Firebrand

Chapter 541: The Choices of a Prefect

The Choices of a Prefect

Once they had returned to camp, Martel and Eleanor went straight to the tent of the legion prefect. "By the looks of you, I suspect you had trouble." Sir Lara gave them an expectant look.

"Three dead, two lightly wounded," Eleanor retorted. "In addition, we found this." She placed the musket ball with its golden lines among the lead on the table in front of the prefect. "I doubt that is standard issue among Khivan soldiery. Especially since our patrol is the only one that involves wizards."

Sir Lara picked up the bullet. "We are not privy to all Khivan strategic decisions. They may very well have begun doing so, at least in this part of the front. Remember, we are not fighting regular Khivan troops, but specialised forces, trying to wear us down through underhanded tactics."

"Be that as it may," Eleanor continued, and Martel knew her well enough to sense frustration, even if she hid it from her voice, "they are clearly targeting Sir Martel. The risk to his life is greatly increased, and nothing is gained by exposing him to this risk. The only thing our presence on patrol accomplishes is to invite an ambush."

"Trust me, Sir Fontaine, the Khivans were apt to ambushing us long before you and your charge arrived in this camp." Sir Lara's mouth turned into a thin line.

"Undoubtedly, but currently, my companion and I are bearing the brunt of these skirmishes. Assigning a Tyrian scout has not alleviated the problem. These forests are Khivan territory, and they make full use of that."

"So far, both of you have emerged unscathed. Proof of Asterian magic being superior to Khivan subterfuge. Regardless, the situation is changing soon. We are making another strike at a Khivan encampment, which should eradicate their presence from this area." The legion prefect gave each of them a stern look. "In fact, you have both been assigned to this mission, and I suggest you take the opportunity now to rest up and be prepared for tomorrow's march. Dismissed."

"Tomorrow?" Eleanor exclaimed.

"Dismissed."

The pair saluted their superior officer a half-hearted gesture in Martel's case and they walked out of the tent. "Tomorrow," Eleanor repeated. "Why would they explicitly change our orders to go on patrol today if we are to take part in a major assault tomorrow? We could have been wounded! We will barely have the chance to replenish our spellpower."

"We did ask if we could be assigned to go on patrol on another day," Martel remarked. Noticing the look that Eleanor gave him, he hurried to continue, "I'm not saying this makes sense. Simply that I'm not sure they think that far ahead. Our legate doesn't even live in camp with us. How much could he actually know about our activities? Which are his decisions, and which are made by Sir Lara?" He gave a shrug as they continued down the dirt road.

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"But this is an Asterian legion!" it burst from Eleanor. "There is supposed to be a plan, order, strategy!"

"I'd settle for just one of those things." As they reached their tents, Martel looked west where Esmouth lay hidden from his site by the wall around the camp. "If we're going to a fight tomorrow, we'll need more salve. I better go pick something up now."

"Alright. I will get started on supper."

*** contemporary romance

After collecting a fresh jar of blood salve, Martel left his workshop in the Tyrian enclave and was immediately approached by a small child. "Mistress Josephine asked you to come by," he said; his message delivered, the boy immediately sprinted away.

Curious. Martel had visited the owner of the brothel a few times; he had given her another lightstone and heard about the few rumours passing through Esmouth, none of which had piqued his interest. Well, best to see what she wanted.

Crossing town, he reached the brothel and walked through the alley to enter through the back; he was not in the mood to deal with neither staff nor clientele in the front room. He only stopped outside Josephine's room to knock, remembering his manners. "It's Martel," he announced.

"Please enter." She sat by her desk with a deck of cards arranged in a pattern in front of her. "The boy found you. I asked him days ago."

"I haven't been in Esmouth since the festival. What is it?"

"Do you know this game? From Aquila. Solitaire, they call it." The woman, whose age was only partly masked by cosmetics, moved a card from one stack to another.

"I don't. I assume you asked me here for a better reason."

"Straight to business. Very well. I had a meeting you should know about. A fellow came some days ago, just before the spring festival."

"What about him?"

"He made the same deal as you did. Asked me to keep an eye out with the celebration going on, tell him about any interesting rumours or strange occurrences."

Martel frowned. "He was a visitor? One of the people who came for the festival, I mean."

Josephine shook her head. "I've seen him before. He arrived around the same time those northern savages did. I guess he didn't find it pertinent to request my help before now."

Thinking back, Martel recalled an Asterian who had sailed with the Tyrians, arriving alongside them. His interest in information combined with him being clearly an outsider, with no apparent reason for being in Esmouth, suggested he was a spy. But if Khivan, it seemed odd he would arrive with the Tyrians. Maybe he spied for the northerners or some faction in Aster. Perhaps worth mentioning to Sir Lara.

"Alright. Thanks for letting me know. Did you accept his deal?"

"Of course. I'm a businesswoman."

"Did you tell him about me?"

"Privilege of being the first customer." Josephine smiled. "Besides, you're a prefect of the legion, whereas I don't know anything about him, not even his name. I know which side I prefer to be on."

"Good. Until next time." Martel inclined his head in a curt gesture and left.

***

Leaving the place the same way he had entered, through the back and the alley, Martel nonetheless caught the attention of a group of soldiers. One of them, clearly intoxicated, called out, "Even a prefect has needs! What's your preference, sir?"

Not in the mood to humour this, Martel walked past them without a word.

"Nothing, sir? What about the one always following you around, is she your type?"

Martel stopped in his tracks and turned on his heel. The other soldiers, less drunk, realised what was happening and stepped away. The loudmouth remained oblivious until Martel's fist made impact on his jaw, sending him to the ground.

"If you ever disrespect a prefect again, I'll burn your tongue right out of your mouth," Martel declared, staring down at the legionary. His point made, he stalked away.

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