Styke finished off his beer and approached them. Cardin took a long step to one side, and the soldiers all backed away slowly as Styke ducked out the front door of the inn to stand on the stoop outside. The crowd of townspeople was now almost entirely encircled by a newly arrived company of soldiers, each of them wearing the red feather in their lapels. At their center was a tall man with a thin face, a receding hairline, and a goatee hiding a weak chin. The similarities between him and Prost were unmistakable.
Governor Sirod was dressed in a stiff-collared riding jacket and cravat, his nose turned up to the crowd in front of him, his hands daintily clutching his reins. While Prost was known for his public sadistic streak, Sirod was quietly vain – he owned hundreds of plantations, employed the finest Kressian tailors and cobblers, kept the largest art collection in this hemisphere, and even had his own personal Privileged sorcerer. As far as governors went, he was egotistical and amoral; his only job in Fatrasta was to keep up cotton and tobacco shipments at whatever cost, and therefore bolster his own reputation in the King’s court back in Kez.
Sirod’s bastard brother lay at the feet of his horse, weeping while a Privileged set his arms and healed them. Styke let his eyes linger on the Privileged for a moment – his own sorcerous Knack allowing him to smell the brimstone of the Privileged’s magic – before returning his gaze to Sirod and wondering what he’d look like wearing his own innards as a cravat.
Styke briefly caught sight of Blye in the crowd, clutching a carbine. Styke locked eyes with him and gave a small shake of his head.
Cardin exited the inn and came up beside Styke, every bit of his body language screaming that he didn’t want to be there. He cleared his throat, coughed into his hand, and said, “Major Styke, sir. Please come along quietly.” There was a pleading tone to that “please” that at once irritated and complimented Styke. Even with hundreds of soldiers here, Cardin was scared of him.
What a bunch of cowards.
“You’re a gentleman, aren’t you, Cardin?”
“I… I like to think so, Major.”
“Then give me your word that all the responsibility for what happened will fall upon me. Not the innkeeper. Not the townspeople. Not my lancers.”
Cardin let out a relieved sigh. “I’ll do that, Major.”
“Good. Then I’ll come along quietly.”
Styke sat in the only cell on the second floor of the Fernhollow Jail. It was a large room, meant to be able to hold drunks and dissenters for as long as it took them to calm down, and had bare brick walls and a worn wooden floor. It was separated from the constable’s office by a plank wall and a large iron-bar door, which currently stood open – which would have been a tempting avenue of escape if Styke wasn’t doing his best to let this whole thing blow over.
There were three windows looking out into the town – glass, protected by iron bars. Styke sat on the only bench, one knee drawn up beside him as he looked out one of those windows. A couple hours had passed since his arrest, and the streets outside were a lively spectacle that made him want to spit.
Every citizen had been called to town and now stood obediently in the summer heat while the governor’s bodyguard and Prost’s cuirassiers paraded around the city square. Their horses kicked up dust, coating everyone in a thin film, and their company band – two drummers, three pipers, and five horn blowers – played a discordant racket that made Styke wince every time they marched past his window.
While the citizens stood glumly on the sides of the street, Styke’s own colonial lancers were forced to stand at attention, unmounted and unarmed, in the city square. That made Styke’s blood boil more than anything, and he forced himself watch the sweat pouring off their brows, mixing with the dust to create a muddy complexion while the governor’s bodyguard rode past again and again, laughing amongst themselves. It was humiliation to the highest degree.
“You’re just going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep watching.”
Styke turned his head to find Rezi leaning in the doorway, looking at him with the kind of infuriating pity that one might turn upon a kicked dog.
“I need to watch,” Styke said, looking back out the window.
“Just torturing yourself.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
“Oh, come on.” Rezi crossed the room and leaned on his shoulder, casting a glance out the window before trying to pull him away from it. “You’re not going to help anyone by feeling guilty about this.”
“I don’t feel guilty,” Styke said, wishing he’d up and killed Prost. “I feel pissed. I shouldn’t be in this cell, and they shouldn’t be standing out there. It was some damned bad luck.”
“What, that the governor happened to show up a few moments after you broke his brother’s arms?”
“Yeah, that. Or that those cuirassiers even came through here at all. Did you find out why Sirod is here?”
“Like you said, bad damned luck,” Rezi said. “There were some military drills over in Jerrinshire. He was on his way back when he heard his brother was here, so he changed his route to meet up with him.”
Military drills. Styke wanted to spit. He thought of all the rumors coming out of the north. For the most part, Fernhollow had managed to avoid the unrest sweeping the country. And now they had the regional governor marching his bodyguard back and forth through the town like it was some den of dissention that needed to be tamed.
“Look, you stood up for the people,” Rezi said. “That’s your job.”
“Should have let Tel-islo take a beating so the cuirassiers would go on their way,” Styke muttered.
Rezi slipped into Styke’s lap, wiggling to get comfortable and putting her face between his eyes and the window. She was trying to distract him, and he was both annoyed and thankful. “I don’t disagree,” she said. “You should have dealt with Prost in a gentler manner. But you didn’t, and this happened, and we’ll just deal with it.”
Styke twisted his neck to see past Rezi, eliciting a deep sigh from her. “I don’t know the law,” he said. “What’s going to happen next?”
“Let me see,” Rezi said, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “I imagine they’ll do this for the rest of the day, until Sirod gets bored and goes on his way. If he’s satisfied by this little display, he’ll focus his anger on you. If not, he might levy a fine against the mayor or the town.” Rezi clicked her tongue, clearly annoyed by the second thought. “If it’s just you, they’ll probably let you rot here for a few months, then send you to a military tribunal in Landfall. Your punishment will depend on who’s on the tribunal.”
Styke finally stopped looking outside, focusing on Rezi with a scowl. He’d been insubordinate plenty of times in his career, but the army always needed someone like him, and he was a big enough, brave enough monster of a fighter that his indiscretions had always been overlooked. But he’d never pissed off a governor before. “And what,” he asked, “might my punishment be?”
“They probably won’t execute you,” Rezi said with a lopsided smile, indicating that was off the table. “They’ll definitely use you as a political pawn. If it’s convenient to the tribunal, they’ll let you off with a smack on the wrist. If Sirod stacks the tribunal with his own goons, they’ll strip you of your rank and pension.”
Styke grunted. That seemed like the most likely outcome. An inconvenience, surely, but he’d been penniless before. He mentally ticked through his options, preparing for the berating and humiliations he’d have to go through before he was able to walk free and move on with his life. It felt strange to consider a life outside the military after all this time. “I’ll miss the lancers,” he said.