The Way of Caine (The Warcaster Chronicl

PART TWO




Four Days Previous

Spring, AR 596: Northguard Fort

“So what is it to be this time?” Caine smirked over a steaming plate of mutton and potatoes. “Am I to keep a ledger of the trains? Perhaps note the weather?”

Across the table of the private dining car, Rebald was not amused. Behind drawn velvet curtains, the world rushed past with a clicka clack, clicka clack.

“I think not,” the scoutmaster replied coolly, cutting his mutton with fork and knife. “There is a plot to overthrow King Leto, Captain. I expect you will put a stop to it.”

Caine coughed, his dinner somehow caught in his throat. Rebald skewered another piece of mutton and placed it delicately into his mouth, his eyes glittering as he watched Caine gasp for air. “A change is always a dangerous thing. For some, it brings prosperity, for others, ruin. Those who did well under Vinter now fear for their future under Leto. That, unfortunately, has led them to make some, shall we say, foolish decisions.” Rebald pierced the mutton, and began to cut it forcefully with his knife, cutting away a strip of fat. “Such decisions have compelled us to act.”

“Who exactly are we talking about?” Caine asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

“The nobles, of course,” Rebald said, setting his fork down. He gestured to the map unfurled between them. “They’re gathering forces, here, here, and here. That we are aware of, at any rate.” Rebald daubed his mouth with a napkin.

Taking a sip of wine, the spymaster watched Caine with curiosity. “We don’t know what they intend to do with these non-partisans, but for the moment they seem content to fear-monger. Presumably it gains them the support of the citizenry. The only thing for certain is they want Leto out.”

Caine shrugged. “I think I could understand that, circumstances such as they are. He’s repealed longstanding trade agreements, appointed new trade delegates. He’s tipped their apple cart.”

Rebald nodded, swirling the wine in his glass. “Yes, if only to scoop out the rotten apples. The issue here is not the discontent his ascension has caused. With enough time, Leto might have begun to earn their trust, one at a time. Thus, he would reduce the sway of any remaining dissidents. The problem is he’s not going to get that time. The nobles have somehow been able to generate significant capital for his ouster. Too much, too soon. As you see on the map, they already have enough to create a credible threat to Leto’s security.” Rebald watched Caine’s reaction, unblinking.

“Right. So they’re getting help,” Caine muttered, rubbing his chin. “I have a feeling this is where I come into your grand scheme.”

“Indeed, Captain.” Rebald looked over the map, his finger coming to rest on the Llael capital of Merywyn. “We have an informant. Kreel. He has identified our noble’s mysterious benefactor. One Thaddeus Montague, royal treasurer to King Rynnard of Llael. You’ll note Baron Malsham’s estate is just south of the Llael border, and Merywyn itself. This would certainly implicate the Baron as part of the conspiracy, though we must keep up appearances for the moment. Once you’ve deployed to his estate, you will keep an eye on his affairs under the guise of protection. Meanwhile, I want you to infiltrate Merywyn and meet with this informant.”

“I don’t understand. You want me to babysit a baron and then sneak out for a chat with this Kreel?”

“You’re going there to kill, Caine,” Rebald corrected. “While your detachment puts on a show of good faith for our nobles, you will infiltrate Merywyn to cut off the head of the snake. Through Kreel, you will get to this treasurer. Interrogate him. Learn his motives if at all possible, but kill him either way.”

“Why me, Rebald? Do you not have sufficient cutthroats at your disposal for such things?” Caine scratched his chin, absently glancing at the map.

“According to Kreel, Montague is well guarded. Yet that is only half of the thing.” Rebald sipped his wine. “There are … complications I believe you are well suited to deal with. Understand this is an awkward time between our nation and Llael. While they are still officially our ally, at present, there is only one thing King Rynnard fears more than licorice root, and that is King Leto.”

“I don’t understand,” Caine shook his head. Rebald looked up from his map, irritated.

“The regime of the most powerful nation in western Immoren is toppled on his doorstep, and you don’t see how that might cause Rynnard concern?” Rebald asked quietly, yet Caine simply shook his head.

“That part I get. What do you mean about the bloody licorice?”

Rebald shrugged, “It is common knowledge that Rynnard takes deadly ill at the slightest taste of it.” Rebald tapped the map, re-focusing. “Now, as I was getting to, it is imperative that you are not caught or identified. A Cygnaran agent discovered assassinating a royal courtier would be nothing less than a disaster. On this point, I believe I have the best man for the job.” Rebald, still absorbed by the map, traced a line across the Llael border. “You see, while diplomatic relations appear to continue as normal, Rynnard has steadily increased border patrols. He’s even gone so far as to mobilize forces south over the last few months. Just north of the border, he has fortified his home, the capital of Merywyn. The city was defensible enough prior, with the Black river serving as moat to the east, and the city walls creating a thick perimeter on all other sides. Recently, he has doubled the garrison there, and the gates are now methodically checking papers for any who approach.”

Caine shrugged, unconcerned, “I could shed my armor and pass as a commoner easy enough.”

“You could. It would be a trivial matter to forge you the papers required. Remember, however, you have no idea what you’re facing. Intelligence indicates your target is well protected. If Kreel is correct on that point, to go in without armor and weapons would deny you a considerable tactical advantage. Is that really what you want?”

Caine frowned. “Ech. I suppose not.”

“Could you not simply flash within the city from the outer walls?”

Caine shook his head. “I’ve not mastered moving to places I can’t see. No telling where I’d end up if I were to try a stunt like that. Halfway in a wall, I expect.

Rebald nodded, swirling the wine within his glass absently.

“Then, in any manner you might contrive, gaining the city will present a challenge. I leave it to you to devise your own strategy, but should you wish to use it, I have requisitioned a prototype warjack that may well prove useful for just such an occasion.”

Rebald tipped his glass, finishing the last of his wine. From across the table, he studied Caine.

“There is one last order of business.” With a deep breath, he pulled a small felt bag from his pocket. He held it a moment, and then tossed it across the table to land before Caine.

“What is this?” Caine sat back, looking at the bag as though a mouse had joined them at the table.

“A hunch. If the treasurer’s story does not add up, then consider it your next assignment. Otherwise, tuck it deep into one of those pockets of yours and forget about it.”

Without warning, their train could be felt grinding to a halt. The steam whistle blew, heralding a station ahead. Nodding, Rebald stood up.

“Our stop, Captain.”



Three days later, Caine found himself equal parts bored and irritable. Leaving his chair on the top deck of the ship, he stepped outside. As the riverbank passed slowly by, he patted the pockets of his long leather duster for a stogie.

The riverboat steamship Katie had been plodding along for hours and they were no closer to where they were headed, as near as he could tell. They had set out from Northguard that clear spring morning, but the longer they ran the Eel River, the drearier the day had become. The Eel River was a winding tributary of Blindwater Lake in the far north of Cygnar, and led gradually into the quagmire of swamp and moss covered woods better known as Bloodsmeath Marsh. Here and there, docks and landings reached out to them from the shore, with stilted houses tucked just beyond the tree-line, but the further they went, the sparser the settlements had become. Striking a match, Caine lit up and took a long pull on his cigar. What kind of people would live in a place like this? He shook his head.

By late afternoon, they expected to make the east shore of the lake, at Perry’s Landing. There, his first command would begin in earnest. In the decks below, nearly threescore of fighting men, munitions, warjack support and other logistical elements had been loaded. All of them, his to command, his responsibility. As he rolled the rich smoke of the Hooaga leaf over his tongue, he found the notion ludicrous. How long ago had he made his living on the streets? The intervening years blurred in his mind like the smoke of his cigar as he exhaled, incorporeal and vague.

“Ah, there you are, sir.”

A familiar voice from behind interrupted him as the door to the cabin opened. Caine waved his adjutant over without bothering to turn around. The man approached, stretching, with a weary yawn. As the pair looked out over the sluggish Eel, the long gunner lieutenant, a young man with an even younger face grasped the iron rail, taking a deep breath as he did.

“By Morrow it stinks!” he gasped.

“Try growing up next to a paper mill, Gerdie,” Caine replied with a smirk. Caine’s one-time travelling companion grimaced with the notion before speaking again.

“The skipper says we’re set to arrive in the next couple of hours. Everything is in hand for the moment, so I thought I might get a word with you,” Gerdie said.

Caine nodded, taking another pull on his stogie.

“Well, sir, it’s just that, since you swooped into Northguard with that, shall we say, ‘anonymous’ gentleman and commandeered this detachment along with myself, well, you haven’t said much past ‘border patrol.’ So, if you don’t think me too insubordinate, sir …”

Caine rolled his eyes at the formality, but Gerdie continued. “Why in hell are you taking us into this stinking swamp?”

Why indeed? Caine smiled, measuring his response against the conversation he’d had with the Scout General only a few days prior.

“Mercenaries, Gerdie. Camped out past Perry’s Landing. Causing a local panic.”

Gerdie paced the deck, a frown forming on his face. “Why? What have we to fear from them unless … are they working for Khador?”

“We don’t know. We’re not even sure where they are. The fact they’re out there, and getting bigger by the day is enough to get the nobles flustered. They’ve challenged Leto to act. So here we are.” Caine watched his flummoxed adjutant with narrowed eyes and leaned back against the rail. His cigar down to a nub, he took a final pull then flicked it overboard.

Gerdie nodded. “All right. So our orders say we billet with Baron Malsham, nephew to the Duke of Northforest. What’s the plan? Set up a defensive perimeter at the estate? Patrol the neighboring hamlets? Send our scouts out on long-range reconnaissance to see if they can find this ‘threat’?”

“Ech, about the size of it, Gerdie. If we’re lucky, maybe we figure out just who they’re working for too,” Caine replied, leaning over the rail.

Gerdie raised an eyebrow. “With respect, sir? We might be a while just finding them in this mess.” Gerdie gestured to the vast morass surrounding them.

“True. But I hear Sergeant Reevan is a real old hound. If they’re out there, I trust he’ll find them.” The pair walked along the rail of the boat, nearing the prow.

“What of the rest of the men? Are you really expecting combat here?” Gerdie looked over the prow, worry plain on his face. Ahead, the Eel at last was opening wide into the Blightwater. Clouds ahead made the open water seem grey and cold, and a wind was coming over the lake. Caine looked ahead, nodding. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

The pair watched Perry’s Landing appear at last out across the open water of Blightwater. Only a tiny smattering of buildings and docks from this far out, it was growing larger by the second. Try as he might to downplay it, the stakes in this, his first command, began to weigh upon him. Gerdie looked on, impassive.



As the last of Caine’s troops cleared the boarding ramp, Katie blew her whistle. Caine watched the great smokestacks on the steamship puff with impatience while the tread-wheel crane from the dock lifted crates from below decks. Wooden crates emerged one after another, placed gently on the dock. Caine marveled as the crane produced three iron monstrosities from Katie’s hold. The eyes of his anthropomorphic machines were dimmed, their hearth fires extinguished. Chargers, light and fast, he had been issued a pair, along with the heavy barreled bruiser known as a Defender. Each in turn was carefully placed upon heavy horse-drawn carts for the journey ahead. Almost as an afterthought, a singular crate emerged at the end of the crane’s hook, conspicuous in size and a lack of identifying stencils. Caine recalled Rebald’s mention of a prototype with growing curiosity.

Gerdie was busy staging the troops into formation along the crowded docks, as laborers worked around them. The junior officer’s youthful voice was perfectly capable of barking drill orders over the din, and the men lined up by squads. The tread-wheel crane at last backed away from Katie, and her thresher began to churn water. She howled a single petulant whistle in farewell. As Caine approached Gerdie, the young adjutant turned and saluted. Stifling his reluctance to formality, Caine returned the salute before the assembled men.

“All equipment and personnel present and accounted for, sir. We’re ready to depart upon your order.” Caine took a long look at the ranks of men standing to attention before him and drew a deep breath. He saw long gunners with their precision rifles at the shoulder, then trenchers, bundled within leather long-coats, and alongside them, an assortment of ragged looking scouts. A local approached, leading two mottled grey horses by the reigns. Caine took the offered bridle, and stepped up into the saddle.

“Let’s get to it, then.”



Evening fell as Caine and his procession found the black iron gates of the Malsham family estate. Darkness hung like a blanket overcast skies, and a damp mist had crept alongside them the entire way there.

The path had led them through a treacherous land. From the edge of Perry’s Landing, civilization had vanished into a tangle of moss-draped woods and endless marsh. All around them, the terrain was alive with unfamiliar birdsong and the croak of frogs. They eventually made their way through the great peat bogs of Cear Brynn. Here, the shoulders of the narrow road were lined with peat stacks, some as high as two men. The bogs themselves were alive, as laborers harvested peat from the wet ground with spade and shovel. Singularly, they had stopped at their work to gawk at Caine’s long procession. They seemed to him a dour lot, though he could hardly blame them. The dampness of this place had set a chill to his bones, and the gates ahead could not have come as a more welcome site. Spurring his horse, he galloped past the ancient black iron entry.

The estate was old, and built on the best land they had seen for leagues. Gone were the stilted wooden longhouses of Perry’s Landing, given over to traditional stone and mortar construction. The mansion was elegant even, prefaced by a long, landscaped yard with crushed stone paths and shrubs. Equally, the servants’ quarters, stables, and other structures on the estate grounds were opulent by comparison to prior settlements in the region. Gerdie spurred his horse to catch up with Caine, nodding in the direction of the mansion. “Well, it’s a lovely home, if you don’t mind bullfrogs singing you to sleep at night.”

Caine grinned, nodding. Looking ahead, he saw the main entrance of the mansion, with a line of servants gathered to receive them. “Get the men settled in for the night. I’ll go meet our host.”

Gerdie nodded, and led his horse away.

Caine looked back to see the slow carts roll in ahead of his soldiers. Gerdie was quickly in the middle of things, coordinating with servants to direct one formation after another to their billets. Caine swung a leg over and dismounted, a young servant boy in white came forward to take the reins. Caine patted his mare on the snout before letting her be led away.

“Sir?”

The whisper came from behind him. Caine whirled around. Sergeant Reevan, a graying and slightly built ranger wrapped in a dun cloak, eyed him cautiously, looking every bit a caged animal.

“If it be all the same t’ye, Captain, the lads and I would fancy an early scope of the land, if you take my meanin’.”

“Back by mornin?” Caine sniffed.

“Most certain. Give ye a fine report of things, we will, for say, a three league circle?”

“I’d like an eye to the border. They say Llael is locked up tight. Give ‘er a look.”

“Most certain, sir.”

At the entrance to the mansion, a lady stepped forth, her long crimson dress displaying an embroidered floral pattern, and framed by a reticella collar and cuffs. Atop her head, long auburn tresses had been dressed with ribbon, and her face had been white powdered such as was fashionable among the elite of Corvis to the south. She was as beautiful a woman as Caine might imagine. As she made her way down the steps to greet him, Caine heard the sergeant chuckle next to him.

“Vexing though it may be t’ye, I’ve prepared my first scouting report, sir. That one’s taken.”

Caine coughed, glaring at the man. The sergeant retreated with a wry grin. Caine bowed as the Baroness Sarah Fane Malsham approached, then kissed her offered hand.

“It is my great honor to welcome you into my home, Captain Caine. I apologize that my husband, the Baron, is indisposed for the moment, but we would be greatly pleased if you would take your supper with us?”



Caine picked at his food, trying to make sense of it. It was tepid, bitter, and … unidentifiable. What rubbish was this? From the other end of the twenty foot long table, the Baron Ivor Malsham II sat flanked by servants, and watched Caine’s struggle with thinly veiled contempt. Midway along the table to his right, the baroness watched with encouragement as he tried the white stringy dish. After a few bites, he swallowed hard and reached for the basket of bread, grabbing several pieces.

“Sweetbread in cardamom-wine sauce is a delicacy that few chefs outside of Llael can properly prepare. Does it not meet your approval?” the baron sniffed with narrowed eyes. Caine looked down the length of the table, ill at ease. Bad enough he’d been asked to remove his armor in favor of formal dinner attire. Worse, the baron’s servants had seen fit to provide him garments not quite his size.

He knew the look coming at him from down the table. He’d borne it many times before, not least of them from his own father. He clenched his jaw a moment, trying to settle himself. The thought of a quick flash of movement, a drawn pistol, and a bullet in the baron’s face brought some peace. Accordingly, he found himself able to produce a genuine smile.

“I’m sure it’s fine, Baron,” Caine said, reaching for more bread. He tore a strip to chew on slowly. The baron still wore a frown, his eyes on Caine.

“In truth, I found it unpalatable myself, at first,” the baroness said with a warm smile.

The baron glowered at her before fixing his attention to his own plate. Caine saw the man’s mustache and slight beard was utterly at odds with his rodent-shaped face. Long and twisted with wax, they had a mind of their own as he chewed. They wriggled as though they intended to leap clear of his sneering face.

Caine’s eyes wandered to the baroness while reaching for more bread. To his surprise, he found she was already looking at him with eyes of liquid green. After the moment had lingered a second too long, both of them looked back at their food awkwardly.

The Baron studied his plate as though it had offered a portent of some kind. Chewing thoughtfully, he looked up at Caine, and swallowed.

“I’m curious for an explanation of just what you’re doing here, Captain. Your arrival does not come without some inconvenience to us.”

Caine sipped his wine. “I find that odd, Baron. Was it not you who demanded the king take action? Has he not met your demands?”

The Baron scoffed. “To ask for the safety of your borders and lands is one thing. To have an army descend upon one’s household is another thing entirely.”

“Please, Ivor. You will offend our guest,” the baroness interjected.

“Still your tongue and let the men talk!” the Baron hissed. The baroness looked down at her plate and made no reply.

“Rest assured, Baron. King Leto takes your security as priority. This far to the border, Northguard is more than a day’s ride. We’re better to position here, if we’re to find these marauders you make claims of.”

“Do you suggest my claims are false?”

Caine blinked. “I said no such thing. Why would you ask it?”

The baron frowned. With gathered composure, he cleared his throat. “We, of course, will welcome you until your work is finished. However, I am rather inclined to see it done with expedience. The appearances of a nobleman under occupation are … most unseemly. I would not expect a commoner such as you to understand.”

The baroness blanched, but held her tongue.

“Baron, as tempting as that may sound to both of us, I won’t be going anywhere until the job is done.”



Over the next day, Caine’s detachment was put to work. The trenchers dug and fortified a perimeter around the estate, then ran observation points out along the north and south of the Serinye trail. The rangers led long-range reconnaissance sweeps from the Orgoth marsh down to Cear Brynn, and nearly back to Perry’s Landing.

Caine made a point of having the Baron escorted in his comings and goings. On two separate excursions, the baron made pointless visits to Perry’s Landing. His business quickly concluded both times, Gerdie relayed to Caine that the nobleman had appeared ready to flee the escort. While on the estate, the Baron kept to himself, avoiding Caine and his men whenever possible.

Caine met with Reevan after the first night, and confirmed the border crossing north was well patrolled, but the veteran ranger recommended a few points through which one could slip. On a few occasions, Caine and the baroness crossed paths as she spent time touring the estate grounds upon her horse.

For all the activity within the estate, there had been no sign of mercenaries outside. Gerdie’s suspicions were gaining support.

On the second night, Caine readied a horse to scout the way to Merywyn for himself. At twilight, he followed the Turpin highway north for a league. As he came within sight of the border, he broke from the trail just as Reevan had advised. He found the sergeants advice well timed. Pausing in the shade of thick brush, he saw a contingent of Llaelese soldiers thunder past, and more ahead on the trail. Seeing such resistance, he decided his horse was best left behind, and tied her in a secluded clearing. He crosscut the woods for a half-hour before rejoining the highway. By his count, he had come a league into Llael. On approach to her capital, he twice found himself diverted back into the brush, as more soldiers tramped along the highway. Caine couldn’t shake the feeling that Llael was preparing for something big, and seemed scared, just as Rebald had said. At last within spyglass range of the capital, he stopped to observe.

Merywyn cast colorful lights into the night sky, and its great walls stood proudly over a periphery of old forest. Behind the safety of these high walls, he could see dozens of tall spires stretching into the night sky. The spires were iconic to the city, and impressive in their craftsmanship.

Despite the beauty, the more of it he saw, the more he frowned. The city was inaccessible from the east, bordered by the Black River, and the west side did not look much better. The landside of the city was encircled by a stretch of clearing at least a hundred yards wide, and, of greater concern, lit by gas lamps. He could make out guardsman patrols along the ramparts of the city walls high above. The city gates were double thick, and though some traffic moved, it was clear the guardsmen were monitoring anyone going in or out, checking papers and marking ledgers.

“That’s bloody tight,” he spat. He frowned, unable to spot any point of approach that was not in sight of the guardsmen. Replacing his spyglass to his pocket, he turned back for his horse, soon crossing back into Cygnar.

Back at the estate, Caine tied his horse within the stable. He soon made his way down the aisle to find his chief mechanic, Ewan. The grizzled old man was still at work well into the evening. This part of the stable had been converted into a mechanika workshop, with benches of tools and crates of supplies unloaded. Caine’s three warjacks stood in line, chains slung over the rafters to keep them balanced while their furnaces were out. Numerous gibbering gobber assistants were crawling over the fearsome war machines, making adjustments with an assortment of tools. The waist high green-skinned creatures paused at their work and watched as Caine entered.

“Everythin’ to your satisfaction, sir?” Ewan gestured at the warjacks. The gobbers, begoggled the same as Ewan, continued to stare at Caine. The effect was paradoxically comical and unnerving at the same time.

“Oh, don’t pay them no mind. They’ve a short attention span. Isn’t that right, boys?” Ewan chuckled as the creatures responded with an indignant patois before returning to their work.

“I think it’s time,” Caine said.

“Oh?”

Caine pointed to the unmarked crate set aside from the rest of the supplies, and then looked back at the mechanik with crossed arms.

“Build it.”

Ewan nodded impassively, wiping his hands on a rag. The gobbers however, were pleased. Their faces broke into toothy grins, and the tone of their strange language rose to a shrill pitch. They bounded across the stable floor and swarmed the crate, brandishing crowbars in green clawed hands.

Caine stepped outside, reaching for a cigar within the pockets of his duster. With a sigh, he found his supply had fallen to two. He drew one out and passed it under his nose slowly. Striking a flame, he lit it under a lantern post and drew deeply. He looked up at the moon, relaxing a moment in the cool night air.

“That was a beautiful horse I saw you on. What’s her name?” The woman’s voice came from the shadows. Caine whirled, startled at the shapely figure at the edge of the shadows.

“They … uh, call her Nessa,” Caine said, chomping his cigar at the unexpected company. His eyes widened as the baroness stepped into the lamplight. She was a perfect vision, eschewing her formal day dress in favor of a simple green bodice and white skirt. Her powdered makeup was gone, revealing smooth skin. Her auburn hair spilled about her shoulders. He caught a glimpse of a large welt peeking out from beneath the tresses and winced. Embarrassed at his discovery she flinched, turning away.

“They say if you marry for money, you will earn every cent,” she said weakly, looking out upon the moor. With a deep breath she turned back at last. “There is no victim here, Captain. I knew what I was getting into. Do you have another?” she gestured to his stogie.

Caine saw the extent of the bruise now, from neck to collarbone. His face hardened, and he threw his cigar to the ground.

“That son of a bitch …” he spat, his feet already moving for the mansion. He made three paces before she clutched his arm.

“No! You must not! Please!”

There was terror in her eyes. He pictured her like this before the baron, and rage took him. He pulled his arm free. She stumbled as he did, and fell to her knees.

“Please!” she cried.

Caine stopped in his tracks, and turned on a heel. He saw her on the ground and shook his head. Coming to her side, he put an arm around her and steadied her up. Tears fell upon her cheek and she looked at him in gratitude. The blood in him boiled, but seeing her lips so close and her beautiful eyes looking in his, he was overcome with another impulse. He leaned in and kissed her hard on the mouth.

She did not resist.



Caine awoke alone in his chambers. There was an insistent knocking at the door. The light of the morning sun streamed in through the gap in thick velvet drapery, striking him in the eyes as he stirred.

“Gerdie, if that’s you, it’d better be good,” he grumbled.

“I’m ever so sorry to intrude, sir. The Baron insists upon your presence for breakfast. He insists, sir!” an anonymous servant pleaded on the other side of the door. Caine looked sheepishly at the empty space that had been left upon the mattress, and the tangle of bedding at his feet. He shook his head.

“Ech. Tell him I’m coming,” Caine sighed.



“How dare you, sir! How dare you!” the Baron shouted, pounding the table for emphasis. His wiry mustache fidgeted upon his face, his expression livid. A servant astride him leaned in to pour juice, but he waved the man back.

“I assure you, it was not my idea, Baron,” Caine took a cup of steaming coffee as it was handed to him, and rubbed a temple. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. He avoided looking at the baroness, though for her part she seemed content to daintily pick from a bowl of fruit before her. She looked radiant in a velvet dress of deep green.

“Would you have me believe you are not in charge here?!”

Caine raised an eyebrow, and looked over his coffee.

“I’m not sure I understand …”

“These unceasing escorts, sir! I am not a prisoner, nor are my actions suspect! Your men dog my every step beyond the gates. They refuse to leave me be. Always, they claim they act on your orders. I tell you this now, sir, it will stop!”

Caine set his coffee down, about to deliver his defense when he realized what the baron had said. From her place at the table, the baroness placed a napkin across her lap and smiled sweetly in his direction.

Taking a breath, he began again. “Baron, we are only here to protect you. Until such time as …”

“It. Will. Stop,” the baron repeated.

“Is there nothing else here I can offer you?” the baroness said coyly, a strawberry lingering on her lip as she spoke. Caine blinked at her, and then looked over at the baleful glare of her husband. He found himself about to laugh. Alarmed, he stifled it with an improvised coughing fit.

“I … kaff … I’ve no appetite for the moment, ma’am. Perhaps … kaff … later.” Caine pounded his chest, eyes watering.

“Our kitchen is always open to you, Captain. Please avail yourself, as you wish.” She smiled, swallowing her strawberry.

The baron scowled, impatient. “For pity’s sake, Sarah! He’s a grown man and can avail himself of your pantry whenever he likes! Now, Captain. Your word. I will have it!”

“Regarding?” Caine rasped, trying to regain focus.

“The escorts, sir!” the baron boomed.

“I didn’t … oh … right. There will be no more escorts. You have my word.”

The meal was interrupted as Gerdie burst into the dining hall. Nodding to the baron and baroness, Caine’s adjutant was breathless in coming to his side.

“Sir, the rangers have returned from evening patrol. They have found a mercenary camp.” He whispered in Caine’s ear, looking down at the baron’s reddened face with a genial smile. Caine nodded, tossing his napkin to his plate.

“I’ll take my leave now, Baron. Seems we have a ... development.”

He pushed his chair out from the table and stood. As he and his adjutant made for the door, Gerdie glanced back at the fuming nobleman. “Sir, did I hear you right? We’re to discontinue Malsham’s surveillance?”

Caine smiled cruelly, shaking his head.”No. But we’ll be certain to let him think we have.”



At the oversized wooden workbench in the carriage house, Caine’s sergeants gathered around in a semi-circle, arms crossed and stern faced. Sergeant Reevan, still camouflaged, stepped to the bench, whereupon a large map had been unfurled. Dragging a finger from the barons’ estate into the Brillig marsh, he tapped a grid reference.

“The mercs are there, sir. Dug deep as a tick, most certain. Passed near that way before and missed them, we did. They’re keepin’ as low as any group that large can.”

“What’re we dealing with?” Caine pulled at his chin, staring down at the map. He saw the camp was only a few hours’ walk east of the estate, at best, and close enough to the Black River to redeploy quickly should they wish it.

“Not sure the affiliation, but it’s mercs all right. A goodly number at that. Say, understrength company. Some heavy ‘jack support, I count two, maybe three Mules ready for the line, a couple more on the bench. Riflemen, pikemen, the usual suspects, and well supplied, most certain. Didn’t get a look at their boss.” There was a low murmur among the sergeants as they considered Reevan’s report. None had failed to notice they were outnumbered.

“Your orders, sir?” Gerdie looked up from the map, his expression sober.

“I think we should pay them a visit this evening.”

The officers stared from across the table.

“Say again, sir?” Gerdie asked.

“Just me and the rangers. The rest of yeh stay back, for now. I don’t want a fight. I just want to see what they might give up in parley. “

“Isn’t that risky, sir?”

Caine shrugged. “Easy, Gerdie. Yeh’ll find I’ve always an ace up my sleeve.”