Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘It’s a gods-rutting fortune, Steven, and you’re finally going to get to spend it buying safe passage to Pellia.’

‘With my money?’

‘Your stolen money, yes,’ Kellin said. ‘Pellia is a long way.’

‘But you’re not buying safe passage to Pellia,’ Gilmour interrupted.

‘Demonpiss,’ Garec said, ‘make up your mind.’

‘You are buying safe passage to Averil.’

‘Averil?’ Kellin said, surprised. ‘But that’s nearly a Moon’s walk from Pellia.’

Garec grinned, finally understanding. ‘We’re not going to Averil, Kellin.’

‘Well, where in the gods-rutting… oh, I see. We get him out to sea; we pick up these two, and we renegotiate our destination.’

‘Renegotiate.’ Gilmour was pleased. ‘I like that way of putting it. Yes, I do.’ He dug in his pack for a pipe and a tin of Falkan tobacco.

Steven said, ‘You are a nefarious old man, Gilmour.’

‘I am not!’ He lit his pipe with a gesture and a ring of smoke encircled his head. ‘This fellow was less than two hundred Twinmoons old. I’m as young as you.’

Kellin frowned. Something wasn’t right.

‘What’s the matter?’ Now Garec did put his arm around her.

‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘What doesn’t, my dear?’ Gilmour puffed while he spoke.

‘Why go to all the trouble of finding your boat and sailing the length of the fjord if all you’re going to do is join us on whatever vessel we hire for the trip?’

‘Because I’m betting that whatever I encountered on the Ravenian Sea yesterday is not the only shipment making its way north.’

‘I get it,’ Garec said. ‘Mark might look for you two, but what he’ll find is-’

‘Just another ship radiating magic,’ Kellin finished Garec’s thought.

‘Exactly.’

‘Like I said, Gilmour, you are a nefarious old-’

‘Young.’

‘Young man.’

Garec laughed. ‘All right. I understand, but either way, I think you should give us twelve days. There’s no telling how long it will take us to find a ship and a willing captain.’

‘Fine,’ Steven said, ‘we’ll make it twelve days, off the mouth of that fjord where I found you when I came back from Denver.’

Garec glanced at Kellin. ‘That will give us a little time to look for Versen.’

‘And maybe Sallax,’ Steven added.

‘Right. We might get luck-’

‘Wait,’ Gilmour cut him off. He stared west, his eyes focused on nothing.

Steven felt the magic gurgle to life; something was coming.

‘What is it?’ Kellin looked nervous but moved away from Garec, making more room to fight if necessary.

‘It’s Mark,’ Steven said.

Gilmour nodded. ‘The table’s open. Brace yourselves.’

Major Tavon didn’t look tired, though she had been awake for days, but spry, well-rested and cheery. However, her uniform, unchanged in as many days, was filthy, accompanying what Captain Blackford assumed was the breakdown in Tavon’s mind. Her shirt was untucked, her leather belt and boots mottled with mud and neglect, and she looked as though she had been beaten up by a gang of dockers. It was clear that the once-excellent soldier had been taken over by a destructive force that had driven her to retrieve the stone artefact, whatever it was, and see it safely to Orindale. If we’re even staying in Orindale, Captain Blackford thought.

Major Tavon stood outside the boxy living-quarters stacked on the aft end of the westbound barge like so many discarded crates. She was standing a silent vigil; she hadn’t moved from her place in front of the centremost wooden door. She had instructed Blackford, Hershaw and the single platoon of soldiers accompanying them to make fast the granite relic for their journey downstream.

Colonel Pace had come as quickly as he could to Wellham Ridge. When news reached him that the major had murdered several men and then taken the battalion into the foothills without orders or any communication with any senior officers, he had mustered a company of soldiers, including one squad of the disgusting but brutally effective Seron warriors, and made the trip east in hopes of quelling the unrest.

Major Tavon had killed him with a glance. Like Captain Denne, Colonel Pace’s body was left looking as though he had been torn open by wild animals. One look from her had quelled the company commander accompanying Pace. Even the Seron seemed to know better than to mobilise against the wiry little woman. With Pace dead and Captains Hershaw and Blackford standing by, it didn’t take the colonel’s Orindale security force long to understand that if they crossed this woman, they would die.

Before leaving Wellham Ridge, Major Tavon had appointed the company commander, a captain from Averil named Regic, battalion commander, promoting him to major in an impromptu and illegal ceremony. She then ordered him to take what remained of her battered and footsore battalion along with his own platoons and march them all to Orindale’s southern wharf. When the newly appointed officer asked why, Tavon silenced him with a glare. ‘You will find out when you arrive, Major.’

‘Er, ma’am… you do understand that by taking the entire battalion to Orindale I am essentially abandoning our position in southern Falkan.’ Major Regic looked as though he would rather have been lashed to a torture-rack than be standing here before this foul-smelling, possessed woman.

‘It is of no matter any more, Regic,’ Major Tavon replied. ‘It’s time for this occupation force to move on.’ She turned to leave.

‘To move on, ma’am?’ Regic said hesitantly.

‘To move on,’ Tavon repeated, then shouted for Captain Blackford, who was never far away. ‘Come with me,’ she told him. ‘We need to get messages to Rona as quickly as possible. We’ll need riders, six of our best-’

‘We don’t have many left in any condition…’ His voice died away as he blanched and beads of sweat broke out along his hairline: he had interrupted her.

Tavon stopped, stood ramrod-straight and said, ‘I hope you realise what will happen if you ever do that to me again, Captain.’

Blackford swallowed; it seemed to take avens for his throat to open far enough to speak. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good. I don’t care what condition they’re in. I want them ready to ride for Rona. This far east it seems a shame to wait until we’re in the capital.’

‘Good point, ma’am.’

‘Now, if you and Major Regic are through second-guessing me, I would like to get our cargo loaded on the first barge ready. Bring Captain Hershaw and one platoon of our healthiest soldiers.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The captain saluted. After her dough-headed forced march into the foothills, he knew without checking that there was not a full platoon of healthy soldiers left in the battalion. No matter; he and Hershaw would scrape together the strongest of the lot and encourage the major to grant them some much-needed rest on their journey downriver.

Now, standing a post on the barge Tavon had chosen to carry her precious cargo safely into Orindale Harbour, Captain Blackford watched large clumpy snowflakes fall on the Falkan capital in one of the coastal city’s rare snowstorms. The flakes dusted Major Tavon’s head and shoulders; she didn’t bother to brush them off. Blackford marvelled at how whatever it was that had purloined his commander’s body could stand so still for so long, staring out at nothing, perhaps seeing nothing, even ignoring the snowflakes that clung to her lashes and melted into her eyes. Tavon didn’t blink.

The barge passed through the city towards the harbour. Blackford and Hershaw huddled in one of the shack-like cabins. It was clear the major did not plan to remain in the capital very long. Before dispatching riders east towards the Merchants’ Highway and the Ronan border, Blackford had sneaked a look at one of Tavon’s hastily scribbled messages: using Prince Malagon and General Oaklen’s names, she had ordered the entire occupation army in the Eastlands back to Pellia as soon as ships could be commandeered and safe passage ensured. With a northern Twinmoon coming, tides would be high in the archipelago. If the army was needed in Malakasia, there would be no better time to order them all home than now.