City in the Sky (30 page)

“Maybe,” Erik conceded. “But whatever it is has gone on long enough. What in Fires is going
on
, Harmon?”

“You remember the incident with Corens, right sir?” Ikeras asked.

“Of course,” Erik confirmed. He couldn't
forget
. He just tried not to think about it, as it annoyed him every time.

“The men respected you for it,” the non-com explained. “You probably did as much to cement your command in the company with that
stupid
fight than you could have with weeks of solid authority.

“Unfortunately, you pissed off Corens. And
his
company is Fires-burnt loyal to him.”

Ikeras looked away from Erik, eyeing one of the plain pieces of art decorating the room. He sighed. “I don't know if he's ordered it, though I think he has, but his men have been harassing ours for the last week. It's worse because our men
do
respect you. His men haven't even directly started all the fights, though they've been Waters-cursed insulting to our men. About you, most of the time.”

“I see,” Erik said calmly. “And you thought I shouldn't know about this
why
?”

“It started off relatively minor,” Ikeras replied. “A few insults exchanged, nothing more. I figured it was leftover bad feelings from the fight. Then it began to grow out of hand, and turned into fistfights and brawls.”

“My men have been getting into fights, and I haven't heard about it?” Erik demanded. “Shouldn't I know?”

“The Watch haven't caught them at it yet, so it wouldn't come to you officially,” the non-com told him. “I've been trying to stamp on it un-officially, without bringing in higher authority.”

“If it's coming to fist-fights and isn't stopping, it's only a matter of time before tempers flare enough for steel,” Erik said flatly. “I will
not
see that happen. Understood, Ikeras?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is this happening?” Erik asked.

Ikeras sighed. “I'll show you.”

Dragons, Sky-Major Edrin Kolanis, bond to Lalen, reflected, were loud, obnoxious, and
messy
. Compacting two strike regiments worth of the beasts – twelve hundred war-dragons, give or take a handful – into an area of almost any size was a recipe for aggravation. Add another regiment's worth of just transport beasts, all of which were blacks, whose size made things even worse, and about ten thousand soldiers,
not
including support staff and the Skyborne riders themselves, made for a large,
noisy
, encampment.

Which, the Draconan officer reflected, wasn't exactly the best thing, given that nobody in Hellit even knew this army was
here
. If the Hellitians
had
known, they'd have moved Earth, Air, and twenty or thirty thousand men to dislodge them.

Fortunately, the Major reflected, scratching Lalen's head-spikes, they
didn't
know. Hopefully the operation would be concluded before they did, too. If it wasn't, the result could be messy.
Very
messy.

Sensing his unease, the green dragon bumped his shoulder gently, and he looked up at her. Kolanis was a big man, even for a Draconan, towering well over six feet. Lalen, however, was quite small, even for a green dragon. The last other dragon to mistake her lack of size for weakness, however, had spent three days being Healed before he'd been fit to fly.

Continuing to scratch her head-spikes, Kolanis turned back to survey
his
portion of the campsite. Green Battalion of the Third Black Mountain Strike Regiment was at full strength, two hundred Bonds of dragon and Skyborne rider. So were Black and Brown Battalions of the Third, and the First Black Mountain's three Battalions were also at full-strength.

These
two hundred dragons and riders, however, were
his
command. His responsibility. And, thanks to his own insistence, their portion of the campsite was neatly organized and clean. Not, he admitted, that the rest of the campsite was any
less
organized, but the Green of Third was definitely up to the standard around them.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the battalion's senior non-com, Sergeant Major Delt Cerians bond Het. Unlike Lalen, Het had already been taken down to the pens, and the Sergeant Major was alone.

“Sir,” Cerians greeted him. “The Green of Third is set up and awaiting your orders.”

“No orders,” Kolanis told Cerians. “According to the General, we're still waiting for word from our agents in the city.”

“Do we know what kind of word?” the non-com asked.

For a moment, Kolanis considered telling the non-com. He had, after all, worked with Cerians for years, first as a company captain, now as the battalion major. However, General Idinris' instructions were quite clear: none of the men were to be informed what the army was waiting for.

“They haven't said,” he lied.

“Well, I hope it comes soon, whatever it is,” Cerians said quietly. “Feeding two thousand or so dragons is going to be bad enough, even without the troops.”

Kolanis nodded, smiling slightly to himself at how the non-com's view of the issues differed from his own. He worried about being found and attacked – Cerians worried about
feeding
everyone. Each, in its own way, was their most serious worry.

“We have the resources,” he said quietly.

Cerians nodded. “Just borrowing trouble, sir,” he replied. “You want me to take Lalen to the pens?”

With a last scratch of the green's headspikes, Kolanis nodded and touched the dragon's mind, instructing her to follow Cerians. The dragon rubbed her head against his hand, and then followed the other man.

Kolanis watched her for a while, and then turned his gaze to the south, eyeing the wide-swept plains of northern Hellit. Only time would prove which of the worries, his or Cerians', truly was their worst.

Or, of course, the plan would actually
work
, and neither would be important, because the Draconans would be in Newport.

The non-com led Erik through the streets of Newport's High City in the fading light of the afternoon sun. The tavern Ikeras led him to was frequented by the men of several of the militia companies, mainly those of the Third Newport. That meant that Dekker's men could be reasonably sure of finding some of Erik's men there.

As they clearly had. Erik stepped into the darkened room to find two groups of men surging up from their tables. None were in uniform, but he recognized all the men of one group from his own company, and the weapons the other group bore were sky steel, marking them as Wind Guard.

Clearly, Erik had been quite correct about tempers, for even as the men came to their feet, they were drawing their swords. There were five of Erik's men to three of the Wind Guard, but the Guards' weapons were sky steel. The fight was going to be ugly.

Erik had no intention of allowing there to be a fight.

“Put up your swords!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the tavern and stopping both groups of soldiers in their tracks. When neither group seemed inclined to put away their weapons, Erik stalked into the tavern, turning his gaze on each group in turn.

“Did you not hear me?” he demanded. “Sheathe your swords!”

Finally, both groups slowly returned their weapons to their scabbards. Erik turned first to his men. The man in the lead he recognized as Keltin Ders, a corporal in his Third Platoon.

“Corporal Ders,” he greeted the man, his voice suddenly calm.

“Sir, these men,” the corporal began, but Erik cut him off.

“I don't want to hear it,” he snapped. “Take your men and get out. We will discuss this later.”

The corporal bobbed a hasty salute and led the others, most likely his lance, though Erik wasn't sure, out of the tavern. As they left, Erik turned towards the three Guardsmen.

“And just what on Water did you think you were doing?” he demanded.

“I do not answer to you,
militiaman
,” their leader, who, like Ders, appeared to be a corporal.

Erik fingered the hilt of the sky steel sword he wore – his father's sword, and mark of his rank as
septon
. “Do you know what this sword means?” he asked the man, his voice very, very quiet.

“Yes,” the man replied, but he seemed uncowed.

“It means that you
do
answer to me,” Erik told the man. Which was technically true – the Wind Guard answered to the King and the Councils, and Erik sat on the
septon
s Council.

“I only answer to
real
septons
,” the man replied contemptuously. “Not half-blood imposters.”

“Watch your tongue, fool,” Ikeras snapped from behind Erik. “You have no authority to speak so.”

“Watch your
own
tongue,” the Guardsman snapped back, his hand dropping to the sword he'd sheathed only moments ago.

“Hold your blade,” Erik ordered, his voice a whip-crack of command. “Before you do anything hasty,” he continued in a silky voice as the man's hand remained on his swordhilt, “I would remind you that the man behind me is
kep
to my
sept
, which means if you draw steel in my presence he has every right to kill you where you stand.”

Erik held the Guardsman’s gaze for a long moment. Then another. Then, finally, the Guardsman released his blade.

“Good,” Erik said, his voice still silky soft. “Now get out. And tell your friends that the next Guardsman who comes in here to harass my men
will be broken
.” He snarled the last words, and his hand tightened on his own sword hilt.

“Do I make myself clear?” he asked.

The Guardsman nodded stiffly, clearly unwilling to speak. For a moment more, the three men faced Erik and Ikeras in the dead silence of the tavern, until they finally turned and stalked out.

Erik sighed in relief and very nearly sagged around his bones. He glanced around the tavern, and his gaze came to rest on the barkeep, who looked distressed. Erik realized, horrified, that neither group had actually paid their tab before he'd kicked them out.

He crossed to the bar and laid a single gold crown on the darkened wood. “This should cover the tabs... and the inconvenience,” he told the man quietly. The barkeep began to shake his head, most likely because the crown was probably four or five times the tab of both groups. “Take it,” Erik insisted. “A token of my apologies for whatever other incidents have happened as well.”

Finally, the barkeep took the coin. Erik gave the man a firm nod, and then strode from the tavern, Ikeras at his heels.

Brane kept his eye glued to the eyepiece of his telescope as he surveyed the military docks of Newport. His lips thinned underneath it as he saw empty slip after empty slip, where warships should have rested in the dock's support fields. He'd
thought
they were sending out too many patrols, and not enough had been coming back, but he hadn't though it was
this
major.

They'd snuck their entire fleet off to their war games, and the Draconan spies had almost missed it! If Brane hadn't found his little hideaway, high on the outside of one of the merchant houses' towers, he would never have known, and the opportunity would have slid away from his people.

It hadn't, however, and he descended the outside of the tower to the ground with a smile on his lips. The first part of the mission was complete. Of course, that left more than few pieces left to fall into place.

He'd been surprised at just
how
many infiltrator groups there were in the Aeradi city, but their numbers made sense, from a certain point of view. While Brane didn't know them all, he knew the messengers who, by passing messages from one to another, would carry orders to all the groups in the city.

The men he'd entrusted with the knowledge of who
those
messengers were waited for him at the bottom of the tower. Brane looked around the group, and nodded to the man who'd first noticed that more ships seemed to be leaving than coming back.

“You were right, Dari,” he told him. “They snuck their entire fleet out, and we barely noticed.”

“Most of the lancers are gone too,” the junior agent observed quietly. “It's hard to tell visually – they're a lot smaller than warships – but if you get close to the pens, the noise level is too low. There's maybe a tenth of their normal numbers there.”

Brane was impressed. He didn't think he'd have noticed that when he was that new to the Red. He gave the youth another nod, and then turned to the rest.

“The time is now,” he said bluntly. “Contact the messengers, inform all groups they are to begin placing the explosives. I'll send the message to the army immediately – the attack will commence in three days.”