The Giggling Pig was a large whorehouse down where the Ad River flowed into the Adsea, just north of the docks in Adopest. Vlora had been in a few seedy parts of the city-either exploring with Taniel or on assignment for Tamas-but she usually stuck to the streets. She only had to open the door to see this was going to be a whole new experience.

Soldiers lounged about the great common room with prostitutes of both sexes, all in various states of undress. Like the officers, the infantry preferred to spend the night in vice when they knew they were shipping off the next day. The drink flowed freely and dice rattled. Raucous laughter filled the room, and it smelled of beer and sex.

Vlora took a deep breath of outside air and stepped inside. She half expected the whole room to freeze, turning to look at her, like when the villain steps on stage during a comedic play. But the only person who seemed to notice her was a tiny old woman in a rough-spun dress and apron.

The woman’s head bobbed in a half curtsy, taking in Vlora’s rank insignia and silver powder-keg pin with sharp eyes. “Good evening, Captain,” she said. “My name’s Madame Gourina, and welcome to the Giggling Pig. What’s your pleasure this morning?”

Vlora licked her lips, wondering when was the last time she shared a bed. Oh, right. That asshole she let seduce her, putting her in this whole mess. “I’m looking for Captain Olem,” she said.

“And who can I say is looking for him?”

“Captain Vlora.”

Gourina gave her a pained look. “Captain Olem? I haven’t heard of him.”

“Excuse me? You just asked…”

“I’m old and addled, Captain. You’ll have to excuse me, I must not have heard you at first. Now, if there’s not something I can get for you, I really must see to my other patrons.”

Vlora snorted. Did she have a reputation that reached even into this shit hole? Or… “You can tell him that it concerns Field Marshal Tamas.”

Gourina seemed to perk up at that. “Well, now. Why didn’t you say so? I’ll go see if he’s around.”

Vlora didn’t wait for the old woman to come back and find her. She followed her toward one of the many back rooms, waving pipe smoke from her face. Olem, it seemed, couldn’t be bothered if it didn’t have to do with Tamas. Not that Vlora blamed him. He had only been made Tamas’s bodyguard and aide in the last few months. He had Tamas’s ear, and that meant that everyone who wanted anything from Tamas probably came looking for him.

Gourina went down a passage at the back of the room, then knocked on a door before entering. Vlora stole up the hallway after her. She feared what she’d see inside, but she’d already come this far. An eyeful of the captain wouldn’t kill her.

She was surprised to see a rather spacious room with a round table and half a dozen men and women quietly playing cards. The room was lit by a fireplace and a handful of torches. There were two privates, a sergeant, a pair of lieutenants, and Captain Olem with his back to the open window, a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip.

Olem was a man of medium height, in his mid-thirties, with a pleasant, boyish face made serious by a neatly trimmed beard, though military regulation forbade anything but a mustache and muttonchops. He had a reputation as a soldier’s soldier, preferring to take food and recreation with the men rather than with the officers, and of course there was his Knack, which kept him from needing sleep.

Vlora imagined he played a lot of cards.

Olem’s head was tilted, listening as Madame Gourina whispered in his ear. He glanced toward where Vlora watched from the hall. A smile crossed his face-the kind a man gets when he tells himself a joke in his head-and he lifted a hand to Vlora, gesturing her inside.

Vlora squeezed past Gourina.

“Beer for the captain,” Olem called after Gourina as the madam left. “Unless you’d like something else? I don’t recommend the Starlish vodka. Tastes like troll piss.”

“Beer is fine,” Vlora said. “Thank you.”

The card game had stopped. Six sets of eyes stared at her expectantly, and Vlora was suddenly afraid of a repeat of what had just happened in the officers’ mess. Olem broke the silence. “Care to join us?”

One of the lieutenants, a middle-aged woman with short hair, cleared her throat. “We’ve got a full table.”

“Room for another chair,” Olem said, shooting her a glance.

“No thank you, really,” Vlora replied, eyeballing the lieutenant. “I just needed to see you briefly, if I may.”

Olem nodded, raising one finger. He squinted at his cards for a long, silent moment, then tossed one of them down on the table faceup.

“Son of a bitch,” the sergeant said, tossing his own cards down in disgust.

The crack of a smile appeared on Olem’s face. He gathered a handful of coins from the middle of the table and scooped them into a pile in front of him. “I’ll be back for the next round.”

Vlora followed him out into the hallway, where Madame Gourina brought them both a glass of beer. The glasses were dirty and the beer bitter, but somehow it tasted better than what she’d been drinking at the officers’ mess.

“Step into my office,” Olem said, kicking open the door across the hallway. He stopped, made a face, and said, “Let’s go down the hall.”

Vlora caught a whiff of some ungodly smell before following Olem to an empty room near the end of the corridor. He opened the window and ashed his cigarette out it, then sat on the rumpled bed, gesturing for Vlora to take the chair.