The Commander sighed and reached for a stamp. “You’re headed to the front, then?”
“Nowhere else to go,” said Slate. She was lying through her teeth, but she was pretty sure that she was the only one who knew that.
Brenner can probably tell, but Brenner will go along with it…
The Commander stamped the bottom of the document. “See the Quartermaster for anything you require. We don’t have much, but the capital says you’re welcome to what we’ve got.” Her expression indicated what she thought about this.
“Cigarettes and poppy milk,” muttered Brenner.
The Commander’s lip curled, but she handed back the paper. Her eyes scanned over the three men, lingering the longest on Caliban. Slate was pretty sure it wasn’t because the paladin was good-looking.
“Did they ever find the second group?” she asked, as Slate turned to go.
“No,” said Slate, keeping her voice dead even. “Did they make it this far?”
The Commander’s scowl deepened. “They did. They asked for two of my men as escorts,” she said.
“Ah,” Slate said.
“That was nine weeks ago,” said the Commander. “They went north into the hills. They had pigeons with them. One came back the first week. After that, nothing.”
“The hills can be treacherous in late winter,” said Slate.
The Commander stared into her eyes. Slate stared back.
You may be sharp, ma’am, but you can’t read minds. All my papers are in order and that’s all you need to know.
In the end, the Commander’s contempt for civilians won over anything else. “We’ll send word to the front to expect you, but I wouldn’t count on that.”
“Believe me,” said Slate, “I’m not counting on anything right now.”
CHAPTER 9
“THE VILLAGE UP AHEADis supposed to have a very nice inn,” said Learned Edmund, consulting his map across the bow of his saddle. “Hot baths, good food, and we can pick up supplies for the horses.”
“From your lips to the gods’ ears, priest,” said Brenner.
Unfortunately, as Slate had begun to suspect long ago, the gods did not seem to be listening.
They were nearly to the first row of houses when a man hurried out to meet them, waving his hands frantically.
“Some sort of trouble,” Caliban murmured, looking past him.
Brenner slid a hand down to his daggers. “Yeah. Either that’s a dead body in the middle of town, or somebody picked an awful strange place for a nap.”
The stranger was middle-aged, dressed like a farmer, his muscles stringy rather than powerful. Thin brown hair hung down in disarray. “Go back!” the stranger shouted, as soon as he was within earshot. “Turn around, go back!”
“Is there some trouble here?” asked Caliban, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Can we help?”
Brenner rolled his eyes.
“He is right,” said Learned Edmund, not sounding terribly sure of himself. “If they are in need of aid, it is our duty to render it…”
Brenner looked at Slate for appeal. Slate grimaced.If Caliban takes it in his head to help them anyway, my illusion of authority won’t be worth beans.“Let’s see what they want…” she muttered.
“Help?” said the man, and laughed. His voice was high and hacking. “There’s no help. It’s the blight. You can’t help the blight.”
“Blight?” Slate sat up straighter in the saddle.
