“So what do we do? Send the men home and you and I offer to join whatever it is Taniel is stirring up?”
“It’s an option,” Olem said. “But these things will probably be much easier with an army at our back, even if it’s a little mauled right now.”
Vlora finished off her coffee, spitting the dregs out on the ground and returning her gaze to the map on her table. Taniel had left two pins in the map. One of them was located on the edge of the Ironhook Mountains, not all that far from here. The other was located on the west coast of Fatrasta. Vlora tapped her finger on the tip of each pin, and then on New Adopest—the closest large port not in the hands of the Dynize, and the best chance she had of getting an army back to Adro.
“Taniel!” she shouted.
A moment passed before the tent flap was thrown back. Taniel and Ka-poel entered. Ka-poel immediately rounded the table to examine the map in silence, while Taniel looked from Vlora to Olem with an irritating air of expectation.
Vlora said, “You told me once that you still have Tamas’s foreign wealth at your command.”
“I do,” Taniel said, pulling back somewhat. This was not the question he had expected.
“Good. Because Olem and I are in. This is a matter for the Adran Army and the Adran Cabal, and we’re the only representatives on the continent. However, this isn’t the responsibility of my men.” She paused for a beat. “But I’m not going to do this without an army. You’re going to hire the Riflejacks. I expect every soldier out there who survives, and all the widows and widowers of the ones who don’t, to leave this conflict as wealthy people. Understand?”
Taniel cocked an eyebrow. Across the table, Ka-poel grinned and nodded. Done.
“I offered to hire you before,” Taniel said.
“That was before I grasped the stakes. Besides, I’m serious when I say ‘wealthy.’ Our prices went up significantly since we last spoke.”
Ka-poel shrugged and twirled her finger, as if saying the conversation was already finished and she was ready to move on. “All right,” Taniel said. “We’ll hammer out details on the road.”
“One other thing,” Vlora added. “You will give us objectives, but I will decide how they’re carried out. You’re not going to dictate what happens to the godstones once we find them. Understand?”
“I see.” Taniel’s eyes narrowed, and Vlora could tell he was rethinking the idea.
She leaned on the table, looking him in the eye. “I intend to destroy those things. That is my goal—no, that is the goal of the Adran Republic Cabal. No new gods.”
“You’re making a lot of demands for a mercenary.”
“You didn’t hear what I just said. I have a mercenary army, but I represent Adro in this matter. And you have a look on your face that seems awfully uncertain for someone hoping for my help. I’m ready to go home right now, Taniel. Take it or leave it.”
Taniel looked to Ka-poel, and the two shared a long, silent gaze. “Taken,” Taniel said with finality.
Vlora swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She wished she had a few days to sleep on the decision. She wished she had a bigger, healthier army. And she wished she didn’t feel like events were about to spiral out of her control.
“What are you going to do about these armies we’re pinned between?” Taniel asked.
“Olem,” Vlora said, “when is dawn?”
“Two hours or so.”
“And what will the weather be like?”
“We’ve had a chilly night. Same as last night, and yesterday morning we had a thick fog until ten. I don’t see things being different today.”
Vlora took the pins out of her maps and began to roll them up carefully. “Get everyone moving. I want us on track to be gone within two hours.”
“And you think the Fatrastans and Dynize are just going to let you leave?” Taniel asked flatly. “I understand both are looking for your head.”
“Fog will give us a head start,” Vlora said. “The rest … well, I have an idea. Olem, I want to see Styke, Gustar, and my senior officer corps. Vallencian, too. I think he crossed the river, so you’ll have to do that quietly. Now, get out of here so I can write some letters.”
Dawn was almost upon them, and Vlora stood by her horse and watched as the rest of her camp vanished before her eyes. Soldiers finished packing their kit, officers kept things orderly, and quartermasters examined the wagons of supplies they’d managed to bring over from the Fatrastan camp followers in the darkness.
The fog Olem had predicted was thinner than she would have liked. It would mask their movements, but for only so long—within hours both the Dynize and Fatrastans would know that she’d given them the slip. The question Vlora needed answered most of all was whether they would turn their focus on one another, or whether either general was dogmatic enough to come for her.
A familiar figure appeared through the gloom, torch held high over his head, the scrap of bearskin still clinging to his shoulders. Vallencian Habbabberden, known more widely as the Ice Baron, was nothing short of a walking miracle. He’d saved the Battle of Landfall by riding his merchant ships out on the tide to crash into and sow chaos among the Dynize fleet. Somehow, he’d managed to swim back to shore against the currents and recover from half drowning, only to be on his feet again to help with the evacuation of the city. He’d spent every moment since then as a whirlwind through the refugee camp, redistributing supplies, breaking up fights, tending to the sick, and organizing former small-time politicians into a genuine leadership for the refugees.
Vallencian had grown gaunt since they’d first met in Landfall a couple of months ago. He’d lost weight, his hair had grayed at the edges and remained uncombed, and his face seemed fixed by a frustrated scowl.
“You’re leaving,” he said brusquely.
“We are.”
“Does General Holm know? I’ve been a guest of hers for the last day and she is very intent on presenting you to Lindet.”
Vlora produced a letter she had written less than an hour ago and offered it to Vallencian. “She will when you give her this letter.”
Vallencian stared down his nose at the paper and did not reach for it. After a long moment’s consideration, he said in a low voice, “Don’t leave me with them.”
“Excuse me?” Vlora was shocked to hear genuine dismay in his tone. “Are they mistreating you?”
“Quite the opposite. Holm has assigned me an entourage. I think she’s having me watched. I had to pretend I needed a shit just to sneak out of my tent when your summons came. They’re making me sleep in a real bed. And these damned refugees are trying to elect me as mayor of this moving city we have gathered.”
Despite her frayed nerves, Vlora had to stifle a smile. “I can’t think of anyone better suited.”
“I could name a dozen in a single breath. Probably a hundred if you give me the chance to think.” Vallencian paced, gesturing as he spoke. “These refugees don’t need a mayor, and Holm has no intention of allowing it. They’ll be split up and sent to whatever towns and cities can take them, as quickly as can be managed. I have no interest in being the general’s guest and I have no interest in being bullied into a position of leadership.”
“I thought you had taken well to helping …”
Vallencian stopped his pacing long enough to shake a thick finger beneath her nose. “Helping!” he exclaimed. “Not leading. I’m a reluctant businessman at best. I will not be a politician.”
“You’re very good with people,” Vlora ventured. “They could use your help, at least until this refugee camp has been dissolved.”
“Absolutely not. I will come with you, Lady Flint.”
Vlora resisted the urge to point out he hadn’t been invited. “You won’t stay with them? At least for a few weeks?”
“No.”
“Even if I request it personally?”