“A former Cygnaran army alchemist,” Wendell explained to the corporals, who failed to recognize the name. “Resigned his commission when the opportunity to work with the Golden Crucible came up, and I can’t say I blame him, but he’s still a citizen of Cygnar. And absolutely loyal,” he added.
Oswinne resumed his narrative. “The alchemists succeeded. Nemo had CRS send an operative to take possession of the complete formula and process in what should have been a simple payment and exchange.”
“Funny how simple never is,” Atherton sneered.
“Yes, quite. One of the project alchemists, a man by the name of Idran di Meryse—who, up to this point, had been a valued ally and a supporter of the alliance between Cygnar and Llael, and whom Drew had recommended personally—somehow got his hands on the entire formula. We don’t know if he tricked his compatriots into handing over their own work, or if he stole it, and frankly it doesn’t matter. The bottom line is, he’s holding the formula hostage. He’s demanded . . . Well, an amount that would put enough of a crimp in the Cygnaran treasury to seriously impede the war effort.”
“I’m . . . not sure I follow,” Serena admitted. “I understand why losing the formula after so much work and expense would be a problem, but it hardly seems disastrous. Surely Commander Nemo could reconstruct it from what remains, or take a different developmental approach to—”
“If your government does not meet di Meryse’s demands,” Oswinne interrupted, “he intends to make as much profit as possible by forcing you to bid whatever you can afford.
“And allowing, as he puts it, ‘other interested parties’ to do the same. He named no names, but I assume we all have a fairly good notion of who he means.”
The wood of the table creaked as fingers abruptly tightened into fists.
“I don’t think I need to spell out for you,” he continued, “what would result if Khador’s military were to learn how to temper and refine their metals to guard against weapons of lightning, do I?”
No. Judging from the masks of anger and worry Wendell could see on the others’ faces, and which he knew he wore on his own, no such explanation was necessary.
“The CRS operative sent to make the exchange has, of course, been tasked with locating the formula—or at bare minimum, keeping it out of Khador’s hands—but she’s had precious little luck as of yet. Di Meryse’s clever, and he’s covered his tracks well.
“Said operative,” he continued, “entered Llael masquerading as one of the traveling staff for Baron Halcourt’s sojourn.”
Wendell actually felt the last pieces slot into place, no differently than when he finally connected the last piston in an engine. A political rescue mission made for a perfect cover, a perfect reason to assemble and launch a secret operation in Leryn—when extracting the operative was the true objective.
Extracting, and perhaps even assisting her in acquiring the formula before Khador.
Indeed, the remainder of Oswinne’s briefing confirmed precisely those deductions.
“This is,” he concluded, “more properly a Reconnaissance Service operation in every last particular. But, it appears that you’re what’s available, so we better make it work, hadn’t we?”
“Which brings us back around to the small matter,” Serena said, “of your part in all of this.”
“Oh, me?” Oswinne smirked. “I’m making all of this possible.
“The Claeddon Traveling Performance Troupe, a band of Ordic actors and stagehands, was in Leryn when the offensive began. Currently, they’re stuck, much like Halcourt. Since Ord is a neutral power, we’ve negotiated with Khador to allow a diplomatic and cultural delegation to cross their lines and retrieve our people. Since I’m rather well known across cultures, if I say so myself—”
“And he will,” Atherton whispered.
“—it only made sense, as a gesture of authenticity and a show that the delegation was genuine, for me to arrange and to lead it.”
“So long,” Wendell said, “as Khador remains ignorant of your, ah, ‘night job.’”
Oswinne grunted something markedly inarticulate for a man of his profession. “At any rate,” he went on, “the plan was for your CRS team to meet up with me here. We would then, in turn, join up with the cultural delegation, disguising your people among them. When we retrieved Claeddon’s troupe, we would also retrieve Baron Halcourt and his staff, disguising them both as delegates and as additional performers. Some of the Cygnaran operatives would have had to stay behind, to make the numbers work, but they were more than prepared to do just that.
“We can still follow that general course, except . . .” Oswinne began idly tapping fingertips on his knee with one hand, stroking his goatee with the other. “I don’t know precisely how big your squad is, Sergeant, but I’m fairly certain it’s quite a bit larger than the CRS team I meant to accommodate.”
“How many was that?” Benwynne asked.
“A little more than half a dozen.”
“Uh . . . That’d be quite a bit smaller, yes.”
“To say nothing of the warjacks,” Atherton added helpfully.
“Still,” the sergeant mused, “if we sent just a single unit, that might be—”
“I’m sorry,” Serena interrupted, the legs of her chair thumping as she rocked forward, “but how long are we going to let Muir keep dodging the question?”
“And precisely what question am I dodging, Corporal Dalton?” he asked.
“How did you discover all this? Why are you involved? Why is your country involved? The risk to Ord if you’re discovered—”
“Let’s simply say that a nation as small as mine doesn’t survive surrounded by larger powers without an extensive intelligence network, however informal. You’d be surprised what King Baird knows about you and Khador both. And what we didn’t already know, I learned during my negotiations with Commander Nemo and Scout General Rebald. As for the rest of it . . .” Oswinne’s tone and expression both became as studiously blank as the wooden planks that called themselves a table. “If Ord were to become involved in these matters,” he said, “it might be because his Majesty, King Baird, and our generals recognize where our best interests lie. We can survive, even thrive, as a neutral party so long as the war continues, and we can make necessary treaties with whichever side wins. Most of us would prefer that side to be yours, but we’re comfortable dealing with Khador if necessary.
“But . . . That assumes a winning faction that has just come through an ugly, tiring conflict, and has no stomach for further conquest. Should Khador acquire this formula, their advantage over Cygnar could prove overwhelming. An easy victory for Khador—one that leaves them with sufficient strength to make conquering Ord a dessert—doesn’t suit us.”
A sound that briefly put Wendell in mind of an active rock crusher turned out to be Atherton’s grinding teeth. “In other words,” the gunmage accused, “you’re not interested in helping us win, just in helping us not lose too quickly.”
“In essence . . . Yes.”
“And the pirate raid that may or may not have been funded by Khador?” Wendell asked before Atherton could draw breath for further complaint. “Might I guess that it also wouldn’t ‘suit you’ for Ordic waters to become a primary route for Khadoran warships?”
“You might indeed. Some such activity is unavoidable, but as a primary wartime corridor? Again, not good for us. All of which is, of course, purely hypothetical, since Ord is not involving itself.”
Had Wendell found himself faced with as much pure skepticism as was now flowing toward the playwright, he worried he might actually have ceased to exist.
“Really,” Benwynne observed.
“Oh, quite. As you said, Ord is entirely neutral. That’s why, should Khador discover this operation, they’ll soon learn that it was arranged entirely by myself—a well-known author who clearly has no formal standing in, or connection to, the government—and several coconspirators, taking political matters into our own hands. Already, one
of the nation’s best criminal forgers lies dead and rotting in a cellar in Merin, along with enough evidence to prove that he created the false documentation we’ll be using to extract the baron and his entourage. It won’t be a pleasant sight by the time Khadoran intelligence discovers it, but if necessary, discover it they will.
“And I, of course, if I am not already dead by that point, will likely spend the remainder of my life in a Khadoran prison.”
“That seems . . . hard,” Atherton said finally.
“I’d say ‘necessary,’” Oswinne replied casually.
“What’s necessary,” Benwynne announced, “is for us to take a few moments to determine how we intend to go about executing this complex, multi-layered, and international plan in which Ord is not involved in any form whatsoever . . .”
***
“. . . still think that Vinter III is your best piece, though.” Atherton’s voice drifted back to Wendell as the gunmage and most of the others departed, going to make whatever preparations they had to make.
“Thank you,” Oswinne, striding beside him, replied. “I’m glad you appreciated—”
“Are you planning to write another? Vinter IV?”
“I, um, feel that might be in poor taste, considering the man’s still alive in hiding somewhere. To say nothing of his attack on Corvis a few years ago . . .”
“Eh, I suppose. Still . . .”
The words faded behind the low hum of the sullen common room, followed by a brief surge in the drumming of the rain as the rickety door rattled open, clattered shut, leaving the two remaining officers alone with one another.
“Well . . .” the Master Sergeant began hesitantly.
Nothing.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Serena argue a direct order before,” he tried again.
Benwynne studied a small blob of long-dried candle wax, as though determined to memorize its contours. “Can’t say as I blame her, sir. I wouldn’t want to leave the rest of the squad either.”
“She’s the only officer who speaks Ordic. If our people are supposed to pass as part of Muir’s retinue, it only makes sense that she command—”
“Yes, Master Sergeant. I didn’t say I disagreed, sir, only that I understand.”
Wendell forced a smile across his lips, a touch of levity into his words. “Too bad we couldn’t find an excuse to send Gaust away, though.”
If Benwynne sensed that levity, she certainly wasn’t prepared to acknowledge it. “Wouldn’t have made sense, sir. His talents are pretty recognizable for what they are; not really suitable for masquerading as—”
“Sergeant, how long is this going to continue?”
Benwynne finally lifted her attention from the tabletop, directing it instead at a point just over Wendell’s left shoulder. “Not sure what you’re talking about, Master Sergeant.”
What could he say? That he’d had no choice? That he hadn’t wanted to do it? That he’d never betrayed Ben or her squad and, despite his earlier hesitation, never would have, regardless of orders? None of it would mean much, not now.
Instead, then, he said, “My orders give me sufficient command discretion to decide what happens next. The squad can either return to our original mission behind the Khadoran front, or we can attempt to find some means of assisting Muir, and our people accompanying him, so long as it doesn’t disrupt their efforts or their cover.”
“And what have you decided, sir?”
“I’ve decided to cede that decision to you, Ben.”
Finally he’d gotten her to look him in the eyes. “Sir?”
“You’re in command, Sergeant. It’s your squad.”
It might have been wishful thinking on his part, but it seemed to Wendell that a sliver of the ice in Benwynne’s expression—the faintest, most minuscule sliver—softened and thawed.
“Then it’s no decision at all,” she told him. “I’m not about to let any of my people stand alone if there’s any possibility we can help them.”
“I thought you’d say something like that.” Now it was Wendell who idly picked at the ancient wax on the tabletop, rubbing flakes between his fingers until they fell apart. “You realize it means getting ourselves—including two ’jacks—from here to Leryn without getting killed or compromising Serena’s and Muir’s group?”
“And that, when everything’s said and done, we might be stuck in Leryn, behind Khadoran lines?” she finished for him. “Yes, Master Sergeant, that had occurred to me.”
“Just checking, then.”
“So,” she said, tilting her chair back so she could stretch out, “we’d better get to figuring out how we’re going to accomplish those minor miracles, hadn’t we?”
Two days.
For two days, Katherine had waited. Through banquets and parlor games, philosophical debate and prolonged analysis of fluctuating markets, she remained at Baron Halcourt’s side, or at the very least within Surros Manor. Every word, every glance, every effete gesture, every haughty sneer, was a psychic bullet against which she had no effective armor. She bled memories of life in her father’s court, growing ever more irritable with each new wound.
And still the CRS operative hiding in the baron’s retinue had made no effort at contact.
The Storm Knight couldn’t, at first, comprehend why. She and her knights weren’t precisely the reinforcements the agent would have expected, but communication should still have been the first priority. Did he think Katherine untrustworthy? Suspect some manner of trap or deception? Had something happened to make contact impossible? Worries and misgivings became constant companions, no less so than the recollections of times better left behind, and Katherine found herself yearning for an enemy she could face blade to blade. She was not bloody suited to this sort of work!
All of which, perhaps, is why it took those two days before it occurred to her that, perhaps, the operative was waiting for the opportunity to speak with her away from the baronial households. She’d assumed that any private moment—her chambers, the library, an empty hall—would have sufficed, but just maybe . . .
Now she walked the evening streets of Old Town Leryn, ostensibly learning the lay of the land. Halcourt, she knew, couldn’t care less what she was doing. Pruscott and Sadler remained with him, and honestly, she’d be surprised if he’d even have noticed her absence if she hadn’t told him she was going.
Full armor, obviously, wasn’t a viable option: a bit heavy for a long walk, a bit cold for dusk’s sighing winds, and rather more conspicuous than a clandestine meeting called for. She wore instead a heavy, fur-trimmed coat, buttoned snugly from throat to waist, flowing open like a cape from waist to ankles. Thick woolen trousers, lined gloves, and heavy boots completed the ensemble—or rather, the visible portions of the ensemble. Hidden beneath the coat, steel bracers on each forearm could serve as shields in a pinch, and a breastplate of hardened leather and thin steel plates provided a modicum of protection.
Going without full armor was one thing, but Katherine was nobody’s idiot. Her ancestral Caspian battleblade hanging openly at her side, and the fighting knife strapped to her right thigh, were indication enough of that.
By the time night had well and truly fallen, though, and the smoke-tinged snow—swirling in the air, carpeting the streets, and clinging in patches to her coat—shone gold in the streetlights, Katherine had exactly zero enthusiasm remaining. Rivulets of melted slush dripped down the inside of her boots, she was fairly certain she had ice in her eyelashes, and her breath formed a curtain of steam so thick she had difficulty seeing through it. It was time, she decided, and past time, to call this another bad idea and head back.
So it was precisely then that someone finally approached her.
Wrapped tight in a shabby gray cloak and hood, the figure could have been anyone, confidante or stranger, man or woman, human or . . . otherwise. Katherine faced the sounds of shuffling feet and huffing breath, and made no attempt to hide the fact that her hand dropped to the hilt of her battleblade.
“Do you suppose,” the newcomer asked in a voice abraded by weather and mistreatment both, “the snows are this gray in Rorschik or Korsk?”
The Storm Knight relaxed, if only marginally. “I would imagine,” she replied, now feeling a bit foolish over all this sign-countersign nonsense, “that everywhere beyond Ravensguard, the snows are more red-stained than gray.”
Now that he’d come closer, enough ambient light squirmed under his hood for Katherine to make out crooked teeth, stubbly cheeks, and a weak, almost ferret-like chin. Certainly not anyone she’d seen amongst Halcourt’s retinue. Not anyone, for that matter, who would be allowed anywhere near the baron’s retinue, not looking like that!
“You’re not precisely what I expected,” she continued, her neck and shoulders tensing once more—and not because of the temperature.
“Jus’ follow me,” he rasped. “Everything’ll be explained, yeah?”
Awhirl with questions and suspicions, Katherine took a single tentative step after him . . .
Before the entire decision became a moot point.
She was already down and rolling, now coated in the oily snow, before her conscious mind identified the soft twangs that had resounded from both sides of the seemingly empty street.
Concealable crossbows.
Her contact sprawled limp in the road, cloak turning dark and tacky in an ever-growing spread from the miniature bolt between his shoulders. Her own back ached where a second bolt had torn through her coat to skid across her hidden cuirass. Had she not already been dodging aside, had the weapon struck her full on, she’d be just as dead as he.
And she knew, with a cold lump forming in her gut, that if the crossbow aimed at the spy hadn’t shot first, thus giving her an extra split second of warning, even her instinctive dive wouldn’t have saved her.