17. Chapter 15

The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves.

The day following Castle Tubet's capture, Ney finally acquiesced to meeting with the prince. He arranged that the prince be brought up to his office to talk peace with him and King Duran. A civil meeting, surely.

"So you're the butcher who I've been fighting," Prince Teo spat on arrival. He had all the confidence of a conqueror, but his voice squeaked with adolescence and robbed the words of strength. The son of Duran was thin, pale, and gave every impression of a sickly child. In spite of that, he clearly had a fire in him burning with bitterness.

"Your highness," Ney returned with a slight bow.

"Majesty," the prince corrected. It came out like a whine, "I am king."

King Duran stepped forward. "You are my son."

Prince Teo ignored him. "I defeated you," he hissed at Ney. "You were beaten. You retreated."

"Yes." Ney shrugged. "Then I beat you. Twice. And here we are."

The prince's eyes narrowed. "You think you've won? Elbe will never fall to you; the people won't stand for it. Fathers and sons will fight you on every stretch of road. Mothers and daughters will die alongside them. Elbe will not be conquered!"

"We are not here to conquer Elbe," King Duran said carefully. "We are here to restore its rightful king."

The prince's head snapped to Duran. "You think you're king? You who betrayed us to this bluecoat butcher?" He trembled, face red with adolescent rage. "I am king of Elbe. The nobles invited me. The people cheered me in the streets. The army proclaimed it. I am king!"

"You are my son."

"Not anymore."

Duran frowned. "I am king of Elbe, and you are its crown prince."

"I am a bastard you legitimized because your bitch of queen didn't give you a real son." Teo shuddered. "I have accomplished so much in your stead. I did what the mighty Saderan Empire could not. I did what you could not!"

Duran narrowed his eyes. "That does not make you king."

"What does?" Teo spat. "Having the right mother?"

Duran took a breath. "You are my only heir, and one day you will be king. That day is not today."

"That day will never come with you. You'll only keep me until you have a trueborn replacement." His hands shook. "I am king of my own accord, and you seek to tear it all down."

"You are not king."

"I am more of a king than you ever were," Teo growled. "The nobility hates you. They crowned me themselves."

Duran took a sudden step forward. "A few traitorous vassals do not name kings!" he bellowed.

The silence that followed could be cut with a sword. Ney took a sudden interest in his boots. Prince Teo blinked.

"They will never accept you," the prince eventually muttered.

The king's glare did not waver.

"They have, and they will."

"Accept that you've lost," Ney finally said. "Continuing this war was a pointless affair. You are beaten, and your army is in chains. Your father is willing to forgive you, so that you remain crown prince. Do not drag this on."

There was a flicker of doubt in Prince Teo but only for a moment. His expression hardened, and he turned back to Ney. "I am beaten but Elbe is not. The nobles will rally in my stead, and you will fail."

Ney glanced at Duran for confirmation. The king twitched ever so slightly.

Wonderful.

"Barbier!" Ney called, and the captain entered his office with two grenadiers. "Escort Prince Teo back to his chambers. He is not to leave unless I give my permission. No visitors. No exceptions."

The two grenadiers seized Prince Teo by either shoulder. He snarled like a wolf but offered no further resistance, and they led him out of the office with Barbier at the head. King Duran sighed once the door was shut.

"Is he being truthful?" Ney asked as Duran began pacing.

"I am unsure."

"Meaning?"

Duran rubbed his head. "My vassals have never liked me. I centralized too much control, and I fear that is why they were eager to support my son. They may very well indeed try to continue the fight without him."

"Another army?"

"If they don't submit immediately they will try to beat us in the field. My son showed the world it can be done, and Elbe's nobility does not lack in martial ability. They are most likely weighing their options as we speak."

"Let's make their choice for them then," Ney decided. "How far away is the capital?"

"Janku you mean?" Duran calculated. "Two weeks march for Elban armies. Maybe half that at a French pace?"

"I say we go straight for the capital. We'll march fast and arrive at the walls of Janku before they even know what happened." Ney felt a devil in him. The devil that came from decisive action. "Your nobles won't have an army ready, and we'll seize Janku. Then they'll have to submit."

"Perhaps," Duran muttered as he considered it. Then a moment passed, and he said, "Yes. I agree with this plan."

"Excellent." Ney smiled, and then he began drafting orders.

The next morning, Ney's army marched south from Castle Tubet. It was a very different army from the one that had come through Alnus Hill all that time ago. For one, Falmartians now outnumbered Frenchmen. Reinforcements had arrived from Italica, so now there were twelve thousand Frenchmen, eight thousand Saderans, and twenty-three thousand Elbans including both prisoners and Duran's loyalists.

Forty-four thousand men. It was beginning to seem like Ney had a real corps again.

The army marched twenty-five miles then entered a camp already premade by Colonel Feraud's newly enlarged cavalry force. Chaucer's Boys, as the Saderan farm boys turned cavalry troopers had become known, did most of the work while Feraud's veterans screened them.

The Elban prisoners ate their hot food, slept in their prepared tents, and didn't try to escape. Some of them became loyalists.

Then they woke up the next morning and marched another twenty-five miles.

The weather was perfect. The roads were dry, and none of the wagons or artillery got stuck in mud. Chaucer's Boys found shepherds leading their flocks to market during the daily patrols, so the army was dining on mutton that night. Ney had the farmers reimbursed with hard coin.

Ney's army rolled south again the next day and found a stone road, the kind built by Saderan legions when they went conquering. It was paved with rectangular blocks of stone, dug into the ground with immense effort, and marked with milestones every thousand paces using fantastic precision. Continuing south, the army crossed a river five hundred feet wide using another monumental feat of stone engineering in the form of a Saderan bridge. It was very old, judging from the weathered stonework, and bore an inscription in Saderan that a pair of Chaucer's Boys were looking at.

"What does that say?" Ney asked Duran beside him.

"That?" Duran asked, gesturing to the five-arch stone bridge's inscription.

"Of course."

"It says 'Consul Severo, leading three legions, vassalized the barbarians of Elbe in ten days.'"

Ney played with the hilt of his saber. "Is that true?" he asked.

"It leaves out a battle or two, but yes it's true."

"And they built this bridge after they did it?"

"Yes."

"Incredible," Ney breathed.

Duran turned in his saddle. "This bridge is ancient. Elbe isn't just tribes of barbarians anymore, and the Empire isn't what it used to be."

"Of course," Ney replied, and they marched across the triumphal bridge.

On the fourth day, Feraud reported Elban knights shadowing the army. They were a hundred or so strong, and they were very professional. None of them attacked Feraud's scouts, but they also didn't send Ney a representative. The army kept marching toward Janku.

They reached their first major town the next day and faced no resistance. The town's lord knelt to King Duran and allowed the army in. Duran's loyalists were quartered in the town. Ney's men made a camp outside. Again, they all marched south in the morning.

They were less than two days from the capital and still no armies came to confront them.

"I thought we were still at war," Captain Barbier sighed. "Where's the enemy?"

Ney smiled at his aide-de-camp. "We're on the edge of war and peace here. The Elban nobility haven't made it clear if they support Duran or not, so we're here to occupy Janku before they try anything stupid."

Barbier gazed around him. "Where are these nobles then?"

"At Janku waiting to welcome us."

"But I thought we were on the edge of war."

"Yes," Ney said grinning, "but we're moving too fast for them. They need more time to raise a new army, so all they can do for now is submit when Duran arrives."

Barbier scrunched his nose. "So there's not going to be a fight?"

"There was one. We won it by marching quickly."

"Doesn't seem like much of a fight."

Ney flashed his grin again. "That's the best kind of fight."

They arrived at Janku on the seventh day.

A man in armor appeared from the gates, along with a man wearing fine clothes, and two servants. They didn't seem intent on harm, so Duran, Ney, and Barbier rode ahead of the army to meet with them in front of Janku's walls.

"Sir Josep of Vaca, your majesty." The armored man bowed to Duran as they dismounted. "Acting captain of Janku's garrison."

The finely dressed man bowed deeply. "Your royal majesty, I have the honor of being your royal chamberlain. I must say that we are most pleased to welcome you home. Preparations have been arranged for your arrival to the royal palace. Might I escort you there immediately?"

Duran looked at Ney and muttered, "I don't know these men. My old staff must have been replaced."

The Royal Chamberlain clapped his hands together. "Please, your majesty. The preparations-"

"Where will the army stay?" Ney interrupted.

"The royal barracks are equipped to house six thousand men. The rest may establish a camp in the royal gardens. Our servants will, of course, be able to provide your men with-"

"Barbier, orders to be sent." Ney rattled off in French, "Have General Courbet place three regiments in the royal barracks, one Elban, one auxiliary, and one regular." He turned, now fully ignoring the Royal Chamberlain. "The rest of the men will establish a camp in the royal gardens. Then get me my baton. We'll march in parade order. Courbet handles administration. I want Feraud, Delon, Rousseau, Messier, and Brunelle riding with me at the head when we go in, understand?"

Barbier saluted and shouted, "Yes, sir!" He remounted and took off riding for the army.

"My lord, is this really necessary?" the Royal Chamberlain asked. "The palace is prepared already. You may go in immediately."

Ney turned to Duran. "Do you mind waiting?"

"Not at all," the king replied.

The Royal Chamberlain licked his lips.

They waited until the whole army was ready for parade. Ney had his baton in hand, and he'd chosen to ride a white horse for the occasion. Duran was at the front, of course; he was king, and that needed to be clear, but Ney wasn't far behind. Ney's officers were arrayed behind them in resplendent blue and gold uniforms. The Royal Chamberlain and Sir Josep were next to Duran.

The army was in marching columns, narrow enough that they could go through Janku's streets without much trouble. Elban and French regiments were intermixed with each other along the column. The Elban prisoners, almost as numerous as the rest of the column, took up the rear with Prince Teo at their head.

It was a show of force, just like at Italica. A display to show Prince Teo was beaten.

They marched through Janku's northern gate. Thousands gathered to watch the soldiers enter. They lined the streets and stood in balconies cheering King Duran and Marshal Ney as they came triumphant to reclaim the Elban throne. Sort of.

The cheers were half-hearted. Most people simply watched them pass without comment, and some heckling began once they'd made it past the curtain walls. There was a guard posted on the gates, urban militia from the looks of it, and they stood deathly silent as Ney's army passed.

"Quite the welcome," General Messier muttered.

General Brunelle snorted. "Certainly not Paris."

"Be grateful it's not Moscow," General Rousseau spat.

Every French officer grumbled in agreement.

Colonel Feraud caught a rose thrown from a high balcony by a young woman and tucked it behind his ear. He gave a typical grin and winked. "It's not all bad," he laughed.

Ahead of them, the Royal Chamberlain fussed over King Duran. "Your majesty, I really must insist that you detach yourself from this parade. The palace is-"

Duran raised a hand. "I will continue as I see fit." He sighed. "What happened to my old chamberlain?"

"My predecessor elected to retire while you were away, your majesty. My understanding is that there was some disagreement with-"

"Find him," Duran cut in. "I wish to speak to him."

The Royal Chamberlain bowed effusively. "Of course, your majesty. Only that my predecessor no longer resides on this world."

Duran turned. "What?"

"He was taken by Emroy, your majesty. In his sleep, I am told. Painless."

Duran furrowed his brow. "He was younger than me! You mean to tell me he died in his sleep?"

The Royal Chamberlain made another bow. "These things occur, your majesty."

Duran swore.

Sir Josep slowed his horse to be at Ney's side. The armored man hadn't said much, but with the Royal Chamberlain still fretting over Duran ahead, he leaned over to Ney and breathed out, "Be careful here."

Ney's eyebrow rose. "Oh?"

"The flower of Elban nobility is awaiting you at the palace. Be careful."

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

The knight straightened. "You will."

The Royal Palace was guarded by fifty knights. They were arranged in its courtyard, each wearing a fortune in mirror-polish plate armor. Every man carried a heavily decorated pollaxe with plenty of gold inlaid on hardened steel. They were Sir Josep's men, and he nodded in approval.

They knelt when King Duran rode up to them.

A boy appeared from the palace and ran up to the Royal Chamberlain. Meanwhile, an army of servants seemed to materialize to take horses to stables. Others began leading Ney's army into their barracks. No one took Ney's horse, nor did they take Duran's or the Royal Chamberlain's.

"Your majesty," the Royal Chamberlain said, bowing yet again. "Your loyal vassals will be most honored to meet you at the bathhouses. They send their utmost respect and hope you will arrive shortly."

"I thought we were going to meet them at the palace," Ney muttered.

The Royal Chamberlain bowed to Ney. "I perhaps was mistaken. I must apologize on behalf of the palace staff. If it pleases you-"

"Oh by all the gods," Duran spat. "Let's just get this done already. Lead us."

They left behind the army so that only Ney's officers came with them. The bathhouses were on the other side of the city, and Ney had to wonder why such a far away place had been chosen as a meeting place.

A great number of people were in the street when they went across the city. It seemed like there was more of a crowd than when the army had marched in, but Ney didn't understand why. The Royal Chamberlain led them down a street, and they were bombarded by ecstatic cheers when only minutes ago the army had been met with silence. Men and women, thousands of them, shouted the king's name like a war chant.

"Duran!"

"Duran!"

"Duran!"

Ney's bewilderment continued to rise. Boys ran behind them, gleefully laughing and waving to Ney's officers who, like their commander, were confused to no end. A young man ran alongside Ney's horse, shouting, until he tripped on something on the road, and he fell with a yelp.

Ney looked down to see what had happened to him. Then there was a distinct snap, something struck him in the chest, one of his officers cried out, and everything went dark.

Rousseau watched the Marshal stiffen in his saddle and knew something was wrong before he spotted the crossbow bolt. A roar erupted from the crowd, and Brunelle's voice was barely audible over it.

"Assassin!"

The crowd dissolved into a mob in two heartbeats, destroying any possibility of finding the assassin. Rousseau rode to the Marshal. He wasn't responding, and his uniform had grown an ugly dark splotch where the bolt had struck his chest. Not ideal. Very bad in fact.

Rousseau pulled the Marshal onto his horse. "We need to get him a doctor now!"

"How?!" Brunelle demanded. He gestured around them. The mob was fleeing in every direction and clogged the street with its endless mass.

Feraud drew his saber and roared, "Out of my way you fucking ingrates!" He charged, cut down two men who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the crowd flowed away like water. Then he turned. "Are you coming or what?!"

Rousseau spurred his horse.

They rode for the palace because that was the only place in the city they knew. Feraud cleared them a path while Rousseau did his best at keeping the Marshal on his horse. The other officers watched for assassins.

Brunelle shot down one man in the street. He stared too long and reached into his cloak. He might've been an assassin; they would never know.

The street was empty after that.

They reached the palace, and King Duran was rushed away by Sir Josep's men. The Marshal had lost a good deal of blood, and he was beginning to pale. Rousseau and Messier carried him into the first palace chambers they found which, by happenstance, were Prince Teo's former chambers. Palace servants buzzed around the Marshal like wasps, and Rousseau turned to the others.

"He needs a doctor!" Rousseau said, eyes set firm.

"A doctor has been summoned," the Royal Chamberlain said with a bow, and Rousseau stared at him. Where did he learn to speak French?

Rousseau had made his career through caution. Against the guerrillas of Spain, he'd learned that foolhardy action often resulted in unnecessary disaster. He'd learned to slow down and consider everything. He'd figured out how to judge people as well, to know which local guide was working for the guerrillas and which was simply a greedy turncoat. Rousseau didn't like the Royal Chamberlain. Something about him was false, rotten to the core.

He turned away from the Royal Chamberlain. "Messier, get one of our surgeons."

"A wound like that? I'm not sure how much they'll be able to-"

"Let them decide that."

Messier straightened up. "Right. I'll get them." He left at a sprint.

"He needs a hexenmeister," Sir Josep said in German, a language that Rousseau understood precious little of.

"Hexenmeister?"

"Ja."

In contrast to the Royal Chamberlain, Sir Josep had the look of an honest man. Rousseau had no clue what he meant, but he liked the man's look, and he was grasping at straws now.

"Can you get?" he said, stretching the extent of his German knowledge.

Sir Josep nodded. He turned and left the room.

Rousseau sighed then glanced back at the Marshal, surrounded by palace servants, and grew cautious again. "Everyone out!" he demanded. He shoved a few servants, and they fled the room en masse.

The Royal Chamberlain bowed. "I have sent for a doctor," he began, but Rousseau cut him off.

"We'll get our own," he said. "You can get out now."

The Royal Chamberlain sighed. "I'll have water and bandages sent."

Brunelle caught Rousseau by the arm. "I sent for Barbier and Courbet. Delon's gathering grenadiers to form a guard. Feraud's got cavalry troopers trying to find the assassin."

Rousseau bit his lip. "I didn't even get a look at the bastard."

"None of us did." Brunelle pinched his nose. "It all happened so fast."

"Too many people," Rousseau agreed. He found he was watching the Marshal's chest rise and fall ever so slightly. "Bigger crowd. Why were there so many?"

"We went down a different path; the chamberlain was leading us. You think that was planned?"

Rousseau cursed silently. "I didn't like the look of him."

The French surgeons arrived and set to work on the Marshal. They pulled the bolt from his chest, re-bandaged him to stop the bleeding, and reassured Rousseau that it had missed the Marshal's heart. A few inches were all the difference.

One of the surgeons examined the newly freed bolt. It was coated in blood, but it had an odd sheen to it. The surgeon carried it to Rousseau and held it out for him to see.

"Poison," the surgeon spat. "Someone wants the Marshal very dead."

"Christ above."

"There's nothing we can do about it," the surgeon continued. "None of us are familiar with poison, and it could take weeks to deduce an antidote."

"So he's dead?" Rousseau asked, prepared for the worst.

The surgeon shrugged. "He's a very tough man. He may beat it naturally, but we can only wait to see."

"I've summoned someone who can help. A hexenmeister."

The surgeon frowned with professional disapproval.

Grenadiers arrived to take up guard posts, and the palace was quickly fortified. King Duran was still tucked away somewhere, but palace servants brought water and bandages to the room. Barbier arrived to help, though Courbet was too busy arranging the army's lodgings. Feraud's troopers failed to find any clues.

Rousseau eyed the waterskins brought by palace servants with suspicion. He stopped the surgeons from using it on the Marshal's wound then held up his own canteen. "Only water from our own sources until we're sure we're safe. Everyone got that?"

The other men in the room nodded.

Twenty minutes later, Barbier brought two street dogs into the palace. The servants were scandalized, but their angry shouts fell upon deaf ears. He presented them to Rousseau, and the general offered both dogs water in bowls. The younger pup drank quickly. The older one sniffed and gave a whine.

In an hour, the pup was dead.

The whole army went on alert, and Courbet doubled the barracks guard. Men exhausted from a day of marching drew up plans to defend the royal barracks and garden in case of attack, and Feraud cleared every man into the street then went from room to room, tent to tent, with five dozen cavalrymen, sabers drawn and at the ready. Tired men opened every trunk and every chest. Beds were upended, bedrolls emptied.

Five men were caught. Each of them struggled, and none of them consented to being taken alive.

Feraud looked like a demon from the depths of hell, saber red with the blood of a palace servant.

The Royal Chamberlain refused to be summoned.

The setting sun brought Sir Josep and an elderly man in dark blue robes. He was so old that the wrinkles on his face outnumbered the buttons of a hussar's jacket. He wore a large hat on his head and carried a tall staff. They were stopped by the guard, and Rousseau had to personally clear them for entry.

The hexenmeister looked at the Marshal then turned to the Frenchmen in the room. "Water!" he demanded.

Rousseau gave him water from his personal canteen.

The hexenmeister splashed water onto his hands, muttering incessantly. Rousseau watched his hands glow with light then made the sign of the cross. He decided that if dragons and ogres could exist, so too could witchcraft and sorcery. One of the grenadiers was less open minded; he fainted and had to be carried out.

Light flooded the room in one moment then disappeared in the next. The hexenmeister turned, looking twenty years older, and stumbled away from the Marshal.

"I cleaned away the poison, but I do not have enough potentia for the wound. He will have to heal naturally."

Rousseau's German wasn't up to the task of properly thanking the man, so he settled for a hefty bag of silver. The hexenmeister weighed it in his hand and left. Sir Josep left with him and didn't return.

With the Marshal stable, Rousseau went to find Courbet. He was informed of Feraud's hunt and the five spies they'd killed. He also learned two were palace servants.

"Christ this is bad," Rousseau muttered.

Courbet mumbled his agreement.

"We need to get on top of this," Rousseau began but then stopped. "Do we even know who we're up against?"

"The Elban nobility?" Courbet guessed. "We were supposed to meet with them, but then," he gestured vaguely around them, "all this happened."

Rousseau cursed. "Have you seen King Duran since?"

"Royal guards have him bottled up tight. I doubt we'll be able to get anywhere near him until the Marshal comes to."

"We're on our own then."

Courbet nodded. "Seems like it. We should secure our position."

Rousseau ran a hand through his hair. "Mhmm… Feraud's been a bit reckless with his search. I'll have a company of grenadiers take over spy hunting from him."

"We need all the grenadiers on guard duty," Courbet said. He shifted his eyes. "I don't know I trust fusiliers to take over watching the Marshal."

Rousseau wracked his brain. "What about…?" he struggled with the name. "That one captain from all the reports. The one who led the assault?"

"Captain Duclos."

"Aye, that one."

A man sat in his tavern room, reassembling a weapon. The crossbow was made of eighteen parts, all steel, which disassembled neatly into easily hideable pieces. His cloak, sewn by his own hand, had tiny pockets in the lining where he could conceal each part and go completely unnoticed. The crossbow winded by a screw built into the stock; he could use it one-handed, and when assembled it was only as long as his forearm. It was built by an Algunan master. It shot steel tipped bolts which he coated with his personal concoction of poison.

He assembled it with careful precision derived from years of experience.

When he was done, he cocked it and engaged the safety mechanism that held its two hundred twenty pounds of force. Then he placed it on the loop in his cloak that would hold it against his torso. He briefly considered what could happen if the thing accidentally went off.

Nothing good, but that was just another risk. He'd placed his life in the hands of far less reliable things than a masterwork safety mechanism.

He went to his room's window and opened the shutter just a fraction. Then he waited.

Thirty minutes later, a street performer came down the road and stopped in front of his tavern. She did a dance that attracted a small crowd. Her eyes flickered to his room, and she did a cartwheel to be free of the crowd.

She produced a puppet dressed in blue and dropped it on the road.

She didn't step on its head.

She left the thing in the dirt and danced along the street.

He cursed and moved to enact a new plan.

Not for the first time, Jacques was cursing his luck. It seemed he wouldn't ever get a break. God hated him.

"Italica was a fluke!" he protested to General Courbet. "I'm not some master spycatcher!"

It was the day following the Marshal's assassination attempt. The whole army knew what had happened, and everyone was on edge. They also knew about Colonel Feraud's hunt and the five men who'd been killed.

"You are the best we have," the general told him.

Jacques rubbed his face. "How am I supposed to do this? I don't have any leads."

"You'll find a way."

"I'm only a captain," he tried. "I can't do everything I might need to do. You should have someone higher-"

"You have my authority on all matters related to this. Do anything you deem necessary," General Courbet stated.

Jacques glared at him. "Fine," he conceded. "But I can't promise anything, sir."

The general smiled. "You are dismissed. Best of luck, Captain."

Jacques returned to the royal barracks where his regiment was garrisoned. There were a dozen sentries posted at each entrance, and they waved him through without questioning when they saw his uniform. He passed a palace servant who was being searched and interrogated before entry.

In spite of himself, Jacques noted that mentally.

He found Astier and Vidal lounging in their beds, proper wood frame beds since they were lucky enough to be posted in the barracks rather than the garden, and they got better accommodations because of it. Vidal's was still cracked from when Feraud's men flipped it the day before.

"Let me guess," Astier grumbled. "We're supposed to solve another conspiracy."

Jacques stared. "How did you…?"

"Because that's what we always fucking do," Astier groaned. He spat onto the ground. "We do everything in this God forsaken army."

Vidal sat up from her bed looking a tad more enthusiastic than her fellow sergeant. "So what's the job?"

Jacques shrugged. "Find spies? Root out any assassins? General Courbet wasn't very specific with his orders, but he's given me the authority to do what I deem necessary."

Vidal gave a wry grin. "Wonderful it'll be just like all our other orders." She winked at him.

Jacques blinked. "Why does it seem like I'm the only one who didn't expect this."

"Because you're only intelligent on a battlefield," Vidal sighed.

"What's our first move then?" Astier asked, still stretched out on his bed.

Jacques frowned and asked, "What if I don't know what we should do?"

Astier snorted laughter. "Shut up and tell us already."

"We could do with some changes to security," he admitted.

That night, a third of the Ninth Company was posted on sentry duty for the royal barracks. Another third was on sentry duty for the royal gardens, and the remaining third was training other companies on the new protocols.

Jacques arrived to take his shift from Corporal Boulet. He'd ordered that a corporal or superior was to always be on duty at each sentry post, and Jacques was no exception. Astier and Vidal were already on duty at the various garden entrances. Jacques wanted to set a good example.

Boulet nodded. "All yours, Captain. It's been quiet so far. Most of the army's kept inside so far. Only a few men out with passes, mostly auxiliaries and regulars. Elbans are being kept inside like you ordered. Should be a mostly quiet night for you." He smiled a mischievous grin. "I heard a rumor that there might be a bottle of wine tucked in here somewhere."

Jacques looked at him with amazement. "You understand I'm the one who prohibited drinking, right?"

Boulet raised his hands. "Just a rumor, Captain. Nothing that'll interfere too much with duty."

"Wait till you're off duty next time," Jacques sighed.

"Of course, Captain," Boulet said, and he walked away whistling.

Jacques sat at the watch desk and sighed. His eyelids felt heavy, and he cursed. It would be a very bad example to set if he fell asleep on his first watch.

There were six other men at the sentry post, privates who rotated out separately from Jacques shift. Four had muskets with bayonets fixed and watched the barracks entrance for potential intruders. Two sat near Jacques mindlessly passing the time.

"Sausage, Captain?" one of the privates offered a slice to him.

"Thank you," he replied and took the offering.

He nibbled on it and glanced at what the private was doing. The man had a quill pen and was furiously scribbling. Jacques leaned over and discovered he was copying a book.

Jacques read a few lines. It was a romance novel from what he could gather.

"You mind, Captain?" the private asked. "I don't like being watched, sir."

Jacques leant back. "My apologies. It's interesting stuff you have there. You brought that from France?"

The private shook his head. "Not mine, sir. Corporal Malet gave it to me to copy." the private flexed his hand. "He's teaching me to read and write."

Jacques paused then reordered his thoughts. "Ah, I wasn't watching you write, private. I was reading the book."

The private smiled. "I can't read it. I'm just copying the letters like Corporal Malet told me to." He leaned back in his seat. "It's frustrating as all hell, and it makes my hand cramp like nothing else."

"Why are you learning?" Jaques asked, sharing his smile. "Aiming for a promotion?"

The private shook his head slowly. "Nah, sir, I don't have that in me. I want to write a book."

"Really?" Jacques said. He worried that he sounded a bit too surprised. "Why's that?"

The private looked distantly. "Not honestly sure, sir. It's like a hook that you can't pry out. Can't stop thinking about it. You ever write something?"

Jacques shook his head. "Just letters and reports. What do you want to write about?"

"This world," the private instantly said. "I mean just think about it. All this witchcraft and fairytales." He laughed into the darkness. "We fought ogres and knights."

Jacques shared his laugh. "I wonder who'd believe us."

An auxiliary, evident by his padded jacket and metal helmet, appeared from the dark and began walking into the barracks. He passed the four fusiliers with muskets and smiled at them with a nod. They returned his smile, and the auxiliary said something in Saderan that none of the Frenchmen understood. He began to enter.

Jacques blinked twice and pulled himself out of his conversation. He stood suddenly.

"Halt! Password!"

The auxiliary stopped and looked back, uncertainty plastered over his expression.

"Cedo signum!" Jacques repeated in Saderan. The fusiliers, suddenly aware, started to approach him.

The spy tried to run. He bolted three feet but was confronted by a big fusilier who jabbed him in the gut with his musket butt. The spy dropped to his knees, and the other fusiliers pinned him down. A bayonet was leveled at his throat.

"Do you speak Elban?" Jacques demanded.

The spy stared up at him.

Jacques put a boot on his chest and pressed down. "This can go very poorly for you. Tell the truth, and it won't have to." He relieved some of the pressure. "One more time now. Do you speak Elban?"

"Y-yes," the spy squeaked.

Jacques had the spy locked in a room then recalled Astier to interrogate him. He wasn't a very good spy nor was he well trusted, and the only real information he could give was the location he'd met his employer. He'd only been paid twenty Denari in all. Vidal caught another spy two hours later, and he was similarly lacking in information. They both named the same inn.

The next morning, Jacques led his company into the city and raided the inn the spies had named. No one matched the description they'd been given. Whoever their employer had been, he was long gone.

They caught another spy at midday, and men were dispatched to the new location immediately. A dozen fusiliers led by Astier broke down the door to an abandoned storehouse and found nothing of value.

"This isn't good," Jacques muttered when his sergeant returned. "We're being too reactive, and whoever's behind this is too slippery for us."

"We caught three spies. That's got to count for something," Astier pointed out.

"Maybe," Jacques said.

By sunset, it was evident that they had not caught every spy.

Every company of auxiliaries received a leaflet in carefully written Saderan which promised any auxiliary who deserted from the French would receive twenty Sinku and free passage to the Empire. Elban NCOs would receive double that and passage to their homes in Elbe. They were freely distributed throughout the companies, in spite of efforts by German officers to clamp down on them.

Jacques, imbued with the authority of General Courbet, issued orders to reject requests by auxiliaries for city leave. It caused a great deal of grumbling, and Jacques also doubled the sentries to ensure no one could sneak out. That caused annoyance from the regulars, and the Elban loyalists weren't allowed out anyway, so now almost everyone had something to grumble about.

Jacques ignored it for the most part. Instead, he went to Captain Kapsner and hatched a plan.

The two captains sat in Jacques's 'office', a room in the royal barracks that had previously been used as an armory. They were behind a desk with one of the leaflets in front of them. Across the table, three auxiliaries sat with their hands folded.

"Sir you don't- Sirs I mean- you don't think we want to run do you?" the skinniest one, a former slave named Marcus, asked.

"We was just drink tiny bit on watch!" Placus, an Italican street rat, spluttered out in his broken Elban.

"Quiet, you idiots!" the conscripted gang member, Gallio, hissed. He glanced back at the captains. "Pardon for my tone, sirs."

Jacques threw the leaflet at them. "Anyone tempted?"

Placus made the sign of the cross, as he'd picked it up from the regulars, and swore, "By Christ, none do thing, sirs!"

Marcus nodded rapidly. "We'd never, sirs!"

"Emroy save me, that's not what he meant," Gallio mumbled. He met Jacques's eye. "There's a few disgruntled fellows in the company. The usual awkward fellows that come and go from situations like this. Never used to recruit them back in Italica, but you French decided…" He cleared his throat. "No one will run for now. But miss our pay or let too many of the lads die…" He shrugged.

Jacques nodded in understanding. He turned to Captain Kapsner and whispered in French, "These are the best men you have?"

Kapsner met his eye. "That's what happens when you recruit the scum of society. These three are loyal and competent. That's all I can give you."

Jacques cleared his throat. He turned to the auxiliaries. "Right," he muttered. "How would you three like to desert?"

Placus crossed himself again.

"It wouldn't work, sirs," Marcus protested. "Everyone in our company knows we wouldn't betray the army."

Jacques sighed. "Listen, whoever we're facing isn't some god. They're not omnipresent. They don't know everything about me, and they most certainly don't know about three auxiliaries among eight thousand."

Marcus became silent.

Gallio examined the backs of his hands. "What do we get out of this?" he asked. "Other than a chance to get killed, of course."

"Anything within reason?" Jacques asked. "Money?" he tried.

"Double pay?" Gallio leaned forward.

"No latrine duty!" Placus added.

Kapsner rubbed his head. "Just so long as you're not bragging to anyone about it."

They all shook on it.

The bluecoat sergeant on duty spat onto the ground. "Why the fuck's Duclos lettin' you three off with passes? Rest of you auxies ain't allowed out." His Elban had an odd clip to it, characteristic of the bluecoats who called themselves 'Deutsche'.

The three Saderans stood silent while the bluecoat sergeant looked them over. He gave their passes to another bluecoat who sounded out the foreign words, lips moving carefully.

"You'd think Duclos would keep some consistency. There'll be moaning from your countrymen 'cause of this."

Gallio wanted to say that it was Captain Duclos's idea, not his, and that they were very likely risking their lives by going out there, and that if he wanted to take their place, gods be damned, he could go ahead and do it. But he'd been told not to tell anyone, so he kept his mouth shut.

The bluecoat made a face. "Fine. The password is 'Bonaparte', and the countersign is 'Empereur'. Enjoy your night, and get out of my face."

The three Saderans shuffled past the sentry post, and they heard the bluecoat spit something in French which none of them understood. Another bluecoat laughed.

They went straight for the tavern named on the leaflet. Marcus and Gallio went in; Placus found an alley to watch from.

Inside, Gallio and Marcus found a table to sit at. They ordered drinks with their distinctive Saderan accents, showing the swords and bucklers at their hips for all to see. Five musicians played instruments in the typical Elban style, fast and unrefined, while the Saderans watched and cheered.

Two girls attached themselves to the foreigners. They were a bit too scantily clad to be lost young noblewomen like they claimed, but Gallio appreciated the company all the same. There was a thick crowd in the tavern. An especially thick crowd for the time of night.

Marcus's girl began tugging at him, and the man looked at Gallio pleadingly. Gallio glanced around cautiously and shrugged.

"Stick it out just a bit longer," he sighed.

"Just go with the girls," a voice from behind him said. He turned and no one was there.

Gallio nodded to Marcus. He pushed his girl off his lap and let her lead him past the musicians up a flight of stairs and to a collection of tiny rooms. Marcus was dragged closely behind.

Outside the tavern, Placus saw it all and took a breath. He left the alleyway, pulled his cloak over himself, and shuffled away from the tavern. As soon as he was out of sight, he took off running.

Gallio and Marcus were brought to a room at the very end of the hall. The girls fled instantly, and they were left to meet with a man sitting on the room's bed. He was wearing a breastplate, and his two henchmen filled the rest of the room. They had gambesons and heavy clubs.

"So you two want to leave bluecoat service?" the man asked.

"Depends," Gallio said. "I hear there's a good deal of coin in it."

The room was too small for both Saderans to fit in, and Marcus was still in the hallway, looking over Gallio's shoulder. He noted that armed men were starting to fill the floor below. "This doesn't seem like a very welcoming committee," he commented.

The man had an ugly grin on his face. "You know, live or die, your comrades will think you deserted, eh Saderan?"

Gallio narrowed his eyes. "You mean there's no coin?" He had a hand on his sword.

The two thugs with gambesons moved toward them, clubs raised.

"We can talk about coin later," the man on the bed said, "it's really not my call."

"Bad odds," Gallio said.

His sword came free of its scabbard, pommel first, and it slammed into the closest thug's jaw. The man fell back, spitting teeth. Gallio drew the sword fully and threatened the second who flinched, so Gallio kicked him between the legs. Lessons from countless street fights guided his actions, and he cut down both stunned men in one breath. One died quickly. The other fell wheezing and screamed his last breath.

Marcus drew his own sword. "Look what you've done. They'll have us now."

"We were five steps from an early grave," Gallio spat. He stepped over the deadmen, sword dripping with blood.

The man on the bed turned white as the sheets. "Don't touch me. My men are all around here."

"There's no money then?" Gallio demanded.

The man was quiet.

Marcus entered and locked the door. "Hardy below, you thought you could take us out with just two men?" He shook his head. "Now you're stuck with us. That's what I would call bad planning."

Gallio wiped his sword and grabbed his buckler with his other hand. "We should get this one out with us."

"There's two dozen armed men down there," Marcus cursed. He also equipped his buckler. "I don't think they intend to negotiate."

Someone pounded on the door. "Open up, Saderans! Surrender and we'll kill you quickly!"

"Come in, and I'll send you to Emroy!" Gallio retorted.

Something impacted the door. A deep throated thunk. Then another and then two more. The door shook each time.

"Axes," Marcus said. "They'll be through in a few minutes."

Gallio tested his sword's balance. "What have we gotten ourselves into?" he wondered.

Jacques laid the Elban sword across his knee and ran a whetstone down its edge. The weapon was a masterpiece, but Jacques had neglected to maintain it properly. Nicks and dings covered the edge, the result of hard fighting, and he now worked with vigor to remove them. His rhythmic motions soothed him and served as a good distraction from his nerves.

He might've sent three men to their deaths.

He heard commotion at one of the sentry posts, and his stomach flipped. Jacques stood, sword in hand, and ran to the post. An auxiliary was in the street yelling. Fusiliers at the sentry post had muskets cocked.

"Password!" they demanded. Then as an afterthought, "Signum!"

"Bonaparte!" the auxiliary shouted, and the sentries relaxed.

"Emperor!" a fusilier countersigned.

"Ambushed men other at tavern!" the auxiliary spluttered in broken German.

Jacques understood. "Quarter guard! To arms!" he cried out.

The shout went up, and men came racing out of the barracks. Jacques had, of course, prepared a reserve of men in case they needed to take action, though he'd hoped they wouldn't be necessary. Astier and Vidal led the entire Ninth Company fully awake, armed, and sober out to the street. A few men looked tired, but they were all up and ready.

Jacques looked at the auxiliary. "Can you lead us there?"

Catching his breath, the auxiliary nodded. Then he began running again, back down the city streets.

"With me!" Jacques shouted, and he led the Ninth Company after the auxiliary.

The door came apart like it was made of twigs, and Gallio steadied his breathing.

He kicked the door, what remained of it, into the axeman behind it. The man stumbled, and Gallio flicked a cut through his chin. He pressed forward, caught a swing on his buckler, and gutted the next one while he was still surprised.

The hallway was too narrow for more than two men to stand abreast. It was the only thing that kept him from being killed instantly.

Another sword came at him, and he warded it with his sword and buckler, each acting as part of a single defense. The buckler bound against his opponent's sword while Gallio's sword came up to cut the man's neck; a simple move that only worked due to the opposing thug's inexperience.

The thug died choking on blood.

His companions fell back. The one at the front turned his back, assuming Gallio wouldn't follow him through the hallway.

He was wrong, and he died for it. Then Gallio was loose on the thugs, and he killed two men, turned, and slammed his buckler into an armored man's nose. Gallio's point sliced through one man's nose, and his kick knocked another down the stairs.

Gasping and briefly alone, he fell to one knee.

"Switch!" he called and limped back to the room. He had a cut on his thigh; he had no idea where it'd come from.

Marcus took his place in the hallway, and Gallio took a seat next to their prisoner.

Where the fuck was Placus? Where were the bluecoats?

The tavern was crowded with men, at least two dozen in all. Jacques's company of course outnumbered them, and he sent half his men to cut off their retreat from the other end of the street.

"I want prisoners!" he bellowed. "Avoid shooting! Take captives when you can!"

Then they were off into the dark. The only light came from the tavern, and it was very difficult to keep his footing. He managed somehow, and then he collided with an Elban thug in the darkness.

They both went down. By luck, Jacques landed on top, and he somehow still had the Elban sword in hand. He pressed the blade against the thug's throat and demanded he surrender. It was only then he found the thug had died from falling on hard cobblestone.

Jacques shoved himself to his feet. The Elban's head leaked blood, and he smeared some on his hand.

He kept moving. Fusiliers badly outnumbered the thugs, but the Elbans had nowhere to run, so the ones in the street were surrendering. They weren't soldiers. They didn't want to die for their cause.

Jacques forced his way into the tavern. The thugs inside couldn't tell what exactly was happening, and they still wanted to fight.

He parried a blow with the Elban sword then snapped a rising cut, severing the attacker's hand. Someone behind him pressed forward, and Jacques was sent tumbling into the man in front of him.

Fusiliers flooded the building. The Elbans did some quick calculations on their chances of escape. For the second time, Jacques shoved himself to his feet and found that all his foes had decided to surrender.

Three men came down from the second floor, and Jacques was aware enough to recognize two of the auxiliaries he'd sent to desert. The third man looked like a pale ghost.

"Who's that?" he gasped when they dragged the man in front of him.

"Someone who knows something," one of them spat.

"We think he might be higher up on the chain, sir. We haven't had the chance to interrogate him, though," the other said.

Jacques managed to smile. "Then this wasn't a waste of time. You lads have a good night?"

The first auxiliary shook his head. "Give me a straight fight any day of the year," he said. "They offered to pay us to desert, but they never intended to pay us, only to kill us. We never meant to desert but rather to capture them. They expected us to double-cross them and brought extra men, but they didn't expect us to bring a whole company, so we caught them with their pants down. But we still don't even know who we're fucking against anyway."

Jacques nodded. "That about sums it up."

"Hardy below, how do you understand it all?"

Jacques shrugged. "You get used to it."

I found the time to write somehow. This chapter experiments with some new POV stuff that I've been interested in for a while. Reviews really gave me the motivation to keep going at it in spite of a very busy schedule, so thank you everyone who has done that. Feel free to leave on if you hated or loved the chapter.