“Oh, I don’t think I’d ever call a captain of the Scarlet Guard just a messenger.”
This time, Tristan keeps still. It’s my turn to react, despite my training. Egan doesn’t miss my eyes widen or my cheeks flush. His deputies, Melody especially, have the audacity to smirk among themselves.
Your people. The Scarlet Guard. He’s met us before.
“I’m not the first, then.”
Another manic grin. “Not by a long shot. We’ve been running goods for yours since . . .” He glances at Melody, pausing for effect. “Two years ago, was it?”
“September 300, Boss,” she replies.
“Ah, yes. I take it you don’t know anything about that, Sheep.”
I fight the urge to grit my teeth and growl. Discretion, the orders said. I doubt tossing one up-jumped criminal from his decaying tower is considered discreet. “It’s not our way.” And that’s the only explanation I offer. Because while Egan thinks himself above me, far more informed than I am, he’s wrong. He has no idea what we are, what we’ve done, and how much more we plan to do. He can’t even fathom it.
“Well, your comrades pay well, that’s for certain.” He jingles a bracelet, nicely crafted silver, braided like rope. “I expect you’ll do the same.”
“If you do what’s asked, yes.”
“Then I’ll do what’s asked.”
One nod at Tristan sets his wheels spinning. He tromps to my side in two long steps, so fast and gangly Egan laughs.
“Stars, you’re a twiggy one,” Egan says. “What do they call you? Beanpole?”
A corner of my mouth twitches, but I don’t smile. For Tristan’s sake. No matter how much he eats or trains, he can’t seem to gain any sort of muscle. Not that it makes much difference where he’s concerned. Tristan is a gunman, a sniper, not a brawler. He’s most valuable a hundred yards away with a good rifle. I won’t mention to Egan that his code name is Bones.
“We require overview and introduction to the so-called Whistle network,” Tristan says, making my demands for me. Another tactic of the Colonel’s that I’ve adopted. “We’re looking for viable contacts in these key areas.”
He passes over a marked map, plain but for the red dots on important cities and crossroads throughout the country. I know it without looking. The industrial slums of Gray Town and New Town; the capital, Archeon; Delphie; the military city Corvium; and many smaller towns and villages in between. Egan doesn’t glance at the paper, but nods all the same, a picture of confidence.
“Anything else?” he gravels out.
Tristan glances my way, giving me one last chance to refuse this final order from Command. But I won’t.
“We will require use of your smuggling network soon.”
“Easy enough. With the Whistles, the whole country’s open to you. You can send lightbulbs from here to Corvium and back if you want.”
I can’t help but smile, showing my teeth.
But Egan’s grin fades a little. He knows there’s more. “What’s the cargo?”
With quick hands, I drop a tiny bag of tetrarch coins at his feet. All silver. Enough to convince him.
“The right people.”
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 6 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Harbor Bay, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-MARINERS led by EGAN agree to terms. Will run BEACON region transport upon undertaking of RED WEB Stage 2.
-Be advised, MARINERS aware of SG organization. Other cells active in NRT. Request clarification?
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: LAMB at Harbor Bay, NRT.
-Disregard. Focus on RED WEB.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 10 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Albanus, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-Made contacts in WHISTLE network across BEACON region/into CAPITAL VALLEY, all Stage 2 willing.
-Working way up the CAPITAL RIVER.
-Town of ALBANUS closest Red center to SUMMERTON (seasonal home of King Tiberias + his govt).
-Valuable? Will assess.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
The locals call it the Stilts. I can see why. The river is still high, flooded by the spring melts, and much of the town would be underwater if not for the high pylons its structures are built on. An arena frowns over it all from the crest of a hill. A firm reminder of who owns this place and who rules this kingdom.
Unlike the larger cities of Harbor Bay or Haven, there are no walls, no gates, and no blood checks. My soldiers and I enter in the morning with the rest of the merchants moving along the Royal Road. A Silver officer checks our false identification cards with a disinterested flicker of a glance before waving us on, letting a pack of wolves into his village of sheep. If not for the location and Albanus’s proximity to the king’s summer palace, I wouldn’t give this place another glance. There’s nothing here of use. Just overworked woodcutters and their families, barely alive enough to eat, let alone rebel against a Silver regime. But Summerton is a few miles upriver, making Albanus worthy of my attention.
Tristan memorized the town before we entered, or at least he tried to. It would not do to consult our maps openly and let everyone know we do not belong. He turns left quickly. The rest of us follow, tracking off the paved Royal Road to the muddy, rutted avenue that runs along the swollen riverbank. Our boots sink, but no one slips.
The stilt houses rise on the left, dotting what I think is Marcher Road. A few dirty children watch us pass, idly throwing stones in the lapping river. Farther out, fishermen on their boats haul glistening nets, filling their little boats with the day’s catch. They laugh among themselves, happy to work. Happy to have jobs that keep them from conscription and pointless war.
The Whistle in Orienpratis, a quarry city on the edge of the Beacon, is the reason we’re here. She assured us that another one of her kind operated in Albanus, serving as a fence for the town’s thieves and not-so-legal dealings. But she told us only that a Whistle existed, not where to find him or her. Not because she didn’t trust me but because she didn’t know who operated in Albanus. Like in the Scarlet Guard, the Whistles use their own secrets as a shield. So I keep my eyes open and searching.
The Stilts market throbs with activity. It’s going to rain soon, and everyone wants to finish their errands before the downpour. I brush my braid over my left shoulder. A signal. Without looking, I know my Guardsmen split off, moving in the usual pairs. Their orders are clear. Case the market. Feel out potential leads. Find the Whistle if you can. With their packs of harmless contraband—glass beads, batteries, stale ground coffee—they’ll attempt to trade or sell their way to the fence. So will I. My own pouch dangles at my hip, heavy but small, hidden by the untucked hem of a rough cotton shirt. Inside are bullets. Mismatched, of different calibers, seemingly stolen. In fact, they came from our own cache at our new Nortan safe house, a glorified cave tucked away in the Greatwoods region. But no one in the town can know that.