Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“But you would never—”

“Sacrifice Elias Bram to save our realm and all of our people?” she interrupted testily. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not certain. I’d like to think I’d rise above such temptation, but as Director I still need to know our options. All of them! Even those that may be repellent. Aside from everything else, the fact that Bram might already know of Astaroth’s proposal puts you at enormous risk. Did you ever stop to consider that?”

“David did,” said Max heavily. “I’ve tried to meet with Bram, to explain and clear the air, but he was never at home.”

“I’m glad he wasn’t,” remarked Ms. Richter. “You should not meet with him alone. I will be at that meeting later today. We are going to clarify where Elias Bram stands on a number of topics, you not the least of them. Now, as long as I’m hearing confessions, are you certain there isn’t anything else you’d like to share?”

Max was mortified. “You mean like … impure thoughts?”

“No,” said Ms. Richter. “I was thinking more along the lines of Zenuvian iron. Your face assumed a rather knowing, hangdog expression when you overheard Zimm and I discussing it.”

“Oh,” said Max, flushing a deep scarlet. “I might have asked … er, ordered Tweedy to see if he could acquire some on the black market. My archers have only three arrows apiece.”

“Well,” said Ms. Richter, slipping the spypaper back into her folio, “I suppose I can’t fault a commander too badly for trying to get his troops what they need. If nothing else, it shows enterprise. I won’t have Zimm pursue the matter too strenuously, but next time let’s go through the proper channels. In any case, I’ve been thinking about your battalion.…”

As Max followed the Director back into the hall’s commotion, he saw that there were many people waiting to speak with her. She asked them to be patient as her eyes followed a distant glowsphere drifting toward the mosaic of spypaper. When it settled by a particular section, the sphere began to pulse.

“What’s happening?” asked Max.

“An intelligence update,” explained Ms. Richter, squinting. “From this distance, I couldn’t say whose report that is, but it’s from someone stationed in Blys. We’re getting news from all over—troop movements, naval estimates, Workshop rumors, counterintelligence, and everything else you can imagine. My hope is that there are names attached to this particular update. We suspect Prusias has several well-placed spies in the refugee camp, and we mean to ferret them out.…”

She trailed off as an apprentice hurried over and handed a transcription to the Director.

“Very good,” she murmured, scanning its contents with a decoding glass. Motioning for a nearby Agent, she showed him the names and offered a significant look. The man departed and Ms. Richter returned her attention to Max, leading him to stand before an enormous map of Greater Rowan that included not only the Old College, but also its outermost fortifications and all the lands in between.

Craning his neck, Max saw that it was marked with colorful labels that included the number, nickname, and standard for each of Rowan’s battalions and special regiments. There were hundreds of them. Some were old and storied companies—the Vanguard, the Wildwood Knights, the Bloodstone Circle—but others were new and the names they chose for themselves sounded more like street gangs or goblin tribes than military units. Among the many, Max spied Southgate Jackals, Tin Squires, Jawbreakers, Death Cheats, Rough and Tumbles.… His eyes drifted to the map’s northeast quadrant, where they settled upon the now-familiar standard of a black rat set against an ivory background.

“As I said, I’ve been thinking about your battalion,” said Ms. Richter. “How are your troops coming along? Tweedy’s reports are meticulous, but they read more like a purser’s list. I’d like to hear your candid assessment.”

“They’re improving,” Max allowed. “Some are very good fighters—tough, experienced. Others are totally new at this. They’re a work in progress.”

“Admirable. But can they hold that line?”

She pointed to a numbered trench set halfway between the outer curtain that protected Rowan’s outlying homesteads and the citadel walls that enclosed Old College as though it were a single massive keep. Three miles of open country and farmland separated the outer walls from the inner fortifications. The Trench Rats were one of the battalions responsible for defending that territory and preventing the Enemy from besieging Old College.

“That’s a critical stretch of ground,” she continued. “Your battalion’s close to Northgate and the sea. It’s conceivable that the Enemy could breach the cliff defenses and attack along your flank. I assigned it to the Trench Rats solely because of you, but in retrospect that might have been a mistake. I’m tempted to reassign it to a battalion that has more experience and Mystics support.”

“That’s your decision,” said Max. “But they’re a determined group. We’ll have more arrows, and don’t forget about Scathach. She’s worth a company by herself.”

Ms. Richter considered this. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll leave you there for now, but I’d like to see a demonstration of their readiness one week from today.”

“Can we have two?” pressed Max.

“One,” repeated the Director. “We may not have two weeks. One week to show me they’re ready or I’m reassigning them and you.”

“We’ll be ready,” said Max.

“I know you will,” she said. “Now go get some sleep. I will be waiting for you outside the Archmage’s chambers tomorrow at noon. Do not be late.”

Indeed, the Director was waiting outside the Archmage’s door at the appointed hour. But the Archmage did not answer when they knocked. Instead, David’s mother opened the door, looking sleepy and disheveled as Lila trailed at her skirts. Recognizing them, Emer smiled dimly and took Max by the hand, leading them past the stacks of books and maps.

“Is your father here?” asked Max. “He wanted to see me.”

The woman did not answer but merely shooed Lila away from a canister of tea leaves. Setting the kettle above the hearth, Emer sat in her rocking chair and the amiable cat settled in her lap.

“Is that Max?” called an excited voice from inside one of the bedrooms. Its door flew open and Mina came racing out, wearing an embroidered blue robe and clutching something against her chest. She came to a sudden halt when she saw the Director.

“I thought you were alone,” she murmured shyly.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Ms. Richter kindly. “What have you got there?”

Mina’s enthusiasm rekindled. “Sit down and I’ll show you!”

The little girl practically bulldozed them back onto the bench beneath the window. Once they were seated, she laughed gleefully and ordered Max to lean back and close his eyes. Once Max complied, he felt something warm being placed delicately on his chest.

“Mina, what is that?” he asked, as its surprising weight settled on him.

“Shhh,” she hissed, “just a minute.”

The weight was repositioned and Max felt something move and issue a tiny mewl. Reaching up, he touched something both soft and sharp, as though a million hairs were each tipped with a razor-sharp needle. Opening his eyes, Max looked down.

A baby lymrill was clinging to his chest.

It was no larger than a newborn kitten and yet the shockingly dense creature must have weighed more than Lila. Its quills were a glossy blue-black, but the claws that clung to Max’s tunic were red-gold and gleamed by the firelight. The animal peered at Max with a pair of coppery eyes just as Nick had done when he’d chosen Max to be his steward years before. Almost immediately, a lump formed in his throat.