by Edward Nile
"Isn't what they're doing treason?" Paulson continued.
Samuel sipped his coffee. Black and bitter, not how he usually took it, but it fit his mood. "There is nothing illegal about disliking your government or speaking for the other side. This is Arkenia; they can say what they want."
Glass shattered, one of the mob's thrown rocks smashing through a window pane in the balcony door next to the two men.
"Whatever you say, Senator." Paulson pulled out his flask and undid the top.
"Didn't you have enough whiskey last night?" Samuel asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
"Absolutely." Paulson poured amber liquid into his tea and stirred. "This is brandy."
Samuel felt like rolling his eyes, but it would only encourage the man. Instead, he looked out into the daylight, watching the curtains billow in a summer breeze, the plants lining the balcony's flower beds rustling.
He thought about shutting the glass doors, if nothing else than to muffle some of the protester's chanting and shouted insults. But that felt far too much like hiding, and Samuel Mutton had been forced to do far too much of that for his taste as it was.
“I know I’ve asked this before,” Paulson said, setting his cup down after a sizeable sip. “But do you think you might—"
“I won’t reconsider.”
“Hanging is for spies and traitors, Sam.”
“And James Edstein is a traitor, no matter how noble he believes his cause to be. Not only a traitor to Arkenia, but to agreements his own side made. Those were good men out there, Edmund. Mowed down, crushed by…” He didn’t want to think about it, not again. To imagine vulnerable human flesh pitted against the unfeeling iron of a Warsuit, as helpless as infants… Every time he was reminded of it, Samuel’s blood boiled with anger. “No, it’s not my place to reconsider. If Edstein wants to change his fate, he will agree to my terms. Terms that are far too generous, in my estimation.”
Paulson drained his cup and looked at Samuel with sad, bloodshot eyes. “Would his father have done so, in his shoes?”
Samuel’s hand clenched. “Heinrich Edstein didn’t live to see his country take up arms against itself. I cannot speak for the dead.”
“But a son can speak for his father, and that’s what James Edstein is doing. To expect him to do any less is foolish.”
“I beg your pardon? Is my subordinate to insult me now, in addition to drinking on duty?”
Paulson waved off the rebuttal. “Don’t feign a thin skin just to change topics. You’ve offered your prisoner a lifeline you know he won’t take. He can’t.”
Samuel took another draught of coffee. “I have faith, Edmund. I believe reason will prevail before tomorrow dawns. Edstein will choose life.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then my conscience will be clear when he swings.” Samuel put more conviction in the statement than he felt. Heinrich had been a good friend, a fine comrade. If things turned for the worse, Samuel knew he’d have some ghosts haunting his dreams. They’d keep the ones he already bore company.
The door to Samuel’s parlor swung open.
“I suppose none of this fazes you?” Leanne Mutton trotted in, her footsteps muffled by the woven rug. Her skirts rustled about as she brushed past Samuel to look out beyond the balcony. “They’re protesting for a soldier’s honor, a patriot’s honor, crying themselves hoarse on behalf of your friend’s son whom you’d see hang.” She spun to look at their table derisively. “And you’re sitting down for afternoon tea, listening to it all.”
“Would you have me weep instead?” Samuel met his wife’s acerbic stare. “Or would stoppering my ears and locking myself in my bedchambers suffice?”
“I would settle for you not being such a fool, but that would be asking too much.”
“That’s the second time today someone who’s supposed to support me has called me a fool. Maybe you should both vote against me in the next election, if you’re so convinced of my ignorance.”
Leanne sniffed. “You assume I voted for you to begin with.”
Samuel sighed. For all her acidity toward him, Leanne was still beautiful in his eyes. They’d both aged over their nearly thirty years of marriage, though Leanne only bore a hint of the gray which dominated Samuel’s hair and mustache. It didn’t matter how old she grew or how many creases appeared in the corners of her eyes. She would always be the most gorgeous woman in the world. Samuel’s wife, his most cherished partner, the center of his world.
And she hated him.
If there was one thing about this blasted war that pierced Samuel above all else, it would be the estrangement it brought between him and his wife. Samuel had gone so far as to offer a divorce, painful as the notion was, but Leanne refused. And that gave Samuel a spark of hope that he could get his Leanne back. A spark which spluttered on the verge of being extinguished with each passing day. Especially since James Edstein, the Ironshield, had been brought into Samuel’s custody.
"Whatever your feelings on the matter, M'am, the senator is a servant to Arkenia," Paulson said. "I'm sure even you wouldn't suggest he desert his post in the middle of a war, even to defect to your preferred side."
"If I want the opinion of a drunk, I'll go to a tavern, secretary," Leanne snapped. "Of course I don't want a defector for a husband. I would, however, appreciate a man who was able to see when his side was in the wrong."
"But we aren't," Samuel said in a tone that brokered no rebuke. "A path to peace between us and Xang was offered, and in good sense, our president agreed. The Industrialists are trying to drag us back into that wretched war simply so they can keep weapons none of us should ever need again." He shook his head. "But I've said all this before."
"And you were wrong then, too."
"Ironshield! Ironshield!" The chanting outside grew louder.
Another stone clattered onto the balcony. Samuel didn't bother to go take a look. No doubt the scene was the same now as it had been all day. A crowd surging against the line of soldiers set before the Senate House gates, waving about that infernal Gearsword flag and clashing with angry, outraged Southern patriots all the while.
There were provisions by which Samuel could have the mob forcefully dispersed. He could order dozens of arrests under suspicion of treason and spare himself the headache.
But that would go against every ideal Arkenia stood for, and whatever the Industrialists or their sympathizers chose to say about him, Samuel was a patriot. He would not help turn his nation into the dictatorship the Northerners believed it was heading toward. He would not prove Orvid’s flock right.
"I suppose you've come to ask me to change my decision about Edstein as well, Dear. Or are you just here to add to my woes?
"You add to those yourself. I'm only here to ask that you talk to your men. They’re growing overzealous with the protesters."
Somewhere along the Senate House's northern face, another window broke.
"Right. Those poor, peaceful protesters throwing rocks and calling for my head. They burned an effigy of me last night, did they not?"
"It was a good likeness, too," Paulson said between sips from his flask. "They got your mustache just right."
Leanne sniffed. “It’s barely noon, have you no shame? What would Ellen say?”
Paulson’s mood changed in an instant, his bemused expression deepening into a scowl. “Senator, may I be excused?”
A servant entered before Samuel had a chance to reply, rolling a silver cart with two covered trays.
“Oh, Mrs. Mutton, I wasn’t aware you’d be attending. Please allow me to fetch you a plate.”
“Don’t bother,” Leanne said, in equal parts for the servant and Paulson. “I was just stepping out.” Her skirts whisked about as she passed the cart, her stance one of haughty indignance from her perfect auburn-gray curls to her shining white shoes.
Samuel watched her go. Even through five layers of skirt, he thought. There’s just no hiding quality.
“I’d say do
n’t ogle, but a man has to get something out of marriage.”
Samuel considered rebuking his friend, but flashed a grin instead. “More and more, I fear that ogling’s all I’ve got left,” he said as the servant placed their trays on the table. “At least I have an excellent subject for these old eyes.”
“Ever the hopeless romantic.” Paulson lifted the top of his tray while the door clicked shut behind the departing servant. He rubbed his nose. “God above, is that ever strong.”
Samuel didn’t need to uncover his own bowl to catch a whiff of the spices. A Xangese recipe, as he’d requested be served all his staff during the past week as a gesture of unity between the formerly warring nations. President Davids was imposing a similar policy in the capital at Arkenridge. “It’s good for you, my inebriated friend. Might clear your head.”
“Bah! If I wanted a clear head, I wouldn’t be drinking in the first place.” All the same, Paulson picked up his fork and dug in. He ignored the pair of sticks the Xangese favored as eating utensils. Still struggling with them himself, Samuel didn’t blame his secretary.
Shouting continued out in the street. It sounded like a fight was breaking out.
Samuel stood and picked up his tray. “Enjoy your lunch, Edmund.”
“Where’re you headed?” Paulson asked around a mouthful of food.
“I’ve lost my appetite. When you’re done, send a message to the guards. Tell them to take it easy on the fools outside. A full-blown riot in the street is the last thing we need.”
“I can have that disposed of for you,” Paulson said with a nod toward Samuel’s tray.
“Thanks, but no.” He walked to the door. “I’m going downstairs to see if the Ironshield is hungry.”
Paulson chuckled as Samuel stepped out. “Brilliant, Sir.”
In the basement, Nicholas saluted Samuel. The young soldier was the only surviving member of Striker Crimson’s ten honor guards. The rest had been slaughtered during the disaster at Graytop Hills after pushing to the head of the column, as was their custom when their commander was on the field. Few other than Nicholas now knew Striker Crimson’s identity. Samuel had asked for the lad’s transfer to the Edinville Senate House, to keep him out of harm’s way.
“At ease,” Samuel said. “Heard anything out of the prisoner?”
“Not a peep, Senator. He’s just been sitting in there, plucking away at his coat.”
“Very well. I’ll go in and see him.” Plucking? Edstein had insisted on the return of his uniform. Why tamper with it?
Pulling a heavy set of keys from his belt, Nicholas found the correct one and opened the steel door to the holding cell.
“No, lad,” Samuel forestalled Nicholas before he could enter ahead of him. “I’ll speak to him alone, this time.”
“Sir?”
“It’s alright son. I’m an old dog, but I’ve still got bite.”
Nicholas smirked. “No doubt about it, Sir. I’ll be right outside.”
“Good. Thank you.” Samuel stepped past Nicholas into the dark room. The door clanged shut behind him, and he was alone with the prisoner. With the Ironshield himself.
Above a thick growth of beard, James Edstein’s eyes followed Samuel as he laid the tray on the floor and slid it toward him. The Ironshield’s gaze didn’t so much as flicker toward the food. Edstein didn’t make a sound.
More of this, then. The Northern commander vacillated between the silent treatment one day, to shouts and threats the next. But so far, James Edstein hadn’t attempted to escape. After all, where would he flee to, now that the Northern president had forsaken him as well?
Samuel focused on a new detail, something missing from Edstein’s coat. The garment was black wool in a military cut, embroidered with silver braids of rank beneath the lapels. Medals had been removed to preclude any chance of the Ironshield turning them into weapons or tools of escape.
One thing was different today. Edstein had indeed plucked at the coat, all but completely removing the Gearsword symbol from the left breast, leaving only the Ironshield symbol -a shield-shaped border of rust-colored thread set around the Gearsword- untouched.
Edstein was, if Samuel didn’t miss his guess, disillusioned with his superiors. Maybe with the Industrialist cause itself, though Samuel wouldn’t count on it. Either way this was an opening, one Samuel Mutton would do his best to exploit. For the good of his country.
**
“New look?” Samuel Mutton gestured at what remained of the Gearsword symbol on James’ coat.
James didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to let the Appeaser get under his skin again. The least I can do come morning is go to the gallows with some dignity.
“Must be difficult, wearing a symbol you fought so hard for, only to have your leaders leave you for the wolves. In your place, I think I would be questioning many of my suppositions.”
James couldn’t help but scoff. He spread his arms out. “Want to know what this feels like? Just put yourself up in one of these rooms a few months. I’ll trade you.”
The senator nodded. “Still being stubborn, I see. You’ve inherited more than just your father’s looks.”
James’ jaw tightened. “Getting real tired of you bringing him up.”
“I can’t help it.” Samuel Mutton clasped his hands behind his back and paced. “All throughout this war, the thought that repeats itself through my mind is ‘what would Heinrich say?’ The man didn’t like losing people, didn’t like putting his own soldiers in harm’s way. That, in point of fact, was what earned him his title, ‘Ironshield.’ The man was named before his Warsuit, because Heinrich Edstein put himself between his men and danger whenever possible.”
“Doesn’t sound like a man who’d abandon his people to save his own neck,” James replied. He wondered if that story, about the origins of the Ironshield name, was true. He supposed he’d never find out for sure.
“He wasn’t a man who would die needlessly, either, least of all if that meant getting more of his countrymen killed. You’ll pardon me for speaking on behalf of a fallen friend, but I think your father would see this as selfishness, not loyalty. If you hold to your misplaced pride, the war goes on after your death. People will suffer. Maybe that’s worth it for you, so long as the North wins, but they won’t. You and I both know that, all of Arkenia knows it. Betraying the War Codes bought you time at the cost of your own honor, but the fact of the matter remains. The Industrialists don’t have enough men.”
“And you don’t have enough Warsuits,” James replied, his tone even. “That’s why Davids called for those ridiculous codes to begin with. To rob the North of the one advantage it had. All covered in moralizations to paint us as villains if we refused to roll over and let ourselves be hamstrung. Orvid should never have signed your damn treaty.”
“But he did.” Mutton’s voice filled the small room, his mustache bristling with each heated word. “He did, and our men, Arkenian men proceeded with that in mind. They marched, secure in the knowledge of an agreement made by both sides. And you broke that agreement in defiance of your own Commander in Chief’s orders.”
James shook, his body primed with the urge to get to his feet and throttle this man who claimed to speak for his father and his country. “I’d do it again,” he hissed instead. “And if the Industrialist army has any sense, they will too.” He put a hand to the cold wall and rose to his feet.
Mutton didn’t move or flinch, keeping his hands behind his back as he regarded James.
“You still don’t understand, Mutton, or you pretend not to. Coming into my cell with your righteous fury, telling me what I should and should not have done. Because no matter how many times me or anyone else tells you, you refuse to listen. This isn’t a war of mutual aggression. We never agreed to fight our brothers. All the North has done, time and time again, is tell you people to leave us alone. I told your masked puppet to do so at Graytop, but he chose to advance. And even after all the horseshit you and your ilk have caused us, the o
ffer still stands.
“If the Southern Provinces want to disarm themselves on Lytan orders, they can,” James continued. “But cease this crusade to make us do the same. Because if you don’t, even Orvid will see he can’t keep playing nice, and Graytop Hills will pale in comparison to the wrath the North brings on your heads that day.” Wrath. Saying the word conjured memories of his mother. Iron Wrath, it had been the name of Emilia Edstein’s Warsuit. James’ mother had died shortly before her husband, but the spirit of Wrath lived on. It had to.
Mutton pinched the bridge of his nose, a surprisingly vulnerable gesture out of his usual character during these visits.