“Nothing.” David shrugged, flagging down a waiter for coffee. “Some investigations, a few minor discoveries in Eastern Europe and central Asia, but nothing to suggest a population of real scale or significance. Maybe Connor’s found something.…”
Max was going to respond when he noticed a number of hushed and urgent conversations taking place throughout the dining room. Several tables called for the maître d’, quickly settling their checks and gathering their things. In the corner, a faun was playing a sonata upon a grand piano, its soothing melodies strangely out of sync with the rushed and hurried departures.
“What’s going on?” asked Cynthia, putting the letter aside.
“I don’t know,” said Max, just as a waiter set down an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. “What’s this?”
“The sommelier has finally come to his senses!” declared Lucia.
“Compliments of the lady in red,” announced the waiter, popping the cork and pouring five crystal flutes. “She would like a word when Master McDaniels has a moment.”
Scanning the room, Max spied a splash of scarlet and found that Madam Petra was leaning casually back and observing them.
The smuggler was wearing an embroidered gown of brilliant red silk along with a creamy stole of arctic mink. Her hair was up and adorned with an obscenely large jewel she had not possessed when she’d arrived at Rowan. Her companion was a well-dressed portly man who exuded a jowly air of self-importance. Max recognized him at once; he had been a wealthy industrialist before Astaroth’s rise to power. Inclining her head, Madam Petra gave a knowing smile and raised her glass.
“Who is that?” asked Lucia suspiciously.
“I told you about her,” hissed Cynthia. “That’s Petra Kosa. She came back with Max and David.”
“She’s very pretty,” Lucia said with the steely, subdued air of a competitor.
Max slid out of his seat. “I’d better see what she wants.”
Taking his champagne, he walked over to the table and gazed down at the smuggler, who smiled and sank down luxuriantly into her stole.
“Max,” she cooed, “meet Victor. In our former lives, he was a somebody. I’m happy to say he still is. He’s been helping Katarina and me get settled after our harrowing arrival. Victor, this is Max McDaniels.”
The man grunted, but his eyes never left Madam Petra.
“I’m glad to see that you and David are keeping a cool head, my dear,” she observed. “It would seem the news has everyone else in a panic.”
“What news?”
The smuggler gave him a skeptical look over the rim of her wineglass.
“You honestly don’t know?” she asked, sounding pleasantly surprised.
The industrialist grimaced, swirling and staring at his port as though it held his fortune.
“Prusias has won, boy,” he declared flatly. “Devoured Aamon and executed all of his officers. Rashaverak’s to surrender tomorrow. Lilith’s already sworn fealty.”
Max glanced about the nearly empty restaurant. “So that means—”
“War.”
The word rolled off Madam Petra’s tongue like some dark prophecy. The industrialist stood and pulled out her chair. With a wistful smile, the smuggler stood and clinked glasses with Max.
“Savor the champagne, my dear. You might not taste any for a very long time.”
~ 13 ~
The Aurora and the Polestar
War was declared the next afternoon.
No grand gestures accompanied the news. There were no crowds or trumpets or defiant proclamations. Hostilities were announced with no more than a letter. The Director delivered it herself to Lord Naberius’s ship, descending the cliffs alone and bracing herself against the ocean gales as she walked the long dock. One of the ambassador’s servants accepted the slim envelope and brought it inside. Within the hour, the sinister black xebec weighed anchor and sailed out of Rowan Harbor, navigating around Gràvenmuir’s treacherous remains.
The rejection of Prusias’s demands triggered a firestorm of controversy. Many labeled the Director a fool; others questioned her authority to make such a monumental decision. She was skewered in the press and hanged in effigy by frightened mobs that marched upon the Manse demanding explanations. Ms. Richter met them on the steps and calmly explained that Rowan was a haven for free peoples and that it would fight for that freedom. Any who lacked the necessary courage or conviction to make such a stand was welcome to leave. The choice was theirs.
In the weeks that followed, thousands took the Director at her word, packing their families and possessions onto carts and wagons and heading west into the continent’s vast interior. Max was not sorry to see them go. With war on the horizon, Rowan would face her greatest challenge; she needed stalwart volunteers, not halfhearted conscripts.
This very thought occurred to Max very early one February morning as he hurried across the campus. Some hundred yards ahead, a lone wagon was making its way down a cobbled lane toward Rowan’s massive Southgate. Skulking out while everyone’s asleep, Max mused, eyeing a lean man walking alongside the horse. When the wagon passed beneath a streetlamp, the eerie light illuminated a blond and familiar head. Max quickened his pace.
“Nigel!”
Halting, Nigel Bristow turned and peered back through the murk. When he saw who it was, Max’s old recruiter smiled and shook him warmly by the hand, standing aside so Max could say hello to Emily Bristow and their toddler, Emma. The pair was sitting in the wagon’s driver’s seat, bundled up against the chill.
“And where are you off to at such an ungodly hour?” asked Nigel.
“The Euclidean Fields,” replied Max. “I’ve got my troops training there.”
“At five in the morning?” exclaimed Emily. “It’s a wonder anyone shows!”
“Oh, they’ll show,” said Max, smiling. “If not, we’ll start training at four.”
“From student to slavemaster in a few short years,” quipped Nigel. “And which troops are so unlucky as to have you as a commander? I confess I’m behind on the assignments.”
“The Trench Rats.”
Nigel looked puzzled. “But that’s basic infantry,” he said. “Some might say remedial infantry. Surely the Director offered you other options.”
“She did,” Max admitted. “But I turned them down.”
“Why on earth would you do that?” said Nigel, incredulous.
“What’s the matter with the Trench Rats, dear?” inquired Emily delicately.
“Well,” said Nigel, stalling for something politic, “they’re … I suppose one should say …”
Max put him out of his misery.
“They’re the dregs,” he stated flatly. “They’re the leftover refugees no other regiments wanted.”
“Why not?” wondered Emily. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Too old.” Max shrugged. “Too young. Too inexperienced. Too unruly. Take your pick.”
“Yes, but why are you leading them?” pressed Nigel. “It’s very noble of you, but surely another Agent can teach them to shoot an arrow or hold a pike. Forgive me, but it seems a poor use of Rowan’s finest warrior. I’m surprised Ms. Richter allowed it.”
Max posed a question of his own. “If I train and fight alongside the Trench Rats, what message does that send to the rest of the refugees?”
Nigel pondered this before clucking his tongue appreciatively. “Very clever,” he admitted. “Our greatest warrior serves alongside the least, thus improving morale, unity, and discipline throughout the battalions. No wonder I’m not Director.…”
“You can’t be Director if you leave,” said Max, glancing pointedly at the wagon.
“I’m not leaving,” sighed Nigel, taking his wife’s hand. “Just the girls. They’re going to live with Emily’s sister in Glenharrow. I’m merely seeing them off.”
Max had heard of the place, a thriving settlement that was a two-week journey west.