Broken Throne Page 10
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-MARINERS led by EGAN agree to terms. Will run BEACON region transport upon undertaking of RED WEB Stage 2.
-Be advised, MARINERS aware of SG organization. Other cells active in NRT. Request clarification?
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: LAMB at Harbor Bay, NRT.
-Disregard. Focus on RED WEB.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 10 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Albanus, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-Made contacts in WHISTLE network across BEACON region/into CAPITAL VALLEY, all Stage 2 willing.
-Working way up the CAPITAL RIVER.
-Town of ALBANUS closest Red center to SUMMERTON (seasonal home of King Tiberias + his govt).
-Valuable? Will assess.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
The locals call it the Stilts. I can see why. The river is still high, flooded by the spring melts, and much of the town would be underwater if not for the high pylons its structures are built on. An arena frowns over it all from the crest of a hill. A firm reminder of who owns this place and who rules this kingdom.
Unlike the larger cities of Harbor Bay or Haven, there are no walls, no gates, and no blood checks. My soldiers and I enter in the morning with the rest of the merchants moving along the Royal Road. A Silver officer checks our false identification cards with a disinterested flicker of a glance before waving us on, letting a pack of wolves into his village of sheep. If not for the location and Albanus’s proximity to the king’s summer palace, I wouldn’t give this place another glance. There’s nothing here of use. Just overworked woodcutters and their families, barely alive enough to eat, let alone rebel against a Silver regime. But Summerton is a few miles upriver, making Albanus worthy of my attention.
Tristan memorized the town before we entered, or at least he tried to. It would not do to consult our maps openly and let everyone know we do not belong. He turns left quickly. The rest of us follow, tracking off the paved Royal Road to the muddy, rutted avenue that runs along the swollen riverbank. Our boots sink, but no one slips.
The stilt houses rise on the left, dotting what I think is Marcher Road. A few dirty children watch us pass, idly throwing stones in the lapping river. Farther out, fishermen on their boats haul glistening nets, filling their little boats with the day’s catch. They laugh among themselves, happy to work. Happy to have jobs that keep them from conscription and pointless war.
The Whistle in Orienpratis, a quarry city on the edge of the Beacon, is the reason we’re here. She assured us that another one of her kind operated in Albanus, serving as a fence for the town’s thieves and not-so-legal dealings. But she told us only that a Whistle existed, not where to find him or her. Not because she didn’t trust me but because she didn’t know who operated in Albanus. Like in the Scarlet Guard, the Whistles use their own secrets as a shield. So I keep my eyes open and searching.
The Stilts market throbs with activity. It’s going to rain soon, and everyone wants to finish their errands before the downpour. I brush my braid over my left shoulder. A signal. Without looking, I know my Guardsmen split off, moving in the usual pairs. Their orders are clear. Case the market. Feel out potential leads. Find the Whistle if you can. With their packs of harmless contraband—glass beads, batteries, stale ground coffee—they’ll attempt to trade or sell their way to the fence. So will I. My own pouch dangles at my hip, heavy but small, hidden by the untucked hem of a rough cotton shirt. Inside are bullets. Mismatched, of different calibers, seemingly stolen. In fact, they came from our own cache at our new Nortan safe house, a glorified cave tucked away in the Greatwoods region. But no one in the town can know that.
As always, Tristan keeps close. But he’s more relaxed here. Smaller towns and villages are not dangerous, not by our standards. Even though Silver Security officers patrol the market, they are few, and uninterested. They don’t care much if Reds steal from each other. Their punishments are reserved for the bold, the ones who dare look a Silver in the eye, or make enough trouble they have to get off their asses and involve.
“I’m hungry,” I say, turning to a stall selling coarse bread. The prices are astronomical compared to what we’re used to in the Lakelands, but then, Norta is no good at growing grain. Their soil is too rocky for much success in farming. How this man supports himself selling bread no one can buy is a mystery. Or it would be, to someone else.
The bread baker, a man too slim for his occupation, barely glances at us. We don’t look like promising customers. I jingle the coins in my pocket to get his attention.
He finally looks up, eyes watery and wide. The sound of coinage this far from the cities surprises him. “What you see is what I have.”
No nonsense. I like him already. “These two,” I reply, pointing to the finest baked loaves he has. Not a very high bar.
Still, his eyebrows raise. He snaps up the bread, wrapping the loaves in old paper with practiced efficiency. When I produce the copper coins without haggling for a lower price, his surprise deepens. As does his suspicion.
“I don’t know you,” he mutters. He glances away, far to the right, where an officer busies himself berating several underfed children.
“We’re traders,” Tristan offers. He leans forward, bracing himself on the rickety frame of the bread stall. One sleeve lifts, showing something on his wrist. A red band circling all the way around, the mark of the Whistles as we’ve come to find. It’s a tattoo, and a false one. But the baker doesn’t know that.
The man’s eyes linger on Tristan for only a moment, before trailing back to me. Not so foolish as he looks, then. “And what are you looking to trade?” he says, pushing one of the loaves into my hands. The other he keeps. Waiting.
“This and that,” I reply. And then I whistle, soft and low, but unmistakable. The two-note tune the last Whistle taught me. Harmless to those who know nothing.
The baker does not smile or nod. His face betrays nothing. “You’ll find better business in the dark.”
“I always do.”
“Down Mill Road, around the bend. A wagon,” the baker adds. “After sunset, but before midnight.”
Tristan nods. He knows the place.
I dip my head as well, in a tiny gesture of thanks. The baker doesn’t offer his own. Instead, his fingers curl around my other loaf of bread, which he puts back down on the stall counter. In a single motion, he tears off its paper wrappings and takes a taunting bite. Crumbs flake into his meager beard, each one a message. My coin has been traded for something more valuable than bread.
Mill Road, around the bend.
Fighting a smile, I pull my braid over my right shoulder.
All over the market, my soldiers abandon their pursuits. They move as one, a school of fish following their leader. As we make our way back out of the market, I try to ignore the grumblings of two Guardsmen. Apparently, someone picked their pockets.
“All those batteries, gone in a second. Didn’t even notice,” Cara grumbles, pawing through her satchel.
I glance at her. “Your comm?” If her broadcaster, a tiny radio that passes our messages in beeps and clicks, is gone, we’ll be in serious trouble.
Thankfully, she shakes her head and pats a bump in her shirt. “Still here,” she says. I force a simple nod, swallowing my sigh of relief.
“Hey, I’m missing some coin!” another Guardsman, the muscle-bound Tye, mutters. She shoves her scarred hands into her pockets.
This time, I almost laugh. We entered the market looking for a master th
ief, and my soldiers fell prey to a pickpocket instead. On another day, I might be angry, but the tiny hiccup rolls right off my shoulders. A few lost coins are of no matter in the scheme of things. After all, the Colonel called our endeavor a suicide mission only a few weeks ago.
But we are succeeding. And we are still very much alive.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 11 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Albanus, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-ALBANUS/STILTS WHISTLE willing to collaborate w/ Stage 2.
-Has eyes inside SUMMERTON/King’s seasonal palace.
-Also mentioned contacts within the Red Army at CORVIUM. Will pursue.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: LAMB at Albanus.
-Not orders, too dangerous. Continue with RED WEB.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 12 of Operation RED WEB, Stage 1.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Siracas, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-Intent of RED WEB Stage 1 is to introduce SG into NRT via existing networks. Army within orders.
-Red Army contacts invaluable. Will pursue. Pass up message to COMMAND.
-En route to CORVIUM.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: LAMB at Siracas.
-Stand down. Do not proceed to CORVIUM.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: General REDACTED.
Designation: DRUMMER.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: LAMB at Siracas, RAM at REDACTED.
-Proceed to CORVIUM. Assess Red Army contacts for information and Stage 2/Asset Removal.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, COMMAND CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Day 12 of Operation RED WEB.
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Corvium, NRT.
Destination: COMMAND at REDACTED, RAM at REDACTED.
-Acknowledged.
-Clearly not too dangerous.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, COMMAND CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: COMMAND at REDACTED.
-Please note my strong opposition to developments in RED WEB. LAMB needs a short leash.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: General REDACTED.
Designation: DRUMMER.
Origin: REDACTED.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED.
-Noted.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
I can smell the Choke from here. Ash, smoke, corpses.
“It’s a slow day. No bombs yet.” Tye fixes her eyes on the northwest horizon, and the dark haze in the distance that can only be the front of this pointless war. She served on the lines herself, albeit on the opposite side we are now. She fought for Lakelander masters and lost an ear to a frostbitten winter in trenches. She doesn’t hide the deformity. Her blond hair is pulled back tightly, letting everyone see the ruined stump her so-called loyalty bought her.
Tristan scans the landscape for the third time, squinting through the scope of his long rifle. He lies on his belly, half-hidden by the ropy spring grass. His motions are slow and methodical, practiced in the gun range at Irabelle, as well as the deep forests of the Lakelands. The notches on the barrel, tiny scratches in the metal, stand out brightly in the daylight. Twenty-two in all, one for every Silver killed with that very weapon. For all his itchy paranoia, Tristan has a surprisingly steady trigger finger.
From our place on the rise, we have a commanding view of the surrounding woods. The Choke some miles to the northwest, clouded even under the morning sun, and Corvium another mile to the east. There are no more towns here, or even animals. Too close to the trench lines for anything but soldiers. But they keep to the Iron Road, the main thoroughfare that passes through Corvium and ends at the front lines. Over the last few days, we’ve learned much about the Red legions constantly moving, replacing defeated soldiers on the lines, only to march back with their own dead and wounded a week later. They march in at dawn and late evening. We keep our distance from the Road, but we can still hear them when they go. Five thousand in each legion, five thousand of our Red brothers and sisters resigned to living targets. Supply convoys are harder to predict, moving when required, and not on any schedule. They too are manned by Red soldiers and Silver officers, albeit officers of the useless kind. There’s no honor in commanding a transport full of stale food and worn bandages. The supply convoys are a punishment for Silvers, and a reprieve for Reds. And best of all, they are poorly guarded. After all, the Lakelander enemy is firmly on the other side of the Choke, separated by miles of wasteland, trenches, and popping artillery. No one looks to the trees as they pass. No one suspects another enemy already inside their diamondglass walls.
I can’t see the Iron Road from this ridge—the trees are in full leaf, obscuring the paved avenue—but we’re not watching the Road today. We aren’t gathering intelligence from troop movements. We’re going to talk to the troops themselves.
My internal clock tells me they are late.
“Could be a trap,” Tristan mutters, always eager to voice his panicked opinion. He keeps his eye firmly pressed to the scope in warning. He’s been expecting a trap since the moment Will Whistle told us about his army contacts. And now that we’re going to meet them, he’s been on edge more than usual, if that’s possible. Not a bad instinct to have, but not a helpful one at the moment. Risk is part of the game. We won’t get anywhere if we think only of our own skins.
But there is a reason only three of us are waiting.
“If it’s a trap, we’ll get out of it,” I reply. “We’ve beaten worse.”
It’s not a lie. We all have scars and ghosts of our own. Some drove us to the Scarlet Guard, and some were because of it. I know the sting of both.
My words are for Tye more than Tristan. Like all who escaped the trenches, she’s not at all happy to be back, even if she isn’t wearing a Lakelander’s blue uniform. Not that she would ever complain about this out loud. But I can tell.
“Movement.”
Tye and I crouch lower, whipping in the direction of Tristan’s gaze. The rifle nose tracks at a snail’s pace, following something in the trees. Four shadows. Outnumbered.
They emerge with their palms out, showing empty hands. Unlike the soldiers on the Road, these four have their uniforms turned inside out, favoring stained brown and black lining over their usual rust colors. Better camouflage for the woods. Not to mention their names and ranks. I can’t see any insignia or badges of any kind. I have no idea who they are.
A calm breeze rustles the grass. It ripples like a pond disturbed by a single stone, its green waves breaking against the four as they approach in single file. I narrow my eyes at their feet. They’re
careful to step in the leader’s footprints. Any tracker would think only one person came this way, not four. Smart.
A woman leads, her jaw like an anvil. She’s missing both her trigger fingers. Unable to shoot, but still a soldier, judging by the crags of weariness on her face. Like the willowy, copper-skinned girl on her heels, her head is shaved to the scalp.
Two men bring up the rear. They are young, both probably within their first year of conscription. Neither is scarred or visibly injured, so they can’t be masquerading as wounded back in Corvium. Supply soldiers, most likely. Lucky to haul crates of ammunition and food. Although the second, the one at the very back, seems too slight for manual labor.
The bald woman stops ten feet away, her palms still raised. Too close for both our liking. I force myself to stand from the grass and close the distance between us. Tye and Tristan keep still, not hidden, but not moving either.
“We’re the ones,” she says.
I keep my hands on my hips, fingers inches from the gun belted across my waist. A naked threat. “Who sent us?” I ask her in testing. Behind me, Tristan tightens like a snake. The woman has the bravery to keep her eyes from his rifle, but the others behind her don’t.
“Will Whistle of the Stilts,” she replies. She doesn’t stop there, though it’s enough for the moment. “Children taken from their mothers, soldiers sent to slaughter, countless generations of slavery. Each and every one of them sent you.”
My fingers drum quietly. Rage is a double-edged sword, and this woman has been bled by both edges. “The Whistle will do. And you are?”
“Corporal Eastree, of the Tower Legion, like the rest.” She gestures behind, to the other three still watching Tristan. I nod at him, and his trigger finger relaxes a little. But not much. “We’re support troops, conscripted to Corvium.”
“Will told me as such,” I lie quickly. “And what did he tell you of me?”
“Enough to get us out here. Enough to risk our necks for.” The voice comes from the lean young man at the back of the line. He angles forward, around his comrade, his smile crooked, teasing, and cold. His eyes flash. “You know it’s execution if we’re caught out here, right?”
Another breeze, sharper than the last. I force my own empty grin. “Oh, is that all?”
“We best make this quick,” Eastree says. “Your lot might protect your names, but we have no use for such things. They have our blood, our faces. This is Private Florins, Private Reese, and—”