by Barb Hendee
“Those men said you would be promoted to colonel and put in permanent command here.”
When he looked back, the captain was fixed entirely on him.
“Did they?” Stàsiuo asked slowly.
“Is it true?”
With a sigh, the captain leaned back.
“Yes, I’ve had a letter from the council,” he said. “The king wants someone familiar with the border patrol, the men here, and the . . . limits under which we labor, unable to cross the stream to defend anyone fleeing the Warlands until they cross to our side.”
Every word sounded more strained than the last. It could not be easy to defend the city sitting on the border of another realm from which so many wanted to escape. Everyone knew of the Warlands and why they had been so named. Even the number of the provinces beyond those distant trees often changed as one self-proclaimed “king” or just tyrant over there sought to annex a competitor’s territory.
“I’ve been second-in-command for several years,” the captain went on. “I do not know if—when—my promotion will come. Soon, most likely.”
“That will make your past position vacant,” Tris countered, “as well as that of the dead lieutenant’s. Both positions will need to be filled. Who will make those promotions?”
Stàsiuo’s jaw muscles tightened and then released. “I will.”
This was no surprise. “Earlier today, you said you did not believe in malevolent spirits. And that the deaths may have been committed by someone within the ranks?”
“A guess, a possibility only.”
“And with your elevation comes the power to elevate others, because of your own promotion.”
“Watch yourself, young baron!” the captain said as he leaned in. “Rank only protects one so far. And I’d never harm one of my own, ‘elevation’ or not!”
A few heads turned their direction.
Tris did not react.
“I do not think you would,” he said calmly. “Or we would not be having this discussion. But others might be more ambitious. Has the motive occurred to you?”
Stàsiuo settled slowly back in his chair. “Yes. Of course it has.”
“And who would you promote?” Tris asked. “Someone now in this room?”
When Stàsiuo remained silent, it was Tris who leaned forward this time.
“Help me,” he whispered, “or I cannot help you. Who is most likely to succeed you as captain?”
Stàsiuo glanced to the left. Tris barely turned his head, looking farther with only his eyes. Beyond the food table were two smaller tables. Only one was occupied.
A dark-haired soldier the same age as the captain or slightly older sat speaking quietly with a plain-looking woman of like age.
“Tragos,” Stàsiuo said quietly, and Tris turned back. “The other lieutenant . . . the only one in this division who could replace my post, the only remaining officer.”
As he was about to ask more, Tris was stopped by a shake of the captain’s head.
“But he’s steady and solid,” Stàsiuo continued. “And he wasn’t here when all of this started. He’d been on border patrol for almost a moon.”
“Who would fill his position if he were promoted to yours?”
Stàsiuo shook his head. “I’m only replacing Curran, if I’m promoted. I can get by with one lieutenant and a captain. Simpler that way.” Then his gaze shifted toward a table. “Only two guardsmen—other sergeants—could step into the lieutenant’s post.” He paused before adding, “That’s Cotillard with the shaved head. Kreenan’s sitting to his left.”
Looking over, Tris saw two young men drinking ale with a number of comrades. One had a shaved head with strangely near-white eyebrows. The other had light brown hair pulled back at the nape of his neck in a long tail down his back.
“Are they the only sergeants?” Tris asked.
“No.”
“Then why those two?”
“Because their families have money.”
Tris turned back at the venom in Stàsiuo’s voice, and the captain was glaring at him. Tris felt no embarrassment over the insinuation in the captain’s eyes. Yes, his family had wealth, as did most nobles, but not him. But he was also well aware that an officer’s commission had a high price.
He quickly turned attention from himself. “Does either one of that pair strike you as ambitious?”
“Both,” Stàsiuo answered. “Both are second sons who’ll gain no title or lands of their own, except by the pity of an elder brother.” He paused. “Kreenan’s strong-willed but fair-minded and gets on well with the men. Cotillard’s an exceptional tracker, but he’s easily slighted, even when no slight is made.”
Tris had noted Stàsiuo seemed fair-minded as well—and also easily slighted, though he kept his temper, until his honor or reputation was impugned, even by innuendo. Both attributes could be useful and used for or against him.
Two voices grew louder, and Tris turned again as Guardsman Bródy and Sabine’s argument peaked. Bródy’s slick smile was gone.
Tris turned back, and found the captain watching the pair in open disapproval, but he didn’t appear ready to interfere.
“If your advancement is approved, how soon will it come?” Tris asked.
The answer did not come for a moment.
“Days,” Stàsiuo murmured. “A few . . . no more.”
Tris pondered the captain.
There were always those who sought to climb whatever status ladder they could, and by any means when not born to such affluence. More than once had Tris seen or heard of those willing to do nearly anything to scale such heights. Yet this man appeared reluctant—even forlorn—by the manner in which it was happening for him.
Tris looked about the room again; someone here or near was not so reluctant.
—
Mari couldn’t help feeling more comfortable sitting in the company of the soldiers than with Tris or the captain. Guardsman Farrell was friendly without being overly friendly and his dislike of Bródy showed some good sense. Rafferty was quiet, and Orlov, though bitter, was well suited to a sergeant’s role: blunt and to the point.
The argument between Bródy and Sabine grew more visibly heated.
“The captain’s going to have to do something, sooner or later,” Orlov growled, eyeing those less-than-loving lovers. “She’s gotten braver again since the colonel died.”
Mari’s full attention fixed on the sergeant. “The colonel didn’t like her?”
Farrell snorted, chuckling under his breath. “Gods no! She’s trouble, and not just for Bródy. The colonel didn’t like dealing with such things, so he made Lieutenant Curran handle it, told Curran to either run her off or make Bródy do it. But now . . .”
He looked over at the low-voiced squabble, and the humor left his face.
“She’s been looking very comfy,” he whispered, “now that the colonel and lieutenant are both gone.”
Mari’s eyes followed Farrell’s back to Sabine.
By the woman’s expression, she’d clearly just whispered something venomous at her lover. Bródy smiled just a little as he shrugged, and Sabine struck out, slapping him hard enough to whip his face aside. She was on her feet before he righted himself, and she stormed away a few steps, but then stopped.
Mari tensed as Sabine stepped back in a lunge.
Grasping the back of Bródy’s head, she pulled it back and kissed him passionately. Jerking her mouth from his, she whirled and headed for the door, not stopping this time. She was gone in an instant.
In following Sabine’s path, Mari caught sight of Captain Stàsiuo, who’d watched the woman leave. He didn’t look pleased.
Bródy flashed a smile at the two men watching him from the nearest table.
“It seems my evening plans have changed,” he said lightly. “Anyone for cards?”
The two men laughed and shifted tables to join him. Chatter in the room resumed.
Mari looked to the common room’s entrance again and stood up. “I have some things to attend. Excuse me.”
Farrell stood up as well. “Do you need an escort? May I, Miss Mari?”
Not many days past, she’d been no one, shunned by everyone else, and digging in the dirt to steal carrots. Now she was “Miss Mari,” and a soldier of the Soladran barracks was asking permission to guard her.
“No,” she replied quickly, and then swallowed, trying to find some manners. “Thank you, but I’ll go on my own.”
She started for the door again, and as she passed Tris, he looked over.
Mari shook her head once as he started to rise. She waved him off as well and continued. While everyone else finished supper or set to something else, she slipped out to track Sabine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Still sitting with Captain Stàsiuo, Tris started to rise as he watched Mari walk past. She waved him off, and then she was gone. Somehow, he kept his seat.
Stàsiuo sat watching his face.
“Pretty girl,” the captain said carefully, as if waiting for a reaction.
Tris forgot whatever he was going to ask next.
“Maybe a little exotic,” the captain added. “So, what is she to you? And don’t tell me she’s just your servant.”
Tris did not respond—did not know what to say.
He worried she might be following some lead of her own, though he had no idea what. She was clever and resourceful, but she was not him. If she had begun considering herself a hunter akin to himself, that was worse. She had no idea what she might encounter from the living or the dead. She had been stunned by his story of a youngest noble brother killing his elder siblings.
Such things and worse did not shock Tris; they were or had been a part of his world.
Mari might know her own world’s darker side, but she did not know the same of his. She did not comprehend the darkest depths of the living, let alone the dead.
“She is a recent companion,” he finally answered the captain. “I needed assistance with translation, and she was willing.”
Whatever Mari was up to, Tris had to leave her to it. He had his own lead to follow and could not abandon it until he reached its end. The two sergeants in line for promotion—Cotillard and Kreenan—interested him the most. Though both had motivation to clear their paths to advancement, he did not see why either would have targeted Brianne.
Across the room, Sergeant Kreenan rose from among others now at his table, and his long tail of brown hair swung around one shoulder.
“Sorry, no cards tonight,” he said to the others. “I’ve got duty on the wall.”
“Pity,” Cotillard answered, light from the wall sconces glinting off his head. “I wanted to win back some of that coin you took off me last night.”
As Kreenan walked away, he called, “Soon enough, but not for the next few nights.” Then he was out the door.
Cotillard chatted a few moments longer with the others at the table. Then he rose and stretched. “I’m too tired for cards anyway,” he said with an exaggerated yawn and stretch. “I’ll find my bunk early.”
Tris could not help noting the expressions of relief on the faces of the other men, and he remembered what Stàsiuo had said about Cotillard having a temper and taking things too personally. Perhaps he was not a graceful loser when it came to cards.
“This early?” one of the guards said. “Bunks are a dangerous place these days. I hope you wake up tomorrow.”
A few of the other guards winced and glanced away.
Cotillard glared at the speaker. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He sauntered out of the common room.
One of the other guards at the table looked at the man who’d spoken. “That was stupid. He may be our next lieutenant.”
The card game resumed, but the mood of that moment seemed to spread throughout the room.
“I too am weary,” Tris said to the captain. “Travel was more difficult than expected. Please excuse me.”
Stàsiuo nodded without a word, and Tris left the common room behind Cotillard.
—
Mari didn’t need to track Sabine.
There she was, still in sight down a main street into the city, though now a cloak hid most of her red gown. Her black mass of hair was easy enough to spot, along with her gait—she was graceful but still rolling her hips.
Mari hurried out of the courtyard and followed at a steady distance from her quarry. Sparse streetlamps offered just enough light for her eyes. Along the way, she started thinking again about Tris’s story of the young nobleman who’d poisoned his elder brothers in a way that looked like they’d been slain by a spirit.
That took a dark heart, which was something she knew about. Was Sabine that dark?
Back in the common room, Farrell had said that both the colonel and Lieutenant Curran had been against Sabine’s presence at the barracks. She clearly thought she had a grip on Bródy and might not stop at anything to keep that hold.
Would she think to remove anything—anyone—who tried to get between her and him? And what of Bródy and his predatory ways, hunting other women’s hearts? Would Sabine put an end to that as well? After murdering men at the barracks, it would be a short step to removing rivals like Brianne.
As of yet, Mari didn’t see how aside from the why. So she followed Sabine into the city. Shadows deepened between the taller buildings, offering Mari cover for whenever Sabine absently glanced back along her path. Soon, Sabine turned down a side street.
Mari followed.
The structures to both sides grew more dingy, filthy, and decayed with each cross street Mari passed. Her senses told her she might be headed toward the city’s northeast side. Fewer lanterns lit the way. The string of shabby dwellings and tenements to either side was broken by half-decayed shops and faded taverns.
Then Mari stalled in frustration as Sabine turned abruptly into one sloppy, slat-roofed, single-floor building on the right. When she jerked the door open, raucous laughter rolled out for an instant.
Though there was no sign out front, Mari knew it was a tavern by its stench. After approaching the front door, she hesitated. She couldn’t simply walk in. Sabine had seen her at the barracks and would spot her in an instant.
What to do? Was there a back way in? Perhaps she could slip in that way and take a look without being seen. If a proprietor or a maid challenged her, she could pay either of them off. She had money now. This thought caused her to waver. Her real goal should be watching Tris.
What had she been thinking in letting him out of her sight?
But a part of her still wanted to learn what had happened to Brianne, perhaps even avenge the dead girl if Mari couldn’t yet avenge herself.
Mari spun from the door and crept along the front wall, looking for a way around to the back. She found one between the tavern and a rickety cobbler’s shop, and she was just about to head for the tavern’s rear door when it suddenly opened.
Yellow-orange light spilled out along with a voice, which made her flatten against the tavern’s rear wall.
“Not inside; out here,” said a woman.
Mari crouched down into a ball in the darkness.
“I had a good hand going,” a low, male voice argued. “What do you want that can’t wait?”
Two figures emerged.
Sabine’s cloak was brushed over the backs of her shoulders, exposing her fitted red gown. Following her came a half-shaved, wiry man in his mid-thirties. Even by moonlight, Mari still saw his filthy clothes. Not tattered, just soiled, as if he didn’t care to wash them, let alone bathe himself, by his stink, which overrode the alley’s stench.
Reaching past the man, Sabine pulled the rear door shut.
“I have a j
ob for you,” she said.
“Tonight?”
“Or tomorrow if need be. But finish it by tomorrow night. I mean it, Raylan.”
“You can skip your tired tricks,” he grumbled, stepping in on her. “Make a promise to me and this time you’d better keep it!” His eyes moved to the tops of her breasts, pushed up by the laced bodice of her dress.
She reached slowly into her low bodice, hooked a finger into the loop of a string of leather, and pulled out a small pouch.
“I don’t need to make promises this time,” she whispered back. “I have money.”
Her hand rose up in the dark. A clink-clink-clink sounded as she poured coins into her other hand. By the angle of Raylan’s head in the dark, he still wasn’t looking at the coins at first. And then he did.
“Where’d you get those?” he asked.
“Does it matter? They’re yours if you can do it.”
“I’m not killing anyone, not for you.”
“Not kill. Just make sure anyone who looks at her face will look away just as quickly . . . for the rest of her life.”
“Ruin her face? Cut it up with my blade?”
“Did I suggest that? What a clever idea,” she returned, followed by a soft laugh. “Half now, and that’s all, until it’s done.”
A pause followed. Then Raylan asked, “Is it that Brianne?”
“No, she hasn’t been back, and he hasn’t gone to see her. I may have to deal with her later, but this is someone else.”
“Who?”
“I’m sure you’ve seen her with him at the Gray Dove. That’s where he goes to meet her. A skinny little harlot named Elora Tanner. She’s so pale she has almost no color at all. I don’t know how she’s trapped him. There’s nothing to her.”
His short laugh sounded as filthy as he smelled. “If there’s nothing to her, why come to me?”
Sabine didn’t answer that, though her voice hardened. “Will you do it or not?”
He was a little long in answering. “Give me all the money now, and I’ll get it done—you know that. I’ve got a debt to pay that can’t wait.”
Reluctantly, Sabine handed him the coins. “Not just a slash or two. I want her face ruined.”