Brian McCLELLAN - The Autumn Republic

Nila didn’t like the idea at all. She was already wet, tired, dirty, and she’d twisted her ankle. A seven-mile walk in the dark sounded horrible. “And the boy?”

“I have to kill him,” Bo said.

“No!”

“We have no choice. We can’t let him go. He’ll run back to Hilanska and tell him the letter was taken. I’ll make it quick.”

“You bloody animal! I will not let you do that.”

“And how will you stop me?” There was a challenge in Bo’s voice.

Nila felt her hands stiffen and thought of the blue flame that had danced over her fingers. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t use sorcery against Bo. He would toss her aside like garbage. “He’s an innocent. I’ll make you kill me first.”

A sour look crossed Bo’s face and he looked from her to the boy as if considering how best to move her out of the way.

“We can take him with us to the Wings’ camp and hand him over to them,” Nila said. “We won’t have to kill him and he won’t be reporting to anyone.”

“I don’t like having a tagalong.”

“You let me bring Jakob.”

“Not here, I didn’t. We left him with Adamat’s family so he wouldn’t be a burden.”

“And we’ll only have this boy until we reach the Wings’ camp. Do you want more blood on your hands?”

Bo stared at his gloves for a moment before giving a curt nod. “Bring him. But we lose him at the Wings’ camp.”

It was around seven o’clock in the morning, the tall grass still bathed in dew, when Adamat, Oldrich, and their fifteen soldiers trekked into the Wings of Adom mercenary camp.

The mercenaries were camped around a town called Billishire, not more than thirty miles from the edge of the Black Tar Forest. Their standard of a saint’s halo with gold wings on a red backdrop waved from the steeple of the town’s only church, and the entire camp had been fortified by a hastily built palisade wall and a ditch six feet deep.

Adamat forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, exhaustion weighing him down as the night retreated. He went straight for the first sentry he saw and came up short, letting the man eye him suspiciously for several moments before speaking.

“Inspector Adamat here to see Brigadier Abrax,” he said.

The sentry was a middle-aged man with a fixed bayonet. His red-and-white uniform was clean and pressed, and the gold trim glittered in the early light.

“I’ve no orders regarding you,” the sentry said. He eyed the small troop of soldiers and their trail through the grass that led off into the distance as if not quite sure what to make of them.

“I’m here on behalf of Field Marshal Tamas.”

The sentry’s skepticism deepened. “The field marshal is dead.”

“Is he now?” Adamat asked, giving the man his very best deadpan expression of annoyance. He imagined that it looked like a tired squint. “We’ve walked all night and I have urgent news for the brigadier. I have a letter of introduction from Colonel Etan of the Twelfth Grenadiers of the Adran army.”

The sentry regarded Adamat another moment before looking over Oldrich and his men. The soldiers had shed their grenadier disguises but kept the rifles, and despite not having slept for twenty-four hours, they looked sharp enough to play the part.

“I better escort you in, then,” the sentry said.

For the second time in as many days, Adamat was led into the heart of a military camp. They were handed off to another sentry, and then to a major’s adjutant – a young woman with blond hair and an easy smile – who took them to the church that Adamat had spotted earlier in the center of the town.

The camp was just beginning to stir, cookpots going over the fires and camp laundresses finishing their night’s work. The stillness gradually gave way to the bustle of camp life as the men crawled from their beds.

Adamat caught the sleeve of the adjutant just before they reached the church. “I’m the only one who needs to see the brigadier,” he said. “Is there any chance you could show some hospitality to my escort?”

The adjutant gave a quick nod and beckoned to Oldrich. “Take your men over to the Willow Inn, just past that house there. It serves as the officers’ mess in the evenings, but they’ll be happy to give you breakfast. Tell them that Brigadier Abrax will cover the tab.”

“My thanks,” Adamat said once the soldiers had gone off in search of the inn.

“Of course,” the adjutant said. “We show the same hospitality our brothers-in-arms have shown us. And Field Marshal Tamas has been good to us.”

Adamat wondered how, exactly, Tamas had been paying the Wings of Adom. The newspapers had whispered of bankruptcy in the capital for months.

Inside the church, Adamat was shown to one of the pews, and the adjutant disappeared. He sat quietly with his hands in his lap, examining the stained-glass windows behind the pulpit. The largest window depicted Kresimir floating high above South Pike Mountain, his arms spread over the whole of the Nine. His brothers and sisters gathered at his feet, helping him in the formation of the Nine Nations. Adamat wondered how being at war with Kresimir himself would change the Kresim religion in Adro.

“Inspector?”

The voice brought Adamat out of an uneasy sleep, and he realized he’d been leaning his head on the pew in front of him. He rubbed vigorously at his forehead to remove the red line it likely caused and got to his feet. “Yes?”

“The brigadier has just begun her breakfast. She’s asked you to join her.”

The idea of breakfast nearly made Adamat faint. He’d been so incredibly sore and sleep-deprived all night that he hadn’t thought of food, but the very mention of it made his stomach growl as loud as a cave lion.

He was taken across the street to what would have probably been the priest’s house, a two-story building with a brick façade and green shutters, and he was shown into the dining room.

Adamat was surprised to see a familiar face sitting at the head of the table: Lady Winceslav, the owner of the Wings of Adom. She wore the white uniform with gold sash of a Wings brigadier – a formality, if Adamat were to guess. She didn’t have experience of command.

Brigadier Abrax sat at the foot of the table, also wearing white and gold. She stood when Adamat entered. “Inspector.” She regarded him blandly, her stern face unreadable.

“Brigadier,” Adamat said, shaking her hand. “And my lady, I didn’t realize you were here.” This could complicate things. Abrax had a reputation for severity, but Adamat still hoped to cajole her into helping him. Lady Winceslav would stand for no such cajoling.

“Inspector, I’m told that you have word of Tamas.” Winceslav raised a cup of tea to her lips.

Adamat swallowed, noting that he had not been asked to sit. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I do not.”

Winceslav’s face fell. “The adjutant said that you had implied as much.”

“I didn’t mean to mislead,” Adamat said. “I simply said I was here on behalf of Field Marshal Tamas.”

“I see.” Another sip of tea. Still no invitation to sit. “And what orders has the late field marshal given that you still feel pressed to follow through?”

Adamat filed through his memory, looking for an order, whether spoken or written, that Tamas had given before his disappearance into Kez. “Well, none, my lady.”

Winceslav gave a slight sigh. Abrax narrowed her eyes at him. Both remained silent.

“My lady, I…”

“The last time we met,” Winceslav said, “you were investigating me for treachery. I understand you were following orders, but it doesn’t leave us on the best of terms. I hope you have something good to say.”