10. Chapter 10

First feelings are always the most natural.

The morning following his death, Captain Jean-Michel Courbis was buried a mile outside Italica's still damaged walls under a wooden cross hastily cobbled together by the regimental carpenter. It was one of the few proper graves outside of Italica, as most casualties from the siege had been buried in mass graves, and the cross stood out amidst a vast plot of farmland.

Jacques stood silent, and so did the entire Ninth Company, as Courbis was buried. They were all there. One hundred and fourteen men. Men who'd grumbled about Courbis's decisions and cursed him behind his back. Men who'd been reprimanded and punished by the captain. Men who loved him.

When the body was buried, Jacques was approached by Courbis's direct superior, Major Damien Beauregard. The major had paid his respects to his subordinate and wanted to know what had happened. Jacques told Major Beauregard that the captain had slipped and fallen, a freak accident in the night, because the truth would have caused Beauregard to intervene in the matter, and that would hinder the plan. The major didn't need to know. Easier that way.

There was some speaking. Major Beauregard gave a long speech about duty, honor, and how Courbis exemplified those traits. Astier and Vidal both made short addresses. Jacques was certain he said something too, but an hour later he couldn't remember two words from it. He was distracted. Focused on things which seemed much more important and meaningful to Courbis than empty words said at a funeral. He had an idea. A stratagem.

Later, after the burial, they returned to their barracks. Major Beauregard granted them a day to rest before they would have to return to regular duties in honor of the late captain. Very few in the Ninth Company rested.

Instead the men were preparing. Bayonets were sharpened. Boots repaired. Kits modified. To an outsider, it would have appeared that the company was on the eve of battle, not resting in garrison.

Jacques used that time to sleep. He was tired and knew that it was affecting his abilities. Sleep was a necessity for success, and Jacques did not intend to fail. He would do this because it had to be done. Something required it.

He expected to lie tormented with images of Moscow, but instead fell asleep at last.

Night came quickly. The company was ready to execute the plan. Half the men had already gone out, occupying an empty mansion whose owners had fled back when the French were still marching on the city. The rest, sixty veterans of Russia, affixed bayonets onto their muskets and waited for orders.

"Remember," Jacques said as he locked his own bayonet onto his musket. "No shooting."

Then they crept from their barracks into the night.

The streets of Italica were, as hoped, empty. Like the night before, there was no one on the streets aside from a few sleeping beggars. Jacques did his best at recalling the path he'd taken earlier and then led them forward.

Sixty men on the move make a lot of noise. They'd taken measures to be as quiet as possible, filling canteens to the brim and removing unnecessary parts of their uniforms, but five dozen men can never be completely silent. Every loud step. A man's pouches jumbling. Someone's bayonet too loose. Uniforms ruffling together. It all contributed to a general noise that made Jacques curse in his head and illuminated their position to any watchers paying the slightest bit of attention.

But no one was watching. The streets of Italica were empty. Jacques realized he had been perhaps a tad paranoid.

They quickly entered an empty city square. Deserted merchant stalls were scattered around, and men did their best to avoid tripping over them. In the distance, a glimpse of light from a single building caught Jacques's eye. The tavern.

They edged around the square to avoid notice. No one inside was paying much attention anyway. The darkness hid them completely.

Jacques halted just before the tavern's windows. His men lined up behind him, pressed against the wall ready for action. Someone inside burst out laughing and was yelling in Saderan. They were very drunk.

"All at once then," he breathed to his men.

Jacques was the first one in. He charged from the wall, through the doorway, and leveled his bayoneted musket at two dozen men sitting drinking in the tavern. Broken Nose saw him immediately. Six fusiliers entered behind Jacques. Eyepatch spun his head around. Jacques and Broken Nose shouted at the same time.

"Hands in the air!"

"Ware! Hostibus!"

Frozen by surprise, only half the Saderans responded to their leader's cry. They scrambled for weapons, and Jacques plunged his bayonet into the nearest one's chest. Eyepatch stood with a dagger in hand. Broken Nose with an axe. Various knives and clubs were drawn.

The fusiliers reacted with Jacques. One leapt forward and thrust from the waist up in perfect form. A Saderan missed his parry and died with six inches of steel in his neck. Others advanced similarly, and the French caught the Saderans while they still couldn't fully comprehend what had happened.

As planned.

Jacques advanced. Broken Nose was next, but Jacques did not intend to kill him. The ugly man's axe came swinging down, and Jacques's musket swept up, stock front, parrying right to left, then forward, buttstock to face. Broken Nose's jaw made an audible crunch, and the Saderan fell to his back squealing.

Ten more fusiliers charged into the room, and the Saderans began to realize this was not a fight they would win.

Eight more died, drunken men caught unprepared by professional soldiers who'd been mustering for hours. They were butchered by vengeful bayonets and died screaming.

Seven more Frenchmen entered the tavern. The gravity of the situation now was fully realized by the Saderans. One man threw down his weapon, then another, and soon the room was full of men pleading for mercy.

Eyepatch recognized what was happening. He must have been a soldier of some kind because he could recognize the men breaking before it happened; Jacques saw it on his face. They made eye contact. Eyepatch sized him up. Jacques glared back, and they came to an understanding.

You'll kill me.

Yes.

Eyepatch bolted for the tavern's window, leaping over a table and knocking one of his compatriots to the ground. A fusilier reached for him but screamed when the Saderan's dagger was thrust through his hand. Jacques sprinted after him and was too slow. Eyepatch vaulted through the tavern window, into the dark square...

...and found himself surrounded by thirty seven Frenchmen.

Jacques clambered through the window after him. In time to see Eyepatch keel over as Astier slugged him in the gut. The corporal kicked him in the groin to keep him down, and that was that.

The French collected their prisoners roughly, gagging them with table clothes and tying them with rope. They were led out into the square. The corpses were carried out with them.

Jacques went back inside and found the bartender cleaning a cup, pretending nothing had happened. He wasn't harassed; Jacques's orders.

Jacques put a bag of gold Francs onto the counter. "For your silence," he offered.

The bartender weighed it in his hand and nodded. "Of course. I tell none."

"This never happened."

"I see nothing, hear nothing. Normal night," the bartender agreed.

Jacques shook his hand. "Good."

They hurried from the tavern with a column of prisoners and a dozen dead bodies. Jacques led them out of the city square, through an alley, onto a road, and finally to a large abandoned mansion where the remaining half of the company and Corporal Vidal were waiting for them.

Vidal let them in without a word. She nodded grimly at Jacques as he passed.

The bodies were piled in the attic and covered with a tarp to hide them from a casual glance. Prisoners were put into a room with no windows and a single locked door; they were kept tied and gagged. Jacques had Broken Nose and Eyepatch put together in a separate room and tied to chairs. He and Astier were with them.

So there they were. Staring down at the men who'd killed Captain Courbis. They both had smug grins on their faces as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. As if their murder meant nothing. Broken Nose was especially unrepentant.

"You disgraceful excuse for a human being!" Jacques snarled as he pummeled Broken Nose with his fist.

The man spat blood, so Jacques hit him again. Then another time because he felt like it. The frustrations of Moscow, the retreat, promotions, forced marches, Italica, Aquila Ridge, and Courbis's death all condensed into a single rage which boiled over and expressed itself through violence. The girl in Moscow, Coda village's razed remains, slaughtered women in battle. It came up like a bile rising in his throat. He punched Broken Nose in his smug, pretentious looking mouth and felt better for it.

"He was a good man," Astier hissed beside him. The corporal's fist slammed into Broken Nose's jaw. "You murdered him."

Broken Nose coughed up something unintelligible. His jaw was broken, and he had trouble forming words. Blood sprayed from his lips when he tried to speak.

Jacques curled his lips in disgust. "Courbis was worth ten of you. God damn degenerate."

"Heugh… Heugh… Heugh..." Broken Nose gasped in some mockery of laughter. "Hhee deshherrved tuu deyyy…"

Jacques hit him again, knocking free two teeth from the ugly man's mouth. But the disgrace of a man was still trying his best to speak, so he did it another time. Twice more to shut him up. Then again because it eased the torments in his mind.

And again.

Broken Nose spat out teeth onto the floor. His mouth was a bloody mess.

And again.

Jacques's fist became coated with blood.

And again.

Broken Nose's nose seemed to collapse in on itself, but the man did not or could not scream as it happened. His face contorted into eternal agony.

And…

Astier eventually pulled Jacques off the corpse. He had just beaten a prisoner to death, and his hand flared with pain, and he knew he should be horrified, but Jacques instead felt a sickening feeling of satisfaction at what he'd done. It felt like justice.

He looked at Eyepatch and rubbed his fist.

"W-W-Wait!" the Saderan screeched in German.

Jacques approached the man, tied in his chair. Eyepatch struggled uselessly against the rope. His feet stamped onto the ground in a vain attempt to break free.

"You… You can't kill me!" he panted.

Jacques leaned down so that his face was inches away from the Saderan's. "Why not?"

Sweat trickled down the man's face. "I have information! Valuable information! I can't give it to you if I'm dead…"

"Oh really?" Jacques stood back to full height. "What 'valuable information' would this be?"

"What's he saying?" Astier asked in French as he produced a hunting knife from his belt. He didn't speak German like Jacques did. The knife glistened in candle light.

"Apparently he has information and we can't kill him," Jacques replied. Eyepatch jerked his head back and forth, watching them speak.

"Bullshit," Astier spat. "Let's kill him and be done with this bloody business."

"Agreed."

Astier stepped forward with the knife, and Eyepatch's breathing intensified. "There's a plot!" he screamed. "We- They- are trying to free the captives! All the prisoners you brought into Italica!" His pitch rose as Astier brought the knife next to his throat. "THEY'RE GOING TO TRY AN UPRISING!"

Astier looked at Jacques, ready to kill the man at his command.

Jacques stroked his chin. "Why the fuck should I believe a word you say? Desperate men make all sorts of claims."

Eyepatch managed to calm himself ever so slightly. He indicated Broken Nose's body with his head. "Check his boots!" Eyepatch said, breathless. "There's a map…"

Jacques decided to humor the Saderan. He walked back to Broken Nose and pulled off both his boots; they stank like month old cheese. Something fell out of the left one. A folded piece of parchment stained with sweat or oil.

It was indeed a map. Unfolded, the parchment depicted a crude map of Italica. There were markings on it, several dozen circles marked around different buildings. It took a moment, but Jacques realized the circles were drawn around buildings where the French were keeping their prisoners.

"He's telling the truth..." Jacques breathed to Astier. "He's not lying…"

Astier removed the knife from Eyepatch's throat. "What the fuck did we just find."

"I…" Jacques shook his head. He turned back to Eyepatch and grabbed him by his shirt. "What do you know? What is this?!"

"They want to take back the city!" Eyepatch squealed. "I don't know when or how other than by freeing the captives!" He indicated back to Broken Nose's corpse. "Leptis was the one who talked to them, not me."

"Who's 'they'?" Jacques demanded.

Eyepatch shook his head miserably. "I don't know. I never met them. Leptis organized all this; I just got together some lads I knew from serving in the legion."

"So you don't know shit," Jacques spat. He nodded to Astier and the knife quickly found its way back to Eyepatch's throat. "Not very promising for a man looking to save his life."

Eyepatch wet himself. The man whimpered, all pretense of toughness gone as he stared death in the face. But he didn't have an answer.

"I suppose you're useless to-"

"Bessara!" he suddenly shouted. "Cassius Bessara!"

"Cassius Bessara…" Jacques tried the name. "Who is he?"

Eyepatch was shaking violently. "I-I don't know. Leptis mentioned him once. Something about an employer? I don't know him, truly. I'm not from Italica. I never got involved with the business Leptis did."

Jacques sighed. His plan had gone so well, everything exactly as he'd hoped. But he hadn't prepared for something like this.

"It'll have to do…" he muttered in French. Then louder to Astier, "Get the corpse out of here. He lives until we know more."

"You have a lead, Sergeant?"

"Maybe," he said.

The other prisoners provided no new information. Broken Nose, or Leptis as they called him, was their only link to this 'Bessara' figure, and Jacques had killed him. Now he had proof of a plot but nothing more than a name to follow up on. It all reeked of shadowy conspiracy, and he was out of his league.

So Jacques reported it to his superior.

Major Beauregard was easy to convince; the map was all he needed. The major, however, also didn't know what to do. Counterespionage wasn't something taught to most officers in the army. Spycraft was not the major's forte.

So Beauregard reported it to his superior.

It went up the chain of command like that. From Major Beauregard to Colonel Touissant. Colonel Touissant to Staff Colonel Morin. Staff Colonel Morin to General Messier. General Messier to General Courbet. And finally General Courbet to Marshal Ney.

Jacques never actually got to meet the Marshal. After informing Beauregard, he no longer had a role in the matter. The issue was passed on and was out of Jacques's hands, given to an expert spycatcher. At least that's what Jacques had hoped.

Reality was very disappointing.

"We don't have spycatchers," General Courbet informed him.

"What?" Jacques started. "Sir… Then who's going to stop the plot?"

The general tilted his head. "You are."

"Huh?"

They were in the general's office. Jacques never got to meet the Marshal, but General Courbet had apparently taken an interest in him, and he was personally requested by Courbet. Jacques had thought it was just to discuss details about the plot. Not… this.

"We don't have any professional spycatchers with us, so you're going to have to do. If I had better options, I would take them, but you'll work out fine."

Jacques sank into his chair.

"Really you're the best man for the job," Courbet said even as Jacques felt his stomach turn. "You have first hand knowledge on the plot, you've already discovered a lead, and I'm told you're quite capable. Is it true you were only a private when we crossed the gateway?"

"Yes, sir."

"Astounding what can be found in the muck."

"Sir…" Jacques scratched his neck. "Aren't there more… qualified candidates? Someone who has experience with this sort of work?"

"They're all in Paris," the general said with a shrug. "You think Napoleon brings them campaigning through Russia? No, they're busy dealing with British spies and Bourbon sympathizers. As I said, you're the best man for the job."

"But I don't know what to do, sir," Jacques protested.

Courbet shrugged again. "Pretend you do and make it up as you go. It's what we all do."

Jacques would have protested more, but the general apparently felt the conversation had gone as far as it needed to. He was dismissed and sent to do his new job. The Ninth Company was relieved of regular duties in order to assist him. Not that Jacques knew what they would assist in.

He returned to the mansion, now their de facto headquarters, and was pleased to find his men digging graves in the yard. It was the morning after, and the corpses in the attic had already begun to smell.

Six sentries were posted in front of the mansion with six more dispersed in the street. Heightened security in case someone attempted a reprisal against Jacques. They saluted as he entered.

"So we're supposed to stop a city wide conspiracy by ourselves?" Astier asked. "And Courbet actually said that you were the most qualified for the job?" He scoffed and leaned back in his seat. "The arrogance of officers never fails to surprise me."

Jacques was bitter. "Why does everyone think I'm able to do these things?" he asked. "I'm not qualified to be a sergeant let alone a spycatcher."

"You're a fine sergeant," Vidal reassured. She leaned forward. "And you've done well with everything else people have put you up to."

Astier scratched his head. "She's got you-" Jacques gave him a hard glare. "He's got you there."

"If I had to guess…" Vidal looked Jacques in the eye. "You already have an idea of what to do."

Jacques shifted his gaze. "Something like that," he admitted.

An hour later, Jacques and Vidal were on their way back to the tavern where the whole mess had started.

They drew a lot of attention in the street. Italica's bystanders and pedestrians were not yet accustomed to the sight of French soldiers, and they stared. In hindsight, marching out in their blue and white uniforms was not the best idea. They should have used disguises. Jacques noted that for later.

The tavern was closed. It was morning, and no one was drinking yet. Jacques knocked on the door. No response. So he opened it anyway; it wasn't locked.

Jacques entered, followed quickly by Vidal who shut the door behind them. They found the bartender faced away, crawling on all fours and trying to scrub dried blood from the floorboards. Jacques loudly cleared his throat.

"Erant clausi!" he called, still scrubbing.

"Sir," Jacques addressed in German. "I have to speak with you."

The bartender jumped to his feet. He took in the two French soldiers before throwing a blood stained rag onto the floor. "No. You leave."

Jacques nodded to Vidal who produced a bag filled with local gold coins, courtesy of the Saderans they captured. Vidal emptied the coins onto a table.

The bartender eyed the coins longingly. "Make quick," he relented. "Bad if I talk with you long time."

Jacques decided to be direct. "Do you know the name Cassius Bessara?"

The bartender's eyes instantly narrowed. He closed the shutters on the tavern's windows and pushed past them to lock the door. "What business you do with Bessara?" he demanded. He fidgeted as he spoke.

"Who is he?"

"Outlaw," the bartender declared. "Lawbreaker. Illegal. Bandit." He seemed to fumble for the right German word. "Offender?"

"A criminal," Jacques said.

"Yes. Criminal." The bartender fidgeted again. "Bessara is head criminal. Very powerful. Leader of Italica's criminals. He control all crime in Italica. Pipeweed, prostitutes, extortion, smuggling. Everything."

Jacques rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Where can I find him?"

The bartender snorted. "You think I know?" He shook his head. "Even if I do, I not tell you. Bessara finds out, he take me. Torture for long time. Bad way to die." He fidgeted another time. "No more questions. You go now."

Jacques didn't feel like pressing his luck.

They left through the backdoor, into an alleyway filled with rats and stinking of piss. The alley led to a street which Jacques, who was beginning to learn the layout of Italica, knew could take them directly to the mansion.

Jacques had only been through the street at night, so he was intrigued to find that it was actually a street full of tailor shops. There were dozens of them. Men cut cloth and took measurements from customers while boys shouted advertisements to passerbyers. A wide variety of the latest in Saderan fashion was displayed before him, and Jacques was tempted. It had been a long time since he had worn anything beside his uniform. He did need a disguise.

He wasn't paying attention to his environment, so he collided with a man in a black tunic. Jacques apologized in German, and they parted without any trouble. He was still looking at the clothes.

"We need disguises," Jacques broached to Vidal. "I think we should buy something."

"You just want to go shopping," she muttered.

"Purely business," he insisted. "We stand out too much in fusilier uniforms."

"Fine. Just for business."

They browsed the tailor shops for a long time. The trouble wasn't finding clothes they liked, almost every shop had something that caught Jacques's eye, but rather that none of the tailors could communicate with them. The language of Elbe was apparently not as common as Jacques had hoped.

Eventually, they found a tailor who spoke the language. His shop was a tiny thing, wedged in between two larger buildings with much bigger displays, and showing only a single mannequin as advertisement and a sign written in Saderan and the language of Elbe. Inside was a plethora of finely made clothing and a short balding man working on them.

"Savara haru uguru," he called when Jacques and Vidal entered.

The tailor was turned away as Jacques approached him. "I was under the impression you could speak the language of Elbe?" Jacques said hesitantly.

The tailor scoffed. "You mean Elban? I was born and raised in Elbe; of course I speak it." He was still turned away from Jacques, focused on cutting a length of cloth. "Where are you from anyway? I can't place your accent."

"Strasbourg."

The tailor halted and turned. "Strasbourg? I've never-" His eyes met Jacques's and then trailed up and down his fusilier uniform. "Ah, you are a Bluecoat. You are… French," he tasted the word.

Jacques nodded. "We are indeed Frenchmen. If you are opposed to doing business with us, I completely understand."

The tailor smiled. "My friend, I believe you have the wrong impression of me. I welcome the French with open arms."

"But we fight the Empire?"

The tailor smiled wider. "All the better, friend. I have no love for the Empire. They robbed our kingdom of its independence and force us to pay tributes. Sadera is the tyrant of Falmart." He extended a hand. "I am Lagos, and I will do business with you."

"Jacques Duclos," Jacques replied, shaking his hand. "This is Mathieu Vidal."

"And what can I do for you and the young lady?" Lagos asked, still smiling.

"We need-" Jacques stopped. "Young lady?"

"Yes." Lagos gestured to Vidal. "What can I do for her?"

Jacques's head darted to the shop's open door to make sure no one was listening. There was a man in a black tunic with a sword loitering in the distance, but he doubted the man had heard. Jacques furrowed his eyebrows. "How did you know she was a woman?"

Lagos shrugged. "It is obvious to me. The way her clothing sits on her is all wrong for a man. Her coat and undershirt has clearly been modified to accommodate her form. Good work, I must say, and I would suppose it must fool a great many people, but I have worked this trade my whole life, and I know these things."

Jacques relayed it all to Vidal and she flushed at the praise.

"So what is it you both need?"

"Saderan clothing," Jacques answered instantly. "Outfits that would fit in."

"Ah! You want disguises," Lagos declared. "Engaged in spycraft are you?"

Jacques was immediately defensive. "Of course not! I am a soldier, not a spy, and-"

"Relax, friend. We are on the same side. If you are spying on Saderans, I can only approve of the matter. But do not lie. You want disguises."

Jacques inhaled, considered denying it once more, and finally conceded to nodding.

"You are looking for the wrong clothes then. Saderan clothes? Really? You think you could pass for a Saderan without knowing a word of the language?"

"I know Elban well enough," Jacques grumbled.

Lagos laughed. "Which is precisely why you cannot use Saderan clothes. Did you imagine that we Elbans dress like Saderans? Togas and tunics?" He snorted. "I will cut you a fine suit in the Elban fashion. A black doublet with scarlet hose. Proper linen braes and a shirt as well to match. And for the lady, whom I gather does not speak Elban, an elegant dress in the Algunan style."

Jacques relayed Lagos's pitch to Vidal.

"A dress…" she wavered.

Lagos noted the tone of her voice. "I gather she does not approve of the dress? I am willing to cut her a suit in the Algunan style, but I will say that a dress would be better suited to your task. No one would expect a woman to be a Bluecoat."

Jacques translated his words and then said, "It's up to you."

"The dress is better," she agreed. "It's just… it's been a long time. I'll wear the dress. Purely business, remember?"

"Purely business," he confirmed. Then, in German, "We'll take your suggestion."

The tailor clapped his hands together. "Excellent. I'll just need your measurements and I can have it all ready by tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Jacques asked. "That's quick."

Lago gestured to the mountains of clothes around them. "Everything is already made; I just need to resize it. Now please, your measurements."

For the next hour, Lagos had them stand in various positions while he measured their bodies. Jacques was first, and he found the procedure to be incredibly boring. His eyes wandered. To the variety of clothes in the shop, to outside the shop's open door, to a handsome man in a black tunic walking by. When it was Vidal's turn, he found himself even more bored, and his eyes continued to wander. The shears Lagos cut with, his measuring tools, a tailor walking outside, the man in the black tunic again.

Finally, Lagos was satisfied. "We're all done here," he said while jotting down some figures onto a wax tablet.

Jacques gave a sigh of relief. "How much do we owe you?"

"In Soruda? Denari? Sinku?"

Jacques didn't know what any of those were, so he showed one of the local gold coins they'd collected from their captives.

"Ah, Suwani," Lagos gasped. "One Suwani for all of it, but even then I suspect you are overpaying by a slight margin."

Jacques shrugged. "It's not my money anyway."

Lagos's eyes brightened. "Well if you are in the spending mood, I have one more thing to suggest."

"What is it?"

"Follow me."

Lagos led them out of the tailor's street and onto another street of craftsmen, these ones smiths. Swordsmiths.

"It is unseemly for an Elban gentleman to walk the streets without a sword," Lagos explained. "If you wish to fit your new disguise, you will need to wear a sword."

"I like swords," Jacques said. "It might come in handy."

"Indeed," Lagos replied, and they walked on even as a man in a black tunic stumbled behind them and disappeared into a crowd of people.

The street of swordsmiths was… exquisite, and Jacques instantly regained his childhood love for swords. There were a wide range of options, and Lagos spent the next hour guiding him through the different types of swords. He saw Imperial gladii and spathas. Sabers with knuckle guards that wouldn't have been out of place in the hands of a French hussar. Curved shortswords used by 'bunnies'. Finely tapered longswords meant for armored fighting.

Lagos rejected them all as unsuitable.

Jacques handled as many swords as he could. He swished them through the air, took up guards and poses, and cut at invisible men, twisted and turned, and carefully watched the people around him.

He saw the man with the black tunic again. And he became anxious. He was also presented to a 'proper Elban smith' by Lagos and shown a sword he fell in love with. It was a single-handed beauty with a broad, sharp blade and a single finger ring attached to a knuckle bow on the crossguard.

Lagos declared the sword to be a suitable Elban sword.

"How much?" he asked the Elban smith.

"Twenty sinku."

Jacques reached for his coin pouch, but Lagos slapped his hand away.

"Highway robbery!" the tailor accused. "This isn't worth ten."

The smith crossed his arms. "Lots of demand for swords right now. Supply is low. I'll go to eighteen and no lower."

"Twelve!" Lagos demanded, but Jacques wasn't paying attention. His mind went over what the smith said.

Lots of demand for swords? In Italica?

"Fifteen," the smith spat. "And only because you and I are countrymen."

The Imperial Army is gone.

Lagos laughed. "Fifteen! What are you? A Saderan? I say thirteen."

Who's buying swords in Italica?

The smith shook his head. "I cannot sell for-"

"I'll give you twenty," Jacques interrupted. "But only if you tell me why there's so much demand."

"Done." the smith said as Lagos's jaw unhinged.

Jacques counted out twenty of the smaller gold coins he had and handed them over then looked at the smith expectantly.

"Marius's men are buying them up," he stated. "They come every so often with a cart and buy up every sword on the market at generous prices."

"Who's Marius?"

The smith looked at him with something resembling disdain. "Marius Virid? The merchant? Marius organizes trade caravans from Italica to Sadera and pretty much every major city in the Empire. Fairly important for a city like Italica."

"Thank you," Jacques returned. Then he took the Elban sword and walked off with Vidal. Lagos didn't follow them. He was still angry about the sword.

They left the swordsmith's street and started heading to the mansion. Half-way through, Jacques suddenly pulled Vidal into an alley. He gestured for her to be silent.

"We're being followed," he growled in French. "Black tunic, handsome face, sword on his belt. He's been following us since the tailor's street."

Vidal instantly glanced over her shoulder. "Bessara's man?"

"Who else?"

"How does he know we're onto him?"

"Don't know."

Vidal stared into the distance. "The bartender. Has to be. He's the only one who knows what we're after."

"Shit," Jacques swore. "I paid him for his silence."

"So he took your money then turned around to take Bessara's money." Vidal shrugged. "He took our money too easily in hindsight."

"Fuck. Like trusting a whore who says she loves you."

"What do we do?"

Jacques took a shuddered breath. "Nothing for now. We get back to the mansion and decide what to do later."

Black Tunic didn't try to stop them from entering the mansion. He abandoned his pursuit two blocks before the mansion and wasn't seen again by Jacques. They returned to the safety of their headquarters and were greeted by Astier.

"The blue haired girl is awake," was his idea of a greeting. "She woke up in the barracks while you were out, so I brought her back here. You know she speaks French?"

Jacques blinked. "She speaks French?"

"Bits and pieces," Astier continued. "She said she learned it from the men at the barracks. It's enough to communicate."

"That's impossible; she's only been awake a few hours at most."

"Don't know what to tell you, Sergeant. She can speak it."

"Where is she?"

"In the kitchen, eating her sixth meal today."

Jacques went there immediately and found Lelei hunched over a stew of some kind. He noted she still looked somewhat gaunt, and she wolfed the stew down with ferocity. She looked up when he entered.

"Lelei?"

"Yes?" she replied in French.

Jacques continued in German, "Are you alright? You were sleeping for a long time."

She matched his German, "Of course. I expended a vast amount of power when I cast my spell. I had to rest to recover from it."

"Right, of course." Jacques didn't bother trying to understand her magic. It was beyond his realm of thinking. "Do you know what's going on?"

"Corporal Jean Astier explained it briefly. We are in Italica, and you are trying to find men who wish to rebel against your army."

"It sounds so easy when you put it like that," Jacques muttered. Then sighed. "I was hoping you would be able to provide me with information on… certain figures. I understand that the people we are trying to find are dangerous, so if you don't feel comfortable doing that, I understand. But I need information, and I don't know who to go to."

"Of course," was all she said to that.

Her lack of emotion unnerved Jacques, but he continued, "Do you know anything about Cassius Bessara?"

"The Bessara family are crime lords operating out of the Akusho district in Sadera. They are renowned for their brutality in comparison with the other three families. They focus mainly on extorting businesses and running illegal brothels as their main sources of income," she recited the information as if reading from a book. It probably was from a book, come to think of it. "I am unaware of Cassius Bessara or any of the Bessara family's activities in Italica."

"Crime families," Jacques spat. "What about Marius Virid?"

She continued in her monotone voice, "Marius Virid is a wealthy merchant operating out of Italica. He has in recent years vastly expanded his caravan operations to include regular trade with all major Imperial cities. His business now threatens to overtake many established merchants in Italica."

Jacques stroked his chin. "Now why is a crime lord working with a merchant to free Saderan prisoners and start an Imperial uprising?"

"I do not know," Lelei answered.

Jacques looked at her. "That was rhetorical."

"Oh."

He left to speak with his corporals.

"So this Marius is buying up swords in the market?" Astier asked. "So what? How do we even know he's related to Bessara?"

"Bessara wants a prisoner uprising. They'll need weapons in order to succeed. If I had to guess, Bessara can't buy directly from the market, it'd be too obvious, so he's using Marius as a proxy."

"Or you're wrong and Marius just wants swords to protect his caravans from bandits after we slaughtered the Imperial armies in charge of protecting the roads."

"Yes…" Jacques admitted. "Or that."

"But that's why Marius makes the perfect proxy," Vidal added. "He has a legitimate reason to buy swords."

Astier rubbed his head. "You understand that our only link from Bessara to Marius is that he's buying a lot of swords, an action which he has a legitimate reason for."

"He's a suspect," Jacques finally asserted. "And it's really the only lead I have right now."

Vidal nodded. "So what now?"

"Keep in mind, we are being followed," Astier pointed out.

Jacques rubbed his hands together. "Marius lives somewhere in this city, and I'd put good money on it being listed somewhere. I think you should go pay him a visit."

As it turned out, Marius Virid did in fact have a house in Italica. It was listed in Saderan records for tax purposes, and General Courbet gladly handed over the records French forces had seized. He lived in the east side of the city, a well off neighborhood for craftsmen and merchants like himself.

So the next morning, Jacques and Vidal left the mansion, marching through Italica's streets in freshly laundered fusilier uniforms that drew a great deal of attention from the locals.

They did not head to Marius Virid's house. They went to see Lagos the tailor, because he was supposed to have their clothes ready.

Ten minutes after they left, six men wearing indistinct brown cloaks slipped out the back of the mansion and ducked into an alleyway that would give them a roundabout path to Marius Virid's house. No one paid much attention to them.

Black Tunic was following Jacques. He caught a glimpse of the man when he and Vidal turned a corner. Black Tunic had two other men with him, each with a sword on their belt. They were following Jacques, a good sign; it meant the diversion was working.

"Three men," he whispered to Vidal. "Black Tunic from yesterday and two new men. He's getting bolder."

Vidal had the discipline not to instantly look behind her. "Can we take them?"

Jacques had the Elban sword with him, but they hadn't brought muskets because once they put on the disguises they would be too conspicuous. "No. They all have swords."

"Keep moving then?"

"Keep moving."

They took an abrupt corner to throw off their pursuers slightly then took another sharp corner and found themselves at Lagos's shop. Jacques made sure to shut the door behind them.

"I hate this," he breathed out as they entered safety. "All this slinking and scheming. Give me a straight fight any day."

Lagos was waiting for them. He had their clothes ready; a black doublet with scarlet hose for Jacques, and a light green dress for Vidal. "Is it all to your liking?" the tailor asked.

"Perfect," Jacques said.

They both stripped and changed into their new clothes right there. No time for modesty. Lagos had to show them both how to properly wear certain parts of their garments, but within a few minutes they were properly disguised.

"How do I look?" Jacques asked when he was finished strapping the Elban sword to his side.

"Good," Vidal replied. She stretched out her arms awkwardly and looked over herself. "It has been a long time since I wore something like this."

"You look beautiful. Let's go."

They left the shop through a side door into a tiny alley that they had to squirm through single file. Black Tunic and one of his men were watching the front door from across the street. Jacques didn't see the third man.

He led Vidal into the street, and then they walked out like they belonged. Black Tunic didn't even give them a glance.

They headed for the same street they used to get Lagos's shop. No one looked at them strangely. No one cursed behind their backs. It was like they weren't even there.

"So far so good," Jacques said to Vidal.

"Stop speaking French," she hissed. "Someone will notice."

"I think that-" and Jacques stopped because his gaze drifted to a man with a sword on his belt, the third man, and they locked eyes.

The man instantly shouted.

"Fuck," Jacques swore, then took Vidal by the wrist and pulled her with him into a thick crowd of people.

Black Tunic and his man came immediately, but the crowd was good camouflage. They went as far as they could toward the mansion until the crowd ended and there was no cover from Black Tunic. But by then they had gained distance, and their pursuers were thirty yards away.

"When we break from the crowd, it's a straight shot to the mansion," he whispered. "Run fast as you can till we get to our sentries."

"I have to run in a fucking dress?" Vidal grumbled. Then she straightened up and whispered, "There's another one following us… Short girl, maybe fifteen, black and red dress. Carrying a halberd."

Jacques's breathing hitched. "How long?"

"Saw her at Lagos's shop. Just saw her again. She has to be following us."

Is she one of Bessara's people? She was at the tavern, but she left before things turned violent. She was watching him then. He didn't like it.

"Plan doesn't change. Fast as we can to the mansion. Ready?"

"Yes."

"Go."

They broke from the crowd at a sprint, Vidal lifting her skirts to avoid tripping. Black Tunic instantly saw them and chased, but they were a good ways ahead and Black Tunic had to push through a crowd.

Jacques caught sight of the girl with the halberd. She trailed behind Black Tunic's men.

Like he'd said, it was a straight shot to the mansion. They were running on a solid cobble road, and people in front of them were quick to get out of the way. Vidal had some trouble with her dress, but Jacques was light as the wind in his doublet and hose.

Black Tunic burst out of the crowd behind them.

They passed a building that looked familiar, and Jacques was vaguely aware that they were near the mansion. He kept running, feet pounding on stone, the Elban sword bouncing at his hip.

"Shit!" Vidal cried as her foot got caught on the fabric of her dress. She went down, and Jacques had to stop.

Black Tunic ran like a horse and was closing the distance fast, sword drawn. His men were behind him with bare swords flashing in the sun. The girl trailed a little ways back.

They were coming too quick; Vidal wouldn't make it.

Jacques drew the Elban sword.

It came free of the scabbard just as Black Tunic was approaching them. He turned, the Elban sword in his right hand, and held it pointed toward the Saderan.

Black Tunic was mid sprint. He saw Jacques's sword prepared to skewer him and stumbled backwards, slipping on the cobble, and fell on his ass even as his own sword came up to parry a thrust that never materialized.

Vidal made it off the ground, and Jacques did not intend to get into a sword fight. He ran while Black Tunic clambered to his feet.

Vidal turned a corner. Jacques followed, and they were suddenly next to the mansion. Twelve French fusiliers were posted as sentries. They saw the Elban sword and their new clothes, and they raised their muskets.

"Halt!" one shouted. Then, "Sergeant?"

"Men coming up behind," Jacques gasped. "A girl too. Take them alive," he added as an afterthought.

Black Tunic came up with his men close behind. They must not have realized where Jacques had been running to, because normally they wouldn't have come anywhere near the mansion. They'd been too focused on the chase, and now they were going to pay for it.

A bayoneted French musket was leveled against Black Tunic. He didn't understand it was capable of blowing open his head, so his sword lashed out against the fusilier. He was parried; he cut again and was stopped when a second fusilier slammed his stock into Black Tunic's stomach.

The other two were swarmed by Frenchmen. They went down easily. One of the fusiliers got a cut to the arm, but that was the only casualty.

Then the girl with the halberd turned the corner. She saw what had happened to Black Tunic and giggled. She went back around the corner, so naturally four of the fusiliers chased after her.

They left his sight, and Jacques was still catching his breath when it happened, but he heard it. A gut turning thunk like a cleaver going through meat. Someone screeching their lungs out. The scrape of metal on stone. A horrifying sob mixed with screaming.

He turned the corner, and saw the street coated with blood. The girl was nowhere in sight. Three of the fusiliers were nothing more than bits and pieces of scattered meat. One was bleeding out from his stomach.

"I-I g-g-got her," the bleeding one gasped. His eyes met Jacques's. "G-Got 'er… with my bayonet…"

Jacques kneeled down next to him. "Where did she go?"

The man did something that might have resembled a shrug. "Dunno… Put a f-foot of steel into 'er gut." He shuddered and blood came out his mouth. "She's d-dead, sergeant."

Then he closed his eyes and never opened them again.

"Oh my…" Vidal heaved when she saw the massacre. "That little girl did this?"

"She's dead," Jacques reassured. "Bayonet to the stomach. God almighty couldn't fix a wound like that."

Vidal put a hand over her own stomach. "That's what you said about me."

Jacques took a deep shuddering breath. "She's dead. Let's move on."

Astier's gaze swept across the table over the disguises Jacques and Vidal were wearing. He lingered on Vidal for half a second longer. "You came in looking like that? Christ, how many of the men saw her like that?"

"Just the sentries," Vidal asserted from her seat at the table. "They didn't recognize me, and I went in the side door. Sergeant told them I was a local woman."

Astier shook his head. "There'll be rumors. Men will think you're keeping a whore."

"Let them think that," Jacques said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"And this business with the girl…" Astier shuddered. "Four men? Butchered just like that? How in God's name does-"

"Enough!" Jacques shouted. "She's dead and that's the end of it!"

There was silence. His corporals looked at him with unease. He found that his hands were trembling.

Finally Vidal turned to Astier and asked, "What did you find at Marius's house."

Astier spat onto the ground. "Nothing. Place is abandoned. Marius must have caught wind of us and fled."

Jacques glanced up. "That's impossible. Our diversion worked; we misled Bessara's watchers."

"Apparently not, Sergeant. We found an empty house. Whole place was barren, not even furniture left."

"So we have no leads now," Jacques muttered.

"We three prisoners," Vidal mentioned. "They could be useful."

Astier's eyes lit up. "Prisoners? Why didn't you say?"

"They won't know shit. Just like all the other prisoners we have," Jacques grumbled.

Vidal disagreed. "The others were only supposed to be involved when their plan occurred. These ones were following us; they must have a stronger connection with Bessara. Higher up on the chain of command."

"Worth a try," Astier said. "A few hours of interrogation and they'll spill whatever they know."

What's a bit of torture on an already tortured conscience? Jacques adopted a grim look. "Fine. Let's get this done with." He made to stand.

Astier raised his hands and gestured for Jacques to sit back down. "I can handle this one, Sergeant. You look like death."

Vidal nodded. "I wasn't going to mention it, but… have you been sleeping, Sergeant?"

Jacques had in fact been sleeping. Not well, but the few hours of sleep he managed to catch in between daily actions and the nightly terrors were a vast improvement over a few days ago. He still dreamt of Moscow, but sometimes he would exhaust himself to the point of no longer caring; those moments were a godsend. They didn't come often enough.

"Not well," he quietly admitted.

"You need sleep," Vidal asserted before adding, "Better sleep."

"I'll handle this," Astier stated. "The blue haired girl can translate for me. Get some rest in the meantime."

If only it was that easy. But Jacques was in no mood to argue.

Astier left to conduct his interrogation, and Jacques had to try and go to sleep. He found a sofa, a very luxurious and extraordinarily expensive thing that he would never have had the opportunity to touch back in France, and stretched out on it.

Vidal hadn't left yet. She looked at him lying on the sofa and issued an order, "Go to sleep. You need it."

She left before he could react, and then he closed his eyes and fell asleep. He didn't dream. Odd how that was. When he woke up, Astier was finished.

"They weren't common thugs," he reported, specks of blood still scattered over his uniform. "They're all Bessara's men, gang members from before we arrived. The one in black knew a few things."

Jacques's head shot up. "Did he know where Bessara is hiding?"

Astier shook his head.

"Damn."

"He knew where Marius is, though. Bastard hid away the second we arrived. Yesterday's diversion was pointless."

"So where is he?" Jacques asked.

Astier rubbed his nose. "Sniveling down with his family in a hovel. South side of town where all the scum of this city live."

"Is he protected?"

Astier grinned at that. "A man watches them, but he's more focused on Marius than outsiders like us. I don't think they're prepared to repel an attack."

Jacques stroked his chin. "Either Bessara doesn't trust his ally, or they were never allies in the first place and he's threatening them. Or we've got bad information. Or I'm just a fool."

"Last part's true regardless," Astier laughed. "Even when you're brilliant, you're too much of a fool to realize it."

Vidal chuckled too, but then she became serious. "So what now? Head down, capture Marius, then interrogate him until we have another lead?"

"That's exactly what we're going to do," Jacques said. "Get me twenty men. Astier you stay here. Vidal, you're with me."

They went to Italica's southside wearing uniforms and carrying muskets; they didn't bother trying to be inconspicuous. Speed was their only stealth, and the uniforms meant the local crowds cleared a path for them. No one was going to stop them.

Marius's hideout was nothing more than a sliver of a house sandwiched into what had probably once been an alleyway until some crafty landlord decided to increase their profits by violating city planning. Dead cats, rotting corpses, filthy rats, and the excrement of seven species littered the area. A hundred vile smells competed to overwhelm Jacques's nose. He saw a man empty his chamberpot into the street.

It was not a house where a prosperous merchant like Marius Virid would willingly choose to live.

There was a man posted outside the door. He had a rusted maille shirt on and wore a cheap sword at his side. He'd probably been bored until twenty fusiliers marched to the house.

"Take him," Jacques ordered, and the man didn't even bother trying to struggle. Two men disarmed him and took him aside to keep watch. He was very compliant.

Then Jacques approached the door. His men lined up on either side of it, bayonets fixed, and muskets loaded. Jacques knocked on the door.

"Open up!" he demanded in Elban. "Open up or we're coming-"

The door opened.

"Please, this is not necessary," a tall man said in heavily accented Elban. He wore spectacles and looked rather harmless. Distantly behind him, a woman and a child stood watching.

"Marius Virid?"

"Yes."

"We have some things to speak about."

The merchant sighed. "Of course."

Marius was a perfectly fine gentleman. His wife poured wine for them, and he invited Jacques, Vidal, and as many fusiliers who could fit into his house inside. The rest unfortunately had to remain outside, standing guard amidst the pungent smells.

"I presume you know why we're here?" Jacques asked after taking a sip from his glass.

Marius nodded and proceeded to drain his entire glass. "Bessara. I knew he'd be the end of me."

"So you admit to working with him?"

"I've been working with him for longer than I'd ever have liked," Marius sighed. "I met him through my cousin. My caravans weren't doing so well, and he was supposed to be a way I could get a leg up on the competition. It started easily enough. I used his thugs to keep down my competitors, and he used my caravans to help smuggle in his illegal goods. It helped us both. He's how I managed to expand my business so quickly."

"I gather it didn't stay that way."

"Correct," he assented. "Bessara wasn't one to be a partner. Our arrangement slowly came to favor him, and he made it clear I was a subordinate and not a peer. When I tried to get out of the deal, he killed my cousin then threatened my wife. So for the past year or so, I've been his man."

Jacques nodded. "And what about his plot to free our prisoners? What's your part in it?"

"I'm his front," Marius said, confirming Jacques's suspicions. "Most craftsmen don't like to do direct business with Bessara if they can help it, so I've been pretending to be buying weapons for my caravans." He broke eye contact with Jacques and adjusted his spectacles. "Really they're stockpiling them to arm the prisoners they intend to free."

"Why?" Jacques found himself asking. "Why does he care about who rules Italica? He's a crime lord."

Marius rubbed his neck. "Not many know this, but Bessara's a patriot at heart. He was in the legion for ten years. He only became a crime lord when his brother in Sadera asked him to join the 'family business' and run their gangs in Italica."

"A patriot? But he actively defies Imperial law," Jacques sputtered.

"Look," Marius sighed, "I don't pretend to understand how he reckons the two. I know this, though. He dislikes Sadera, he hates foreigners, and he despises you."

"The enemy of my enemy…" Jacques ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just a soldier. This is too much for me."

Marius nodded. "I believe, sir, that the same concept linking Bessara to Sadera can also be applied to you and myself."

"How so?"

"I have been trying to find a way out of Bessara's grasp for some time now. You are attempting to bring about his destruction." He shrugged. "I believe our interests are aligned."

"Perhaps," Jacques agreed. "Can you tell me where he's hiding?"

"No, but I know where he will be."

"Oh?"

"One of my warehouses in the east side. We've been using it to stash the weapons I've been buying, and he is supposed to meet me there in an hour."

"An hour?!" Jacques started. "That's some very short notice," he muttered.

"It has to be then," Marius affirmed. "Otherwise he will discover you found me, and I will be killed, and you will never find Bessara."

Jacques turned to Vidal beside him and in French said, "He knows where Bessara will be, but we only have an hour to prepare."

Vidal pursed her lips. "If we double back to the mansion we can muster half the company with us. But that will take time…"

Jacques weighed their options. "We have twenty men with us already. If we double back we might be spotted, and we might not make it in time." He silently cursed. "I want time to set an ambush. We'll have to make do with the men we have now."

It was a long walk to the warehouse, marching double pace through Italica's streets, constantly on the lookout for any of Bessara's spies. A single man could ruin the entire plan, but they were fortunate and no one took off running at their approach. Jacques would have been hard-pressed to pick out Marius's warehouse from the multitude of windowless brick structures that lined the streets, but Marius led them to it easily. A lantern hung by the door, and Marius grabbed it as they passed.

The merchant undid the locks on the warehouse's door and threw the latch open. Light from the sun barely penetrated into the massive interior. They slipped in and into darkness.

Marius took a moment to light the lantern. As the flame caught, shadows wavered throughout the building, and tiny pricks of flame gleamed on steel tips. Jacques whistled as they delved further inside.

"That," he said, "is a lot of swords."

They were piled in crates. Lined up, edge to edge, rank after rank of sword filled boxes. Beside them were racks that carried larger spears and anything that didn't fit into the boxes. Equal numbers of crossbows and bows were stacked in more crates separated into their own section of the warehouse. Behind them was a shadowy mountain of barrels filled with bolts and arrows. Jacques tried to estimate just how much kit was surrounding him.

"That's got to be enough for at least a fourth of our prisoners," Jacques said. "That's… ten thousand men? Give or take some?"

Marius found another lantern and lit it before handing it off to Vidal. The new light revealed even more crates.

"If they actually managed to pull this off, we'd be…" Vidal shuddered.

"It would be bloody," Jacques said grimly.

Vidal peered into some of the new crates. "Helmets and some kind of padded jackets," she reported. "A lot of them."

Jacques glanced at Marius. "Padded jackets?" he asked in Elban.

"Gambesons," the merchant replied. "The armor smiths couldn't make iron breastplates fast enough. Gambesons are cheaper and easier to produce."

They reached a clerk's desk in the center of the warehouse, overflowing with stray papers. The crates were stacked in a manner that created a wide open space around the desk. Massive columns filled with figures were marked on several of the papers. Others contained paragraphs of instructions.

"Nothing gets done without paperwork," Jacques muttered. "Not even conspiracy."

Marius took a seat at the desk. "This is where we keep our records of everything I buy. Bessara will meet me here to check up on the status of our stockpile. You have…" He glanced at the distant doorway. "Maybe twenty minutes before he arrives."

"Alright," Jacques said. He turned to his men. "Here's what we're going to do…"

It was, in fact, thirty minutes before Bessara arrived, but Jacques wasn't willing to leave his hiding spot to complain about the matter to Marius.

They heard footsteps, and the outlines of men appeared from the darkness. Jacques immediately flattened himself behind a crate of swords, and the ten men with him did likewise. His musket was on the ground next to him; already loaded and ready to fire.

Across from them, Vidal and her ten men were similarly arrayed behind crates of armor. Between the two forces was Marius, sitting at the clerk's desk with the only still-lit lantern in the warehouse.

Jacques peaked over his crate, and saw his foe.

Cassius Bessara was disappointingly not how Jacques had imagined. He had envisioned the crime lord to be some kind of Herculean figure, tall and well built, not old but also not quite young either. Handsome perhaps. In reality, Bessara was a fat man with graying hair that made him look like someone's uncle. He'd probably been fit once in his life, and he still had some of his old muscle in his arms.

Next to him were five Imperial legionaries, or at least men dressed like legionaries. They had spears and shields, and they wore armor like those who'd been at Aquila Ridge. The only difference was that their shields weren't marked with the dragon wing crosses that regular legionaries had.

What really drew Jacques's attention, however, was the figure behind Bessara. It was a woman, face covered with painted markings, carrying a short curved sword at her side. Above, sprouting from her head like the horns of a bull, were two long furry ears. A demi-human. Beings he'd only ever seen in passing. Another great wonder of this strange world.

Jacques ducked back down before he was spotted. Her presence changed nothing. The plan was the same.

He bent over and scurried to the pair of men to his far left, keeping his head just beneath the crates. The men were crouched down, muskets already cocked in their hands. One looked at Jacques as he came.

"You two. First legionary from the left," Jacques whispered. They nodded, and Jacques scurried over to the next pair of men. "Second legionary from the left."

He issued similar orders to all ten of his men, each in pairs against single men. Muskets were inaccurate, and it was dark, so he wanted to be sure the men would go down in one volley. Vidal was doing the same thing on her side of the ambush and, if everything went to plan, the Saderans would be caught in a deadly crossfire.

Jacques didn't assign anyone to Bessara; he wanted the man taken alive. He assigned himself to target the demi-human alone; there weren't enough pairs for all six of the Saderans.

He heard the rolling sound of Saderan being spoken and glanced over his crate. Marius and Bessara had begun their meeting. Jacques felt his stomach tumbling. His palms were sweaty.

"Ready," he whispered ever so slightly louder than he had intended. Jacques winced.

Next to Bessara, the demi-human's ears twitched. He saw her hand go for the sword at her side and her head snap toward Jacques's direction.

"Ware!" she shouted. Heads turned around.

At the same time, the long shapes of French muskets came up over the boxes of swords and armor. The blasts were almost simultaneous from both sides of the ambush, muzzle flashes illuminated the warehouse with brilliant light. Muskets cracked a deafening volley, and all five of the legionaries fell with cries and sprays of blood.

Jacques raised his musket with them. In a split second, he took aim at the demi-human woman, felt his finger tighten on the trigger, and…

Kill me. Please.

He hesitated.

Jacques wasted a quarter of a second before he finally forced his finger to wrench down on the trigger, sending a lead ball through the air with an explosion of light and smoke.

The demi-human was fast. Inhumanly so. She avoided Jacques's shot, using his tiny moment of hesitation to sidestep so that his musket ball flew harmlessly into a distant wall.

But Vidal, on the other side of the ambush, had not hesitated. Her shot got the demi-human in the shoulder. A spurt of blood burst from the wound and made her stumble even while she sidestepped Jacques's musket.

Then her eyes settled on Jacques, and she charged him.

"Back!" Jacques shouted, rising from his crouch and backpedaling. "Everybody back!"

Sword in hand, she came at him like a cannonball, barreling forward. Jacques only blinked, and in that instant she crossed the considerable distance between them and was bearing down on him.

His bayonet came up, but he was like a child against a demon.

Her sword went high, deceived the bayonet, drew the stock up as well. She went forward, hand on Jacques's musket, and brought her leg behind Jacques's stance. With a single push, Jacques was sent into the hard stone ground.

It all took perhaps six heartbeats. He couldn't breathe. His back hurt.

She came down with him and placed a knee directly onto his chest, keeping him pinned in place. Her sword rose then fell, and its tip rushed toward his throat.

He was saved. Not by his own volition but by a blind panic that caused him to reach out in desperation. His left hand gripped the curved blade and was lacerated by the sharp edge. Blood poured from his hand, but the sword came to a stop only half an inch from Jacques's throat.

That saved him for maybe two seconds. She applied more pressure, and he found himself unable to resist. But those two seconds were just enough because he suddenly watched one of his fusiliers crash into the demi-human's side from a sprint and send her sprawling onto the ground.

The demi-human sprang to her feet. The fusilier did not; her sword was in his chest.

Three more men came at her. Even unarmed against veteran soldiers with bayonets, the demi-human was a demon. Her leg lashed out and shattered one of the fusiliers' ribcage. It was very audible, he was sent ten feet back until he hit a crate, and the man choked up blood.

Snap, crackle, pop. Smash. "Eughh…"

Two bayonet thrusts came forward. She couldn't parry without a weapon. Instead, she leapt over the fusiliers. Her fist sent one to the floor, and the other suddenly found himself outmatched and alone.

He threw himself onto her, God bless the man, pinning her arms. But the demi-human was strong. She flipped him right over her body and slammed him to the ground. The man leapt to his feet, apparently unharmed, but a blow from her fist broke his nose and he was down.

The man gave Jacques time enough to gather himself. He stood like a fool, unarmed, and the demi-human stepped over the fusilier who's nose she'd just broken.

Jacques tackled her. There was nothing else he could do at that moment. He charged, got his arms around her, but she kneed him in the gut with a fur covered knee, turned him, and raked his arms with nails that felt like claws. He tried to hold on, trying at the same time to bring her to the ground. She hit him with an elbow, but then there were other men with him. He had his right arm on her waist, he couldn't grip with his wounded left, and he slid down as pain enveloped him. Then he was on the ground. He got a hand on her ankle, two others were on her legs, and someone took his place at the waist. He pulled as hard as he could, and somewhere miles above him, a fusilier bludgeoned her with his musket…

...and she fell.

There were six of them on her when she finally came down. One of them had a broken shoulder, and another couldn't stand anymore, but they had her limbs pinned and she went down like a sack of potatoes.

Someone had his bayonet unaffixed, clutched in his hand like an icepick. He got the point of it to her chest and pushed.

Her body spasmed as she died. A horrible death throes that reflected the brutality of the fighting. Some of the men thought she was still alive, and they pressed onto the corpse to keep it down.

Jacques rolled off her. His hand was bleeding, and something in his body was broken. There was a bump the size of an egg on his head. Two of his men were dead, and four were seriously wounded, but the demon was finally dead.

Bessara was dead too. Vidal had gone for him, and the bastard put his own sword into himself rather than be taken prisoner. Marius somehow made it out without a scratch. He approached Jacques while he was still dazed on the ground.

"Fuck off," Jacques growled.

Marius refused. "You're the only one I can communicate with," he said. Then he looked back to Bessara's corpse. "His conspiracy will die with him. His underlings aren't patriots like him, and they will fight each other for the scraps rather than remain united."

"They can rot in hell."

"There will be violence," he continued. "Gang wars which put innocent citizens in harm's way."

"Not my problem," Jacques grumbled. "I'm just a damned soldier."

Jacques wrote a report of the whole affair. He hadn't wanted to, but that was Jacques's duty no matter how much his head hurt and his body ached. Vidal helped him write the thing, bless her, and Astier handled taking care of the wounded. With Bessara dead, they abandoned the mansion, returning to barracks, and placing all their prisoners with the ones taken at Aquila Ridge.

He sent a runner with his report to General Courbet then decided he was done for the day and lay down to rest.

"Sergeant!" came Vidal's call perhaps an hour later. "Sergeant, you're needed urgently."

"Go to hell," he spat back. "No one's to bother me for the rest of the day."

"No one?" an unfamiliar voice asked, and a man in a gold and blue uniform with a large bicorne tucked under his arm stepped into the barracks. "Not even your Marshal?"

"Marshal Ney," Jacques gasped and felt his stomach sink. He hurried onto his feet and saluted as best he could. "My apologies, Marshal."

"No need," Marshal Ney said easily. "I should be thanking you, Sergeant-Major Duclos."

He had a presence about him that filled Jacques with… something. Something that made him ignore the wounds he'd taken and the exhaustion he felt. He felt revitalized just by listening to him. At the same time, Jacques felt himself robbed of adequate words, so he stood dumbfounded.

The Marshal continued, "Your actions and bravery have saved this city and most probably this army corps. I thank you for what you and your men have done." Then the Marshal straightened himself. "Is it true, Sergeant-Major Duclos, that you are currently the highest ranking man in the Ninth Company, Third Battalion of the 134th Line Regiment?"

"Er… Y-Yes." Jacques steadied himself. "Yes, Marshal."

"Then I must apologize because the only reward I have for your heroism is more duty." He pulled out a piece of paper with a lot of fresh ink on it. "Jacques Duclos, in the name of the Emperor Napoleon I and the People of France, I, Marshal of the Empire Michel Ney, hereby offer you an officer's commission and a promotion to the rank of captain."

Jacques blinked. "I… don't know what to say," he admitted.

Marshal Ney held out the commission for him. "You could start by accepting," the Marshal offered. "Then you could elevate your corporals to become sergeants and have them elevate men to be corporals."

Jacques hesitated. I'm not qualified to be a sergeant, let alone an officer. This all happened because Sergeant Levett wanted me dead. I can't do this. I don't know what I'm doing. But before he could refuse, he discovered that he'd said, "I accept, Marshal."

And so he became Captain Jacques Duclos.

This chapter is a lot longer than I had originally planned it to be in my outline. It was supposed to be a small piece to demonstrate that unlike the Japanese in the anime, the French are not suddenly loved as occupiers by the local population. The conspiracy was because I wanted to experiment with writing something other than war, politics, and diplomacy.

I have learned several things from writing this chapter. The most prominent is that I should stick to war. Trying to create some kind of coherent plot involving intrigue was honestly far harder than I ever expected. I will forever have so much more respect for authors who write good mystery novels because it is very difficult. War by comparison is far easier to write about in my opinion. I honestly don't know if what I wrote is coherent enough for readers to follow. My proof reader assured me it was, but I'm still not certain. My apologies if it wasn't.

This was also the first chapter where Jacques was the only perspective. I get the feeling that people like Ney better which is understandable since his perspective focuses more on strategy and war as a whole, but I did want to delve more into Jacques a bit. Apologies if some people disliked that.

Another thing that came out in this chapter was a little of my love for medieval history. Jacques's clothing are medieval in style based on 14th-15th century Italian fashion. The Elban sword he buys is based on a sword titled the Doge (which is based on a historical Venetian design) which is created by Albion Swords, a fantastic company that creates the most authentic sword reproductions I have ever seen. I have an Albion sword hanging next to my reproduction Charlesville musket, and I would have more if they weren't so damned expensive. I encourage anyone who is passionate about swords to check their site out.

Finally I'd like to say thank you for reading my work. I encourage everyone to leave a review if they liked (or disliked) the chapter. I once again just ask that everyone is respectful and understanding that I am a relatively inexperienced writer.